Bad Medicine (11 page)

“It's just a—”

“Lookit here,” Austin answered, almost in a snarl. “Ain't nothin' more dangerous than a human bite, 'specially from scum like them. A dog's or wolf's teeth are a lot cleaner'n a man's, an' I know that to be a fact. A friend of mine got bit by a Arapahoe on his shoulder an' it got all swole up—like your hand—an' he croaked in four days.” As he spoke Austin released the knot of the tourniquet. “Let it hang at your side now.”

Will did so. After what seemed like an interminably long time, some pus and blood began to drip onto the sand. Its odor was rancid, enough to make a man gag. “We gotta take the wrap off an' put a fresh one on,” Austin said. “ 'Fore we wrap her again, I'll pour what booze we got left into the cut—might help some.”

Before Will could reply, Austin began taking turns of the sleeve around the cut. When he got to the final wrap, he warned, “Now this one's gonna be a pisser, but we got no choice. See, the cloth is kinda glued in there an' it's gotta come out. You ready?”

“No.”

“Well hell,” Austin said and tore the final turn of sleeve free. Will fell to his knees, his teeth grinding against one another with the pain. He didn't yell out or scream, but the deep whimpering sounds that came from his throat showed the degree of his pain. Austin fetched the quarter bottle of booze they had left, drew his knife, cut off his own left sleeve, and hunkered down next to Will. “You wanna take a slug of redeye 'fore I do this? Might help.”

“Just do it—get it over with.”

Austin pulled the cork with his teeth. “Turn your hand so the bite's up,” he said. The flap of skin hadn't taken at all; it hung free, and its edges were turning a light greenish blue color. “Shit. That's gotta come off,” Austin said, “or the sumbitch will rot your whole hand.”

Will nodded. Austin drew his knife, took the gangrenous edge between his left thumb and forefinger, and sliced downward quickly, without warning. The patch of flesh hit the sand and Austin kicked it away, hoping to get some of the stench away from them.

“I hardly felt that,” Will said.

“You'll feel the booze.” He took a good hold on Will's wrist and poured the whiskey over the exposed tissue. This time Will did scream—and then he passed out. “Jus' as well,” Austin mumbled, finishing the pouring and tossing the empty bottle off to the side. He sat beside his friend, rolled a cigarette, lit it, and waited for Will to come back to consciousness.

When his eyes finally fluttered open, Austin asked, “Where's that map at?”

Will used his right hand to push himself to a sitting position. “What d'you need the map for? We got One Dog behind us. We don't need the damned map—we need a spot for an ambush.”

“Yeah, we do need the map, 'cause we need a town with a doc in it. Otherwise you're gonna lose your hand—maybe your whole arm.”

The nearest town was Olympus, which looked to be forty or fifty miles due east, at least according to the inaccurate scale of the penciled map. “You real sure about that?” Will asked.

“Sure's the sun comes up in the morning. An' look.” He pointed back the way they'd come. “One Dog's still comin' on strong. We got a pretty fair lead, but I'd like to get to this Olympia or whatever the hell it is before he gets too close.”

“Olympus. Let's make tracks, then.”

The water was a blessing. It would have stretched credibility too far to call it an oasis, but it was a pond of twenty feet long and thirty feet wide, with a scattering of scruffy desert pine standing like slouching sentries. Stunted buffalo grass spread around the water. It wasn't good grazing, but the horses didn't seem to care at all.

“Whoooo-eee!” Austin yelled. “I don't care if we gotta fight One Dog right here—I'm gonna git wet!” He swung down from his horse, shucked his pistol and gun belt, tossed the bow and quiver aside, and made a running leap into the water. It was only two feet deep, but it was cold—spring fed, obviously—and wet. Will followed more judiciously, walking out a few yards and then sitting in the water, left hand in the air, like a student asking a question.

They let their horses drink in shifts to avoid founder, filled their canteens, and settled down in the grass for a few moments. “Hell of a nice place for a camp,” Will said. “Too bad we can't settle in for the night.”

“No cover, though. But yeah, it's right nice. I ain't been at all wet 'cept with sweat in a coon's age. Feels awful good.”

Will dunked his face and head a final time. “We'd best head on to Olympus,” he said. Austin sighed and floundered back to shore.

The sun was almost touching the western horizon as they came into the town of Olympus.

“That wasn't no thirty or forty miles,” Austin said. “But that's fine with me. We get you to a doc an' then find us a gin mill, no?”

Will didn't answer.

Olympus was slightly larger than most of the cattle-train whistle-stops. The doctor was a real MD, not a veterinarian or self-proclaimed medic such as were found in most towns. There was only one saloon, but it was a big one, with a restaurant and whorehouse all in one building.

“See?” Austin said. “Right there—next to the
mercantile—there's a doc's shingle. We'll get you fixed . . . Hey! You OK, pard?”

Will was slumped far forward in his saddle, his face a pallid white. His eyes didn't seem to focus, and his right boot had slipped from its stirrup and was dangling uselessly next to the leather. He'd vomited and the chest of his shirt was damp with stomach bile. Austin jigged his horse up a step and took hold of Slick's reins. “You hold on, pard,” Austin said. “This doctor, he'll fix you up. Damn if I didn't tell you a bite from a human is . . . Steady now, Will. Grab the horn an' stay on your horse.” He led Slick to the hitching rail in front of the doctor's office, wrapped their reins, and helped Will down.

“Jus' tired is all,” Will mumbled. “I don't need . . .”

Austin half led and half carried Will into the doctor's office. “Doc,” he yelled, “I got a bad case here. You gotta . . .”

A stubby fellow who'd never see sixty years old again, with pure white hair flowing well over the collar of his formal shirt, came from behind the curtain to his examination room. His pants were pressed and his shoes shined. He looked like a successful drummer. “I'm Dr. McCall,” he said. “Bring that boy in here and stretch him out on my table.”

Austin did as he was told. The doctor washed his hands in a large basin that smelled of raw alcohol and took Will's left hand in his own. “Decent wrap,” he said, his voice calm, as if he were commenting on the weather. “This a dog bite?”

“Injun,” Austin said. “We was—”

“I don't give a good goddamn what you boys were doing,” the doctor said as he began unwinding the sleeve from Will's hand. “A bite like this from a man
is bad news.” He dropped Austin's sleeve into a trash can and examined Will's hand. “You put anything on this—do anything for him?”

“Yessir. I poured a half bottle of whiskey an' run a good tourniquet. After a while I took off the tourniquet, thinkin' maybe fresh blood would clean—”

“You did it right,” the doctor said. “I'm gonna put your friend out with what we call chloroform. You in the war, boy?”

“Yessir.”

“Then you know what chloroform is. I gotta clean the bite and then stitch up the tear and wrap it again. He lost some epidermis—skin—here, and it won't grow back. I'll stitch to good skin, but his hand—probably his little finger and the one next to it—won't be worth a damn for a long time, until he's healed. Is he right-handed?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. Now you get out of here and let me work. Place next door will serve you beer or whiskey or ass—whatever you want. You got money?”

“Yessir. We can pay you. You got no worry there.”

“I've heard that before. Go on—get.”

The doc went to work. Austin took the two horses down the main street to the blacksmith's shop and livery and left explicit directions on how the animals were to be treated.

The smith was the size of a bull wooly, and he rather looked like one as well. “Yer a stranger,” he said. “This'll cost you some money an' I need it ahead, 'fore I do a thing.”

Austin flipped a golden eagle to the blacksmith. “You jus' do like I said: tighten all the shoes, feed these boys some crimped oats an' molasses, an' give
'em good hay. Make sure they have all the fresh water they want. You might brush 'em out a bit, as well.”

The blacksmith began to raise the coin to his mouth.

“It's real. Take it to the goddamn bank. But I don't want you callin' me a liar. You bite that eagle an' I'll gun your fat ass.”

The smith held Austin's eyes for a moment and then dropped the coin into his pocket. “Don't need no bank. That bow an' them arrows bothered me a bit, but I know the eagle's real. OK?”

Austin turned without a response and walked to the gin mill.

The physician did a fine job—he obviously knew his business. The line of sutures was about five inches long and the stitches were precisely spaced from one another, as neat and tight as the work of a master bootmaker—or a tailor, for that matter. Will slept peacefully through the procedure, his breathing quiet and steady.

Will awakened in a semidark room and pushed himself to a sitting position on the table on which he rested. There was a quick flash of dizziness, but it dissipated quickly. His hand was wrapped in white gauze and throbbed some, but didn't hurt terribly. There was a note tucked into the gauze.

Had to go out on a call. You're lucky you got here in time. Your hand will take 6 weeks or so to heal. You owe me $4.00 for the pills on the table. Take one a day.

Will scanned the table. Four white tablets—big ones, about the size of a dime—awaited him. He put them in his pocket and slid down to the floor.

He'd half expected Austin to be sitting in the waiting room, but he wasn't. Will didn't have to think too hard to figure out where his friend was. He left the doctor's office and headed to the saloon, feeling a little foolish in his one-sleeved shirt.

It wasn't far past dinnertime, but the joint was already doing a good business. Austin sat at a table alone, with several empty schooners on the rough wood in front of him and a full one in his hand. “Will,” he called, “come on an' set an' drink some beer—best medicine in the world.” Will bought a pair of beers at the bar and walked over to Austin's table.

“What'd the doc say?”

“Nothin'. He was gone on a call when I woke up. He left me some medicine to take. Fact, I better take one right now.” He plucked a tablet from his pocket and washed it down with a long draft of beer.

“You might jus' notice I got two sleeves on my shirt,” Austin grinned. He took another from the floor next to him and tossed it to Will. “Here—I got you one, too. You look like a damned fool with but one sleeve. The mercantile has good prices.”

Will stripped out of his old shirt and pulled on the new one, buttoning it carefully. “Nice shirt,” he said. “Stiffer'n a damn board, though.” He tossed the bloody shirt toward the corner of the room. The men drank their beer.

“Least you could do is fetch another round,” Austin said.

“You know,” Will answered, “you're finally right
'bout somethin'.” He strode to the bar. The dizziness settled in again but again was quickly gone. He held up two fingers to the 'tender and leaned on the bar, gawking up at the graphic nude hanging over the whiskey bottles. It took him a couple of moments to notice that all conversation, shouting, cursing, and laughter in the saloon had stopped and that the bartender had crouched down behind the bar. Will turned to the batwings.

One man stood there, just inside the saloon. He was as hairy as a buffalo, shirtless, wearing tight leggings tucked into tall boots. A pair of bandoliers of ammunition crossed his chest. A Colt .45 rested in his holster. He held a cut-down shotgun, muzzle upward. His hair was a twisted, greasy mess. His eyes, like polished obsidian, swept the saloon, passed Will, and then returned to him.

“You killed and marked my brother an' now his spirit must wander until he's avenged,” the outlaw said, his voice tight, hard, trembling with fury.

Will took a step away from the bar, his right hand dropping toward his pistol. It was just then that the dizziness returned, this time accompanied by floating red motes that drifted across his line of vision. The Indian laughed. “You're so scared you can barely stand up straight, you chickenshit sonofabitch.”

Will felt his consciousness leaving him, felt his right hand tremble, tried to gulp air to clear his head, but it had no effect. He wobbled in his boots as if he stood on the deck of a ship in a storm. There were more red motes now, but he could see clearly enough that the double maw of the shotgun was being lowered toward him. He fumbled for his pistol but his palm slapped the gun belt above his holster.

Then, something very strange happened. The outlaw suddenly grew eight inches of arrow from the middle of his forehead. It was as if the shaft leaped from his head. He fell forward face-first, and the impact jammed the rest of the arrow on through so that the hunting point and several inches of shaft protruded from the back of his head. Will shook his head, confused, as if he were in some bizarre dream. Everything was red in front of him now, and there was a loud buzzing sound filling his head.
Bees,
he thought stupidly.
I run right into a swarm of bees.
Then, he went down.

The corn-shuck bed is what woke Will up—that and the critters that lived in it. He slapped at his neck with his left hand and immediately regretted doing so. A searing pain traveled from his hand to his shoulder, eliciting a curse and a grimace. “Shit,” he said, looking around. The bed—such as it was—was against the wall. The blanket was Union Army–surplus wool, and added to the torture of the bedbugs.