Bad Medicine (15 page)

The HW wouldn't be the biggest spread in West Texas, but it'd be large enough to give Hiram and his family and me, and maybe even a family for me, a real good living. We'd have a few good horses as well as our working string, and as many beef as our land could graze. We'd hire decent hands—no drifters or saddle tramps—and pay them well for their work. And we'd work with them. Hiram an' me ain't the types to set around doin' nothing.
A mental picture of Hiram's daughters—whom Will had never actually seen—playing on an expanse of lush, green grass near the house was so pleasant that he dwelled on it, half-asleep, almost able to hear the giggles and screams of the girls as they chased after one another.

A rattle of gunfire down the street dragged Will from his dream as quickly as a bucket of ice water in his face would have. He rushed to the window near Jane, snatching up a rifle. The shooting seemed to go on forever, round after round, constant, nonstop. Then it stopped abruptly.

“My brother and your friend is dead,” Jane said quietly. His voice was a monotone but there was great sorrow behind it.

“Maybe he got some cover. Maybe some of them shots were his. Could be that—”

“No.”

A whoop—almost a screech—broke the silence, as did the pounding of hooves. A man, a white man in a rebel jacket, galloped toward the mercantile, hugging the far side of the street. He carried a spear upright in his right hand. Impaled at the top of the shaft was Austin's head, his hat still in place, his face a mass of blood, an irregular, deep red mass of meat stuffed into his mouth. It was his heart.

Jane stood, leveled his shotgun, and blew the rider off the horse to fall in a crumpled and bloody heap. Even before the rider hit the ground a dozen horsemen charged from the opposite ends of the street, firing rifles, shotguns, pistols, and a few arrows. Jane went for his rifle immediately; Will depended on his Colt until it was empty before he, too, snatched up a .30-30. Bullets riddled the barricade like a swarm of insane bees and the inside of the mercantile was a chaos of ricocheting slugs, shattering glass, tortured wood, and exploding bottles and cans.

Will and Jane fired like a combat-trained militia: steadily but not rapidly, aiming each round, making it count. It was the rare slug that didn't wound or kill an outlaw.

“Sonsabitches are crazy,” Will shouted. “It's like they want to die.”

“Is true—One Dog must have given them mushroom buttons. Their fighting is insane!”

Still the renegades came on, jerking their horses around when they'd galloped past the store, heading back the opposite way, fumbling loads into their weapons. There were several full-gallop collisions; outlaws and horses went down in twisted heaps of flailing hooves, arms, and legs. Survivors of the crashes were quickly dropped by the men in the store.

The street looked like the third day at Gettysburg: corpses were scattered as if they'd dropped from the sky. Small potholes and ruts were filled with blood that had seeped from men and from horses. A few attackers moaned in pain, and others writhed about in the blood and the grit and dirt. Jane stood calmly levering his .30-30. His rifle stilled those who were still alive.

The maniac charge had come to an end.

“We stopped 'em that time,” Will said. “Did you see One Dog anywhere in that mess?”

“I did not—and I did not expect to. He knew it would be a slaughter. He gave his warriors those mushrooms—”

“What mushrooms?” Will interrupted. “How could a mushroom make men not care about their lives?”

“Peyote, it is called. It is strong medicine. It paints insane pictures in the minds of men, strange colors and sounds, and they follow orders, no matter how deadly to them. It makes them crazy men. At times, if they eat the mushroom buds during the day, the men will stare at the sun until their eyes can no longer see—until they are forever blind.”

Will went to the back of the store, filled a bucket with water from the pump, and pulled a pair of shirts off a counter. He set the bucket down near Jane and the two men washed the blowback and bits of gunpowder from their faces. He wiped his face on his sleeve, winced at the stinging, and walked back to the slug-holed counter. He found a bottle of whiskey that hadn't been smashed and brought it up to the barricade, pulling the cork with his teeth. He took a long, deep draft and handed the bottle to Jane, who did the same.

“Think they'll leave those bodies out there?” Will asked.

“They will. One Dog cares no more for his men than a dog does about the tree on which he lifts his leg.”

Will carried a pair of crates of .30-30 cartridges to the barricade and set one next to Jane, and placed one at the spot he'd occupied during the battle. “We went through a passel of ammunition,” he observed.

“And we killed many snakes with it.”

“How many you figure we dropped?”

“Perhaps twenty—maybe more. It makes no difference. One Dog has more and will bring in any guns he needs to hire.”

Will mused for a few moments, his right hand unconsciously touching the grips of his holstered pistol. “Ya know,” he finally said, “they rode off to the west, so their camp is somewhere in that direction.” He paused again, for a longer time. “They won't attack at night—we know that. I'm thinking I'll slide out that way and have a look-see and make up a bit for what they done to Austin.”

“Is foolish idea. Your heart—your love for your friend—talks louder than your mind, Will. I, too, need revenge. The bodies in the street are not revenge—they are the results of a battle. I will take blood for my brother's blood, but not tonight.”

“You yourself said they were hopped up on that mushroom stuff. How long does that last?”

“Is impossible to say—how much is eaten, how strong and fresh the plant is.”

“Is there a hangover as it wears off?”

“Often. Yes. But—”

“So,” Will went on, speaking over Jane, “a bunch
of 'em will be slow an' stupid. There's some moon tonight—at least enough for me to follow their tracks. I'll go in on foot an' do a payback for Austin.”

“I say no.”

“An' I say you ain't the honcho on this job of work—I am. If you want to ride out of here right now, that's fine. You owe me nothing.”

“I owe my brother—and in my heart, we have become friends.”

“We have, Jane. You're a hell of a man. But you owe me nothing. In fact, I owe you money, which you'll get. Let me draw you a map to one of my stashes so that if I get killed you can—”

“No. This is not a job. It never was—not since I heard from Austin. Would you charge money for fighting for your Hiram?”

Will was silent for a moment. Then, regardless of Austin's warning that rang in his ears, he held his hand out to Gentle Jane. A knife suddenly appeared in Jane's hand. He took Will's hand, turned it over, and put a half-inch slit in the palm. Then he did the same to his own right palm. When the blood was flowing from both cuts he grasped Will's hand in the grasp of common blood—of brotherhood. Jane stood, carrying his rifle. “I will stand by Partner to make certain he doesn't hurt your horse as you lead him out.”

The grain on the floor had been cleaned. Jane's horse stood to one side, half-asleep. Both Austin's horse and Slick had been allowed to suck at the water trough. Jane stood by his horse as Will led Slick outside and saddled and bridled him. A moment later he came back into the storeroom and shagged Austin's horse out the open loading door. He slapped
the animal on the rump, setting him into a lope into the darkness. To Jane he said, “Lots of herds of wild ones 'round here. This boy'll find a home.”

“It is not right that another man put a saddle on Austin's horse,” Jane said.

Will nodded and stepped into a stirrup. He carried a rifle across the saddle in front of him and another in his right hand. His Colt was, of course, holstered at his side. On the left side of his gun belt was a sheath carrying a ten-inch-bladed knife, courtesy of the mercantile.

Will set off to the west at a jog. Jane shoveled the dung out of the storage room, scattered fresh grain on the floor, and replenished the water trough. He picked up a bottle behind the counter and settled in behind the barricade. He rested, but he didn't sleep.

The faint glow of a fire appeared against the sky not a full four miles out of town. Slick heard the whooping and hollered chanting before Will did, and his nervousness—tainted by fear—transmitted itself to Will immediately. There was a convenient cluster of rocks nearby.

Will tied Slick there. He left the rifle in the saddle scabbard and went ahead on foot, knife in his left hand, right hovering near the grips of his pistol.

Will walked perhaps a mile before he crouched down to make himself less obvious against the horizon. There was a gentle mound between him and the camp, and Will crawled up it like a snake. At the top he was able to look down at the gathering of outlaws. There were more of them—many more than he'd expected—and the Indians in the crew were dancing around the fire. Bottles of booze were circulating rapidly from hand to hand. Will grinned.

Damned fools.

A lookout passed in front of him not twenty yards away. The man was mumbling to himself and seemed barely able to keep his seat in his saddle. There was another pair on horseback on the side of the camp beyond Will. They were circulating, but they were much too far apart to do any real damage in case of attack. Will grinned again and watched the camp.

Either One Dog has me set up somehow, or he's a bunch dumber than I thought he was. Seems like I could ride a elly-phant in here an' they wouldn't notice.

Their weapons, Will noticed in the light of the fire, were all over the place: a few rifles here in the dirt, gun belts tossed to the ground like trash, bows and quivers of arrows scattered here and there.

Will watched as the circulating lookouts came past him. Most wore Union or rebel jackets or pants, and the majority rode pancake military saddles rather than stock saddles. For whatever reason, Will Lewis was waiting for an Indian to pass.

One did. He was riding bareback, his pony obviously fatigued, dragging his hooves. The rider carried a spear and had a rifle strapped across his chest, military-style. He sat comfortably on his pony. He wasn't drunk or drugged, but he wasn't paying a ton of attention around him, either.

Will eased in behind the pony. When he was the farthest point from the camp, he tackled the rider, brought him down, and hurled his rifle off into the prairie. The spear dropped next to the pony.

Will holstered his pistol and switched his knife to his right hand. The Indian drew his knife and faced Will.

“Looks like you an' me, outlaw. You scream all you want—they ain't gonna hear you over their dancing an' singin', now are they?”

The Indian showed no fear. “You die now,” he said.

“I doubt that.”

They circled one another, neither making a move, both deciding on the other's skill in a knife fight. The Indian parried; Will easily stepped to the side and swept his blade across his opponent's stomach. It was a shallow cut—little more than a scratch. The Indian stepped back . . . and then lunged forward, slashing Will's right arm below the elbow. Will caught the Indian's knife hand with a deep cut that flowed blood.

“White pig,” the Indian grunted. He shifted his knife to his left hand, as if his right would no longer work, and then switched it back as Will closed in. Will missed, as did the Indian. They backed away from one another, both crouched, both knives extended.

The Indian charged again and Will ducked down, the blade hissing over his head. With his left hand he scrabbled up a handful of dirt and rushed his opponent, throwing the dirt in his face, in his eyes. The Indian instinctively raised his right hand—his knife hand—to clear his eyes. As he did so, Will drove his blade into the man's chest, twisted it, pulled it out, and drove it in again.

Will watched the life flee from his opponent's eyes. At first they were chestnut, filled with hate, but the hate diminished as the life drained. The chestnut turned slightly gray and then a curtain seemed to drop, indicating the last act—the end of all that this man was.

Will found the spear easily enough and brought it back to the Indian's body. He started twice to hack the man's head off—and he vomited both times. Finally, he finished his grotesque task. He carved
HW
into the outlaw's forehead and jammed the long, razor-sharp spearhead into the ragged opening of the Indian's head and stuck it into the sandy ground. He nudged it a couple of times to make sure it wouldn't topple. The spear and head stood well.

It seemed like a terribly long walk back to where he'd tied Slick. Will had killed before, but this was savage killing, satanic killing.
Maybe we're even for what was done to Austin. Maybe not. But I done what I had to do and I damn well showed One Dog what I plan to do with him and the rest of his killers. Justice? Shit. It was revenge, an' that's what it'll be until all of them are dead.

Slick snorted as he heard Will coming to him. This man had meant food and water and good care to him and he was frightened by the thick, coppery scent of blood that surrounded Will. It was a different man to his feeble equine mind—his instinctual fear—but when he heard Will's voice, he associated that with good things: with sweet grain and brushing and spurless boots.

Will climbed on and settled himself in the saddle. He still held the knife with which he'd done his work. He hurled it out onto the prairie and wiped his hand on his denim pants. He rode at an easy pace back to town, checking behind him, as the dark of the night began to give way to the coming day.

I never thought I could do nothin' like I did to that Indian, but they done the same thing to a good man, a tight friend. There was no damned reason for 'em to do it—none. It was a war. Ya don't hack up an' cut the head off . . .