Bad Medicine (25 page)

“We have new and powerful warriors to help us in our battles,” Dog went on. “Let me ask this: who is the fastest and most accurate of the new men—the one who has the balls of a cougar and has killed many men?”

There was some mumbled conversation among the men, but it only lasted a moment until a raspy voice called out from the back of the group, “That'd be me.
No goddamn doubt.” The speaker was a rifle-barrel-thin tall man wearing a black shirt and black hat and a pair of .38s tied low on his thighs, the butts of the pistols facing outward. The bone grips of the pistols were scored with neat little notches—many of them. He grinned, although it was a false smile, and he had the eyes of a man who didn't care if he lived or died.

“I ain't here to listen to your horseshit, One Dog. I'm after the gold an' that's all. I'll kill you an' any 'r all of these clowns who need killin'.”

“Good,” One Dog said. “Come here and stand before me. I will hand you my pistol and then I'll kill you and take your hair.”

This time the gunman's laugh was real. “An' when I drop you—ya bigmouth Injun—I'll take over this band of sows an' use them to make money. No?”

“Perhaps,” One Dog said quietly. “And perhaps not.”

The gunslinger pushed his way forward and stood below Dog at the end of the bar.

“You said you don't need a iron to kill me. Hand over that Colt, ya damn circus Injun, flappin' your yap about how tough you are, how your medicine is gonna kill me. Don't use nothin' but your left hand—I see your holster's on your right side. Tug her out nice an' easy an' hold 'er upside down. Fair 'nuff, Chief?”

“It is fair.”

One Dog reached across his waist and slid his .38 from its holster. He held the weapon upside down, and the very tip of his index finger eased into the trigger guard.

“OK so far,” the gunman said. “Now, drop it.”

“I do not drop fine weapons as a goat drops shit.”

“Yeah, ya do—when I tell you to. Now!”

One Dog fired the .38 upside down with his offside hand, putting all six slugs into the gunsel before the man hit the floor.

“You see?” he said to his men. “My medicine is a shield before me. It is stronger than the gunfighter, and it is stronger than the beast, wampus. I will kill it in its man shape. I saw that happen in a vision with the help of the sacred mushroom. You will all join me. Those who fail to help I will kill and take their hair and ears.”

Dog let that settle for a long moment. “Keep good watch. We know not when the wampus will come, nor what shape he will be in when he does come. The one thing we know is that he will be in a man shape when I take his life.”

“Way I see it, if we can plant them strips of black powder around the saloon an' start raisin' hell outside, the 'splosives will do lots of our work for us,” Will said. “Plus, Wampus'll be tearin' throats—tonight I mean.” He paused for a moment, his face suddenly worried. “Is Wampus heavy enough to set off one of them strips?”

“How much you figger he weighs?”

“Maybe eighty, ninety pounds. A tad less than a hundred-pound sack of grain.”

Ray shook his head sadly. “He'd set one off sure as God made li'l green apples. We gotta leave him here—an' he ain't gonna like that, and I ain't either. I'm kinda used to havin' him with us. He's a fighter worth a half dozen of them renegades.”

“He is. But maybe we don't need to leave him behind. Gimme one a them strips.”

Ray took one of the innocent-looking devices from the box and gave it to Will. “Better back off,” Will said. “I dunno how this is gonna go.”

He placed the strip on the ground. Naturally enough, Wampus trotted over immediately to investigate the thing, sniff it, see what it might be.

Will let him get a stride from the explosive, muzzle down, getting its scent. He began to take another step.

“NO!” Will bellowed in a voice and tone the wolf dog had never heard from him before.

The word—the rawness and command of it—hit him like a lash across his back. Wampus didn't cringe. Instead, he stood as still as a marble statue, his eyes showing his confusion, his grief at displeasing Will.

“Ray,” Will said, “put a good handful of jerky chunks on top of the stick an' then back off again.” Ray did as he was asked.

Will walked off a few yards and then called the still-frozen Wampus over to him. He made a big deal over the dog, rubbing his head, tussling with him, scratching behind his ears, talking to him, until the flatness, the pain, left the wolf dog's eyes. Then Will began to walk, Wampus, as ever, at his side. Will stopped ten feet from the little pile of jerky and waved Wampus on.

Jerky—particularly beef jerky, which this was—had become Wampus's favorite treat. He trotted a few feet toward the dried meat and then stopped so suddenly he fell forward, his muzzle digging a furrow in the dirt. The scent of the strip, even over that of the meat, had reached his sensitive nose.

Will bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from
laughing. Ray turned his back on the scene silently, his shoulders shaking. Both men knew full well a creature like Wampus had all the pride of a good, strong man. Wampus trotted back to Will. “Good boy,” Will said. “
Real
good boy.”

“Well,” Ray said, grinning, “I guess there's no problem there. Tell you the truth, I'm gettin' right fond of that ol' fleabag. Don't tell him that, though—he's liable to git a swelled head.”

The men, as they drank their after-dinner coffee, decided not to use the strips that night.

“I say we take down a couple guards an' mark 'em, maybe scatter their horses if we can, an' then call it a good piece of work,” Will said, rolling a smoke. “We got somethin' to discuss, though.”

“Yeah,” Ray said. “We been kinda sweepin' it under the carpet for a while. Who gets One Dog?”

“Seems to me this's been my show all the way along. I told you right up front that Dog was mine,” Will said.

“I never noticed there was a boss an' a hired hand involved here. An' you got her wrong. I told you
I
was gonna take One Dog down.”

“Ain't gonna happen, Ray. I'd hate to have to jerk guns against you, but if I had to, I would.”

“You think you're faster, better'n me?”

“I know I am.”

Ray spat off to the side. “Faster? Sure. Better? Hell no. Fast don't count for a fart in a hurricane if the slugs don't go where you need 'em to.”

“Are you sayin—?” Will began hotly.

“Waitaminnit! Goddammit, waitaminnit! There's a real good chance one or both of us will die in this mess with them outlaws—in which case, we both
lose. Or maybe only one of us catches lead. That leaves One Dog to the other, no? So let's quit this horseshit 'bout slappin' leather 'gainst men who've become friends. It don't make no sense.”

Will attempted to build a smoke but trembled tobacco all over his lap. After a bit of time he said, “I was way the hell outta line, Ray, an' I 'pologize. You're right. An' for what it's worth, I'd no sooner pull iron on you than I would on my grandma.”

“Why? 'Cause I'm old, beat up, slow, an' half-blind?”

“ 'Zactly. She's deaf, too.”

The two men laughed together and then reached over and shook each other's hand. The handshake meant something important to both of them far beyond the burying of an argument. Both knew that now they were partners in the true sense of the word. At times they'd argue and curse and call each other idjits and pissants—but each knew his partner would always have his back. How men become pards is a mystery, but that's what happened here.

The sky had cleared as the men drank their coffee after their rather unsatisfactory evening meal.

“Too bad we couldn't make that gimp last,” Will said. “Jerky an' warm water ain't a great meal.”

“Right. I'll tell you what. Nex' time we set off after a horde of bloodthirsty outlaws who outman an' outgun us, we'll haul along three, four fifty-gallon barrels of salt to preserve any shaggy calf you might come across.”

Will chuckled. “You're one porky sumbitch, now aren't ya?”

When it was full dark, it wasn't
really
full dark. The stars glinted like millions upon millions of perfectly cut diamonds clustered on pure black velvet,
and the moon was close to full and hung in the sky and was not unlike a gigantic eye seeking out what was happening on earth.

“Too much light,” Ray observed, “but what the hell. Wampus will only look more scary with more light on him. Let's use some scorch from the fire to cut down the glare of our faces.”

“Good idea,” Will said. “Night like this one, the outriders might top the rim on their rounds. We'd best tie our horses back farther than we have been, an' keep a real sharp eye out. 'Course, we got Wampus . . .”

“Wampus came over to me this afternoon for a scratch. First time he done that,” Ray said.

“Still think he'll turn?”

“Yeah, Will, I do. It's in their blood. It ain't Wampus's fault—it's jus' in his blood.”

“Bullshit.”

Ray sighed. “You ready to ride?”

The strange quality of the light cast the entire prairie in a silvery hue that transformed things into what they weren't: boulders became lurking bears, the soil itself became shimmering water, large clumps of scrub became hunched riflemen, drawing a bead.

“Lookit that,” Will said, pointing off to one side. Wampus had given a half-hearted chase to a jackrabbit that had saved himself by diving down one of the countless rabbit-warren tunnels of the area. Wampus stood looking back at the men and his entire body seemed iridescent—a softly silver color that made the wolf dog an unearthly creature. But it was his eyes that'd caught Will's attention. They were viridescent ovals that glowed from within, making them a pale emerald shade.

“Damn,” Ray said. “If any of those guards get away after seeing Wampus, they're goin' to be carryin' a load in their drawers as they skedaddle.”

They left their horses and continued on foot.

It was a good night for outrider hunting. One Dog had been smart enough to post four riders above the rim surrounding Olympus. There would have been five, but Dog shot the fifth in the back as he rode out of town lifting a bottle to his mouth. One Dog had ordered no booze, and he meant what he said.

Will and Ray heard the steady clopping of a horse at a fast walk before they saw the rider. They dropped behind a cluster of scrub. Wampus, next to Will, was trembling in anticipation, his lips curled back over shining white eyeteeth but not growling, not making a sound. The guard rode past the men and dog, and Will gave him several yards before he whispered to Wampus, “Go.”

Wampus snaked his way across the prairie floor like a moving light, seeking cover a few times to watch his prey, and then continuing on after him. He went into a jog eight or so yards behind the rider's horse; the jog rapidly evolved into a flat-out gallop. He launched himself onto the horse's rump and tore into the back of the rider's neck, carrying the both of them to the ground. Wampus quickly shifted his grip to the jugular. In moments the man was dead, his horse galloping frantically away, stirrups flapping, reins dragging. Will approached the rider, told Wampus he'd done good, and ripped the man's shirt open. He was getting good at leaving his
HW
—it took him only a couple of seconds. The corpse's .38 seemed to be in good shape; Will stuck it in his belt.
The rifle was a piece of a junk; that Will left. The rider had nothing else worth taking.

Will was walking back to Ray when Ray motioned “down.” Will dropped and lay perfectly still. Another outrider was approaching from the opposite direction. One Dog's idea had obviously been to have the riders intersect with one another, so that if there was trouble it would be immediately known.

When the rider passed, Will sent Wampus to Ray with the order to stay.

He tugged his knife from the sheath in his boot and jogged after the guard, hanging twenty feet back, careful of his footing. He didn't realize Ray was a few strides behind him until he stopped. Ray tapped him on the shoulder. Will pivoted, knife at chest level—and then grinned. “Sneaky sumbitch,” he whispered.

“If you'd been payin' attention, you'd a heard me,” Ray whispered back. “Was I a renegade, we'd be eatin' your liver tonight.” He held out his hand. “Gimme the knife.”

Ray balanced the knife in his palm, looking for the midpoint of its weight. He found it easily; it was a good knife. He tested the keenness of the blade with his thumb and smiled.

His mouth formed the word
good
. He leaned close to Will and whispered into his ear. “You stay here. I'm ‘a show you how this kinda killin' should be did.”

The rider, of course, had kept on moving. Ray had to trot for several minutes to catch up to him. When he was twenty-five feet behind the guard, Ray took the tip of the knife flat between his right thumb and forefinger. He raised his arm and stretched it well behind him. When he threw his motion was smooth,
fluid, and very rapid. The knife, looking like a silver bird as it flipped over several times, buried itself to the hilt in the back of the ourider's skull, making a sound much like that produced when a pumpkin is struck with a stout stick. The man toppled from his horse soundlessly, slowly, almost gracefully. His body twitched twice and then he was still.

Ray scurried up, hauled the knife from the man's head, turned him over, and tore open his shirt. He scribed the
HW
and then, after looking at his work for a long moment, carved a smaller but still readily discernable
R
under the larger marking. He jogged back to Will and Wampus, wiping blood, bits of bone, and gray matter from the blade onto his pants.