Bad Medicine (7 page)

“Take a nip if you want—the cleanin' is gonna sting some. After maybe twelve, fourteen days, cut the first suture an' pull the whole length out. Don't yank—kinda use steady pressure an' she should come right on out, slick as can be.”

Will stood up from the chair woozily, but quickly regained his balance. The side of his face felt like a mule had kicked him. He handed the barber a gold eagle. “Thanks. You quit burnin' that weed an' you might could make a good sawbones.”

The barber pocketed the coin and mumbled something that ended with “. . . an' the horse you rode in on.”

Will strolled on over to the mercantile, weaving slightly but walking fairly well. It was the messiest, most poorly kept store he'd ever been in. The storekeeper was a large—very large—woman who quickly brought the image of a Brahma bull to Will's mind. He wandered the aisles until he came to an uneven pile of bandannas and pulled one out from the bottom of the pile. He went to the counter. “I need a quart of decent whiskey,” he said, “an' this bandanna.”

“What happened to your puss?” the woman asked. There was no sympathy in her whiskey-and-gravel voice, only mild curiosity.

“I bit myself,” Will said. “How much for the booze an' the bandanna?”

“Say—ain't you the gunman who put an' end to them three this morning?”

“No.”

“Yes ya are—I seen it from my window right here. Ornery sumbitch, ain't you?” She turned and plucked a bottle from under the counter. “This here's a good sippin' bourbon,” she said. “Aged.”

Will looked over the bottle. The label was slightly crooked, and the print on it was fuzzy and next to impossible to read. “Old . . . old what?” he asked. “I can't read this.”

“Says Ol' Kaintuck Home—brung here all the way from Kaintucky.”

“Brung all the way from the barrel of this crap you got in the cellar—right? Aged maybe part of a day?”

“Buy it or don't buy it—makes no nevermind to me. You ain't gonna git a chance to drink it 'fore One Dog rips yer guts out, anyways.”

“You pretty sure of that?”

“Damn right. You pissant gunsels don't scare Dog none.”

Will dropped some coins on the counter. “You talk to One Dog, do you? Tell him he doesn't have long to live.”

The woman laughed, and it was a cruel laugh—like one would give to a fool. “You ever had yer nuts ripped off when you was alive? You ever git to see how long your guts is? You ever had yer head boiled while you was tied upside down over a fire?” She laughed again, that same witchlike laugh. “Yer a fool—an' right soon yer gonna be a dead fool.”

Will smiled. “Jus' tell him, OK?” He tipped his hat. “Been real nice doin' business with you an' chattin' with you, too.” He took his bottle and his bandanna
and left the mercantile. The air outside smelled very good after being in the store.

Slick was out in the small pasture the stablekeeper maintained for his own stock and for the horses he boarded who'd kick hell out of his stalls out of boredom. That, or cribbing—chewing on the crosspieces of their stalls. The swallowed chunks of wood could kill a horse, and it made his stalls look terrible.

As usual, Slick was a good bit away from the other animals. He'd either mounted them or fought them, and they wanted no part of him.

Will leaned against the fence, his face throbbing as if he'd taken a punch every few seconds. He soaked his bandanna with whiskey and gently rubbed it along the line of stitches. It felt as if he'd lit the wound on fire.

“Dammit,” he said, tossed the bandanna to the side, and took a long suck from the bottle. It wasn't as bad as the saloon booze, and even if it were, it cut the pain. Will took another suck and put the cork into the bottle. That's when the arrow buried its head in the board he'd been leaning against. He dropped to the ground, Colt already in his hand, and saw an Indian riding toward him, a fresh arrow already nocked. Will's finger was on the trigger and the muzzle of his pistol was chest high to the galloping attacker.

He lowered his weapon and put a slug into the Indian's knee. The bow and arrow dropped into the dirt of the street; the man screeched and grabbed at his leg with both hands and tumbled from his war pony.

Will walked to the Indian, his Colt steady in his hand, muzzle centered on the Indian's head.

“Bad shot,” Will said. “Now I can send you away, no? To the place where all your relatives will shun you, laugh at you, and you'll be alone, eating snake and prairie dog, no woman, no horse—no pride. Why? 'Cause you're a coward who was scared off by a white eyes you didn't even know.”

“I piss on your mother,” the Indian snarled. “I know you.” He grasped his knee with both hands. His face was contorted with the pain.

“You know me? Damn, coward, I never seen you before.”

“One Dog, he had a vision. He will himself kill you.”

“I'll do this: You can crawl to your pony an' somehow git on him. Then you ride back to One Dog an' tell him Will Lewis is gonna kill him—an' all you're getting is some time, 'cause I'm gonna kill all of you who ride with One Dog.”

“A corpse—you're a . . .”

Will nudged the Indian's knee with the toe of his boot. “You remember the name I gave you?”

“You said, Lewis—Will Lewis.”

“Very good. An' you'll tell One Dog this: He's a cowardly chunk of yellow dog shit—a killer of children an' of women. Tell him he'll suffer before I kill him.”

The Indian spat again. “One Dog cannot be killed. He has medicine—bad medicine—that protects him from white men. You will—”

“This is gettin' tiresome. You gonna do what I said?”

“One Dog will carry your hair on his belt and your head will—”

“Like I said, this is gettin' tedious.”

Will fired, the slug giving the Indian a third eye.

“Dumb sumbitch. All you hadda do was make it to your pony, an' ride off. Now, you ain't ridin' nowhere—'cept maybe to hell.”

The saloon on the other side of the street was doing business, as usual. Will saw that the bodies were still in the street, although there was a difference: the Indian's bows, quivers, arrows, and moccasins were gone. The two drunks were drawing hordes more flies than the Indians, probably because of the manner in which the Indians had slaughtered them. The white man with the rifle lost his boots, horse, weapon, gun belt, and hat—and anything he had in his pockets.

“One hell of a sweetheart town,” Will said aloud, disgustedly. “Even in Dodge the furniture maker hauled the dead gunsels outta the street. 'Course he got money for boxin' 'em up an' plantin' 'em.”

An old gaffer with a patch over one eye sat on a bench in front of the mercantile—all mercantiles had to have benches—whittling aimlessly, not forming anything from the rough block of wood he held, merely cutting thin and narrow strips from it.

“Kids got the bows an' the arrows an' such,” the old fellow said. “Ain't nobody in this here town got the balls of a turnip to touch One Dog's men.” He thought for a moment.

Will stepped toward the batwings.

“ 'Course One Dog would up an' gut them kids same way he would a full-growed man. Don't matter none to him.

“You're prolly wonderin' why I got this patch over my eye. Thing is, there ain't nuthin' but a hole there. I lost the eye at Antioch to them sonsabitch bluebellies an' their grapeshot.” He paused again. “I s'pose you wanna hear the story.”

“No—not at all,” Will said, pushing his way into the saloon.

Will stood at the bar and swilled beer and the occasional shot of redeye. He hadn't gone after One Dog immediately, suspecting that the posted guards would be the heaviest after the shootings in Lord's Rest. His face throbbed with his pulse and his head felt as if someone had split it with a dull ax.

The bartender fetched another schooner for Will and asked, “Want me to run a tab for ya for a couple days? Be easier than you haulin' coins outta your drawers.”

“No. I'll be ridin' out early tomorrow. I'll pay my way tonight.”

“I don't think you'll be ridin' out. We got a nor'easter comin' on like a damn locomotive. Ain't gonna be nobody ridin' nowhere. You don't believe me, you go on out an' take a gander at the sky.”

“I've rode in rain an' wind before,” Will said. “I guess I can do it again.”

“Nossir. I don't think so. Even the goddamn wooly hunters hunker down under cover when something like this comes on.”

Will walked to the batwings and out onto the street, beer in hand. The sky in all directions was a roiled, dirty gray, like soiled, fresh-sheared wool,
and the temperature had dropped like a rock down a well. Chain lightning flickered and flashed as if spearing the clouds, and thunder grumbled, although the sound was muffled, muted, like the sounds of a far-off cannonade.

A few fat, stinging drops of rain struck Will's face as he stood looking at the sky. The choice was an easy one: go back to his room at the cathouse or into the gin mill. He chose the saloon.

“See wad I mean?” the 'tender said. “An' damn, I was supposed to git some bidness late tonight or tomorra—a bunch of fellas ridin' through. Shit. They ain't gonna be thirsty if they ride in this sumbitch storm, an' that's for sure.” He considered for a moment as if working a puzzle in his mind. “ 'Course they might like a taste of whiskey.”

Will's head was still throbbing. The stitches seemed to be holding well, weeping only minute bits of blood. He ordered a bucket of beer and walked over to a table with his bucket and an almost empty schooner, and rolled himself a smoke.

There were eight, maybe ten, men in the saloon—no women. A couple were playing checkers at a table. The balance were standing at the bar in various states of intoxication, from the gent stretched out on the floor to those who stood straight to those who looked like they'd join their colleague on the floor before long.

The storm was like a living thing, with its massive paws around the saloon. The entire building shook when blasts of wind struck it, beams groaned, and the sounds of shingles ripping from the roof sounded like heavy cartridges striking. The rain—now sheets
rather than drops—was lashed almost parallel with the ground by the snarling, howling wind.

Will was building another cigarette when the batwings slammed open, one ripped from its hinges, and three horsemen, as wet and dripping as they'd be had they been dragged across a wide river, swung down from their saddles and hauled off their ponchos. “Whiskey—lots of it,” one rider said, using his hand, curved as a scoop, to sluice water off his horse.

“You can't bring them horses . . .” the bartender called. “I ain't gonna clean my floor in the . . .”

The rider who'd dismounted first drew his .45 and put a slug into each of the prominent, almost crab-apple-sized nipples on the nude poster over the bar. The 'tender went back to pouring liquor.

Will stood—somewhat shakily—and faced the horseman. “You never did have no manners,” he said. “Ridin' yer damned horse into a fine place like this an' then shooting at the only tits we got to look at. Why hell, I oughta kick yer ass back out into the rain.”

The gunman swung toward Will, crouching a bit, planting his boots one a foot ahead of the other, his Colt already in his hand—and then his hard, bearded face broke into a broad smile and he ran to Will. The two men embraced, cursing one another, pounding each other's backs, laughing.

“Yer jus' as ugly as you ever was,” the gunman shouted. “You still chasin' them sheep when you get lonely?”

“Seems to me you put the wood to the fattest, ugliest, smelliest whore in Fort Worth an' then never paid the poor heifer. Ain't that right, Austin?”

“Paid her? Why hell, I give her the biggest thrill in her life!”

The other men were shedding their ponchos and dragging the saddles from their horses. They were young, perhaps eighteen or twenty, but it was obvious to Will that these boys were gunfighters—or at least, young fellas who knew about killing.

Will nodded in their direction. “Who's the crew?”

“They ain't mine. We done a little bank together and that's the end of it. We split equal four ways an' then we'll ride off in four different ways.”

“How about you pull the saddle offa your horse an' we'll set at a table an' drink some beer an' talk things over?” Will said.

“You betcha,” Austin answered. “Hell, I ain't seen you in . . . what, six, seven years? Not since you—”

“Closer to eight,” Will interrupted, moving to a table. He watched as his friend pulled cinches.

There'd been four of us figurin' to take the Wells Fargo stage. Rumor had it the coach was carrying pay for silver miners—American bills, not army script. The trail at one point was a long, sweeping curve around a marsh and there were trees on both sides. We heard the rumble and rattle of the coach long before it came into sight. Each of us outlaws pulled his bandanna up over his nose, covering most of his face.

“Don't feel right,” I said quietly, our horses standing together.

“Why? It ain't the shotgunner's nor the driver's money. They ain't gonna die for it.”

“I dunno. Seems like we been tappin' coaches a little too hard around here, Austin. This one's it for me—I'm takin' my split an' haulin' ass.”

Austin thought that over as the sounds of the stage
grew louder. “Might could be you got a good idea there, Will.”

We had planned the heist out pretty thoroughly. Austin and me would come out from the trees in front of the coach and hold our guns on the shotgunner and the driver. The other two men would drag out any passengers and get the cash box secured under the front-facing seat. We'd collect the guns any passenger might be carrying—and those of the shotgunner and the driver—and ride off, rich, happy, without having spilled a drop of blood.