Bad Medicine Read online

  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.

  An arrow hissed past Will’s face, perhaps two inches above his nose, and buried its point in the lath and poorly applied sheet wood, joining a cluster of half a dozen other shafts. Austin sat across the room, bow in hand, quiver slung from the back of his chair.

  “I’ll tell you this right now,” Austin said, “whoever made this sumbitch put his heart into it. You seen the power it has. I never seen a arrow pierce right on through a man’s head. Usually, even with a good, stout bow, they don’t penetrate more’n a few inches in a skull. I’d wager that piece of trash I dusted in the saloon didn’t make this here bow.” Will began to speak, but Austin went on.

  “An’ these arrows are the best. Lookit the points—sharper’n a razor an’ balanced perfect. An’ the shafts—there ain’t nothin’ but perfectly straight hardwood, rubbed an’ polished to a fair-thee-well. Them is eagle feathers, too.”

  “Where the hell are we?” Will’s voice sounded like that of a badger with a really sore throat. Austin handed over an unlabeled quart bottle. “Have you a sip of this so’s you don’t sound like you do—it’d get on a man’s nerves in a big hurry.” Will, his throat parched and sore, sucked down a long pull. He coughed immediately, rackingly, and his throat felt as if a five-foot-long length of red-hot barbed wire had been stuffed into his lungs. “What . . . is that?” he croaked.

  “Taykilla, a Mex fella tol’ me. Didn’t charge me but twenty cents for the whole quart. He said it’s real popular in Mexico.” Austin notched another arrow and began to draw back.

  “Dammit, you quit that! There’s no good reason you gotta shoot so close to my face, ya damned fool!”

  Austin grinned and nodded. “You’re right,” he said. He moved the bow a bit and released the arrow. It slammed into the wall tight enough to Will’s groin that had he been excited with a lady, he’d have lost something valuable.

  “Idjit,” Will snarled.

  “Want some grub?” Austin asked. “This dump has a restaurant. You prolly should eat.”

  Will swallowed and quickly decided that he did need to eat and that he wanted to eat. “Yeah, Austin, I’m needing some food. An’ my hand is killin’ me, but I ain’t gonna drink more of that Mex crap. Maybe you could fetch a bottle of decent booze?”

  “Sure.”

  “Austin—was there some pills in my pocket in my ol’ shirt.”

  “Yeah, there was. I got ’em right here in my pocket. You needin’ one?”

  “Toss ’em out the window, pard. Sonsabitches almost killed me.”

  “Sure. I’ll go down, fetch up some stew—it ain’t half bad. I had me a couple helpings.”

  “Where the hell are we, by the way?”

  “The hotel—the Royal Duchess, she’s called. Got grub and whores, too.”

  “Royal Duchess? Damn,” Will said incredulously. “Might jus’ as well called this fleabag the Windsor Castle.”

  “What’s a windward castle?”

  “Forget it, OK? Jus’ get the stew an’ coffee—lots of coffee.”

  Austin shook his head slowly,
as if he’d just heard bad news. “Jesus, Will,” he said. “You’re one miserable sumbitch when it comes to givin’ orders.” Austin set his bow aside and stomped out the door, slamming it behind him as he left.

  Will tested his hand a bit. It hurt—bad. He groaned, got his boots under himself, and weaved to the tiny table that held Austin’s bottle. He took a slug, gagged, and took another hit.

  After a short time, the pain in his hand and wrist dulled considerably.

  Austin came in with a large bowl of venison stew, which was purely delicious, and a loaf of bread under his arm, still warm from the oven. The pot of coffee was steaming from its spout, diffusing its wonderful aroma throughout the small room.

  “I didn’t mean to rag on you, Austin,” Will said. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  “Hell,” Austin grinned. “Had a Injun chewed most of my hand off, why I’d be kinda outta sorts, too. Here—lemme add some hog piss to your coffee.” He crossed the room to Will and poured a half cup of whiskey into Will’s mug.

  Will ate all the stew, cleaned the bowl with chunks of bread, ate the rest of the loaf, and drank all of the coffee.

  “You done stuffin’ your face?” Austin asked.

  “For now,” Will said, clumsily rolling a smoke.

  “Good. Here’s the thing: I been thinkin’. We can keep on pickin’ off One Dog’s boys one or two at a time, but that ain’t gonna get us nowhere. Dog can pick up an’ hire on other losers ’fore the ones we killed have bled out.” He paused. “We ain’t doin’ this right, Will.”

  “How so?”

  “I’d say this: we need a man so screwed up he’d make Dog’s crew look like a buncha li’l girls playin’ tea party. See, we’re both good—real good—but we ain’t near as nutsy as our enemies. That’s gonna hurt us—prolly kill us.”

  Will considered for a couple of minutes. “Yeah. Could be you’re right. But—”

  “Now, listen up. I got a good frien’ name of Gentle Jane. He had him eleven notches on the grips of his Colt ’fore he was thirteen years old. He’s pure crazy, Will—a goddamn killin’ machine. He’s part Injun and part Mex an’ has the worst parts of both. You never seen a man fight like Jane—with a pistol or rifle or knife or his hands.”

  “Gentle Jane?” Will said.

  “Jane, he took that name on his own self, hopin’ men would challenge it an’ him. Like I said, he’s pure loopy.”

  “How . . . how loopy?”

  “Well, see . . . if a man gives him a good fight, Gentle Jane, he’ll cut the fella’s eggs off an’ eat ’em.”

  “That’s pretty crazy.”

  “For sure. Another thing: Jane wears a string of ears ’round his neck. He likes to take trophies. He . . . well . . . he’s already filled two strands, is workin’ hard on the third.”

  “This guy sounds real dangerous, Austin.”

  “He is—but only if he’s comin’ after you with a gun, knife, or his fists. Other than that, he ain’t a bad fella.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I shot a Union corporal who was goin’ to run Jane through—from the back, mind you—with a cavalry sword durin’ a bar tussle. I’ll tell you this, ol’ Jane is worth ten men to us, maybe more. Plus, lotsa Injuns know about him an’ he scares the hell outta them. They figure he’s a evil spirit.”

  “Well. I’m sure this Gentle Jane is all you say he is, pard. We can’t use him, though. Having somebody that screwy around won’t cause nothin’ but trouble. Suppose he ups an’ turns on us?”

  “Won’t happen. He calls me his brother.”

  “He doesn’t call me his brother, though. Nope—we can’t risk it.”

  “Kinda late, Will.”

  “What? You didn’t . . .”

  “Yeah. While you was out I wired him. I suspect he’s ridin’ hard this very moment to come an’ give us a hand. All we gotta do is wait up a couple days, let your paw heal some, an’ make sure Dog doesn’t come through our door. Could be that Injun I put the arrow in was on his own, without no orders from One Dog. If that’s true, the sonsabitches are still searchin’ for us.”

  “Dammit, Austin . . .”

  “There’s no sense in squallin’ over what’s already did. We can’t change nothin’ now. You’ll see I done a good decision, Will.”

  “Right. So did Custer.”

  Gentle Jane rode into Olympus three days later. He wasn’t a big man, but he was as frightening as any man a person would care to see. His skin was a copper shade and his eyes black diamonds with a manic fire burning behind them. He wore a full beard that reached the belt of his deerskin drawers. His necklaces of dried ears rested on the beard. He had a bow over his back and a large quiver full of arrows hung from a string of latigo from the horn of his stock saddle. He had a .30-30 in a scabbard on either side. His gun belt carried a pair of Colts. Stitched to each holster was a sheath holding a bowie-type knife with blades a good foot long. His horse was large—almost drafty—with hooves the size of dinner plates and a head on him like a beer barrel. Even given the animal’s size and a three day ride, he trip-tropped along like a circus pony, snapping each huge hoof up almost before it touched the ground.

  Will and Austin watched Gentle Jane ride down the main street. “That a pistol butt I see at the top of his boot?” Will asked.

  “Yep. Got one on the other side, too. Jane, he don’t like to be underarmed. Got him a derringer an’ more knifes here an’ there.”

  Gentle Jane ground-tied his horse in front of the saloon’s hitching rail and climbed down from his saddle. “Jane don’t ever tie his horse—he figures he might not have time to diddle ’round with a hitchin’ rail. Ain’t a bad idea, ya know?”

  Will sighed. “We might jus’ as well go on over an’ say hello—since the man is here an’ all.”

  “Ummm—don’t offer to shake with Jane. He won’t do it. He’s gotta have both paws free at all the time.”

  “Jesus.” Will sighed again.

  “But let’s watch from here for a minnit. See what goes on in the saloon.”

  “Why? What’s . . . ?”

  “Jus’ watch, OK?”

  They watched. After a few minutes a typey looking piebald tied at the rail swung his head back to glare at Gentle Jane’s black. The big horse met the ’bald’s eyes and clicked his front teeth—the size of piano keys—together with a sharp, snapping sound that reached all the way to the hotel. The piebald turned back quickly to stare at the batwings.

  Five or so long minutes passed. “Look,” Will said, “if we’re goin’ to ride with this—”

  A thunderous, resonating boom, the likes of which would have made a Sharps report sound like a penny firecracker, rattled windows throughout the town. A cowhand sailed through the batwings like a diver into a deep pond, hit the street face-first, scrambled to his feet, and ran, both his nostrils gushing blood. His hat remained in the street where the cowpuncher had hit. There was another boom and the hat turned into a handful of confetti that rose from the street ten or twelve feet and then drifted gently, smoothly, to the street.

  The shortest part of a second later a stampede of cowboys, gamblers, drunks, and saddle tramps stampeded out of the saloon and either ran or untied their horses and mounted them at a run.

  “That’s a eight-gauge shotgun,” Austin said.

  “Ain’t no such thing.”

  “There is, though. Jane, he had it made up for him. A ol’ gunsmith in Tucson put it together. You oughta see the cartridges—they’re as big as a hog’s snout.” Austin stood from his crouch by the window. “We can go on out an’ meet Jane,” he said. “Now you remember—no hand shakin’.”

  Gentle Jane stood at the bar with a short-barreled shotgun on the wood in front of him. The stock was a deep, dark, polished wood and the trigger guard and triggers were brass. Bluish wisps of smoke were drifting up from both barrels.

  “Jane,” Austin shouted, “you came! I knowed you would! Good to see you, brother!”

  �
��My brother,” Gentle Jane said. His voice wasn’t what Will expected. Instead, it was level, calm, and it reminded Will of that of a teacher he’d once had. “My love for you remains as the moon and stars remain.” He eyed Will. “Who is this gunslinger? Does he challenge me? I’ll have his ears, brother Austin.”

  “No! No!” Austin began to reach out to touch Jane’s shoulder, and then pulled it back as if he’d stuck it in a fire. “Will, here, he’s my friend—my pard. See, a crazy name of One Dog killed his brother and his brother’s wife and baby daughters an’ burned down his house an’ barn.

  “Will is set on killing them all.”

  “Is good,” Jane said. “I have heard of this One Dog. I’d not eat his heart nor take his ears, because he’s a coward. How many guns does he have with?”

  “Maybe thirty-five, forty, somethin’ like that. When one is killed he picks up another saddle tramp or army deserter.”

  “One Dog kills all black men he sees, no? He wants all blacks to remain under the white man’s whip, to work and sweat and be sold like cattle to other white men, to take a man from his woman and children. Is this not true?”

  “It’s true,” Will said. “He raids farms, rapes the women, kills them, kills the men and children, and steals the stock—cattle and horses. He sells them in Mexico.”

  “Austin—you and Will have killed some of One Dog’s men?”

  “Four. We carve HW on the chests of their corpses.”

  “What is this HW?”

  “My brother’s name was Hiram. We were going to use our first initials as the name of our ranch.”

  “What is this ‘initials’?”

  “First letter of each of our names.”

  “I do not read. You will need to show me HW. Then I too will carve it into the chests of these pigs.”

  “Sure.”

  “Is good. Now we will eat and drink and make some plans, no?”

  The ’tender was still crouched behind the bar, white-faced, trembling. “Barkeep,” Austin said. “You cook us up three of the best an’ biggest steaks you got—blood rare, they gotta be—an’ set up a couple of bottles of whiskey and three glasses.”