Bad Medicine (10 page)

And the battle will be on. One Dog will be seeking me as intensely as I'm seeking One Dog.

The fight would go to the death—there was no doubt about that. And One Dog was known and feared for making his captives scream for death, plead for it, beg for it. As suddenly as a bolt of lightning from a clear, blue sky, Will saw himself and Hiram as deeply tanned children of the summer, barefoot, smoking corn-silk cigarettes out behind the barn.

This is for you, Hiram.

Will stepped around the rock, snatched a greasy braid with his left hand, and sawed his blade across the man's throat. Blood spouted in a quick gush a foot or so and then slowed. It was black in the night light, but the heavy, coppery scent was always the same, day or night. Will didn't look at the man's eyes. When the blood stopped flowing Will ripped open the Union campaign jacket and carved
HW
in deep, six-inch letters in the corpse's chest. He wiped his knife on the dead man's pants, slid it back into his belt, and began his escape.

“Luke? Hey, Luke, where the hell are you?” a hoarse voice called, followed by the crunching and snapping of twigs and branches and the dislodging of pebbles and clods of dirt.

Will looked around him. There was what appeared to be a fairly deep indentation—a natural furrow—a few feet from the rock. He slithered into it on his back and drew his knife.

“Goddammit, Luke—if yer drunk again on watch, I'm gonna tear yer ass off. Hear me?”

There was more anger in the voice this time. “Dumb sumbitch! You ain't . . .”

The fellow stepped over Will and the furrow, one boot on either side, beginning to swing his right foot forward to take another stride. Will jammed his knife upward to the hilt, directly between the outlaw's legs, and then twisted it sharply.

Will completely expected a horrendous screech that would bring the entire camp up to the rock, but instead the man fell to his side, hunched over, both hands gripping his groin. His mouth was wide-open, forming a large O, but the only sound from him was
an almost feminine squeak. Will rolled out of the furrow and cut the fellow's throat. The gurgle of his death was louder than his reaction to the blade in his privates, but even that wasn't loud. The man was a bare-chested Indian in deerskin pants and moccasins. Will took the moccasins and a Colt .45, carved
HW
on the well-muscled chest, pulled on the moccasins, and headed back to the camp he and Austin had established.

Will noticed his knife was still dripping blood. This time he swiped both sides of the blade on his own pants.

The walk back to the camp was a whole lot more comfortable in the moccasins. He crossed a rocky area in what he thought was almost perfect silence. Apparently, he was wrong. The sound of a handful of beans being shaken frantically in an empty tin can stopped Will where he stood. The snake was somewhere off to his left, maybe a yard or so away—maybe more, maybe less—but Will peered until his eyes teared and all he could see was a small cluster of larger rocks and scattering of smaller ones. The moon gave him no help. He'd hoped that the oily glistening of the serpent's eyes or the pale whiteness of its open mouth would place the rattler for him. The erratic but constant rattling continued. Will's mind built a fat six-footer with fangs as long as a saddler's needle, coiled tightly, ready to strike, the glistening, evil eyes focused on his calf, or his arm, or even his face.

He stood motionless for what seemed like forever, frightened sweat dripping into his eyes, almost afraid to blink. He felt a wetness in his pants without realizing he'd pissed himself.

Hot urine drained down his legs and into his moccasins. Still the snake warned him, the young-pea-sized, irregularly shaped stones dancing in the buttons at the end of its tail.

Will tensed his leg muscles, but slowly, hoping he wasn't moving. His upper body was ready to move—had been since the first sounds reached him. Both his hands were clenched into fists, but he was no more aware of them than he was of wetting himself.

His legs were beginning to tremble from the tension. He was beginning to grow dizzy.

He counted to three in his mind and hurled his body to his right, slamming painfully against the stones, and scrambled to his feet within the smallest part of a second after striking the ground.

Then, he ran.

Austin was leaned back against his saddle, smoking a cigarette but cupping his hand completely around it so that no dull red of the end showed. The bottle was next to him. His rifle was resting across his chest, locked and loaded and ready to fire. The cigarette was in his left hand, his Colt in his right—pointed at Will's chest. He lowered the weapon as soon as he recognized his friend.

“You find that guard?”

“Yeah.”

“You kill him?”

“That's what I was out there for. Lemme have that bottle.” He stepped closer to Austin to grab the neck of the booze bottle.

“I did another one, too.” He pulled the cork and took a long swallow.

“They'll be more wary now, Will. One Dog doesn't much to take his men bein' killed 'less he does it.”

“True. That bother you?”

Austin chuckled. “Hell, no, I—What's that on—? Damn, boy, did you piss your pants?”

“It wasn't One Dog—it was a goddamn rattler longer'n your leg.”

Austin chuckled again. “Sure,” he said.

“It went like it was supposed to, snake or no snake,” Will said, sounding a bit insulted.

“Any trouble?” Austin asked, picking up on a slight change in his friend's standard voice.

“No.”

“You sound strange, Will. Like . . . I dunno. Jus' strange. Ain't killin' them sonsabitches what we're out here for?”

“It's not the killing. I'd as soon shoot one of them as a barn rat. Thing is . . . I marked 'em, Austin.”

“Marked? What'd you mean?”

“I carved a
HW
on each of their chests with my knife—cut in real good. It'll be impossible for the rest of 'em to miss.”

“HW? What's that?”

“Me an' my brother were goin' to call our operation the H&W Cattle Ranch an' our brand was gonna be a
HW
.”

Austin thought that over for a while. “Seems to me, you done good, Will. You know as well as I do that the whole buncha them are pure crazy, 'specially the Injuns, what with that superstitious stuff of theirs. You gave 'em somethin' to think about, some-thin' to wear on 'em while we hunt them down. Hell, boy, seems like a good idea to me.”

“Maybe so. I never did anything like that before. I
killed men, but it was always face-to-face an' I never left no extra mark on 'em. I don't want to be like that loon who rode with the Earps for a bit—he usta hack the ear off a man he gunned.”

“Not Holliday?”

“No—no. Doc wouldn't do nothin' like that. Some saddle tramp they picked up, name of Kid something or other. He's dead. He tried to draw on Wyatt, an' Wyatt shot his ass off.”

“You didn't cut nobody's ear off. What you done is declare war, my frien'. That's what you did an' that's how One Dog and his men will see it. Like I said, you done good. All the cards is on the table now.”

Both men were silent for several moments.

“They'll have more lookouts now, but they won't try to track you in the dark. They'll be lookin' for sign at first light, but not before,” Austin said.

Will grinned. “You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?”

“You bet I am,” Austin answered, tugging the ten-inch blade from his boot. “What say we take out a couple more of them—an' leave the HW on them, too.”

“We gotta split up, though, when we get close,” Will warned. “We do what we can an' then haul ass back here an' saddle up an' light out. Right?”

“Right. An' no guns—a single shot'd bring the whole crew on us like a swarm a hornets. If the kill cain't be done quiet, it won't get done at all. We'll git him the next time.”

“We got maybe two an' a half, three hours of good dark. We gotta be quick,” Will said.

“Let's move then,” Austin said, hauling off a boot. “We're wastin' what time we got.”

Will expected at least a few muffled curses from
Austin as they set out on the mission, as bootless feet landed on a particularly sharp rock, and was mildly surprised when he not only heard no profanity, but barely heard his partner at all.

The walk seemed longer to Will than it had earlier, but the vague scent of smoke let him know he and Austin were getting close. “We split here,” he whispered into Austin's ear. “There's at least one man ridin' around the cattle an' horses. He probably found the bodies from earlier. Or maybe somebody changin' guard did, but we gotta assume One Dog knows he had a visitor.”

Austin nodded but didn't speak.

“You swing out to the left there, an' I'll go over where I killed the first one,” Will whispered. “See you back at the horses.”

The lookout at the rock was standing this time and Will could hear him shifting his feet on the gritty stone surface as he paced a short pattern. Will listened for several minutes; the shuffling pattern didn't change. The man's final step as he turned to repeat his pacing was perfect. It put his back a mere couple of steps from where Will stood, knife at the ready, blade up, clutched chest high. Will let the guard make another pass. Then he crouched slightly, extended his right hand and the knife a bit from his body, and balanced himself carefully on the balls of his feet, left moccasin slightly behind his right. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, shook his wrist to loosen any tension in it, and when the time was perfect, sprang out from the edge of the rock, left hand finding and covering the guard's mouth from the back at the same time his right hand arced out and plunged the blade to the hilt into the man's chest.

The guard was an Indian. The stench of the grease on his hair was like the pit of a privy.

He grunted as the knife struck and his mouth opened slightly, even under Will's powerful grip. Will drew the knife from the guard's chest, pulling it upward and twisting it as he did so. At the same moment—perhaps as a final act of battle or perhaps in his death throes—the Indian closed his teeth on the lower palm of Will's left hand. The pain was sharp, hot, and Will could feel his flesh tearing. Then, as quickly as the gnashing pressure began, it stopped and all the strength drained from the man: from his mouth, his arms, his chest. Will pulled his knife free and let the body fall facedown. He quickly turned the corpse over, carved the HW into the warm, blood-slick chest, and then looked at his own hand. It was bleeding freely, the blood dark in the night, spattering at Will's feet. A flap of skin and muscle three inches long hung from the bottom of the hand like a piece of torn, damp cloth. Will put the rock between himself and the dead Indian and used his knife to cut the left sleeve off his shirt. The blade, razor sharp, eased through the fabric soundlessly. Will slid the knife back into his sheath and, holding one end of the sleeve in his teeth, took a tight wrap around the wound, doing his best to hold the flap of skin to where it'd come from. He listened for a long moment and then started back to his camp.

He had the horses saddled and bridled before Austin returned. “You OK?” Will asked.

“Yeah. Killed the outrider and left him with the HW. You?”

“I got the lookout that replaced the one I killed
earlier. Sumbitch bit my hand pretty bad. Other'n that, I'm good.”

Austin stepped closer to inspect Will's wound. “Still bleedin' heavy, even with the wrap,” he said. “I got some latigo in my saddlebag. I'll rig you a tourniquet. Take your reins in your right hand an' hold the left higher'n your heart, much as you can.”

Will looked at his friend more closely. He had a tightly strung bow across his chest and a quiver with ten or so arrows in it draped over his shoulder. “I didn't know you could handle a bow,” he said.

“Might could be lotsa things ‘bout me you don't know, Will. Come on—let's ride.”

They rode slowly, barely beyond an extended walk, until there was enough light to see prairie-dog holes, half-buried rocks, rattlers out seeking morning warmth, and the other natural traps that awaited the unwary horseman.

With the sun came the searing heat; by nine in the morning the men and the horses were sweating copiously. Every so often one of the men would turn in his saddle and gaze at their backtrail. Miles back there was some dust rising into the air, moving at what seemed to be a steady pace toward them.

About noon they came to a wagon-wheel-sized puddle of brackish water. They loosened their cinches and let their horses drink, and they themselves sucked at their canteens, ate some jerky, and rolled smokes. Austin noticed that Will was scattering tobacco around where he sat and that he couldn't seem to get a decent crease in a paper. “Lemme see your paw,” Austin said.

“Nothin' to see. It's comin' good.”

“Hold it out.”

Reluctantly, Will did so. “Jesus God,” Austin whispered. The tourniquet had stopped most of the bleeding, but Will's fingers had turned into fat, shiny white-skinned sausages, and he couldn't have formed a fist if his life depended on it. Worse yet, tiny lines of red had begun traveling from Will's palm up toward his elbow. “Hurt much?”

“Some.”

“Some, my ass. What we gotta do is free up the latigo, let some blood get to the bite. Could be some fresh blood'll clean her out a bit.”

“It ain't nothin' but a little bite. It'll clear up. We ain't got time to screw around with it now.” He nodded toward the dust behind them. “They're gettin' closer.”

“They'll kill their horses 'fore they catch us,” Austin said. “What they probably done was leave their worst drunks an' cowards to watch over the cattle an' horses, an' One Dog brought his best braves an' fighters with him. They'll ride hard 'til their horses drop an' then come on foot 'til they can steal some more somewhere.” He looked back at Will. “Lemme loosen that latigo.”