Bad Medicine (20 page)

“No? I seen the remainders of a fella, a white fella, a wampus took after. Purely tore that man apart—worse'n a painter or bear could ever do. You jus' pray to that god a yours you never cross one. Ain't a Indian in the whole of the West don't know 'bout the wampus—an' plenty of whites do, too.”

Like many dog owners, Will had begun talking to his dog, sometimes in full sentences, most times in a few words. Of course the animal couldn't understand any of it, but that fact didn't stop Will.

“I'll tell you what,” Will said to the dog walking along at his right side, “that wampus thing give me a good idea. All the Indians are scared, superstitious, an' them loonies they're ridin' with—deserters, gunhands, murderers, rapists, all like that—they're as crazy an' scared an' superstitious as the Indians. Here's the thing, pard: your name isn't Shark no more—it's Wampus. OK?”

The dog watched Will's face until he determined that no actual command was involved. Then he simply walked alongside the man, more attuned to his surroundings and the scents that he picked up than the words the man continued to utter.

“I figure it this way,” Will said. “We make a move on the camp an' you gnaw on another outlaw. That'll build the ‘wampus' thing even stronger in their booze-an'-drug-soaked minds. Then we'll haul ass away from the camp but follow the crew—hell, how hard can it be to track all those horses?—an' pick them off as we go. Sound good?”

Wampus didn't look up at Will this time. Instead, he stopped, nose high, drawing in the scent of smoke
and of men. “Gettin' close?” Will said in a lowered voice. He reined in, dismounted, and led the pinto behind him. “Find 'em,” he whispered to Wampus. The dog took point position, matching his speed to Will's stride.

The sound from the gathering was loud, disjointed. A couple of Indians were chanting. Will tied the pinto to some scrub and moved on.

Watching flat in the mud from a small rise, Will saw the group had built a good-sized fire from a wrecked freighter, deciding they were better off in the fire's light than continuing on to their sanctuary at Olympus in the dark with a wampus about. It was clear that the escaping outrider had brought back the news of the other rider's attack. More Indians took up the chant, while the whites, in their ludicrous army outfits, passed bottles and huddled together, pistols or rifles clutched and ready.

One Dog pushed his way into the center of the group of whites and held out his arms for silence. It did no good. He punched the man closest to him, knocking him unconscious to the ground, but the violence had no effect on the panicked jabbering and chanting. One Dog drew his pistol and found that none of his men were even watching him, concentrating instead on the grounds around the fire, each completely expecting a mythical beast to fly into the group, slashing and killing.

Will shivered in the cold mud, Wampus pressed tightly against his side. He grinned and whispered to the dog, “You pressin' against me 'cause I'm such a fine, upstanding fella, or you lookin' for a bit of body heat?”

A fistfight broke out down below, but the combatants
were quickly separated by the others. It wasn't that they gave a damn if the two drunks killed one another; they didn't want to lose four eyes watching for the wampus.

Not but one way to do this. I either play on their craziness an' fear, or I don't.
He sighed.
An' I'm damn well gonna do it.
Will drew his .45, which was still dripping wet. He spun the cylinder and held the pistol next to his ear, and the sweet mechanical
whirr
was as even as the ticking of a ten-dollar watch. He flipped the cylinder open and used his thumb to wipe any moisture off the rear end of the cartridges—the end that held the primer and gunpowder. He closed the cylinder into the frame of the .45 with a satisfying click, pushed back from the edge of the slope, and walked to his horse, dog next to him, gazing up at his face, feeling the tension that suddenly seemed to shroud Will.

“Might not be the smartest thing I ever did, and there's a good chance we'll both end up buzzard bait, but we're gonna take a run at it, right Wampus?” Will said grimly. The dog growled deep in his chest, knowing from the tone of Will's voice that action was coming.

Will took up his rein from the brush, mounted, and pulled his pistol. He sat for a moment, said, “Might just as well get to it,” drove his heels into his horse's side, and shouted to his dog, “Git 'em, boy! Git the sonsabitches!”

The pinto leaped forward, fighting for traction, slinging globs of mud with all four hooves. Wampus, low to the ground but running hard, reached the periphery of the fire faster than the man and the horse. An outlaw standing slightly away from the
rest, relieving himself, saw the dog in time to begin a scream before glinting white eyeteeth severed his jugular. Will followed a second later, riding at a slipping, sliding gallop directly at the fire, shooting randomly, dropping a pair of men too startled by the attack to even raise their weapons. Wampus was everywhere at once, tearing flesh, ghostly in the light of the fire, looking like an apparition from hell. He sank his teeth into an Indian's groin and tugged out a couple of grotesque lumps of flesh, looking like a pair of cherry apples in a blood-soaked cloth sack. The outlaw's howl of pain was louder than the fire, Will's shooting, and the panic that gripped the gang.

Will crouched low over the pinto's neck and urged more speed from him—pointing him directly at the fire. The flames were too high to clear, but the horse plowed through them, slipped and almost went down as he landed, but gathered his hooves under himself and within a couple of strides was in a gallop again. Will, turned in the saddle, wasted a couple of shots that were misses, but took down another pair with his last two rounds. “Come on, dog!” he yelled.

Wampus appeared through the flames as if he were flying and quickly caught up with the pinto.

It was only then that a barrage of gunfire erupted from the befuddled outlaws—much too late to accomplish anything.

Will reloaded his Colt as he rode, reins held in his mouth. Although he looked back several times, he saw no indication of riders coming after him—and he was sure Wampus would give him a warning if he missed anyone on his trail.

He rode a mile or so and reined to a halt. He
stepped down from the saddle and checked the pinto. There were some minor burns and the horse had lost some tail, but he was sound and uninjured. Will crouched to examine Wampus, who was delighted with the attention. The dog, too, had lost a bit of coat to the fire, but was fit otherwise. As Will rubbed his muzzle and neck his hands came away wet and sticky with the unmistakable, thickly metallic scent of blood—and the blood wasn't that of the dog.

It was logical enough that all the outlaws rode after Will—what was there to protect their saloon from? Any townspeople who hadn't fled wouldn't dare to invade the place. Will kept on riding to Olympus. The moon gave him barely enough light to see.

Will sent the dog into the renegades' bar first. The dog came out in a very few minutes, tail awag. There were no men in there. Will rode around to the rear of the gin mill and looped his rein loosely over a short hitching rail. There was some hay under a tarp behind the saloon. It was dry second cutting, but it was better than the pinto was used to. Will gave the horse half a bale. He walked around the building in the opposite direction. There wasn't a sound from inside, but the saloon's pervasive stench hung around it like a foul cloud.

Will pushed through the batwings.

The inside of the gin mill was a disaster. Bullet holes speckled all the walls, the floor was gummy with spoiled beer, and there was the stink of long-unwashed men and the cloying odor of the urine of those who hadn't bothered to step outside, much less walk to the privy. But there was treasure, too; the outlaws must have done some scrounging in the
mercantile. Will found a .30-30 leaning against the bar, a pair of denim pants in one of the rooms upstairs, and a shirt that didn't look like it had been worn yet.

There was a canned ham, several tin cans of something or other—the labels were burned off—and a jar of penny-candy sourballs. In the same room there was a new slicker and a rifle kit, both of which he took. Best of all, there was a bottle of whiskey and three packs of Bull Durham. The majority of the bottles behind the bar had been used for target practice, but several had been set aside. Will took a good suck at his bottle and then drew and blasted hell out of the remainder of the renegades' liquor supply. He drew himself a bucket of beer and, as an afterthought, shot holes low in the barrel and watched the beer flow onto the floor. He opened the canned ham, gave most of it to Wampus, and ate the rest himself.

Will took the time to roll a half-dozen smokes, taking a belt from the bottle every so often. He lit a cigarette and coughed out a smog of bluish smoke, his throat feeling as if it had caught fire. He put out that fire with a mouthful of booze and took another drag. This time the smoke went where it was supposed to, and the vague satisfaction that tobacco brings—impossible to explain to a nonsmoker—flowed through him.

Nevertheless, there was an ambience to the place that made Will nervous. It was not unlike sitting in an empty viper's den, the crushed-cucumber stink still strong, and not knowing when the serpents would return. Wampus, too, was uncomfortable, pacing, panting lightly. The scent of the enemy was too strong for him to relax.

After crushing the nub of his cigarette on the floor, Will pulled on the denim drawers and board-stiff shirt. He strapped on his gun belt and tied his holster low on his right leg. He stuffed the sacks of Bull Durham into various pockets but left the bottle on the table.

Both he and Wampus drew in deep breaths of fresh air when they'd put some distance between themselves and the saloon.

Will had no doubt that the renegades could track when full light came, but with the fear of the wampus in their minds, he doubted that they would—not immediately, anyway. He loped for a few miles and then put the pinto into a fast walk. The prairie ahead of him looked as flat as a billiard table in the dawn light. It offered no cover and certainly no ambush point where he could await the outlaws. He put his horse back into the animal's easy, ground-eating lope, Wampus jogging at his side.

The elements of surprise and fear were all he had going for him, Will thought. Another attack too soon could blunt both his advantages: the renegades would soon figure out that their tormentors were merely a man and a dog—easy enough to kill. Will decided to hold off on his forays for two or three days. By then, he believed, the outlaws would be on his trail, and he'd have had time to plan out his next attack on them.

Will rode through the day, stopping only at the meager water holes he encountered. The water was generally bad—petroleum tasting—but when a man, a horse, and a dog are parched,
any
water is good water.

It was coming dark when Will saw a spurt of dust
far ahead of him, coming toward him. It was a single rider, from the rooster tail it put in the air. Any more than one horse would raise a more substantial cloud of grit behind them.

When they were a couple hundred yards apart, both men dropped their horses to a slow walk but continued to approach one another.

Will's right hand lifted his Colt a few inches above his holster and released it, letting it settle itself into its ready-to-draw position. Wampus began to growl; Will hushed him.

The rider wasn't a big man, but as they closed, from what Will could see, he was damned near a one-man armory. Twin bandoliers of rifle cartridges crossed his chest. He carried a pair of Winchesters sheathed one on each side of the saddle, in front of his knees. He wore two Colt .45s at his waist. The grips of a pair of bowie-type knives rested in sheaths sewn to the outside of each of his boots. An unstrung bow rested atop his bedroll, with a group of arrows tied securely to the bow. There was .50-caliber buffalo rifle strapped over his back. The men came within talking distance.

“Name's Gordon,” he said. “Ray Gordon.” His voice was deep, rich.

“Will Lewis.”

“Fine dog ya got there,” Gordon said. “Got more'n a little timber wolf in him, no?”

“You know dogs?”

“Some. I know a wolf cross when I see one.”

“Where you headed?” Will asked.

“Olympus, I guess. From there, I dunno.”

“There's nothin' there,” Will said. “I just left that hellhole.”

Ray Gordon shrugged. “Don't matter. It ain't the town I'm after, it's a murderin' savage named One Dog. I'm gonna kill the sumbitch an' take his scalp as well—him an' as many of his scum as I can take down.”

“Why?”

Gordon swallowed and spat off to the side before answering. “ 'Cause he butchered my wife an' my son. That answer your question?”

“Yeah. It does. See, I think we're both about the same task. One Dog and his gang murdered my brother, his wife—an' his two little daughters.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“You wasn't there?”

“I was in Folsom Prison—just about to get out. Me an' my brother was gonna . . . Ahh, shit.” Will hesitated, shook his head slightly. “What about you, when your people were attacked?” he asked.

Ray looked down at his horse's mane for a full minute. “I was drunk an' passed out,” he said, “ 'bout eight miles from my place. I fell off my horse. When I came to an' caught him up . . . well . . .”

“You still boozin'?”

“I ain't touched a drop since then—not even a beer. My whole life now is to kill One Dog.”

“You're gonna have to stand in line,” Will said. “One Dog is mine.”

Gordon's face flushed red and his dark eyes narrowed, locking with Will's. “Your ass, he's yours. Like I said, One Dog is mine.”