Bad Medicine (5 page)

“My son's name will be One Dog,” his father declared. “One day he will kill as easily as I killed this dog. He will be a great warrior.”

One Dog floated—drifted—to his first kill. He was but twelve years old but handled a bow like a man and was feared by the other boys his age. The victim was a miner leading a loaded-down donkey. The miner was a big man, broad shouldered, with a beard that reached his belt, and bare arms with bulging muscles that stressed his skin. He carried a pistol in a holster and a rifle in his right hand. It was a rocky, hilly area: it would have been easy to take the white man from cover. One Dog spat on the ground and made his way past the man and the donkey, keeping outcroppings and hills between them. When he stepped out from behind a tepee-sized rock, his bow was pulled and ready. “White snake!” he called.

The miner began to raise his rifle when the arrow struck his throat. One Dog took the man's hair and slit the donkey's throat. “I am a warrior!” he shouted, listening to his voice echo, as pleased and proud as he'd ever been in his life. It was there, he believed, that his magic was born—the medicine that had protected him all these years, through all the battles, all the killings, all the tortures and burnings. He heard his twelve-year-old voice cry out again, “I am a warrior!” and it was true and it was good.

Long Nose bragged about the speed of his paint horse. One Dog believed his bay was faster. The bet was horse against horse: the winner took the loser's animal—and the pride of its rider. It was a long and very close race. Long Nose won, and his victory was seen by the tribe. One Dog slid down from his heaving, sweat-dripping horse, pulled his knife from its sheath, and plunged it to the hilt into his bay's eye. “Here's your horse,” he said to Long Nose as the bay crumpled to the ground.

Long Nose held One Dog's eyes for a long time before he swung his horse away and rode off. So strong was One Dog's medicine that Long Nose never returned to the tribe.

The first farm attack sprang into the air in front of One Dog, without the cloudlike drifting that had carried the other visions. It hadn't been at all difficult to assemble a group of crazies: deserters from both sides, drunks, gunfighters, drifters, murderers running from the law. One Dog killed a couple of them in front of the others to establish his superiority. He expected no loyalty from his gang, but he demanded their fear of him, and got it. The crew was without prejudice, as was One Dog. They hated everyone—whatever the race, creed, color, or tribe—equally.

What bonded them together was their bloodthirstiness—killing for the sake of killing.

The farm was a small cattle operation: a hundred acres or so, perhaps two hundred head of beef, the owner, his wife, and two hired hands. One Dog hit both the house and the bunkhouse fast and hard. His fire arrows and those of the other Indians sent the occupants scurrying out, to be mowed down by gunfire. The three men were killed first. It took the wife a much longer time before death released her. The crew carried off nothing and didn't bother to collect the cattle. They watched the house and barn burn to cinders, passing bottles of rotgut tequila among them, laughing, recalling the woman's screams.

The smoke from the peyote mushrooms became dense again, darker, more pungent, burning One Dog's nose and throat as he inhaled.

The vision, at first, was of an Appaloosa horse, riderless, breathing fire, hooves striking blue sparks from the ground as the massive animal galloped toward him, teeth bared, keening a quavering death canticle. The horse burst into flames and was gone. A man far larger than life, faceless, appeared. He held a long-bladed, bloodied knife in one hand and a pistol in the other.

Behind the giant came a man, a woman, two children,
and two dogs. They were of normal size. Each person had the fangs of a viper at the corners of his or her mouth. One Dog felt a terror, a cold, lashing wind, such as he'd never experienced before.

One Dog, whimpering, lumbered to his feet and drew his knife. He slashed the buffalo hide of the sweat lodge and fought his way through the supporting saplings, tumbling out of the smoke and the intense heat onto the ground.

Will Lewis drank coffee with Lucas in the predawn before he set out to find One Dog. Slick was packed, saddlebags bulging. Will had cleaned and lubricated both his rifle and his pistol the night before, although neither had needed any attention.

“Got the map I made?” Lucas asked.

Will patted his chest pocket. “Yep.”

“Grazing is going to be piss-poor—everything's burned out this time o' the year—but I showed some places where ol' Slick can get some grass in his belly.”

“I noticed,” Will said. “And it's mostly near water. That'll make things easier.”

“That's how I figured it.”

The silence between the two men stretched into a state of discomfort. Both were aware of the burgeoning friendship that had grown between them—and both knew it was quite possible that they'd never see one another again.

“Well, hell,” Will said, finishing his coffee and setting the mug aside. “I might just as well pull out, Lucas—use all the daylight I can.”

“I guess. One thing, Will: there ain't no shame nor dishonor in picking One Dog offa his horse with your rifle at a hundred yards or so. Then you can take his
men down as you see fit. One Dog is purely evil—you'd be doin' the world a favor.”

“That ain't my way, Lucas.”

Lucas sighed. “I figured you'd say that.” The men extended their hands and shook, peering into one another's eyes, seeing the friendship there.

“Watch your back, pard,” Lucas said. He turned away and began shoveling pea coal into his forge.

“I'll do that,” Will said. He mounted and clucked to Slick.

He could have cut off a few miles by not riding out to the ranch, but for some reason it was important to him that his journey start there. He didn't dismount at the mounds; in fact he spent only a few moments gazing at them. The image, he knew, he'd carry forever, and it would push him on when he was too weary to take another step.

Will didn't mind traveling alone. In fact, he preferred it. He'd deserted the Confederate Army after the Third Battle of Petersburg, where Grant overwhelmed Lee and the rebels in sixty-five. Since then he'd drifted alone, putting together a few men when he needed them, and leaving them as soon as the job was done.

The sun, Will realized, was his most powerful enemy. Early on he'd loped Slick a bit, but as the heat became more debilitating, he held the horse to a rapid walk, broken every few miles for more miles of a slow walk. Both man and horse were dripping sweat by midday.

At dusk they struck a tiny oasis with a few scraggly, desiccated desert pines around the puddle of sulfur-smelling water, right where Lucas had placed it on the map. Both Will and Slick drank: Will figured
that using as little canteen water as possible made good sense.

Will hobbled Slick and let him graze on what little grass there was and walked out on the prairie. He didn't have to go far before he spooked a fat jackrabbit out of some scrub and took it down with a single round from his Colt. He skinned and gutted it, built a small fire from sticks and broken branches, skewered the carcass, and sat back as the meat sizzled over the flames.

He used canteen water to brew coffee in an empty sliced-peaches can that had been with him since he left Folsom. Coffee was not only a necessity, but was precious, and brewed from sulfur water, it would have tasted like runoff from a hog pen, but it was coffee, and that's what counted.

The days passed, one a precise mirror of the one before and the one to follow, except that Will knew each mile brought him closer to One Dog and his band. He lived on jerky, rabbit, prairie dog, and a couple of times skinned-out rattlesnakes. Slick maintained his strength on the sparse grazing, but he was losing a bit of weight.

The town of Lord's Rest had seemed impossibly far off when he left Dry Creek, but now he was a few miles from it and his mouth was watering as he imagined a good meal, a few beers, and maybe a shave. A bath would have been a foolish luxury: he'd be soaked in sweat as soon as he was back on the trail.

Slick, he knew, could use a day or so off, some good feed, lots of clean water, and some rest, and it was possible Will could pick up some information in the town.

 

The coach stop had two saloons, a mercantile, and a livery. There were other single-story buildings but they were boarded up. One of the saloons had a hand-painted sign over its batwings saying
EAT DRINK—BEER—WISKEY—NO CREDIT TO NOBODY.
There were a couple of cow ponies tied to the rail in front of the place. The gin mill across the street either had walk-in drinkers or none at all—there were no horses at the rail.

He left Slick to the care of the blacksmith at the livery after looking over the other horses in stalls and out in a corral. They all looked good—brushed, shod, and well fed. He knew his horse would get good care—and his overtipping of the smith wouldn't hurt, either.

Will walked down to the “Eat Drink” joint and pushed through the batwings, the hinges of which were in dire need of grease or oil. He stood just inside for several moments, letting his eyes adjust to the murky light. There was a pair of men slouched at the far end of the bar. All but one of the few tables were empty. The one closest to the back wall looked as if someone had thrown a pile of rags on it, along with an empty whiskey bottle. Will looked closer. The pile of rags was a man, obviously passed out.

The bartender was squinting at the print of a dime novel, his lips moving as he read. He put his book down and faced Will.

“What'll it be?”

“A couple of cold beers and a shot of redeye,” Will said. “And give the boys down at the end the same.”

“I can't serve ya nothin' 'til I see your money,” the bartender said. “Too many goddamn freeloaders drift through here.”

“Sure,” Will said, and dropped a pair of gold eagles on the scarred and sticky bar. “That do it?”

“Hell, you can buy the dump for that.” The barkeep grinned. “I ain't seen nothin' but nickels and pennies for better'n a year now.” He pulled a pair of schooners of beer and set them in front of Will.

“No business?” Will asked.

“No people. A buncha religious nuts decided to build a town here an' got a pretty good start. Even the L an' J Coach Line set a stop here. Thing is, there wasn't no law. The church the loons was buildin' got burned down, an' the bidnesses all went to hell, an' the God folks started pullin' out when they found they couldn't grow nothing but scrub an' rocks, even with the Lord helpin' 'em.” He drew beers for the fellows down the bar and then came back to Will to fill a double shot glass from an unlabeled bottle. “They was strange folks but harmless 'nuff. They done that speakin'-in-tongues stuff an' we could hear howlin' and yellin' comin' from their gatherings. Some say they handled snakes, but I never seen that myself, so I dunno.”

“What about the gent at the table? He need a drink?”

“Hell, no. What he needs is a new mind an' to be run through a sheep dip to kill his stink. I dunno where his money comes from but he buys a bottle every mornin', goes over there, sets down, an' commences to drink it. Then he passes out an' sleeps for the rest of the day. I don't even know his name, or if he's got one.”

Will drained the shot glass and coughed as the sensation of a yard of barbed wire being stuffed into his mouth, down his throat, and into his gut struck him. “Damn,” he gasped.

“You git used to it,” the 'tender said.

“I s'pose I could get used to a kick in the eggs,” Will gasped, “but that don't mean I'd like to try it more'n once.”

The bartender nodded toward the end of the bar. “Them boys has grown right fond of it.”

Will watched as the two downed the whiskey as if it were milk and lit into their beers.

“What brings you to Lord's Rest?” the bartender asked. “If you're runnin' from the law it don't make no nevermind to me.”

“Hey, fellas,” Will called to the other drinkers, “come on up here so we can talk a bit. Drinks're on me.” He answered the bartender's question. “I'm lookin' for some men—a bunch ridin' together,” he said.

The pair of boozers moved amazingly fast down the bar to stand next to Will, empty schooners and shot glasses in their hands. Will pointed to the glasses and the bartender complied.

“You?” he asked.

“Beer. No more of that panther piss you call whiskey.”

“ 'Bout these men you're lookin' for—you wantin' to hire them on for a drive or somethin'?” the fellow closest to Will asked.

“No—just lookin' for 'em, is all.” He sipped his beer. “You boys ever hear of One Dog?”

The bartender's well-tanned face went ghostly pale. The silence in the saloon was like that of a crypt at midnight. The pair of boozers started toward the batwings, leaving their drinks on the bar.

“Git back here, you two,” Will growled. “I bought drinks an' I'll keep on buyin'. All I want is some information.”

“One Dog is somethin' we don't talk about,” the 'tender said. “We want to keep our hair.”

The boozers nodded, standing at the bar, not touching their abandoned drinks.

“Here's the thing,” Will said. “You either talk to me or you don't. You talk, that's the end of it. I never saw or heard of you boys or this crummy li'l town. You don't talk an' when I find One Dog I let him an' his gang know I got info from you 'bout where he was.”

The boozers looked at one another for a long moment. Finally, one spoke. “Couple weeks ago One Dog an' his riders come upon a saddle bum 'bout three, four miles outta town. A kid out rabbit huntin' found the drifter's head stuck on a tall shaft pushed into the ground. Other parts of his body was around, too. Poor fella's nuts was jammed in his mouth.” He downed the whiskey and motioned for another.