by Paul Bagdon
Lucas finished off his first beer and picked up his second. “Was you . . . I dunno . . . like a hired gun, ’long with rustlin’?”
Will laughed. “Hell, no. I ain’t a gunfighter, Lucas. I robbed me a couple banks an’ two, three stage coaches, but I give all that up to move cattle. Only thing I was ever caught for was them cattle—that’s why I only drew four years in Folsom.”
“They didn’t tack nothin’ on for killin’ that con?”
“Jus’ the floggin’. The man was bad news—waitin’ to be strung up for rape an’ murder. I saved the prison some money, I guess.”
“You shoulda got a medal ’stead of a beatin’, then.”
“That’s how I see it,” Will laughed. He finished his second beer. “Seems to me it’s your turn to git your ass over to the bar. I’m damn near dyin’ of thirst here.”
Lucas began to stand and then sat back down, his eyes focused over Will’s shoulder. Will turned in his chair. A fat man in a dude suit with a watch and chain and polished boots stood a few feet back from Will. His face, as round as a muskmelon, was red, and his bulbous nose had the wandering veins of a heavy boozer. He wore a bowler hat that would have been as handy as teats on a shovel in the sun.
“Mr. William Lewis?” he asked, ignoring Lucas.
Will nodded without speaking.
“I’m Cyrus VanGelder,” the fat man said in a voice that was almost feminine. “I deal in land.”
“Good for you,” Will said. “But I don’t like bein’ disturbed when I’m talkin’ with a friend, and I got no land, anyhow.”
“Ahh, but you have,” VanGelder said. “All the land and property of the late Hiram Lewis, recently deceased, now belongs to you, my friend. I’m prepared to make a very generous off—”
Will moved a bit more in his chair, now facing VanGelder. His fist went out like a piston, burying itself in eight inches of flab at the land speculator’s waist. The fat man landed on his back on the floor and immediately curled into a flaccid ball, clutching his gut, gasping, his face now a pale white.
“You come near me again an’ I’ll show you what a real punch feels like, you fat vulture. That jus’ now wasn’t nothin’ but a little shove.” Will turned his chair back to the table, speaking over Lucas’s laughter. “Now ’bout that trip to the bar—unless you’re scared this lard bucket here’ll take after you, maybe boot you ’round a bit.”
“I’ll chance it,” Lucas said, “but I’m purely scared, Will.” He shoved his chair out and strolled to the bar. VanGelder managed to get himself up from the floor, still hunched over. “I won’t forget this,” he said, stepping clumsily toward the batwings.
When Lucas returned to the table with a tray of six beers he had a frown on his face.
“You’re lookin’ worried,” Will said.
“Well, maybe I am a tad. See, the thing is VanGelder has a pair of gunhands workin’ for him an’ they’re both bad news—a Mex an’ a Anglo. Both killers. The Mex is the one who gunned the sheriff a while back.” He paused for a moment. “You’d best watch yourself, Will.”
“I always do.” Will grinned. “C’mon—let’s have at those brews.”
Slick was gaining weight and strength daily. Out in the pasture now, he’d established himself as the top gun, and the other horses kept their distance from him, moving away from the water as he approached the trough and grazing with a good bit of ground between themselves and the Appaloosa.
One morning, as Will and Lucas leaned on the pasture fence, Lucas said, “I guess I might owe you a stud fee.”
“How’s that?”
“Yesterday, when you was out shootin’, my bay mare come into strong heat, struttin’ ’round with her tail up, drippin’ like a leaky roof durin’ a rainstorm. Slick, he figured he’d calm her down some—humped three times that I saw an’ probably a couple more times I didn’t see.”
Will laughed. “Slick likes the ladies OK,” he said. “That mare is a real good looker, built nice, handy an’ quick on her feet. If she took, you’ll end up with a hell of a foal.”
“That’s how I see it.” Lucas smiled. “An’ I got no doubt she took, after all the times Slick climbed on her.”
Will rolled a smoke, eyes still on his horse. “I’m gonna bring Slick in today, look him over. If he’s back in shape I’ll ride him out to Hiram’s place.”
Lucas nodded. “I figured that was comin’,” he said. “I guess I can’t talk you outta it.”
“Nope.”
“Gettin’ a li’l weary of pumpin’ lead at rocks an’ suckin’ beer like you done the last week or so?”
Slick, standing in the crossties in the barn, was rock hard and twice as feisty, stomping his hooves, snorting, ready to feel Will’s rig on his back. The new brand was crusted over nicely with no moisture weeping from it. Will filled two of his new canteens and secured them with latigo strings around his horn and saddled the Appaloosa up, slipped the low port bit in his mouth, and led the horse out of the barn. Lucas stood by the pasture fence, chewing on a blade of grass, waiting for the show he was pretty sure would come.
Will stepped into a stirrup, swung aboard—and Slick sunfished, all four hooves off the ground, all his pent-up energy released. He went up again like an unbroken bronc and Lucas yelled out, “WHOOOO—EEEE! Ride ’em, Will!”
Will waved his hat, face showing his joy. “Mr. Blacksmith,” he yelled, “you tol’ me this horse was broke when I bought him off ya!”
“Well,” Lucas called, laughing, “kinda green broke. Give him eight, ten years an’ he’ll calm right down.”
Will allowed Slick to play for a few more moments and then reined him in. He waved to Lucas and set out at a quick jog toward what had been his brother’s home—and that of his brother’s wife and twin daughters.
Slick shook his head, trying to get under the bit. Tired of wrestling with him, Will gave him all the rein he wanted. The Appaloosa surged ahead as if he’d been fired from a cannon and was in a full gallop within a bit of a second. Chunks of dirt and grass leaped into the air from under all four hooves as Slick stretched out and poured on all the power and speed he had. As it always did, the rush of pure strength and willingness of the animal at speed cleared Will’s mind of everything but the hot wind whipping his face, the smooth pumping of Slick’s shoulders, and the sensation of flying rather than riding.
Will checked the horse after most of a mile, tapping lightly at his mouth with the bit to slow him from the headlong gallop. Slick, initial burst expended, slowed to an easy lope, his chest and flanks breaking sweat.
The West Texas sun beat down on man and horse as if it had a personal vendetta against them. Will shared his first canteen with his horse and rode on.
The first indication Will had that he’d come upon his brother’s ranch was a tall pile of rough-cut fence posts and two coils of barbed wire. One of the top posts had an arrow sticking in it, surrounded by a dinner-plate-sized scorch mark. Maybe because the posts were too green, the intended fire never got started. In the distance Will saw a stone fireplace and chimney standing guard over the rubble around it.
The house hadn’t been large—probably two bedrooms and a loft above. There’d been a porch around the front, and part of an overturned rocker lay on the burned surface. Pieces of glass sparkled in what would have been the inside of the house, no doubt from Sarah’s canned fruits and vegetables exploding in the conflagration. There was no discernable furniture: all the wood and fabric must have been consumed by the fire. A singed arm and hairless head of a rag doll protruded from under a collapsed, burned-through loft beam. A cluster of wires and burned wood confused Will at first. Then he saw the few piano keys that had partially survived. A lump rose in his throat, making breathing difficult. He wiped his face on a sleeve and swung Slick to the barn, a couple hundred feet from where the house had stood. There was next to nothing left of it. Will figured Hiram must have had his first cutting of hay in for the summer—and hay burns as readily as gunpowder.
Will swung his horse away from the barn and house and rode toward Dry Creek.
Lucas was whacking away at a horse shoe on his anvil. When he was satisfied with the shape he looked up at Will.
“I’ll be headin’ out in the morning,” Will said. “I figure to buy you one of them steak dinners an’ all the beer you can drink as a send-off tonight.” He held out five gold eagles to the blacksmith. “This oughta take care of your work on Slick an’ his feed an’ the rent on the room.”
“Bullshit,” Lucas said. “I don’t take money from friends—an’ that’s what you are, Will. A friend. Plus, looks like I got a prime foal outta the deal if my mare took good, an’ I think she did. So put your money away.”
Will had anticipated just such a reaction. Five gold eagles rested on the table next to the bed in the hayloft, along with a note that read, “Thanks, Lucas. See you soon, my friend. Will Lewis (of the H&W Cattle Ranch).”
The steaks that evening were prime—thick, juicy, and perfectly cooked. The beer was bitter cold and tasted sharply of hops—the kind of beer a man could drink all night and thoroughly enjoy each and every glug. When they’d finished their meal, Lucas handed over a bill of sale with a crude map drawn on the blank side, showing a few towns and the spot he figured One Dog would swing across the river and into Mexico. Will studied it carefully. “What’re these round things?” he asked.
“Water. Ain’t much of it out there. Far as I know, these here got at least a trickle year-round.”
“Good. Thanks.” He folded the map carefully and put it in his shirt pocket. “What say we belly up to the bar? This brew is tastin’ awful good.”
They’d barely slurped the snow-white foam off their first beers at the bar when a voice cut through the saloon chatter and the drunken laughter.
“Weeel Leweees!”
Will turned slowly, stepping away from the bar. There were two men facing him from about eight feet away. The speaker was Mexican, with long, greasy hair and a drooping mustache that hung two inches below his jaw. He was tall for a Mex—maybe five feet ten—and his holster, tied low on his thigh, held a Colt .45. “You have someteeng my fren’ Meester VanGelder wants. Meester VanGelder, he always gets what he wants.”
The second man was white, short, and scruffy, looking like a cowhand at the end of a drive, except for his tied-down holster. He took a couple steps to the side of his partner.
“Back away, Lucas,” Will said quietly. “You ain’t armed, an’ this is my fight.”
“But—”
“Do it!”
Lucas reluctantly stepped toward the end of the bar.
“Your friend VanGelder is a fat, cowardly pig, an’ you two sows look like you came from the same litter,” Will said in almost a conversational tone of voice. “You got something to take care of with me, let’s get to it. If not, get out an’ don’t bother me.”
The Mexican’s eyes were coal black and glistened like those of a snake. “You make beeg talk,” he snarled, “but now you die. No?” His hand swept to the grips of his pistol.
Will drew and fired twice before the Mexican cleared leather. Both rounds took the man midchest, hurling him back onto a table, which collapsed under his weight. The other was leveling his pistol at Will when Will’s third round plowed a hole in his throat. Blood spurted a foot from his neck and his gun dropped to the floor. He collapsed slowly, clenching his neck, making a liquid, gurgling sound. He was dead before he hit the floor.
There was utter and complete silence in the saloon for a long moment. Then, one of the men who’d scurried away from the bar whispered, “Holy shit.”
Will nodded to the bartender. “Draw us a couple of buckets of beer an’ we’ll drink by ourselves, somewheres else. Tell you the truth, some of your customers kinda piss me off.”
Chapter Two
One Dog would have been a strikingly handsome man—except for his eyes, which were narrow, reptilian, constantly in motion. His features were finely chiseled and his skin the hue of aged brass. His muscles weren’t prominent, but the flesh of his arms, body, and legs was tight—taut, actually—and he moved with the economical stealth and agility of a mountain cat. He wore a Confederate shirt with the sleeves torn off and Union Army pants. A pair of ammunition bandoliers crossed his chest and a rifle on a sling rested across his back.
One Dog rode a tall pinto bareback. There was no bit in the animal’s mouth; instead he was controlled by heel and leg commands and a strand of tanned and supple deer hide loosely wrapped around the animal’s muzzle, leading back to reins.
None of One Dog’s men had ever seen him smile, much less laugh. They’d all seen him kill numerous times. He rode ahead and to the side of the herd of thirst-crazed cattle as his men prodded them into a gait far too fast for the stultifying heat. Many of the animal’s tongues protruded limply from their mouths, coated with dirt and dust.
In the distance One Dog saw the pale smoke rising from the pit of stones being prepared for his sweat lodge. He rode in that direction. The four men he’d sent to prepare the lodge had done a good job. The sapling frame shaped a dome about ten feet in diameter, and buffalo hides covered the frame, making it all but airtight when the entrance/exit flap was closed. Inside, centered in the lodge, was a pit a couple of feet in diameter and a foot deep. One Dog swung down from his mount and inspected the pit where the stones were being heated. Several already were brilliant orange red. He nodded to his men; they’d done good work.
One Dog hadn’t partaken of a sweat lodge in well over a year. Within the last week or so, however, he’d felt a cloud of death—his death—winding its way around him, invading his sleep, confusing his thoughts. He could not allow this to happen. He could not fear death nor anything else if he was to keep his magic, his medicine. The sweat lodge, he knew, would cleanse him of the dreams and the sense of foreboding that haunted him and would surely replenish the power of his medicine. He’d taken neither food nor water for the last two full days, and earlier that morning had forced himself to vomit what little was in his stomach. Now he walked a couple hundred yards from the lodge, sat in the sun, closed his eyes, and reached inside himself in meditation.
The black cloud remained around and over him, even through his long meditation. Darkness had fallen. One Dog walked to the glow of the stone pit. All the rocks were red now. They were ready. He ordered his men to fill the central pit of the lodge with the superheated stones. The men prodded individual stones into the small hole using long shafts to do so. Nevertheless, each of them broke a heavy sweat although several feet from the stones.
One Dog entered the lodge and pegged the entrance flap to the ground. Then he sat cross-legged, facing east. The intensity of the heat made him dizzy, and breathing was difficult. He fumbled at the small deerskin sack in the pocket of his shirt and leaned forward to pour the contents into the center of the searing-hot pit. The mushroom buds immediately burst into flame and just as quickly became thick, acrid-smelling smoke that brought spasms of racking coughing that shook One Dog’s entire body. He forced the coughing to stop by holding his breath and then began to sip the smoke as one would sip a small bit of water. The holy magic of the mushroom buds touched him and he breathed more easily, without coughing, drawing in the sacred smoke, feeling his spirit loosen to accept whatever truth lay ahead of him.
One Dog drifted from the sweat lodge to the place of his birth. Although he’d left his mother’s womb only an hour ago, the vision of his naming came to him: his mother stood holding him at the front of the tepee. His father, massive, strong, stood in front of her. A group of wild dogs approached, bodies low to the ground, teeth bared, their growling like mounting thunder. His father nocked an arrow and pulled it to the full
bend of his bow—and then released the arrow. The shaft flew faster than an eye could follow, and its flint head sank four inches into the space in front of the dog’s right foreleg, piercing his heart, killing him instantly. The other dogs scattered.
“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.