Bad Medicine

by Paul Bagdon

  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.

  “You sure it was One Dog?” Will asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” the bartender said. “ ’Cause a couple days later a sodbuster was burned out an’ him an’ his family killed. There ain’t ’nuff rogue Injuns ’round these parts to take down a wooly, much less pull shit like that. The sodbuster, he come in here every so often. Had him a wife an’ seven kids.”

  “One Dog was headin’ toward the Rio Grande?”

  “I s’pose so.”

  “Nobody track them? No posse or nothin’?”

  “We got no law here an’ the army don’t bother with us,” the bartender said. “An’ you can bet any bunch trackin’ One Dog is ridin’ into a ambush—an’ after a lot of pain, is gonna be real dead. No two ways about it.”

  “Maybe,” Will said. “Buy these boys drinks until one of them eagles is worn out. You keep the other one.” He turned from the bar and then turned back. “Say—anywhere in town a man can get a shave?”

  “Jus’ down the street—big buildin’, used to be a cathouse. It’s boarded up, but the door opens. Fella there is a doc—kinda—an’ a barber.”

  “Likes his ganja, the doc does. But it’s early ’nuff—he should be OK,” one of the drunks said.

  Will walked down to the old cathouse and pushed the door open. A barber’s chair sat in the middle of a small room. The room itself was filled with grayish smoke that smelled a bit like cedar. “Shit,” Will grumbled, and began to go out the door.

  “Now hold on there,” a raspy voice called from an adjoining room. “I heard you mumble a profanity when you saw my barber chair—which is manufactured by the finest firm in Chicago, Illinois, and cost a pretty penny—and I think I deserve an explanation.” The speaker stepped into the room with the barber chair. He was of medium height, grossly fat, and quite neatly dressed. He held a meerschaum pipe in his left hand.

  “It ain’t your chair I object to,” Will said. “It’s the weed you’re burnin’. Hell, I’m lookin’ for a shave an’ you’re liable to cut my throat.”

  “I resent that,” the fat man said. “It’s true that on occasion I may take a few puffs of a plant the good Lord put on earth for my use and the use of those fine and noble people, the Mexicans. But my skills are in no way impaired. Perhaps later in the day wouldn’t be the best time for a shave, but, sir, I’ve barely left my bed.”

  “Yeah. Well, I don’t—”

  “And, since you’re a new customer to my emporium, I’ll add a hot bath at no price, and provide you with a fine Cuban cigar and a taste of brandy while you wash and soak.” He paused and then added, “If I may say so, sir, you’re looking a mite soiled.”

  Will’s beard was driving him nuts with its itching, and the bath sounded awfully good. The cigar and brandy sweetened the offer. “OK,” he said, “you got a deal. But you cut me an’ I’ll shoot you full of holes. Fair ’nuff?”

  “Indeed. Take a seat in the chair an’ I’ll get the water boiling. Perhaps a brandy now while you wait?”

  Will nodded. “Sure. It can’t be no worse than the swill I downed at the saloon.”

  The barber waddled into the other room and returned in a few moments with a tumbler of amber liquid. He handed the glass to Will and said, “Now I’ll see to heating the water.”

  Will sniffed at the glass. It had the scent of fresh-cut hickory wood and brown sugar. He took a cautious sip. It was the best booze he’d ever tasted. While the big man wrestled wood into his stove and placed buckets of water on the cooking surface, Will settled back in the chair, sipping and putting together what he’d learned at the saloon. It wasn’t long until he heard water churning and boiling. The barber returned with a white sheet—and another tumbler of brandy, which Will accepted without argument. “I’ll shave you first, and then you can luxuriate in your bath in the next room.” He spread the sheet over Will’s lap and around his neck, and stirred a mug of soap into a creamy, clean-smelling froth, which he spread with a hog’s-hair brush over Will’s neck and face. His straight razor moved easily, slowly, not tugging at whisk
ers. In a matter of a few minutes, Will’s face was as pink and smooth as a young virgin’s ass.

  “Bath’s ready,” the barber said, handing Will the promised cigar, already lit and burning evenly and aromatically, and his glass of brandy. Will stood next to the tub, stripped, and sank his body into the still-steaming water. The barber handed him a long-handled scrub brush and a chunk of lye soap and then stepped out to the other room. Will soaked, drank brandy, smoked his cigar, and watched the water he was in change color from a sparkling clear to a brownish hue as sweat and dirt lifted away from his body.

  The cathouse was totally silent, as was the town of Lord’s Rest. Will’s mind drifted like the smoke from the cigar clenched lightly between his teeth. Coulda been different—a lot different, he thought. Maybe me an’ Hiram would be cattle barons, or could be I’d have a wife an’ a passel of kids an’ so much prime land somewhere it’d take a good man on a strong horse a week to ride around it. I’d set on the front porch at dusk with a glass of bourbon an’ watch my horses out on pasture an’ listen to my kids rippin’ ’round after each other. I’d have a little gut from eatin’ so good an’ so often, an’ my neighbors would wave—Ahhh, bullshit.

  That wasn’t me. The first Colt .45 I bought—with its taped-up grips an’ rusted finish an’ a trigger that had to be yanked rather than eased—changed my whole life. That gun gave me the power I needed to do anything I wanted, get anything I wanted. Hell, the first mercantile I robbed, I wasn’t but thirteen years old an’ nervous as a whore in church, an’ my voice squeaked when I demanded the money. He chuckled out loud. Made off with four dollars an’ fifteen cents, but it was a start, an’ it felt better than anything had ever felt before.

  First man I drew against was a drunken cowpuncher who’d been slappin’ me ’round in a gin mill for no reason. I took it for a bit an’ then faced him. I had two rounds in his chest ’fore he was able to fumble his pistol outta his holster.