DEATH AT THE
BAR
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. His holster, tied low on his thigh, held a Colt .45. “You have someteeng my fren’ Meester VanGelder 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.
“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. “You got something to take care of with me, let’s get to it.”
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 . . .
Other
Paul Bagdon
BAD MEDICINE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This one is for Don D’Auria, the absolute best editor a writer could possibly have, as well as for the cover art folks, the promotion people, the proofers, and the contract people at Dorchester/Leisure.
As my protagonist would say, “Damn! They don’t come no better’n that.”
—PB
BAD MEDICINE
Chapter One
The sun hung over Will Lewis and his Appaloosa stud, Slick, like a gigantic, flaming brass disk, sucking all moisture from the earth, the desiccated prairie grass, and the man and his horse. An endless sweep—a swell—of merciless heat had begun shortly after first light and had escalated almost exponentially since then.
Slick was dragging his toes and weaving slightly, even at his plow-horse walk. His head hung low, muzzle barely a foot from the ground.
Will reached forward and took a pinch of hide from Slick’s neck, stretched it up an inch or so, and released it. The flesh moved back into place slowly, lethargically—Slick was baking in his own hide and not far from going down. Lewis knew that it was a sure bet that if Slick did go down, he’d never get up again.
Will hefted his canteen: it was maybe a quarter full. His throat was a sandpit, his lips cracked and weeping blood, his entire being screaming for water. He reined in, slouched down from his saddle, dumped the canteen into his Stetson, and held the hat to Slick’s muzzle. The horse sucked once, emptying the hat, and eyed Will, demanding more, begging for more.
Lewis stepped back onto his saddle, red and black spots floating in his vision. He pulled in a long, deep breath. The spots didn’t disappear but they diminished in size and number.
His words weren’t anywhere near perfectly formed, and he could barely hear himself speak. “We shoulda hit th’ town if Hiram’s directions was right. Hiram—he’s a idjit. He jus’ mighta up an’ killed me an’ a good horse.”
Slick was weaving more noticeably.
“Sonofabitch,” Will mumbled, and heeled Slick to keep him moving.
At first Will thought it was just another oddly shaped cholla. As he drew closer he saw it was a sign. Like all the signs of jerkwater West Texas towns, it was a slab of barn wood with hand-painted text. It was pocked with bullet holes and speckled with shotgun pellets. The sign read DRY CREEK.
Slick’s head shot up as if he were suddenly checking the sky, his nostrils flared, his breath huffing through them. He smelled either humans or water—it made no difference to him. Either one promised the end of his thirst. He picked up his pace without urging from Will.
Another couple hundred yards later the tinkling notes of a honky-tonk piano reached Will. A vision of a schooner of beer the size of a hog’s head popped into his mind and refused to leave it. His throat moved up and down in a swallowing motion without his volition.
They came down a grade and Dry Creek spread before them, such as it was. There were the usual false- fronted structures on either side of a pitted and rutted street that put a tail of dirt and grit in the air behind each horse and wagon. The town offered a mercantile, a shoe and boot, an undertaker and furniture maker, three saloons, and a sheriff’s office. At the end of the street was a small church, and beyond that, a livery and blacksmith operation. The reason the town existed—a railroad depot with stock fences—rested at the far end of the street, beyond the church and stable.
Each gin mill had a watering trough in front of it, partially under the hitching post. The scent of water goaded Slick into an awkward, shambling lope and Will gave him all the rein he wanted. The horse slid to a stop at the first trough and buried his muzzle in the water, sucking like berserk bellows. Will climbed down and fell to his knees next to Slick. He pushed some of the horse spittle and green scum to the side and planted his face in the water.
The water was piss warm, metallic tasting, with a good growth of stringy, weedlike scum at the bottom—and it was the finest thing Will Lewis had ever tasted in his life. He drank until he puked, stood, dragged Slick’s head out of the trough, and stepped into a stirrup. Slick fought him, rearing and snorting, but Will wheeled him around and jabbed his heels into his sides, pointing him toward the blacksmith shop. Too much water at one time to a
