“Says Ol’ Kaintuck Home—brung here all the way from Kaintucky.”
“Brung all the way from the barrel of this crap you got in the cellar—right? Aged maybe part of a day?”
“Buy it or don’t buy it—makes no nevermind to me. You ain’t gonna git a chance to drink it ’fore One Dog rips yer guts out, anyways.”
“You pretty sure of that?”
“Damn right. You pissant gunsels don’t scare Dog none.”
Will dropped some coins on the counter. “You talk to One Dog, do you? Tell him he doesn’t have long to live.”
The woman laughed, and it was a cruel laugh—like one would give to a fool. “You ever had yer nuts ripped off when you was alive? You ever git to see how long your guts is? You ever had yer head boiled while you was tied upside down over a fire?” She laughed again, that same witchlike laugh. “Yer a fool—an’ right soon yer gonna be a dead fool.”
Will smiled. “Jus’ tell him, OK?” He tipped his hat. “Been real nice doin’ business with you an’ chattin’ with you, too.” He took his bottle and his bandanna and left the mercantile. The air outside smelled very good after being in the store.
Slick was out in the small pasture the stablekeeper maintained for his own stock and for the horses he boarded who’d kick hell out of his stalls out of boredom. That, or cribbing—chewing on the crosspieces of their stalls. The swallowed chunks of wood could kill a horse, and it made his stalls look terrible.
As usual, Slick was a good bit away from the other animals. He’d either mounted them or fought them, and they wanted no part of him.
Will leaned against the fence, his face throbbing as if he’d taken a punch every few seconds. He soaked his bandanna with whiskey and gently rubbed it along the line of stitches. It felt as if he’d lit the wound on fire.
“Dammit,” he said, tossed the bandanna to the side, and took a long suck from the bottle. It wasn’t as bad as the saloon booze, and even if it were, it cut the pain. Will took another suck and put the cork into the bottle. That’s when the arrow buried its head in the board he’d been leaning against. He dropped to the ground, Colt already in his hand, and saw an Indian riding toward him, a fresh arrow already nocked. Will’s finger was on the trigger and the muzzle of his pistol was chest high to the galloping attacker.
He lowered his weapon and put a slug into the Indian’s knee. The bow and arrow dropped into the dirt of the street; the man screeched and grabbed at his leg with both hands and tumbled from his war pony.
Will walked to the Indian, his Colt steady in his hand, muzzle centered on the Indian’s head.
“Bad shot,” Will said. “Now I can send you away, no? To the place where all your relatives will shun you, laugh at you, and you’ll be alone, eating snake and prairie dog, no woman, no horse—no pride. Why? ’Cause you’re a coward who was scared off by a white eyes you didn’t even know.”
“I piss on your mother,” the Indian snarled. “I know you.” He grasped his knee with both hands. His face was contorted with the pain.
“You know me? Damn, coward, I never seen you before.”
“One Dog, he had a vision. He will himself kill you.”
“I’ll do this: You can crawl to your pony an’ somehow git on him. Then you ride back to One Dog an’ tell him Will Lewis is gonna kill him—an’ all you’re getting is some time, ’cause I’m gonna kill all of you who ride with One Dog.”
“A corpse—you’re a . . .”
Will nudged the Indian’s knee with the toe of his boot. “You remember the name I gave you?”
“You said, Lewis—Will Lewis.”
“Very good. An’ you’ll tell One Dog this: He’s a cowardly chunk of yellow dog shit—a killer of children an’ of women. Tell him he’ll suffer before I kill him.”
The Indian spat again. “One Dog cannot be killed. He has medicine—bad medicine—that protects him from white men. You will—”
“This is gettin’ tiresome. You gonna do what I said?”
“One Dog will carry your hair on his belt and your head will—”
“Like I said, this is gettin’ tedious.”
Will fired, the slug giving the Indian a third eye.
“Dumb sumbitch. All you hadda do was make it to your pony, an’ ride off. Now, you ain’t ridin’ nowhere—’cept maybe to hell.”
Chapter Three
The saloon on the other side of the street was doing business, as usual. Will saw that the bodies were still in the street, although there was a difference: the Indian’s bows, quivers, arrows, and moccasins were gone. The two drunks were drawing hordes more flies than the Indians, probably because of the manner in which the Indians had slaughtered them. The white man with the rifle lost his boots, horse, weapon, gun belt, and hat—and anything he had in his pockets.
“One hell of a sweetheart town,” Will said aloud, disgustedly. “Even in Dodge the furniture maker hauled the dead gunsels outta the street. ’Course he got money for boxin’ ’em up an’ plantin’ ’em.”
An old gaffer with a patch over one eye sat on a bench in front of the mercantile—all mercantiles had to have benches—whittling aimlessly, not forming anything from the rough block of wood he held, merely cutting thin and narrow strips from it.
“Kids got the bows an’ the arrows an’ such,” the old fellow said. “Ain’t nobody in this here town got the balls of a turnip to touch One Dog’s men.” He thought for a moment.
Will stepped toward the batwings.
“ ’Course One Dog would up an’ gut them kids same way he would a full-growed man. Don’t matter none to him.
“You’re prolly wonderin’ why I got this patch over my eye. Thing is, there ain’t nuthin’ but a hole there. I lost the eye at Antioch to them sonsabitch bluebellies an’ their grapeshot.” He paused again. “I s’pose you wanna hear the story.”
“No—not at all,” Will said, pushing his way into the saloon.
Will stood at the bar and swilled beer and the occasional shot of redeye. He hadn’t gone after One Dog immediately, suspecting that the posted guards would be the heaviest after the shootings in Lord’s Rest. His face throbbed with his pulse and his head felt as if someone had split it with a dull ax.
The bartender fetched another schooner for Will and asked, “Want me to run a tab for ya for a couple days? Be easier than you haulin’ coins outta your drawers.”
“No. I’ll be ridin’ out early tomorrow. I’ll pay my way tonight.”
“I don’t think you’ll be ridin’ out. We got a nor’easter comin’ on like a damn locomotive. Ain’t gonna be nobody ridin’ nowhere. You don’t believe me, you go on out an’ take a gander at the sky.”
“I’ve rode in rain an’ wind before,” Will said. “I guess I can do it again.”
“Nossir. I don’t think so. Even the goddamn wooly hunters hunker down under cover when something like this comes on.”
Will walked to the batwings and out onto the street, beer in hand. The sky in all directions was a roiled, dirty gray, like soiled, fresh-sheared wool, and the temperature had dropped like a rock down a well. Chain lightning flickered and flashed as if spearing the clouds, and thunder grumbled, although the sound was muffled, muted, like the sounds of a far-off cannonade.
A few fat, stinging drops of rain struck Will’s face as he stood looking at the sky. The choice was an easy one: go back to his room at the cathouse or into the gin mill. He chose the saloon.
“See wad I mean?” the ’tender said. “An’ damn, I was supposed to git some bidness late tonight or tomorra—a bunch of fellas ridin’ through. Shit. They ain’t gonna be thirsty if they ride in this sumbitch storm, an’ that’s for sure.” He considered for a moment as if working a puzzle in his mind. “ ’Course they might like a taste of whiskey.”
