stilled those who were still alive.
The maniac charge had come to an end.
“We stopped ’em that time,” Will said. “Did you see One Dog anywhere in that mess?”
“I did not—and I did not expect to. He knew it would be a slaughter. He gave his warriors those mushrooms—”
“What mushrooms?” Will interrupted. “How could a mushroom make men not care about their lives?”
“Peyote, it is called. It is strong medicine. It paints insane pictures in the minds of men, strange colors and sounds, and they follow orders, no matter how deadly to them. It makes them crazy men. At times, if they eat the mushroom buds during the day, the men will stare at the sun until their eyes can no longer see—until they are forever blind.”
Will went to the back of the store, filled a bucket with water from the pump, and pulled a pair of shirts off a counter. He set the bucket down near Jane and the two men washed the blowback and bits of gunpowder from their faces. He wiped his face on his sleeve, winced at the stinging, and walked back to the slug-holed counter. He found a bottle of whiskey that hadn’t been smashed and brought it up to the barricade, pulling the cork with his teeth. He took a long, deep draft and handed the bottle to Jane, who did the same.
“Think they’ll leave those bodies out there?” Will asked.
“They will. One Dog cares no more for his men than a dog does about the tree on which he lifts his leg.”
Will carried a pair of crates of .30-30 cartridges to the barricade and set one next to Jane, and placed one at the spot he’d occupied during the battle. “We went through a passel of ammunition,” he observed.
“And we killed many snakes with it.”
“How many you figure we dropped?”
“Perhaps twenty—maybe more. It makes no difference. One Dog has more and will bring in any guns he needs to hire.”
Will mused for a few moments, his right hand unconsciously touching the grips of his holstered pistol. “Ya know,” he finally said, “they rode off to the west, so their camp is somewhere in that direction.” He paused again, for a longer time. “They won’t attack at night—we know that. I’m thinking I’ll slide out that way and have a look-see and make up a bit for what they done to Austin.”
“Is foolish idea. Your heart—your love for your friend—talks louder than your mind, Will. I, too, need revenge. The bodies in the street are not revenge—they are the results of a battle. I will take blood for my brother’s blood, but not tonight.”
“You yourself said they were hopped up on that mushroom stuff. How long does that last?”
“Is impossible to say—how much is eaten, how strong and fresh the plant is.”
“Is there a hangover as it wears off?”
“Often. Yes. But—”
“So,” Will went on, speaking over Jane, “a bunch of ’em will be slow an’ stupid. There’s some moon tonight —at least enough for me to follow their tracks. I’ll go in on foot an’ do a payback for Austin.”
“I say no.”
“An’ I say you ain’t the honcho on this job of work—I am. If you want to ride out of here right now, that’s fine. You owe me nothing.”
“I owe my brother—and in my heart, we have become friends.”
“We have, Jane. You’re a hell of a man. But you owe me nothing. In fact, I owe you money, which you’ll get. Let me draw you a map to one of my stashes so that if I get killed you can—”
“No. This is not a job. It never was—not since I heard from Austin. Would you charge money for fighting for your Hiram?”
Will was silent for a moment. Then, regardless of Austin’s warning that rang in his ears, he held his hand out to Gentle Jane. A knife suddenly appeared in Jane’s hand. He took Will’s hand, turned it over, and put a half-inch slit in the palm. Then he did the same to his own right palm. When the blood was flowing from both cuts he grasped Will’s hand in the grasp of common blood—of brotherhood. Jane stood, carrying his rifle. “I will stand by Partner to make certain he doesn’t hurt your horse as you lead him out.”
The grain on the floor had been cleaned. Jane’s horse stood to one side, half-asleep. Both Austin’s horse and Slick had been allowed to suck at the water trough. Jane stood by his horse as Will led Slick outside and saddled and bridled him. A moment later he came back into the storeroom and shagged Austin’s horse out the open loading door. He slapped the animal on the rump, setting him into a lope into the darkness. To Jane he said, “Lots of herds of wild ones ’round here. This boy’ll find a home.”
“It is not right that another man put a saddle on Austin’s horse,” Jane said.
Will nodded and stepped into a stirrup. He carried a rifle across the saddle in front of him and another in his right hand. His Colt was, of course, holstered at his side. On the left side of his gun belt was a sheath carrying a ten-inch-bladed knife, courtesy of the mercantile.
Will set off to the west at a jog. Jane shoveled the dung out of the storage room, scattered fresh grain on the floor, and replenished the water trough. He picked up a bottle behind the counter and settled in behind the barricade. He rested, but he didn’t sleep.
The faint glow of a fire appeared against the sky not a full four miles out of town. Slick heard the whooping and hollered chanting before Will did, and his nervousness—tainted by fear—transmitted itself to Will immediately. There was a convenient cluster of rocks nearby.
Will tied Slick there. He left the rifle in the saddle scabbard and went ahead on foot, knife in his left hand, right hovering near the grips of his pistol.
Will walked perhaps a mile before he crouched down to make himself less obvious against the horizon. There was a gentle mound between him and the camp, and Will crawled up it like a snake. At the top he was able to look down at the gathering of outlaws. There were more of them—many more than he’d expected—and the Indians in the crew were dancing around the fire. Bottles of booze were circulating rapidly from hand to hand. Will grinned.
A lookout passed in front of him not twenty yards away. The man was mumbling to himself and seemed barely able to keep his seat in his saddle. There was another pair on horseback on the side of the camp beyond Will. They were circulating, but they were much too far apart to do any real damage in case of attack. Will grinned again and watched the camp.
Their weapons, Will noticed in the light of the fire, were all over the place: a few rifles here in the dirt, gun belts tossed to the ground like trash, bows and quivers of arrows scattered here and there.
Will watched as the circulating lookouts came past him. Most wore Union or rebel jackets or pants, and the majority rode pancake military saddles rather than stock saddles. For whatever reason, Will Lewis was waiting for an Indian to pass.
One did. He was riding bareback, his pony obviously fatigued, dragging his hooves. The rider carried a spear and had a rifle strapped across his chest, military-style. He sat comfortably on his pony. He wasn’t drunk or drugged, but he wasn’t paying a ton of attention around him, either.
Will eased in behind the pony. When he was the farthest point from the camp, he tackled the rider, brought him down, and hurled his rifle off into the prairie. The spear dropped next to the pony.
Will holstered his pistol and switched his knife to his right hand. The Indian drew his knife and faced Will.
“Looks like you an’ me, outlaw. You scream all you want—they ain’t gonna hear you over their dancing an’ singin’, now are they?”
The Indian showed no fear. “You die now,” he said.
“I doubt that.”
They circled one another, neither making a move, both deciding on the other’s skill in a knife fight. The Indian parried; Will easily stepped to the side and swept his blade across his opponent’s stomach. It was a shallow cut— little more than a scratch. The Indian stepped back . . . and then lunged forward, slashing Will’s right arm below the elbow. Will caught the Indian’s knife hand with a deep cut that flowed blood.
“White pig,” the Indian grunted. He shifted his knife to his left hand, as if his right would no longer work, and
