Bad Medicine

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.

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.