Bad Medicine Read Online Free PDF Page B

belly up to the bar? This brew is tastin’ awful good.”
    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.
    â€œWeeel 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. He was tall for a Mex—maybe five feet ten—and his holster, tied low on his thigh, held a Colt .45. “You have someteeng my fren’ Meester VanGelder wants. Meester VanGelder, he always gets what he 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. He took a couple steps to the side of his partner.
    â€œBack away, Lucas,” Will said quietly. “You ain’t armed, an’ this is my fight.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œDo it!”
    Lucas reluctantly stepped toward the end of the bar.
    â€œYour 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 of voice. “You got something to take care of with me, let’s get to it. If not, get out an’ don’t bother me.”
    The Mexican’s eyes were coal black and glistenedlike those of a snake. “You make beeg talk,” he snarled, “but now you die. No?” His hand swept to the grips of his pistol.
    Will drew and fired twice before the Mexican cleared leather. Both rounds took the man midchest, hurling him back onto a table, which collapsed under his weight. The other was leveling his pistol at Will when Will’s third round 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 risingfrom 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