Skin Medicine Read Online Free PDF Page A

stink of urine. The stains at his crotch said he’d pissed himself and it wasn’t the first time. “Goddamn war, yes sir. I was in that war. Yessum. Lost two brothers in that goddamn war.” He stared at Cabe, not liking what he saw. “Yankee, ain’t you?”
    Cabe sighed. “No, Confederate. Second Arkansas. Popped my cherry at Wilson’s Creek and lost my soul at Pea Ridge.”
    The hellbilly didn’t seem to hear or want to. “You was on our side? Hell you were. Probably some goddamn guerilla out killing babies and robbing farmers. Probably rode with Bloody Bill and his murdering, raping cowards, didn’t you? Not like me. No sir, not like me. Not a real soldier.”
    The miner tapped a finger to his skull, indicating that the hellbilly was crazier than dancing cats. But Cabe had already deduced as much. Didn’t take a tree full of owls to figure that.
    “ Now, Orv,” Carny said and said very calmly like he was talking to his pet beagle that had just shit on the carpet. “This fellow’s just having himself a drink. He don’t want no trouble. He ain’t a Yankee like me or Bob here. He’s a Southern boy like you and he was a real soldier. So just let him be, hear?”
    The hellbilly hawked up a gob of phlegm and spit it at his feet. “Fuck you know, you sumbitch.”
    Cabe figured old Orv was making a mistake. By the looks of Carny, he could hammer cold steel into tent pegs with those fists of his. And you just didn’t want to think about how many faces he’d disfigured or skulls he’d fractured. You didn’t get on the bad side of a man like that. It was damn dangerous. That’s what Cabe was thinking…until the hellbilly’s sheepskin coat drifted open and he saw that big, mean-looking 1851 Colt Navy .44 hanging at his side.
    Cabe stopped worrying about old Orv’s face and started wondering how quick the blood would run from a .44 hole in his own belly. He figured it would run pretty damn fast.
    Licking his lips with a tongue drier than desert canvas, he let the fingers of his right hand casually drift down towards the butt of his Starr double-action .44 conversion. It was a smaller weapon than Orv’s Colt. He had no doubt he could pull it faster…but, hell, last thing he wanted was any killing. That’s not why he was here.
    The hellbilly was still advancing, but coming on slow like a mad dog deciding where to sink its foamy teeth.
    Cabe said, “Let me buy you a drink, friend. We’ll drink to the old CSA and all the good boys we lost. What say?”
    Orv’s hand slid down to his belt, brushed the butt of the mankiller waiting in the holster…and proceeded to his crotch where it began to do some scratching.
    Cabe relaxed slightly.
    A couple of miners sitting at tables quietly excused themselves, slipping out the door in a blast of wet, black night. Those that remained kept their distance, staying well away. Cabe didn’t like any of that. Way he was figuring things, if people were getting out, then this wasn’t just some crazy drunk. He was a crazy drunk that liked to kill.
    Carny made a move for something behind the bar and the hellbilly, maybe not quite as drunk as he looked, pivoted and brought out his Colt smooth and easy.
    But Cabe was already on his feet, Starr in hand.
    There was a moment of pained, tormented silence, the tension so thick you could’ve speared it with a stick.
    The hellbilly was laughing, but there were tears in his eyes. “Got yerself a Starr, boy? I seen ‘em in the war. Cap and ball pistol, ain’t it?”
    “ Converted,” Cabe heard himself say, struck by the absurdity of two men about to kill each other discussing weapons. “Had it converted to metal cartridge. Easier that way.”
    The hellbilly laughed, giggled really. Saliva ran from the corners of his trembling lips. “I like my 1851, yes sir. Cap and ball, roll yer own, eh? I killed me a score of Yankees with it at Fort Donelson, didn’t I? Bluebellies begged fer their lives and I scattered their brains, didn’t