Bad Medicine by Paul Bagdon

an’ so often, an’ my neighbors would wave—Ahhh, bullshit.
    That wasn’t me. The first Colt .45 I bought—with its taped-up grips an’ rusted finish an’ a trigger that had to be yanked rather than eased—changed my whole life. That gun gave me the power I needed to do anything I wanted, get anything I wanted. Hell, the first mercantile I robbed, I wasn’t but thirteen years old an’ nervous as a whore in church, an’ my voice squeaked when I demanded the money.
He chuckled out loud.
Made off with fourdollars an’ fifteen cents, but it was a start, an’ it felt better than anything had ever felt before.
    First man I drew against was a drunken cowpuncher who’d been slappin’ me ’round in a gin mill for no reason. I took it for a bit an’ then faced him. I had two rounds in his chest ’fore he was able to fumble his pistol outta his holster.
    I never cared for killin’, but I’ve done ’nuff of it. Thing is, I never killed a man who didn’t need killin’. Now, this One Dog . . .
    That thought raised him from his languor. He put the brush and soap to good use and then stepped out of the foul water and dried off with a rough towel. He dressed quickly, tugged his boots on, and went out front. The barber was sucking at his pipe, smiling. “What do I owe you?” Will asked.
    â€œA dollar’ll do her.”
    Will gave him two. “Anyplace in town I can get a room for a couple nights an’ a decent meal?”
    â€œHell, boy,” the barber grinned, “this place was a cathouse. I got more damn rooms’n a ol’ whore has crabs. Cost you a dollar a night. Only real grub in town is the saloon on the other side of the street, but it isn’t a half-bad feed. That ‘Eat Drink’ sign on the other gin mill don’t mean a thing ’cept the sign was there when the owner bought the joint.”
    Will handed over another pair of dollars. “I’ll be back later,” he said.
    The meal at the saloon wasn’t half bad: the steak was large and thick and cooked so that thin blood ran from its middle. Will sat at his table, drank a pot of coffee, and then started on beer. It was good beer—not cold, but not warm, either. He rolled smokes until his fingers no longer obeyed and he scattered perfectly good Bull Durham all over his table, put abunch of money next to his empty plate, and weaved back to the cathouse. He slept the rest of the day away as well as the full night.
    In the morning he ate a half dozen fried eggs and most of a pound of bacon, along with a helping of thin-cut fried potatoes and several cups of coffee. He walked down the street and checked on Slick, who snorted at him and then dropped his muzzle back into a nice serving of crimped oats and molasses.
    Will spent the rest of the day sitting in the shade of the saloon’s overhang, went inside at late dusk, drank too much, and crossed the street to his room. He flopped onto the bed fully dressed except for his hat, which he tossed toward the door, and slept deeply and dreamlessly for the night.
    The screams he heard at first light tried to work themselves into a dream, but failed. Will sat up as the howls of pain from the street brought him to full wakefulness. The window of his room no doubt hadn’t been cleaned for years, but it was possible to see through parts of it.
    There were two men on horseback—Indians, obviously—and a white man with a rifle.
    The two drunks from the day before were yelling with pain, screaming for help. The Indians fired arrows at the drunks, starting low—just above their heels, and then moving upward. The Indians were good: their shafts went where they wanted them to. Their speed and skill with their weapons was nothing short of amazing. A man barely had time to scream before the next arrow was unerringly on its way.
    Some grunted words were exchanged between the two Indians.