Bad Medicine by Paul Bagdon Page A

They laughed and nodded to one another.The next two arrows severed the spines of the two harmless drunks at about midback. They fell clumsily, with no control of their limbs, like a child’s rag doll hurled against a wall.
    Will scrambled from his room and down the stairs, his right hand checking the position of his Colt. He burst out of the cathouse a few seconds too late. The two men were facedown in the dirt of the street with arrows buried several inches into the backs of their heads—the final punishment for speaking of One Dog.
    An arrow slashed a shallow furrow across Will’s cheek and blood cascaded down the side of his face. He was on the ground, rolling in the dirt, before the next arrow from the second Indian missed his face by a couple of inches. It was hard to keep moving and fire accurately at the Indians, and even if he dropped them, there was the white man with the rifle.
    Will fired twice at the Indian who’d cut his face and he got lucky: a slug tore through the archer’s shoulder and the second entered his right eye socket. The second Indian was drawing his bow as Will got his balance on the ground. He put two bullets in the man’s chest.
    The rifleman was the problem now and Will rolled again, just as a gritty volcano of dirt spurted an inch from his face. He blinked away the grit, and as the rifleman worked the lever of his weapon, Will blew the top of the man’s head off, blood, bone, and brain tissue scattering in a pinkish red mist.
    The rifleman collapsed from his horse. Will recognized him—the rag-dressed boozer in the saloon who was slumped over the table with the empty bottle in front of him.
    Will walked to the pair of dead Indians. Both wore war paint on their faces, but their clothing was strange—one wore a rebel outfit with bullet holes in the shirt that were there long before he met Will Lewis; the other, butternut drawers and a Union shirt. The rifleman looked like a down-on-his-luck cowhand who hadn’t seen a new shirt or pair of drawers for a good long time. The serape he wore was too large for his body and there were bullet rents through it—mainly in the back.
    Will slid the cylinder of his pistol to the side, let the empties drop to the ground, and replaced them with fresh cartridges. He holstered the Colt and raised the fingers of his right hand to his cheek. Blood was gushing, cascading, onto his neck and shirt.
    A quick flash of a thought flicked into his mind and he forgot his wound and his flowing blood. He set out at a clumsy run to the saloon where he’d asked questions about One Dog. He pushed through the batwings and breathed a sigh of relief. The ’tender was peeking over the bar, unmoving.
    â€œI’m glad you’re OK,” Will began as his vision cleared in the dreary light. “Those two boys . . .”
    He looked more closely. The bartender’s head was planted on the handle he used to draw beer from a barrel. Will looked closer, wiping blood from his face. A long tube of bloody, glistening intestine snaked out of a lengthy gash in the man’s stomach. His pants were at his knees; his groin was a bloody, sexless mess.
    Will turned away, gagging, choking, bile burning in his throat, dizzy from what he’d just seen and from his loss of blood.
    He stumbled out of the saloon and down the streetto the barber’s place. The usual thick scent of ganja filled the room. The barber was in his corner chair, almost invisible behind a shroud of smoke.
    â€œHow screwed up are you?” Will asked. “I need some stitches bad.”
    The barber smiled. “I’m jus’ havin’ my mornin’ smoke, is all. I can sew you up right fine.” He laughed then, totally inappropriately. “I seen what happened. Them Injuns was for sure handy with the arrows. An’ you—”
    Will stepped closer and backhanded the barber—hard. “You drink a pot of coffee an’ then git to