Read Online Bad Medicine by Paul Bagdon - Free Book Online Page B

bits of blood. He ordered a bucket of beer and walked over to a table with his bucket and an almost empty schooner, and rolled himself a smoke.
    There were eight, maybe ten, men in the saloon—no women. A couple were playing checkers at a table. The balance were standing at the bar in various states of intoxication, from the gent stretched out on the floor to those who stood straight to those who looked like they’d join their colleague on the floor before long.
    The storm was like a living thing, with its massive paws around the saloon. The entire building shook when blasts of wind struck it, beams groaned, and the sounds of shingles ripping from the roof sounded like heavy cartridges striking. The rain—now sheetsrather than drops—was lashed almost parallel with the ground by the snarling, howling wind.
    Will was building another cigarette when the batwings slammed open, one ripped from its hinges, and three horsemen, as wet and dripping as they’d be had they been dragged across a wide river, swung down from their saddles and hauled off their ponchos. “Whiskey—lots of it,” one rider said, using his hand, curved as a scoop, to sluice water off his horse.
    â€œYou can’t bring them horses . . .” the bartender called. “I ain’t gonna clean my floor in the . . .”
    The rider who’d dismounted first drew his .45 and put a slug into each of the prominent, almost crab-apple-sized nipples on the nude poster over the bar. The ’tender went back to pouring liquor.
    Will stood—somewhat shakily—and faced the horseman. “You never did have no manners,” he said. “Ridin’ yer damned horse into a fine place like this an’ then shooting at the only tits we got to look at. Why hell, I oughta kick yer ass back out into the rain.”
    The gunman swung toward Will, crouching a bit, planting his boots one a foot ahead of the other, his Colt already in his hand—and then his hard, bearded face broke into a broad smile and he ran to Will. The two men embraced, cursing one another, pounding each other’s backs, laughing.
    â€œYer jus’ as ugly as you ever was,” the gunman shouted. “You still chasin’ them sheep when you get lonely?”
    â€œSeems to me you put the wood to the fattest, ugliest, smelliest whore in Fort Worth an’ then never paid the poor heifer. Ain’t that right, Austin?”
    â€œPaid her? Why hell, I give her the biggest thrill in her life!”
    The other men were shedding their ponchos and dragging the saddles from their horses. They were young, perhaps eighteen or twenty, but it was obvious to Will that these boys were gunfighters—or at least, young fellas who knew about killing.
    Will nodded in their direction. “Who’s the crew?”
    â€œThey ain’t mine. We done a little bank together and that’s the end of it. We split equal four ways an’ then we’ll ride off in four different ways.”
    â€œHow about you pull the saddle offa your horse an’ we’ll set at a table an’ drink some beer an’ talk things over?” Will said.
    â€œYou betcha,” Austin answered. “Hell, I ain’t seen you in . . . what, six, seven years? Not since you—”
    â€œCloser to eight,” Will interrupted, moving to a table. He watched as his friend pulled cinches.
    There’d been four of us figurin’ to take the Wells Fargo stage. Rumor had it the coach was carrying pay for silver miners—American bills, not army script. The trail at one point was a long, sweeping curve around a marsh and there were trees on both sides. We heard the rumble and rattle of the coach long before it came into sight. Each of us outlaws pulled his bandanna up over his nose, covering most of his face.
    â€œDon’t feel right,” I said quietly, our horses standing together.
    â€œWhy? It ain’t the shotgunner’s nor the