Bad Medicine by Paul Bagdon Page A

said.
    â€œLet’s move then,” Austin said, hauling off a boot. “We’re wastin’ what time we got.”
    Will expected at least a few muffled curses fromAustin as they set out on the mission, as bootless feet landed on a particularly sharp rock, and was mildly surprised when he not only heard no profanity, but barely heard his partner at all.
    The walk seemed longer to Will than it had earlier, but the vague scent of smoke let him know he and Austin were getting close. “We split here,” he whispered into Austin’s ear. “There’s at least one man ridin’ around the cattle an’ horses. He probably found the bodies from earlier. Or maybe somebody changin’ guard did, but we gotta assume One Dog knows he had a visitor.”
    Austin nodded but didn’t speak.
    â€œYou swing out to the left there, an’ I’ll go over where I killed the first one,” Will whispered. “See you back at the horses.”
    The lookout at the rock was standing this time and Will could hear him shifting his feet on the gritty stone surface as he paced a short pattern. Will listened for several minutes; the shuffling pattern didn’t change. The man’s final step as he turned to repeat his pacing was perfect. It put his back a mere couple of steps from where Will stood, knife at the ready, blade up, clutched chest high. Will let the guard make another pass. Then he crouched slightly, extended his right hand and the knife a bit from his body, and balanced himself carefully on the balls of his feet, left moccasin slightly behind his right. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, shook his wrist to loosen any tension in it, and when the time was perfect, sprang out from the edge of the rock, left hand finding and covering the guard’s mouth from the back at the same time his right hand arced out and plunged the blade to the hilt into the man’s chest.
    The guard was an Indian. The stench of the grease on his hair was like the pit of a privy.
    He grunted as the knife struck and his mouth opened slightly, even under Will’s powerful grip. Will drew the knife from the guard’s chest, pulling it upward and twisting it as he did so. At the same moment—perhaps as a final act of battle or perhaps in his death throes—the Indian closed his teeth on the lower palm of Will’s left hand. The pain was sharp, hot, and Will could feel his flesh tearing. Then, as quickly as the gnashing pressure began, it stopped and all the strength drained from the man: from his mouth, his arms, his chest. Will pulled his knife free and let the body fall facedown. He quickly turned the corpse over, carved the HW into the warm, blood-slick chest, and then looked at his own hand. It was bleeding freely, the blood dark in the night, spattering at Will’s feet. A flap of skin and muscle three inches long hung from the bottom of the hand like a piece of torn, damp cloth. Will put the rock between himself and the dead Indian and used his knife to cut the left sleeve off his shirt. The blade, razor sharp, eased through the fabric soundlessly. Will slid the knife back into his sheath and, holding one end of the sleeve in his teeth, took a tight wrap around the wound, doing his best to hold the flap of skin to where it’d come from. He listened for a long moment and then started back to his camp.
    He had the horses saddled and bridled before Austin returned. “You OK?” Will asked.
    â€œYeah. Killed the outrider and left him with the HW. You?”
    â€œI got the lookout that replaced the one I killedearlier. Sumbitch bit my hand pretty bad. Other’n that, I’m good.”
    Austin stepped closer to inspect Will’s wound. “Still bleedin’ heavy, even with the wrap,” he said. “I got some latigo in my saddlebag. I’ll rig you a tourniquet. Take your reins in your right hand an’ hold the left higher’n your heart, much as you