It wasn’t far past dinnertime, but the joint was already doing a good business. Austin sat at a table alone, with several empty schooners on the rough wood in front of him and a full one in his hand. “Will,” he called, “come on an’ set an’ drink some beer—best medicine in the world.” Will bought a pair of beers at the bar and walked over to Austin’s table.
“What’d the doc say?”
“Nothin’. He was gone on a call when I woke up. He left me some medicine to take. Fact, I better take one right now.” He plucked a tablet from his pocket and washed it down with a long draft of beer.
“You might jus’ notice I got two sleeves on my shirt,” Austin grinned. He took another from the floor next to him and tossed it to Will. “Here—I got you one, too. You look like a damned fool with but one sleeve. The mercantile has good prices.”
Will stripped out of his old shirt and pulled on the new one, buttoning it carefully. “Nice shirt,” he said. “Stiffer’n a damn board, though.” He tossed the bloody shirt toward the corner of the room. The men drank their beer.
“Least you could do is fetch another round,” Austin said.
“You know,” Will answered, “you’re finally right ’bout somethin’.” He strode to the bar. The dizziness settled in again but again was quickly gone. He held up two fingers to the ’tender and leaned on the bar, gawking up at the graphic nude hanging over the whiskey bottles. It took him a couple of moments to notice that all conversation, shouting, cursing, and laughter in the saloon had stopped and that the bartender had crouched down behind the bar. Will turned to the batwings.
One man stood there, just inside the saloon. He was as hairy as a buffalo, shirtless, wearing tight leggings tucked into tall boots. A pair of bandoliers of ammunition crossed his chest. A Colt .45 rested in his holster. He held a cut-down shotgun, muzzle upward. His hair was a twisted, greasy mess. His eyes, like polished obsidian, swept the saloon, passed Will, and then returned to him.
“You killed and marked my brother an’ now his spirit must wander until he’s avenged,” the outlaw said, his voice tight, hard, trembling with fury.
Will took a step away from the bar, his right hand dropping toward his pistol. It was just then that the dizziness returned, this time accompanied by floating red motes that drifted across his line of vision. The Indian laughed. “You’re so scared you can barely stand up straight, you chickenshit sonofabitch.”
Will felt his consciousness leaving him, felt his right hand tremble, tried to gulp air to clear his head, but it had no effect. He wobbled in his boots as if he stood on the deck of a ship in a storm. There were more red motes now, but he could see clearly enough that the double maw of the shotgun was being lowered toward him. He fumbled for his pistol but his palm slapped the gun belt above his holster.
Then, something very strange happened. The outlaw suddenly grew eight inches of arrow from the middle of his forehead. It was as if the shaft leaped from his head. He fell forward face-first, and the impact jammed the rest of the arrow on through so that the hunting point and several inches of shaft protruded from the back of his head. Will shook his head, confused, as if he were in some bizarre dream. Everything was red in front of him now, and there was a loud buzzing sound filling his head. Bees, he thought stupidly. I run right into a swarm of bees. Then, he went down.
The corn-shuck bed is what woke Will up—that and the critters that lived in it. He slapped at his neck with his left hand and immediately regretted doing so. A searing pain traveled from his hand to his shoulder, eliciting a curse and a grimace. “Shit,” he said, looking around. The bed—such as it was—was against the wall. The blanket was Union Army–surplus wool, and added to the torture of the bedbugs.
An arrow hissed past Will’s face, perhaps two inches above his nose, and buried its point in the lath and poorly applied sheet wood, joining a cluster of half a dozen other shafts. Austin sat across the room, bow in hand, quiver slung from the back of his chair.
“I’ll tell you this right now,” Austin said, “whoever made this sumbitch put his heart into it. You seen the power it has. I never seen a arrow pierce right on through a man’s head. Usually, even with a good, stout bow, they don’t penetrate more’n a few inches in a skull. I’d wager that piece of trash I dusted in the saloon didn’t make this here bow.” Will began to speak, but Austin went on.
“An’ these arrows are the best. Lookit the points—sharper’n a razor an’ balanced perfect. An’ the shafts—there ain’t nothin’ but perfectly straight hardwood, rubbed an’ polished to a fair-thee-well. Them is eagle feathers, too.”
“Where the hell are we?” Will’s voice sounded like that of a badger with a really sore throat. Austin handed over an unlabeled quart bottle. “Have you a sip of this so’s you don’t sound like you do—it’d get on a man’s nerves in a big hurry.” Will, his throat parched and sore, sucked down a long pull. He coughed immediately, rackingly, and his throat felt as if a five-foot-long length of red-hot barbed wire had been stuffed into his lungs. “What . . . is that?” he croaked.
“Taykilla, a Mex fella tol’ me. Didn’t charge me but twenty cents for the whole quart. He said it’s real popular in Mexico.” Austin notched another arrow and began to draw back.
“Dammit, you quit that! There’s no good reason you gotta shoot so close to my face, ya damned fool!”
Austin grinned and nodded. “You’re right,” he said. He moved the bow a bit and released the arrow. It slammed into the wall tight enough to Will’s groin that had he been excited with a lady, he’d have lost something valuable.
“Idjit,” Will snarled.
“Want some grub?” Austin asked. “This dump has a restaurant. You prolly should eat.”
Will swallowed and quickly decided that he did need to eat and that he wanted to eat. “Yeah, Austin, I’m needing some food. An’ my hand is killin’ me, but I ain’t gonna drink more of that Mex crap. Maybe you could fetch a bottle of decent booze?”
“Sure.”
“Austin—was there some pills in my pocket in my ol’ shirt.”
“Yeah, there was. I got ’em right here in my pocket. You needin’ one?”
“Toss ’em out the window, pard. Sonsabitches almost killed me.”
“Sure. I’ll go down, fetch up some stew—it ain’t half bad. I had me a couple helpings.”
“Where the hell are we, by the way?”
“The hotel—the Royal Duchess, she’s called. Got grub and whores, too.”
“Royal Duchess? Damn,” Will said incredulously. “Might jus’ as well called this fleabag the Windsor Castle.”
“What’s a windward castle?”
“Forget it, OK? Jus’ get the stew an’ coffee—lots of coffee.”
Austin shook his head slowly, as if he’d just heard bad news. “Jesus, Will,” he said. “You’re one miserable sumbitch when it comes to givin’ orders.” Austin set his bow aside and stomped out the door, slamming it behind him as he left.
Will tested his hand a bit. It hurt—bad. He groaned, got his boots under himself, and weaved to the tiny table that held Austin’s bottle. He took a slug, gagged, and took another hit.
After a short time, the pain in his hand and wrist dulled considerably.
Austin came in with a large bowl of venison stew, which was purely delicious, and a loaf of bread under his arm, still warm from the oven. The pot of coffee was steaming from its spout, diffusing its wonderful aroma throughout the small room.
“I didn’t mean to rag on you, Austin,” Will said. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Hell,” Austin grinned. “Had a Injun chewed most of my hand off, why I’d be kinda outta sorts, too. Here—lemme add some hog piss to your coffee.” He crossed the room to Will and poured a half cup of whiskey into Will’s mug.