“My brother and your friend is dead,” Jane said quietly. His voice was a monotone but there was great sorrow behind it.
“Maybe he got some cover. Maybe some of them shots were his. Could be that—”
“No.”
A whoop—almost a screech—broke the silence, as did the pounding of hooves. A man, a white man in a rebel jacket, galloped toward the mercantile, hugging the far side of the street. He carried a spear upright in his right hand. Impaled at the top of the shaft was Austin’s head, his hat still in place, his face a mass of blood, an irregular, deep red mass of meat stuffed into his mouth. It was his heart.
Jane stood, leveled his shotgun, and blew the rider off the horse to fall in a crumpled and bloody heap. Even before the rider hit the ground a dozen horsemen charged from the opposite ends of the street, firing rifles, shotguns, pistols, and a few arrows. Jane went for his rifle immediately; Will depended on his Colt until it was empty before he, too, snatched up a .30-30. Bullets riddled the barricade like a swarm of insane bees and the inside of the mercantile was a chaos of ricocheting slugs, shattering glass, tortured wood, and exploding bottles and cans.
Will and Jane fired like a combat-trained militia: steadily but not rapidly, aiming each round, making it count. It was the rare slug that didn’t wound or kill an outlaw.
“Sonsabitches are crazy,” Will shouted. “It’s like they want to die.”
“Is true—One Dog must have given them mushroom buttons. Their fighting is insane!”
Still the renegades came on, jerking their horses around when they’d galloped past the store, heading back the opposite way, fumbling loads into their weapons. There were several full-gallop collisions; outlaws and horses went down in twisted heaps of flailing hooves, arms, and legs. Survivors of the crashes were quickly dropped by the men in the store.
The street looked like the third day at Gettysburg: corpses were scattered as if they’d dropped from the sky. Small potholes and ruts were filled with blood that had seeped from men and from horses. A few attackers moaned in pain, and others writhed about in the blood and the grit and dirt. Jane stood calmly levering his .30-30. His rifle stilled those who were still alive.
The maniac charge had come to an end.
“We stopped ’em that time,” Will said. “Did you see One Dog anywhere in that mess?”
“I did not—and I did not expect to. He knew it would be a slaughter. He gave his warriors those mushrooms—”
“What mushrooms?” Will interrupted. “How could a mushroom make men not care about their lives?”
“Peyote, it is called. It is strong medicine. It paints insane pictures in the minds of men, strange colors and sounds, and they follow orders, no matter how deadly to them. It makes them crazy men. At times, if they eat the mushroom buds during the day, the men will stare at the sun until their eyes can no longer see—until they are forever blind.”
Will went to the back of the store, filled a bucket with water from the pump, and pulled a pair of shirts off a counter. He set the bucket down near Jane and the two men washed the blowback and bits of gunpowder from their faces. He wiped his face on his sleeve, winced at the stinging, and walked back to the slug-holed counter. He found a bottle of whiskey that hadn’t been smashed and brought it up to the barricade, pulling the cork with his teeth. He took a long, deep draft and handed the bottle to Jane, who did the same.
“Think they’ll leave those bodies out there?” Will asked.
“They will. One Dog cares no more for his men than a dog does about the tree on which he lifts his leg.”
Will carried a pair of crates of .30-30 cartridges to the barricade and set one next to Jane, and placed one at the spot he’d occupied during the battle. “We went through a passel of ammunition,” he observed.
“And we killed many snakes with it.”
“How many you figure we dropped?”
“Perhaps twenty—maybe more. It makes no difference. One Dog has more and will bring in any guns he needs to hire.”
Will mused for a few moments, his right hand unconsciously touching the grips of his holstered pistol. “Ya know,” he finally said, “they rode off to the west, so their camp is somewhere in that direction.” He paused again, for a longer time. “They won’t attack at night—we know that. I’m thinking I’ll slide out that way and have a look-see and make up a bit for what they done to Austin.”
“Is foolish idea. Your heart—your love for your friend—talks louder than your mind, Will. I, too, need revenge. The bodies in the street are not revenge—they are the results of a battle. I will take blood for my brother’s blood, but not tonight.”
“You yourself said they were hopped up on that mushroom stuff. How long does that last?”
“Is impossible to say—how much is eaten, how strong and fresh the plant is.”
“Is there a hangover as it wears off?”
“Often. Yes. But—”
“So,” Will went on, speaking over Jane, “a bunch of ’em will be slow an’ stupid. There’s some moon tonight—at least enough for me to follow their tracks. I’ll go in on foot an’ do a payback for Austin.”
“I say no.”
“An’ I say you ain’t the honcho on this job of work—I am. If you want to ride out of here right now, that’s fine. You owe me nothing.”
“I owe my brother—and in my heart, we have become friends.”
“We have, Jane. You’re a hell of a man. But you owe me nothing. In fact, I owe you money, which you’ll get. Let me draw you a map to one of my stashes so that if I get killed you can—”
“No. This is not a job. It never was—not since I heard from Austin. Would you charge money for fighting for your Hiram?”
Will was silent for a moment. Then, regardless of Austin’s warning that rang in his ears, he held his hand out to Gentle Jane. A knife suddenly appeared in Jane’s hand. He took Will’s hand, turned it over, and put a half-inch slit in the palm. Then he did the same to his own right palm. When the blood was flowing from both cuts he grasped Will’s hand in the grasp of common blood—of brotherhood. Jane stood, carrying his rifle. “I will stand by Partner to make certain he doesn’t hurt your horse as you lead him out.”
The grain on the floor had been cleaned. Jane’s horse stood to one side, half-asleep. Both Austin’s horse and Slick had been allowed to suck at the water trough. Jane stood by his horse as Will led Slick outside and saddled and bridled him. A moment later he came back into the storeroom and shagged Austin’s horse out the open loading door. He slapped the animal on the rump, setting him into a lope into the darkness. To Jane he said, “Lots of herds of wild ones ’round here. This boy’ll find a home.”
“It is not right that another man put a saddle on Austin’s horse,” Jane said.
Will nodded and stepped into a stirrup. He carried a rifle across the saddle in front of him and another in his right hand. His Colt was, of course, holstered at his side. On the left side of his gun belt was a sheath carrying a ten-inch-bladed knife, courtesy of the mercantile.
Will set off to the west at a jog. Jane shoveled the dung out of the storage room, scattered fresh grain on the floor, and replenished the water trough. He picked up a bottle behind the counter and settled in behind the barricade. He rested, but he didn’t sleep.
The faint glow of a fire appeared against the sky not a full four miles out of town. Slick heard the whooping and hollered chanting before Will did, and his nervousness—tainted by fear—transmitted itself to Will immediately. There was a convenient cluster of rocks nearby.
Will tied Slick there. He left the rifle in the saddle scabbard and went ahead on foot, knife in his left hand, right hovering near the grips of his pistol.