Long Nose held One Dog’s eyes for a long time before he swung his horse away and rode off. So strong was One Dog’s medicine that Long Nose never returned to the tribe.
The first farm attack sprang into the air in front of One Dog, without the cloudlike drifting that had carried the other visions. It hadn’t been at all difficult to assemble a group of crazies: deserters from both sides, drunks, gunfighters, drifters, murderers running from the law. One Dog killed a couple of them in front of the others to establish his superiority. He expected no loyalty from his gang, but he demanded their fear of him, and got it. The crew was without prejudice, as was One Dog. They hated everyone—whatever the race, creed, color, or tribe—equally.
What bonded them together was their bloodthirstiness—killing for the sake of killing.
The farm was a small cattle operation: a hundred acres or so, perhaps two hundred head of beef, the owner, his wife, and two hired hands. One Dog hit both the house and the bunkhouse fast and hard. His fire arrows and those of the other Indians sent the occupants scurrying out, to be mowed down by gunfire. The three men were killed first. It took the wife a much longer time before death released her. The crew carried off nothing and didn’t bother to collect the cattle. They watched the house and barn burn to cinders, passing bottles of rotgut tequila among them, laughing, recalling the woman’s screams.
The smoke from the peyote mushrooms became dense again, darker, more pungent, burning One Dog’s nose and throat as he inhaled.
The vision, at first, was of an Appaloosa horse, riderless, breathing fire, hooves striking blue sparks from the ground as the massive animal galloped toward him, teeth bared, keening a quavering death canticle. The horse burst into flames and was gone. A man far larger than life, faceless, appeared. He held a long-bladed, bloodied knife in one hand and a pistol in the other.
Behind the giant came a man, a woman, two children, and two dogs. They were of normal size. Each person had the fangs of a viper at the corners of his or her mouth. One Dog felt a terror, a cold, lashing wind, such as he’d never experienced before.
One Dog, whimpering, lumbered to his feet and drew his knife. He slashed the buffalo hide of the sweat lodge and fought his way through the supporting saplings, tumbling out of the smoke and the intense heat onto the ground.
Will Lewis drank coffee with Lucas in the predawn before he set out to find One Dog. Slick was packed, saddlebags bulging. Will had cleaned and lubricated both his rifle and his pistol the night before, although neither had needed any attention.
“Got the map I made?” Lucas asked.
Will patted his chest pocket. “Yep.”
“Grazing is going to be piss-poor—everything’s burned out this time o’ the year—but I showed some places where ol’ Slick can get some grass in his belly.”
“I noticed,” Will said. “And it’s mostly near water. That’ll make things easier.”
“That’s how I figured it.”
The silence between the two men stretched into a state of discomfort. Both were aware of the burgeoning friendship that had grown between them—and both knew it was quite possible that they’d never see one another again.
“Well, hell,” Will said, finishing his coffee and setting the mug aside. “I might just as well pull out, Lucas—use all the daylight I can.”
“I guess. One thing, Wilclass="underline" there ain’t no shame nor dishonor in picking One Dog offa his horse with your rifle at a hundred yards or so. Then you can take his men down as you see fit. One Dog is purely evil—you’d be doin’ the world a favor.”
“That ain’t my way, Lucas.”
Lucas sighed. “I figured you’d say that.” The men extended their hands and shook, peering into one another’s eyes, seeing the friendship there.
“Watch your back, pard,” Lucas said. He turned away and began shoveling pea coal into his forge.
“I’ll do that,” Will said. He mounted and clucked to Slick.
He could have cut off a few miles by not riding out to the ranch, but for some reason it was important to him that his journey start there. He didn’t dismount at the mounds; in fact he spent only a few moments gazing at them. The image, he knew, he’d carry forever, and it would push him on when he was too weary to take another step.
Will didn’t mind traveling alone. In fact, he preferred it. He’d deserted the Confederate Army after the Third Battle of Petersburg, where Grant overwhelmed Lee and the rebels in sixty-five. Since then he’d drifted alone, putting together a few men when he needed them, and leaving them as soon as the job was done.
The sun, Will realized, was his most powerful enemy. Early on he’d loped Slick a bit, but as the heat became more debilitating, he held the horse to a rapid walk, broken every few miles for more miles of a slow walk. Both man and horse were dripping sweat by midday.
At dusk they struck a tiny oasis with a few scraggly, desiccated desert pines around the puddle of sulfur-smelling water, right where Lucas had placed it on the map. Both Will and Slick drank: Will figured that using as little canteen water as possible made good sense.
Will hobbled Slick and let him graze on what little grass there was and walked out on the prairie. He didn’t have to go far before he spooked a fat jackrabbit out of some scrub and took it down with a single round from his Colt. He skinned and gutted it, built a small fire from sticks and broken branches, skewered the carcass, and sat back as the meat sizzled over the flames.
He used canteen water to brew coffee in an empty sliced-peaches can that had been with him since he left Folsom. Coffee was not only a necessity, but was precious, and brewed from sulfur water, it would have tasted like runoff from a hog pen, but it was coffee, and that’s what counted.
The days passed, one a precise mirror of the one before and the one to follow, except that Will knew each mile brought him closer to One Dog and his band. He lived on jerky, rabbit, prairie dog, and a couple of times skinned-out rattlesnakes. Slick maintained his strength on the sparse grazing, but he was losing a bit of weight.
The town of Lord’s Rest had seemed impossibly far off when he left Dry Creek, but now he was a few miles from it and his mouth was watering as he imagined a good meal, a few beers, and maybe a shave. A bath would have been a foolish luxury: he’d be soaked in sweat as soon as he was back on the trail.
Slick, he knew, could use a day or so off, some good feed, lots of clean water, and some rest, and it was possible Will could pick up some information in the town.
The coach stop had two saloons, a mercantile, and a livery. There were other single-story buildings but they were boarded up. One of the saloons had a hand-painted sign over its batwings saying EAT DRINK—BEER—WISKEY—NO CREDIT TO NOBODY. There were a couple of cow ponies tied to the rail in front of the place. The gin mill across the street either had walk-in drinkers or none at all—there were no horses at the rail.
He left Slick to the care of the blacksmith at the livery after looking over the other horses in stalls and out in a corral. They all looked good—brushed, shod, and well fed. He knew his horse would get good care—and his overtipping of the smith wouldn’t hurt, either.
Will walked down to the “Eat Drink” joint and pushed through the batwings, the hinges of which were in dire need of grease or oil. He stood just inside for several moments, letting his eyes adjust to the murky light. There was a pair of men slouched at the far end of the bar. All but one of the few tables were empty. The one closest to the back wall looked as if someone had thrown a pile of rags on it, along with an empty whiskey bottle. Will looked closer. The pile of rags was a man, obviously passed out.