Free Bad Medicine by Paul Bagdon

driver’s money. They ain’t gonna die for it.”
    â€œI dunno. Seems like we been tappin’ coaches a little too hard around here, Austin. This one’s it for me—I’m takin’ my split an’ haulin’ ass.”
    Austin thought that over as the sounds of the stagegrew louder. “Might could be you got a good idea there, Will.”
    We had planned the heist out pretty thoroughly. Austin and me would come out from the trees in front of the coach and hold our guns on the shotgunner and the driver. The other two men would drag out any passengers and get the cash box secured under the front-facing seat. We’d collect the guns any passenger might be carrying—and those of the shotgunner and the driver—and ride off, rich, happy, without having spilled a drop of blood.
    That’s when the plan went straight to hell.
    The fellow riding shotgun raised his weapon toward me and I shot him in the chest. The driver reached for a holstered Colt and Austin put a slug into his shoulder, slamming him off the seat and onto the ground.
    There was a barrage of pistol shots and the percussive boom of a shotgun at the passenger door, and both of our partners went down. Three Pinkertons shoved their way out of the coach and opened fire on Austin and me. Austin’s horse—a strong, fast bay—caught a bullet that tore off one ear and a good piece of his head, and he went down, hard. Austin did his best to push off, but his horse came down on his lower left leg and boot, pinning him. He fired at a Pinkerton as he struggled to get free, but missed. His second round took the man in the stomach. He screamed and went down. The Pinkerton with the shotgun was looking for me, butt of the weapon to his shoulder, but the coach horses were between us. The battle was over. We were outgunned, and Austin, although he was able to free himself, was a target for a pair of angry, bloodthirsty hired guns who’d just seen their partner gutshot.
    I spun my horse away from the carnage and slammed my heels into him. Then, after a couple of long strides, Ihauled back on the reins, rolled the horse back over his haunches, and pounded back to the stagecoach, thinking what a damned fool I was. I wrapped the reins loosely around my saddlehorn, pulled my hide-out derringer, drew my rifle from its scabbard at my right knee, and rode in firing and shouting like a goddamn madman.
    The Pinkertons hustled to the rear of the coach. Austin, face as pale as that of an alabaster doll, leaned against the open stagecoach door, his left foot held off the ground. I galloped directly at him, my good horse picking up speed, coming at Austin like a runaway train. Austin latched onto my horn with both hands and swung on my horse behind me. A cluster of pellets from the shotgun snarled by us like a swarm of angry hornets, and a couple of pistol rounds weren’t too far off—but we made it.
    â€œMy foot’s busted,” Austin yelled into my ear, “but I can ride OK.”
    â€œYa damned idjit,” I called over my shoulder. “You let that pissant Pinkerton kill your horse . . .”
    â€œI figured I’d git us a bottle of rotgut, too.” Austin grinned as he set a tray of beer and the bottle of whiskey on the table.
    â€œI shoulda warned you,” Will said. “The whiskey here tastes like it run straight outta Satan’s boot.”
    â€œDon’t make no matter. Booze is booze, no?”
    â€œNot this dragon piss.”
    Austin drank off a half schooner of beer and poured from the whiskey bottle until the mug was full. He tasted it and smiled. “Ain’t bad this way,” he said.
    â€œWell.”
    The silence between the two men settled in very quickly and very uncomfortably.
    â€œLook,” Austin said, “I never seen you since youdumped me off onto that sorrel stud. He was a good horse.”
    â€œYeah. He was. Best in our crew—’cept mine. His