Free Bad Medicine by Paul Bagdon Page B

out.”
    â€œOK. Grab me a bunch of Bull Durham—the sacks with the papers. We’ll ride at first light.”
    Austin held out his hand across the table. Will took it and they shook.
    â€œYou still handy with that Colt?” Will asked. “I mean when you ain’t clumsy enough to let a horse fall on you an’ you got no ammo?”
    Austin drained the schooner he’d been holding and picked a new, full one from the tray.
    â€œName a target, Will.” Austin began to stand.
    â€œStay sittin’ right where you are.” Austin sat back down. “See them shot glasses on the shelf under the lady whose tits you shot off?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhen I say shoot, you pick off every other one from right where you are.”
    â€œThey’re kinda tight together, Will.”
    â€œYeah. They are. So will One Dog’s men be if we get to them at the right time.”
    â€œHell, man—this ain’t no contest.” Austin grinned. “I could do this here in my sleep. But look—s’pose you pick off the ones I leave? I don’ wanna ride with no ol’ fart who can’t handle iron. You got some years on you, Will—an’ you was locked in Folsom for—”
    â€œShoot,” Will said.
    Austin had pushed his chair back, balancing it on its hind legs. His pistol was in his hand with speed that brought a smile to Will’s face. The six shots were thunderous in the saloon, but still not as loud as the storm outside.
    â€œYou nicked the fourth one.”
    â€œYer ass, Will Lewis—the sumbitch already had a notch in it. Now, ’cordin’ to what we agreed, you was—”
    The shot glasses Austin left seemed to disintegrate at the same time. Will holstered his Colt. “OK?” he said.
    Austin reached across the table once again. Once again the men shook hands.
    The men Austin rode in with were having a fine old time, shooting holes in the walls, blowing bottles to smithereens, drinking with both hands and paying with neither.
    â€œYour boys are tearin’ hell outta this place an’ they’re not payin’ a dime,” Will said. “I was wonderin’, could you get the whole goddamn bunch outta here?”
    â€œI’ll make sure they pay up, Will.”
    â€œAin’t the point. That ol’ fella don’t need this horsehit. He ain’t a bad ol’ guy and I come to like him while I been here. I can see cowhands at the end of a drive with some money in their pockets raisin’ some hell, but these clowns of yours, they piss meoff. If you don’t shag ’em out, I will, Austin—and then the damn fools’ll be carried out boots first.”
    Austin drew his .45, tipped out his cylinder, and filled the empty spaces with fresh cartridges. He pushed his chair back and stood, right hand all but touching the grips of his weapon.
    â€œHey,” he hollered. “Hey. You boys put your rigs on your horses an’ git out. We was together for one thing—that bank—and we done it good. Now, git.”
    â€œAustin,” one of them said, “the storm an’ all . . . We ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not nowhere. We’re real happy right here.”
    â€œWell,” Austin said, “let’s talk about this, OK?”
    â€œAin’t nothin’ to talk about. We—”
    Austin drew and fired his Colt twice. Both slugs found a home in the outlaw’s gut.
    â€œWhat you boys gotta do is split his take, an’ like I said, git outta here, storm or no goddamn storm. Ever’body understand? Oh—an’ take that mouthy sumbitch’s body out an’ toss it in the street.”
    No one answered, but the two outlaws began slapping wet blankets on the backs of their mounts.
    â€œAn’ lemme say this: I never seen nor heard of none of you. We never rode together. Any one of you who says different faces me—an’ if you back-shoot