The dog watched Will’s face until he determined that no actual command was involved. Then he simply walked alongside the man, more attuned to his surroundings and the scents that he picked up than the words the man continued to utter.
“I figure it this way,” Will said. “We make a move on the camp an’ you gnaw on another outlaw. That’ll build the ‘wampus’ thing even stronger in their booze-an’-drug-soaked minds. Then we’ll haul ass away from the camp but follow the crew—hell, how hard can it be to track all those horses?—an’ pick them off as we go. Sound good?”
Wampus didn’t look up at Will this time. Instead, he stopped, nose high, drawing in the scent of smoke and of men. “Gettin’ close?” Will said in a lowered voice. He reined in, dismounted, and led the pinto behind him. “Find ’em,” he whispered to Wampus. The dog took point position, matching his speed to Will’s stride.
The sound from the gathering was loud, disjointed. A couple of Indians were chanting. Will tied the pinto to some scrub and moved on.
Watching flat in the mud from a small rise, Will saw the group had built a good-sized fire from a wrecked freighter, deciding they were better off in the fire’s light than continuing on to their sanctuary at Olympus in the dark with a wampus about. It was clear that the escaping outrider had brought back the news of the other rider’s attack. More Indians took up the chant, while the whites, in their ludicrous army outfits, passed bottles and huddled together, pistols or rifles clutched and ready.
One Dog pushed his way into the center of the group of whites and held out his arms for silence. It did no good. He punched the man closest to him, knocking him unconscious to the ground, but the violence had no effect on the panicked jabbering and chanting. One Dog drew his pistol and found that none of his men were even watching him, concentrating instead on the grounds around the fire, each completely expecting a mythical beast to fly into the group, slashing and killing.
Will shivered in the cold mud, Wampus pressed tightly against his side. He grinned and whispered to the dog, “You pressin’ against me ’cause I’m such a fine, upstanding fella, or you lookin’ for a bit of body heat?”
A fistfight broke out down below, but the combatants were quickly separated by the others. It wasn’t that they gave a damn if the two drunks killed one another; they didn’t want to lose four eyes watching for the wampus.
Not but one way to do this. I either play on their craziness an’ fear, or I don’t. He sighed. An’ I’m damn well gonna do it. Will drew his .45, which was still dripping wet. He spun the cylinder and held the pistol next to his ear, and the sweet mechanical whirr was as even as the ticking of a ten-dollar watch. He flipped the cylinder open and used his thumb to wipe any moisture off the rear end of the cartridges—the end that held the primer and gunpowder. He closed the cylinder into the frame of the .45 with a satisfying click, pushed back from the edge of the slope, and walked to his horse, dog next to him, gazing up at his face, feeling the tension that suddenly seemed to shroud Will.
“Might not be the smartest thing I ever did, and there’s a good chance we’ll both end up buzzard bait, but we’re gonna take a run at it, right Wampus?” Will said grimly. The dog growled deep in his chest, knowing from the tone of Will’s voice that action was coming.
Will took up his rein from the brush, mounted, and pulled his pistol. He sat for a moment, said, “Might just as well get to it,” drove his heels into his horse’s side, and shouted to his dog, “Git ’em, boy! Git the sonsabitches!”
The pinto leaped forward, fighting for traction, slinging globs of mud with all four hooves. Wampus, low to the ground but running hard, reached the periphery of the fire faster than the man and the horse. An outlaw standing slightly away from the rest, relieving himself, saw the dog in time to begin a scream before glinting white eyeteeth severed his jugular. Will followed a second later, riding at a slipping, sliding gallop directly at the fire, shooting randomly, dropping a pair of men too startled by the attack to even raise their weapons. Wampus was everywhere at once, tearing flesh, ghostly in the light of the fire, looking like an apparition from hell. He sank his teeth into an Indian’s groin and tugged out a couple of grotesque lumps of flesh, looking like a pair of cherry apples in a blood-soaked cloth sack. The outlaw’s howl of pain was louder than the fire, Will’s shooting, and the panic that gripped the gang.
Will crouched low over the pinto’s neck and urged more speed from him—pointing him directly at the fire. The flames were too high to clear, but the horse plowed through them, slipped and almost went down as he landed, but gathered his hooves under himself and within a couple of strides was in a gallop again. Will, turned in the saddle, wasted a couple of shots that were misses, but took down another pair with his last two rounds. “Come on, dog!” he yelled.
Wampus appeared through the flames as if he were flying and quickly caught up with the pinto.
It was only then that a barrage of gunfire erupted from the befuddled outlaws—much too late to accomplish anything.
Will reloaded his Colt as he rode, reins held in his mouth. Although he looked back several times, he saw no indication of riders coming after him—and he was sure Wampus would give him a warning if he missed anyone on his trail.
He rode a mile or so and reined to a halt. He stepped down from the saddle and checked the pinto. There were some minor burns and the horse had lost some tail, but he was sound and uninjured. Will crouched to examine Wampus, who was delighted with the attention. The dog, too, had lost a bit of coat to the fire, but was fit otherwise. As Will rubbed his muzzle and neck his hands came away wet and sticky with the unmistakable, thickly metallic scent of blood—and the blood wasn’t that of the dog.
It was logical enough that all the outlaws rode after Will—what was there to protect their saloon from? Any townspeople who hadn’t fled wouldn’t dare to invade the place. Will kept on riding to Olympus. The moon gave him barely enough light to see.
Will sent the dog into the renegades’ bar first. The dog came out in a very few minutes, tail awag. There were no men in there. Will rode around to the rear of the gin mill and looped his rein loosely over a short hitching rail. There was some hay under a tarp behind the saloon. It was dry second cutting, but it was better than the pinto was used to. Will gave the horse half a bale. He walked around the building in the opposite direction. There wasn’t a sound from inside, but the saloon’s pervasive stench hung around it like a foul cloud.
Will pushed through the batwings.
The inside of the gin mill was a disaster. Bullet holes speckled all the walls, the floor was gummy with spoiled beer, and there was the stink of long-unwashed men and the cloying odor of the urine of those who hadn’t bothered to step outside, much less walk to the privy. But there was treasure, too; the outlaws must have done some scrounging in the mercantile. Will found a .30-30 leaning against the bar, a pair of denim pants in one of the rooms upstairs, and a shirt that didn’t look like it had been worn yet.
There was a canned ham, several tin cans of something or other—the labels were burned off—and a jar of penny-candy sourballs. In the same room there was a new slicker and a rifle kit, both of which he took. Best of all, there was a bottle of whiskey and three packs of Bull Durham. The majority of the bottles behind the bar had been used for target practice, but several had been set aside. Will took a good suck at his bottle and then drew and blasted hell out of the remainder of the renegades’ liquor supply. He drew himself a bucket of beer and, as an afterthought, shot holes low in the barrel and watched the beer flow onto the floor. He opened the canned ham, gave most of it to Wampus, and ate the rest himself.