Will took the time to roll a half-dozen smokes, taking a belt from the bottle every so often. He lit a cigarette and coughed out a smog of bluish smoke, his throat feeling as if it had caught fire. He put out that fire with a mouthful of booze and took another drag. This time the smoke went where it was supposed to, and the vague satisfaction that tobacco brings—impossible to explain to a nonsmoker—flowed through him.
Nevertheless, there was an ambience to the place that made Will nervous. It was not unlike sitting in an empty viper’s den, the crushed-cucumber stink still strong, and not knowing when the serpents would return. Wampus, too, was uncomfortable, pacing, panting lightly. The scent of the enemy was too strong for him to relax.
After crushing the nub of his cigarette on the floor, Will pulled on the denim drawers and board-stiff shirt. He strapped on his gun belt and tied his holster low on his right leg. He stuffed the sacks of Bull Durham into various pockets but left the bottle on the table.
Both he and Wampus drew in deep breaths of fresh air when they’d put some distance between themselves and the saloon.
Will had no doubt that the renegades could track when full light came, but with the fear of the wampus in their minds, he doubted that they would—not immediately, anyway. He loped for a few miles and then put the pinto into a fast walk. The prairie ahead of him looked as flat as a billiard table in the dawn light. It offered no cover and certainly no ambush point where he could await the outlaws. He put his horse back into the animal’s easy, ground-eating lope, Wampus jogging at his side.
The elements of surprise and fear were all he had going for him, Will thought. Another attack too soon could blunt both his advantages: the renegades would soon figure out that their tormentors were merely a man and a dog—easy enough to kill. Will decided to hold off on his forays for two or three days. By then, he believed, the outlaws would be on his trail, and he’d have had time to plan out his next attack on them.
Will rode through the day, stopping only at the meager water holes he encountered. The water was generally bad—petroleum tasting—but when a man, a horse, and a dog are parched, any water is good water.
It was coming dark when Will saw a spurt of dust far ahead of him, coming toward him. It was a single rider, from the rooster tail it put in the air. Any more than one horse would raise a more substantial cloud of grit behind them.
When they were a couple hundred yards apart, both men dropped their horses to a slow walk but continued to approach one another.
Will’s right hand lifted his Colt a few inches above his holster and released it, letting it settle itself into its ready-to-draw position. Wampus began to growl; Will hushed him.
The rider wasn’t a big man, but as they closed, from what Will could see, he was damned near a one-man armory. Twin bandoliers of rifle cartridges crossed his chest. He carried a pair of Winchesters sheathed one on each side of the saddle, in front of his knees. He wore two Colt .45s at his waist. The grips of a pair of bowie-type knives rested in sheaths sewn to the outside of each of his boots. An unstrung bow rested atop his bedroll, with a group of arrows tied securely to the bow. There was .50-caliber buffalo rifle strapped over his back. The men came within talking distance.
“Name’s Gordon,” he said. “Ray Gordon.” His voice was deep, rich.
“Will Lewis.”
“Fine dog ya got there,” Gordon said. “Got more’n a little timber wolf in him, no?”
“You know dogs?”
“Some. I know a wolf cross when I see one.”
“Where you headed?” Will asked.
“Olympus, I guess. From there, I dunno.”
“There’s nothin’ there,” Will said. “I just left that hellhole.”
Ray Gordon shrugged. “Don’t matter. It ain’t the town I’m after, it’s a murderin’ savage named One Dog. I’m gonna kill the sumbitch an’ take his scalp as well—him an’ as many of his scum as I can take down.”
“Why?”
Gordon swallowed and spat off to the side before answering. “ ’Cause he butchered my wife an’ my son. That answer your question?”
“Yeah. It does. See, I think we’re both about the same task. One Dog and his gang murdered my brother, his wife—an’ his two little daughters.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“You wasn’t there?”
“I was in Folsom Prison—just about to get out. Me an’ my brother was gonna . . . Ahh, shit.” Will hesitated, shook his head slightly. “What about you, when your people were attacked?” he asked.
Ray looked down at his horse’s mane for a full minute. “I was drunk an’ passed out,” he said, “ ’bout eight miles from my place. I fell off my horse. When I came to an’ caught him up . . . well . . .”
“You still boozin’?”
“I ain’t touched a drop since then—not even a beer. My whole life now is to kill One Dog.”
“You’re gonna have to stand in line,” Will said. “One Dog is mine.”
Gordon’s face flushed red and his dark eyes narrowed, locking with Will’s. “Your ass, he’s yours. Like I said, One Dog is mine.”
The glaring contest lasted a full two minutes. Finally, Will said, “We got time to debate on it. An’ ’course, either one—or both of us—could be dead ’fore One Dog goes down for good.”
“Could be,” Ray admitted.
Will rolled a smoke and offered his papers and sack of Bull Durham to Ray.
“Don’t use ’em. Thanks anyhow.”
“You drop any of them yet?” Will asked.
“Four for certain. Maybe a fifth one. You?”
“I figure about six or eight. I was in an’ out too fast to keep a good count. Seems like there’s always new crazies an’ killers joinin’ on with One Dog. I don’t know how many men ride with him.”
Ray grinned. “That’s easy enough. Ain’t hard at all. What you do is count all their arms an’ legs an’ divide by four—assumin’ you know your numbers. If you don’t, you’re screwed.”
Will laughed out loud and it felt good. It was the first time he’d laughed since he’d heard about Hiram and his family from the blacksmith. “Well look,” he said through his laughter, “suppose you got a renegade with but one arm or one leg?”
“Easy,” Ray said. “You shoot the sumbitch—even things out right nice.”
“Makes good sense,” Will said. “Say, how ’bout we set up camp together? My dog’ll fetch us in a couple of rabbits to cook up.”
Ray nodded. “I was about to suggest settin’ up together, ’cept I was afraid that goddamn wolf’d tear my eggs off if I stepped down from my horse. His eyes ain’t left me since we been talkin’ here, an’ not ’cause he loves me.”
“Wampus is OK. He won’t bother you unless I tell him to. He’s kinda protective, is all.” Will hesitated a bit. “You really think he’s half wolf?” he asked.
“I know he is, Will. He’s the pup of a timber, bred to what’s called a German shepherd. An’ I’ll tell you this ’fore you need to ask: I know wolves an’ I know dogs. I bountied on wolves for a dozen years—raised a couple pups myself an’ bred ’em to shepherds. It’s a fine mix, but they can get a bit flighty at times.” Ray swung down from his saddle. “You call him Wampus?”
“Yeah. See, a wampus is—”
“I know what a wampus is.” He gazed at the dog for a moment. “I ’magine this boy looks real scary at night. Have them renegades wettin’ their drawers, does he?”