Big Medicine
Chapter 2—Hell on Wheels
Lynch woke to cedar smoke, canvas and dust. The sounds of hammers, hooves and steam engines outside blended with the creak of timber. He stared at the varnished ceiling, ribbed with polished bows.
A leather harness groaned beyond the walls. Glass bottles chimed together, like someone nudged a shelf.
Lynch woke to cedar smoke, canvas and dust. The sounds of hammers, hooves and steam engines outside blended with the creak of timber. He stared at the varnished ceiling, ribbed with polished bows.
A leather harness groaned beyond the walls. Glass bottles chimed together, like someone nudged a shelf.
Lynch sat up, swallowing. Pain exploded through his throat. His hand flew to his neck. It was swollen and tender. A thick ridge circled it like a collar, hot to the touch.
"Okay," he rasped. The word was like stones dragged together.
Across from him was a washstand and basin. A gunbelt hung on a chair, Colt Navy holstered in it, clothes folded neatly.
Lynch stood at the washbasin. His shoulders were sore. Ribs protested. His right knee was tender and swollen. The face in the mirror looked suddenly older. Purple bruising beneath his jaw glared back at him.
But he was alive. He splashed cold water, shockin’ himself awake.
The clothes fit perfect. The boots at the bed were his own square-toed cavalry boots, already comfortable.
He lifted the Navy. It settled naturally into his hand. He checked the percussion caps, buckling the belt around himself.
Warm sunlight spilled in through the door as he stepped out. The high desert air smelled of sage, frying bacon, horse sweat, fresh-cut pine.
Lynch stood looking at Hell on Wheels.
He heard a woman scream, twice, far enough away that it drifted over rooftops and canvas like the cry of a hawk.
Two revolver shots cracked quickly. Men kept hammering.
A freight wagon rolled past, wheels six inches into the red mud. Somewhere beyond the tents, an ox team leaned into the yokes, leather stretching while a foreman cursed ‘em with inventive enthusiasm.
Life kept on moving, as if screams and gunfire were part of breakfast. Lynch slowly scanned the camp.
Less than a month ago, now a lifetime in the past, Hell on Wheels was a mobile camp. Before him now stood something entirely new. A growing town.
Canyon Diablo.
Whole streets had appeared from nowhere. False-front saloons rose from muddy wagon ruts. Mercantile shops stood with blacksmiths, warehouses, boarding houses, rough hotels.
Beyond it all: The Canyon. It split the earth from north to south, a dark wound carved through the grasslands.
Westbound rails ran by him. Lynch followed ‘em with his eyes, across the unfinished bridge, hanging over empty space.
Timbers crossed into the gap like broken ribs, and the iron framework reached toward the other rim, falling impossibly short. Workers crawled on the skeleton, hammers ringing.
At the end of the track, a great rail crane balanced over the abyss, as teams of mud-spattered oxen strained against heavy yokes, inching the machine forward one careful pace at a time.
Suspended from its cables, a massive boxcar swung slowly across the canyon toward the western side. The railroad wasn't just stopped. It was trapped.
The hiss of bacon hit him from behind.
"You standin’ there all day, Lynch? Come on, son. Coffee's gettin' lonely."
Out yonder a locomotive gave a long mournful whistle, fading for miles.
"Two years of mules hauling freight down into the ditch because some clerk back east couldn't read a tape measure. That's why this place exists.”
Medicine Man shook his head slow.
"Look at that locomotive sit there. A three-million-dollar anchor. Every piece of furniture, every barrel of flour heading to the Pacific dangles off that crane. Railroad brings freight to the edge, oxen push the crane, teamsters haul it off. And while everybody waits, they spend money on cheap whiskey and cards.”
Medicine Man raised his cup.
“Now the new iron’s coming. They're tearing down that mistake. But you can't tear down a thousand killers.”
"…Hell on Wheels.” Lynch croaked.
“Canyon Diablo now,” nodded the old man, eyes moving meaningfully to a group of three men coming, raising an eyebrow at Lynch.
"Time to earn yer keep, son."
Lynch stood up, hand on the butt of the Navy .44. The men coming across the grass weren't railroad; they had the look of men living off the friction from the bottleneck. Mud up to their knees, eyes fixed on the Medicine Wagon.
"The one on the left has a Starr revolver tucked into his waist," The old man murmured, voice low.
Lynch stepped out from the shadow of the wagon, thumb finding the hammer of the .44.
One man looked plaintive, holding his arms out. He pointed to the Crimson Lady on the side of Traveller.
"My woman. Somethin' bad. Belly hurting, makes her scream. You're real. I know it. Help her, Medicine Man."
The old man reached into his back pocket, tossing a red bottle to him.
"No more'n a third. Each day. Three days. Take her to the Preacher Lady to lay hands on 'er. That'll get 'er."
The man fumbled for money.
Med stopped him, "Cain't take it fer this one." Looked stern at all three of ‘em. "Not one drop fer you three. You do, my man's comin' by," his thumb toward Lynch.
They took one look at Lynch, the rope burn, his stance, hand on the Navy and turned to leave, the supplicant grasping the bottle to his chest with both hands.
"The Preacher Lady in the Sears church actually has the touch," said Medicine Man.
"Eat up. We're going down to the rail. Somebody down there owes me three hundred pounds of oats and a dynamic crate."
Old man gives him a small pouch of Double Eagles. "That's fer outfittin. Can tell yer a horseman. Get the best. I got credit for years in this town. Just tell 'em Medicine Man if the gold don't get it."
He reached in the back door and swapped an Army .44 to Lynch for the Navy. Heavier build, longer barrel. Medicine Man gave him a couple of thin bars of silver, telling him, "That's for ammo. Get a beer at the Demon Room. I'll be along.”
Lynch headed down the muddy slope toward the chaotic main street of Canyon Diablo, stepping into the maelstrom.
He passed the Sears prefab church on the flatcar, sitting on a side spur, the faint sound of a pump organ fighting against the rhythmic, metallic clang-clang of iron workers up in the bridge.
A pair of freight wagons rumbled past, massive wooden wheels throwing red mud six feet into the air as teamsters cursed the mules.
The sign for the Demon Room hung off a large canvas tent that was reinforced with rough-sawn planks. The smell of cheap mash, stale tobacco and bad luck poured into the cold as he passed by.
Lynch headed down to the surveyor’s shingle hanging down the street. He was likely the ridingest man in town. The Surveyor looked him over when he asked where the good horses were. "Which side."
Lynch straightened up, hand on his belt. "Sheridan. Irish Brigade."
Surveyor said, "Daniel, at the table in the corner at the Demon. Real nice Paints."
Lynch tipped his hat and left, stopping at the mercantile for jeans, shirts, pair of proper, pointed-toe riding boots with dogger heels. He laid down a silver bar for .44 ammo, receiving a hundred box over the counter.
The mercantile smelled of wool, kerosene and new denim. No damn hats in the place. The proprietor reached under the counter and brought out a rail engineer's striped cap. Lynch raised an eyebrow.
The man pointed at his throat. "Gotta have something here, friend. Hard sun. You been to hell and walked out. Take it free."
Lynch grimaced and put on the hat, throwing down two Double Eagles. "Need cigars too."
The owner handed back two silver fives and pointed up the road. "O'Donall Vice, up by the livery.”
The striped engineer's hat was a perfect disguise in a bottleneck town. It made him look like railroad labor, a man belonging near the cranes and flatcars.
Right next to the O'Donall Vice tobacco shop, a half-dozen horses were penned up, coats shining despite the mud. Lynch slowed his stride, cavalry eyes focused on a heavy-boned, deep-chested black-and-white stallion near the rail.
It had a short back, strong hocks, and deep, broad shoulders. The kind of stock that covers forty miles of broken canyon without coming up lame.
Lynch stepped into O'Donall Vice before going to find Daniel at the Demon.
The inside was thick with the scent of dark perique, sweet leaf, and the sharp, burning-copper smell of tequila. He got himself a bottle of bootleg and asked about cigars.
Donal O'Donall knew this man. Just his face. Never knew him except as Connor. But Donal was knee-deep in the blood and clay at Chancellorsville when the world turned into a slaughterhouse. Connor and he were side by side there.
He never said a word to Lynch about it. Connor knew Donal too, but didn't know from where. He figured it was the war, but never remembered who these men were when he ran into them. The recognition in the room was solid as an iron bar.
Donal reached under the counter, pulled out an extra bundle of prime leaf and put it in the packet.
“Come see me in Concho Valley. Only here one day a week. Seen you lookin' at the Paint. Ask Daniel about the roan Paint up there. Tell him Donal gave it over.”
He tipped the brim of his derby, rapping his cane twice on the floor. Lynch shook hands and nodded, going out.
He pushed back the canvas flap at the Demon Room, stepping into the dim, rowdy light of the saloon and nodded to the girl behind the bar as she looked him up and down.
"Need a room, sugar?" She asked.
Lynch gave her a butterscotch stick. "Not yet, honey. Send Daniel a whiskey."
She looked to the corner, where a couple rail workers were signing papers and pocketing money. A man was sitting there with a strongbox and a beer, long blond hair falling down his back like a waterfall. Big wide hat, handlebar moustache and a long goatee.
He nodded at Lynch, as a kid of about ten, wearing overalls and an engineer's hat, ran out the back. Lynch nodded back, reaching the table the same time as she brought the whiskey.
Lynch set his bundles on the chair that was facing Daniel and grabbed another, putting it against the wall where he could see the door.
Daniel laughed, dropping the whiskey into the mug, downing the draft in one long draw, as the whiskey glass clacked against his teeth, wiping his moustache with his neckerchief.
“Man after my own heart, mister.”
He leaned back in the split-willow chair, the iron lockbox sitting heavy on the table between them like an anchor. The long blond hair caught the amber light as he watched the way Lynch set his chair. Daniel understood a man like that with no introduction.
"You look like you swallowed a box of carpet tacks, friend," Daniel said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone.
He tapped the top of the lockbox with a thick, ringed finger. "Donal sent word by the runner kid. Said you were looking at the black Paint, told me to give you the roan instead."
Lynch didn't answer right away. He reached into his coat, pulled out the bottle of tequila from O'Donall Vice, and set it on the table with a solid thud.
Prying the cork out with his teeth, the sharp, medicinal sting of the liquor hit his raw throat in fumes, before he even got a swallow. A good slug burned like fire but cleared the dust out.
"The roan," Lynch gasped.
Daniel snickered, leaning forward until his wide hat shadowed his goatee.
"That roan’s a mean, high-shouldered bastard from the Arizona Strip, up at the Utah line. Got bones like an ox. Donal knows horse meat. That black Paint’s for showin’ off in Prescott. This roan’s a Paint for stayin’ alive when the world gets mean, brother."
He put a set of brass keys on the table.
"Third stall behind the tobacco shop. Saddle and rig are on the peg. Look him over. If you like the way he stands, we'll talk."
Lynch left the bottle on the table, tipped his hat and went out the way the boy took, keys in hand.
The roan was truly rare, a glory of a stallion. Not some mountain bastard. A genuine masterpiece. Perfect spirit face, one side stark white, the other a deep, rich red roan. He had an eerie, ancient look, like something painted on a cave wall before the Spaniards came.
He had a Tobiano coloring pattern. White sides, roan saddle, haunches and legs, white again across the shoulders.
Lynch didn't look right at the stallion. Just turned around, gave him his back and finished his cigarillo like he never even seen ‘im. As soon as the soft lips stretched out to nip his earlobe, the contract was signed.
A butterscotch stick sealed it. He whispered, "Hello, Jeb. Namin' you for J.E.B. Stuart. Finest cavalryman in history. Circumnavigated the Army of the Potomac twice in the dark. That's your secret name, friend."
He looked around to see if anyone was watching, saw a drunk pissing by the door, then told him out loud, "Charger. You're Charger now, boy. Big ole Charger.” It made him cough a little to speak that loud.
He reached up to check the saddle and rig Daniel mentioned, finding heavy, oiled leather and a solid center-fire cinch. The gear was campaign-ready, clean of rot, and built for long miles.
He rode Jeb around to the street, up and back twice, out onto the grass for a hard sprint, slowed to a gallop, the trotted him back down to the Demon, tied up out front and slapped his shoulder. "You stay there for a minute, Charger. Be right back."
He went inside to have a drink with Daniel and get his packages. Daniel was still sitting at the lockbox. The bottle of tequila was exactly where Lynch left it.
Daniel snickered, reaching for the tequila bottle and pushed it toward Lynch's hand. "Seen you ride him up and around. That Tobi walks like he owns this country. Looks like Donal didn't lie bout him. None at all."
He leaned forward, handlebar moustache twitching.
"So, Irish. Roan and rig will cost you forty in gold, or two bars of silver. Let’s settle the ledger."
"Donal said to tell you he gave it over. But here's a double eagle for not shootin' when I walked up, and a bottle when I'm done.”
"Donal's a bastard," Daniel said, but there was no heat in it. He reached out and swept the gold coin into his palm, flipping it into the strongbox. "If Donal said he gave it over, that roan belongs to the Irish Brigade. I don't argue with a man who sees through the fog."
They drank.
Outside, the rhythmic thud-thud of the railroad hammers suddenly stopped. The silence on Main Street was broken only by a distant scream from the locomotive comin' in, from the east.
When Lynch stepped out, the sight of the Medicine Wagon coming down Main Street dominated the entire camp. Heavy wooden sides were painted a deep, weathered crimson, hand-carved panels creaking as she ground through thick Arizona muck.
It didn't look like anything else in Hell on Wheels. Old, self-contained, permanent. The locomotive let out another scream, slowing to the crane siding.
Medicine Man didn't stop the wagon, just slowed the team to a walking pace as the crimson coach creaked by.
“Let's see that crate before the rail clerks see who's signing."
Lynch swung into the saddle, his new pointed-toe boots finding the stirrups easy. The big roan danced once, spirit face turning toward the massive coach like he knew it already
The old man took the Medicine Wagon to the canyon rim. The locomotive hissed, belly grumbling as it stopped by the crane out on the bridge.
A clerk standing on a flatbed car nearby with a pencil on his ear checked a manifest, shouting, "Medicine Man! Got three hundred pounds of grain, and a heavy damn crate. Sign here!"
Lynch kept Charger steady, gloved hand resting on his leg near the .44, watching the massive iron crate swing off the flatcar.
The old man pulled a pair of leather belt handloops at the rear of the Medicine Wagon. A loading platform slid out eight feet, a cross-braced frame swiveling down to meet the ground.
The crate lowered and landed on the platform. The rear panels and door of the Medicine Wagon folded to one side, leaving an opening with a curtain of ribbons in it.
Leaning, the old man flipped a panel over and a row of rollers showed. They set the crate on the platform, Med cranked the rollers to lift it, and a windlass pulled the box in.
"Now we can head back up to the Demon before the rail marshal decides he wants to look at the tax stamp on that Crimson Elixir.”
He snapped the lines, and the two enormous gray Percherons, Jericho on the left, Nineveh on the right, leaned into the squeaky harness, hooves marking time as the heavy crimson coach rolled back to set up the huck show in front of the Demon.