Big Medicine
Chapter 4—Buck Roy
Lynch told Med about the Sheriff over coffee.
"Ridin' down to Concho Valley. See you that way. Gonna hook up with Donal O'Donall over there.”
"Donal's damn good people, Lynch. We'll meet up over yonder. Gotta talk to somebody here, be down after that."
He tossed Lynch another small pouch of Double Eagles and a thin bar of silver.
Getting Jeb geared up, Lynch found a big biscuit in his saddlebag, next to an extra pouch of cigars. He and Med finished the coffee, he mounted up and rode out, tipping his ridiculous hat to Daniel and the Preacher Lady.
***
South through Chevelon Canyon was beautiful, hard country. Juniper on the rim, the creek down below, terrain that asks something from both horse and rider. About 15 miles in, he made the turn east to Concho Valley.
Stopping for water before climbing up out of the canyon, Lynch breathed the fragrant evergreen air, scents of honey from holly and wildflowers blooming, and the spice of wild onions along the trail.
He was feeling peaceful, until he heard a slight rustle of brush to the south, then the quiet roll of a pebble. He drew his .44 and stepped into the trees.
Presently, he saw the white ears of a horse just peeking out, only the points, from around a tree.
“Ho! I mean no harm. Riding to Concho. Ima come out, mister.”
A tall white Appaloosa with rust red patches and a rope hackamore stepped slowly forward, a rifle barrel becoming visible, pointing up and away from Lynch.
Lynch waited, but there was no more movement. He said, “I see you. I'm a peaceful man, also riding to Concho. Two is better through Apache country.”
The Appaloosa came forward calmly, revealing a Native rider, large, strongly built, broad shouldered.
His face was dignified, an eyepatch over the left eye, twin braids down his back, trousers tucked into cowboy boots. He had two Colt .45s and a Remington repeater rifle.
On his head, at a jaunty angle, sat a derby style top hat, with a flared, short crown and a wide red hatband, two owl feathers tucked in.
The Appy was well built, saddled only with a folded blanket, saddlebags and a bedroll attached to the rear cinch. The Native man was smiling broadly.
“Hello, friend. I can see you well. I know where you've been. I watched the hanging from the hill. You know how I mean it, when I say—‘I see you well,’ is that right?”
Lynch walked Charger over to the stranger, grasping his forearm, a gesture returned by the man.
“I do know. Yes, I can see you. I know you've been where I've gone, and we've both walked out. The Veil, I call it.”
“Yes. The Veil. A good name. There are Apache watching us right now. On the rim.”
Lynch pulled out his bottle of tequila and handed it over. The Native man gave him a cigar.
“Donal is a good man,” said the stranger, admiring the bottle. “Do you have a light, my friend?”
Lynch nodded and lit a match for both, then offered half of the huge biscuit Donal had put into his saddlebag. He bumped Charger into a walk, both men falling into an easy pace side by side. The stranger handed the rifle to Lynch.
“I took this Remington off the man I'm tracking. He owes you much. Now it's yours. You have the better angle on the rim.” He drew one .45 and tucked it into his waist.
Lynch nodded. “Half a biscuit for a Remington? Better’n a sharp stick in the eye, brother.”
They both laughed at the rude joke, riding another two miles in easy silence, smoking, handing the drink back and forth.
Lynch said, “Pullin’ back now. Tryin’ to fool us. Maybe afraid of real men.”
The Comanche man gave a dry laugh. "Apache fear nothing. They leave because it's a long ride to Whiteriver.”
The man passed the bottle back to Lynch, holstering his .45 Colt.
They came up out of the canyon onto the rim, and twenty-five miles later, two hours easy ride through grassy hills, there it was below them.
Concho Valley. Rail stop. The Grandview, Bitter Branch, smoke from the Dusty Biscuit.
Lynch and his companion looked at it for a moment. The stranger nodded, they shook hands and each rode down separately without discussing it.
***
Donal O'Donall, owner and cook at the Dusty Biscuit, pulled a sheet of biscuits and a roast out of the oven. He listened absently to Maddie Covington, editor of the Concho Gazetteer, reading her opinion column.
“...it should be understood by all involved that spitting is an activity best reserved for alleys first, and secondly streets, rather than boardwalks and saloons, where others may slip upon the spittle.”
Donal was able to listen and bake simultaneously, holding strong opinions about both activities.
He nodded, telling Maddie, “The problem is enforcement, madam Editor. How do we ensure these rules are followed?”
He slapped flour off himself and looked her in the eye over the Dutch door between her storeroom news operation, and his kitchen.
“Answer that one, ye've got a column.”
He walked through the dining room, onto the boardwalk out front, watching the Medicine Wagon roll by with a casual wave from Med, as he lit a cigar. Donal's huge dogs, Concho and Shady Brady, were following Traveller at a respectful distance.
His eye followed Traveller up the street, where Herbert was sweeping the boardwalk, like civic meditation. Inside, Mildred was setting out candy in the window.
Herbert and Mildred being themselves, on a dusty Concho Valley morning. Herbert stopped sweeping, looking up the road.
Mildred came to the door.
“Herbert.”
“I see it, Mildred.”
Jeb's spirit face caught the morning light from two blocks away. A big perfect horse with lots of chrome stood out in that part of Arizona.
But it was more than the horse…
“That hat.”
“I know, Herbert.”
“Where does a man even—”
“Herbert.”
“Yes?”
“Keep sweeping. Any man wearing that hat will be coming here.”
Riding into Concho Valley, Lynch saw the Medicine Wagon up the road a few blocks, parked by the Bitter Branch. He glanced to the boardwalk and there was Donal O'Donall himself, standing on the walk with a cigar, his derby and a cane.
Donal touched the brim of his derby with the cane and said, "Come on in. Workin' breakfast."
Lynch tied up Jeb with a cavalry knot. Donal's hands went still when he seen it. Connor remembered something of the war.
He brought in two huge biscuits, sausage gravy, scrambles with a chili pepper chopped in. Good, strong black coffee.
Connor leaned down and smelled deep, then told Donal, “I never remember too much about… back then. But this. I remember this. July 4, Vicksburg.”
He stood. “You fed us well, friend. Those who were still there. Horsemeat and biscuits made of field pea flour. God Bless Donal O'Donall.”
The two old soldiers shook hands once, firm, then Donal went back to his kitchen and Connor sat down to breakfast, finding Donal put whiskey in his coffee.
***
Up at Harris Mercantile, Herbert was putting hat boxes on the main table.
Mildred was next to the mannequin in the window, reporting on the Medicine Wagon.
“He's fiddling around in front of the wagon, smoking a cigar. Keeps looking over his shoulder. Waiting for the Bitter Branch to open.”
This was given in the tone of a woman who kept opinions about loitering medicine show operators waiting for saloons to open.
Herbert putting hat boxes on the table meant something to do with his hands while Mildred reported. She observed. He handled inventory and listened, occasionally saying something to show he paid attention.
Then she saw the Widow come down the Medicine Wagon’s stairs. Always in black. A leather book was in her hand.
Medicine Man helped her come down. He checked the Bitter Branch. Still closed.
Mildred stopped. Herbert's hands went still.
“Herbert.”
“I see her, Mildred.”
“That's the redhead Widow.”
“I know who it is, Mildred. Dolores.”
“She's got a book. Foreign looking.”
Herbert put the hat box down.
“You think they're connected.”
“The Widow and the Medicine Man?”
Herbert nodded, going to the jeans. Mildred straightened the mannequin's collar.
“Herbert, everything in this town is connected.”
She watched Dolores walk to the Grandview.
“She's got a room there.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s always had a room there.”
Dolores went to the Grandview’s dining room and took her usual table. The coffee was already coming, because the staff knew Mrs. Lynch.
Her book was open on the table, a strange angular script catching the morning light. Dolores read with focused attention, a woman studying a language she was just beginning to understand.
Marilee came out of her office with the day book, same as every morning, a formality she maintained out of professional discipline. She noticed Dolores and they nodded to each other, two women who shared information, context and an arrangement.
Marilee headed up to open the Bitter Branch Saloon. At the top of the stairs, she jangled her keys.
Down at the wagon, Medicine Man heard the keys and gave it thirty seconds. He paused at the Bitter Branch swinging doors, looking up the boardwalk, where Lynch came out of the Dusty Biscuit and lit a cigarillo.
Herbert reported at Harris Mercantile.
“There he goes, Mildred.”
Mildred didn't look up from the paperwork.
“I know, Herbert.”
Marilee had Med's ‘usual’ waiting, because Med's order didn't vary. Tequila pint, local brand, Agave Wonder from Lupton. O’Donall cigar, alongside a handbill with a pencil, so Med could keep track of his plans.
Marilee glanced to the patter of tiny boots on the boardwalk. Maddie looked over the swinging doors, her editor's hat on, a pencil in her hatband.
She knew there was a story going on, and it wasn't getting away.
Maddie already knew about Dolores coming off Traveller's steps, Lynch at the Dusty Biscuit, and wanted to know what Marilee knew. She came through the swinging doors and sat two stools down from Med, notebook out.
As the doors swung open, the Comanche man Lynch met on the trail, Bloodgrass Twice Life, leaned against a post across the street, checking his train watch. The street disappeared as the doors closed, and the Bitter Branch dimmed.
Lynch strolled the boardwalk, enjoying his smoke, smiled to a boy by the hitch rail, turned into the mercantile and tossed the cigarillo in the street, nodding to Bloodgrass Twice Life.
The local Huck Finn replica picked it up, invisible to most of the town, and drifted up the street in Bloodgrass' direction, elaborately casual.
Bloodgrass didn't look at the boy. He checked his watch again. The boy in overalls and straw hat, cigarillo behind his ear, turned his back to Bloodgrass, hands in pockets.
“Lucky Reiden,” he said.
“Warchief. Bloodgrass Twice Life,” said the man, watching the street. “Wanna make four bits, boy?”
Lucky's hand was already out behind his back, casually checking the street.
Inside Harris Mercantile, Lynch was reading his list out to Herbert, with a butterscotch stick in his mouth.
“Jeans. New saddlebag, left side only, ‘nother scabbard, ten dollar hat.”
Herbert asked him, "What's wrong with the other scabbard?” Looking out the window at Charger.
“Can't hold that Henry on the wall there. Already got a Remington in it. I'll take that Peacemaker yonder. And an Army .44,” Lynch pointed. “And two Bowies, biggest you got.”
He consulted his list.
“800 rounds of .44 Flat for the Henry. And 140 rounds of .40-60 Win for the Remington. And 400 rounds of .45, 225 rounds of .44 Army.”
Herbert looked at Mildred, then looked back at Lynch.
“Mister... You fixin’ to start a war?”
Lucky whistled from the roof.
Lynch just raised a single eyebrow. Boss Hartley and The Crew rode by in the street, visible through the window.
Eyepatch. Cigar. Ten gallon hat, flat brim, with a braided ponytail sewed on the back. Buck Roy, his grown son, riding at his side, Lynch’s stolen Stetson on his head.
Lynch met Herbert's eyes. He said, “Second thought, scratch the hat, Herbert. Need the ten for drinkin money.”
“Sure about the hat? Mighty sunny in these parts. And that one you got…”
“Got me a hat after all,” said Lynch. “Ten dollar Stetson.”
The most dangerous shopping list in Apache County, delivered by a man with candy in his mouth, holding up two sarsaparilla sticks to Herbert and Mildred.
***
Lynch walked out of the mercantile properly outfitted, minus the hat he didn't need, because his hat just rode by.
He headed up the road to the Bitter Branch for a beer, figuring Med had been busy.
Ever since Med sat down for tequila and the handbill, the newspaper reporter and some playing cards, he’d irritated Boss Hartley’s Crew.
Specifically, Yuma Slim and Two Gun Handshake, in a manner exactly calculated to produce the fight this town was gonna bet on.
The handbill lineup was already written before Lynch walked into the Bitter Branch.
With Handshake and Yuma, it was cards.
Buck Roy came from calling bullshit on him braggin’ about the lynching and the hat.
“You ain't never killed nobody. That man would never let you live if you took his horse and his brand new hat. You're fulla shit, boy.”
Buck Roy just blinked at the old man, who had one hand full of tequila and the other on the butt of his Navy .44, in a swiveling sailor's holster, pointed right at him.
The implication hell, the flat out accusation hung in the Bitter Branch just like its own lynching.
Med had a hand on the gun and the swiveling holster solved the rest. Buck Roy was looking at the barrel end of the conversation, and the tequila in Med's other hand wasn't even shaking.
By the time Lynch hit the Bitter Branch, the latest fight was already on the schedule.
The doors at the Bitter Branch swung open with a BANG debap. bap. bap.
The Bitter Branch held its breath.
Lynch sat down. Ordered a beer. Read the room in four seconds and looked over at Med, who sipped tequila.
“Afternoon.” Said the Medicine Man.
Lynch drank some beer. Two Gun Handshake and Yuma Slim were now sittin’ there doing their own math.
Lynch turned his back calmly on Buck Roy.
“Lady Marilee, your hair sure does look pretty done up like that.”
Marilee touched her hair once.
“Why, thank you, sweetie,” she smiled.
Buck Roy hadn't ever in his life been so completely erased by a man's back.
He took the hat off and went out.
Yuma Slim laughed and bought Lynch a beer on the way out. Lynch didn't even look.
Two Gun Handshake was still at his table doing the math. Med hadn't moved the Navy .44.
Marilee set Lynch's new beer down.
“Yuma's not a bad man.”
Lynch snickered at his beer. “Nope.”
“You're gonna fight him anyway?”
“Yep.”
She went back to the glass, just smilin.
Outside, the sound of the stage rolled up to the livery and ground to a halt.
Medicine Man put the .44 on the table and checked his hand bill, making a note. He nodded to Handshake and laid down a double eagle for him.
He walked out to the stage coach with the Navy loose at his side.
Over by the pump, Boss Hartley set a man's hair on fire.
Two Gun Handshake looked at the Double Eagle on the table, looked at Lynch’s back, then at the man watching in the mirror.
He knew Marilee had her hand on a shotgun.
The handbill was already written. The Double Eagle was a contract. Handshake picked it up because… well hell, a Double damn Eagle.
And something about the old man's complete confidence made refusing seem like the wrong move.
He bit the Eagle, put it in his pocket and strode out.
Maddie Covington scurried out the back, heading for the news office.
The red tails were going on shortly. The Crimson Elixir bottles were in the rack. The Man Whose Hair Was On Fire was having the worst Tuesday of his recent life.
“FRANCIS! Put that man's hair out, boy!”
It was Marjory Hartley, Boss' mother, getting off the stage.
Everybody just looked at their boots. Or up the road. Or smoothed their hair in the store reflection.
Except Lucky, who was standing behind Boss stickin’ his tongue out with his thumbs in his ears.
FRANCIS.
The name hit Concho Valley like a weather event.
Every man on the street suddenly discovered somethin’ needing close attention at boot level, or developed an urgent need to check his reflection in a store window.
This collective performance of not having heard nothin’ was the most coordinated thing Concho Valley had done all year. Lynch was on the boardwalk, lookin’ at his boots too, because some things you just don't witness openly.
Marjory crossed the street and Boss put the man's head underwater instantly.
She smacked Boss with her parasol, to make him pull his head out before he drowned.
“Kiss your mother, Francis. And get my trunk.”
Boss crossed the street while the man dripped trough water from his formerly burning hair.
***
Med, setting up Traveller's stage in his red tuxedo and tails, smiled and made a small note on the handbill. Everything proceeding correctly.
Lynch stepped into the sun and lit a cigarillo.
Marjory locked eyes with the big, handsome blue eyed man across the street and put a hand on her hip, like a debutante at the ball.
Lynch went to give her his arm, escorting Boss Hartley’s mom to the assay office. Four steps toward the office and she knew everything she needed to know.
Military bearing, big hands, the way he watched the street, rope scar behind his collar.
“You have people here?”
“No, ma'am.”
“Mm.” She didn't believe him and he knew it.
She got her gold at the assayist and went to the Medicine Wagon, laying it down.
“Lynch. To win the fight outright!” She pronounced loudly.
Boss flinched.
“What fight, madam?” Said Medicine Man, hat off, perfectly quiet and gentle.
Buck Roy, Two Gun Handshake and Yuma Slim leaned in, listening. All at once.
Lynch's hat was still on Buck Roy’s head and something was gonna happen about that.
Before, during or after the fight, regardless of the Marquis de Queensbury's opinions on how it happened.