Big Medicine
Chapter 5 —The Card
Concho Valley was getting busy as afternoon arrived.
Med parked in front of the Bitter Branch in the market square. People were busy, going back and forth. Buckboards and sedans were pulled up to Harris Mercantile, Cattle Country Feed, Big Rock Hardware.
Medicine Man, in his red tux, stovepipe hat and tails, took a handwheel out, fitting it into a hole in the end of the wagon next to the front balcony.
He reached over, grabbed a lever with a dead man’s grip, squeezed it and shoved, engaging it with a firm THUNK.
Cranking the handwheel, a big platform with a rail around it began extending from the side of the huge coach. Bright red cloth skirts with gold fringes, mounted to wire frames flipped over, covering the stage sides.
Lumber struts swung up, erecting a gold fringed red canopy over the platform.
Med kept cranking. A telescoping pole raised the canopy like a pointed carnival tent, shading the cabinets that swung up, unfolding into shelves. Rows of ruby red bottles full of Crimson Elixir glowed deeply in the bright afternoon shade.
The wagon’s activity drew a curious crowd right away. Medicine Man stepped onto the stage.
He unlatched a center panel in the side of the wagon in the wagonside, dramatically removed his hat and bowed deeply as the panel swiveled around, while a tall barber chair unfolded and rose from the floor.
Med reached out, taking Marjory's hand, and assisted her onto the luxurious crimson and brass seat. He tumbled his hat up his arm onto his head, then produced a huge stein, drew a full-headed draught of beer from a tap, swiveled a tray from the arm of the chair and placed the beer for her.
Marjory nodded regally, leaned to Medicine Man and saluted him with the beer stein. She settled b She settled back, surveying the town from her lofty perch.
A big, thick brass bell rang loud, three times slowly, humming on for an entire minute.
Medicine Man drew up to his full height like he was born onstage. He swept off his stovepipe, bowing low enough to brush long gray hair on the boards.
Then he straightened, strutting, arms pointing from one person to another, first left, then right, bent his knees and pointed front, then hand to brow on his tiptoes, pointing to the back where Boss sat on his horse.
“Ladies! Gentlemen! Skeptics! Optimists! Folks who woke up spry, those who woke up negotiating… with their body parts!”
The crowd was silent, fascinated.
“I’ve traveled where there ain't been roads. Crossed unhappy rivers that opposed my presence! Been bitten! By creatures with too many opinions. After all that—I’ve returned with something I rank even more highly than my own, well-educated company.”
A chuckle rolled through the crowd. He lifted a ruby-colored bottle into the sunlight as it exploded in dazzling color.
“I present to you… Heap Big Medicine Wagon’s... Crimson Elixir!”
He paused for effect, meeting eyes across the silent, mesmerized crowd.
“Not merely tonic! Not simple medicine! HEAP! BIG! MED-I-CINE!”
He tapped the bottle twice. An elderly rancher in the middle folded his arms.
“Really. Heap Big now, is it?”
“The heapiest, sir. The VERY heapiest!”
The crowd roared in laughter. Medicine Man pointed straight at him.
“Sir! Do your shoulders creak louder than your barn door?”
“Well…maybe.” He rubbed his chin.
“How about standing up sir, does THAT happen in installments?”
That brought a louder laugh. The rancher grinned despite himself. Med uncorked the bottle.
“Come forward, sir. If you will.”
The man shrugged, climbing onto the stage.
“Raise your arm, please. High as it will go. Higher, sir!”
The man managed halfway before his face pinched with a painful grunt.
“There. I see it, sir, I surely do. Stubborn shoulder, common as dust.”
He poured out Crimson Elixir into a measuring spoon.
“Swallow, sir. If you will.”
The rancher did, squinting in worry at the flavor, then smiling in surprise. The audience leaned in.
“Now, sir...again. Up we go! Higher. All the way up, sir!”
The old man lifted his arm, over halfway, then higher, surprise on his face. He looked over the crowd excitedly, until it extended fully, straight above his head, eyes wide.
“Well I’ll be—”
Med waved frantically. “Don’t finish that sentence!”
He winked, looking out to the crowd. “Why, I charge extra for profanity.”
Laughter burst across the square. Before anyone could settle in, a young blonde woman pushed through, carrying a little girl whose nose was red from crying.
“She scraped her hands climbing the creek rocks, mister.”
The girl’s palms were peppered with fresh cuts. The old man knelt until he was eye level with her.
“An explorer, eh? Excellent profession.”
He dabbed a drop of Crimson Elixir onto each scrape. The girl winced, then blinked.
“It don't sting at all.”
The redness faded right in front of the crowd. The shallow cuts closed like lacing pulled tight. The mother stared, mouth in a wide “O”. The little girl flexed her fingers.
“It don't hurt anymore. Thank you mister,” she said.
A whisper spread through the crowd, very different from laughter. Med caught the shift at once.
“Perhaps you’re thinking—coincidence. Or worse.”
He looked around.
“A danger to watch for. Certainly! Coincidence empties more wallets than bad cards.”
He scanned the crowd, until he spotted a young cooper rubbing both wrists.
“You, there. Come up sir. Don't be shy now.”
The cooper hesitated.
“It’s just… my wrists are sore, that's all.”
“From barrel hoops, I take it? Your leather apron says you're a craftsman. A cooper, I take it? Noble profession, sir. Noble.”
“...Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. Honest labor! A thing that deserves— dishonest speed!”
More laughter. Another spoonful disappeared. The cooper rolled one wrist, then both, squeezing his fists on surprise.
“This mornin’ I couldn’t grip a hammer. Too painful all day.”
“And now?”
The cooper grabbed a wagon rail with both hands and lifted himself off the ground.
“I can. Easy! Real easy.”
Silence, then, the kind where people calculate things. Medicine Man corked the bottle with a crisp pop.
“My friends, miracle is an extravagant word. So I won’t insult your intelligence with it.”
He lined six crimson bottles across the polished counter, resting both hands on the wood.
“If your back complains louder than your spouse does! If your hands refuse good, honest work! Old scars predict tomorrow’s weather, better than any professor? Perhaps what you’ve been missing ain't luck, y'all.”
He smiled.
“Perhaps you just never ran into this.” He examined the label through his spectacles, “Heap Big Medicine!”
Held it up to the sun, dazzling in its mystic beauty.
For a heartbeat, the street was silent. Dust floated, eyes in the group looked about, meeting across the crowd. Then madness swamped the Medicine Wagon from every angle, rocking the pavilion, shaking the stage.
Pandemonium reigned for a minute or two. Lynch found himself pulling apart two elderly gents grasping the same bottle, each thrashing the other with a cane. He reached up to Med, who put a bottle in hand, and transferred it into the clutching hands of one old coot, who gave him a silver dollar, snatched immediately out of his hand by the Medicine Man.
“Good work, Lynch! Preventing murder, I reckon!” Declared the old scoundrel.
Presently the furor died down as people got their bottle, the number of bottles dwindled, and some folks decided to wait.
“And now!” Med declared, “The main event, our entertainment this afternoon, a contest of lethal capability.” He swept his hat broadly.
“One man! In the throes of combat, facing not one, nor two! But THREE opponents this afternoon. Step forward, men.”
Cranking another handwheel, ropes raised, surrounding the stage like a boxing ring, as the display racks folded into the floor.
Buck Roy stood on his saddle, then leaped off his horse onto the stage, punching rapidly in the air, feet working quickly, ducking, weaving, spinning around, then faced the crowd, hands raised, while Boss and The Crew cheered, applauded and pointed at Lynch.
The crowd stayed silent, scowling faces waiting to see who else was involved.
Yuma Slim rolled under the bottom rope, stood with a hand in the air and stepped on the center rope, stretching the top one high, as Two Gun Handshake stepped through, drawing both Starr pistols, performing an impressively complicated routine of spinning, flipping and shuffling his weapons hand to hand, around his waist, over the shoulders and back.
He stopped with both guns raised, firing one, then the other at signs along the street, dotting the “i” in “Mercantile” and adding a period following “Esq” on the attorney's office.
Herbert, now in the ring as referee, with his open copy of the fight rules, shook his finger in Two Gun’s face, rebuking him for damaging private property.
He pointed at the corner, where Yuma Slim had hung his gun, removed his shirt and was flexing muscles in strong man poses, twirling his moustache, smoothing his hair.
Two Gun sauntered over with an attitude and hung up his gunbelt. The Crew was getting rowdy now, yelling insults, tossing beer over the crowd.
Stepping to the center, Lynch unbuttoned his shirt slow, stopped halfway, leaning forward, as several women near the front leaned forward unconsciously.
He turned his back then, unbuttoned it the rest of the way, shrugged out of the shirt, working his back muscles, then turned to face the crowd again, slid the shirt off, held his fists in turn to his forehead and kissed each bicep, one by one.
The preacher's wife swooned.
She was caught, then carried to the parsonage by reliable men.
Lynch picked up several frilly hankies and tossed them to Med, blowing a kiss to the crowd. Women were working their fans overtime as husbands frowned.
On the balcony of the Grandview, the Widow in Black watched intently, something familiar tugging at the back of her mind.
Lynch glanced up once before the bell, and she removed her hat and veil, revealing rich red hair. He paused, then waved to her once, not really knowing why he did it.
She quickly turned and went into her room.
He turned to step to the line, and Marjory raised her beer an inch, giving him a nod.
There was a collective intake of air when Two Gun Handshake extended his hand.
He was famous for the border shift, a hand trick to switch guns or transfer objects. They worried he might cheat.
When Lynch's hands went in his pockets, a sigh of relief released in the crowd.
“Just a handshake, friend.”
Lynch bumped knuckles with his fist, noticing the outlines of derringers in Two Gun's shirt pockets. He said nothing and looked away, as if searching for a face in the crowd.
Herbert said, “Gentlemen. Please. Let's have a clean one.”
Buck Roy was still shadowboxing, and Lynch’s hat was still on his head.
Standing in the ring with the Marquis de Queensbury rulebook like a Bible at an exorcism, Herbert was aware the three men Lynch faced now cared nothing for rules.
The bell rang.
Both of the older men shoved Buck Roy forward roughly.
Buck Roy stepped to the line and bumped fists with Lynch, avoiding his intense, smoldering glare.
Lynch lowered an arm slightly, choosing a target, and Buck Roy suddenly clinched him, hugging tight, to the bloody jeers of the crowd, including some of The Crew. Boss shook his head slowly, draining his beer.
Herbert separated the men with complete moral conviction and serious physical authority. And somehow it worked, twice out of three times.
On the third try at starting the fight, crowd starting to moan and groan, The Crew throwing popcorn and peanuts, Lynch wrapped a big arm around the young man, crushing him close in a one-armed bear hug. Buck Roy was gasping for air, letting out a groan. Two Gun and Yuma high fived in the other corner, laughing.
Lynch calmly took his ten dollar Stetson back from Buck Roy, settling it on his own head where it oughta be.
Then he squeezed both bearpaw hands around Buck Roy’s neck, slowly increasing pressure.
The crowd went silent as Buck Roy grabbed Lynch's wrists, struggling vainly to free his throat. His eyes bulged. Lynch kept squeezing. Buck Roy's tongue lolled out.
Women in front turned and staggered away, hiding their eyes with their fans.
Boss stood up in his stirrups, swallowed some beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and lifted his eye patch, studying intently.
Lynch let go when Buck Roy quoted Nero, “What an artist… the world… has lost.”
The young man sagged to his knees and fell back, unconscious.
Herbert said, “Oh my.”
Then he gave Lynch a Very Stern Look, pointing to his corner.
Boss lit a cigarillo.
Lynch saluted loosely, went over to towel and get some water, spit and drank the mug of beer handed up by Lucky Reiden. Bloodgrass Twice Life gave him a wink.
Lynch handed his hat to Lucky with four bits. Lucky stepped up and leaned against Marjory's chair.
Herbert held up Buck Roy's arm by the wrist and watched it drop. Did it twice. He stood for the crowd.
“Tee! Kay! Oh! Buck Roy—DISQUALIFIED!”
The crowd went wild, jumping up and down, and some of The Crew, also thrilled, began hugging random people in the crowd.
Boss' eye patch snapped shut.
“Somebody wake Buck Roy and let's RIDE! Leave that mule a his.”
He drained another mug of beer, handed down the empty, then turned and trotted his huge black gelding down the street.
Hogwash Jones dragged Buck Roy onto the ground and dumped a nearby spittoon on the young man's face. Buck Roy didn't stir.
Ballerina Billy came trotting up with a bucket of beer from the Bitter Branch. She did a forceful pirouette, hair flying wide, and slung the beer into Buck Roy's face. No effect.
Hateful Jim slung Buck Roy onto his horse, tying his hands and feet together under the flank. He looked up at Two Gun and Yuma.
“You all catch up at the Lake.”
The gang bunched up together.
“Let's ride!” Hateful growled, and The Crew lit outta town, kickin’ and whippin’ their horses at a dead run.
Herbert cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen. Round two.”
The tag team problem was: Two Gun Handshake was deception and motion. Yuma Slim was patience and economy. A team designed to split Lynch's attention.
But Lynch already knew where he was takin’ this one.
Marjory raised her beer again.
Lynch offered his hand to Slim because Slim was the patient one. Slim seen a handshake and took it. The leg sweep already happened before the handshake was done.
Lynch stood up behind Handshake, holding both of Two Gun’s shirt pocket derringers, rapped him sharp on the back of the head with one, and Two Gun Handshake went out like a light, sitting perfectly upright like a man who fell asleep in church.
Then Lynch gutshot Slim with the other derringer.
The undertaker, six foot six and wearing a stovepipe and tails at the edge of the crowd, applauded loudly, with an ear-splitting two finger purse-lipped whistle.
Herbert listened to Hanz Grimm's applause and checked his rulebook.
“I don't believe that was strictly Queensbury,” he said to Lynch.
He lifted Lynch's arm high.
“WINNAH HERE!
The crowd roared, beer and popcorn flew and everybody stampeded over to the Bitter Branch, except those who had winnings to gather from Medicine Man.
Bloodgrass Twice Life saluted Lynch as he trotted his Appaloosa out, tracking Boss.
Franz Grimm appeared from nowhere with a hot towel for Lynch. Hanz Grimm appeared beside Yuma Slim with a professional expression and a bag.
“You'll live.”
“How do you know?” Yuma groaned.
“It’s my business to know, mister. To the barber shop.”
There were two chairs in Brothers Grimm Barber and Mortuary. One for the living and one for complications. Yuma Slim went into the second chair, so he could be darned up after the extraction by tongs. With a strop clenched in his teeth.
Franz had done this before, and he had a system. He had the tongs heated, catgut and tenthook ready, and a strop already in Slim's teeth.
The red hot tongs found what they were looking for on the second try. Slim's knuckles went white on the chair arms, eyes bulging.
Lynch was in the next chair, hot towel on his face, hat on his knee, listening to Slim's situation in the next chair, with the serenity of a man who put the bullet there, and held no opinions on its removal.
Marjory collected her winnings and bought a round for the town at the Bitter Branch. The town accepted with a cheer, boisterously dancing and stomping, laughing, relaxing.
Med was outside, folding the stage back up, making his checks and getting Medicine Wagon ready for morning.
When he folded the barber chair, he found a beer recipe that wasn't a beer recipe, tucked into the seat.
Marjory left it there.
Measurements, ingredients, temperatures and times that were something else entirely, if you know how to read the second layer. Instructions for a transformation maybe. A threshold. A recipe for crossing something that didn't have a name yet.
It had a certain weight and quality of paper, that angular script, a hum that Med had felt in his fingers before unfolding it completely.
He stood in the empty market with the page, Jericho and Nineveh standing completely still.
He folded it carefully. Looked at the Crimson Lady on Traveller's side for a long moment. Red hair, blue eyes, and a parasol. Good girl, he thought. Marjory could get gold and beer anytime. The fight gave her cover.
Lynch did his job without even knowing it.