Talk to nicely. The medicine man had a bounty job for Waldrip, and once he collected it, he'd be a thousand dollars richer, but first he had business with the undertaker. He pulled a pouch from his belt, turned a few coins onto the table, and took his leave, tipping his hat to the barman as he stood. He flicked the saloon doors open and stepped onto the main street of Brimstone. The piano man's tune melted into the heat of the day as it dripped out of the doors behind him. The air smelled like horseshit and dust. He slung a ragged cigar into his mouth and flipped a match to life with a thumbnail. The heavy tobacco drove the shit smell away, and Waldrip stepped off toward the undertaker's place. Brimstone looked like any other frontier town, places where the sheriff was an outlaw and the butcher doubled as the local sawbones. But something here always made Waldrip's hair prickle and his skin crawl. Something about the air was heavy, as if the eyes that peeked from behind curtains added weight to the place. He spit and a puff of dust sprung up where the stream hit the ground. This fucking place. He passed the usual assortment of storefronts, brothel, general store, bank, and stopped in front of a row of empty coffins, all proudly standing up for display and sale. He opened the door and was not surprised when the hinges whined. He yelled into the empty front room. Shuffling footsteps were heard, and then a man came through the doorway in the back. He was wiping bloody hands on a white apron. God damn it, Waldrip! He said. A smile pushed against his hollow cheeks. Waldrip was always amazed that Carson looked exactly like he should. Straight out of a dime novel. Tall, skinny, pale, with hair as black as dyed leather. He was a hell of a guy, though. The pair embraced and slapped backs like old friends do. How the hell are you, bones? Waldrip said. Carson let out a small laugh when he heard his old nickname. I'm good. He held up his red hands. How short did your work? About that. I hear you got something back there to show me. Waldrip nodded his head toward the back room. The smile dropped from Carson's face. You gotta understand, Waldrip. This ain't normal. You know he's coming today, right? A medicine man. Yeah, and he's got something for you too. I know, bones. Let's just have a look back there. Alright, man, but don't say I didn't warn you. Carson's voice was hard, and what was usually a formality now felt serious, like hearing the first crack in a dam. The back room was as Waldrip remembered. Shelves, full of chemicals and tools that lined the walls. But that was all background once you got into that place. It was the three tables in the center that caught your eye. Heavy oak tables with bloodstained white cloths spread to cover two freshish corpses. Carson pulled the sheet from the table in the center. Waldrip had seen a lot in his time. He would say he'd seen pretty much every way a human body could be ripped, torn, hacked and slashed. He was wrong. His lips curled for a moment, but his face settled fast. Oh, the fuck? I told you it ain't normal. Both bodies were inside out. Some parts were missing, and others were places they didn't belong. Look, Carson said as he lifted a hand that stuck out from the side of a wet, skinless skull. His wrist was fused to the bone of the jaw, like it had grown there. Waldrip swallowed bile. Where'd they come from? The Collinsworth brothers found them outside a cave just up the mountains. The damn near broke their horses' legs, spurring them back into town. We got a few of us together and went to see for ourselves. Ain't a soul spoke about it since. Like everyone's hoping it will just go away. Like some weird dream. Carson spread his arms wide. Well, brother, I have these fucked up things to remind me it weren't no dream. His voice raised its pitch as it raised its volume. Hey, hey, check it easy. Carson ran a hair through his black hair. A streak of red appeared on his forehead. And what does all this have to do with him? Waldrip asked. Where it got to him? I don't damn know how, but it did. It always gets to him somehow. And he wants to know what did it? Shit, man. I think he knows what did it. But he doesn't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was. I don't know what it was.
