The Doctor and the Rough Rider Page 13

  “Of course!”

  Holliday signaled to the short, burly man who had just entered. He turned and began approaching the table, and Roosevelt saw there was something wrong with his upper lip.

  “Charlie, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Theodore Roosevelt,” said Holliday without getting up. “Theodore, say hello to Hairlip Charlie Smith.”

  Smith offered his hand to Roosevelt, who rose to his feet. “It ain't a real hairlip,” he explained. “I got shot in the lip in a gunfight back in Abilene ten, twelve years ago.”

  “Have a seat, Charlie,” said Roosevelt. “Doc's been telling me about you.”

  “Nothing good, I imagine,” said Smith with a smile. “Doc's just pissed because that teenaged chippie went off with me instead of him last time he lived here.” He turned to Doc. “We both know Kate would have killed you if you'd taken her home with you.”

  “There are a lot of rooms in town,” replied Holliday easily. “And hard as it may be for you to believe, I was saying favorable things about you.”

  Smith chuckled. “Maybe so, but I ain't loaning you no money.”

  “Mr. Smith…” began Roosevelt.

  “Charlie,” Smith corrected him. “Or Hairlip, if you want.”

  “Charlie, I am about to embark on an exciting enterprise, and I'd like your help. Doc's told me about your heroism during Wyatt Earp's Vendetta Ride. I have something similar on tap.”

  “What's the job pay?” asked Smith.

  “Not a single penny,” said Roosevelt. “What we're going to do, we're doing because it's the right thing.”

  “I dunno,” said Smith. “Whenever someone talks about doing the right thing, some other folks usually wind up getting themselves shot all to pieces.”

  “What if I told you that Geronimo has decided to lift the spell that's kept the United States bottled up east of the Mississippi?”

  Smith frowned. “You want to kill him for that? I thought that's what everyone back East wanted.”

  “I want it too,” said Roosevelt. “We all do.” He paused. “Well, almost all of us. But there's a group of medicine men who don't want Geronimo to make peace with us, who are determined to kill him.”

  “And you're after them?” asked Smith.

  “That I am,” Roosevelt assured him.

  “So it's whoever you can put together riding off to kill some medicine men?”

  “Almost,” said Roosevelt.

  “Almost kill them?”

  “That's almost all we're riding off to kill.”

  Roosevelt spent the next few minutes explaining about War Bonnet, having Holliday describe him and their meeting, and suggesting that if he and his Rough Riders didn't go hunting for War Bonnet and the medicine men, that War Bonnet would probably tear Tombstone apart looking for him.

  “So that's the situation,” said Roosevelt in conclusion. “Are you man enough to come with us?”

  “Of course,” said Smith. “So will damned near every other man you ask.”

  “They grow them brave out here,” said Roosevelt.

  “Brave's got nothing to do with it,” said Smith with a smile. “Doc's already explained that War Bonnet can't hurt nobody but you and Geronimo, so the rest of us are safe.”

  “Then you'll come?”

  “Hell, yes! Once in my life I ought to do something because it's the right thing.”

  “I'm glad to have you on our team!” said Roosevelt, reaching out and shaking his hand again.

  “Hard to resist,” replied Smith. “I don't know what the hell a Rough Rider is, but I sure like the notion of calling myself one.”

  HOLLIDAY, LUKE SLOAN, AND HAIRLIP SMITH spent the day passing the word—as Roosevelt explained, they probably didn't have much more than a day to select and assemble the Rough Riders—and they began showing up at the designated spot, which was Baltimore Jack Miller's abandoned ranch a mile north of town.

  The first to make an appearance was Jack “Turkey Creek” Johnson, a burly man with pale-blue eyes, a nose that had clearly been broken a few times, a thick but well-trimmed beard, a colorful shirt, and stovepipe chaps over his jeans.

  He rode up to the decrepit ranch house with its broken windows and missing door, tied his horse to a very shaky railing, and walked up to Holliday.

  “Howdy, Doc,” he said. “I hear tell you're looking for men.”

  “Not me,” said Holliday. He pointed to Roosevelt, who stood on the porch. “Him.”

  Johnson walked over and extended his hand. “Turkey Creek Johnson at your service,” he said. “Any friend of Wyatt's is a friend of mine.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Roosevelt. “But it's a bit removed from the source. I'm a friend of Doc's.”

  “And Doc's the best friend Wyatt ever had, and that's good enough for me,” said Johnson.

  “May I ask what precipitated this friendship for Wyatt?” said Roosevelt.

  Johnson merely frowned in puzzlement until Holliday spoke up. “He means, what caused it, Turkey?”

  “Johnny Behan locked my brother away on a trumped-up charge, and Wyatt got him out.” Suddenly Johnson smiled. “I was on the Vendetta Ride with him and Doc.”

  “So I assume you know how to use that?” said Roosevelt, pointing at his six-gun.

  “You just tell me who you want shot, and if it ain't Doc, the deed is as good as done,” replied Johnson.

  “Doc?” asked Roosevelt.

  “He's as good as he says,” replied Holliday. “With a pistol, anyway. It gets a little stranger with a rifle.”

  “That's 'cause I lost my specs a couple of years ago, and we ain't got no lens grinders out here since the Apaches killed old Hermanson as he was taking his wagon from one town to another,” said Johnson. “But trust me: I can hit anything I can see.”

  “How far do you have to be before you can't see it?”

  “I don't know,” admitted Johnson. “A ways.”

  “Let's find out,” said Roosevelt. “Luke, take that bucket”—he indicated an old bucket at the corner of the porch—“and set it out a couple hundred feet away.”

  Luke Sloan lifted the bucket and began walking.

  “You sure you want me to do this?” asked Johnson. “I mean, if I put a hole in it, you can't use it no more.”

  “We're not using it now,” Roosevelt assured him.

  Johnson shrugged. “You're the boss.” He paused. “By the way, I didn't catch your name.”

  “I didn't throw it,” said Roosevelt with a smile. “But it's Theodore Roosevelt.”

  “Okay, Teddy—glad to be working with you.”

  “You'll be gladder if you call me Theodore.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “That's far enough, Luke!” called Roosevelt. “Set it down.”

  Sloan put the bucket on the ground. “Don't shoot yet!” he hollered, trotting back.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Everyone knows Turkey Creek is blind as a bat,” said Sloan. “I don't want to be standing anywhere near what he thinks he's aiming at.”

  “I don't suppose you'd like to hit leather right now?” said Johnson angrily as Sloan reached the porch.

  “Hell, even a bat can see from ten or twelve feet away,” said Sloan.

  “To hell with Sloan,” said Holliday. “Just kill the bucket.”

  Johnson pulled his pistol, held it in front of him with both hands, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The bullet plowed into the dirt about three inches in front of the bucket.”

  “You missed,” said Hairlip Charlie Smith.

  “The hell I did,” said Johnson. He turned to Roosevelt. “The bucket's a man, right?”

  Roosevelt nodded. “That's right.”

  “Anyone can shoot him in the head or the chest,” said Johnson. “I just shot him in the balls!”

  Everyone laughed at that, even Roosevelt.

  “So am I on your team?”

  Roosevelt shook his hand. “Turkey Creek Johnson, welcome to
the Rough Riders.”

  “Who are we going up against?” asked Johnson.

  “Certain select medicine men.”

  “Geronimo? I been waiting for a chance to go hunting for that Apache bastard.”

  “No,” said Roosevelt. “He's on our side.”

  Johnson frowned. “If a bunch of white men are siding with a bunch of Apaches, who the hell's the enemy—a bunch of Chinamen?”

  “I'll explain it once we've assembled all the Rough Riders,” answered Roosevelt. “No sense saying it half a dozen times.”

  “Wouldn't bother me none,” said Johnson. “It's either that, or listening to Luke tell me how no woman has ever said no to him, or having Hairlip Charlie tell me how he caught a bullet in his lip without flinching, or maybe Doc give me odds on how many scorpions live between here and that bucket, and if I have to listen to a bunch of bullshit, at least I ain't heard yours yet.”

  “I'm almost flattered,” said Roosevelt. “But I think we'll wait anyway.”

  “Just as well,” said Holliday. “Here comes another.”

  “He doesn't look like a typical cowboy,” remarked Roosevelt.

  “A fair assumption,” agreed Holliday.

  The man riding toward them wore a top hat, smoked a pipe, and carried a bright-yellow umbrella to protect himself from the sun. He didn't wear a holster or a six-shooter, but Roosevelt could see tell-tale bulges in every one of his coat pockets.

  “Good day, one and all,” said the newcomer in a thick British accent. “Word has come to my ears that you're recruiting men of action.”

  “And are you one?” asked Roosevelt.

  “My bona fides,” said the man, pulling a rolled-up poster out of his otherwise-empty rifle sheath and handing it to Roosevelt.

  “Stay three rounds with English Morton Mickelson and win fifty dollars!” read Roosevelt. “You're a boxer?”

  “The best.”

  “Then if I may ask a question, what are you doing here?”

  “My manager took my money and ran off with it,” said Mickelson. He flashed a satisfied smile. “I found him. I didn't want to take a chance of breaking a finger on his jaw,”—he pulled out a pistol and twirled it around his finger, then replaced it—“so I put a bullet in his head and two more in his heart, always assuming he had one. That was, let me see, eleven days ago. I thought it was a nice time to take a vacation—I'd been fighting in Wichita—so I thought I'd see the Arizona Territory before the Apaches drive everyone else out of it.”

  “Are you any good with that gun?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Absolutely deadly, up to five or six feet, after which it becomes problematical.”

  “How about your fists?”

  “I stand behind my offer. I'll pay fifty dollars to any man here who can last three rounds with me. Doc Holliday excepted, of course; he could knock me out just by breathing on me after he's got a morning's worth of booze in him.”

  Everyone laughed, even Holliday.

  Suddenly Roosevelt took his glasses off, placed them in a jacket pocket, then removed his jacket and hung it over a chair. “Well,” he said, “since you can't shoot, I suppose we'd better find out just how well you can defend yourself in close quarters.” He unbuttoned the cuffs on his sleeves and rolled them up.

  “Are you quite certain you can see me without those cheaters?” asked Mickelson.

  “If you're close enough to hit, you're close enough to see,” said Roosevelt, walking down the three wooden steps from the porch to the ground.

  “Good answer,” said Mickelson. He closed his umbrella, hung it on his saddle horn, then put his top hat over it. He took off his coat and tossed it over the porch railing, where the hidden pistols clattered as they bumped against wood.

  “Two-minute rounds, Mr. Mickelson?” said Roosevelt.

  “That suits me fine, Mr…. I don't know your name.”

  “Roosevelt. But call me Theodore.”

  “Fine. And you may call me Morty.”

  “Odd name,” remarked Roosevelt.

  “But fitting, as you're about to find out.”

  “Doc,” said Roosevelt, “pull out your watch, and yell ‘Time’ when you're ready. We'll fight two-minute rounds with one minute in between.”

  “He's got you by thirty pounds, Theodore,” said Holliday, grabbing his watch chain and pulling out the pocket watch that was attached to the end of it.

  “I'll be gentle with him, Doc,” said Mickelson.

  “Exactly what I was going to say,” replied Roosevelt with a grin.

  Holliday stared at his watch for a few seconds, then yelled, “Time!”

  Mickelson rushed right at Roosevelt and swung a mighty roundhouse that would have decapitated him if it had landed—but Roosevelt ducked beneath it, stepped forward, threw a quick right-left combination to the Englishman's belly, then stepped to the side.

  “Well, I'll be damned!” said Mickelson with a guilty grin. “You do know what the hell you're doing. I won't make that mistake again, Theodore.”

  He leaned forward, holding his fists up in front of him. Roosevelt darted in, went for his face once, then for his belly, and finally for his face again, but Mickelson caught all the blows on his forearms.

  “Not bad,” said Roosevelt with a grin.

  “I'm a lot more than not bad, Yank,” said Mickelson. “Get ready.”

  That was all the warning Roosevelt needed. He began bobbing and weaving, never presenting a stationary target. Mickelson landed a heavy blow on Roosevelt's right shoulder that momentarily numbed his entire arm, but he managed to sneak a left through, bloodying the Englishman's nose.

  “Time!” said Holliday.

  “Where the hell's my corner?” demanded Mickelson.

  “We seem to have forgotten about corners and such,” said Roosevelt. “Keep your fifty dollars, Morty. You've shown me you can box, and that's what I wanted to know.”

  “Well, when it comes right down to it, you ain't so bad yourself, Yank,” said Mickelson, taking his hand. “You ever think about going pro?”

  “I'm already in a tougher profession,” replied Roosevelt.

  “Shootist?”

  Roosevelt grinned. “Politician.”

  Mickelson threw back his head and laughed. Then he looked around the porch. “Anyone got a towel? If I don't wipe this blood off pretty soon, people are going to think I've got a bright red mustache.”

  Luke went into the house, found a rag, emerged, and tossed it to the Englishman.

  “Thanks, Tall Man,” said Mickelson. He turned to Roosevelt. “So am I a member of your gang?”

  “In good standing,” said Roosevelt.

  “This calls for a celebratory drink, and forgive me if I don't think our dental expert looks like he feels much like sharing.” So saying, Mickelson walked to his horse and pulled a flask out of his saddlebag, took a swig, and replaced the flask in the bag.

  The next to show up was Sherman McMaster, another member of the Vendetta Ride, and Dan “Tip” Tipton, who'd been a sailor, a miner, a gambler, and was just about the only one present who'd never either been a lawman or the face on a Wanted poster.

  The last to arrive was a Mexican bandit—a former bandit, as he kept pointing out—named Louis Martinez, but whom Holliday and the others knew as “Loose” Martinez.

  “Is this everyone you passed the word to, Doc?” asked Roosevelt when they were all assembled.

  “All except Charlie Bassett,” replied Holliday. “Too bad he didn't show up. Six-gun, rifle, or knife, you couldn't ask for a gutsier fighter.”

  “He sends his regrets,” said Tipton. “I forgot to mention it 'til I just heard his name. He's riding a winning streak at the Blue Peacock, and he's not about to leave the table.”

  “Can't blame him for that,” said Holliday. “Well, if we don't leave until morning, maybe the cards'll cool off.” He grimaced. “Not that I'd wish that on anyone.”

  “If we're all here,” said Turkey Creek Johnson, “maybe you'd like to
finally tell us what the hell this is all about.”

  “Yes, there's no sense putting it off any longer,” agreed Roosevelt. “If this Bassett fellow shows up, one of you can tell him.” Roosevelt rolled down his sleeves, buttoned the cuffs, put his coat back on, and faced the assembled group of men, his hands on his hips, his jaw jutting forward. “Gentlemen,” he began, “we are going to play a part in the greatest American enterprise since the Revolution.”

  “Just the nine of us?” said Hairlip Smith.

  “And Charlie Bassett, if he makes it,” said Roosevelt.

  “Oh, excuse me,” said Smith sarcastically. “That makes all the difference.”

  “Sometimes one man is all the difference you need. Ask Mr. Lincoln what kind of difference Ulysses S. Grant made.”

  “It's a little late to ask him anything,” said Johnson.

  “All right,” said Roosevelt. “Let me get to the gist of it. As you know, the United States has been unable to expand beyond the Mississippi River due to the magical power—there is no other term for it—of the Indian medicine men. They've let some of us through, because we represent little or no threat to them. They've allowed some cattle ranches, because they don't eat cattle, and they've allowed mining towns, because they don't care for what we pull out of the mines. But they have made sure that we have not and cannot overrun their land or bring our government to the West.” He paused, looking from one man to another. “That, gentlemen, is about to change.”

  “They're lifting the spell?” said Sloan. “How many hundreds of millions is that going to cost?”

  “Nothing,” replied Roosevelt. “One visionary medicine man has decided that even magic can't keep the United States confined forever, and that he'd rather lift the spell and make peace now than have us destroy the spell when we grow strong enough and annihilate every Indian on the continent.”

  “I haven't heard anything about this,” said Martinez.

  “Neither have I,” chimed Johnson. “How come only you seem to know about it?”

  “I'm the one he sent for to negotiate with.”

  “And who is this medicine man?” continued Johnson.