The Doctor and the Rough Rider Page 3

  “He'll either be at Elkhorn or the Maltese Cross, probably Elkhorn.”

  “Those are his ranches?”

  “Yeah. Though if you wait long enough, he'll show up here. The Marquis de Mores has challenged him to a fight.” Finnegan chuckled. “He offered to let Roosevelt choose the weapons.” A pause and a grin. “I figure he'll choose words.”

  “It'd be best for the Marquis if he did,” replied Masterson. “Theodore was a boxing champion at Harvard.”

  “You don't say?” said Finnegan. “Is there anything he can't do?”

  “Not much,” answered Masterson. “Before he was twenty he was already considered one of America's three or four leading ornithologists and taxidermists.”

  “Orni—?” said Finnegan, frowning and trying to pronounce the word. “Orni—?”

  “Ornithologist,” repeated Masterson. “Bird expert.”

  “He sure as hell shoots enough of 'em,” remarked Finnegan.

  “Can't stuff and mount them while they're still alive,” responded Masterson with a smile.

  “How'd you two meet?” asked Finnegan.

  “He wrote me, asking some questions about a series of books he's writing about the West.”

  “He's a writer too?”

  Masterson nodded. “And a damned good one. Anyway, I wrote back, we started corresponding, and we finally met at one of John L. Sullivan's prizefights.” Masterson finished his beer and got to his feet. “And now, if you don't mind, please tell me how to get to Elkhorn and maybe I can make it before dark and not get totally lost.”

  Finnegan got up, gestured for Masterson to follow him, and walked out onto the raised wooden sidewalk. “Just head in that direction, and you'll be there in two, maybe three hours, depending on how lazy your horse is.”

  “Thanks,” said Masterson.

  “And when you see him, tell him Jacob Finnegan would be proud to hold his coat while he beats the shit out of that Frenchman.”

  “I'll do that,” promised Masterson, shaking the old man's hand.

  Then he was atop his horse, heading through the hilly, thickly forested country in the direction Finnegan had indicated. At first he was on the lookout for wolves or perhaps even a bear. Then it occurred to him that Roosevelt had been in the Medora area long enough to make it safe for travelers, and he stopped staring apprehensively at every bush and shadow.

  He rode for ninety minutes, dismounted when he came to a stream and filled his canteen while his horse drank, then continued the rest of the way. He saw an expansive wooden house in the distance, and as he approached it he heard a sound that he couldn't identify. It occurred every few seconds, and finally he saw a well-built young man wearing what were clearly stylish, store-bought buckskins splitting logs with an axe.

  “Greetings, Theodore!” he cried as he drew closer.

  Roosevelt lay his axe down and squinted through his glasses until he finally identified his visitor.

  “Bat Masterson!” he said. “What in the world are you doing out here in the Badlands?”

  “Looking for you,” said Masterson, climbing down off his horse and leading it the last few yards.

  “It's good to see you!” said Roosevelt. “Let me just finish this last log, and we'll go inside and visit.”

  “Why are you even splitting logs?” asked Masterson. “Winter's over.”

  “Got to keep fit,” answered Roosevelt as he brought the axe down on the log. “I run a few miles every morning, but it rained last night and it was a little too muddy today, so I'm doing this instead.”

  “Don't overdo it,” said Masterson. “You're already the fittest man I know.”

  “The Marquis de Mores is pretty fit himself,” said Roosevelt.

  “Yeah, I heard about that.”

  “You couldn't have come all the way out from Manhattan just to watch us fight.”

  “No, I never even heard of the Marquis until a few hours ago. Which reminds me: Jacob Finnegan wants to be your second.”

  Roosevelt offered a toothy smile. “Good old Jacob! In his youth he could probably have beaten both of us.”

  “I doubt it,” said Masterson.

  “Well, if you're not here for the fight, and indeed we haven't set a date for it, what has brought you all this way?”

  “Therein lies a story,” said Masterson.

  “So tell me,” said Roosevelt.

  “You know that the Indian medicine men have let some miners and settlers and farmers past the Mississippi, but that the United States, as a nation, has been stopped there.”

  “Of course I know,” said Roosevelt. “Hell, every schoolboy knows it.” He paused. “And I also know it can't last forever. It's our destiny to expand from one coast to the other.”

  Masterson stared at him. “How would you like to be the man who brings it about?”

  Roosevelt returned his stare. “You're serious?”

  “I'm here.”

  Roosevelt let his axe fall to the ground. “Come on inside and tell me about it,” he said, throwing an arm around Masterson's shoulder and leading him into the sturdy wooden house, the living room of which was lined with books on all subjects, and featured a large writing desk and a comfortable chair.

  “I'm here because Doc Holliday knows I know you,” began Masterson.

  “Doc Holliday? The shootist?” Roosevelt began reeling off a list of Holliday's gunfights and victims.

  “That's the one,” said Masterson. “But he and I are just middlemen. The person who is really sending for you is Geronimo.”

  Roosevelt's face reflected his excitement. “Geronimo? The greatest of the Apache medicine men. True name: Goyathlay. Leader of the Apaches since Victorio was killed four years ago.” He spent another minute recounting Geronimo's achievements.

  “Yes,” said Masterson when Roosevelt paused for breath. “That Geronimo.”

  “This is exciting, Bat!” exclaimed Roosevelt. “Will your friend Wyatt Earp be involved in whatever this is?”

  Masterson shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “All right. Why does Geronimo want to see me?”

  “You're not going to believe me when I tell you.”

  “That's always possible,” answered Roosevelt. “But we won't know for sure until you do tell me.”

  “He's ready to lift the spell,” said Masterson. “And of all the white and black men in America, you're the only one he'll deal with.”

  “But I've never met him!”

  “He knows you.”

  Roosevelt frowned in puzzlement. “How?”

  “A dozen men can stop the entire nation from expanding across the Mississippi, and you wonder how one of them can know anything about you?”

  “Forgive me,” said Roosevelt with an embarrassed smile. “I'm so excited by your news that I hadn't thought it through.”

  “Then you'll come?”

  “To double the nation's territory? Of course!” There was a brief pause. “Hell, I'd come just to meet Doc Holliday and Geronimo. I mean, Billy the Kid, Wild Bill Hickok, Jesse James, and at least one of the Younger Brothers are dead, the Earps have gone to California and Alaska, and John Wesley Hardin has been rotting in a Texas prison for years. Of all the bigger-than-life figures of the West, Holliday and Geronimo are just about all that's left. Of course I'm coming!”

  “You'll get to meet Tom Edison, too. I'm not certain what he's doing out there, but he seems to have become a friend of Holliday's.”

  “Thomas Alva Edison?” said Roosevelt, his eyes widening with excitement. “The inventor?”

  Masterson nodded his head. “He's made a lot of changes to Tombstone. Whole town was lit up by electric lights at night when I was there three years ago.”

  “Holliday, Geronimo, and Edison?” said Roosevelt excitedly. “What are we waiting for?”

  “You sound like a hero-worshipping kid at the ballpark,” commented Masterson.

  “There are very few exceptional men in this world, Bat,” replied Roosevelt seriously.
“I'm willing to ride halfway across the continent to meet three of them.” Suddenly he began pacing back and forth. “I'll take Manitou, of course, and—”

  “Manitou?” repeated Masterson curiously.

  “My horse. Meanest bronco you ever saw—or he was when I first encountered him.” Another grin. “He must have thrown me twenty times before we finally reached an understanding.” He continued pacing. “I'll need a few blank notebooks and some pencils, and my telescope, and—” He stopped and suddenly turned to Masterson. “What kind of game do you have out there?”

  “In Tombstone?” said Masterson. “An occasional snake or jackrabbit. And once in a while a hawk.”

  Roosevelt nodded, more to himself than to Masterson. “The Winchester will do. And I'll have to prepare a pack for a second horse.”

  “Just to carry a Winchester?” asked Masterson, puzzled.

  “No, of course not,” answered Roosevelt. “But I can't be without my books. Let me see now. For this trip I think Tolstoy, and Jane Austen, and…” He spent the next five minutes deciding on the books he wanted, then rummaging through the six rooms of the house until he'd found them all.

  In another hour he had packed his weapons, books, clothes, everything he thought he might want or need, even a spare pair of spectacles.

  “Okay, Bat, help me load Manitou and the pack horse and we can be on our way.”

  “It's going to be dark in half an hour,” noted Masterson. “We can start tomorrow.”

  “Now,” said Roosevelt firmly.

  Masterson shrugged. “Okay, mount up.”

  As they were leaving Elkhorn, Masterson remarked that without encountering any serious obstacles, he thought they could reach Tombstone in ten days.

  “Nonsense,” said Roosevelt, clicking to Manitou. “We'll do it in seven.”

  THE BUNT LINE'S self-propelled heavily armored brass stagecoach came to a stop on Third Street in early evening, and Holliday climbed down, then waited for the driver to unsecure his small suitcase and pass it down to him.

  He turned and walked half a block to the Oriental Saloon, which had been his home away from home when he'd been living in Tombstone with Kate Elder. He was surprised to see how dilapidated it had become in just three years.

  It was still open for business, though, and he entered, walked over to a table, laid his bag on it, and sat down.

  “Well, I'll be damned!” said the bartender. “Look who's back!”

  Suddenly all eyes turned to Holliday, who touched the brim of his hat with a forefinger. “Bring a bottle and a glass,” he said.

  “What are you doing back in town, Doc?” asked the bartender as he grabbed a bottle of whiskey, found a mildly clean glass, and approached the table. “The Earps are long gone, and the silver mines are pretty much played out. If it wasn't for your pal Edison, this place'd be a ghost town.”

  “I'm just passing through,” replied Holliday noncommittally.

  “You're here to kill Johnny Behan!” said the bartender suddenly.

  “You mean someone hasn't done it already?” said Holliday. “What's the matter with you people?”

  “He's still around,” was the answer. “But we threw him out of office a year after you left town. Caught him stealing five thousand dollars of the county's money.”

  “Yeah, that's Behan, all right,” said Holliday.

  “When are you going after him?” persisted the bartender. “Tonight? Tomorrow?”

  “I'm really and truly not here for him,” said Holliday.

  “Good!” said a man sitting a couple of tables away. “He owes me money. I'd like him to live long enough to pay me.”

  Holliday gave him a look that said, You still haven't figured out who you're dealing with, have you? He poured a drink, downed it in a single swallow, and made a face. “That's pretty awful stuff.”

  “It's the best we got, Doc,” said the bartender.

  “Somehow I'm not surprised,” said Holliday, pouring another glass. He remained seated at the table until he'd killed half the bottle. Then he got to his feet, grabbed his suitcase in one hand and his bottle in the other, and walked out into the twilight.

  He turned on Fremont Street, passed a pair of rooming houses, and headed toward the Grand Hotel. When he arrived he took a room, left his bottle on a table and his carpetbag on the floor, and then walked back out the front door. It had grown a little darker, and now the streets were illuminated by Edison's electric streetlamps.

  He considered lighting a cigar, decided he didn't need to bring on a coughing fit, and instead began walking toward Edison's and Buntline's side-by-side buildings. He tried to spot all the protective devices as he approached Edison's front door, saw four and was sure he'd missed at least two or three others, and was about to knock when the door suddenly swung open.

  “Come on in, Doc,” said Edison's voice, and he entered as the door silently closed behind him. He knew his way around the house, and walked directly to Edison's office, which was at least as much laboratory and workshop as office.

  Edison was seated at his stained and battered desk, scribbling in a notebook. There were notes tacked to every available surface, vials of chemicals, batteries in various stages of design and completion, and a huge electric light. When he saw Holliday, he closed the book and put it in a drawer, then got to his feet, walked around the desk, and shook Holliday's hand.

  “I got your wire,” he said. “Is Mr. Roosevelt with you?”

  Holliday shook his head. “He's coming with Bat. Truth to tell, I don't know what the hell he looks like.”

  “Neither do I,” admitted Edison, “but I know that he's the most accomplished young man I've ever heard of.” A pause. “Can I get you a drink.”

  “I don't recall ever saying no to one,” replied Holliday.

  Edison walked to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. “I'll be interested to try this out,” he said, handing a glass to Holliday and filling both. “Ned picked it up the last time he took the Bunt Line to St. Louis.”

  Holliday took a sip. “It's better than the horse piss they're serving at the Oriental, I'll give it that.”

  Edison smiled. “I'll tell him you said so.”

  “He's not around?”

  “Oh, he's in town,” answered Edison. “He's repairing one of the metal harlots at what used to be Kate's establishment.”

  “I'm surprised he's not fixing them all the time, given the use they get.”

  “They're not in as much demand as they were when we created them three years ago and the population was three or four times larger,” said Edison. “On the other hand, they're machines, and they're three years old, and it's natural that some of them break down.”

  Holliday brought his bloody handkerchief to his mouth and coughed. “I know all about things breaking down,” he said sardonically.

  “No better?”

  Holliday shook his head. “I thought I was just a month or two away from entering the sanitarium when Geronimo broke me out of jail.”

  “Jail?” repeated Edison, surprised.

  “It's a long story,” said Holliday, “but the usual one. The only good thing about it is that sometimes stupidity is genetically self-limiting. Anyway, he got me out, and that's why I'm here. In law offices and other criminal enterprises, they call it a quid pro quo.”

  “And he really wants to lift the spell that's kept the country confined to the other side of the Mississippi?” asked Edison.

  “I don't know if he wants to,” said Holliday. “But he's a realist. The United States gets bigger and stronger every day. I know the Indians' magic is pretty powerful, but how long can they hold us east of the river? It had to be a lot easier back in Washington's time, or even Andy Jackson's…but how many millions do we total today?” He took another sip of his drink. “We've got numbers, we have firepower”—he paused and smiled at Edison—“and we have you.”

  “Me?” said Edison, surprised.

  “Don't be modest. You're our gre
atest genius. That's why they sent you out here—to find the weak spots in the medicine men's magic.”

  “And I haven't accomplished a thing,” said Edison.

  “You haven't accomplished what you wanted to accomplish,” agreed Holliday. “But you've weakened them. You helped cause a rift between the two most powerful medicine men, Geronimo and Hook Nose, and now Hook Nose is dead. I think that's another reason Geronimo's ready to deal. The other Indians blame him for Hook Nose's death.”

  “He did kill him,” noted Edison. “We were there.”

  “Did they ever have a falling-out before you were sent out West?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Take a guess,” said Holliday.

  “No,” admitted Edison. “Not an important one.”

  “That's why you've got an artificial arm. They knew early on that you were the catalyst. That's why they got Curly Bill Brocius to take that shot at you. You were just damned lucky he was liquored up and couldn't see straight.”

  “Let's not talk about it. It makes it very difficult not to hold a grudge against Geronimo.”

  “He's an honorable man,” said Holliday. “And there ain't too many of them in any race.”

  “So when is young Mr. Roosevelt due here?” asked Edison, changing the subject.

  Holliday shrugged. “Four, maybe five days.” He smiled. “If it was me, and I had to ride horseback, it'd be a lot closer to a month.”

  “So what do we do when he gets here?” continued Edison. “Take him to Geronimo's camp? I mean, we can't have Geronimo walking or riding into Tombstone.”

  “We don't do anything,” answered Holliday. “Geronimo never mentioned you. I imagine Roosevelt wants to meet the great Tom Edison. The only person Geronimo wants to meet is Roosevelt. I don't even know if he'll let Bat come along.” A grim smile. “I don't know if Bat'll want to, either. You know what happened to him last time he rode out with me to Geronimo's camp.”

  “So I just sit by and do nothing?” asked Edison. “If that's the case, and the spell's going to be lifted, I suppose Ned and I might as well close up shop and go back East.”

  Holliday shook his head. “Oh, I think your services are going to be needed—and soon.”