The Doctor and the Rough Rider Page 6

  “Soon!” promised the hawk, and vanished just before it reached him.

  HOLLIDAY, ROOSEVELT, AND MASTERSON sat on cow hide furniture in Edison's living room. Edison himself emerged from a kitchen, bringing them coffee on a copper tray.

  “Ned will be here in a few minutes,” he announced. “He's just finishing up some work in his lab.”

  “I don't want to sound unduly nervous,” said Roosevelt, “but I have to ask: Is it safe to sit here with my back to a window?”

  Holliday chuckled at that, and even Masterson smiled.

  “Have I said something funny?” asked Roosevelt, trying to hide his irritation.

  “Theodore, nothing inimical can get within a quarter mile of the house without my knowing it—on land or in the air. Pull your gun and take a shot at the window in question.”

  Roosevelt frowned. “Shoot at the window?” he repeated.

  “That's right.”

  “Stand back, Bat,” said Edison. “Just in case.”

  Masterson got up and walked to the center of the room as Roosevelt pulled his pistol out of its holster, took aim at the window, and fired. The bullet flattened against the window and careened off very near to where Masterson had been sitting.

  “Well, I'll be…” said Roosevelt, obviously impressed. “That's truly remarkable, Thomas.”

  “I developed it about two years ago,” answered Edison. “The problem is, I haven't found an inexpensive way to make it. It's effective, but it's exorbitant. I use the glass only on the house. Oh, and of course on Ned's next door.”

  Roosevelt leaned back on his chair. “Well, that assuages one worry.”

  “Just one?”

  “You've been out here for three years. I've never seen a manifestation of magic until today.”

  Edison smiled. “I view it as a different scientific system. The effects can be startling, even frightening, but it obeys laws, just as science does. The trick is to find out what those laws are and to learn how to negate or contravene them.”

  “Maybe we can get you together with Geronimo,” suggested Roosevelt, picking up a cup and sipping his coffee. “You're both on the same side, so perhaps he can educate you in his system's laws.”

  “He'll never do it,” said Holliday firmly.

  “I agree,” said Masterson, lighting up a cigar.

  “But—” began Roosevelt.

  “Trust me,” said Holliday. “I know him better than any of you. We were his enemy until a few months ago. We're still not his friends, just a perceived inevitability. He's not going to turn over any secrets to any of us, and especially not to Tom.”

  Roosevelt turned to Edison. “Do you agree with that appraisal?”

  Edison nodded his head. “Doc's summed it up. We're not his friends, and we're not his allies. We're an inevitable force that he's willing to accommodate, nothing more.”

  A burly, balding man entered the room from the enclosed passageway that joined the two houses together.

  “Hello, all,” said Ned Buntline. “How did the meeting with Geronimo go?”

  “The spell's still in effect,” said Roosevelt.

  “Figures,” said Buntline. “He didn't send for you just to say, ‘Here, Theodore—the continent's yours.’ What does he want from you?”

  “You're very perceptive,” remarked Roosevelt with a smile.

  “If he was going to lift it without something in return, it'd be gone already. And if he just wanted someone killed, he'd never send for you when Doc was already obligated to him for springing him out of that jail in Leadville.”

  “That's what I'm here to discuss,” said Roosevelt. “Ever hear of someone or something called War Bonnet?”

  “No,” said Buntline and Edison in unison.

  Roosevelt spent the next few minutes describing the huge apparition.

  “What can he do?” asked Edison. “Which is to say, what are his powers?”

  “I don't know,” answered Roosevelt. “In fact, I don't know for a fact that he has any, other than the strength that goes with that physique.”

  “Oh, he's got them, all right,” said Edison. “If physical strength was all they wanted to imbue it with, they could make it the king of the grizzlies, huge and invulnerable.” He turned to Buntline. “Right, Ned?”

  “I agree. They didn't need to make this creature just to combat you, Theodore. They've got the warriors from half a hundred tribes to do that.”

  “May I offer an idea?” said Masterson.

  “Certainly.”

  “Could this thing have been created to face an American regiment if Geronimo finds a way to lift the spell without their consent?”

  Edison and Buntline exchanged looks.

  “Makes sense to me,” said Buntline at last.

  “I don't know,” said Edison. “I think we're missing some necessary information.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Theodore, I'm sure you and Bat made excellent time coming out here, and caused no undue commotions along the way, but believe me, you couldn't have kept your presence secret from all the other medicine men, even if none of them are quite as powerful as Geronimo. They could have attacked you at any time along the way. And that means you might not be the only reason this War Bonnet was created, or is being created, or will be created.”

  “Makes sense,” said Holliday.

  “It makes sense, but it means we're still in the dark,” said Buntline, taking a proffered cigar from Masterson and lighting up. “What do the other tribes plan to do? How do they plan to negate Geronimo's magic and keep you from doing whatever it is Geronimo wants you to do?”

  “He wants me to kill or neutralize this War Bonnet,” said Roosevelt.

  “Well, I'm sure he wants that too,” said Buntline, “but he's a devious old devil, even when he's on our side. And somehow he always gets what he wants. The trick is to figure out on the front end just what that is.”

  “I don't know that I agree with you,” said Holliday. “He's an honorable man. It's entirely possible that he wants exactly what he says he wants.”

  “Perhaps,” said Edison, refilling his coffee cup. “But I think, in the meantime, that Theodore might consider being my house guest. At least he'll be safe here.”

  Roosevelt shook his head vigorously. “I thank you for the offer, but I'll stay where I am.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I'm certain,” replied Roosevelt. “I didn't come all this way to hide in a room, even one with as nice a library as yours doubtless has. Whatever War Bonnet's capabilities, we know there's an Indian military force, so I've got to be out and around recruiting men to face it. We're not going to be fighting them in New York or the Dakota Badlands, so I have to become more acquainted with the terrain.” He paused, as if considering whether or not to continue, and finally shrugged. “And there's something else.”

  The four others looked at him expectantly.

  “I am not entirely lacking in the power of persuasion,” said Roosevelt. “I thought I might visit the Southern Cheyenne and some of the others and convince them to come over to Geronimo's side.”

  “Are you crazy?” demanded Masterson.

  “They were his allies until a month or two ago,” said Roosevelt.

  “Then let an Apache talk to them!”

  “It's no different than speaking to a crowd of Democrats,” Roosevelt assured him.

  “The hell it isn't,” said Masterson. “The Democrats weren't sworn to kill you.”

  “They were sworn to defeat me. So are the Indians.”

  Masterson turned to Edison. “You explain it to him. I give up.”

  “Theodore, you don't really want to ride unprotected into Indian territory,” said Edison.

  “I thought it was all Indian territory,” said Roosevelt with a smile. “Isn't that what this is about?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do,” answered Roosevelt. “But Bat and Doc have told me about some of the inventi
ons you've come up with since the government sent you out here, and I thought you might like to supply me with some of them.” He flashed the others a grin. “So you see, I don't plan to ride into enemy territory, or anywhere else, without protection.”

  Edison sighed. “Theodore, I don't even know what I'm supposed to be protecting you from.”

  “Then I'd say that finding out is our first order of business,” answered Roosevelt.

  “Geronimo's told you all that he's going to tell you,” said Holliday. “Hell, it's probably all he knows right now.”

  “What do you propose, then?” demanded Roosevelt. “That we sit right here and wait for them to reach full strength and launch an attack?”

  “Me?” said Holliday. “I propose to go back to Leadville, check into the sanitarium, and hope to hear before I breathe my last that Geronimo lifted the spell and we've crossed the Mississippi in huge numbers.”

  “I'm sorry,” said Roosevelt earnestly. “This is my fight. And I don't propose to do it on an empty stomach. I saw a nice-looking restaurant across from the Oriental.”

  He got to his feet, and Masterson stood up as well. “I'll join you.”

  “I'll be back tomorrow,” Roosevelt promised. “I want to consider various approaches to the problem, and see which seems to offer the greatest chance of success.”

  “How can you do it when you don't know what this War Bonnet can do, or even if he's the only magical thing they're going to throw against you?” asked Masterson as he followed Roosevelt to the door.

  “It's a novel problem. It requires a novel solution.”

  Then they were out the door and gone.

  “Doc, are you really going back to Leadville?” asked Edison.

  “I was going to ask that myself,” said Buntline.

  “I'll stick around another day or two, sit in on a game or two at the Oriental, and then I plan to head back. I don't want to be too far from the sanitarium if something happens.”

  “I can appreciate that,” said Edison, frowning.

  “But?” said Holliday, suddenly alert. “There's an unspoken ‘but’ hiding in there somewhere.”

  “Doc, I studied this young man, this Roosevelt, when I heard he was coming out here. He's the most accomplished man America has yet produced. Along with everything else, he even wrote the definitive treatise on naval warfare. There are the seeds of greatness within him. Whatever the outcome here, America is going to need him.”

  Holliday stared at him in silence.

  “You know what I'm going to ask you,” said Edison uncomfortably.

  “You're going to have to say it,” replied Holliday.

  “Doc, Ned and I will supply you with anything you need, but I want you to keep that young man alive.”

  “Whatever the cost?” said Holliday.

  “Whatever the cost.”

  HOLLIDAY AWOKE TO A COUGHING FIT, thoroughly bloodied a fresh handkerchief before he was done, and painfully climbed into his clothes, then walked down the corridor to the floor's only bathroom.

  As he was washing his hands, he saw a bird perched on the windowsill, staring at him.

  “I hope you're enjoying yourself,” he muttered.

  The bird watched him silently for another few seconds, then flew off.

  “OK, so you were just a bird,” said Holliday. He stared into the mirror and decided that he needed a shave. He had gone to the local barber for a shave every day the last time he'd lived in Tombstone, but he'd been living with Kate Elder then, and she complained when his face had a two- or three-day growth on it. Since they'd been living apart, he'd fallen into the habit of getting a shave only when he could see the shadow of his beard on his cheeks.

  He returned to his room, strapped on his holster, inserted his gun into it, put the Derringer in his vest pocket, donned his hat, and walked out of his room and down the steps to the lobby. He looked around for Roosevelt or Masterson, didn't see them, and decided to visit the barber before he faced any food.

  He walked out into the street, decided that it was every bit as hot here as it had been in Leadville, with the added disadvantage that the wind constantly blew clouds of dust through the air. He began making his way down the raised wooden sidewalk, came to a corner, crossed the street, walked another half block, and finally stopped at the barber shop.

  “Good morning, Doc,” said the barber, dusting off a chair for him. “You're up early today.”

  “Morning, Sam,” replied Holliday, sitting in the chair.

  “Same as usual? Shave the face, don't touch the mustache?”

  Holliday grunted an affirmative.

  “You're going to need a haircut pretty soon,” continued the barber. “This'd be a bad day for it, though. We want to get you out of here fast.”

  “Why?” asked Holliday.

  “Johnny Behan's due to come by in about twenty minutes, and I know you and him ain't exactly what they call bosom buddies.”

  “I've got nothing against him these days,” said Holliday. “It was Wyatt who stole his woman, not me. And I've never minded if a man was a lying, backstabbing, black-hearted bastard, as long as he didn't display those traits while holding elected office…and Johnny's been forcibly retired for two or three years.”

  “Well, I'm sure glad you ain't got anything against him,” replied the barber with an amused smile as he lathered Holliday's face. “I think I'll get you out of here before he comes anyway.”

  “Suits me fine,” said Holliday. “I hate to have to look at an ugly son of a bitch like that right before I eat.”

  “Doc, if you make me laugh while I'm shaving you, I'm liable to cut your nose off.”

  “This is the day to do it, Sam. I'm fresh out of blood.”

  The barber held his blade at arm's length while he chuckled, and then, when Holliday closed his eyes and leaned back, he began shaving the emaciated man, marveling that a man in such obviously poor health could grow anything, even hair.

  Holliday awoke to a finger being prodded into his shoulder.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You fell asleep.”

  “Oh. Are you done?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Behan's early,” said the barber, pointing out the front window at the figure that was approaching the shop. He lowered his voice. “If you're going to kill him, please don't do it so that your bullet goes through him and shatters a mirror or he falls through my window.”

  “I'm not killing anyone,” responded Holliday. He paused briefly. “Probably,” he added.

  The door opened and John Behan entered the shop.

  “Well, well, look who's here,” he said, staring at Holliday. “They let just anyone come into town these days.”

  “True,” agreed Holliday. “Still, you were the sheriff until the people wised up to you, so I suppose you might as well hang around to remind them to be a little more careful when they go to the polls.”

  “Very funny,” said Behan, who obviously was not amused.

  “I'm known far and wide for my sense of humor,” said Holliday,

  “Is your friend Wyatt with you?” asked Behan.

  “No. He spends all his time in bed with his wife.” Holliday paused and frowned. “Come to think of it, I believe you used to know the lady.”

  “You're treading on dangerous ground, Holliday,” said Behan, pushing his coat back and exposing his gun and holster.

  “Not as dangerous as someone else in here,” replied Holliday. “I've had you covered since you walked in here.” The cloth over his gun hand wiggled as if for emphasis.

  “That's just your finger you're pointing at me.”

  “If you really believe that, then you should go for your gun,” said Holliday. “Sam, you're a witness that he was warned, and thought he was drawing on an unarmed man.”

  “I don't believe you,” said Behan nervously.

  “That's your right,” said Holliday easily. “A man's got to disbelieve in some
thing.”

  “You're bluffing!”

  “Anything's possible.”

  Behan seemed to struggle briefly with himself, then spat on the floor. “Fuck it! What's one more lunger in the world? You'll be dead soon enough anyway.” And with that, he opened the door and stalked off down the street.

  “Thanks for not shooting him, Doc.”

  “Pull the cloth off,” said Holliday.

  The barber did so, revealing Holliday's forefinger pointing at the place where Behan had been, his pistol still securely in its holster.

  The barber emitted a hearty laugh. “By God, wait'll I tell this story around town.”

  “I'd be very careful about that, Sam,” said Holliday. “You're not as likely to scare him off as I was.”

  “What would you have done if he'd actually gone for his gun?”

  “Killed him,” said Holliday seriously.

  Suddenly the barber found his client less amusing, and went to work finishing his shave.

  “What do I owe you?” asked Holliday.

  “A nickel.”

  Holliday tossed him a dime. “When Behan comes back, tell him his shave's on me, and I just wish I was holding the razor.”

  Then he was out onto the arid Tombstone street. He wandered past a pair of restaurants, wishing he could work up an appetite, finally realized he was headed toward the Oriental and that he was going to drink his breakfast, as usual.

  As he crossed an alley, he saw a squirrel standing a few feet into it, just out of the glare of the sunlight. There weren't any squirrels in Tombstone.

  “Goddammit!” he muttered.

  He considered walking straight ahead, but the squirrel knew he'd seen it, and would just keep appearing in various guises until he stopped and found out what it wanted.

  He walked into the alley, and continued walking well past the squirrel until he was totally in the shade. At least it was minimally cooler here.

  The squirrel turned and walked after him, then came to a stop when it was five feet away and stared at him.

  “You'd better not be a goddamned real squirrel,” muttered Holliday.