by Mike Resnick
“Damn!” growled Holliday, surprised. “That hurt!”
“I guess you're not invulnerable after all,” said Edison with a smile.
“You knew that would hurt, even though the Kid's bullets bounced right off me,” said Holliday.
“I had a feeling,” said Edison. “And his bullets didn't bounce off you. Or go through you. Or flatten out against you. They just vanished.”
“What am I missing, Tom?” asked Buntline. “How did you figure out that you can break his skin and hurt him?”
“Just put your mind to work, Ned,” said Edison. “Why are we here at all? Only because Doc can't make a dent in that station back in New Mexico. It's immune to bullets, cannonballs, fire, and probably everything else anyone can throw at it. Again why? Because it's protected by a medicine man—and given the level of protection, it's a fair guess that Hook Nose is behind it. As far as we know, only he and Geronimo wield that kind of power.”
“I know that,” said Buntline. “But how did that lead you to guess that you could jab his finger and break the skin, when the Kid's bullets couldn't do that?”
Edison turned to Holliday. “Doc, why did you agree to destroy the station?”
“Because the Kid is protected by some medicine man,” answered Holliday. “And Geronimo wouldn't make it possible for me to meet the Kid on even terms until I did him this service. A favor for a favor, so to speak.”
“Well?” said Edison.
“I still don't see it,” said Buntline.
“Think, Ned!” said Edison, as Bessie the robot, wearing a shapeless garment over her exotic if metallic curves, delivered the beers on a tray and immediately returned to Buntline's house through the fortified walkway between the two buildings. “The Kid is protected by Hook Nose, or someone with Hook Nose's kind of power. Geronimo wants Doc to destroy a railway station that's protected from him but not necessarily from Doc. He knew the Kid was in the vicinity, and with his powers he had to know the Kid would go to Tombstone when the three of us did. Now, protected or not, the Kid is one hell of a killer, everyone knows that. And it was very likely Doc would confront him sooner or later. I mean, hell, Geronimo had to know they rode out here together.” He paused and smiled. “Do you see it now?”
“He's protected by Geronimo,” said Buntline, frowning. “But that's obvious. It doesn't explain why you could hurt him with a pin.”
Edison's smile grew broader. “Because I'm not Billy the Kid.”
“Damn it, I'm not following it any better than Ned is!” said Holliday in frustrated tones.
“Think it through, Doc,” said Edison. “You're here because you can't destroy the train station until we come up with a methodology. All the warrants against you have been quashed, you were found not guilty of the charges stemming from the O.K. Corral, the Cowboys are dead or dispersed, the only man with a grudge against you is Fin Clanton, who's crippled and never leaves his ranch…so what could possibly harm or threaten you in Tombstone? Only the Kid.”
Holliday and Buntline stared at Edison, still uncomprehending.
“Doc, you're not fighting for the glory of the Apaches any more than the Kid is in the service of the Southern Cheyenne,” continued Edison. “There is a reason why you're protected, and that's because Geronimo can't destroy the station and he needs you—or us. But he's only protecting you against Hook Nose's magic, which means against the Kid, who is, for reasons we don't know yet, Hook Nose's client. If he protects you against everything, why should you ever do him the service that he wants of you, and how can he get rid of you if you break your bargain?”
“He can just take the spell or curse or whatever it is off,” said Holliday.
“No, he can't.”
“How do you know?” demanded Holliday.
“Empiricism,” answered Edison.
“What are you talking about?”
“If I'm wrong, you'd be protected against anything, not just Hook Nose's magic. But then I couldn't have pricked your finger with the pin. The mere fact that I could do it would seem to prove that I'm right. Which means,” he added with a smile, “if you're going to get into a gunfight with anyone but the Kid, make sure you shoot first.”
“Then fuck Geronimo!” said Holliday. “He's trading a dead horse for a live one. He wants me to destroy the station that's on his burial ground, but he's supposed give me an even chance against the Kid, and making it impossible for either of us to kill the other is a bullshit way to go about it. I need the reward money, not a harmless draw. So to hell with his goddamned station!”
Edison sighed deeply and shook his head. “You're not thinking it through, Doc.”
“What am I missing?”
“You have to destroy the station, if we can come up with a way for you to do it. Because the second he decides you're not going to do it, he doesn't have to protect you from the Kid any longer. And I don't think you want to go up against him when he can't be harmed and you can.”
“Shit!” muttered Holliday. “I hadn't considered that.”
“So I guess we're back to figuring out how to destroy the station,” said Buntline. “Nothing's changed.”
“Something's changed,” Edison corrected him.
“Oh? What?”
“We don't know if the Kid is protected against everyone, or just Doc. Given that the protection was afforded before Doc got to New Mexico, I'd guess everyone. And we know Doc is protected only against the Kid.” He turned to Holliday. “It means if the Kid takes a dislike to you, all he has to do is pay some confederates to backshoot you.”
“This is getting very complicated,” growled Holliday. “I liked it better when all I had to do was come south, find him, and shoot him.”
“There's something further to consider,” said Edison.
“More?” demanded Holliday.
“I don't know what kind of deal, if any, the Kid has made with Hook Nose in exchange for his protection,” said Edison. “But it could be that Ned and I are at risk, since Hook Nose knows who we are and has doubtless figured out why we were inspecting the station.”
“I doubt it,” said Holliday. “He had plenty of opportunity to kill you on the train.”
“Let's hope you're right, because if I'm correct and the Kid's invulnerable to everything, there's no way we can stop him.”
“He can't have been this way for long,” said Buntline. “I mean, hell, he was in jail just a few months ago.”
“That figures,” said Holliday. “Hook Nose and Geronimo were partners a year ago.”
“Well,” said Edison with a shrug, “we can't worry about it. We'll just have to keep working until we can come up with a solution.”
“I just wish we'd been able to break off a board, a window, some part of the damned station so we'd have something to work with—or on,” said Buntline.
“If we could have broken it off, we wouldn't be back here in our labs trying to figure out how to destroy it,” said Edison logically.
“One thought has occurred,” said Buntline, “but I don't think Geronimo will permit it.”
“Oh? And what was that?”
“The Brass Mole, that we use to dig down in the silver mines. We could dig under the station and tracks and sink them into the earth and out of sight. But,” added Buntline with a grimace, “that might constitute our damaging consecrated ground. I mean, that is the reason he wants the station gone.”
“It would work, no question about it.” He turned to Holliday. “I don't suppose you could ask him?”
“He contacts me. I've no idea how to get hold of him.”
“Isn't he located half a day's ride south of here?”
Holliday shook his head. “He was, a little over a year ago. But it didn't look like a permanent camp then, and I'm sure it hasn't become one. Hell, he owns the Arizona territory; he can set up shop anywhere he wants. We're here on sufferance. If the Indians ever find any use for silver or cattle, they'll push us back to the other side of the Mississippi.”
“Until Tom finds a way to counteract their magic,” added Buntline.
“Unless, not until,” Edison corrected him.
Holliday walked to the door. “Thanks for the beer. No thanks for the explanation; I was a lot happier a few hours ago.”
“Yeah, truth can do that to you,” said Edison with a grim smile. “You off to gamble now?”
“If I could afford to gamble, I wouldn't have turned bounty hunter,” answered Holliday.
“Have a good night's sleep,” said Buntline.
“I'm not going to sleep.”
“And you're not gambling. Going back to the Wildcat, then?”
Holliday shrugged. “It all depends.”
“On what?”
“I'm off to find Mr. McCarty-Bonney-Antrim-whoever,” replied Holliday. “What better time to study the face of mine enemy than when neither of us can do the other any harm?”
And with that, he walked out into the warm Arizona night.
H
OLLIDAY STOPPED BY THE WILDCAT, and when there was no sign of the Kid, he went over to the Oriental Saloon, which had been the Earps' property until Wyatt and Virgil left town. It still felt like home to him. He walked through the swinging doors and looked around, half-expecting to see Wyatt or Morgan sitting at a table, or perhaps Ike Clanton, or one of the McLaury brothers, or Curly Bill Brocius standing at the bar. He smiled ironically as he remembered that of them all, only Wyatt was still alive, a mere year after he'd last set foot in the place. He nodded to the bartender, whom he didn't recognize, paid for a bottle and a glass, wandered over to an empty table, sat down, filled the glass, and pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket. He began playing solitaire, sipping his drink, studying each man who entered the place, very aware of the fact that he was invulnerable only to the Kid's bullets. He idly wondered how he'd do against the shorter Kid in a fistfight. Suddenly his body was wracked by a coughing seizure, he placed a handkerchief to his mouth, and when he had finished ninety seconds later the handkerchief was soaked with blood, as usual, and he admitted to himself that he probably couldn't beat a ten-year-old in a fistfight.
He was on his third game of solitaire, and his second glass of whiskey, when a voice said, “Black ten on the red queen.” He'd been concentrating so hard on the game that he'd lost track of his surroundings, and the comings and goings of the clientele. He looked up and found himself facing the Kid, who stood across the table from him.
“Black tens go on red jacks, not queens,” replied Holliday.
“You're Doc Holliday and I'm Billy the Kid,” came the answer. “Who can tell us where they go?”
“Can't argue with that,” said Holliday pleasantly.
“But you still haven't moved it.”
“To quote the most famous desperado in the West, I'm Doc Holliday,” said Holliday with a smile. “Who can tell me how to play?”
The Kid threw back his head and laughed. “Damn! I liked you from the start, Doc!” Then: “I can call you Doc, can't I?”
Holliday shrugged. “It's my name.” Another smile. “My only one. You seem to be collecting them.”
“The other names were my real one and my stepfather's and a bunch of aliases I had to dream up on short notice. But Billy the Kid is me.” He grinned. “At least until I'm a few years older.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Well, you've had an interesting start,” said Holliday. “If you're as good as they say, you might make it all the way to thirty. Now stop looming over me and have a seat.”
“Why thirty?” asked the Kid as he sat down opposite Holliday.
“That seems to be the expiration date for shootists.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Then you were wrong.”
Holliday shook his head. “You're the desperado. Me, I'm just a dentist with a cough.”
The Kid laughed again. “How many men have you killed, Doc?”
“Less than you've heard, I'm sure.”
“Forty? Fifty?”
“Now you're in John Wesley Hardin territory,”
“How many, then?”
“A lot less,” said Holliday. “And I never killed anyone who didn't deserve it.”
“Neither did I,” replied the Kid. “In fact, I never killed anyone who wasn't trying to kill me.”
“Including the deputies who were taking you to court?”
The Kid flashed him a quick abashed smile. “Well, almost anyone.”
“What the hell brought you out here in the first place?” asked Holliday. “I understand you're from New York City. That's a mighty long distance to travel.”
“I don't remember a damned thing about New York,” answered the Kid. “We moved to Kansas when I was three or four. Then my dad died, and the guy my mother married next moved us to New Mexico.”
“Good for longevity,” said Holliday. “They'd never let you kill so many men in New York.”
“They don't let me,” said the Kid irritably. “I just do it.” He frowned suddenly and shook his head. “That sounds wrong. I'm not an assassin or a madman. Hell, I never killed anyone until I was fifteen, and close to half the men I killed were in the Lincoln County War.”
“I heard about that,” said Holliday. “They say it got pretty vicious. They also say you were absolutely fearless, and a damned good shot.”
“Not as good as I should have been—or at least not as smart,” said the Kid. “I killed a sheriff and his deputy.” Then he shrugged. “It was their own fault for interfering in the War.”
“Don't be modest,” continued Holliday. “Most of our notorious shootists are lucky, not accurate. The only ones I'd trust to hit what they were aiming at would be Wild Bill Hickok, John Wesley Hardin, and Johnny Ringo. Of the three, two died young and one's in jail.”
“You mean the only ones besides you and me,” the Kid corrected him.
“We shot each other at point-blank range last night,” noted Holliday. “Are you dead? Wounded? Scratched?”
“We're both protected by our medicine men,” said the Kid. “You know that.” He paused. “Or anyway, you know it now. So do I.”
“But you didn't know it when you fired at me,” said Holliday.
“I suspected it. Remember: you fired first, and nothing happened.”
“Who's your sponsor, if I may use the word?” asked Holliday. “I suspect that it's Hook Nose.”
The Kid shook his head. “Some old geezer named Woo-Ka-Nay.”
“That is Hook Nose,” said Holliday. “Medicine man of the Southern Cheyenne. They say he and Geronimo of the Apaches are the two most powerful medicine men around. I've seen some of what they can do.”
“Geronimo,” repeated the Kid. “I thought he was their war chief.”
“No, he's a hell of a warrior, but his official job is medicine man. Their best war chief is Vittorio, though if he could do it full-time I'd wager Geronimo would be just as good, maybe even better.”
“Well, you live and learn,” said the Kid. “What does Geronimo want from you? He must want something to make bullets bounce off you.”
“They don't bounce off; they vanish. Check your clothing. There are no holes.”
The Kid shrugged. “Whatever.”
“He wants me to do a favor for him.”
“Something he can't do himself, no doubt?”
Holliday nodded. “Yes.”
“And he's paying you by making you in…inv…what the hell's the word?”
“Invulnerable.”
“Big goddamned word. So is that the deal?”
Holliday looked at the Kid for a long minute. You haven't figured it out yet, have you? Finally he spoke: “Yes, that's it.” Then: “How about you?”
“Seriously?” said the Kid. “I think he just wants me to kill more white men.”
“Nothing more explicit?”
“What's ‘explicit'?”
“Exact,” said Holliday, certain the Kid
wouldn't know “precise.”
“Not that I know of,” replied the Kid. “It's a fair enough deal. I'm in the cattle trade these days.”
“Stealing cattle?”
“Do I look like a farmer?” said the Kid with a laugh. “Anyway, my line of work gets dangerous from time to time, and I think he's protecting me so I can keep killing white men—and especially white lawmen.” Suddenly his boyish expression darkened. “And I've got one at the top of my list right now. It'll be the only time I've ever gone out hunting for someone; usually they call me out, or come after me when I'm working, either as a soldier or a cowboy.”
“Soldier.” “Cowboy.” I love the way you rationalize, even though you have no idea what rationalize means. “Who's the man you're after?” Holliday asked aloud, more to be polite than out of any serious curiosity, since he knew almost no one in New Mexico.
“A man I used to ride with,” said the Kid. “Then he became a lawman. I trusted the bastard, and he arrested me. I could have killed him when he approached me, and because I thought he was my friend I didn't.” His face clouded over. “I won't make that mistake again, you can bet your ass on it.”
“Has he got a name?”
“Pat Garrett,” said the Kid. “Sheriff Pat Garrett,” he added contemptuously.
“I'd heard, or maybe read, that Lew Wallace pardoned you,” said Holliday.
“The governor?” said the Kid. “Yeah, he did, provided I give him evidence on some other killers. Since I didn't ride with them, I gave it.”
“So if you were pardoned, why did this Garrett arrest you?” asked Holliday.
“I shot a few more lawmen,” said the Kid nonchalantly. “A couple of reporters were in court when I got sentenced. Didn't you read about it?”
“That you were sentenced?”
“What I said when I was sentenced.”
“I must have missed it,” said Holliday.
“The judge said to me, ‘William Bonney, you are sentenced to be hanged by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead!’” The Kid grinned. “And I said, ‘Judge, you can go to hell, hell, hell!’”
“Sounds like an interesting, if redundant, conversation,” remarked Holliday.
