by Mike Resnick
Johnny Taylor went for his gun, but it was too late. Holliday fired another shot before his gun had cleared his holster, and he was dead before he hit the ground.
“Damn!” muttered Holliday, holstering his gun and pulling out his handkerchief as he felt another coughing seizure coming on. Isn't one of you ever going to be good enough to put me out of my misery?
“Don't turn around, Doc,” said a deep voice from behind him. “Hands in the air. Reach for your gun and you'll still have one hand left to vote for me come reelection time.”
Holliday tensed.
“Don't even think of it, Doc. I'm not one of those kids you just killed.”
Holliday raised his hands and turned to face his newest antagonist, a tall man with a gun in each hand.
“Sheriff Milt Andrews,” he introduced himself. “And you, sir, are under arrest for murder.”
“If you're here this quick, you saw what happened,” said Holliday. “Those two were waiting for me.”
“No question about it.”
“They were here to kill me, not talk to me,” continued Holliday.
“Anything's possible,” agreed Andrews. “But neither of them pulled a gun, and we got enough people coming out now because of the sound of the gunshots that I won't be the only one to testify that they both died with their guns in their holsters.”
“You saw it!” said Holliday angrily. “You know it was self-defense.”
“I saw it,” echoed Andrews. “And if I wasn't Billy Allen's uncle, I might even agree with you. Now let's go on over to the jail.” Holliday coughed again. Andrews waited until he was done and then shot him a cold, humorless smile. “I'll have Kate Elder send over a supply of your handkerchiefs, since I don't figure you're getting out anytime soon.”
HOLLIDAY OPENED HIS EYES.
He was lying on his cot, it was still dark out, and the deputy who'd drawn the graveyard shift was two rooms away, snoring peacefully. He swung his feet to the stone floor, massaged the back of his neck with his long delicate fingers, and blinked his eyes a few times. He started to reach inside his coat for his flask, then remembered that it had been taken from him, along with his gun, when he'd been arrested.
He pulled his watch out of a vest pocket by its gold chain and opened it. It was four thirty in the morning, and as far as he knew the whole damned town was asleep. So why the hell was he awake?
He felt very uneasy, finally got his eyes to focus, and studied his surroundings—and then he saw it, perched between the iron bars on the ledge of his window.
“Don't you get tired of pretending to be birds and animals?” he said.
The bird spread its wings and leaped lightly to the floor. By the time it landed, it had morphed into an Indian—a very familiar Indian.
“I hope to hell you didn't come to gloat,” said Holliday. “I've got a hangover and my head's splitting open.”
“Your head is intact,” announced the Indian with certainty.
“Figure of speech,” said Holliday. He stared at the Indian. “Well?”
“We have serious matters to discuss, Holliday,” said the Indian.
“Lower your voice,” said Holliday. “If the guy at the desk hears us, he's going to come over to see who I'm talking to, and when he finds out it's Geronimo himself, he'll blow you to Kingdom Come.”
Geronimo shook his head. “He will not awaken.”
“You killed him?”
“No. But he will sleep until we are through with our business.”
“I thought we were through with our business a year and a half ago,” said Holliday.
“No,” said Geronimo. “That was your business; this is mine. Do you remember that I told you there was one White Eyes among your race that I could treat with?”
“Yes.”
“He has now crossed the great river, which you call the Mississippi.”
“And now the medicine men will end their spell or curse or whatever the hell it is and let the United States expand to the Pacific?” said Holliday.
“It will not be that easy,” said Geronimo.
“Somehow it never is,” said Holliday with a sigh. “Damn! I wish I had my flask.” He stared at Geronimo. “I don't suppose the greatest of all the Apache medicine men would care to magic it to me?”
Geronimo shook head. “You will have access to such things soon enough.”
“You're breaking me out of here?” asked Holliday eagerly.
“I will break nothing.”
“You know what I mean,” said Holliday. “Don't play word games with a man who's got a hangover.”
The Indian stared at him expressionlessly for a moment, then walked over and sat down at the end of the cot. “Holliday, I am willing to make my peace with the White Eyes.”
“Good,” said Holliday, certain that nothing was quite that easy.
“There is one man, a man of courage and character, that I will treat with, and no one else.”
“So you said.”
“He will not come because I ask him,” continued Geronimo.
“Do I know him?” asked Holliday.
Geronimo shook his head. “No. I doubt that you have ever even heard his name mentioned.”
Holliday frowned, trying to follow the Indian's line of reasoning. “Then why should he come for me any more than he'd come for you?”
“He will not.”
“Then—”
“But he will come because your friend asks him, and it is not in his nature to refuse a challenge.”
“My friend?” repeated Holliday, frowning.
“The man Masterson.”
“Bat Masterson?” said Holliday, and Geronimo nodded his head. “We're not exactly friends, him and me. We just find ourselves on the same side most of the time, thanks to Wyatt Earp. He and Wyatt are lawmen, or at least they were. And Wyatt and I are friends.” Or at least we were, he added silently.
“Nonetheless, it is he who knows and has befriended the man I seek, and he who will convince that man to come to my lodge.”
“Bat's not out here any longer,” said Holliday. “He gave up being a lawman to become a sportswriter—a newspaperman. He's up in New York, covering horse races and boxing matches and this new baseball game.”
“That is where he met the man I must speak to,” said Geronimo with absolute certainty.
Holliday was going to ask how he knew that, and then realized the silliness of doubting a warrior who could change into an animal or back into a man on a half second's notice. Instead he said: “Who is this miracle man? Grant and Sherman are dead, and George Custer turned out to be a fool.”
“He is a very young man, but he is already the most accomplished of the White Eyes.”
“If he's that accomplished, what if he's too busy to come?” asked Holliday.
“He will come because his curiosity will overwhelm his reluctance. He will want to see all the wonders that Edison and Buntline are famous for. Further, he has forsaken the crowded cities of the White Eyes to live on this side of the river, and he will realize instantly that to refuse my offer is to keep his country forever confined to the other side of the river.”
“If he's all that special, maybe I've heard of him after all,” said Holliday. “What's his name?”
“Roosevelt.”
“Is that a first or a last name?”
“It is his name.”
“Thanks,” said Holliday sardonically. “I've never heard of any Roosevelt. How many men has he killed?”
“None.”
“What is he, some kind of preacher or religious leader?”
“No,” said Geronimo.
“A scientist like Tom Edison?”
“No.”
“And he's the only one you'll treat with?”
“That is correct.”
“Must be a hell of a man,” said Holliday. “What's he done?”
“Masterson will tell you,” answered Geronimo.
“Why not you?”
“I know
his aura, not his accomplishments.”
“His aura?”
Geronimo nodded. “All men have them. Yours is black, for the death you bring and the death that awaits you.”
“And his?”
Geronimo merely stared at him.
“Okay, okay, it must be pretty damned bright if you can spot it from two thousand miles away.”
“He must come to my lodge.”
“You mean the one near Tombstone, down in the Arizona Territory?” asked Holliday.
“Yes. And he must come quickly.”
“Well, now, we have a little problem in that regard,” said Holliday. Geronimo looked at him quizzically. “In case it has escaped your attention, I am sitting in a cell in the Leadville Jail. I can't contact him from here.”
There was an instant of extreme cold and total darkness, and suddenly Holliday found himself in the Leadville telegraph office.
“You can send a message from here,” said Geronimo, appearing beside him.
“We still have a problem.”
The Indian stared at him, frowning. “What is it?”
“I don't have any money to pay for sending it. My wallet is back in the jail, along with my gun and my flask.”
Geronimo closed his eyes and tensed, and suddenly Holliday felt somehow different. He ran his hands over his hips and torso and found that his wallet was once again in his lapel pocket and his pistol rested comfortably in its holster.
“What about my whiskey?” he asked.
“First the message.”
“There's no one to give it to, and I don't know how to work the machine.”
Geronimo closed his eyes briefly a second time, and when he opened them, a telegraph operator, still in his nightshirt, looking totally confused and more than a little bit frightened, sat at his desk.
“Don't be afraid, son,” said Holliday. “It's all perfectly normal, except for the magic and the jailbreak and the Indian. I want to send a message.”
The young man gulped and nodded.
“To Bat Masterson, in care of the Daily Telegraph,” began Holliday.
“Where is that, sir?” asked the operator.
“New York City,” replied Holliday. “Dear Bat: Got a situation here that may result in ending the barrier that exists at the Mississippi.”
The operator, his eyes wide, began tapping away. “Really, sir?” he asked.
“It all depends on whether he believes me or not,” replied Holliday. “Continuing: It is essential that you bring your friend Roosevelt to Tombstone as quickly as possible. I can't tell you more until you get here, but your safety has been guaranteed by a man whose abilities are not unknown, especially to you.” He paused. “Okay, sign it ‘Doc Holliday’ and send it.”
The operator finished the message and put it on the wire.
“Now, how much do I owe you?” asked Holliday, pulling out his wallet, but he found himself speaking to an empty chair.
“He is back in his bed,” announced Geronimo. “When he awakes, he will remember nothing.”
Holliday nodded his approval.
“Will Masterson come?” continued Geronimo.
Holliday shrugged. “I suppose so. He'll figure out that you've guaranteed his safety, and he of all people knows what you can do. After all, you're the one who turned him into an oversized bat.”
“He killed one of my warriors.”
“After your warrior attacked him.”
“He must come,” said Geronimo, ignoring what Holliday had said, “And soon.”
“Why soon?” asked Holliday. “I mean, as long as you've decided to end the spell and let us expand to the Pacific, what difference does it make whether he gets here in a month or a year?”
“I may be dead before a year has passed,” answered Geronimo.
Holliday studied him briefly. “I know I'm a dentist and not a physician, but I'd say you look pretty healthy to me.”
“I will not die from disease.”
Holliday arched an eyebrow and waited for Geronimo to continue. “The other medicine men, those of the other tribes, do not want to end the spell or treat with the White Eyes. When they know I am planning this, they will create a creature such as has never been seen before, and send it out to kill me and those who stand with me. That is why it must be soon. Even with my powers, I cannot evade the creature or hold it at bay for long.”
“Why are you so sure they'll create such a creature at all?” asked Holliday.
Geronimo stared at him for a long moment. “Because I would,” he said grimly.
MASTERSON STROLLED INTO THE RUNNING STAG tavern on Medora's main street and walked up to the bar, which boasted an impressive set of antlers hanging just above the mirrors.
“What'll it be, sir?”
“Make it a beer.”
“Coming right up.” The bartender stared at him for a moment. “Ain't I seen you before?”
“I doubt it,” replied Masterson. “This is my first trip to Dakota.”
“You ain't seen him,” said the lone customer, a gray-bearded man sitting at a table. “But you seen his picture.” He turned to Masterson. “You're Bat Masterson, ain't you?”
Masterson nodded.
“I heard you gave up being a lawman and went to New York to be a writer,” said the man. “What brings you to Medora?”
“I'm looking for a local resident.”
“Got to be the Marquis de Mores or young Roosevelt,” said the man. “Can't imagine there's anyone else out here that anyone would want to see.”
“It's Roosevelt,” Masterson confirmed.
“Figgers.”
“Because he's American?”
“'Cause he's a lawman too, like you used to be.”
Masterson frowned. “A lawman? I hadn't heard.”
“The best,” said the man. “Makes your pal Wyatt Earp look like a beginner.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I would,” said the bearded man. “But my throat's gone dry, and I probably can't get all the words out.”
Masterson smiled and turned to the bartender. “A pitcher of beer for the table,” he said, walking over and sitting down.
“Well, that's damned generous of you, Mr. Masterson.”
“Bat,” said Masterson.
“Bat,” repeated the man. “And I'm Jacob Finnegan.” He extended a gnarled hand, and Masterson shook it. “Can't say I blame you for hightailing it back to New York. I been reading all about you in those dime novels.”
“Most of it never happened,” said Masterson as the bartender deposited the pitcher on the table.
“Go ahead,” said Finnegan. “Ruin an old man's dreams.”
“I'll do my best to,” replied Masterson with a smile.
Finnegan laughed. “I like you, Bat Masterson! You're good with a gun, you ain't afraid to face a desperado or two, and even though you're a writer I can pretty much understand you. Your pal Roosevelt uses some of the biggest damned words anyone ever heard.”
“He'll lose that habit fast enough,” said Masterson. “He needed it for his last job.”
“And what was that?”
“He was the youngest Minority Leader in the history of the New York legislature.”
Finnegan took a swallow of his beer. “That don't sound right. He's still a young man, I'd say no more than twenty-five or twenty-six.”
“That's about right.”
Finnegan frowned, and stopped to pet a dog that had wandered in beneath the swinging doors. “Must have taken a terrible whooping at the polls to wind up out here.”
Masterson shook his head. “He didn't lose. He quit.”
“Hah! They're as corrupt as we always thought, right?”
“Probably,” replied Masterson with a smile. “But that had nothing to do with it. His wife and his mother died something like ten hours apart, both in his house, one of disease, one in childbirth. He dearly loved both of them, and didn't want to stay there with all his memories.”
“S
o he brung his memories out to the Badlands?” said Finnegan. “That don't make no sense.”
“He's a complex man.”
“He's a determined one, anyway,” said Finnegan. “You heard about the three killers he brung back?”
Masterson shook his head. “No. Tell me about them.”
“He just don't do nothing in a small way,” began Finnegan. “It wasn't enough that he bought two ranches…” His voice trailed off as he searched his pockets, found a small piece of jerky, and tossed it to the dog.
“Two?” said Masterson, surprised.
“Your pal thinks big. Anyway, he volunteered to be the local deputy. Refused to take any money for it. Wore that damned star everywhere. We figured he just wanted it the way a woman wants a pin or a necklace, but then a trio of killers done their evil deeds and Roosevelt went after them. I don't know where he was when he heard about it, but he didn't have no gun with him, and he decided not to waste time getting one, so he just started riding in the worst blizzard you ever saw. We get bad winters up here, really terrible ones, but we never had nothing like this. ‘The Winter of the Blue Snow,’ the local paper called it.”
“Evocative name,” commented Masterson.
“Whatever ‘evocative’ means,” replied Finnegan, reaching down to gently push the dog away. “Go on, pooch. I ain't got no more.” The dog ducked around his hand and remained where he was. “Anyway,” continued Finnegan, “he eventually caught up with 'em, beat the crap out of them, took away their guns, and marched 'em all the way to Dickenson. Must have been fifty miles through that blizzard. They took turns sleeping, but he didn't dare nod off. Says he read this huge novel by this Russian guy, and when that was done he read some dime novels about you and the Earps and that Holliday guy, and somehow he stayed awake for three days and nights, until he finally delivered his prisoners.”
Masterson nodded his head. “Yeah, that sounds like Theodore.”
“Okay, you know him,” said Finnegan. Masterson looked at him curiously. “He hates to be called Teddy.”
“That he does,” agreed Masterson. “You got any idea where I can find him?”
