The Doctor and the Rough Rider

by Mike Resnick

  As the words left his mouth, the squirrel morphed into a tall, well-muscled Apache warrior.

  “What does he want this time?” said Holliday irritably.

  “He says if what he thinks will happen does happen, it is essential that you remain here.”

  “Here in the alley, or here in Tombstone?”

  “Here. Not in Leadville.”

  “You tell him that Mr. Roosevelt is singularly equipped to take care of himself, and is younger and healthier than I am.”

  The warrior closed his eyes for a moment, and Holliday got the distinct impression that he was speaking silently with Geronimo.

  “He says this has nothing to do with Roosevelt.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Holliday.

  But he found he was speaking only to a rapidly retreating squirrel.

  HOLLIDAY WAS SITTING ALONE in the elegant bar of the Grand Hotel, drinking his lunch and playing a game of solitaire, when Masterson approached him.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  Holliday didn't look up from his card. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ask the bartender for a glass,” said Holliday. “Unless you want to drink from the bottle.”

  Masterson shook his head. “Too early in the day for me, Doc.”

  Holliday shrugged. “Good. There'll be more for me.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, Holliday continuing his solitaire game, Masterson looking more and more uncomfortable. Finally he cleared his throat and spoke up. “Doc, I have to talk to you.”

  “I'm right here,” said Holliday.

  “I'm thinking of going back to New York.”

  Now Holliday looked up. “Why?”

  “He doesn't need me. He's the most self-sufficient man I've ever met. He's always doing something. If he's not figuring out how Edison invents things, he's jogging around the city, or reading books, or sketching birds, or practicing with his pistol, or…hell, it makes me tired just describing it.”

  Holliday smiled. “Yeah, I've noticed that about him.”

  “He talks to me, because he's well mannered…but all he wants to talk about are sporting events I've seen and shootists I've known. I doubt that he thinks of me again the second I'm out of sight.” He sighed deeply. “He's got you riding shotgun for him now, and I've got a job back East. I gave all this up a couple of years ago.”

  “Geronimo's not going to turn you into a bat again,” said Holliday.

  “I know,” replied Masterson. “That's got nothing to do with it. I made a decision to walk out on this life, and I can feel myself getting sucked back in.”

  Suddenly Holliday grinned. “Now I understand.”

  “What's so funny?”

  “You heard him talking about War Bonnet,” said Holliday. “And you're afraid if you stick around a couple more days, your curiosity won't let you leave until you face him or whatever the hell it is.”

  “I repeat: everything I told you about Roosevelt is true.”

  “I know.”

  A guilty smile crossed Masterson's face. “But yeah, I'm dying to see War Bonnet.”

  “I'm kind of curious myself.”

  “I'm a writer now, Doc,” said Masterson. “I choose my words with a little care. And I'm not willing to die to see War Bonnet.”

  “How much worse can he be than some of the men you faced in Dodge or back in Texas?”

  “He's magical, Doc—and I'm still not through having nightmares about my last experience with Indian magic.” An involuntary shudder ran through him. “You don't know what it was like to turn into a giant bat—a giant hungry bat—every night at sundown, and wake up naked on some roof or balcony every morning.” He paused again, and Holliday could see the torment on his face. “I'm torn, Doc. Part of me wants to see this War Bonnet thing, maybe even face him, but part of me says to leave him to Geronimo's magic and go home while I can.”

  “Geronimo's magic won't work against him,” said Holliday.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He said so.”

  “Damn!” muttered Masterson. Then: “Well, hell, if Geronimo can't kill him, Theodore sure as blazes can't.”

  “Theodore won't be unarmed,” said Holliday.

  “From what he's described, bullets, even a shotgun, would just annoy War Bonnet.”

  “He won't face War Bonnet armed with just a pistol or a shotgun.”

  “What will he be carrying?” asked Masterson.

  Holliday shrugged. “Whatever Tom and Ned can create for him. Geronimo's magic won't work, but maybe Tom's will.”

  “And if not?”

  “Then I guess it's going to be a century or two before anyone plants the American flag on the Pacific shore.”

  “Well, at least he'll have you standing with him,” said Masterson.

  Holliday shook his head. “Geronimo tells me he's got something special planned for me.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don't know, but he seemed to imply that it was as deadly as War Bonnet, and more to the point, that no one else could face it.”

  “What the hell have we gotten ourselves into, Doc?” asked Masterson, frowning.

  “I'm going to die soon anyway, so it doesn't make much difference to me. But I think you've got the right idea: go back East and be a sportswriter.”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Masterson. “You don't think I can leave him to face War Bonnet alone now that I know he won't have Geronimo or you by his side, do you?”

  Masterson signaled for a glass, then filled it when the bartender brought it over, took a quick swallow, and made a face. “God, that's horrible stuff! How can you drink it this early in the day?”

  “My taste buds don't wake up 'til sunset,” answered Holliday.

  “That stuff'll kill you,” said Masterson.

  “It's better than what's killing me right now. Besides, I thought you were more worried about what might kill our Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “He's a very special young man, Doc. He'll never leave himself an escape route, because it'll never occur to him that he could fail at anything he tries to do.” A wry smile. “After all, he never has yet.”

  “What the hell was he doing in the Badlands anyway?” asked Holliday. “What makes a man with his credentials just walk away after he's not only been elected to office but risen right to the top so fast?”

  “His wife and his mother had died, and he wanted to get away from all the memories.”

  “What did they die of?”

  “I don't know about the mother,” replied Masterson, “but his wife died in childbirth.” Masterson shook his head sadly. “He must have loved her very much. He won't allow anyone to talk about her or even mention her name in his presence.”

  “In childbirth?”

  “Right.”

  “Lost the baby too, did he?” said Holliday, taking another drink. “Now I can understand why he left. Hell, that's three generations in one day.”

  “No, I gather she's still alive.”

  Holliday frowned. “He just walked out on her?”

  Masterson shook his head. “Doc, it was a newborn baby. There was no way he could take her out to the Badlands alone. He hired a wet nurse, and people to watch her, and when she can manage it I'm sure he'll send for her.” He paused thoughtfully. “Or maybe by then he'll be through playing at being a cowboy and writing this history of the West he's working on, and be ready to go back to New York. One or the other.”

  Holliday picked up the cards, shuffled them, and dealt himself another hand of solitaire. “Well, have a nice safe trip back East, Bat,” he said, staring at the cards and starting to manipulate them around the table.

  “Oh, hell, I'm not going anywhere,” muttered Masterson with a sigh.

  “I thought you just said—?”

  “That was before you told me you won't be backing him up.” Masterson cursed under his breath. “That little girl has already lost a mother. I don't aim to let her lose a father
too.”

  Holliday looked across the table at him for a long moment.

  “What are you staring at?” demanded Masterson.

  “You're a good man,” said Holliday. “We haven't always seen eye to eye, but you're a good man.”

  “Thanks,” replied Masterson. “I guess.”

  “Of course, you understand that all I'm really good at evaluating is teeth,” said Holliday with a sudden smile.

  Masterson laughed at that, and was still laughing when John Behan entered the bar, accompanied by three hard-looking men, all of them armed.

  “They let just anybody into the Grand these days,” said Holliday, staring at them.

  “The barber's been talking about what happened between us all over town,” said Behan angrily.

  “Nothing happened between us,” replied Holliday. “If it had, they'd be planting you in Boot Hill right about now.”

  “You've made me a laughing stock for the last time!” yelled Behan.

  “You're leaving town?” asked Holliday wryly. “Have a nice trip.”

  “I've had just about enough of you! You haven't got the Earps to protect you now.”

  “You've got it all wrong, Johnny,” said Holliday. “I protected them.”

  “But if it'll make any difference to you,” interjected Masterson, “I'm protecting him today.”

  Behan stared at him. “I know you.”

  “I'm flattered beyond belief,” replied Masterson.

  “You ran out of Tombstone with your tail between your legs once before,” said Behan. “We can make you do it again.”

  Masterson tensed, and his hand edged down below the table top toward his gun.

  “Johnny, go home and sleep it off before you do something even stupider than usual,” said Holliday.

  “I'm not drunk!” bellowed Behan. “I'm mad!”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For saying that,” answered Holliday. “Personally I could never tell the difference.”

  “You'll never change!” snapped Behan.

  “Don't say that too loud,” said Holliday. “You'll ruin Charlie Ho's day down at the laundry.”

  “I've had it with you and what you think is funny,” said Behan. “I want an apology for what happened in the barber shop, and while I'm thinking of it, I want another one for your behavior right here and now.”

  “That's a small enough thing to want,” replied Holliday. “Me, I'd like a million dollars, one of those robot chippies that used to work at Kate's place, and thirty years of good health.”

  “Are you going to apologize or not?” demanded Behan.

  “Not, I think.”

  Behan stepped off to a side and nodded to the three men. “He's all yours.”

  The three of them tensed and faced the table.

  “I'll take the three on the left,” said Holliday in conversational tones. “You take Behan.”

  “No,” replied Masterson. “I've already spotted two I don't like much.”

  “I'll bet they never thought when they woke up today that they'd be facing Doc Holliday and Bat Masterson,” said Holliday. “If they had any brains, they'd just shoot Johnny Behan for getting them into this fix and then turn around and walk out. I'll swear it was self-defense if you will.”

  “Oh, I don't know,” said Masterson. “I think it might be more fun to kill them. I haven't appeared in one of those dime novels for almost a year.”

  “That's because everyone you've faced has been dead for over a year. Come to think of it, I suppose you could use the practice.”

  As they spoke, the three men were getting visibly nervous. Finally one of them turned to Behan.

  “You just said you wanted us to put a scare into someone,” he said accusingly. “You never said we'd be facing Doc Holliday.”

  “And Bat Masterson,” said Masterson. “Don't forget Bat Masterson.”

  “Just shoot them, for Christ's sake!” screamed Behan.

  “An extra hundred apiece,” said another.

  “Go for it, Johnny,” said Holliday easily. “They're not going to live long enough to collect it.”

  “Fuck it!” said the first of the men. He turned to Behan. “Fuck it and fuck you!”

  He held his arms out so they could see he wasn't reaching for his gun, and walked out into the lobby. The other two men followed him.

  “Nice try, Johnny,” said Holliday. Suddenly his smile vanished. “Next time I'll kill you, and that's a promise.”

  Behan glared at him for a moment, then turned and walked out of the bar.

  “Keep an eye on them, Bat,” said Holliday as the four men walked out into the street. “They don't look like they care whether they draw on our fronts or our backs.”

  Two of the men and Behan immediately crossed the dusty street, but the third lingered outside the hotel. Finally he began walking by the bar's window, then turned and drew his pistol—but before he could fire a shot, and before Holliday or Masterson had fired their own weapons, a lean, muscular body hurled itself upon the gunman, knocking him down. He got to his feet just in time to be on the receiving end of a left hook that put him back down on the wooden sidewalk, this time for the count.

  “Well, I'll be!” exclaimed Roosevelt as Holliday and Masterson rushed out of the hotel. “I knew this blaggard was going to backshoot somebody, but I had no idea it was you two.”

  “What the hell were you doing here?” asked Holliday.

  “I've been jogging at noontime,” answered Roosevelt. “The morning bird-watching is too good to skip.”

  “I see you're growing a mustache,” noted Holliday.

  “Might as well,” replied Roosevelt. “I've got no one to kiss out here.”

  Holliday looked across the street and saw Behan glaring at him from perhaps fifty yards away. The other two gunmen were nowhere to be seen.

  “So, shall we carry this fellow off to the jailhouse?” asked Roosevelt.

  Holliday shook his head. “No.”

  “He just tried to kill you, Doc!”

  “He has friends, and even an employer of sorts,” answered Holliday. “Someone would make his bail before nightfall.”

  “Do you just propose to leave him lying here until he wakes up?” asked Roosevelt disapprovingly.

  “No,” said Holliday, kneeling down next to the man. “I think we'll fine him.”

  “Fine him?” repeated Roosevelt.

  Holliday took the man's gun from where it had fallen and tucked it in his belt, then pulled out the man's wallet and relieved it of all its cash.

  “Okay,” said Holliday, standing up again. “Justice is served.”

  Roosevelt flashed him a grin that would someday become famous. “I guess it has been, at that,” he said.

  “OKAY,” SAID BUNTLINE. “So you say he's how tall?”

  He was standing in Edison's office, facing Roosevelt, Holliday, and Masterson, who were seated on various chairs and couches. Edison sat at his desk, taking notes.

  “How tall is the ceiling?” asked Holliday.

  “I'd say eight feet.”

  “Then he's taller than twelve feet. A few more feet.”

  “And what is he built like?” continued Buntline. “I don't mean the flames. I mean, is he lean? Burly? Something else?”

  “He's pretty well-muscled,” replied Roosevelt. “Rather like a heavyweight boxer, but without carrying any excess weight.”

  “All right,” said Buntline, seating himself on a wooden chair at the corner of the desk and writing some figures on a piece of paper. Finally he looked up. “From your descriptions, I make him twelve feet high, possibly as tall as fourteen feet.”

  Roosevelt nodded. “That seems about right.”

  “And given the build you tell me he's got, he would go from seven hundred fifty to nine hundred pounds.”

  “That much?” asked Masterson, wide-eyed.

  “That's right,” confirmed Buntline.

  “That just doesn't sound right.�
��

  “Bat, how tall are you?”

  “Five feet eight,” came the answer.

  “And what do you weigh?”

  “Maybe one hundred fifty pounds.”

  “And what does a heavyweight boxer who stands six feet tall weigh?” asked Buntline with a smile.

  “It varies,” said Masterson uncomfortably.

  “But he could weigh two hundred pounds without anyone calling him fat?”

  “Yes, he could,” conceded Masterson.

  “That's a difference of fifty pounds in just four inches,” said Buntline. “Do you really think adding six hundred or seven hundred pounds while adding six to eight feet is so far-fetched?”

  “No,” admitted Masterson. “No, I guess it's not. In fact, when you put it that way, an extra six hundred pounds would probably have him looking skinny as a rail.”

  “Which brings up another question,” continued Buntline. “How does he get from here to there?”

  “From here to there?” repeated Roosevelt, frowning.

  “If he appears in, say, a Southern Cheyenne village two hundred miles away,” said Buntline, lighting up a cigar and using an ashtray of his super-hardened brass, “and he doesn't magic himself from there to here, how does he get here? I guarantee no thousand-pound horse is going to carry him for more than half a mile or so.”

  “I suppose he travels by magic,” said Roosevelt. “And why not?” he added. “Geronimo conjured up an image of him, which was clearly magic…and his physical attributes, from his size to his flaming hands, would seem to be magic too.”

  “I wish I knew just how hot those flames are,” said Buntline. “And if he can fire them like bullets, or at least flaming arrows, or if he had to reach out and grab you with them.”

  “Either way they're gonna be hot,” offered Holliday dryly.

  “It makes a difference, Doc,” replied Buntline. “I can make some super-hardened armor for Theodore, and even for his horse—but don't forget that I shape it in a special oven at very high temperatures, and if War Bonnet can match those temperatures, he can totally enclose Theodore in melted brass.”

  “Not quite the suit of armor I've always imagined,” remarked Roosevelt wryly.