The Doctor and the Rough Rider

by Mike Resnick

  “You do not understand,” said Geronimo.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “War Bonnet was created to kill Roosevelt and me. That is his sole purpose. His every thought is to kill us. His every defense is to protect himself against us. His every skill is a skill that is required for killing us.” Geronimo paused and continued staring at Holliday. “He was not created to kill you.”

  “Well, now, I find that very interesting and almost worth being sober for,” said Holliday. “Are you saying that anyone but you or Roosevelt can kill him?”

  Geronimo shook his head. “No. He is a monster, created and powered by magic.”

  “Then what the fuck are you talking about?” demanded Holliday irritably.

  “You have faced many men who were stronger that you, many who were better with their weapons, many who had no fear of you. Every man you ever faced was stronger and healthier than you. And yet you have always emerged alive and triumphant.” He paused. “You do not have to kill War Bonnet. It is entirely possible that you cannot. But it is equally possible that he cannot or will not kill you, and when you return, you can report on everything you saw, everything you experienced.”

  “He's twenty feet high and made of fire,” said Holliday. “What do you mean, he can't kill me?”

  “I said he might be unable to kill you,” replied Geronimo. “Possibly he is constructed only to kill myself and Roosevelt. Possibly he recognizes no other enemy.”

  “And possibly he likes killing, no matter who,” said Holliday.

  “That is true,” agreed Geronimo.

  “Then why in the world should I risk my life, and probably piss it away, just to get you some information?”

  “Your remaining life is of very short duration,” began Geronimo.

  “That's not a very telling argument,” answered Holliday.

  “If you die, you will suffer no more than you will suffer at your lodge in the mountains of Colorado,” continued Geronimo. “And if you live, I can foresee you having two very fortunate nights at the place you call the Oriental.”

  “I'll win big?” said Holliday. “How much?”

  Geronimo merely shrugged.

  “Well, what the hell, however much or little, it beats losing. And I don't suppose getting torn apart or set on fire is any worse than spending a final month or two gasping for air and not quite getting it.” Holliday grimaced, then sighed. “Okay, I'm your huckleberry.”

  “It is agreed, then.”

  “Uh…before you go, where do I find War Bonnet?”

  “He will not exist, not in a form that is meaningful to you, for three more days,” answered Geronimo. “When that time comes, I will instruct you where to find him.”

  “You might also instruct me about what hurts him, or keeps him at bay.”

  “If I knew that, I would not be sending you.”

  “How comforting,” said Holliday, but even as the words left his mouth he realized he was speaking to an empty room.

  HOLLIDAY APPROACHED EDISON'S HOUSE. Long before he reached the door, it swung open and Edison's voice welcomed him in. He entered, walked into the living room, and waited for Edison to come out of his lab and greet him.

  “How are you, Doc?”

  “I've been better,” replied Holliday. A wry smile. “Of course, that was a long time ago.”

  “What can I do for you?” asked Edison.

  “Plenty. But before we start talking, call Ned in here. No sense repeating it all to him.”

  Edison frowned, but went back to his lab and summoned Buntline on the primitive communication system he'd installed between the two houses. Buntline entered the living room a moment later, chewing on a sandwich and carrying a beer.

  “Hi, Doc,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Plenty,” said Holliday. “But not to eat.”

  “Have a seat, Ned,” said Edison. “I think Doc's got something important to tell us.”

  “Important to me, anyway,” said Holliday.

  Both men sat at opposite ends of a couch and stared at him expectantly.

  “I've just had a visit from Geronimo,” began Holliday.

  “What did he want?”

  “He wants me to face War Bonnet.”

  “What?” shouted Buntline. “He'd better make up his damned mind about who this creature is being created to kill.”

  “Nothing's changed,” said Holliday. “War Bonnet has been or is being created for the sole purpose of killing Roosevelt and Geronimo.”

  “Then I don't understand,” growled Buntline.

  “I think I'm beginning to,” said Edison, leaning forward.

  “Good!” said Buntline. “Then one of you two can explain it to me.”

  “Let me take a guess,” said Edison.

  “Go right ahead,” replied Holliday.

  “He wants you to face War Bonnet because War Bonnet was not created with you in mind. At the most extreme, and this probably isn't the case, he is immune only to Theodore's bullets and blows, and Geronimo's spells, and at the same time, he is deadly only in combat against Theodore or Geronimo.” He paused and looked at Holliday. “Am I close?”

  “You're close. He doesn't guarantee that anyone is safe facing War Bonnet, but he's sure that I'll be safer than him or Roosevelt.”

  “It's possible,” agreed Edison.

  “I still cut and I still bleed,” said Holliday. “How the hell safe can I be?”

  “Is Geronimo protecting you with some kind of spell?” asked Buntline.

  “He didn't say so,” responded Holliday. “Besides, I have to think if there's one thing his spells are useless against, it's War Bonnet.”

  “So...you're off to face War Bonnet, and you want...what?” asked Buntline. “Weapons? Protection?”

  “Maybe a train back East,” replied Holliday with a wry smile.

  “I'm being serious, Doc,” said Buntline. “Have you made up your mind to face him?”

  “Geronimo's made up his mind,” said Holliday. “I suppose it comes to the same thing.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Geronimo?”

  Buntline shook his head. “No, War Bonnet?”

  “Who the hell knows? I assume Geronimo will be more than happy to direct me.” He sighed deeply. “I'd like to survive it. I'm not afraid to die—in fact, I've been busy doing it for years—but I hate to do it at the hand of a monster that isn't even interested in me.”

  “We'll do what we can to protect you,” said Edison. “Is there anything new you can tell us, anything you can add to what we already know?”

  “Or think we know,” added Buntline, finally finishing his sandwich.

  “Not much,” said Holliday. “It's all guesswork. All Geronimo knows is that War Bonnet can kill him and Roosevelt for sure, but he can only kill the rest of the world maybe.”

  “Well, let's put our heads together, figure out what won't work, and concentrate on what's left,” said Edison.

  Holliday frowned. “I don't follow you.”

  “War Bonnet was made to face Geronimo and Theodore, right?” said Edison. “So, if he's the threat Geronimo thinks he is, and he's a magical being, he must be immune to anything those two can throw at him.”

  “Of course, being immune to magic is academic,” said Buntline. “But it makes sense that he's immune to that rifle Theodore favors.”

  “In fact, War Bonnet could be immune to all bullets and shells,” said Edison. “I know Theodore doesn't have much confidence in his six-gun, he's said as much to me, but the medicine men don't know that, and could assume he'll come with pistols blazing.”

  “Which brings up an interesting question,” said Buntline. “Is he immune to all bullets, or just those fired by Roosevelt?”

  “It's a possibility,” replied Edison. “But not one Doc will want to bet his life on.”

  “So what weapons can we provide that neither Theodore nor Geronimo will ever use?” said Buntline.

  “Well, there's acid,
of course,” said Edison. “But what if he swipes at it with his hand? If it's made of flame, it may not have any substance at all. Acid might go through it like water. If there is some substance, he still may not feel any pain, and could spill it all over Doc.”

  “We can attach it to an arrow and have Doc fire it from a safe distance,” replied Buntline.

  Holliday shook his head. “Won't work. I haven't had the strength to pull a bow back far enough to shoot an arrow home since I was a teenager.”

  The two older men fell silent for a moment, and then Buntline looked up. “I've got it!” he exclaimed.

  “What?” asked Holliday.

  “Nitroglycerin!” said Buntline, excited. “We'll blow that son of a bitch all the way back to wherever he came from.” Edison seemed to be considering it, and Buntline continued: “Tom, is there a way to coat Doc's bullets with it so they explode when they hit War Bonnet?”

  Edison shook his head. “Coat his bullets and they'll explode inside his gun when he pulls the trigger.”

  “Damn!” said Buntline. “I thought I had something there.”

  “Maybe you do,” replied Edison. “But it requires Doc to control where they meet.” He turned to Holliday. “If you can choose the site, we can salt it with nitro containers so you can shoot them from a safe distance, hopefully when War Bonnet is standing right next to them.”

  “I've seen nitro kill men who took a bad step while they were carrying it to the mines outside Leadville,” replied Holliday. “How the hell do I get it to wherever I'm going, riding a horse over rough terrain?”

  “I can give you the constituent parts, and you will mix it carefully—very carefully—once you get to where you're going,” answered Edison.

  “I don't know,” said Holliday dubiously. “If this War Bonnet is magical…”

  “Didn't Geronimo say he was created to face only Roosevelt and Geronimo?” said Buntline. “It's possible that he's immune to anything they can use against him, but that you can use the very same things successfully.”

  “All right,” conceded Holliday. “I don't know why I'm worried about dying fast. But just in case this doesn't work, I'd like some alternatives.”

  “How much time have we got?” asked Edison.

  “Until Geronimo tells me that War Bonnet is here.”

  “We'll spend the rest of the day and night coming up with possible weapons,” continued Edison, “but it's also essential that we give you some defenses.”

  “I suppose I could accept that.”

  “I can make you some incredibly strong armor, something that'll resist anything even a thirty-foot-tall giant has to offer,” said Buntline. “But I doubt that you'd be able to lift it, let alone walk a step in it.”

  “You'd be surprised how much I can't lift,” said Holliday dryly.

  “I just thought of another potential weakness we'll have to address,” said Buntline.

  “Oh?”

  Buntline nodded. “I assume you're not going to meet him at the O.K. Corral.”

  “A fair assumption,” said Holliday, wondering what Buntline was getting at.

  “So you'll meet him out in the desert.”

  “I'd assume so.”

  “So you ride twenty miles out of town to meet him, and he finds that either for reasons having to do with the conditions of his creation, or the defenses we've supplied you with, he can't hurt you. He hits you with all his might, and you don't feel it. He stabs you with a knife, and the blade never breaks the skin.”

  “I like it already,” said Holliday.

  “You won't,” Buntline assured him.

  “Okay, why not?”

  “Because he kills your horse, empties your canteen, and goes back to wherever he came from. Doc, you can't walk a mile on a cool day with all the water in the world. How are you going to walk twenty miles back to town across a hot desert with nothing to drink?”

  “Well, I liked it until then,” replied Holliday.

  “So,” concluded Buntline, “it's not enough that we arm and protect you. We're going to have to protect your horse.”

  “Maybe he's not bright enough to think of that,” said Holliday.

  “Maybe he isn't,” agreed Buntline. “But do you want to bet your life on it?”

  “I don't want to seem ungrateful,” said Holliday, “but nobody knows anything! Geronimo doesn't know, Roosevelt doesn't know, and you don't know—and I've been elected to face this thing and see how fast he can kill his enemies. I'm headed off to the Oriental for a drink.”

  “I can understand your frustration,” said Edison.

  “I doubt it,” replied Holliday irritably as he got up and walked to the door. “You don't have to see how fast War Bonnet can kill you so Roosevelt and Geronimo can prepare for him.”

  “All right,” said Edison, electing not to argue with him. “If we come up with something tonight, I'll send word to the Oriental, and if you're not there, we'll leave a message at the Grand's desk. Otherwise, come by tomorrow at noon and we'll go over what we've come up with.”

  “And if Geronimo calls me sooner?” said Holliday.

  “Then stop by on your way out of town and we'll give you what we have.”

  Holliday seemed about to say something, thought better of it, and walked out into the street. He saw a jackrabbit lingering near the corner and stared at it.

  “If I thought you were anything but what you look like, I'd blow your damned head off,” he said, and turned and walked to the Oriental.

  He'd calmed down by the time he arrived, short of breath and coughing more blood. Henry Wiggins was there and waved him over to his table.

  “Hi, Doc,” he said. “You're here early, aren't you?”

  “Don't you start on me, Henry,” growled Holliday.

  “Me?” asked Wiggins, surprised. “What did I say?”

  Holliday sighed deeply. “Nothing, Henry. It's just been that kind of a day.” He signaled for his bottle. “Tomorrow will probably be even worse.”

  The bartender showed up with the bottle and a glass, and Holliday promptly filled it to the top.

  “By the way, I like your friend Roosevelt,” offered Wiggins.

  “Most people do,” said Holliday. “That's his job.”

  “His job?” repeated Wiggins.

  “Making people like him. He's a politician.”

  “He's a lot more than that,” said Wiggins.

  “Oh?”

  “I had lunch with him at the Grand. He's a bird expert—”

  “Ornithologist,” Holliday corrected him.

  “And a taxidermist, and an author, and a boxer, and no end of things. Did you know that he's writing a series of books on the taming of the West? I imagine you'll be one of the stars.”

  “Or one of the villains.”

  “Don't be silly, Doc. He's your friend.”

  “He's everyone's friend. That's what politicians do and are.”

  “Then he's not destined to be much of a politician,” said Wiggins. “I think there are a lot of things that young man wouldn't do to get elected, and lying is one of them.”

  Holliday suddenly stared at the ceiling. “Let's see if he lives long enough to run for office again.”

  “Is someone after him?” asked Wiggins.

  “You never know.”

  “What are you staring at, Doc?”

  “There's a bat up there.”

  “So what? There are bats in all the rafters in town.”

  “Yeah,” said Holliday, “but this one's staring at me, and it's broad daylight.”

  “That is unusual, isn't it?” said Wiggins.

  Holliday stood up. “Henry, I have to leave. The bottle's yours.”

  “Are you okay, Doc?” asked Wiggins.

  “So far,” replied Holliday, and then added: “But it's early yet.”

  He knew he wouldn't be approached in the street, so he walked around the building and went into the alley behind it. The bat fluttered out through a door a moment later, an
d a few seconds after that Holliday was staring into Geronimo's eyes.

  “He walks, he breathes,” said Geronimo.

  “When does he get here?”

  “He comes from the land of the Tsistsistas.”

  Holliday frowned. “The Tsistsistas?” he repeated.

  “You call them the Cheyenne.”

  “It makes sense,” said Holliday. “After all, you killed Hook Nose. When does he get here?”

  “It takes him no time to get from there to here.”

  “He's here now?”

  “He is between Tombstone and my southern lodge, waiting for Roosevelt or myself to ride out and challenge him.”

  “So instead you're sending the sacrificial lamb,” said Holliday, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

  “Remember: there is a reward.”

  “I hope I can collect it in hell,” said Holliday.

  HOLLIDAY HATED HORSES. He thought he'd hated them all his life, back to when he was growing up in Georgia, and horses meant cavalry, and cavalry meant more Union soldiers. He wasn't sure about that, but he knew he'd hated them ever since he'd come out West and had to start riding them.

  He knew Masterson loved horse racing, and went into rhapsodies over Hindoo and Aristides and some of the other equine champions, but he had no use for them, and only a grudging use for saddle horses. In his mind, horses were good for one thing: pulling wagons, surries, coaches, anything with four wheels.

  So of course he was mounted on a bay gelding, heading out across the desert, an ugly, barren land that everyone he knew from Wyatt Earp to Theodore Roosevelt found beautiful.

  “I hope to hell you've pointed me in the right direction,” he muttered, but there was no answer.

  He pulled his canteen off the saddle horn where it had been hanging, opened it, and took a swig of whiskey. Not bad, he decided; maybe the barley that went into this had been fertilized by Hindoo. Probably not by John L. Sullivan, though he was such a drunk that you could never be entirely sure.

  “Getting dark,” he said. “Am I going to be able to see him?”

  There was no answer.

  “Thanks a lot,” said Holliday.