by Mike Resnick
Holliday shook his head. “No, nothing. But Geronimo should be part of this. I was hoping he was busy being a bird or a cat, hanging around just outside the window.”
Buntline got up and walked to the window, then shook his head. “Nope, there's nothing out there.”
“What the hell, he was probably watching every minute of it last night.”
“So tell us about it,” said Buntline. “Did you learn anything?”
Holliday nodded. “A bit.” He turned to Roosevelt. “I learned that he was created to kill Theodore Roosevelts. His eyes seek out Roosevelts, his hands are shaped to choke Roosevelts, his teeth are uniquely suited for biting off Rooseveltian ears, his—”
“Spare us your flights of fancy,” interrupted Roosevelt. “What, exactly, happened?”
“He tried to kill me, and he couldn't, and I tried to kill him, and I couldn't,” answered Holliday. “His skin is impervious to my bullets.”
“Surely you're not impervious to his blows,” said Roosevelt.
“Well, you know, that's the funny part,” said Holliday. “It seems that I am, and so are Tom and Ned and anyone who isn't named Roosevelt or Geronimo.”
“With size and muscles like that, he couldn't hurt you?” said an incredulous Roosevelt.
“He picked up a boulder,” replied Holliday. “Damned thing must have weighed twice what a horse and wagon together would weigh. Picked it up like a feather—until he tried to throw it at me. Then it seemed so heavy that it was about to crush him, so he turned away, and was able to throw it farther than from here to the street. He can do anything with that size and strength, as long as it doesn't involve killing anyone besides you and Geronimo.”
“What about these flaming hands of his?” asked Buntline. “Did he try to grab you with them?”
Holliday nodded. “Those flames are hot when he's thirty feet away, or twenty feet, or five feet—but the second he tries to touch me, they're as cool as the air and pass right through me.”
“Interesting,” said Edison.
Holliday turned to Roosevelt. “But they won't pass through you. They'll melt your bones inside your skin.”
“I've been studying the medicine men's magic for almost four years now,” said Edison, “and this is the first time I've heard of it being so selective, where it will work against just two people and no one else. I wonder if it's not a bluff, if he's incapable of doing anything except threatening them?”
“It's no bluff,” said Holliday. “I told you: he picked up a boulder ten strong men couldn't lift, and threw it maybe a hundred feet.”
“When I go up against him, I'd like you to come along,” said Roosevelt. “Maybe you can spot something, something that makes sense or shows a weakness, that's different from last night.”
“If I live long enough.”
“The consumption getting worse again?” asked Buntline.
“No worse than usual,” said Holliday. “But I've got another problem since last night. When he couldn't harm me, he decided to find someone who could.”
“I don't understand,” said Buntline.
“He broke John Wesley Hardin out of jail.”
“Even if that's true, why would he come after you?”
Holliday smiled. “It's a quid pro quo. Theodore can explain the term to you.”
“I know the term,” said Buntline irritably.
“Do you think he really set him free, or was it just bluster?” asked Roosevelt.
“He didn't strike me as the type who needs to bluster,” said Holliday. “After all, why does he care if I come along with you? I can't hurt him, he can't hurt me.” He frowned. “I suppose I shouldn't have taunted them.”
“Them?” said Edison.
“Four, five, I don't know how many medicine men. They control him, and they spoke to me through him. It had to be their idea to free Hardin. War Bonnet doesn't think. He just kills, or tries to.”
“Can Geronimo use that knowledge?” asked Buntline.
Roosevelt shook his head. “He knows who created War Bonnet, so it stands to reason he knows who controls him.”
Buntline sighed deeply. “You know what puzzles me more than anything else? He confronted Doc just a few miles out of town. Why the hell didn't he just come the rest of the way and try to kill Theodore?”
“I think I can answer that,” said Edison. “Doc's made it clear that the medicine men haven't just totally turned him loose, that they're controlling him. That's got to take a lot of energy, be it psychic or physical or whatever. I have a feeling that bringing him into existence for more than a few minutes drains them, and then he vanishes back to whatever limbo they store him in.”
“It's a possibility,” agreed Buntline. “So what's our next step?” He turned to Roosevelt. “Even if he's fifteen feet high, even if he's got a blow like a horse's kick, I can create armor that'll protect you from that.” He frowned. “But if he can also use magic, and those flaming hands of his make me think he can…” He sighed. “I just don't know. I can protect you against fire, of course…but eventually I can protect you against so many possibilities that you won't be able to move or breathe.” He turned to Edison. “Tom?”
“It's so hard to tell without actually seeing him first,” said Edison, frowning. “For example, I can design a weapon that will hurl an electric charge at him. We can rig a trap where he has to stand on a conductor to confront Theodore, and I can shoot enough voltage into that conductor to light the whole city—but will it work? I think it comes down to this: Is he alive as we understand life? I can design a weapon to use against any living thing—but what living thing has hands of flame, and is impervious to bullets?”
“So you have to see him first?” said Roosevelt.
“It would certainly help,” replied Edison.
“Then you shall!” exclaimed Roosevelt, getting to his feet.
“What are you talking about?” demanded Holliday. “You lure him here, maybe he can't kill Tom and Ned, but he can destroy all their equipment and three years’ worth of notes and documents.”
“Not here,” said Roosevelt excitedly. “There!”
“I'm afraid I don't follow you, Theodore,” said Edison.
“There's one aspect to this whole business I haven't been comfortable about,” said Roosevelt, starting to pace the floor.
“Only one?” asked Holliday with a sardonic smile.
“I don't like being on the defensive,” said Roosevelt. “We know who the enemy is. Why sit back and wait for him to pick his time and place?”
“Doc was powerless against him,” noted Buntline, “and I assure you that Tom and I will be even less formidable under similar circumstances.”
“They won't be similar,” said Roosevelt, still pacing. “You're not going to fight War Bonnet. We already know that's impossible. You just want to see him in action. Well, the one thing that can guarantee that action is my presence.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Edison, frowning. “You want the three of us—you, me, and Ned—to ride out into the desert and wait for him to attack you?”
Roosevelt grinned. “I'm not suicidal. No, if these medicine men spoke to Doc in concert, they probably got together to create War Bonnet and are still in the same place. Geronimo must know where.”
“Even if he does,” said Edison, “that's still a New Yorker and two noncombatants against this monster.”
“Oh, we'll have more than that,” Roosevelt assured him.
“Who?”
“I've already got one Rough Rider—Luke Sloan,” was the answer. “Give me a week and I'll have a damned formidable team of them.”
“Rough Rider?” repeated Buntline, frowning. “What the hell is a Rough Rider?”
“It's a man with special skills who pledges his loyalty to me,” said Roosevelt. He turned to Holliday. “We can start by sending for your friend I've heard a lot about—Texas Pete…”
“Jack,” Holliday corrected him. “Texas Jack Vermillion.”
“Would he come?” asked Edison.
“He came on Wyatt's Vendetta Ride,” answered Holliday. “Wild horses couldn't keep him from something like this.”
“I'll start recruiting as soon as we're done here,” said Roosevelt enthusiastically. “I'll wager I'll have a handpicked dozen within three days.”
“And you'll be the Roughest Rider of all?” suggested Holliday.
“Why not?” responded Roosevelt with a grin.
ROOSEVELT AND HOLLIDAY were sitting at a table in the Oriental. Holliday had his omnipresent bottle in front of him, while Roosevelt sipped a tin mug of tea.
“Now, you have to understand, these are not the most elegant and polished men you're ever going to come across,” Holliday was saying.
“I can't use elegant men,” said Roosevelt. “I want Rough Riders.”
“You've fallen in love with that term,” remarked Holliday with an amused smile.
“It describes what I want. Anyway, I need to meet these men. I can't imagine we have more than a couple of days before War Bonnet walks into town, bold as brass, looking for me. If we were back East, I'd enlist the great John L. and some of his rivals—and there are some football players I'd add.”
Holliday shook his head. “You mean baseball.”
“No, football.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You will,” Roosevelt assured him. “Anyway, we're not back East, so I need the best Tombstone and the surrounding area's got to offer.”
“Some have only a nodding acquaintance with the law,” said Holliday. “And some have an out-and-out contempt for it.”
“Are they brave?”
“Without exception.”
“And competent with their fists and their weapons?”
“They are.”
“Have they the courage to ride against overwhelming odds, look Death in the eye, and laugh at him?”
Holliday smiled. “Some will laugh. Some'll curse. And most of 'em will shoot first and leave the laughing and cursing for later.” He took a drink from his glass. “Anyway, I've passed the word, and told Henry Wiggins to do the same.”
“He doesn't strike me as a Rough Rider,” noted Roosevelt.
Holliday chuckled. “He's just a well-meaning little salesman who I introduced to Ned and Tom. But he's—what would you call him?—a hero-worshipper, with a misplaced sense of what constitutes a hero.”
“Well,” said Roosevelt, “if he chooses the wrong men, we'll know soon enough.”
“There are still a few left over from the Vendetta Ride,” said Holliday. “I'll vouch for any of them.”
Roosevelt frowned. “You mentioned the Vendetta Ride before, but…”
“It got quite a lot of publicity when it was occurring and right after,” said Holliday with a smile. “It's the reason I had to leave Tombstone, in fact all of the Arizona Territory, for a while.”
“Tell me about it,” said Roosevelt.
“Well, you've heard about the shootout between the Earps and the Clantons.”
“The Gunfight at the O.K. Corral,” said Roosevelt, nodding his head. “It's famous even in New York.”
Holliday grimaced. “I guess that's the way it's going to be known from now until doomsday, but it didn't take place in the Corral, but in the alley that backed up to the Corral. Anyway, it was me and Wyatt and his brothers on one side, and a couple of Clantons, a couple of McLaurys, and a kid named Claiborne on the other. When the shooting was over, both McLaurys and Billy Clanton were dead, and Virg and Morg—Wyatt's brothers—were wounded. I even caught one myself, on my belt. Didn't break the skin, but it hurt like a sonuvabitch for a few days.”
“I know the story,” said Roosevelt. “Or, more likely, a fictionalized version of it. What does this have to do with a Vendetta?”
“A Vendetta Ride,” Holliday corrected him.
“Okay, a Vendetta Ride?”
“There were still a lot of Cowboys left after the gunfight.”
“Well, of course,” said Roosevelt. “The West is full of them.”
Holliday shook his head. “Means a different thing. Back East, a cowboy is anyone out here who rides a horse and carries a gun. But in Tombstone Territory, it was a proper noun. You spelled it with a capital C, and it was an organized gang of horse and cattle thieves. Anyway, the Cowboys didn't like that we'd killed some of their people, so one night a few weeks later they backshot Morgan while he was playing pool right across the street from here and killed him.” Holliday grimaced again. “I loved that young man like he was my own brother. A few weeks later they ambushed Virgil and crippled him up pretty badly, badly enough that Wyatt shipped him out of here.”
“Is he still alive?” asked Roosevelt.
Holliday nodded. “But he's got an arm he'll never use again. Anyway, we knew Johnny Behan, who was still sheriff, was never going to do anything about it, so we formed a punishment party, and no matter what the courts said, it was legal, because Wyatt was still a marshal and he deputized all the rest of us.”
“How many were you?”
“Maybe half a dozen, maybe a little more,” answered Holliday. “There was Wyatt, and me, and Texas Jack Vermillion, and, let me see, Turkey Creek Johnson, Hairlip Charlie Smith, Sherman McMaster, Tip Tipton, one or two more.”
“And the outcome?”
“You didn't see any Cowboys on the way into Tombstone,” replied Holliday, “and you ain't going to see any while you're here.”
“Good!”
“You got something against the Cowboys, Theodore?” asked Holliday. “You didn't even know what they were two minutes ago.”
“I mean good, that's the kind of men I want for my Rough Riders,” responded Roosevelt. “This isn't a mission for milquetoasts.”
“Maybe you'd like to explain just what the hell this mission is about?” said Holliday. “I've seen War Bonnet, been close enough to touch him or at least spit on him—and the fact that he couldn't harm me doesn't make any difference if he can get his hands on you.”
“What am I suppose to do?” growled Roosevelt. “Just sit here and wait for him? You don't get results by waiting for good things to happen, Doc.”
“You live a lot longer if you don't go out hunting for bad things that were created for the sole purpose of pulping your body and biting your head off,” answered Holliday. “You can't stand against him, Theodore. Take my word for it.”
“I know.”
Holliday frowned in confusion. “Then if you know, what the hell are you doing? I'm the one who's supposed to not care whether he lives or dies.”
“You gave me a clue when you were describing your encounter with him.”
“If I told you how to hurt him, what did I miss when I confronted him?”
“Nothing,” said Roosevelt. “But you confronted him on neutral ground.”
“And you think it's safer to face him on his home turf?” said Holliday. “What the hell's in that tea you're drinking?”
Roosevelt smiled. “Not his home turf, Doc. Theirs.”
Holliday looked completely confused. “Whose?” he all but shouted.
“The medicine men who are controlling him,” said Roosevelt. “If I can't harm him, then maybe my Rough Riders and I can kill the men who give him his orders.”
Holliday shook his head. “You don't even know where they are. Or if they're in one place.”
“I think Geronimo can tell me,” said Roosevelt. “After all, he's the single most powerful of them. And he has no desire to die, or so he says, so why wouldn't he tell me?”
“And if they're spread out in forty or fifty villages?”
“Then we'll hunt them down and kill them one at a time.”
“Before War Bonnet can kill you?” said Holliday dubiously.
“If they're in fifty villages, then he's only got one chance in fifty of guessing right,” replied Roosevelt. “You're a gambler, Doc. Wouldn't you bet those odds?”
“And if they're in one place?”
&
nbsp; “Then we'll have to kill them all before he can kill me.”
“I don't know…” began Holliday.
“The alternative is to sit here until he walks through those swinging doors looking for me,” said Roosevelt.
“He wouldn't fit.”
“All the more reason to do something before he tears the place apart trying to get to me.”
“Well, when do we leave?” asked Holliday.
“We?” said Roosevelt, arching an eyebrow.
“You're going to be recruiting all the worst gamblers,” replied Holliday with a smile. “No sense hanging around here with nothing but men who know how to count.”
Roosevelt threw back his head and laughed. “Damn, I knew I liked you, Doc Holliday!”
“It's my shy and gentle manner, no doubt,” said Holliday, taking yet another drink.
“Well, I suppose we'd better devise some tests.”
“Tests?”
“For our potential Rough Riders,” explained Roosevelt. “How well can they shoot? Can they ride a horse that's bucking in panic? If it comes to close fighting, how are they with fists and knives?”
“First, they're your Rough Riders, not ours,” complained Holliday. “And second, what you're describing is a rodeo, except for the fist-fighting part.” He paused and stared at Roosevelt. “Theodore, there's an easier way to look at it.”
“Oh?”
Holliday nodded his head. “Just consider this: any man who walks in here wearing a gun is undefeated.”
Roosevelt's eyes widened. “I never thought of that.”
“This isn't like one of Bat's boxing matches back East,” said Holliday. “We play for keeps out here. When you lose, you're dead. There are no rematches.”
“You're right, of course,” said Roosevelt. “But even if they're all undefeated, they aren't all of equal value.”
“No, they're not. But if they rode on the Vendetta Ride, it means Wyatt and I vouch for them.”
“If they survived that and they're willing to ride against the medicine men with me, that should be all the qualifications they need,” agreed Roosevelt.
Holliday looked up at the swinging doors. “Here's one. Care to meet him?”
