by Mike Resnick
They continued for two more hours, and the land became a bit more interesting, dotted with small hills and some sparse bushes.
Suddenly Roosevelt pulled Manitou to a stop.
“Get ready,” he announced. “We're very close.”
“What makes you think so?” asked Hairlip Smith.
“Do you see that tree straight ahead, the one with the flowers?”
“Yeah.”
“It's not real.”
Smith frowned. “What the hell are you talking about, Theodore? That's a tree, right there, big as life.”
Roosevelt shook his head and smiled. “That's Geronimo's way of saying we've arrived, and he's not sticking around as a bird or anything else that War Bonnet might be able to recognize and kill.”
“How do you figure that?” asked Sloan.
“That's a white dogwood tree,” answered Roosevelt. “There isn't one within almost a thousand miles. They can't bloom or even survive in this desert.”
And as the words left his mouth, the tree vanished.
Suddenly guns were drawn and cocked, rifles pulled out, ammunition checked.
“The lodge has got to be behind one of those hills,” said Roosevelt. “Once we can see it, they can see us. I'm surprised they haven't reacted already, but maybe Geronimo had shielded us from whatever magic they use to see approaching enemies.” He paused, staring at the hills. “The lodge can't be very large, not with only ten or twelve warriors living there. Once we're within sight of it, spread out and charge, guns blazing. We want War Bonnet to react, and hopefully he'll go to protect the very men we're after. I know he's going to be pretty awesome to look at, but keep in mind that he can't hurt anyone but Geronimo and me. Some of your horses may get spooked by his flaming hands, so if there are any Indians riding out to fight you, try not to shoot their horses; you may need them to get home.”
“That sounds fine, if all your ideas work,” said Johnson. “But what do we do if this giant thing comes straight at you, if we don't know who to kill or who's giving it orders?”
“Then I'll be just as dead as if he'd torn the Grand Hotel apart and found me there, and you're still charged with the task of killing the medicine men before he can kill Geronimo. In fact, the main thing is to keep Geronimo alive, because he can always deal with another Easterner. If he dies, it's another century or two before we expand to the Pacific.”
“I ain't afraid of no Indians, and I ain't particularly afraid to die,” said Sloan, “but do we care if the United States never gets past the Mississippi?”
“This is a hell of a time to think of that,” said Turkey Creek Johnson. “Well, I care. I grew up in the United States, I fought for the North in the War between the States, and I figure I'm still an American.”
“Son of a bitch!” laughed Tipton. “I was a Johnny Reb. I wonder if we ever faced each other?”
“Couldn't have,” said Johnson with a smile. “You're still alive.”
Tipton turned to Sloan. “That war's over and done with, and I'm as much of an American as Turkey Creek. You bet your ass I care.”
“I never fought in your sillyarse war,” said Mickelson, “but I'm all for extending the country to the coast.” He made a face. “I hate horses. Let's open this land up to trains.”
Sloan shrugged. “Okay,” he said defensively. “I was just asking.”
“All right,” said Roosevelt, “let's go. And keep your eyes open. They don't have to attack us with a fifteen-foot warrior. They can post a sharpshooter behind any of these hills, or even dug into the ground.”
“Hell, he'll probably be a lot cooler in the ground than we are up here on horses,” said McMaster.
“Well, let's put them medicine men in the ground and see what they think,” said Smith.
They continued riding for another twenty minutes and then, suddenly, as they passed a small hill, the lodge came into view, half a mile off to the left.
“Don't charge yet,” cautioned Roosevelt. “I know they've just been walking, but our horses are pretty spent from this heat. I don't want them tiring out or taking any bad steps before we're ready to charge in earnest.”
“So where's War Bonnet?” asked McMaster. “He ought to stand out like a sore thumb.”
“I don't know,” admitted Roosevelt, frowning. “Since he's a magical creation, it's possible that he comes into being when they want him to, and the rest of the time he goes back into whatever limbo they pulled him out of.”
“Shit,” said Mickelson. “I don't know if I want you to be right or wrong.” He smiled. “If you're right, we just might kill the medicine men before they call him up. And if you're wrong, at least he'll show up so we know who we're supposed to kill.”
“It's all academic,” said Roosevelt, frowning.
“What are you talking about?”
“There he is.”
Roosevelt pointed to his left, where War Bonnet was either getting to his feet from a position behind a hill, or rising up from the bowels of the Earth. He surveyed the riders, and then flashed them a maleficent smile. He extended a burning arm toward Roosevelt and pointed at him with a burning finger.
“I want you!” he thundered, taking a step toward the party of riders.
“Now!” said Roosevelt, and his companions spurred their horses and raced to the lodge, yelling and screaming, guns blazing.
War Bonnet froze, his gaze turning from Roosevelt to the Rough Riders, back to Roosevelt, then to the men again. He seemed rooted to the spot for almost a dozen seconds. Then, with a savage scream, he began racing toward the lodge, covering the ground not only with his giant stride, but with huge, powerful, gravity-defying leaps.
“Slow down,” Roosevelt whispered far too softly for his men—or his enemies—to hear. “If you beat him to the lodge, you'll never know which ones you want.”
It was almost as if Mickelson, who was in the lead, heard him, for he carefully, subtly slowed his horse down, and the others immediately realized what he was doing and why, and followed suit.
“You give new meaning to the word ‘monster,’” mused Roosevelt. “These men know you can't hurt them, but Doc had no idea when he faced you. I take my hat off to him. That is one brave man.”
Half a dozen warriors suddenly ran forward from the lodge, firing rifles. But while the Rough Riders shot back their primary attention was on War Bonnet, and when he came to a halt and positioned himself in front of a hut, they knew they'd found their target.
Mickelson and Sloan brought their horses to a halt twenty feet away and fired at point-blank range. The bullets had no effect on War Bonnet, who roared like a jungle animal, stepped forward, and reached out for their horses. His flaming hands went right through them, doing them no physical harm, but the terrified animals began screaming and bucking, and it was all Mickelson and Sloan could do to stay atop them.
McMaster saw that shooting at War Bonnet was useless, and aimed his rifle at the wall of the hut. The bullet went through it, and he heard two screams—one from inside the hut, and one from War Bonnet, who grabbed his shoulder as if he himself had been shot. The others saw what was happening, and turned their fire on the hut, but War Bonnet positioned himself in front of it and absorbed most of the bullets himself.
More and more warriors raced to the hut and began firing, and finally the Rough Riders, badly outnumbered stationery targets, had to retreat, but not before Tipton took a bullet in the thigh and McMaster was shot in the shoulder.
“Oh, shit!” yelled Mickelson. “The medicine men are safe. We've got to get back to Theodore before the monster does!”
And sure enough, War Bonnet had begun striding across the ground toward Roosevelt, who sat atop Manitou, rifle in hand, watching him approach.
“Remember what Doc told Theodore!” cried Mickelson as he reached Roosevelt's side and dismounted. “He can't hurt anyone but Theodore and Geronimo. He can't even try—and he didn't try back at the lodge. All he did was try to scare the horses.”
The si
x of them—Mickelson, Sloan, Smith, Johnson, Tipton and McMaster—dismounted and formed a tight circle around Roosevelt. War Bonnet arrived, smiled a triumphant smile, and reached out for Roosevelt, but Sloan raised his arms and somehow War Bonnet wouldn't or couldn't brush them aside.
“Doc was right!” said Mickelson, excited. “Kneel down, Theodore!”
It went against the grain, but Roosevelt saw the wisdom of Mickelson's suggestion, and he knelt, offering an even smaller target.
War Bonnet screamed, raked his painless flames across the men, and tried twice more to reach Roosevelt, only to be thwarted again.
“We could be here all day, and I'll bet we get hungrier and sleepier before he does,” said Roosevelt. “Luke, you're standing behind me, farthest from War Bonnet. Why don't you back away, get to your horse, and ride back toward the medicine men's hut. My guess is that War Bonnet will race after you.”
“Then what?” asked Mickelson.
“Then we declare it a draw and ride back to Tombstone. Luke will turn and follow us as soon as he sees we've mounted.”
“Why won't he chase us all the way to Tombstone?” asked Johnson. “What's to stop him?”
“I think he gets his strength from the medicine men,” said Roosevelt. “And they're just men, not gods. Otherwise, why would he vanish after Doc faced him? He was only a few miles out of Tombstone, and not much farther from Geronimo's lodge. Why not go the rest of the way? But Doc made him work, and the medicine men are new to this. They've never created anything remotely like War Bonnet before. As they get more used to him, he'll grow bigger and stronger and he may not vanish at all, but for the moment, I don't think he'll follow us right after a battle.”
“And if you're wrong?” asked Smith, uselessly pumping a pair of bullets into War Bonnet's belly.
“Then we won't be any worse off than we are now,” answered Roosevelt. “And there's always a chance that he's even stronger here than when he gets farther away from the medicine men.”
“I'm tired of talking,” said Sloan, backing away and heading to his horse. He had just begun galloping toward the lodge when War Bonnet suddenly turned and raced back to protect his creators.
“Now!” cried Roosevelt, and the six remaining men mounted their horses and began galloping back toward Tombstone.
Sloan caught up with them a few minutes later, and though they kept watchful eyes on every possible ambush site, there was no sign of War Bonnet.
“Well,” said Mickelson at last, “I think we hit one of the bastards.”
“I agree,” said Johnson. “The first couple of bullets into the hut did it. Nothing else got a response like that from War Bonnet.”
“I doubt that we killed him, though,” said Tipton. “Ten seconds later War Bonnet was acting just the same as before.”
“So what's next, Theodore?” asked Mickelson. “You're going to need a cavalry to get to the medicine men, and all the cavalries I'm aware of are on the other side of the Mississippi.”
“I agree,” said Roosevelt. “Killing the medicine men seemed the likeliest answer, but not only are they well protected here, now that they know they're a target, I can see them moving a few hundred miles north and west.”
“Can they still control War Bonnet from that far?”
Roosevelt nodded. “And if they can't, they'll get help. Remember: there are a lot of medicine men, and only Geronimo wants to lift the spell.”
“Can they really control him?” persisted Mickelson.
“They can stop an entire nation from expanding beyond the Mississippi,” answered Roosevelt. “I think you can be sure they can control one magical monster.”
“Yeah, makes sense,” said Sloan. “Still, you can't just wait around hoping that he can't find you.”
“I had hoped I could neutralize him by killing his creators,” said Roosevelt, “but in retrospect, it was doomed from the start. We know there were four medicine men there, but even if we'd killed them, there are dozens more all over the West, and doubtless some of them would have taken over control of him.”
“I think if I were you, I'd go back East,” said McMaster, tying a fresh handkerchief over his wound.
“I'm not a quitter.”
“No one thinks you are, Theodore,” continued McMaster, “but you've just explained why you can't neutralize the damn creature, so what's left?”
“I can kill it,” said Roosevelt, his jaw jutting forward pugnaciously.
“HE'S NOT FOLLOWING US,” remarked Luke Sloan, looking back for the twentieth time.
They were half an hour from the lodge, and there had been no sign of War Bonnet.
“It's early yet,” said Roosevelt.
“Got to be midafternoon,” noted Hairlip Smith.
Roosevelt shook his head. “Early in War Bonnet's existence. When I first met Geronimo a few days ago, he didn't even exist. When Doc encountered him out beyond Tombstone, he was gone in seven or eight minutes. Today he didn't last for much more than ten or twelve minutes.”
“What are you getting at, Theodore?” asked Morty Mickelson.
“They're still working on him, making him stronger—and I have a feeling it's taking a lot out of Dull Knife, Spotted Elk, and the others; that War Bonnet feeds on their psychic powers, maybe even their physical strength. It would make sense for him to catch up with us, trail us, wait for the moment when I'm not surrounded, and strike, and we know he can go much farther afield, because Doc encountered him a day and a half from here…but instead he's gone again. There might be some other reason, but that's what I think is happening.”
“So you figure he's going to get stronger, and stick around longer?” asked Turkey Creek Johnson.
Roosevelt nodded his head. “I've seen what he can do now, and just as importantly, I've seen what he can't do. I'll talk to Thomas Edison and Ned Buntline, and we'll see what kind of weapon they can devise.”
“So you never thought you could kill him this time?” demanded Johnson. “But you didn't tell us that when you got us to ride with you.”
“I didn't think I could hurt the puppet,” said Roosevelt. “My hope was that we could kill the puppeteers and cut the strings.”
“Nice turn of phrase,” said Mickelson. “Maybe you ought to give this up and become a writer.”
“I am a writer.”
“Then why aren't you at home writing?”
“I don't believe in limiting myself.”
“I don't know, Theodore,” said Mickelson. “There's a mighty big difference between not limiting yourself and going up against War Bonnet again.”
“I've seen him, I know what he can and can't do,” said Roosevelt. “Next time I'll be fully prepared.”
“I got a question,” said McMaster.
“Yes?” said Roosevelt.
“War Bonnet was built to kill you and Geronimo, right? And the reason for it is that his builders don't want the spell lifted that keeps the country on the other side of the Mississippi, right?”
“Right.”
“So here's my question,” continued McMaster. “If he kills you, there's every likelihood that Geronimo will find someone else to deal with. Maybe President Arthur, maybe U. S. Grant, but someone. So killing you is only a stopgap measure. So why doesn't he go after Geronimo first? After all, if he does, you have no one to deal with but the guys who spent part of today trying to kill you.”
“Damned good question,” said Roosevelt. “I want to say that Geronimo's a lot harder to kill, but that doesn't hold water, since War Bonnet was created solely to kill both of us. So I think the likely answer is that while Geronimo may be easy for him to kill, he's damned difficult for him to spot. I always look like a man, but Geronimo can turn himself into a jackrabbit, a bird, a toad, damned near anything. War Bonnet didn't have to jump today, and I'm sure if he did, those legs could send him twenty feet in the air…but what good is that when Geronimo can fly to the top of a tree?”
“Okay,” said McMaster. “I suppose it makes sense.”
“You look like you have doubts,” said Roosevelt.
“If you know Geronimo can do those things, surely they know,”
“Certainly,” agreed Roosevelt. “But knowing he can do it doesn't mean they know how to make War Bonnet do it.” He paused. “The proof is in the pudding. If he could change into all those things, he'd have gone after Geronimo first for the very reasons you mentioned.”
Although Roosevelt was certain his reasoning was sound, he elected not to stop during the night, and the horses walked on until they began passing the abandoned silver mines on the outskirts of Tombstone the next day at noontime.
“Well, we made it, safe and sound and intact,” said Roosevelt. “I want to thank you men for your help, for without you I would surely have died at War Bonnet's hands yesterday.”
“Any time you need us again, Dandy, just pass the word,” said Sloan. “I ain't never been nothing more than a cowboy. I like that I can tell people I been a Rough Rider.”
“And we certainly have seen something to tell our grandchildren about,” added Mickelson. “Assuming any of us lives long enough to have any.”
“Got to make children before you worry about grandchildren,” said Tipton. “Let's go into town and get started on that.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Sloan, spurring his horse into a canter. The others followed suit, leaving Roosevelt and Manitou to walk into town. He rode up to the boarding stable, dropped Manitou off, and walked the two blocks to the Grand, where he found Holliday and Masterson having dinner in the restaurant.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, approaching their table.
“Glad to see you made it,” said Masterson. “How did you kill War Bonnet?”
“I didn't.”
“I didn't think you could,” said Holliday. “The real question is: Why didn't he kill you?”
Roosevelt described the encounter in some detail.
“Damn!” exclaimed Masterson when he'd finished. “I was so captivated that my steak got cold.”
“Mine too,” noted Holliday. “Fortunately, I never gave much of a damn if they served it hot or cold.” He stared at Roosevelt. “So he didn't chase after you. You know what I think?”
