The Doctor and the Rough Rider

by Mike Resnick

  “Of course.”

  “Same thing.”

  “You are one of the most interesting men I have ever met, Doc,” said Roosevelt.

  “Clearly your circle of acquaintances is too small.”

  Roosevelt chuckled at that. “Well, maybe one of these days I'll return to public life and make it larger.”

  “If you're too young to run for president, and I suspect you are by a decade, then perhaps you'll stay out here and run for governor, because if Geronimo keeps his word, we're going to need one.”

  “He'll keep it,” said Roosevelt with certainty. “He's an honorable man.”

  “I've always found him so,” agreed Holliday, “but never forget that he's an honorable man who's responsible for twenty times as many deaths as Hardin.”

  “He's a warrior, protecting his people,” responded Roosevelt. “Hardin is just a killer, like…”

  “Like me?”

  “I was going to say like Billy the Kid.”

  “A nice young man, in his way,” said Holliday.

  “But you killed him.”

  “You don't have to hate what you kill,” answered Holliday. “Johnny Ringo—or what was left of him, or what he'd become, or however you want to say it—was the most educated and interesting man I've met out here until you came along. But sometimes liking someone isn't enough.”

  “What was it about them that you liked?” asked Roosevelt. “As far as everyone knows, they were cold-blooded killers.”

  “Well, the Kid was,” agreed Doc. “But Ringo only became a killer when he was drinking, so I guess you'd call him a hot-blooded killer. Anyway, I could discuss Chaucer and Descartes and Cicero with Ringo, and I've never been able to do that with anyone else out here.”

  “You never brought them up with me,” said Roosevelt.

  “If you stay, we'd get around to it. We've had more pressing business. Anyway, Ringo was a fascinating man to talk to when he was sober.”

  “And the Kid?”

  Holliday shrugged. “He reminded me of someone.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  A smile. “Me.”

  “So if Hardin actually shows up, you'll probably like him too,” suggested Roosevelt.

  “Probably,” agreed Holliday. “And he'll probably like me too. But it won't stop one of us from killing the other.”

  Holliday took another drink from the bottle.

  “Well,” said Roosevelt, “I think I'd better be taking these weapons back to Tom and Ned, and saying my good-byes. I figure I'll spend the night in the Grand, and set out right after sunrise.”

  He extended his hand and Holliday took it.

  “I'm glad we met,” said Roosevelt.

  “It's been a privilege to know you,” replied Holliday.

  “And now I'll be able to correct all the dime-novel writers and artists,” added Roosevelt with a grin.

  “Heads up, Doc!” said Hairlip Smith.

  Holliday looked across the saloon at him.

  “I think your company just arrived,” said Smith, pointing out the window.

  Holliday turned and looked into the street, where a tall, lean man, dressed all in black, was dismounting. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder, a sword with an umbrella handle attached to the left side of his belt, and a well-used pistol tucked into his belt. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat that had a thin headband with a couple of feathers hanging down from it. A bunch of fringe, taken from some dead Union soldier's dress uniform, was sewn onto his right shoulder and arm.

  “That's him, all right,” said Holliday. He turned to Roosevelt. “Theodore, he doesn't want you. Go over there with your Rough Riders.”

  “But—”

  “Damn it, Theodore!” snapped Holliday. “You can't beat him, and I'm going to be too busy protecting myself to worry about you too.”

  Roosevelt seemed about to object again, thought better of it, got up, and walked over to sit at a table with Mickelson, Sloan, and the others.

  An instant later, John Wesley Hardin walked through the swinging doors, looked around the tavern, and walked over to stand in front of Holliday.

  “It has to be you,” he said.

  “Have a seat, John Wesley,” said Holliday. “Bartender, a glass for my guest.”

  Hardin sat down and glared at him. “You can't weigh much more than a hundred, a hundred and ten pounds,” he said. “How the hell did you kill all those men?”

  “Force of personality,” said Holliday with a smile. The glass arrived, he filled it, and placed it in front of Hardin.

  “They say you're a lunger, too.”

  “True enough,” replied Holliday. “They say you're a lawyer.”

  “I am now.”

  “Then you know that the law tends to frown on murder.”

  “This isn't murder,” said Hardin. “You can go for your gun whenever you want.”

  “Perhaps later,” said Holliday, taking another swig from the bottle. “Tell me about Texas. Has it changed much since I had to leave it in a hurry?”

  “Cows and dust, same as ever.” Suddenly Hardin grinned. “I heard about why you left Dallas.”

  “Well,” said Holliday, returning his smile, “the sheriff was running me out of town in the morning anyway for practicing a vigorous brand of self-defense.”

  “I wasn't talking about that. It was the teeth.”

  Holliday's smile became even broader. “He gave me twelve hours to get out of town. But then that night he had an abscessed tooth, and I was the only dentist he knew, so he hunted me up to have me pull it.” Holliday chuckled. “I put him under with laughing gas, pulled every tooth in his goddamned head, and decided to leave town without waiting for the stagecoach.”

  Hardin threw back his head and laughed. “Damn! I knew we could be friends if we ever met!”

  “No reason why not,” agreed Holliday.

  Suddenly Hardin's smile vanished. “Except that I got to kill you.”

  “No, you don't.”

  “That was the deal. This huge critter, I guess he was an Indian but he sure as hell wasn't like any I ever saw, tore the brick wall right out of my cell and set me free, but the deal was that he'd only do it if I promised to kill you.”

  “You don't owe him anything,” said Holliday. “He's dead.”

  Hardin frowned. “Are you kidding me, Doc?”

  “Ask anyone here,” said Holliday. “See the guy in the store-bought buckskins and the spectacles? He killed him.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” said Holliday, pulling a pack of cards out of a pocket. “So drink up and let's play a little serious blackjack.”

  Hardin stared at Roosevelt for another few seconds.

  “Him?” he said disbelievingly.

  “Him,” replied Holliday.

  “Well, I'll be damned!”

  “Probably we both will be,” agreed Holliday.

  Hardin downed his drink. “Deal,” he said.

  ��NICE LITTLE TOWN,” remarked Hardin after they'd been playing for about twenty minutes and had pretty much broken even.

  “Used to be even nicer, before the silver mines played out,” replied Holliday. “I think it lost better than half its population in the last thirty months.”

  “Too bad. As famous as you and the Earps made it, you kinda hate to see it die.”

  “As long as people will pay good money to see the corral where the fight wasn't, it'll stay alive.”

  Hardin frowned. “Where it wasn't?”

  “It's easier to call it the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral than the Gunfight in the Alley Backing Up to the O.K. Corral,” said Holliday.

  “A telling point,” agreed Hardin. “Still, it's a shame. I could have settled down here and gone to work.”

  “That's right,” said Holliday. “With your law degree.”

  Hardin smiled. “Can you picture that, Doc—me defending killers?”

  “Why not?” replied Holliday. “If you got your degree, you know the law, and I don
't think anyone would deny that you know shootists.”

  Hardin laughed at that. “You've got a hell of a sense of humor, Doc. Why do you look so damned grouchy?”

  “I resent dying.”

  “I ain't going to kill you.”

  “I'm dying just the same.”

  “The consumption?”

  Holliday nodded. “I'll be heading back to Colorado in the next few days to die.”

  “Colorado makes dying more pleasant, does it?”

  “The sanitarium I plan to check into does,” answered Holliday.

  “Is this sanitarium in Denver?”

  Holliday shook his head. “Leadville.”

  “Well, maybe we'll become almost-neighbors,” said Hardin. “Got to be a lot of lawbreaking going on in Denver. Place like that must need a good lawyer who knows all there is to know about lawbreaking.”

  “Especially if there aren't any warrants out for you in Colorado.”

  “Never been to Colorado,” answered Hardin. “And after living in hellholes all over the Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona Territories, it might be nice to step outside at night and feel the need of a coat.”

  “Leadville was a hundred four degrees when I left it,” said Holliday with a rueful smile.

  “Surely it's not like that all the time.”

  “No, it's not,” admitted Holliday. “I have a hard time breathing that thin mountain air, but hell, these days I have a hard time breathing any air.”

  “Cool mountain air,” mused Hardin. “It's worth considering, anyway.”

  “I'd be happy to have you ride along with me.”

  Hardin paused, considering the offer. “It's tempting, Doc,” he said at last. “Damned tempting.”

  “But?” said Holliday. “Sounds for sure like you've got a ‘but’ coming at the end of that sentence.”

  “I got a couple of men who have offered to set me up with a law office back in El Paso.” He grinned. “Might even hire me one of those dance-hall girls as a secretary. I'll get up to Colorado one of these days, but as long as there's money waiting for me in El Paso…”

  “I'd do the same thing if I were you,” said Holliday. “And if I ever need a lawyer, I'll know where to go.”

  “Well, I reckon I'll be moving on,” said Hardin. “It's been a pleasure talking with you, Doc, and I'm glad it didn't come down to a gunfight.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Holliday, getting to his feet. “Come on, I'll walk you to your horse.”

  Hardin made a circular route to the door, passing by Roosevelt's table. “Nice shooting—or whatever the hell you did to him.”

  “Thank you,” said Roosevelt.

  “Maybe we all ought to wear specs,” said Hardin with a chuckle. He joined Holliday at the door and the two men walked out to the street, where Hardin's sorrel mare was tied to a hitching post.

  Suddenly Holliday was aware that they weren't alone. Four Indians, none of them young, stood between them and Hardin's mare.

  “You men are blocking my way,” said Hardin ominously.

  “You are going nowhere, John Wesley Hardin,” said the nearest of them.

  “Get out of my way,” growled Hardin. “I won't ask you again.”

  “You made a bargain. You are not leaving until you keep it.”

  “You want me to shoot him?” he said, jerking his thumb at Holliday.

  “That is correct.”

  “Okay,” said Hardin. “But let me make sure my gun is working first.”

  He drew his gun and fired four quick shots at the Indians. The bullets turned to dust and floated to the ground before they reached their targets.

  “Would I be correct in assuming that you're Dull Knife, Spotted Elk, Tall Wolf, and Cougar Slayer?” asked Holliday as the Oriental emptied out into the street at the sound of the gunshots.

  “We do not speak to dead men,” answered the closest one, “and you are all but dead, Holliday.”

  “I hope you're not trying to frighten me,” replied Holliday. “Hell, I've been all but dead for years.”

  The Indian turned to Hardin. “If you wish to live, you know what you must do.”

  “No one gives me orders!” growled Hardin, emptying his second gun into the Indians. Again, the bullets turned to dust as they left his six-gun.

  Holliday knew his gun wouldn't work against the medicine men either, but he couldn't think of what else to do, so he pulled it and fired off three quick shots to no effect.

  “You are not the fastest learner I ever met,” said a familiar voice from behind him. He turned and saw Roosevelt, the black lenses clipped onto his glasses but raised so he could see, the battery slung over his back, carrying Edison's two weapons, one in each arm, both attached to the battery. “Here,” he said, thrusting the deafener into Holliday's hands. “And understand: if you use it, they're going to die, but so will every man and animal within a mile or more.”

  Holliday took the deafener, handling it very gently, while Roosevelt pointed the blinder at the four medicine men.

  “Now, you gentlemen are going to let Mr. Hardin leave right now, aren't you?”

  “He must kill the man Holliday first,” said the one who wore the insignia of the Cheyenne and who Roosevelt knew must be Dull Knife.

  “Why don't you try to do it yourself,” said Holliday, pointing the deafener at him.

  “You will not use that,” said Dull Knife. “We know and you know what it did to War Bonnet. If you fire it, it will kill everyone in the city.”

  “What the hell do I care?” replied Holliday. “I'm already a walking dead man. As for Tombstone, ten years from now no one will even know there was a city here.”

  Spotted Elk, the Lakota, faced Roosevelt. “Tell him: he will be the murderer of an entire town.”

  “Doc, if you fire that you'll be the murderer of an entire town.” Roosevelt grinned at Spotted Elk. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I blind you for the rest of your very brief life?”

  “He will kill you too!” yelled Spotted Elk.

  “If he doesn't, you will,” answered Roosevelt.

  “This is not finished,” said Dull Knife. “We will be back.”

  “You're not going anywhere until it is finished,” said Holliday.

  “I agree,” said Roosevelt. “If you leave before this is concluded, my friend and I will hunt you down and kill not only you but every member of your tribe. You've seen what I did to War Bonnet. You know this is not a bluff.”

  The four medicine men glared at Roosevelt and Holliday. Then, almost in unison, their posture changed from one of aggression to one of defeat.

  “We must speak to Geronimo,” said another, whose outfit identified him as Cougar Slayer of the Arapaho.

  Holliday smiled. “There's a hawk perched atop the church steeple who's been watching all this very intently. I suspect Geronimo is closer than you think.”

  And with that, the hawk swooped down and landed in front of the medicine men, and instantly morphed into the Apache. He spread his arms, and suddenly a transparent dome covered the five of them. They spoke for less than a minute, their words unheard by any of the combatants or observers. Then the dome vanished, and so did the four medicine men.

  “It is settled,” announced Geronimo. “Tomorrow the spell will be lifted, and the White Eyes and their armies may cross the great river.” He turned to Hardin. “Ride on!” he ordered him.

  Hardin stared at him for just a second, then tipped his hat, climbed onto his mare, uttered a yell of triumph, and galloped off in the general direction of El Paso.

  “Maybe we should have had it out after all,” said Holliday. “He's going to kill a lot more men.”

  “He is not,” answered Geronimo. “He will work as a lawyer, and less than a month later he will be shot in the back and killed.”

  “You know how everyone's going to die, do you?” asked Luke Sloan, who was standing in front of the Oriental's swinging doors.

  Geronimo stared at him as one mig
ht stare at an insect, and did not deign to answer him.

  “You will leave now,” he said to Roosevelt.

  “After I return the weapons to Edison and Buntline.”

  Geronimo nodded.

  “Thank you,” said Roosevelt, extending his hand, and the old medicine man took it. “I hope someday we will meet again.”

  “As I told you, we will,” answered Geronimo. “Many years and many weeks’ march from here.”

  Roosevelt took the smaller weapon from Holliday, climbed aboard Manitou, and headed off to Edison's house, trying without success to figure out what Geronimo had meant by his final sentence.

  HOLLIDAY WAITED FOR THE LENS ABOVE THE DOOR to identify him and allow the portal to swing open, then he walked into Edison's living room, where the inventor and Ned Buntline were waiting for him.

  “We got your message,” said Edison.

  “I just wanted to stop by to thank you for what you did for Theodore,” said Holliday. “Hell, for the whole damned country.”

  “Which is going to be a much bigger country now,” said Buntline with a satisfied air.

  “I wish I could stick around to see it.”

  “Why don't you?” asked Buntline.

  “No,” replied Holliday. “It's time to go to Leadville and die.”

  “My God, that's a morbid way to put it!” said Edison.

  “If it was my choice, I'd live another twenty or thirty years and see what young Roosevelt can accomplish with his new nation. Hell, if I could lift a sixth of a coffin, I'd mosey down to El Paso and be a pallbearer when Hardin finally gets backshot—he's too good for anyone except maybe me to take him in a fair fight. But I'm not going to live twenty years, and I can't lift a sixth of a coffin, and I'm running out of handkerchiefs, so it's time to go back to Leadville.”

  “We have an office up there,” said Edison. “Maybe we will see you again.”

  “I won't be much to look at,” said Holliday. Suddenly he grinned. “But then, I never was.”