by Mike Resnick
Younger frowned. “You know a better spot?”
“Nope,” answered Holliday. “But I know a lot of safer spots.”
“I can handle any trouble that shows up here,” said Younger.
“I don't think so,” interjected Roosevelt.
Younger turned to Roosevelt. “Is this your idea?” he demanded pugnaciously.
“No, Cole,” said Holliday. “He's just a friend who I talked into coming along with me. This is Geronimo's idea.”
“Geronimo?” repeated Younger, frowning in puzzlement. That just don't make any sense,” he complained. He turned to Roosevelt. “I know he signed his treaty with you.” And back to Holliday. “And I heard that you did him a favor or two, But does he want these bones for himself?”
Holliday shook his head. “He doesn't want ’em at all.”
Younger frowned. “Then I truly don't understand what the hell he's got to do with this.”
“You know where you are right this minute?” asked Holliday.
“Right here, talking to you two.”
“And do you know where ‘right here’ is?”
“Wyoming territory,” said Younger, frowning.
“Close but no cigar,” said Holliday. “You, and Cope's whole expedition, and Marsh's whole expedition, are standing on some sacred Comanche burial grounds.”
“How the hell do you know?” said Younger irritably. “Indians don't plant no crosses.”
“I don't know,” replied Holliday. “But Geronimo does.”
“Are you trying to get me to believe that old bastard has made peace with the Comanche?”
“No, he doesn't give a damn about them.”
“I know I spent a lot of years in jail,” said Younger, not trying to hide his exasperation, “but my brain hasn't stopped working, and you're just not making any sense.”
“The two expeditions have to dig through the burial grounds to get to the fossils,” interjected Roosevelt.
“Fossils?” repeated Younger.
“Dinosaur bones.”
“Okay, they have to dig through the small bones to get down to the big ones,” said Younger. “So what? They're all dead.”
“Dead isn't necessarily a permanent condition,” said Holliday. “Don't forget: the combined powers of something like fifty-five medicine men kept the United States from expanding across the Mississippi until Geronimo went against their wishes and signed the treaty with Theodore. He's the most powerful of them all, but they haven't lost their powers.”
“Okay, everyone's powerful,” said Younger irritably. “What's that got to do with anything?”
“He's mostly concerned with the Comanche medicine men,” continued Holliday. “If Professor Cope and Professor Marsh desecrate enough graves, he's afraid the medicine men might magic up some of the creatures the bones come from to either scare you off or kill you.”
“And he's worried about the Comanche turning their critters loose on us?” snorted Younger in disbelief. “You'll have to do better than that, Doc.”
“He doesn't give a damn about you,” agreed Holliday.
“Then I still don't—”
“He isn't worried about their supernatural creatures, because they can control what they create,” said Holliday.
“You'd better make some sense soon,” grumbled Younger. “I'm getting ready for dinner and so far you've used a hell of a lot of words to say nothing.”
“They created a creature to kill Theodore a year ago,” said Holliday. “He's still here. They resurrected Johnny Ringo a few years ago and sent him to Tombstone to kill me. I'm still here.”
Holliday took a swallow from his flask. “Their creatures can be awesome, and they're certainly deadly, but they're not perfect. And if you and Cody live long enough, like for another month or two, you'll figure out how to beat them. So Geronimo thinks they may have the power to resurrect hundreds of creatures, not from inside their heads, but from the bones your two expeditions are digging up.”
“Either way we die,” said Younger, “so why does Geronimo care?”
“Because he doesn't think the medicine men can kill as many monsters as they resurrect, and if they do resurrect them to drive you off, they'll start roaming away when they're done with you, and some of them will wind up in Apache territory.”
“Bullshit!” said Younger. “If they make it that far, and he's half as powerful as you think, he'll just order them to turn back.”
“I believe I can answer that, Mr. Younger,” said Roosevelt, who'd been sketching a pair of prairie dogs in the dying light while he listed to the two shootists.
“Cole,” Younger corrected him.
“Cole,” Roosevelt amended. “I'm no expert, but from what little I've read about these dinosaurs, they are about ninety-nine percent instinct and one percent brainpower. It may be that their brains are so small the medicine men, including Geronimo, can't control them.”
Younger considered what Roosevelt said for a moment, and then responded. “If you know it, and Geronimo knows it, then surely the Comanche medicine men know it.”
“They know they'll endanger a lot of Comanche lives,” agreed Roosevelt. “But what we don't know is how important that is to them. If the ground is truly sacred to them, maybe it's more important for them to chase the expeditions away or kill them, so the Comanche who die at the same time will find peace in the sacred burial ground.” Roosevelt grimaced and shrugged. “Or maybe they've already resurrected one or two and learned that they can control them. Geronimo's powerful, but he's not infallible.”
“What do you get out of this, Doc?” asked Younger. “What's Geronimo paying you to do his dirty work for him?”
“My health.”
Younger stared at him and frowned. “Bullshit,” he said. “You move like everything hurts, I can hear you breathing from where I'm sitting, and I saw you cough some blood into your kerchief a few minutes ago. I'd hardly call that health.”
“Everything's relative,” said Holliday with a rueful smile. “A few days ago I was in a sanitarium, waiting to die. I couldn't sit up without help, and I couldn't walk even with help. I was going to die in less than a day. Geronimo gave me a year in exchange for my coming here and trying to get the two expeditions to go east to Dakota or south to Colorado.”
“That Apache sure as hell did a half-hearted job of restoring your health,” noted Younger.
“He explained his reasons to me.” A grim smile. “Needless to say, I thoroughly disagree with them.”
“So you're here to convince Professor Cope to pack up and leave?”
“Cope and Marsh both.”
Younger stared at him for a moment before replying. Finally he said, “You want an honest opinion?”
“Always happy to have one,” replied Holliday.
“You got more chance of getting Geronimo to convert to Christianity,” said Younger with a smile. “The most important thing in either of these guys’ lives is digging up some new bone before the other one can. I don't know what started it, but I don't think I've ever seen two guys hate each other as much as these two.”
“Those are comforting words,” said Roosevelt.
“Doc,” said Younger, “your friend's as crazy as they are.”
“Anything's possible,” answered Holliday. “But he usually has a reason for what he says.” He turned to Roosevelt. “Theodore?”
“Cole, you said it yourself,” said Roosevelt with a smile.
“Said what?”
“The most important thing in both their lives is digging up some bone before the other one does.”
“So?” demanded Young.
“So we only have to convince one of them to leave,” continued Roosevelt. “The other will follow him because he'll be sure he's found a better spot to dig, and he'll want to be there to pull out the better specimens before his rival can.”
A slow grin spread across Younger's face. “You know, he's got a point.”
“He usually does,” agreed Holliday.<
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Younger looked off to his left, where a cloud of dust seemed to be approaching them. “You'll have your chance pretty soon. That'll be the Professor.”
EDWARD DRINKER COPE WAS A LEAN MAN with a carefully trimmed brown mustache and clear blue eyes. Holliday estimated his age at forty-five, give or take a couple of years. It was clear from his appearance that he'd been digging in the earth all day, and just as clear that he'd cleaned himself up as best he could before returning to camp.
There were some thirty men with him, and as he dismounted he issued orders to them as they began unloading the wagons and unhitching the horses. He watched them for a few minutes; then, satisfied that they were doing their jobs the way he wanted, he turned and walked toward the log building that held most of the huge bones. He stopped when his gaze fell on Holliday and Roosevelt.
Holliday remained seated, but Roosevelt got to his feet.
“Professor,” said Younger, also getting up, “we got ourselves a couple of famous visitors.”
“I believe I recognize one of them,” said Cope. “Mr. Roosevelt, isn't it?”
“At your service,” said Roosevelt.
“I certainly hope so,” said Cope. “I'd like you to use your connections to stop that thieving bastard Marsh from sabotaging my dig and stealing fossils that are rightly mine.”
“I'll certainly talk to him,” said Roosevelt easily.
“Do you know that son of a pig has some of his fat rich friends in Congress trying to pass a bill that would restrict where I can carry out my explorations?” continued Cope, spitting on the ground to show his contempt for Marsh.
“Explorations?” said Roosevelt curiously.
“For fossils.”
“Since Wyoming's not a state, I hardly think the Congress of the United States has any authority here,” said Roosevelt.
“I'm here because they harassed me when I was digging on the other side of the Mississippi,” said Cope angrily.
“I'll look into it,” said Roosevelt.
Cope turned to face Holliday. “Who's your friend, who doesn't seem to feel obligated to get to his feet when we're introduced?”
“Get up, Doc!” said Younger urgently.
“I'm comfortable right where I am,” replied Holliday, making no effort to stand.
“Mr. Cope…” began Roosevelt.
“I prefer Professor,” interrupted Cope.
“Professor Cope, say hello to Doc Holliday.”
Cope stared at Holliday as if comparing him to the mental picture he'd formed of the legendary hero of the O.K. Corral. “You're really him?”
“Sure am,” replied Holliday easily. “If you've got a toothache, I'll prove it to you.”
“And you've killed thirty men?”
“Probably not,” said Holliday.
“But you are the famous shootist?”
“Well, I'm a shootist when I'm not being a dentist or a gambler. How famous I am is probably a matter of some debate. There are certainly towns where I've got a little more fame than I'd like.”
“Well, I'll be damned!” said Cope, obviously impressed. “Doc Holliday has come to my camp! I couldn't have asked for anything better!”
Holliday stared at him curiously.
“That bastard Marsh is no more than fifty miles from this spot,” continued Cope. “What'll it cost for you to kill him?”
“I'm not an assassin for hire, Mr. Cope.”
“Professor,” said Cope.
“Professors don't hire killers, Mr. Cope,” replied Holliday.
“Cole, get ready to earn your pay,” snapped Cope, suddenly tense.
“I don't quite follow you, Professor,” said Younger.
“If he won't kill Marsh, then it's obvious that Marsh has sent him here to kill me!” said Cope.
Holliday turned to Roosevelt. “And they say he's the reasonable one,” he said sardonically.
“We're just here to make sure nothing untoward happens to either expedition,” said Roosevelt to Cope.
“Other than sabotage, murder and Indian attacks, you mean?” said Cope.
“Actually, yes,” said Holliday.
Cope stared at Holliday as if he might start foaming at the mouth momentarily. “All right,” he said at last. “I'm not an unreasonable man. Suppose you tell me what's worse than what I just said.”
“Whatever it is,” said Holliday with a smile, “you're not going to stab it to death with that dagger you've got in your coat pocket.”
“Dagger?” said Cope with a puzzled frown. Then, suddenly, he smiled. “Ah! You mean this!” He withdrew a whitish, foot-long pointed object. “You're the dentist. Why don't you tell me what it is?”
Holliday got painfully to his feet, then walked over.
“May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.
“Be my guest.”
Holliday took it and studied it for a long moment. “If it's what I think it is, I'd hate to see the mouth it came out of.”
“That's a tooth?” exclaimed Roosevelt, taking the specimen from Holliday and examining it eagerly.
“An allosaur tooth,” answered Cope. “Not one of its canines, either.”
“Can I see it?” said Younger, holding out his hand. Roosevelt reluctantly passed it over. “You know,” continued Younger, “you could make a hell of a dagger out of this.”
“What the hell kind of critter is an allosaur?” asked Holliday, suddenly interested.
“A carnivorous dinosaur,” answered Cope. “Probably about the size of an Indian elephant, maybe a little bigger—and a lot faster.”
“Something with a mouth that held a tooth like that actually existed?” persisted Holliday.
Cope smiled. “Now do you know why we dig.”
“What could it possibly have fed on? Surely it would eat its habitat out in a matter of weeks.”
“How much does an Indian elephant weigh, Mr. Roosevelt?” asked Cope, replacing the tooth in his pocket.
“Call me Theodore—and I'd guess four and a half tons on average, maybe five at the outside.”
Cope nodded. “I think the allosaurs weighed about the same. What do you suppose their prey was?”
“I'm a believer in Mr. Darwin,” answered Roosevelt, “so I know the elk and moose of today are the end results of evolution. I assume the owner of that tooth fed on an earlier version.”
“And they would weigh what?” asked Cope.
“Maybe a ton,” said Roosevelt. “A ton and a half at the outside.”
“Well, I hate to disillusion you, Theodore,” said Cope, “but so far we haven't found the remains—the fossils—of any mammals anywhere on Earth that are as old as the dinosaurs.” He paused and shook his head. “No, our friend the allosaur almost certainly went after other dinosaurs for his dinner.” He paused thoughtfully. “In fact, they very possibly hunted in packs.”
“Excuse me for butting in,” said Holliday, “but why would a four-ton carnivore need to hunt in packs? Seems to me he'd run out of food soon enough as a lone predator.”
“Let me show you,” said Cope, squatting down and using the tooth to create a rough drawing of a sauropod in the dirt. “We call this one a brontosaur, but he had a lot of similar-looking relatives.”
“For a prey animal, he sure doesn't look like he's built for speed,” opined Roosevelt.
“He isn't,” answered Cope, still amused. “How much do you think he weighs, Theodore?”
Roosevelt shrugged. “Thick legs, all that neck and tail,” he mused. “I'd say three thousand pounds.”
“Doc?” asked Cope.
Holliday studied the drawing for another moment. “If he's really got the belly you gave him, maybe two tons.”
“Cole?”
“I'm with Doc on this,” answered Younger. “Maybe four thousand pounds.”
Cope laughed.
“What's so damned funny?” asked Holliday.
“The smaller adults weighed a hundred thousand pounds,” said Cope. “Based on the bones we'
ve unearthed, the big ones, the bulls so to speak, went about seventy-five tons, maybe a little more.”
“You're kidding!” exclaimed Holliday.
“Not at all,” replied Cope. “Now do you understand why the allosaurs hunted in packs? One swipe of that brontosaur tail would cripple any allosaur that ever lived…and these brontosaurs weren't the biggest. They have a relative, the diplodocus, that measured more than one hundred feet in length.”
“Well, now I know why you're digging,” said Holliday, opening his flask, and taking a swallow. He offered it to Cope and Roosevelt, but both refused it. Younger reached out and grabbed it before it could be offered.
“I have a question, Professor,” said Roosevelt.
“Yes?”
“How did something that big, that awesome, ever die out?”
“That's something we hope to find out.”
“It'd take a lot more than my Winchester to bring something like that down, I'll wager,” said Roosevelt, shooting Holliday a meaningful glance.
“Yeah, I think even cannon fire might just irritate him,” agreed Holliday.
“No need to worry about it,” said Cope. “These babies have been gone for millions of years.” He stared from Roosevelt to Holliday and back again. “You want to see something really interesting?”
“Happy to!” said Roosevelt enthusiastically.
“Sure, why not?” said Holliday.
“Follow me,” said Cope, leading them to the door of the log cabin. “I think it's still light enough that we won't need a candle.”
He opened the door and entered, followed by his two visitors, and walked directly to a huge bone that extended the length of the cabin.
“What the hell is it?” asked Holliday.
“I'm not sure,” said Cope. “It's clearly the femur—the leg bone—of one of the sauropods, but this fellow must have stood twenty, maybe twenty-two feet at the shoulder. We came up with it two days ago, and I'm not leaving this site until we find the rest of him.”
“If you stay in one spot, won't the Comanche be better able to plan an attack, if indeed they're going to attack you in any kind of force?” asked Roosevelt.
