by Mike Resnick
“We haven't come upon any human remains there, so maybe they'll realize that it's not part of their burial ground,” answered Cope.
“Wait a minute,” said Roosevelt sharply.
“Yes?” asked Cope.
“You knew that this was a burial ground and you came here anyway?”
“I would go to hell itself in the interest of science, sir,” said Cope harshly.
“Besides,” said Younger, “we're digging up dinosaurs, not Indians. Haven't come to a human skeleton yet.”
“That's not the way it works,” said Holliday.
“Oh?” said Younger.
“I got the train to change its route around a sacred Apache burial ground back in Arizona,” replied Holliday. “If you laid every Apache who'd ever lived end-to-end, you couldn't have reached from one end to the other, but the whole thing was still sacred.”
“Then I'm sorry,” said Cope, “but I can't let that stand in the way of the quest for knowledge. Besides, that's what I've got Cole Younger for.”
“When we got here, he was guarding the bones you'd already found,” noted Holliday, “not the bone-hunters who were out searching for more. I don't think you realize just what kind of danger your expedition is in.”
“It's not a problem,” said Cope with a sudden smile.
“Oh?” said Holliday. “Why not?”
“The notorious Doc Holliday is here now,” said Cope. “One of you will guard the bones and the other will guard the men!”
“That's not what I'm here for,” said Holliday, as Younger gave him an I-could-have-told-you-so grin.
“Name your price!” said Cope.
“Just a minute, Professor,” said Roosevelt. “Let me confer privately with my friend, and perhaps we can work something out.”
Cope nodded his agreement. “I'll be in here, cataloguing some of the finds.”
Roosevelt put an arm around Holliday's shoulders and escorted him out in to the open air, stopping only when he was sure they were far enough away that Cope couldn't hear them.
“What the hell's this about, Theodore?” demanded Holliday. “You know why I'm here.”
“I know.”
“Well, then?” persisted Holliday.
“You heard him, Doc,” said Roosevelt. “What'll you do if one of these flesh-eaters shows up right now?”
“Seriously? Run like hell, I suppose.”
“I don't think there's a weapon in the world that can stop one, or do more than annoy it,” said Roosevelt. “Now, it seems Cope has taken a liking to you, or at least has a use for you…and we both know you're not the easiest man to get along with, even on your good days. So it makes sense that you stay here, and that I go ingratiate myself with Marsh—but before I do that I'll stop by Cheyenne and send a telegram to Tom and Ned, telling them what we may be facing, and that if it comes to pass we're going to need something that will even the odds.”
“No matter how you make it sound, the end result is that I'm riding shotgun for this guy,” complained Holliday.
“Would you rather ride to Cheyenne in a day, and then approach Marsh on your own?” asked Roosevelt.
Holliday took another swallow from his flask, emptying it. “You know, this project was a lot simpler when it only had me thinking about it,” he growled.
“Is that an agreement?” asked Roosevelt, flashing him a grin.
“I'd sooner let the Indians and the dinosaurs eat the whole fucking state than ride another day on that goddamned horse,” muttered Holliday.
“Good!” sad Roosevelt. “We'll tell Cope that you agree, and that I've got business elsewhere. Both statements will be true, too.”
“Temporarily,” said Holliday.
“Temporarily,” agreed Roosevelt.
The two men returned to the cabin and informed Cope that he had an extra shootist on his staff after all. It was all Younger could do not to laugh at what he considered Holliday's capitulation. Roosevelt decided to leave at daybreak—he gave Cope a story about some business he had in Cheyenne, which was almost true—and after dinner they sat around the campfire listening to Cope expound on some of the finds he'd made and others he planned to make. His intellect was apparent, and his enthusiasm was boundless, broken only when the topic of Marsh or one of Marsh's finds came up. Finally, since he had a hard day of digging ahead of him, Cope went to the tent he'd set up behind the cabin.
Roosevelt and Younger sat up another hour, then walked to the cluster of tents where the men slept.
Holliday found that he wasn't so much sleepy as thirsty, and since his flask was empty he walked to where he'd left his horse, planning to refill his flask from one of the two bottles he had tucked in his saddlebag.
As he approached his horse, he caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. Since the horse wasn't nervous, he decided it couldn't be a mountain lion or a bear, and that meant it was a Comanche, here to kill Cope or somehow destroy the cabin.
Holliday began humming aloud on the assumption the warrior wouldn't think people hummed when they were aware of his presence, and began fiddling with the saddle bags.
A few seconds later there was a savage scream designed to startle him into immobility, and a Comanche brave leaped out from the thick shrubbery and came at him with a tomahawk. Holliday ducked and stepped under the horse, and the Comanche raced around the horse to confront him. He calmly pulled his pistol and fired point-blank at his attacker, who gave a surprised grunt and fell to the ground with a bullet between his eyes.
Roosevelt, Younger and most of the men raced out of their tents toward the sound of the gunshot, followed by Cope, who had clearly been awakened and looked like he was still half-asleep.
“Nice shot,” said Younger as he examined the body.
“Theodore,” said Holliday, “I don't know how many more I can kill before you-know-what happens. You'd better start riding to Cheyenne right now.”
Roosevelt seemed about to protest, then thought better of it and nodded his agreement.
“We're sitting ducks out here in the dark,” said Younger. “Let's go back to the cabin. Doc, you and I will take turns standing watch.”
“First let's go hide this body in the woods,” said Holliday, indicating a forest about a mile northeast of camp. “No sense letting his friends know what happened.”
It took them about ten minutes to cart the corpse off, hide it under some leaves and branches, and return to camp. Roosevelt had already left.
“I'll sit watch if it's all the same to you,” said Holliday.
Younger agreed, leaving Holliday to sit out by a fire, wondering just what he was watching for.
HOLLIDAY AWOKE TO THE SMELL OF BEEF cooking over a fire. He wrinkled his nose, tried to go back to sleep, but couldn't shut out the voices coming from his left.
Finally he sat up, realized he'd been sleeping on a blanket stretched beneath him on the floor of the cabin. He looked around, saw that he was the only person remaining in the cabin, got to his feet, and made his way painfully to the doorway, where he winced at the brightness of the scene before him.
Half a dozen of Cope's men—three white, one black, two Chinese—were squatting around the fire while a Mexican tended to the meat. Cole Younger was standing by the door.
“Good morning, Doc,” he said.
“Never saw one yet,” growled Holliday.
“Cheer up. We'll have breakfast ready in a couple of minutes.”
“Meat?”
“Steaks,” said Younger.
“I think I'll drink my breakfast, thanks,” muttered Holliday.
“I'll tell Jorge to put on some coffee.”
“Don't bother,” said Holliday, inhaling the odor of frying meat deeply and fighting back the urge to vomit. “I've got my breakfast right here.” He tapped the pocket that contained his flask.
“Too early in the day for me,” said Younger.
“Too early in the day for me, too,” replied Holliday. “That's why I need a drink.”
<
br /> Younger laughed and gave Holliday a friendly slap on the back. “You're a right funny man! I'm glad we never had to face each other down in Texas.”
“Whack me on the back one more time,” said Holliday, placing his handkerchief to his mouth and coughing, “and we may face off right here and now.”
“Like I said, you're a damned funny feller,” said Younger.
“Am I smiling?” replied Holliday. He looked around. “Where's the boss?”
“The Professor?” repeated Younger. “Said he wanted to scout out a site to the north and east of here. He'll be back soon.”
“North and east?” said Holliday sharply.
“Yeah.”
Holliday pointed. “That way?”
“Right.”
“And you let him go?”
“Why not?” asked Younger. “I'm not his keeper.”
“That's where we hid the body last night. They've got to know he's missing, and you let Cope go off alone in that direction. I assume he's alone?”
“I never thought of that, Doc,” admitted Younger, frowning.
“I also assume he's no marksman?”
“He doesn't even carry a gun.”
“All right,” said Holliday. “I'll go after him.”
“I'll come with you,” said Younger.
Holliday shook his head. “Probably nothing'll happen—but if it does we need someone who they'll listen to in order to organize a defense.”
Younger nodded. “Yeah, you got a point. We haven't heard any gunfire, so he's probably okay—but if he's not…”
“If he's not, he's dead, and this figures to be their next target,” concluded Holliday. “Where the hell's my horse?”
Younger told one of the Chinese to fetch it while Holliday checked his pistol and gun belt.
“You need three or four more bullets, Doc,” noted Younger, studying his belt.
“Makes no difference. If I've used so many that I have to reach behind me for the missing ones, I'm already dead.”
The man arrived with Holliday's horse.
“Give a sick old man a hand up,” said Holliday. The man cupped his hands, Holliday placed his foot in them, and the man helped boost him to the saddle.
“You can't imagine how much I hate horses,” were Holliday's parting words as he rode off to the north and east.
It took him about five minutes to reach the spot where they'd left the Indian, but when he got there he couldn't find any sign of the corpse.
“Shit!” he growled. “Either you're collecting human bones too, or the Comanche found their warrior and took him off to bury him, hopefully where you won't dig him up again while he's still fresh.”
He dismounted, tied his horse to a small tree, and began examining the area. From the moccasined footprints, he concluded that three Comanche had come across the body. It would have had to be since sunrise, since the corpse was too well-hidden to have been found in the dark.
Holliday frowned. Why had three braves been just five minutes away—at a slow walk—from the camp in the daylight?
He heard a horse whinny off to his left, he turned, and there, perhaps sixty yards away, was a row of some twenty Comanche warriors.
“I hate mornings!” said Holliday as he turned to face them.
He stared at the warriors, who sat motionless on their horses, staring back at him.
“Let's go,” he muttered, flexing his right hand. “Or are you just killing time until lunch?”
One of the Comanche put an arrow in his bow and let it fly. It hit the ground twenty yards short of Holliday. He wanted to throw back his head and laugh at such a futile and misguided action, but he was afraid if he did it would bring on a coughing fit and he didn't want to show any weakness.
Instead he pointed his finger at the warrior in the middle, pretended to shoot him, and then went through the pantomime of holstering his finger.
A burly warrior from the right side of the line began moving his horse forward. Holliday considered his options. The one thing he didn't want to do was show them how short a firing range his pistol had before the bullet lost both accuracy and velocity. He decided that if he faced the brave with his hand poised above his holster they would see how puny his weapon was at even thirty yards. Finally he decided to fold his arms across his chest as if he was totally unconcerned and was just biding his time before drawing and firing his weapon, which in a way was true, though not for the reasons he hoped to imply.
The warrior was fifty yards away, then forty, and then two more warriors began urging their horses forward.
Suddenly they stopped and looked at something Holliday couldn't see, well off to his left.
“Don't worry, Doc,” said Cole Younger's voice. “We'll be there in another half minute.”
Holliday turned in the direction of the voices, and suddenly saw a column of some thirty men—Younger, the six from the campfire, and close to twenty-five more—approaching him in single file. They fanned out on either side of him, brought their mounts to a stop, and faced the Comanche warriors, who held stock-still, staring back at them.
“What the hell are you doing here?” said Holliday. “Not that I'm not glad to see you.”
“I got to thinking,” said Younger. “I'm being paid to ride shotgun and keep the Indians at bay, not to guard a bunch of bones. And you've seen those bones. It'd take four of them to lift one of the big ones, and most of their ponies couldn't carry ’em anyway, so even if they wanted the damned bones they'd still be there trying to load them for the next couple of days—and I knew you weren't going more than a mile or two from camp, so why the hell not ride out, just in case they'd arranged this very type of reception for you?”
“That's some pretty smart thinking,” said Holliday, never taking his eyes off the warriors. “Just keep on doing it while I'm around.”
“You'd think being a soon-to-be famous author would make thinking easier,” complained Younger wryly. “If we fire even a single shot, we're probably going to get in a shootout that'll kill all of one side and two-thirds of the other, and truth to tell I ain't ready to hobnob in hell with Jim and Bob just yet.” He paused. “On the other hand, if we don't do anything, sooner or later the Professor is going to come back this way, and if they see him first…”
“They won't know it's Cope,” said Holliday. “He's not wearing a uniform or anything.”
“True,” agreed Younger. “But I've seen what they do to lone white men.”
“Not just white men,” chimed in one of the Chinese. “They got my brother two weeks ago.”
“Well, we can't just spend the day staring at each other,” said Holliday. He frowned as he stared at the Comanche. “You know,” he continued, “if they're hunting for Cope they know he's not here, and it makes sense that they'd go to wherever they thought he was. So I think they were here because of the dead Indian. Either the guys who found him brought some of their friends and relations back to show them where it happened, or reconstruct it, or else they were all in the area, not looking for a fight but just because it's Comanche land, and they found the body and before they could figure out what to do next, I showed up.”
“What are you getting at, Doc?” asked Younger.
“I think if we ride back to camp, they're going to turn around and go home. They're not looking for Cope, and since no one's started shooting yet, they're not out for revenge—at least not here and not now.”
“And what about the Professor?”
“He'll come back when he's found whatever the hell it is that he's looking for.”
Younger stared at the Comanche for a long minute, then turned back to Holliday. “It's worth a try.”
“I'm not guaranteeing it'll work,” said Holliday, “just that it makes sense. But tell them that nobody draws a gun or aims a rifle until you do, and you don't do it until I do.”
It took Younger only a moment to pass the word up and down the line. Then, on his signal, they turned and began walking their horses back to camp
. Holliday climbed onto his own horse and brought up the rear.
They reached camp without incident, split up into small groups, and awaited Cope's return. He showed up an hour later, looking very excited.
“I believe I've found a nest of fossilized eggs!” he enthused.
“Good,” said Holliday. “Beats the hell out of having steak for breakfast.”
Cope stared at him but said nothing.
“By the way, Professor,” said Younger, “did you see any Comanche while you were looking for…for eggs?” He couldn't hide his disillusionment in any grown man who would go searching for eggs.
“Not a one,” said Cope. “I think they've cleared out of this area.” He went into the cabin to scribble in one of his notebooks.
Younger shook his head. “How the hell can he find eggs that have been buried for a million years, but not see Indians who were on the warpath an hour ago?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” said Holliday.
“Lucky?” repeated Younger incredulously.
“Two men leave camp an hour apart. One finds ancient eggs that'll make him famous. The other finds a Comanche war party.” Holliday allowed himself the luxury of a grim smile. “Who'd you rather be?”
HOLLIDAY SPENT TWO MORE DAYS in Cope's camp and decided to leave. Cope hadn't paid him, so he didn't consider himself an employed bodyguard—or a fossil guard either—and he made up his mind to ride to Marsh's camp and make sure that Roosevelt had sent the telegram to Edison and arrived healthy and whole. The truth of the matter was that he found Younger boring and Cope all but incomprehensible.
He offered to buy one of Cope's wagons so he wouldn't have to ride the whole distance, but the expedition needed them and his offer was politely but firmly refused. He stopped by the supply tent long enough to pack a couple of meals of beef jerky, which he devoutly hoped he wouldn't have to eat, and then he was off in the general direction of Marsh's camp.
He'd gone about ten miles along a high, rocky trail and found that every single joint in his body hurt, so he pulled his horse up, dismounted, and sat down with his back against the broad trunk of a solitary tree. He fingered his deck of cards and wondered if he had time for a half hour of solitaire—after all, since he didn't know exactly where Marsh's camp was, he might be just two or three miles from it. But then he decided that it was just as likely that he was two or three days from it, and he wanted to scout out a better place to spend the night, so he sat for another ten minutes and then painfully mounted his horse.
