by Mike Resnick
He covered a few more miles, the trail leveled out and the landscape became greener, and as he reached the outskirts of a forest he realized that he was getting hungry. He didn't relish the effort of chewing on the beef jerky, but while he was sure there were all kinds of edible things growing around him, he had no idea which they might be. He dismounted, pulled out the jerky, took one bite of it, and made a face. He didn't know which leaves or grasses might be harmful, but then, he'd been poisoning his system with alcohol for as far back as he could remember, so what further harm could a little more poison do?
It occurred to him that if his horse ate it, it was probably safe for humans. Not necessarily tasty, but safe. So instead of tying his horse to a tree or a bush he led him to the shrubbery and watched to see what the animal ate.
He was still watching his horse when he heard another horse snort twice, and became aware that he was no longer alone. He turned and found himself facing a grizzled man who was pointing a gun at him.
“Nice day, ain't it, neighbor?” said the man.
Holliday merely stared at him.
“’Course, it could be a little warmer,” continued the man. “I'm afraid you might freeze your ass off once the sun goes down.”
“I'll be fine,” said Holliday.
“Well, maybe you will,” agreed the man. “But you'll be without your horse and your gun and any money you got with you.”
“I didn't see you at Cope's camp, so you must be working for Marsh,” said Holliday. “Why not just take me to him?”
“Never heard of neither of ’em,” said the man. “The gun first, I think.”
“Whatever you say,” said Holliday, raising his left hand in the air while very gently, very carefully withdrawing his pistol from its holster with his right hand. He made a production of pointing it butt first to the grizzled man, and as the man reached for it, Holliday spun it in his hand so that the muzzle was pointing at the would-be thief. He fired point-blank at the man's belly, blowing him off his horse.
“You aren't exactly the brightest bear in these woods, are you?” said Holliday contemptuously, standing over the fallen man.
“Who the hell are you?” gasped the man as Holliday leisurely aimed the gun between his eyes.
“When you get to hell, which'll be any second now, tell the gatekeeper that Doc Holliday has sent him another one. You'll have plenty of company.”
He fired the gun, and the man shuddered convulsively, then lay still—
—but both horses panicked and began running off before Holliday could grab the reins of either. The effort brought forth another coughing fit that lasted almost three minutes, and left his chin and his shirtfront covered with blood. He spent another minute gasping for breath, coughed again, and finally had to lean against a tree in order to stay on his feet.
“Wonderful,” he muttered. “Just wonderful.”
He surveyed his surroundings and saw a number of birds, some still screeching in response to the noise of the gunshots, others settling back down after flying up in alarm.
He waited until he had recovered enough strength to speak in his normal voice. “You'd damned well better be one of these critters,” said Holliday, “because I can't walk from here to either camp.”
Holliday looked into the trees. None of the birds was paying him the least attention.
“I mean it,” he said. “We renegotiate our deal, or I quit here and now.”
A squirrel approached him, and when it was about ten feet away it slowly grew and morphed into Geronimo.
“You are a killer,” said the Apache, “but you are a man of your word. And you gave me your word you would keep these two grave robbers from further desecrating the Comanche burial ground.”
“Use your eyes, damn it!” snarled Holliday. “I can't walk twenty paces without coughing my lungs out, and I'm miles from both camps.”
“You made a bargain,” said Geronimo.
“You misled me,” replied Holliday. “You said you'd restore my health.”
“I have explained that,” said Geronimo. “And in case it has already escaped your memory,” he added, pointing to the robber's corpse, “you just killed that man, which demonstrates that you can still function as you always did.”
“That man had the brains and foresight of a demented toad!” snapped Holliday. “I want a new deal. A year of pain and a lifetime in hell isn't much of a bargain.”
Geronimo stared at him for a long moment. ‘We have an agreement,” he said at last.
“It doesn't make any sense anyway,” growled Holliday. “You opposed all the other medicine men who acted in concert against you and lifted the spell that kept white men east of the Mississippi. Why the hell can't you deal with two goddamned bone collectors?”
“You are just a man, using the arguments and threats of men to make them stop and go elsewhere, and that is clearly in the interest of the Comanche. But I made the agreement with Roosevelt. They believe that I am their enemy, and if they know that I am involved in any way, even though I want the same thing that they do, they will eventually do exactly what you are here to prevent them from doing.”
“Can they even hurt you?”
“They can,” confirmed Geronimo. “But more importantly, they can hurt my people—and before I will let that happen, I will sacrifice myself if need be. But this can all be avoided if you and Roosevelt can make the grave robbers go elsewhere.”
“You'd really die for your people?” said Holliday.
“When one is a leader, one must accept the responsibilities of leadership.”
“That's one good reason never to run for office.”
“Speak to your friend Roosevelt,” said Geronimo. “The day will come when he bears far greater responsibilities than you can imagine.”
“He's not exactly my friend,” said Holliday. “Hell, I've only had two friends since I came out here. They were both Earps. One's dead and the other's no longer speaking to me.”
“He is a better friend than you have ever had.”
“Because he likes me?” asked Holliday curiously.
Geronimo shook his head. “Because he is Roosevelt.”
“I don't understand.”
“That is why you have only had two friends, and one of them will not speak to you,” answered Geronimo.
“Touché,” said Holliday wryly.
“The sun will set in another hour,” noted Geronimo. “What will you do, Holliday?”
“Die, probably,” answered Holliday. “I've got no food, no shelter, and no horse.”
“I will help you this one time,” said Geronimo. “It would serve neither of our interests for you to die here and now.”
“I could surely use a buckboard, a team of horses, and a bottle of whiskey,” suggested Holliday.
“No, Holliday. You would surely misuse them.”
Holliday was about to reply when he felt a sudden dizziness. He thought he was about to black out and collapse, but somehow he found that he couldn't. He shook his head to clear it, then realized that far from standing, he was seated atop his horse. He checked his saddle bags and found to his annoyance that Geronimo had reunited him with his horse but had removed his liquor.
He realized that his surroundings had changed. The forest was no longer there, the land was flat, not much was growing except grass and weeds, and a small creek ran off to his left. He could hear noises up ahead—voices, axes chopping wood, even a man playing a banjo.
He urged his horse forward, anxious to reach Marsh's camp and get some food. Then he saw something unusual off to his left, and rode a little closer.
It was a dead man, hanging by his neck from a makeshift gallows, and attached to his foot was a sign that contained a single word: Saboteur.
“Yep, we're here,” said Holliday grimly, urging his horse forward.
HOLLIDAY RODE INTO THE CAMP, which was larger—and, he noted, better kept—than Cope's. There were three main buildings. He assumed one was a storage house, one a bunk
house, and he had no idea what the third might be.
A tall man with a neatly trimmed beard and flowing blond hair that reached down to his shoulders emerged from one of the buildings and approached him.
“Mind if I ask what your business is, stranger?” he asked.
I wonder what your reaction would be if I told you I was retired? thought Holliday. Aloud he said, “I'm looking for my friend, Theodore Roosevelt.”
Suddenly a huge smile spread across the bearded man's face. “Well, I'll be damned. I thought we might never meet. You're Doc Holliday, right?”
Holliday nodded his head. “Right.”
The man extended a hand. “And I'm Bill Cody! Buffalo Bill at your service.”
Holliday dismounted carefully. “Got a place where I can put my horse for a while?”
“Absolutely.” Cody put two fingers in his mouth and emitted a shrill whistle, which startled the horse but brought a man running. “This here is the famous Doc Holliday's horse,” announced Cody, “so make sure he's got grain and water and shade. Take his saddle off and wipe some of the dust off it.”
“Yessir, Mr. Cody, sir,” said the man.
“That's Buffalo Bill, damn it!” snapped Cody.
“Yessir, Mr. Buffalo, sir,” said the man, leading the horse away.
“It's getting harder and harder to find good help these days,” said Cody to Holliday. Then he shrugged. “Oh, well, I suppose he's good with a shovel.”
“Is Theodore around?” asked Holliday.
“I believe he's out hunting for dinner,” replied Cody. “Remarkable man. Never slows down, never stops. He's got damned near the equivalent of a college education in bones from Professor Marsh, he runs to and from the dig site twice a day just to keep fit, he brings back enough deer and elk to feed the whole damned camp, and when everyone else is sleeping you can see the lantern burning in his tent while he sits there reading his books.”
“That's Theodore, all right,” agreed Holliday. “Where's Mr. Marsh?”
“Mucking around with his bones in there,” said Cody, jerking a thumb in the direction of the largest building. “And let me give you a hint: Don't call him Mister.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Holliday. “Same with Cope.”
“What is it with these geniuses?” laughed Cody.
Holliday shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”
“Ah, well, the pay is good, and the rewards are even better,” said Cody, lighting up a cigar.
“Rewards?”
Cody smiled. “Why do you think I closed my Wild West show down? If the Professor digs up anything besides bones, like, say, the mummified corpse of one of these dinosaurs, I get to exhibit it in my show for a year.”
“Not a bad deal,” agreed Holliday.
“Oh, it'll be a hell of a draw,” enthused Cody. “But there's something that could draw even better.”
“Oh?”
Cody nodded. “Doc Holliday. Hell, every man and boy from here to Maine has read about the O.K. Corral, and how you tracked down Billy the Kid.”
“I'm a dying man,” answered Holliday. “I don't plan to spend my final days being gaped at by a bunch of strangers.”
“Well, if you change your mind, the offer's open, and I think you'll like what I'm willing to pay.”
“You don't want a skinny, used-up, consumptive shootist who's got one foot in the grave,” said Holliday. “Get this Annie Oakley I've heard about. Give the people something to look at.”
Cody grinned. “I'm ahead of you, Doc. I've already signed her, and as soon as this excursion is over, I'm going after Calamity Jane too.”
“She's no shootist,” said Holliday.
“True,” agreed Cody. “But she's the best damned storyteller you'll ever run across. Even gave the scribes some cock-and-bull story about how she had Bill Hickok's baby, and they bought it.” He chuckled. “Not a one of them could count.”
“How about Belle Starr?” asked Holliday. “From all I hear, that lady is a shootist.”
“But a dumb one,” replied Cody. “They arrested her again just before I came out here.”
“Well, two out of three won't be bad.”
“I'd still rather have Doc Holliday.”
Holliday shook his head. “Some other lifetime.”
A burly, bearded, balding man walked out of the largest building, wearing a dust-covered suit and tie, and Holliday knew that this must be Othniel Charles Marsh.
“If that's a saboteur, Mr. Cody, you should have shot and hung him up the minute he arrived,” said Marsh. “And if he's a visiting dignitary, then you should have brought him to me and introduced us.”
“I'm no saboteur, and I'm sure as hell no dignitary,” said Holliday.
Marsh frowned. “Then what are you?”
“Just a used-up old dentist.”
Marsh turned questioningly to Cody.
“Say hello to the most famous dentist in the West,” said Cody with a grin. “Doc Holliday, this here gentleman is the most famous paleontologist in the country, Professor Othniel Charles Marsh.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Holliday.
Marsh frowned. “If you are, then extend your hand like a gentleman.”
Holliday frowned, but reached his hand forward for Marsh to clasp it in his own firm grip.
“You'll stay for dinner, of course,” said Marsh.
Holliday nodded. “Thanks.”
“Mr. Roosevelt—another visitor—should be back with the main course any time now.”
“I know,” replied Holliday. “He's who I've come to see.”
Marsh glared at him for a moment, then turned on his heel and re-entered the building without another word.
Holliday stared at the spot where Marsh had been. “Is he like that all the time?”
“This is one of his good days,” replied Cody with an amused grin. “I assume you've come from Cope's camp. How is he to deal with?”
“Pleasanter,” answered Holliday. “Though I'm told that the easiest way to put him in a foul mood is to mention Professor Marsh.”
“Marsh is always in a foul mood,” said Cody, pausing to pull out a cigar and light it. “But if you want to put him in a killing rage, just mention Cope.”
“You know,” said Holliday thoughtfully, “I've seen my share of altercations, even been in a few of ’em, but I can't recall any two men ever hating each other quite like these two.”
“You want to know the crazy part?” asked Cody. “They were actually friends right after the War Between the States. Even went out on a couple of digs together.”
“Hard to imagine,” said Holliday.
“They've been at each other's throats for maybe fifteen years now,” continued Cody. “I think Professor Cope has used up most of his fortune on this…I don't know what you call it, a contest or a feud. Professor Marsh is getting close to broke, too, but he's got some college and museum money behind him.”
“Damned waste of money, if you ask me,” offered Holliday, backing up a step as the breeze changed and began wafting Cody's smoke toward him.
“Oh, I don't know. When they started, only three species of dinosaur had been found in the country. Last I heard, we're nearing eleven hundred and twenty species, all but those first three and maybe twenty others due to Professors Marsh and Cope. Maybe if they didn't hate each other's guts we'd still have only three species.”
“Well, just speaking from one minute of personal experience,” said Holliday, “I can sympathize with Cope. I don't have any problem at all hating Marsh's guts.”
“He doesn't know he's being rude or mean,” said Cody. “He just doesn't think about anything but dinosaurs.”
“And Cope,” said Holliday.
“And Cope,” agreed Cody.
Suddenly the stillness of the afternoon was broken by a single rifle shot.
“Dinner,” said Cody with a smile.
Holliday nodded. “I can't remember Theodore ever missing what he aimed at, or needing two sho
ts to bring down a deer or an elk.”
“He's a remarkable man, like I said,” remarked Cody. “I'd love to get him in my show, but somehow I know he's destined for more important things than that.”
“With him the sky's the limit,” agreed Holliday. “I imagine someday he could even be Mayor of New York City.”
“I wouldn't be at all surprised,” said Cody. His cigar went out and he re-lit it. and offered one to Holliday, who refused.
“Wish I could, but my lungs aren't up to it,” said Holliday. “On the other hand, if you've got a bottle stashed somewhere around here…”
“You know, I just happen to,” said Cody with a smile. “Let's mosey over to the bunkhouse and…” He stopped and looked off to his right. “Ah, hell—too late. Here's Theodore.”
Roosevelt rode into camp, leading a pack horse that had a dead deer sluing over its back. Cody whistled again, four different notes this time, and a crew of men emerged from the bunkhouse to unload the deer.
“Glad we weren't digging this afternoon,” said Cody, “or you and I would have had to skin and gut the damned thing. Welcome back, Theodore.”
“Thanks,” said Roosevelt, joining them. “Hello, Doc. What are you doing here?”
“Just making sure that you sent the telegram,” said Holliday.
Roosevelt frowned. “Do I strike you as irresponsible?”
“No, of course not,” said Holliday. “I also wanted to make sure the Comanche hadn't paid you a surprise visit along the way. And to tell you the truth, I was getting tired of Cope's camp.”
“You're going to get tired of this one a lot quicker,” said Roosevelt.
“I know.”
“Ah!” said Roosevelt with a grin. “You've already met Professor Marsh.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of him?”
“He's probably not a lot worse than Johnny Ringo when he was mean drunk.”
