by Mike Resnick
Roosevelt threw back his head and laughed.
“I'm glad somebody finds it funny,” said Cody.
“Any trouble with the Comanche here?” asked Holliday.
“They watch us from time to time, from a distance,” answered Cody. “But that's about it.”
“None at Cope's camp either,” replied Holliday. “Though we came close the other day.” He turned to Roosevelt. “That's why I wanted to make sure you sent it.”
“I think our mutual friend may have overestimated the problem,” said Roosevelt.
“I hope so,” said Holliday. “But…”
“But?”
“But I saw him a few hours ago, and he doesn't seem to think so.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you two are talking about,” complained Cody.
“And with a little luck, you never will,” said Roosevelt. “Now let's go start a fire so we're not eating raw deer.”
“We've got men to do that, Theodore.”
“Got to keep fit,” said Roosevelt, heading toward a pile of firewood. “Besides, why should they have all the fun?”
Cody turned to Holliday. “Your friend has a very odd notion of fun.”
“If you think that's odd,” said Holliday, half-smiling, “you ought to see his notion of relaxing.”
THEY WERE SEATED, all forty of them, at a long wooden table which hadn't been anywhere to be seen when Holliday arrived. He, Roosevelt and Cody were invited—it sounded more like ordered, to Holliday—to sit at the head of the table with Marsh, who spent the first half hour explaining how he had put together the scattered remains of a stegosaurus and offering his opinion as to the reason its back and tail looked the way they did. Like Cope, he seemed unable to go more than a few minutes without explaining what a vile blaggard his mortal enemy was; and like Cope, he seemed to have only two interests in his life—unearthing fossils and destroying his rival.
“So how many species have you discovered?” asked Roosevelt.
“It's difficult to say,” replied Marsh. “There are certain sauropods that may be different species, or there may simply be an enormous variation of size within one species. Same with the carnosaurs. I've got one I've tentatively called a Utahraptor that we found a few hundred miles from here, but until I can get back to Yale and really go to work, I can't be sure that it's not simply an undersized version of another carnosaur species.”
“So you really have no idea how many species you've discovered?” suggested Holliday.
“Of course I have an idea,” said Marsh irritably. “Somewhere between six hundred and six hundred fifty. How many does that Pennsylvania liar claim?”
Holliday shrugged. “I don't know. But I know he's written and submitted more than a thousand scientific papers.”
“Hah!” snapped Marsh contemptuously. “If he killed an ant by stepping on it, he'd publish a paper on squashed ants.”
“It's too bad the two of you can't work together,” said Roosevelt.
Marsh stared coldly at him for a full minute. Finally he spoke. “If you suggest that again, I shall have to ask you to leave my camp.”
Cody flashed an I-told-you-so grin at Holliday.
“So, Doctor Holliday,” said Marsh, “tell me about the O.K. Corral.”
“Not much to tell,” replied Holliday. “It's maybe ten yards by twenty, nothing much to recommend it. And please call me Doc.”
“I meant the gunfight at the O.K. Corral,” said Marsh, trying to hide his irritation.
Holliday resisted the urge to explain, for maybe the hundredth time, that it took place in an alley behind the corral. “It was over pretty fast,” he said. “There was me and the Earps on one side, and two Clantons, two McLaurys, and a kid called Billy Claiborne on the other. Someone fired the first shot—it could even have been me, but things happened so fast I can't be sure—and in maybe thirty seconds both McLaurys and Billy Clanton were dead, Morgan and Virgil Earp were shot up, and Ike Clanton and the Claiborne kid were running for their lives.”
“Details,” said Cody. “How about some details?”
“Bill, you've fired guns,” said Holliday. “You know how much smoke just one gun makes. Imagine maybe a dozen of them firing again and again, all within twenty feet of each other, with buildings on each side so the smoke couldn't float away.”
“Shit!” said Cody with a grin. “How'd you know when it was over.”
“When we didn't hear any more shots on the other side of the smoke,” answered Holliday truthfully.
“It sounds terribly inefficient,” opined Marsh.
“We didn't choose the fight or the venue,” said Holliday. “Besides, I'd have said picking one spot instead of another to dig for something that lived a million years ago was inefficient.”
Marsh chuckled. “I study the terrain and try to reconstruct what it was like, not a million, but many millions of years ago. Were those always cliffs, or were they once the bed or bank of a huge river ten or thirty million years ago? You try to get a picture of what the land looked like when the dinosaurs lived, and then you pick the likeliest place to dig. You estimate where the ground was softest, where a corpse would sink in a few days, because if it didn't, then the ancestors of ants and scavengers like hyenas and vultures would eventually consume it, bones and all.” He stared at Holliday. “You look dubious. Let me suggest that my record—and even that Pennsylvania bastard's record—gives proof that it works.”
“Can't argue with that,” replied Holliday, who was fast losing interest. He let Roosevelt continue questioning Marsh on the basics of paleontology long after most of the men had left the table, and, as usual, was impressed by the New Yorker's seemingly endless thirst for knowledge of any kind.
Suddenly there was a commotion at the edge of the camp, and then a familiar voice called out, “Damn it, Doc! Tell these assholes that I ain't a Comanche!”
Holliday got up and, joined by Cody and Roosevelt, walked over to see the cause of the disturbance. They found Cole Younger seated atop his horse, hands in the air as half a dozen guns were pointed at him.
“He's okay,” said Holliday. “Put your guns away.”
“We don't even know if you're okay,” snapped one of the men. He turned to Cody. “What do you say?”
“It's Cole Younger, all right,” said Cody. “Last I heard he was riding shotgun for Cope. At any rate, he sure as hell ain't no Comanche.”
The men holstered their guns and drifted away.
“What the hell are you doing here?” asked Holliday.
“Professor Cope sent me,” replied Younger.
“I'm not working for him, and I'm not going back there, at least not for a while,” said Holliday.
Younger shook his head. “You got it wrong, Doc. He don't care if you come back or not.”
“Then why—?”
“We found the body of the white man you killed,” continued Younger, “and he sent me ahead to see if you were okay. There were no tracks, no signs, no nothing, so I guessed that your Apache friend stepped in, and I figured if you were still alive you'd be here with Teddy.”
“Theodore,” Roosevelt corrected him.
“Too hard to spell,” offered Cody. “You run for office again, they're going to call you Teddy.”
“I'll worry about it when the time comes,” said Roosevelt. He looked up at Younger. “In the meantime, you might as well dismount and give your horse a rest. You're surely not going back in the dark, not with all these Comanche around.”
“I was hoping for an invite,” said Younger, climbing down from his horse.
“Nobody tried to bother you along the way?” asked Holliday.
“You mean like the one who clearly bothered you?” asked Younger with a smile.
“I meant Indians.”
“Never saw a one,” answered Younger. “You got any idea who it was that you killed?”
“Just some poor bastard who was down on his luck,” said Holliday.
“Well, yeah, he was,”
agreed Younger. “But once upon a time he was a helluva gambler named Ace High McGregor. Owned his own casino and even was a partner in a hotel back in Denver.”
“What happened?” asked Roosevelt.
“What do you think happened?” replied Younger. “He knew there were better hands than a king-high flush, but he didn't figure anyone would get one on the same deal. Lost the casino and the hotel, and before long he lost his friends, his wife, and his health, one after the other.”
“Ace High McGregor,” mused Cody. “I've heard of him.”
“I haven't,” said Holliday.
“I'm a stranger here myself,” added Roosevelt.
“So where's the drinkin’ stuff?” asked Younger as one of the men led his horse off to the stabling area.
“We've got some where we keep the foodstuffs,” replied Cody, leading them off. “Professor Marsh doesn't like to see anyone drunk when he's paying their wages, but he makes the occasional exception when they come up with something real valuable.”
“Like gold?” asked Holliday.
Cody and Younger both laughed in amusement.
“You don't know these madmen at all,” said Younger.
“Something valuable is something that'll get ’em in all the papers back East,” said Cody.
“And shove the other guy out,” added Younger.
“Here we are,” said Cody as they reached the table where they'd recently eaten, and which was now lit by lanterns. “Looks like the boss has gone back to his tent or his bones. Either way I don't figure he'll be coming back right soon, so let me pull out a bottle.”
The others seated themselves on the wooden benches some distance from the tents and the fossil-holding buildings, and Cody returned a moment later with a half-full bottle of whiskey and four glasses. He poured one for himself, Holliday and Younger, and was preparing to pour one for Roosevelt until the Easterner signaled that he didn't care for any.
“See any Comanche on the way in?” asked Holliday.
“A couple,” answered Younger, downing his drink and pouring another.
“No problems?” said Holliday. “I assume we'd have heard gunfire if there'd been any.”
“Know what I think?” said Younger. “I think they're afraid of your Apache friend.”
“What friend?” asked Cody, also emptying his glass and refilling it.
“I doubt it,” said Holliday, ignoring Cody's question.
“It makes sense,” persisted Younger. “There are twenty, maybe thirty thousand of them, and less than a hundred of us when you put both expeditions together. Why the hell haven't they killed us all?”
“When we annoy them enough, they probably will,” said Holliday.
“I agree with Doc,” said Cody. “We're going about this all wrong, and sooner or later it's going to lead to trouble.”
“How can we be doing it wrong?” asked Younger. “I mean, hell, we're digging in the dirt. You know of any other way to dig up these monsters’ bones?”
Cody shook his head. “You're not following me.”
“Enlighten us all,” suggested Roosevelt.
“You want to make sure the Comanche leave us alone?” said Cody. “Put ’em on salary.”
“What?” said Younger unbelievingly.
“Pay ’em. They may be savages, but they're bright enough not to bite the hand that feeds them.”
“They're not savages,” said Roosevelt adamantly.
“Pay them with what?” demanded Younger. “They don't use money.”
“Now that we've crossed the river they're going to start,” said Cody with conviction.
“That figures, coming from you,” said Younger angrily.
“Why would you say that?” asked Cody with a dangerous edge in his voice.
“You're no shootist,” said Younger. “You're a wheeler-dealer who's looking for a fast buck.”
“What difference does it make? Maybe I can't beat Doc Holliday to the draw, but so what? Hell, the graveyards are full of men who couldn't beat him to the draw. And before you get too high and mighty, Cole Younger, don't forget that you didn't win the only famous gunfight you were in, up there in Minnesota. They shot up your whole damned family.”
“And you're the guy Mr. Marsh is paying to hold off the Indians!” snarled Younger.
“He's Professor Marsh,” shot back Cody, growing red in the face, “and what the hell difference does it make to you whether I shoot his enemies or buy them off with money or women or a chance to be in my Wild West show?”
“Goddamn it, Bill Cody!” roared Younger. “You're giving shootists a bad name!”
“Well, let's walk away from the table and see if I can't give ’em a better name,” said Cody.
They both walked about fifty feet from the table and stood there, facing each other.
“We'd better do something,” said Roosevelt to Holliday.
Holliday sighed deeply. “I know,” he replied, getting to his feet and walking over until he stood between the two men.
“You really mean to do this?” asked Holliday.
“Damned right!” growled Younger. “I've had enough of the famous Buffalo Bill. He's just a goddamned hustler!”
“You backshoot a couple of people and get thrown into one jail after another and people think you know how to handle yourself in a fight,” said Cody. “I'm sorry I ever offered you a job in my show. The only thing you'd be good for is cleaning up after the horses.”
“Get ready to die, you son of a bitch!” shouted Younger.
“I'm not afraid to die,” said Cody. Suddenly he sneered. “Especially not when I'm facing you!”
“All right,” said Holliday. “You've been drinking, and you aren't as used to it as I am. Your blood's up, and nothing's going to stop you from having it out here and now.”
“Right!” growled Cody.
“Damned straight!” said Younger.
“Okay, if I can't talk you out of it, I can't talk you out of it. But there's one thing you should know.” Holliday paused and they both turned to him expectantly. “I'm challenging the winner.”
“What?” demanded Younger.
“This is some kind of joke, right?” said Cody nervously.
“No joke at all,” said Holliday. “If you're too drunk and too dumb to call it off, then you're no use to Cope, Marsh, or me, and I'll take great pleasure into lowering both their payrolls.
Younger turned to Roosevelt. “Is he kidding?”
“I hope not,” answered Roosevelt.
“Well, I for one didn't sign on to draw against Doc Holliday,” said Cody. “I'm going back to my tent.” He turned and started walking. As he passed Holliday, he whispered, “My show could use a sharpshooter when this dinosaur silliness is done. Let's talk later.”
Holliday smiled and didn't say a word.
“Would you really have done it, Doc?” asked Younger curiously as the tension began seeping away from his body.
“Get a good night's sleep,” said Holliday, “and you can ponder it all the way back to Cope's camp in the morning.”
Younger seemed about to argue, then thought better of it, and walked off into the gathering darkness.
Holliday pulled out his flask, took a swallow, and watched the two men walk away until they were out of his range of vision.
“Truth to tell,” he said, “I've never seen either of them in action. I wonder what the result would have been?”
“That's easy to answer,” said Roosevelt.
Holliday turned to him. “Oh?”
Roosevelt nodded.
“Okay,” said Holliday. “Who'd have won?”
“The Comanche,” said Roosevelt.
“SO WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED?” asked Roosevelt. He and Holliday sat beside a dying fire after all the others had sought out their tents or any available shelter and gone to bed.
“Other than that Cope and Marsh are both about ready for the lunatic asylum, you mean?” responded Holliday.
“Other than that,”
said Roosevelt with a smile.
“Well, they know their stuff. You could fill a couple of freight trains with the bones they've dug out of the ground.” He grimaced. “What I don't think anyone can do is make them stop.”
“Or work together,” added Roosevelt, as one of the lanterns ran out of fuel and flickered out.
“Or work together,” agreed Holliday.
“Well, none of the things Geronimo was worried about have happened yet,” said Roosevelt, “except for someone taking a shot at you. Maybe the old gentleman was overreacting.”
“I don't think anyone ever referred to him as a gentleman before,” said Holliday. “When the white men talk about the Indian they most want to see dead, Geronimo beats Sitting Bull by a comfortable margin.” He frowned. “More to the point, I've never seen him overreact before. I just wish I knew what the hell he expects us to do about it.”
“Maybe Cody had a point,” suggested Roosevelt.
“Oh?”
“Hire them all.”
Holliday shook his head. “They might take money rather than go to war with you over most of their land, but not their burial grounds. I don't know why that should be, because to the best of my knowledge none of the tribes believe in resurrection or reincarnation, but they'll kill to keep people from messing in their burial grounds.”
“But they haven't,” Roosevelt pointed out. “From what I've been able to tell, there have been some sporadic attacks, usually by lone warriors, but they've kept their distance.”
“I know,” said Holliday, pulling out his flask. “The only answer I can come up with is that their graveyard may well be eighty miles by fifty, but they've only using a couple of hundred acres so far, and neither Cope nor Marsh has desecrated the ground that's in use as opposed to the ground that's earmarked for future use.”
Roosevelt considered Holliday's statement. “It sounds reasonable, Doc,” he said at last, “but somehow I don't believe it.”
“For what it's worth, neither do I,” admitted Holliday, taking a swallow from the flask. “Just clutching at straws.”
“Well, as long as the most dangerous situation so far is a lone outlaw who thinks he can beat you to the draw, I suppose we'll have a few pleasant weeks—well, as pleasant as they can be around Marsh and Cope—and then we'll go back East with their treasure and see how they reconstruct them in their various museums.” Roosevelt leaned forward, his enthusiasm obvious even in the dark. “It's really a fascinating science, Doc. Imagine a creature that could kill an elephant for lunch, or one that could give a pronghorn buck a half mile lead and run him down in another half mile.” He offered his trademark grin. “It makes you wonder what the world was like back then—and more to the point, how Man ever got a foothold here, let alone became the dominant species.”
