by Mike Resnick
“The tricera-what?” said Holliday.
“You know, I've heard Marsh use that term,” interjected Cody. “Recently, I think.”
“It's like a rhinoceros,” said Roosevelt. “Only bigger. Much bigger.”
“I've seen drawings of a rhinoceros,” allowed Holliday. “How big do they get?”
“There are three species,” answered Roosevelt. “Well, two species and one sub-species.”
“Of course,” said Holliday sardonically.
“The black rhinoceros is the most prevalent, and weighs maybe a ton and a half. The white rhinoceros goes about three tons.” A pause. “I don't know if they can interbreed.”
“Might be damnably awkward,” said Cody.
“They're actually black and white?” asked Holliday. “The few drawings and descriptions I've come across make ’em all sound kind of gray and colorless.”
Roosevelt grinned. “The big one has a square jaw and lip, which prompted the Boers to call it the vid rhino, for wide, not white.” He picked up a stick and drew the foreface of a white rhino in the dirt next to his chair. “And once the British heard its name—well, misheard it, the other became the black rhino just to differentiate it.” He proceeded to draw a black rhino's foreface to demonstrate the difference.
“What's the third?” asked Cody. “The puce, or maybe the mauve?”
“The third is the Indian rhinoceros, bigger than the black, smaller than the white, and looking for all the world like it's armored.”
“How do you kill it if it's armored?” asked Holliday.
Roosevelt shook his head. “It looks armored, but it's not.”
“Is this all from books, or have you actually seen one?” asked Cody.
“I've seen the remains of a couple at the Smithsonian,” answered Roosevelt. “Someday I'll get to Africa and see the white and black species for myself.”
He said it with such conviction that no one challenged him.
“So how big is the tri—tricer—this rhino's uncle?” asked Holliday.
Roosevelt shrugged. “We won't know until Cope or Marsh has enough bones to identify one and reconstruct it, but from what I've read and heard, maybe eight to ten tons.”
“So you're saying that it's maybe six times bigger than the most common rhinoceros, the kind that all the hunters write about?”
Roosevelt nodded his head enthusiastically. “Thrilling, isn't it?”
“Mostly I'm thrilled that they're extinct,” answered Holliday. He paused, frowning. “What the hell could kill something like that?”
“Whatever it was,” said Cody, “just pray you never have to meet one of them.”
“Could turn a man to religion,” agreed Holliday.
“Relax,” said Roosevelt, wolfing down his breakfast. “They've been dead for a few million years, maybe more.”
“Let's just hope they stay dead,” said Holliday meaningfully.
“You really mean to help dig?” asked Cody, pulling out one of his pistols and making sure every chamber except the operative one had a cartridge in it—like everyone with a six-shooter, he left that empty so he didn't accidently blow his foot off—and then went through the same procedure with the other pistol.
“Might as well,” answered Roosevelt. “What else is there to do?”
“You might help me ride shotgun against the Comanche.”
“They haven't bothered you yet, and we are desecrating their sacred burial ground,” said Roosevelt.
“So you plan to help desecrate it further,” noted Holliday.
“There are times,” Roosevelt said, “when your sense of humor isn't as rib-tickling as you think it is.”
“So I've been told,” replied Holliday.
Roosevelt downed the last of the venison and drained his coffee cup. “All right,” he said, getting up. “I'm ready.”
“Let's go see Professor Marsh and find out what he has in mind for today,” said Cody. He turned to Holliday. “You coming along, Doc?”
“Ride a horse so I can dig in the dirt when I finally climb off him?” said Holliday. “I admire your notion of a joke, but it's a little early in the day for humor.”
Cody seemed amused. “Sorry I asked.”
He joined Roosevelt and the two walked over to what Cody called the bone building, where Marsh was plotting out the day's dig. They returned a few minutes later and approached Holliday.
“Well?” asked Holliday.
“He's got a spot about three miles from here,” answered Roosevelt. “He's found a femur bone that he thinks may have belonged to a triceratops, and he wants to continue digging in that location.”
“And you're really going to help dig?”
Roosevelt grinned. “Why not? After all, I've already got my shirt off.”
Holliday turned to Cody. “And you're going to hold off the Indians?”
“If need be,” answered Cody.
“Just out of curiosity, how many have you killed so far?”
“None. But if any of them attack us, I'm ready.” Cody paused. “I have killed a saboteur.”
“I saw him as I rode in here,” said Holliday.
Cody shook his head. “No, that was a different one. The one I nailed was five days ago. The one you saw was killed by Chan Lee, one of the Chinese diggers.”
“Excuse me for demonstrating my ignorance, but just what the hell does a saboteur do on a dinosaur dig?”
“Well, if they know we've got something really rare, they'll try to destroy it. But the clever ones do other things.”
“For instance?”
“About two months ago Professor Cope found a couple of leg bones that belong to a huge creature, maybe seventy-five tons, that he calls a brontosaur, and he shipped them back East, along with some vertebrae.”
“And your guy wrecked the train?” asked Holliday.
“No. He found the remains of a skull maybe two hundred miles from here. A huge head, but not big enough to eat what a brontosaur needs to sustain it. He had some confederates sneak the skull onto the train with the other bones. When they reconstruct it back East, Cope's going to become a laughing stock for giving them a head that couldn't possibly consume enough to support that body if it had thirty hours a day to do nothing but eat.” Cody threw back his head and laughed.
“It's creative, I'll give it that,” admitted Holliday.
“Of course, now that Theodore's heard it, he'll be the one to expose it once he goes back to New York,” said Cody.
Roosevelt shook his head. “That was privileged information,” he said. “I plan to keep it to myself. Someone else can expose it.”
“And if no one does?” asked Holliday.
“Then you're going to have the damnedest-looking dinosaur you can imagine!” laughed Cody. He turned to Roosevelt. “They're saddling the horses and getting the wagons ready. We'd better be going.”
Roosevelt nodded his agreement, then turned to Holliday. “See you at dinnertime,” he said.
“I don't think so,” answered Holliday.
Roosevelt frowned. “Why not?”
“We've got some friends who are arriving in Cheyenne in a couple of days. Someone should be waiting for them to guide them back here.”
“I was so enthused about the dig I hadn't even thought of that,” admitted Roosevelt.
“Neither had I,” replied Holliday. “But I'm almost out of liquor, and I needed an excuse to go to Cheyenne to replenish my supply. Besides, it'll be nice to sleep in a real bed again.”
“I understand Frank James was seen there a couple of months ago,” said Cody. “If you run into him, tell him I've got an offer he can't refuse.”
“That he can't refuse?” repeated Holliday.
“Right.”
“Must be different from all the other offers you've been making.”
“You go to hell, John Henry!” growled Cody. “Come on, Theodore. Let's go find some bones.”
IT WAS HOT IN CHEYENNE, hot and dry. Holliday couldn't do anyt
hing about the heat, but he made it his business to take care of the dry, He headed straight to the Plains Hotel, rented a room, then sat down in the shadiest corner of the bar and ordered a beer. It arrived warm but wet, he downed it, and then ordered a bottle of whiskey and a glass.
A good-looking young woman looked in through the window from the sidewalk, and a moment later entered the bar and approached Holliday's table.
“You're him, ain't you?” she said.
“Anything's possible,” replied Holliday. “Have a seat.”
She shook her head. “You're the one who murdered my pa.”
“I object to the term ‘murdered,’” he said. “I never shot anyone who didn't have a weapon in his hand.”
“Oh, I suspect he had one in each hand and three or four more tucked in his belt and his boots.” She paused. “He was a real son of a bitch, my pa.”
“Let me make sure I've got this straight,” said Holliday. “You're not accusing me of killing your father. You're thanking me?”
“Ain't many people deserved it as much as he did,” she said. “He used to beat the hell out of me.”
“I'm sorry to hear it.”
“If you've got a room here, and can buy a girl dinner and a few drinks, I'd be happy to show you how grateful I am,” she said with a smile.
He signaled the bartender to bring another glass to the table. “Pour yourself a drink,” he said. “But I'm afraid dinner is out of the question. I have a previous engagement, always assuming the Bunt Line is on schedule.”
“Ah!” she said, her face lighting up. “Someone's coming from back East to hire you! Who're you going to be killing?”
He returned her smile. “All I'm killing is this bottle, Miss…?”
“I've had lots of names,” she said. “This month I'm using Amanda.”
“And your father was?”
“A bastard who deserved killing.”
Holliday shrugged, his interest waning. He poured himself another glass.
“Strong stuff,” she said, finally taking a swallow.
He nodded. “That's the best kind. It'll kill your memory and put hair on your chest.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “I like you, Doc Holliday!” she said. “Hell, if the old bastard was still alive, I'd have been proud to pay you to blow him to hell and gone.”
“I hate to disillusion you, Amanda,” said Holliday, “but I'm not for hire.”
She frowned. “That's not what I've heard.”
“I can't help what you've heard,” he replied. “I'm not a professional killer.”
“You mean you shot all them men just for the fun of it?” she asked.
Holliday just stared at her for a long moment. “I hate to disappoint you again,” he said at last, “but I never shot anyone without a reason, and I never shot anyone who didn't deserve it.”
“I'll vouch for that, at least as far as my pa was concerned,” she said, taking another swallow of her drink. “You know, this stuff ain't so bad when you get used to it.”
“A discovery I made half a lifetime ago,” said Holliday.
“You sure you got company for dinner?”
“I'm sure I'm supposed to.” He pulled out his watch. “They're due in about twenty minutes, if they're on schedule.”
“Well,” she said, getting to her feet, “maybe some other time. I still owe you.”
“You do?” he said curiously.
“For killing my pa.”
“Oh, right.”
She turned and walked back out into the street, leaving Holliday idly wondering who her father was and why he had killed him.
He was still wondering and still drinking half an hour later, when Tom Edison and Ned Buntline entered the hotel, with a couple of young men carrying a large trunk between them. He got up and walked over to the foyer to greet them.
“Set it down right here,” said Buntline, handing a coin to each. He turned to see Holliday approaching him. “Hi, Doc!”
“Hello,” added Edison, who was signing the guest book at the front desk.
“Good trip, I hope?” said Holliday.
“Absolutely,” said Buntline. Suddenly he grinned. “And even if it wasn't, I'll never say a word against the Bunt Line.”
Holliday chuckled. “Well, it's been a long trip, so you'll want to rest up for a night, but tomorrow morning we'll head off for Cope's and Marsh's camps. The way these guys are pulling up bones, added to the way the Comanche are leaving ’em totally alone, leads Theodore and me to think the Comanche have something in mind that won't cost them any warriors. And you know what that'll be.”
“I know,” said Buntline. “And just in case it does happen, I brought a really good camera along.”
“Okay, gentlemen,” said Edison, handing a room key to Buntline and tucking the other into a pocket, “let's unpack and then think about dinner.”
“If you want to eat first, no one's going to run off with that trunk,” said Holliday. “Hell, it took two strong young men to lift it.”
“It's not the trunk we're protecting,” answered Edison. “It's what's in the trunk, and if you couldn't lift it by yourself, it wouldn't be very practical to use against”—he looked around to make sure no one was listening—“what it was created to use against.”
“Will it work?” asked Holliday.
“I think so,” answered Edison. “I hope so.”
“If the best you can do is hope, you can use the damned thing,” said Holliday.
“We'll test it out before you carry it into battle,” said Buntline. “Now let's move this equipment to our room, and then get something to eat. The Bunt Line has a lot of virtues, but food isn't one of them.”
They had the desk clerk summon a pair of young men to carry the trunk to their suite, while they followed with their suitcases.
“Where's your luggage, Doc?” asked Edison when they reached their rooms and he unlocked his door.
“I'm wearing it.”
“No change of clothes?”
“I'm in a battle, not a fashion contest,” answered Holliday. “Besides, I just got here a couple of hours ago, and I'm heading back to one of the camps tomorrow.”
“Which camp are we going to?” asked Edison as the two men set the trunk down and left.
“Cope's, probably.”
“It's closer?” said Buntline.
“It's pleasanter,” replied Holliday. “Minimally.”
“I don't understand.”
“They each hate each other's guts,” said Holliday. “You know that, of course, but I don't think anyone realizes the full extent of it. I think either would be happy to spend eternity burning in the pits of hell as long as the other starting burning one minute sooner. When I say Cope's camp is minimally more pleasant, I just mean that his hatred of Marsh doesn't slop over to other people as much as Marsh's hatred for him does.”
“That's pretty much what we've heard,” said Buntline, sitting down on a leather couch. “I guess hearing about it doesn't really bring it home like experiencing it.”
“That's okay,” said Holliday. “None of us is working for either of them. Neither is Theodore. We'll do what we have to do if we have to do it.” He stared at the trunk. “You sure whatever you've got in there will work? You won't believe the size of these damned leg bones until you see them yourselves.”
“They should work,” said Edison, seating himself on a high-backed wooden chair. “Hell, there's no reason why a properly placed bullet from Theodore's Winchester won't work.” Holliday made no comment, but his skepticism was clearly written on his face.
“Trust us, Doc,” said Buntline. “If we could light all of Tombstone and Leadville, we can turn the lights off on a dinosaur or two.”
“I hope so,” said Holliday, who was still uncomfortable from his long ride and elected to remain standing, leaning against the only section of wall that didn't have a print or a painting on it.
“What the hell does that mean?” asked Buntline.
“How crazy can the Comanche be?” said Buntline. “One allosaur could wipe out an entire village in a matter of minutes. And from what I hear, a brontosaur could flatten it in even less time.”
“Let's hope they're not quite that crazy,” said Edison.
“I'll drink to that,” said Buntline. “Or at least I will once we get up to our rooms and I unpack a bottle.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Edison, “before the thought of my being mistaken spoils our appetites, shall we go down for dinner?”
“Why not?” said Buntline, getting up.
“The hotel can watch your luggage until we're through with dinner,” said Holliday opening the front door and starting to step outside. “We can eat in the hotel, of course, but I hear there's a nice restaurant on the next block called the Wheel.”
“Not The Wagon Wheel, or the Some-other-kind-of Wheel?” asked Buntline.
“Just the Wheel,” replied Holliday.
“Why not?” said Edison. “Let's give it a shot.”
Holliday had no knowledge whatsoever of the Wheel. He'd passed it coming into town, and since he was sure that Amanda would be lurking for him by the hotel's restaurant he'd quickly come up with a reason to eat elsewhere.
He was pleasantly surprised when the Wheel actually served up some pretty good steaks, and doubly so when they returned to the hotel and there was no Amanda there to praise him in front his friends for murdering her father.
Edison and Buntline had begun their day at sunrise and went up to their room to sleep, and Holliday spent an hour in the bar, then spent two more hours breaking even in a poker game at a casino down the street.
When he returned he found that he wasn't sleepy, so he looked around for something to do while drinking from his flask. The only thing he found was a copy of the Bible, so he picked it up, took it to the bed, propped himself up against the headboard, and began reading it by the light of a kerosene lamp.
He hoped it was right, that everything had started with Adam and that Edison and Buntline were wasting their time, as were he and Roosevelt, but somehow he couldn't quite convince himself that things were that simple or that easy.
