The Doctor and the Dinosaurs

by Mike Resnick

  When he awoke after a restless sleep he still had very little faith in the Bible as an accurate historical document, and was anxious to get back to one camp or the other so he could try out Edison's new weapon.

  THERE WAS NO WAY THAT A HORSE, or even a pack mule, could carry the trunk, so Holliday rented a wagon and a team of horses to pull it, attached his own horse to the back of the wagon with a long lead shank, and happily climbed onto the driver's seat.

  “You know how to drive one of these things?” asked Buntline dubiously.

  “I drove one in Tombstone,” replied Holliday.

  “I know,” said Buntline, frowning. “That's why I'm asking.”

  “Nothing to it,” said Holliday. “You just aim them in the direction you want to go, yell ‘Giddyap!’ and off you go.” And indeed, as he said the word the horses bolted forward.

  “Very good,” said Buntline, frowning. “Now let's go back and get Tom.”

  “Damn!” said Holliday. “Wasn't he aboard?”

  He turned the team around, went back for Edison, and soon they were heading westward again.

  “Which camp are we going to?” asked Edison.

  “Cope's,” answered Holliday. “He's three or four hours farther than Marsh, but he's five or six hours pleasanter.”

  “Which camp is Theodore at?”

  “Marsh's, if he's still in the country.”

  “I don't understand,” said Edison, frowning.

  “Last I saw of him, he was preparing to show them how to dig. Knowing Theodore, I figure it's no worse than a fifty-fifty proposition that he's dug down to China.”

  Edison sighed and nodded. “That's our Theodore, all right.”

  “Well,” said Buntline, “I suppose we'd better have a list of the species they've uncovered, so if worse comes to worst we'll know what we're up against.”

  “I get the distinct impression that they're making up names as they go along,” answered Holliday. “After all, nobody's ever seen any of these things before.”

  As they were leaving town on a westbound trail Holliday suddenly pulled the team to a stop.

  “What is it?” asked Edison, looking around.

  “Maybe nothing,” said Holliday, not taking his eyes from an owl that perched on a dead limb of a dying tree, staring at him. Holliday stared back, and the two remained motionless for the better part of a minute.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Buntline nervously.

  “I don't know yet,” replied Holliday, ignoring a pair of flies that circled around his face.

  Finally the owl spread its wings and took off in an easterly direction, and Holliday clucked to the horses, which began walking again.

  “Well, that's a relief,” said Holliday, finally brushing the flies away with the back of his hand.

  “What did you think it was?” asked Edison.

  Holliday shrugged. “I wasn't sure. Geronimo, maybe, or perhaps one of the Comanche medicine men.”

  “It was just a bird,” said Buntline.

  “It was an owl, five hundred miles from where it belongs, and out in the noonday sun,” said Holliday. He shrugged. “Well, at least it wasn't Geronimo, and if it was a Comanche, he's probably just watching to see who I'm bringing back with me. No way he could know what's in the trunk.” He paused. “Probably,” he added.

  They rode in silence for an hour, then came to a small creek where Holliday let the horses drink.

  “I wonder why they picked Wyoming,” said Edison, looking around. “With the Rockies, at least you can gauge the strata and know where to dig after you've pulled out your first dinosaur. This strikes me as too much guesswork.”

  Holliday shook his head. “There's not much guesswork involved, not with those two. Either one of them points at the ground and says ‘Dig here!’ and you can bet the farm they'll dig up some bones right there.” A quick smile. “Always assuming you own a farm to bet,” he added.

  “Well, what we've got in here ought to work on just about anything,” said Edison, patting the trunk.

  “First, I hope we don't need it, and second, I hope you're right,” said Holliday.

  “It's been a year or more since we've seen Theodore,” said Buntline. “What's he been doing? I was sure he'd be running for office by now, but I haven't seen anything about him in the papers.”

  “Building a home, probably making arrangements to divest himself of his Dakota properties, getting ready to get married again,” answered Holliday.

  “That'd be a lot of any normal man,” said Edison with a smile. “Somehow it seems like slow motion for Theodore.”

  “Well, he has written a few books in the past year, and who the hell knows what else?” said Holliday. “He's going to have to be a little less modest about his accomplishments if he's really going to run for office again.” A sudden smile. “Right now I imagine he's busy getting the equivalent of a college course in paleontology. It's amazing how he can put up with Marsh's manners as long as he can learn from him.”

  Edison nodded. “That's our Theodore, all right.”

  They rode another hour, then stopped for the lunch Buntline had bought in the hotel's restaurant. While Buntline was pulling it out, Edison hobbled the horses, removed their harness, and let them graze in a nearby glade.

  “Okay,” said Holliday. “If you're going to spill your drinks, or drop food on your chests, or forget to button up your pants after you sneak behind the bushes to relieve yourself, this is the time and place to do it.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Buntline.

  “This is the last meal where I cannot absolutely guarantee that you'll be watched by one or more Comanche. They might be watching us now, but I think we're still a little too far for them to give a damn about. We don't pose a real threat until we go another twenty or twenty-five miles. Five or six hours ought to do it.”

  “But they haven't attacked anyone yet?” said Edison.

  “Not so's you'd notice it.”

  “What the devil does that mean?” asked Buntline, pulling out a pipe and lighting it.

  “They haven't attacked anyone while they were digging,” replied Holliday. “I can't vouch for the fact that they haven't killed the occasional white man who wandered off, or maybe some who weren't part of the digging parties but were just passing through.”

  “What kind of weaponry do they use?”

  Holliday grimaced as a change in the wind blew some of Buntline's smoke into his face. “About what you'd expect,” he answered, moving a few feet to his left to avoid the smoke. “Bow and arrows, rifles, the occasional six-shooter or spear.”

  “Where did they get the rifles?” asked Edison.

  Holliday stared at him. “Where do you think?” he said at last.

  “Sorry,” said Edison. “I've got to get used to being out here again.”

  Buntline pulled a bottle out of the woven basket that had contained their lunch. “Water, Doc?” he offered.

  “I'm not dirty,” replied Holliday, pulling out of his flask and draining it. “Okay,” he said, getting to his feet, “now we have to get there by sunset. I left a couple of spare bottles in Cope's camp.”

  “And some in Marsh's, I would guess,” said Edison with a smile.

  Holliday shook his head. “No, if he found them, he'd confiscate them.”

  “He's a drinker?”

  “No. He just doesn't like anyone else to be.”

  They harnessed the horses again, climbed back into the wagon, and began heading west toward the two camps.

  About three hours into the ride Holliday made a wide semicircle around where he felt was the farthest Marsh's crew might be digging from their base camp. This took them to some rocky, uneven ground, which was hard on the horses and especially on the wagon wheels, but finally it became reasonably flat again, just as a coyote's howl broke the stillness of the afternoon.

  “A real one, do you think?” asked Edison.

  “I doubt it,” said Holliday. “If Cody wants a real a
ttraction in his show, he'll hire a bunch of Indians and have them mimic the growls and cries and chirps of every damned animal out here.”

  “Well, they were giving coyotes a bad name back when I was in Arizona,” said Buntline. “Every time you heard one, someone would wind up with an arrow sticking out of him a minute later.”

  “Until Mr. Morse's telegraph lines run out to the Arizona desert, it's a hell of a lot better communication system that anything we've devised,” said Edison. “You work with what you've got.”

  “Point taken,” acknowledged Buntline as two more coyote calls came to their ears.

  “I'd say they're half a mile to the north,” offered Holliday.

  “You're sure they're just watching us?” asked Buntline.

  “If they were doing anything more than watching us we'd know it by now,” answered Holliday. “You've got nothing to worry about.”

  “I was curious, not worried,” said Buntline. He patted the trunk. “If we can kill a dinosaur with what we've got in here, there's no sense worrying over a couple of Indians.”

  “Dinosaurs can fire rifles from a quarter mile away, can they?” asked Holliday in amused tones.

  “Okay,” growled Buntline. “I'll just keep my mouth shut.”

  Holliday and Edison chuckled at that, and about ten minutes later the coyote howls ended.

  “What does the silence mean?” asked Edison.

  “That they recognized me,” answered Holliday. “They know I'm connected with the digs, so they figure I'm heading to Cope's camp—after all, I'm giving Marsh's a wide berth—and they'll have warriors posted along the way, watching us. You won't hear another howl unless I change directions, or…”

  “Or?” asked Edison.

  “Or a real coyote is calling to his ladyfriend.”

  They passed three abandoned digging sites in the next two hours, and reached Cope's camp just before twilight. Not much had changed. It was still in the same clearing, with the same configuration of tents spread across it. The more permanent structure, which held the fossils, had been expanded since Holliday had left.

  Cope was there, cataloging the day's finds, and his men were scattered around the grounds, some working, some just loafing before dinner, which was cooking on a large fire.

  “Mr. Edison,” said Cope after Holliday made the introductions. The paleontologist extended a dirt-covered hand. “This is a great pleasure. And Mr. Buntline; I've read about your work, sir.”

  “The pleasure is all ours,” replied Edison.

  “What brings you to my humble camp?”

  Edison looked surprised. “Didn't Doc tell you?”

  Cope looked puzzled. “No, sir. Not a word.”

  “They expressed keen interest in seeing your discoveries and meeting you,” said Holliday promptly.

  “That's very flattering,” said Cope. “I've been keeping a bottle of fine French brandy for a special occasion. I think this qualifies as such. Excuse me for a moment while I get it.” He turned and walked off toward his tent.

  “What the hell was that all about?” asked Buntline.

  “Why tell him that some of these monsters may be resurrected by Comanche magic?” replied Holliday. “He'd probably post ten of his men as guards. Much better to have them dig, and maybe we can get the hell out of here before anything happens.”

  “I agree with Doc,” said Edison. “Why alert them to something that even now, even after we've seen some of the things Geronimo and other medicine men can do, seems impossible to believe?”

  “Okay,” said Buntline. “Let's just hope the next location he picks isn't another piece of sacred ground.” He frowned. “Why the hell couldn't they dig in, oh, I don't know, Michigan or Arkansas, someplace back East?”

  “Maybe we should ask him,” said Edison. “I'd be curious to know.”

  “Maybe we should,” repeated Buntline.

  Cope returned from his tent, carrying a bottle and four coffee cups. “This stuff really deserves crystal goblets,” he said apologetically as he walked to a crude wooden table, “but…”

  “Not a problem,” said Holliday. “We're drinking the brandy, not the containers.”

  Cope smiled. “I'm glad you understand.”

  He took the top off the bottle and began pouring.

  “Smells good,” said Buntline.

  “Smells divine,” Edison corrected him with a smile.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Cope, holding his cup up. “To my world-famous visitors.”

  “And our world-famous host,” said Edison.

  Suddenly three shots rang out.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Buntline.

  “I think it may have been our world-famous enforcer,” said Holliday wryly.

  They drained their cups as another shot echoed through the camp.

  A moment later Cole Younger appeared atop his horse, blood streaming down the side of his face.

  “What the hell happened?” demanded Cope as the four men ran the greet him and the rest of the staff began gathering around him.

  “I don't know,” growled Younger, dismounting and wiping his ear with a handkerchief. “Four Comanche blocked my way and started yelling at me. I don't speak no Comanche, so I just signaled them to get the hell off the trail. One of them aimed his rifle at me and damned near took my earlobe off.” He paused. “That's four Comanche that ain't ever gonna bother us again.”

  “How far away did this occur?” asked Holliday.

  Younger shrugged. “Maybe half a mile.” He turned to Cope. “Right at the spot you had picked for digging tomorrow, Professor.”

  “You mind if we take a look?” asked Holliday.

  “Ain't nothing there but three dead Indians,” said Younger.

  “I was asking Professor Cope,” said Holliday.

  “I'll come with you,” said Cope.

  “So will we,” said Edison as he and Buntline stepped forward.

  “What the hell,” said Younger. “I'll come along too.”

  “You stay here and get someone to help you stop the bleeding,” said Cope.

  “You sure?” asked Younger. “Them Comanche probably had friends.”

  “We're sure,” said Cope. “We'll have Doc with us.”

  Younger went off to get help with his ear. Cope waited until Holliday had gotten his horse and his two other visitors had saddled the horses that had pulled the wagon, then began leading them just to the north and east of the camp. After a few minutes they came to the bodies of the three Comanche warriors; one had died fast, two slowly, but all three were definitely dead.

  Holliday studied the tracks and pointed to the spot where they had confronted Younger.

  “Right here,” he said. “Doesn't look any different from anything else around here. I wonder what the hell they had in mind.”

  Cope shrugged. “Who knows? Shall I send someone out to bury them? I mean, after all, it is their burial ground.”

  Holliday shook his head. “I'd let the Comanche do it themselves.”

  “Very well,” said Cope. “Well, we might as well get back to camp before it's totally dark.”

  “You go along, Ned,” said Holliday. “I have something I need to discuss with Tom.”

  Buntline frowned, but began riding alongside Cope.

  “What is it?” asked Edison.

  “Something's wrong,” said Holliday.

  “I know,” said Edison, looking at the bodies with some distaste. “Three men are dead.”

  Holliday shook his head impatiently. “But why?” he said. “Marsh and Cope have been digging here for more than a month, and no one's bothered them. Suddenly three warriors try to kill Cole Younger just because he's standing—well, riding—right at this spot. What's changed?”

  “I don't have any idea,” said Edison.

  “Well, I have an idea, and I don't like it much.” He looked around. “Shit!”

  “What is it?”

  “I have a feeling that if we each had a shovel and start
ed digging right here, we'd come to a stash of bones a lot closer to the surface than Cope thinks…and that they won't be dinosaur bones.”

  Edison stared at Holliday. “You really think so?”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Then what do you think we—” Edison froze. “Doc?”

  But even as the word left his mouth, he closed his eyes and prepared for his death as Holliday drew his pistol and fired two shots.

  Before Edison could yell, or collapse, or ask Holliday why he was shooting at him, he was almost knocked of his feet as a dead warrior, tomahawk in hand, fell against him as he tumbled to the ground.

  “I thought you were shooting at me!” breathed Edison.

  “He sneaked up right behind you,” said Holliday, holstering his gun. “Another second and he'd have buried that damned hatchet between your ears.”

  Edison stepped aside, then turned and looked at the fallen Comanche.

  “Thank you for saving my life, Doc,” he said sincerely.

  “Happy to,” said Holliday. He walked over to the dead Comanche, and saw that he had been shot in the belly by Younger, “He was ninety percent dead already.” He scanned the area for more lurking warriors. “If I'm right about what this means—that they're finally digging at an actual burial site—you just may get a chance to save us all.”

  HOLLIDAY WAS AWAKENED BY THE CURSING OF A MAN who had burned his hand grabbing a too-hot frying pan. He experienced a coughing seizure, sat on the edge of his bed for a few minutes until he felt strong enough to face the day, considered shaving, decided he'd lost enough blood in the past five minutes and he'd wait until his hands were steadier, and wondered, for the hundredth time, why he was risking a life that almost had an expiration date on it.

  Finally he got up, looked around for his boots, then realized he'd gone to sleep with them on. He sighed, shook his head, and emerged from his tent into the sunlight. He winced, held a hand up to shield his eyes, and tried to remember why he'd gotten out of bed in the first place.

  “Good morning, Doc,” said Ned Buntline, who was half-sitting and half-squatting on a log, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  Holliday muttered something unintelligible, yawned, suppressed a cough, and slowly wandered over to Buntline.