by Mike Resnick
“I hear you had a little adventure last night, you and Tom,” said Buntline.
Holliday shrugged. “Nothing very adventurous about it.” Suddenly he smiled. “Interesting expression on Tom's face just before I fired my gun.”
“Yeah, he told me,” said Buntline with a chuckle.
“He still sleeping?” asked Holliday, squinting and scanning the area.
Buntline uttered a hearty laugh. “Only shootists who drink too much sleep this late, Doc. He's off with Cope, looking at some finds—or maybe looking for some.”
“He ought to know better,” said Holliday. “Cole and I shot those warriors awfully close to camp.”
“You know nothing scares him,” said Buntline. “Hell, if he was inclined to run, he'd have done so when the Apaches blew his arm off.”
“Yeah, I know,” answered Holliday. “What the hell time is it anyway?”
“Maybe an hour before noon. They've been gone for close to four hours. Those that are coming back for lunch should show up before too much longer.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Do I look like a paleontologist?” asked Buntline with an amused smile. “I'm a builder, and I figure someone ought to stay here guarding my invention, since it may save us all one of these days.”
“Does it bother you that Tom gets all the credit?” asked Holliday, finally adjusting to the light enough to stop shading his eyes with his hand.
“Hell, no,” said Buntline. “We're like the President and the Congress back East. He proposes, I dispose.”
“I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”
“He gets the idea and designs the mechanism, but I'm the one who builds it. If he didn't dream up the Buntline Special, you couldn't have used it on Johnny Ringo…but if I don't make it, it remains nothing but an idea.” He paused. “Besides, I've got other interests as well.”
“Oh?”
Buntline nodded. “Those dime novels about you and Wyatt and the other shootists are so damned popular that—”
“You're going to publish one?” interrupted Holliday.
Buntline shook his head. “No, there are more than enough people publishing them already.”
“You're going into competition with Cody?” suggested Holliday. “I know Cole Younger plans to start a show, him and Frank James.”
“How the hell many wild west shows does the public need?” replied Buntline. “No, I plan to write about you and the others, not for magazines, but for the theatre. Can you picture it? A play about—”
“Say the O.K. Corral and we just may do a rehearsal right here,” said Holliday grumpily.
“How about the alley behind the Corral?” asked Buntline with a smile.
“Okay, you get to live,” said Holliday, returning his smile. “Though what may happen here if the Comanche get mad enough might be even more dramatic.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Buntline. “Show me how to get a seventy-five-ton brontosaur on stage and I'll consider it.”
“I thought they were the harmless ones.”
“Tell me that after he steps on you, or you get in the way of his tail.”
“Point taken,” acknowledged Holliday.
“On the other hand, maybe—”
Holliday suddenly motioned him to be silent.
“What is it?” whispered Buntline.
“One lone man, not making enough noise. Could be a Comanche.”
Buntline began looking around, frowning. “Where is he?” he whispered. “I can't see a thing.”
Holliday folded his hands in his lap and pointed to his left with his right index finger.
“I don't see a damned thing,” said Buntline.
“Try keeping your mouth shut and using your ears,” said Holliday.
“Sorry.”
Holliday seemed relaxed and indeed appeared half-asleep. Buntline tried to appear nonchalant, and did a terrible job of it.
Finally Holliday raised his voice. “Okay, you can come out now!”
A white man wearing a large Stetson broke from cover and entered the camp.
“Should'a known I couldn't sneak up on you, Doc,” he said.
Holliday turned to stare at him. “You better go back while you can,” he said in level tones.
“I can't,” said the man. “This is my job.”
“He's not paying you enough for this,” said Holliday. “One more chance—go back.”
“Who the hell is he?” demanded Buntline. “You talk like you know him.”
“I've seen him,” said Holliday, never taking his eyes off the man. “He works for Marsh.”
“Doing what?” asked Buntline.
“He's here and he's armed,” said Holliday. “What do you suppose he does?”
“There's no reason for anyone to get hurt,” said the man. “You're not on Cope's payroll, Doc. Let me swipe a couple of bones and I'll go back and tell Marsh I destroyed a wagonload of them, and brought these to prove I'd been here.”
“You're working for the wrong side,” said Holliday. “Theodore would just beat the shit out of you, and then probably nurse you back to health.” He got to his feet. “One last chance. Leave while you still can.”
“I can't, Doc,” said the man, tensing. “This is what I get paid for.”
“Whatever he's paying you, it's not enough,” said Holliday.
“I don't want to kill you, Doc,” said the man.
“We're on the same page. I don't want to die.”
“Don't try to stop me, Doc. I'm going to pick up some bones now.”
“You're a very foolish man,” said Holliday.
The man took a step forward, and Holliday drew his pistol and fired three quick shots. Two went into the man's chest; the third lodged in his stomach.
The man fell to his knees and stared at Holliday in disbelief. “You drew first,” he said accusingly.
“Damned right I did,” said Holliday. “It's a gunfight, not a sporting contest.”
The man fell face first in the dust, dead before Holliday finished his sentence.
“Well, that ought to get them back for lunch on the double,” said Buntline, staring at the dead man.
“You know, we could save a lot of trouble by locking Cope and Marsh in a room together and letting the survivor take charge of both digs,” said Holliday, his face registering his disgust with the situation. “We've got a million Comanche who don't want us here, we've got medicine men who will do what they can to kill us, and all they can think of is sabotaging each other.”
“You okay?” yelled Cole Younger's voice.
Holliday turned to Buntline with a grimace. “If we weren't, alerting whoever's threatening us by telling them that you're on the way probably isn't the brightest thing in the world to do.”
“You've got a point,” said Buntline.
“Yell back that we're all right,” said Holliday.
“Me?”
“If I took a deep enough breath to yell, I'd be coughing for the next five minutes.”
“We're fine!” hollered Buntline.
Younger, followed by half a dozen men, all with weapons drawn, burst into the clearing. “What the hell's going on here?” he demanded, staring at the body.
“Saboteur,” said Holliday.
‘Looks like his sabotaging days are over,” said Younger, rolling the corpse over with his foot. “Anyone know this man?”
“That's Jed Wilkes,” said one of his companions. “He used to work for Professor Cope. I guess Professor Marsh bought him away.”
“No wonder he knew when and where to look for bones,” said Holliday. “A couple of you men get some shovels and bury him.”
“Hell, no!” said Younger.
“He's not going to turn into any nosegay,” said Holliday. “Best to bury him now.”
Younger shook his head adamantly. “I'll stick him across a horse and lead him up to Marsh's camp with a note on him, a note that'll say something like ‘You want bones? Try these on
for size!’ Something like that. I'll whack his horse on the rump, and head back here while they're running him down and figuring out what happened.”
Holliday shrugged. “It's your war. I'm just here to look at the animals.”
“What animals?” demanded Younger.
“Who knows?” said Holliday noncommittally. He pulled out his flask. “Defending the camp against fools is thirsty work.”
Cope arrived a couple of minutes later, accompanied by Edison and most of his men. Buntline briefly explained what had happened.
“Damn!” he said, turning to Younger. “I was right to leave you here, guarding our finds. Though now that we've got Doc…”
Holliday held his hands up, palms out. “You don't have me. I'm just passing through.” He turned to Edison. “Any sign of anything bigger than a Comanche?”
“Like what?” interjected Cope.
Holliday saw Edison shake his head almost imperceptibly. “Like two Comanche,” he answered.
“The four bodies were gone,” said Edison.
“Makes sense,” replied Holliday. “No sense burying ’em right where the Professor's digging.”
“Okay, men,” said Cope, turning to his crew. “Let's start moving the bones we brought back.”
Holliday walked to the edge of the camp opposite where the men were bringing the bones, accompanied by Edison and Buntline.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“The man's a fanatic, Doc,” said Edison. “If he had even a hint that something he did might get the Comanche to resurrect some dinosaurs, he'd do everything he could to precipitate it.”
“So would Marsh, come to think of it,” agreed Holliday.
“So the trick is not to let them know why we're here, and maybe they'll find everything they're looking for and pack up their gear and go somewhere else to dig.”
“You've got a real head on your shoulders,” said Holliday. Suddenly he grinned. “I'll take a wild guess that you've been told that before.”
Edison chuckled. “Once or twice.”
“Well, let's keep a low profile, urge Cope to do the same, hope Theodore's having some luck getting Marsh and Cody to behave, and maybe we can all die in bed, wondering what dinosaurs really looked like.”
“Do you believe it'll be that easy?” asked Buntline.
Holliday sighed deeply. “Of course not.”
ROOSEVELT SHOWED UP JUST BEFORE DARK, dismounted, and walked to the center of camp.
“Welcome back, sir,” said one of the men who were preparing dinner.
“I'd like some coffee, please,” said Roosevelt. “It's been a long ride.”
Roosevelt waited until they'd poured him a cup, then looked around the camp. Men were starting to come in from the afternoon dig, but he soon spotted the men he wanted and walked over to them.
“What the hell are you doing here?” asked Holliday.
“I'm pleased to see you too,” said Roosevelt, flashing him a toothy grin.
“Damn it, you know what I mean,” said Holliday. “I thought you were keeping an eye on Marsh's camp while I watched this one.”
“I have a feeling this one's in more trouble,” said Roosevelt, sitting down on a tree stump.
“What are you talking about, Theodore?” asked Buntline.
“I was out hunting for the camp's dinner, as usual,” began Roosevelt. “They're currently about twenty miles east of you, maybe a little more. Anyway, I was tracking a pronghorn buck when I heard a pretty hideous noise, not like anything I've ever heard before…”
“What did it sound like?” asked Buntline.
“He just told you he'd never heard it before,” noted Edison mildly.
“I mean, was it like an animal, or some kind of machine like—I don't know—like a train or something.”
“Probably closer to a scream,” said Roosevelt, frowning. “But it wasn't like any scream I've ever heard.”
“Besides,” added, Edison, “pronghorns are mute. Go on, Theodore.”
“I came to the buck about five minutes later,” continued Roosevelt. “Half of it was missing.”
“Missing?”
“Something big had killed it and taken a couple of bites of it, and I found what was left.” Roosevelt grimaced. “It was a mess. I mean, I've hunted grizzly and puma, but I've never seen anything with a bite like that. So I figured maybe what we were afraid of was coming to pass, and I decided to follow the creature's trail and see what we're dealing with here.”
“And what are we dealing with?” asked Holliday.
Roosevelt shrugged. “I don't know. I never caught up with it. But in another three or four miles I came to what was left of a really big grizzly that didn't get out of its way fast enough.”
Edison smiled a satisfied smile. “Ned was afraid we'd made this trip for nothing. I'm glad to see he was wrong.”
“I think you'd have been much happier if he was right,” responded Roosevelt. “Believe me, Tom, I've spent a lot of time in the wilderness, and I never saw anything that can do the damage this thing did—not as much, and certainly not as fast.”
“You've left out the most important thing, Theodore,” said Holliday.
“Oh?”
Holliday nodded. “Why do you think we're in more danger than Marsh's camp?”
“Because I followed whatever it was to within about five miles of here, and then I came upon some more tracks, just as big but clearly different. So right at the moment I don't know for a fact that any of these creatures are in Marsh's immediate vicinity, but I know for a fact that you've got at least two of them within five miles of you.”
Holliday nodded again. “I knew this was going to happen when they started digging in the wrong spot.”
Roosevelt frowned. “How can you tell the difference?”
“Because suddenly the Comanche stopped watching us and started trying to kill us.” Holliday turned to Edison and Buntline. “Maybe you'd better show us what you've brought and how it works.”
Edison nodded. “Maybe we'd better.” He paused. “We don't have enough for the whole camp. These are just prototypes. We've only created two.”
“Let's keep this very quiet while we can,” said Holliday. “Especially what you saw, Theodore.”
“Don't want to panic the men, right?” suggested Buntline.
Roosevelt and Holliday both looked amused.
“You still don't know who we're dealing with,” said Holliday. “You give either of these geniuses the tiniest hint that they might run into a hungry six-ton meat-eater and they'll race each other to get to it first.”
“Doc's right,” said Roosevelt. “I think Marsh would give everything he's got, probably including his life, for a close-up look at a live one.”
“Okay,” said Edison. “It goes no further.”
“Until one shows up,” added Buntline. “Then nobody'll keep it a secret—the two idiots who are rushing toward it, or the hundred intelligent men who are screaming and running hell-for-leather in the opposite direction.”
“Well,” said Edison, getting up off the log he was sitting on, “I think we'll go to my tent. If I do it out here, we're bound to attract attention, and then we'll either have to tell them what we've got or lie to men who trust us and have become our compatriots.”
“Okay,” said Holliday. “Let's mosey over there.”
“All together or one at a time?” asked Buntline.
“The tent'll only hold the four of us,” answered Edison. “Let's go.”
The tent was at the far end of the camp, and Roosevelt returned his empty cup as they passed the fire in the center of the place. Buntline reached for a piece of meat that was cooking, swore when he burned his fingers, and stabbed it with a knife, carrying it along until it was cooler.
“Welcome back, Theodore,” said Cope, emerging from where he'd been cataloging the day's finds. “I hope this means that son of a bitch is dead or disabled, but I suppose it doesn't.”
Roosevelt grinne
d. “He sends his love to you, too.”
Cope chuckled. “You know, I used to like him. Like and respect.”
“So I've heard.”
“Just goes to show I'm not perfect,” said Cope. “Will you be staying with us for a while?”
“Looks like,” answered Roosevelt.
“Good. I've been reading your history of the West, and I'd like to ask you some questions.”
“I'll be happy to answer any that I can,” replied Roosevelt. “If you don't mind my saying so, you seem so single-minded about fossils I'm surprised that my books interest you.”
“I'm especially interested in some of the Indians’ legends,” continued Cope.
“Ah!” said Roosevelt. “Especially about giant monsters?”
Cope smiled. “Not that they'd ever have seen any,” he replied. “But if they came upon some fossils, that could give birth to a legend or a superstition.”
“Theodore was just telling us about some tribe in the Colorado Rockies that had just such a legend,” interjected Edison. “Might be an interesting place to look for bones.”
“I've been planning to get to Colorado,” said Cope. “Maybe I'll move it up on my list.” He paused. “Would you gentlemen care to join me for dinner?”
“In a few minutes,” answered Roosevelt. “Tom wanted to ask me a few questions about New York politics, and I'm going to show mercy to your men by not boring them to death with my answers.”
Cope laughed and headed off toward the fire. “Fine, I'll see you when you're done.”
The four men continued walking to the tent, and a moment later Roosevelt was squatting in front of the trunk. Holliday found squatting or kneeling too uncomfortable, and simply stood there, hands on hips, waiting for Edison and Buntline to show him the weapon they'd devised.
“Well, as least you told him where to go,” said Holliday. “Not where I'd have told him and Marsh to go.”
Edison laughed at that. “You've always been the soul of discretion, Doc.”
“On a hobnailed boot, maybe,” responded Holliday.
Edison opened the trunk and pulled out the weapon he had devised and Buntline had built.
“Damned thing can't be a foot long,” said Holliday, frowning. “That's not going to stop the kind of critter that can do the damage Theodore saw.”
