The Doctor and the Dinosaurs

by Mike Resnick

  “All the birds start screeching, warning each other that there's a potentially dangerous intruder.”

  “They're quiet now, even though they see us,” said Holliday. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that something that can reach them is in the area,” answered Roosevelt, “and they don't want to call attention to themselves.”

  “I don't buy it,” said Holliday. “Some of these trees are eighty, maybe ninety feet tall. Even a full-grown brontosaur couldn't reach them, and you tell me he's a vegetarian anyway. The only way a tyrannosaur could reach one would be to climb the tree, and there's no way it could hold his weight.”

  “I'm just telling you what my training as a naturalist tells me, Doc.”

  “I've got a question,” said Holliday, brushing some flying insects away from his face, “The brontosaur was a grass-eater or the equivalent, so why did they resurrect him?”

  “The elephant's a herbivore too,” said Roosevelt with a smile. “Have you any idea how much damage even one of them can do?”

  “I know,” said Holliday. “But if they're resurrecting them, surely they could choose all tyrannosaurs.”

  “Maybe not. Only our Apache friend would know for sure, and I haven't seen him since we signed the treaty.”

  Holliday nodded. “He's been scarce. I gather the second he lets his guard down, their spells will pull him part or chop him to pieces or whatever the hell one medicine man's spells do to another.”

  “You know,” said Roosevelt with an amused smile, “Cody talks about putting you in his show, or Cole Younger, or Annie Oakley, but after spending a few days here I'm convinced the one he really wants is Geronimo.”

  “He'd draw a crowd, that's for sure,” agreed Holliday. “Hell, he might do it one of these days. He's signed the treaty, and once we kill the dinosaurs or they kill us, he's got nothing else much to do.” He frowned. “Why the hell did these madmen come all the way out here to dig? I know they've found dinosaurs back East. They both told me so.”

  “There are different ones out here,” answered Roosevelt. “Bigger ones, I gather. And they're not digging up front lawns or public parks or valuable farmland to get to them.” Suddenly he grinned. “Besides, you ought to be happier than anyone that they're digging out here.”

  Holliday frowned. “Why?”

  “The way you tell it, you'd be dead by now if they hadn't started digging up the wrong turf.”

  “At least it'd be over now,” replied Holliday. “Now I get to do it all over again, all for a year of lousy health and monsters from hell.” He grimaced. “It was a poor bargain.”

  Suddenly Roosevelt held up a hand, indicating silence. Holliday concentrated, but couldn't hear anything. Roosevelt remained tense for another half minute, then relaxed.

  “What was it?” asked Holliday.

  “I thought I heard some—I don't know—some high-pitched whistling sound.” Roosevelt frowned. “Not like any sound we've heard before.”

  “From what direction?”

  Roosevelt shrugged. “I'm not sure. North, maybe northeast.” He shrugged. “Maybe not.” He pulled his rifle out of its sheath. “I think we'll carry these out in the open, just to be on the safe side.”

  Holliday decided there was nothing safe about carrying the extra weight while sitting atop his horse, and he simply let Roosevelt ride a few yards ahead of him, confident that he could withdraw his rifle in a hurry if he needed it. He wasn't sure that he would need it, or that it would be much use against any creature that could reach the birds on their perches at the tops of the trees that surrounded him.

  As always, Roosevelt stopped his horse every few minutes to study a bird or draw a new flower or plant in his ever-present notebook. “Black bear sign,” he said, pointing to some stool just off the trail.

  Holliday couldn't see how it was different from grizzly stool, or even dog stool for that matter, but he was afraid if he asked, Roosevelt would spend twenty minutes explaining the difference, and he figured the sooner they found a dinosaur or decided there weren't any in the vicinity, the sooner he could get off his horse and relax. He pulled out his flask, and was just about to put it to his lips when Roosevelt suddenly whispered: “There!”

  Holliday looked ahead and saw nothing. He turned right, then left, and still couldn't see anything.

  “Where?” he whispered.

  “Up!”

  Roosevelt pointed to the sky, and suddenly Holliday was able to make out the biggest bird he'd ever seen—and as it glided closer he realized that it wasn't a bird at all.

  “My God, it's big!” he said.

  “It's a pteranodon!” said Roosevelt excitedly.

  “A what?”

  “A species of flying dinosaur. Marsh discovered it about ten years ago. I've seen the artists’ renderings.”

  “Damned thing has a twenty-foot wingspan,” said Holliday, still staring at it.

  “Well, now we know why all the birds have been quiet,” said Roosevelt, putting his rifle to his shoulder and lining up the pteranodon in his sights.

  The creature opened its mouth and emitted a harsh whistling sound. Suddenly it dove behind a treetop, obscuring it from Roosevelt's vision before he could pull the trigger. But it appeared a few seconds later with a bird in its mouth, and as it did so Roosevelt fired his rifle.

  The pteranodon released the bird, which was either dead or crippled, and the two plummeted to the ground about sixty yards away. Roosevelt rode up, dismounted, and in keeping with his philosophy, “paid the insurance” by pulling his pistol and firing a bullet into the dinosaur's head. There was no reaction, nor did he expect one.

  “By God, this fellow is going to look great in the foyer at Sagamore Hill!” enthused Roosevelt.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” said Holliday.

  “I'm a taxidermist, Doc.”

  “That, too?”

  “And I'm going to be the first man ever to stuff and mount a dinosaur. There's no way I could do it with any of the others we've seen, but this fellow is small enough to fit in a boxcar once we're done here.”

  “You're really going to take it home with you?”

  “Absolutely. I wish we had a photographer with us. If I could get a photo of me with my foot on his neck and my rifle in my hands, I could have it in every newspaper east of the Mississippi—at least those that are advanced enough to run photographs.”

  A smile spread across Holliday's face. “You are running for office again, aren't you?”

  “Probably,” said Roosevelt. “And whether it's in a week or a decade, a photo like that wouldn't grow old.” He paused, frowning. “I hate to call a halt to things, but I've got to get this baby back to camp. If we both leave it unguarded, I'm sure predators will rip it to shreds. I'll be happy to stay here and stand guard over it if you'll ride back to camp and come back with a team of horses and a wagon.”

  “I'll stay, Theodore,” said Holliday promptly.

  “You're sure?”

  “It's an easy decision,” said Holliday with a smile. “What would I rather do—ride that goddamned horse back to camp and then drive a wagon over this bumpy trail, or stay here and maybe come face-to-face with a hungry grizzly that's caught the scent of your trophy?”

  Roosevelt shrugged. “Okay,” he said, mounting his horse. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Not a problem,” said Holliday. “Neither me or the dinosaur are going anywhere.”

  Roosevelt kicked his horse with his heels and it began cantering back along the trail. Holliday dismounted, tied his reins to a thin, low-hanging branch, and sat down with his back propped against a tree. Then remembering what he was about to do when Roosevelt had spotted the pteranodon, pulled out his flask, and took a swig.

  “Damned good,” he muttered, staring at the flask. “Or at least damned welcome.”

  He took another swallow, and then, as he was replacing it in his coat pocket, his horse screamed once, reared up, broke off the branch he
had been tethered to, and raced off through the woods with the remains of the branch hanging from his reins, banging against his chest with every stride.

  Holliday was on his feet instantly, his pistol in his hands, scanning the area. He saw some trees swaying about two hundred yards away, heard branches cracking as something moved through them, and heard the grunt of something large.

  Very large.

  He holstered his gun, then turned to reach for his rifle, but of course it was still with the horse.

  “Shit!” he muttered.

  He realized that the last place he wanted to be standing was out on the trail in plain sight of whatever it was, and he stepped back behind a tree.

  And waited.

  Now he could hear birds screeching their warnings, so he knew that it was something that couldn't reach as high as they were, but the knowledge didn't bring him any comfort.

  He checked his pistol to make sure it was fully loaded. Maybe whatever it was would come at him with its mouth open, and there might be a vulnerability to a pistol shot placed somewhere in the back of its throat. If not, he'd put a bullet in each eye and at least make it a hell of a lot harder for whatever it was to find him.

  He calmly and coolly considered his tiny handful of options, but he knew he was in deep trouble if it found him. He wished he had the rifle back, though he wasn't sure it would fare a lot better than a pistol. After all, they'd had Tom invent and Ned create those special weapons for a reason.

  He heard branches cracking about sixty yards away, and the screaming of the birds intensified until it became deafening. He edged his head out from behind the tree, trying to see what was approaching, but it was still hidden by the trees.

  Well, he thought, maybe it's coming because it scents Theodore's dead bird-thing. Maybe it's just looking for a quick, easy meal.

  A moment later a tyrannosaur broke cover and, after testing the wind, walked over to where the pteranodon's corpse lay. It was leaning over, preparing to take a large bite—

  —when Holliday sneezed.

  Instantly the tyrannosaur straightened up. Slowly his head turned in Holliday's direction, and he took a tentative step toward him, then another—and then, as he finally saw the source of the sneeze, he opened his mouth and roared.

  Holliday knew it was an act of futility, but he stepped back out onto the trail where he had a clearer view, held his gun out ahead of him, and prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible.

  THE TYRANNOSAUR FIXED ITS GAZE ON HOLLIDAY and took a single step forward. Holliday took aim and fired two quick shots at the creature's left eye. It screamed and began shaking its head vigorously, and he knew he'd hit his target even before the blood began gushing out of its eye socket.

  It turned to better see him with its uninjured eye, and he fired off three more shots into it. It screamed again, even louder this time, seemed dizzy and disoriented, and began rubbing its head against the sturdy bole of a tree as blood streamed down its face and onto its body.

  Suddenly it began thrashing its small forelegs wildly, and began swaying back and forth, and Holliday finally realized that at least one of his bullets had hit the brain through the only route a pistol shot could reach it.

  The tyrannosaur fell onto its side, struggled to its feet, screaming and swaying. It suddenly stood still, sniffing the air, and just about the time Holliday was sure it had found his scent and pinpointed his location, it turned and bent over the corpse of the pteranodon, preparing to take a bite out of it—but before it could do so it fell heavily to the ground, and this time, despite its efforts, it could not get up again.

  Holliday stood where he was, staring at the huge beast, for the better part of five minutes, amazed that he was still alive, and that he had killed such a monster with such a puny weapon.

  Finally Roosevelt drove up in the wagon, took in the situation in a single glance, climbed down, walked over to examine the tyrannosaur, and saw one wing of the pteranodon sticking out from beneath it.

  “So much for my trophy,” said Roosevelt from where he sat on the wagon.

  “So stuff and mount him,” said Holliday, jerking a thumb in the tyrannosaur's direction.

  Roosevelt smiled. “I have better things to do with the next thirty years of my life.” He studied the creature's head. “You were lucky. The way his head is structured, I think the eye provides the only path to the brain for something with no more power than a pistol. Probably one or two bullets went all the way through to it.”

  “I feel lucky, I'll confess to that,” replied Holliday.

  “Well,” said Roosevelt, pulling out his hunting knife and going to work, “let me at least take the wing back. Maybe I can do something with it.”

  He walked over to the wing and spent the next five minutes cutting it loose.

  “I'll have to join you on the wagon,” said Holliday, walking over and climbing up onto it.

  “Where's your horse?”

  “Probably miles away by now.”

  “Ah!” said Roosevelt with a grin. “So he's the smart one.”

  “You'll get no argument from me,” replied Holliday. He withdrew his flask and drained the rest of its contents.

  When they reached camp they found that Holliday's horse had preceded them, and Younger was getting ready to mount a search party. Holliday went off to refill his flask and returned as two men were unhitching the horses and Roosevelt was preparing to move the wing to his tent.

  “I've made up my mind,” announced Cody, walking up to them.

  “That's good,” said Roosevelt. “Everyone should always try to make up his mind. Now step aside, please.”

  “Damn it, Theodore! I'm leaving!”

  “You don't have to leave,” said Roosevelt. “Just step aside.”

  “I'm leaving this idiotic expedition, and I'd like you and Doc to come with me!”

  “I don't have any skills that you can put on display,” replied Roosevelt. “And to be honest, I don't have any interest in appearing in your show.”

  “Not in it,” explained Cody. “But any guy who's run for office and won, especially in New York, should make a hell of a barker.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Okay,” persisted Cody, “if not a barker, an advance man. You go to each city a day or two before the show gets there and talk it up, put up posters, things like that.”

  Roosevelt left the wing alone and turned to face him. “Bill, I like you, and I even like your Wild West show. I'd pay money to watch Annie Oakley do her trick shots. Now, it may be egomaniacal for me to say this, but I believe I have the capacity to do better things than hang an endless series of posters for you in one town after another.”

  “You're sure?” said Cody.

  “Do I look undecided?”

  “Well, I tried,” said Cody. He turned to Holliday. “How about you, Doc?”

  “I'm no trick-shot artist,” said Holliday. “I just shoot people who are trying to shoot me.”

  “I can arrange that.”

  “What?” demanded Holliday and Roosevelt in unison.

  “With blanks,” said Cody with a grin. “Hell, we can even enact the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral every night.”

  “I've fought it once,” replied Holliday. “That was enough.”

  “I could make you famous!”

  “I've already got a little more fame that I can handle,” said Holliday.

  Cody sighed. “You two are a couple of hardheads. It's a shame I like you so much.”

  He turned and walked away. When he was just out of earshot, Holliday turned to Roosevelt. “He may like us, but he likes Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show better.”

  Roosevelt chuckled, then went back to moving the wing off the wagon, decided it was too awkward to carry, and placed it onto a cart that he could then take to his tent. Holliday began heading toward Edison's tent to see if he and Buntline were interested in seeing Roosevelt's grisly trophy when Cole Younger walked up to him.

  “Cody try to buy you
away?” he asked.

  “He tried,” acknowledged Holliday.

  “You said no?”

  “I said no.”

  “Good!” said Younger. “Because Frank James and I will pay you twice what he would have paid.”

  “You're really starting a show with Frank?” asked Holliday curiously.

  “Yeah,” said Younger. “Face it, Doc, the shootist's day is just about over. I suppose I could rob a bank or two, but it ain't as easy as the dime novels make it sound. I got shot up all to hell last time I tried, and it cost me and my brothers a lot of years in jail. No, I think a Wild West show is the answer. I mean, hell, you and me and Frank, we are the Wild West, or damned near all that's left of it anyway. Why don't you join us?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Hell, say ‘Yes’ and we'll even make you a partner!” said Younger.

  “Cole,” said Holliday, “that's a damned handsome offer, and under other circumstances I'd probably take it, but I'm afraid I've got to turn you down.”

  “You're sure?” urged Younger. “Why not cash in on your reputation? Believe me, it beats gambling for the rest of your life.”

  Holliday shook his head. The problem, he thought, is that my life's of much shorter duration than you think.

  “Okay, I did my best,” said Younger. He extended a hand. “No hard feelings.”

  “Between two members of a vanishing species?” said Holliday with a bittersweet smile. “None.”

  He continued making his way to Edison and Buntline's tent. Once there, he described the events of the day. Roosevelt joined them a moment later.

  “That's a hell of a bird!” exclaimed Buntline, wincing in pain as he tried to sit up. “It must have an eighteen-foot wingspread.”

  “Twenty,” offered Edison, moving his wounded limbs very carefully. “But look at the leather, Ned—and no trace of feathers, just the same kind of fuzz you find on a bat's wings. I wonder if it's a bird at all.”

  “It was once,” said Roosevelt. “Millions of years ago.” He paused. “Anyway, it flew, so I don't know what else you'd call it.”

  “Did it have teeth?” asked Edison.