Doctor Who: The Gunfighters (4 page)

‘Gun-slinger name of Seth Harper. He’s ugly, Doc – he’s real ugly.’ She considered this statement a while, then amended it as follows: ‘Doc, he’s awful ugly!’

‘Well, I ain’t plannin’ to shack up with him, Kate.

Snake-eyes Harper? Why, from what I hear, he’s nothin’

but a side-winding, backshooting, natural son of a three-toed tree-toad! Guess that about covers it. Now, if there’s one thing makes me real angry, it’s that class of animal steppin’ out of its league! Reckon I’ll have me a little talk with him to that effect.’

‘You’re all through bein’ angry, Doc. An’ if you won’t leave town, you gotta promise me you’ll stay out of the Last Chance till they blow over. Won’t take long at that, the way they’re drinkin’...’

‘Now, that don’t appeal, Kate, that don’t come at all natural. Comes the day I can’t step into a saloon for a thimble of dry sherry, it’ll be my liver stops me – not a bunch of boozed-up hoodlums!’

‘I’ll stop you, Holliday, if I have to,’ said a third, gravel-filtered voice, joining the discussion uninvited.

Fortunately, Doc recognised it, and put his Derringer back where it belonged. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘the big man! I was wondering when you’d show up, Masterson.’

‘Soon as I heard you was in town,’ croaked Bat, ‘I figured it was time to tell you to get the hell out of it.’

‘Now, why is everyone so goddam friendly so sudden? I tell you Sheriff, I’m a respectable tradesman now – a professional practitioner of the orthodontic art. I got no quarrel with anybody, have I, Kate?’

‘Not that I’ve heard,’ simpered Goody-Two-Boots, primly.

‘Well then, keep out of trouble for one; jest stay in your hygienic, sweat-shop surgery, an’ we’ll get along fine.’

‘Why, Bat, I was just about to enter same. And I surely do look forward to the pleasure of entertainin’ you in my sparklin’ new chair real soon. Don’t leave it too long, you hear? There’s a couple of things about your mouth I don’t like the look of; never have done, come to that. Will you take my arm, Miss Catherine, or shall I have someone carry you over the threshold?’

And the engaged couple entered the marital waiting-room; leaving Bat Masterson to wonder what Holliday had meant about his mouth. What didn’t he like about it?

Surely not his moustache, of which he was proud. As would have been a walrus.

He resolved to take the matter up with the dentist at their next meeting; and fingering the treasured growth protectively, he squelched back to his office.

Where he found company.

6

The gaunt Earp had finally established our three jazzily bedizined time travellers in adjacent cells; where they were examining the facilities with ill-concealed distaste.

‘If you don’t let us out of here at once,’ the Doctor had warned him, ‘I shall have no alternative but to apply for writs of habeas corpus – and see how you like that!’

‘Well, this here’s the Ritz of many a happy corpse, right enough,’ replied their captor, making a rare attempt at humour; ‘but you ain’t leavin’ it till you see fit to tell me who you are an’ where you come from.’

And since this, of course, was a thing almost impossible to explain to the uninitiated, the conversation had then reached its long-awaited impasse; and the monolithic Marshal had returned to his gloomy perusal of some of the snappier items contained in the Book of Revelations. The bit about the Great Beast, he’d always rather liked. Put him in mind of his horse, Apocalypse...

Bat was pleased to see him; but didn’t at once say so.

Not out of any churlishness – even though Wyatt
was
in his chair – but because when strong men meet, words are sometimes unnecessary between them. And then there’s the matter of vocabulary, too. I mean, ‘Hallo,’ is somehow inadequate; and ‘Gee, fella, am
I
glad to see
you
?’ seems to be overdoing things rather. No, difficult. Very.

So for a while there was silence between them, while Bat accidentally rolled his moustache into a cigarette, and Wyatt merely murmured the occasional ‘Hallelujah!’ in his purring, harmonium-like voice.

At length – ‘I thought you was out lookin’ for the Rudabaugh Bunch?’ said Bat.

‘I found ’em,’ said Wyatt. ‘There will be wild rejoicin’ in Hell this very day; and for a twelve-month after, I shouldn’t wonder. Glory be to the power of the Lord!’ he added.

‘What?’ said Bat.

‘Amen!’ said Wyatt.

‘Oh,’ said Bat. He cleared his throat, and fiddled with his badge.

‘Don’t do that,’ said Wyatt; ‘makes me nervous...’

He didn’t
look
nervous; but there you are – you never can tell...

‘And is that some of ’em you got in the cage there?’

asked the Sheriff.

After all, it was
his
gaol, and someone had to do the paper work...

‘No,’ said Wyatt. ‘Them’s just an uppity parcel of vagrants, as I took into protective custody till such time as they see fit to give a proper account of theirselves.

Question ’em careful, Bat – question ’em real shrewd!

Could be trouble. The hosts of Midian sure is out aprowlin’, this blessed day.’

‘Blessed, you call it?’ said Bat, glancing out of the window; ‘I’ve seen better days, I must say.’

‘No-one lasts forever,’ agreed Wyatt.

Bat ignored the remark.

‘And that bunch don’t look particular dangerous, do they now?’ he continued. ‘I mean, they ain’t by no means the Daltons. More like as if they was actors from the Bird Cage Theatre, I’d say. Eddie Foy’s playin’ there at the moment,’ he remembered. ‘Get you a ticket?’

‘Theatres,’ reproved Wyatt, ‘is a haunt of vice an’

corruption. Lewdness an’ filth.’

‘Well, the notices
were
good,’ said Bat.

And the Doctor, who had been listening with interest, at once adopted the cover so conveniently offered.

‘Quite so,’ he interjected. ‘That, indeed, is who we are –

a humble troupe of travelling players...’

‘Then why didn’t you say so before?’ demanded Wyatt.

‘You yourself have just explained why. We are commonly regarded as rogues and vagabonds. Incorrectly, of course, but experience has taught us to be wary of revealing our true profession, before we are certain of our reception. Moreover, we are at the moment between engagements; and as always, rather loth to admit it. But now that your colleague had seen through our modest deception, allow me to perform the introductions: Miss Dodo Dupont – Queen of the Ivory Keys; Mr Steven Regret – Songs for All Occasions; and lastly, your humble servant, Doctor... Doctor Caligari – Master of Magic and Legerdemain!’

‘Doctor who?’ enquired Bat.

‘Precisely!’ said the Doctor; and he looked at the others for approval. He was disappointed, of course – but he was used to that by now.

‘And if there
are
any tickets going,’ said Dodo, ‘we’d love to see Eddie Foy!’

‘No, we wouldn’t,’ contradicted the Doctor. ‘In fact, our sole purpose in visiting your fair city is so that I can avail myself of the services of a dentist. Perhaps one of you gentlemen would be so kind as to recommend one?’

‘Well, now – ain’t that something?’ said Bat. ‘Ain’t that jest the daddy of all coincidences? Ain’t that the livin’, breathin’ cock-a-mamie circumstance to beat all? Why, I’ll be swiped sideways for an egg-stealin’ polecat, if... ’

‘Keep it short, Bat,’ warned Wyatt.

‘... if it ain’t!’ his friend concluded.

‘You all through now?’

‘Jest about. But Wyatt, seems like an Act of Providence...’

‘Reckon I’d know best about a thing like that. What are you trying to say?’

‘Why, Wyatt...’

‘An’ don’t say “Why, Wyatt!” Told you before – sounds like you’re stammerin’. Man stammers, he’s scared. An’ a scared sheriff’s a dead one. Go on!’

‘Give me a moment... O.K. then,
listen
Wyatt – how about that? Guess who blew into town this morning!’

‘Can’t rightly say...’

‘Why –’

‘Careful!’

Bat took a deep breath. ‘Holliday blew, that’s who! That no-account, four-flushing, treacherous rattlesnake of a...’

‘You’re speakin’ of a friend of mine?’

‘That’s right. Well he’s opened himself a dental extractory, right here on Main Street! How about that? An’

I was just goin’ to run him out of town on a rail!’

‘Oh, don’t do that!’ begged the Doctor. ‘Or not until I’ve seen him anyway!’

‘Feller’s right, Bat,’ said Wyatt. ‘Like it or not, you an’

me’ll likely be needin’ Holliday’s assistance right soon.

The way things are, we gonna thank the Lord for all the guns we can get!’

‘Guns?’ enquired the Doctor. ‘I thought you said he was a dentist?’

‘Time to time he is. Othertimes, he’s the deadliest, alcoholic killer as ever saved my life. Down in Tucson, that was... O.K. then, stranger – if that’s truly your business in town, I won’t keep you from it. If he gets a customer straight off, maybe he’ll stick around a while. Let ’em out, Bat.’

The Doctor was probing his mouth cautiously.

‘Homicidal, you say? And dipsomania, too? In that case, I’m not entirely sure that I need... ouch... his services...’

‘Don’t worry, old timer,’ comforted Wyatt. ‘Doctor John H. Holliday don’t ever mix business with misery. He’ll do you a right good job, if you tell him I sent you... an’ if he’s sober, of course. Which this hour he’ll likely still be...

Now, on your way!’

So, in as little time as it took Bat Masterson to find the right key, the three friends were released on probation; and stumbled out on to Main Street, to go and meet their customary come-uppance.

7

Seems they found the dentefactor’s premises without any trouble – and that was something they should have made the most of, while they had the chance; being as how we all need just such an occasional tranquil moment in our lives.

Doc Holliday had chosen to advertise his whereabouts with the simple but striking device of a king-size, hardwood, decayed tooth; suspended over the sidewalk from an ornamental iron bracket – painted bright red, to simulate the appearance of a bleeding gum. Not only effective, I’d say, but also positively therapeutic; because one glance persuaded the Doctor that his pain resulted from nothing but an inflamed imagination.

‘It was only the merest twinge,’ he said. ‘Undoubtedly psychosomatic in origin. No, I really don’t think I need trouble the man over such a paltry...
ouch
!’

‘You get in there, Doctor!’ said Steven, ruthlessly. ‘Now you’ve dragged us all into this god-forsaken hole, you’ll damn well have the thing out. Otherwise there’ll be tears and tantrums all the way to the next time warp!’

‘You wouldn’t dare to speak to me like that, my boy, if I weren’t...’

‘Probably not. So just think how nice it’ll be to get your own back, once it’s all over. Then Dodo and I will be able to play and sing at your convalescence, won’t we? Honestly

– the Queen of the Ivory Keys! Songs for All Occasions!

We’re not going to forgive you for that in a hurry!’

‘Well, I had to say something...’

‘Yes, you always do, don’t you? Well, I only hope someone asks you to wow the town with a few conjuring tricks, and perhaps that’ll be a lesson to you!’

‘You are entirely heartless!’

‘Of course we’re not,’ put in Dodo. ‘Don’t worry – it’ll soon be over. And to show you how much we really love you, Steven and I will go on to the nearest hotel, and book three rooms and an enormous meal.’

‘Yes,’ said Steven. ‘So you can just think of that, while you’re screaming with agony in there. It will take your mind off things...’

‘Very well. I honestly think I’d rather face a murderous, drunken dentist, than listen to you two in this mood. If I am spared, I will join you later...’

And he lurched into the shop – a very gallant gentleman... Dodo giggled – and Steven looked at her with some concern.

‘I can’t see there’s a great deal to laugh at,’ he said.

‘Well, I was just thinking,’ spluttered the callous hoyden, ‘I hope he isn’t expecting an anaesthetic. They haven’t been invented yet!’

And slapping each other merrily, like a touring version of ‘The Clanton Boys at Home’, they set off for the Last Chance Saloon.

The Doctor’s first impression of the premises was better than he had been led to tremble at, by Wyatt’s laconic encomium. To begin with, the place was fairly clean, because, after all, it hadn’t been used yet. On the table in the waiting-room was a fairly recent selection of ‘Wanted’

notices for him to browse through; and also a few back numbers of ‘Headstone Highlights’, Tombstone’s crusading weekly news-sheet.

‘Mad Dog Killer To Stand For Mayor’ announced a surprisingly bold headline. Ah well, most mushroom towns have a little trouble getting off the ground – and apparently its previous mayor had experienced the same difficulty.

‘Popular incumbent to be planted on Boot Hill’, began the article; ‘where he can be confidently expected,’ it continued, ‘to fertilise the cactus with as much dedication as he has previously shown in Ma Golightly’s establishment of a Saturday night, where he was a valued client.

‘He departed this life, mourned by some, in Crum’s Alley on Thursday last, Pa Clanton officiating. Interviewed by our Social Correspondent, Pa later said that although he did not seek high office, he would be glad to accept it on the usual terms – thought to be drinks on the house in perpetuity at the Last Chance Saloon.’

The Doctor read this titillatory ‘chat-piece’ with some misgiving; and having skipped lightly through the kangaroo-court circular, and the annoucements of forthcoming shotgun weddings, he flung the periodical aside with a muttered ‘Tut!’, and proceeded to explore further.

The surgery in which he presently found himself did little to calm his qualms; but he fancied it would serve, in his present predicament. After all, you don’t expect to find a Temple of Hygiene in a cow-town; and you are right not to.

But there was at least a comfortable looking chair –

which he was not to know had previously seen service in the Death House at San Quentin – and adjacent to it, on a splintered saw-bench, lay a selection of curious instruments, gleaming, it seemed to him, with anticipation.