Read The Doctor and the Rough Rider Online

Authors: Mike Resnick

Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Westerns, #Historical, #Steampunk, #Alternative History

The Doctor and the Rough Rider (19 page)

BOOK: The Doctor and the Rough Rider
9.15Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

“One more question,” said Edison. “When your men encircled you
and you were kneeling on the ground, did he try to reach over them for you?”

“Yes,” said Roosevelt. “They couldn't hurt him or drive him back, but he couldn't
move them either.”

“That's not what I meant,” replied Edison. “He knew where you were. When one of them
told you to kneel down, did he change his means of attack in any way? Which is to
say, did he lean over and try to reach down to grab you?”

“Yes, but they kept pushing his arms away.”

“But he knew you were kneeling?” persisted Edison. “He tried to reach you where you
were, not where you'd been standing.”

“That's right.”

“Good.”

“Good?” repeated Roosevelt, surprised. “That's all?”

Edison smiled. “That's all. The rest is up to Ned and me.”

“I don't understand at all,” said Roosevelt.

“Remember what I said: we were wasting our time trying to think of ways to pierce
his skin, because he is invulnerable.”

“Right.”

“And we also decided there was no sense going after the medicine men again, that they'd
be better protected this time.”

“I know…” said Roosevelt, trying to follow Edison's chain of reasoning.

“It comes down to facing War Bonnet,” said Edison. “We know that his body is invulnerable
to bullets, and we can conclude based on both your and Doc's experiences with him
that he's impervious to pain. There's every likelihood that he doesn't eat—that he's
not in this plane of existence long enough to work up and satisfy an appetite. And
there's a chance that he doesn't breathe, though I personally doubt that, because
you need air to force out words, and we know he talks.” Another smile. “Do you see
it yet?”

“Oh, hell!” bellowed Roosevelt. “Of course I do. How could I have been so stupid?”

“It wasn't stupidity, Theodore,” said Edison. “You are a remarkably adept problem-solver.
This problem is just a long way beyond your area of expertise.”

“It's still beyond mine,” growled Buntline. “Will one of you two geniuses please enlighten
me?”

“You go ahead, Theodore,” said Edison.

Roosevelt leaned forward, facing Buntline directly. “What that litany Tom just recited
did was list everything that was magical or supernatural about War Bonnet. He can't
be hurt. He can't feel pain. He probably doesn't eat. He may not breathe. The trick,”
continued Roosevelt, smiling triumphantly, “the step I couldn't take when I was thinking
about it last night, was to find if he has any trait or talent that
isn't
magical or supernatural, and to attack
it
.” He paused, still grinning. “And since he can speak and hear and see,
that's
what we have to attack.”

“We can't shoot him in the eyes,” said Buntline. “The bullets will just bounce off.
So we need another tactic.”

“Same with his hearing,” said Edison. “Unless you think Theodore can bite his ear
off,” he added with a laugh.

“How long will you need to make whatever it is you're going to make for me to use
against him?” asked Roosevelt.

“I'd like a week,” said Edison. “But we'll do it in two days if we have to.”

“So if I were you,” added Buntline, “I'd make myself mighty scarce for the next forty-eight
hours.”

“He can find me anywhere I hide,” said Roosevelt. “I mean, hell, if a bloodhound could
find me, it should be child's play for a creature of the medicine men.”

“I don't think we can produce what you need any sooner, Theodore,” said Buntline.

“That's all right,” said Roosevelt. “I've got an idea that ought to work.”

H
OLLIDAY WAS HAVING A LUCRATIVE NIGHT
at the Oriental, as Geronimo had promised. He was up four thousand dollars, and he'd
won half of it on the preceding hand when he'd had nothing but a pair of deuces but
bet his entire pile of chips and bluffed his four opponents into tossing in their
hands rather than paying to see what he held.

He'd decided it was time to take a ten-minute break and celebrate with some imported
Scotch. Not that he preferred it, but since it cost twice as much, it was what he
drank when he was celebrating.

The usual crowd was there—all of Roosevelt's Rough Riders, plus Charlie Bassett, Loose
Martinez, even Henry Wiggins, who rarely drank and never gambled. John Behan walked
past the window, looked in, didn't like what he saw, and kept walking.

“Bartender!” said Holliday.

“Come on, Doc,” said the bartender. “You know perfectly well that my name is Tom.”

“True,” agreed Holliday. “But ‘Bartender’ sounds so much more dramatic. However, let's
split the difference.” He cleared his throat. “Bartender Tom, drinks for the house.”

“Scotch?” asked the bartender.

“I'm merely generous, not philanthropic,” replied Holliday. “Make it whiskey.” He
looked out the window into the street. “And if the gentleman I see approaching the
Oriental actually enters, get him a glass of milk or sarsaparilla, whichever comes
first.”

Roosevelt entered the saloon, waved to his men, and sat down at a table. “I'll have
some tea, please.”

“You sure you don't want milk?” asked the bartender.

“No, thanks.”

“Or sarsaparilla.”

“Never tried it,” replied Roosevelt. “Is it any good?”

“Beats me,” said the bartender with a shrug.

“Might as well find out,” said Roosevelt. “Bring me a bottle.”

“There's saloons where you put your life in danger just ordering a bottle of that,”
noted Holliday.

“Well, hopefully this isn't one of them,” answered Roosevelt. “Right now my life is
in Tom and Ned's hands.”

“They think they'd found a way to kill War Bonnet?” asked Holliday, and suddenly all
other talk ceased.

“It's possible,” said Roosevelt. “The problem is, it'll take them two days to make
the weapon I need. I thought, just in case he shows up before I'm ready for him, I
might prevail upon the brave men who just returned with me to perform the same service
here that they did when he tried to attack me in Indian country.”

“You can count on me, Dandy,” said Sloan.

“And I,” added Mickelson.

Soon all six Rough Riders had pledged their support.

“I'm sorry I couldn't ride with you before, but I'll do whatever I have to—if you'll
have me,” said Charlie Bassett.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Bassett—”

“Charlie.”

“Charlie,” corrected Roosevelt. “And from everything I've heard about you, you're
a man whose help would be most welcome.”

“I've never fired a gun in my life,” said Wiggins, “but I'll lend all the moral support
I can.”

“That will be more than sufficient, Henry,” said Roosevelt.

“What the hell,” said Martinez. “Count me in too.”

“This is precisely the reaction I'd hoped for,” said Roosevelt. “It's only for two
days, and in all likelihood nothing will come of it. Once the weapon is completed,
your job is done and mine begins.”

“Are you planning on facing this monster alone?” asked Bassett.

Roosevelt nodded his head. “Either the weapon will work or it won't. If it works,
I won't need any help, and if it doesn't, I'll be past needing help by the time I
know it.”

He pulled a book out of his pocket and began to read.

“Ben…something,” said Wiggins, looking at the cover.


Ben-Hur
,” replied Roosevelt.

“Good book?”

“Not to my taste, but reasonably well written.”

“If it's not to your taste, why read it?” asked Mickelson.

“Because it's written by General Lew Wallace,” answered Roosevelt.

Mickelson frowned. “I know that name.”

“You sure as hell ought to,” said Holliday. “He was the Governor of the New Mexico
Territory.”

“Why should that matter?”

“He's the man who pardoned Billy the Kid. If he hadn't, the Kid would still be rotting
in jail and a lot less men would be dead.”

“And Pat Garrett would be a damned sight poorer.”

“Right,” said Holliday with an amused smile that only Roosevelt understood. Initially
he'd been surprised that Holliday made no attempt to set the record straight, until
he realized that the last thing the consumptive dentist needed was to face an unending
line of young guns who wanted to go up against the man who'd killed Billy the Kid.
He'd had enough of that already.

“Why don't you put that book down for a while and play a man's game with us, Theodore?”
said Turkey Creek Johnson.

Roosevelt smiled. “Tombstone's already got a mayor.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Politics is a man's game,” said Roosevelt. “Poker is a gambler's game.”

“What about war?” asked Mickelson.

“War,” replied Roosevelt, “is a fool's game.”

“Damn!” said Holliday with a chuckle. “I can see that drawing a standing ovation at
a political rally. Especially from those who have never had to participate in one.”

“Or those who have,” said Roosevelt.

“You gonna run for office again, Theodore?” asked Hairlip Smith.

“Let's see if I survive the next few days,” answered Roosevelt. “Then I'll worry about
it.”

“Got to admit he answers like a politician,” said Mickelson. “I'd vote for you myself
if I'd ever bothered to become a citizen.”

“You don't have to be a citizen to vote on this side of the river,” said Johnson.
“We're not officially a country, you know.”

“Keep me alive for two days and I have every intention of changing that,” said Roosevelt.

“I can think of a lot of reasons to keep you alive, Theodore,” said Sherman McMaster,
“but turning this place into another Boston sure as hell ain't one of them.”

There was general laughter, and then Holliday took his Scotch back to the table.

“We ready to start again?” asked Sloan.

“You got any money left?” asked Holliday. “Any at all?”

“Yeah.”

Holliday smiled. “Then we're ready to start again.”

Hairlip Smith dealt the cards, and as the game took their attention, Wiggins walked
over to Roosevelt's table.

“Care for a little company?” he asked. “I just never got in the habit of wasting my
money at poker or faro.”

“Certainly,” said Roosevelt, closing his book and pushing it aside.

“They've been talking about War Bonnet all evening,” said Wiggins. “Problem is, they've
been drinking all evening, and every time they describe him he gets bigger and more
terrifying. What was he really like?”

“Big and terrifying,” said Roosevelt with a smile. “I hardly saw him at all. For most
of the time he had his back to me, and when he didn't, my men had me surrounded while
I knelt on the ground, so I never got a good look at him. The man to talk to is Doc,
who was as close to him, face-to-face, as I am to you.”

“I've heard Doc. If this War Bonnet is half what Doc says and even a quarter of what
the others say, why are you sitting here waiting for him? Why not go back to New York?
He won't follow you across the Mississippi. From what I understand, all he wants is
to stop you from making a deal with Geronimo.”

“There are a lot of wrong assumptions in that statement, Henry,” said Roosevelt. “First,
I came here from the Dakota Badlands, not New York. Second, there is no reason to
believe that he either can't or won't follow me anywhere I go. And third, I'm here
because there are some things worth risking my life for, and doubling the size of
the United States—more than doubling it—is certainly one of them.”

Wiggins stared down at his folded hands and made no reply.

“Is something wrong?” asked Roosevelt after a moment.

“I'm used to the fact that you make me feel totally unaccomplished,” replied Wiggins.
“But this is the first time you've made me feel like a coward. Even Doc and Wyatt
never managed that.”

“I'd no intention of doing that,” said Roosevelt. “Nor do I think you're a coward.
You've come out to a lawless land, and you've made a life for yourself. You walk among
shootists without carrying a weapon. And I have no doubt that faced with a choice,
there are half a dozen things you'd put your life on the line for. There's no reason
why you should share my views about the expansion of the United States. But if your
children were threatened, or even Tom and Ned, who befriended you and employed you,
I think you'd find that you are far braver than you think you are.”

Wiggins stared thoughtfully into space for a few seconds. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I
would
risk my life for my children. And for some other things.” He extended his hand across
the table. “Thank you, Theodore. Thank you for giving my self-esteem a good hard kick
in the pants.”

Roosevelt grinned. “That's what politicians are for.”

Suddenly a well-dressed man Roosevelt had never seen before entered the Oriental,
a folded piece of paper in his hand. He looked around and then walked up to the table
Holliday was seated at.

“I've been looking all over for you, Doc,” he said.

“I thought everyone knew where to find me after dark,” said Holliday, getting to his
feet and facing the man. “John, this distinguished-looking young man at the next table
is Theodore Roosevelt, about whom you've doubtless been hearing. Theodore, say hello
to John Clum, editor of the
Tombstone Epitaph
.”

Roosevelt got up, walked over, and shook Clum's hand. “I'm pleased to meet you. Doc
has been praising you since I got here. I take it you write a splendid editorial.”

“I also write obits,” answered Clum, “and if Doc stays in Tombstone there's every
likelihood I'll be writing
his
in a few days.”

“Can't be a parade of jealous husbands,” said Holliday with a smile. “I'm not the
man I used to be.” He paused. “Probably I never was.”

“I'm serious, Doc.” He pulled the paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and held it
up. “He's just a couple of days away, and he's killing his way to Tombstone.”

“This is John Wesley Hardin you're speaking of?” asked Roosevelt.

Clum nodded. “This mystical Indian everyone's talking about seems to have broken him
out of jail on the condition that he kill Doc.”

“First he's got to get here,” said Holliday. “Then he has to beat me in a gunfight.
It's never been done yet.”

“He's never lost yet either,” said Clum in frustrated tones. “Doc, you're a good man
despite your reputation, and I consider you a friend, so please listen to me. You've
survived the O.K. Corral, and the thing that used to be Johnny Ringo, and Billy the
Kid, and a disease that would have killed most men a decade ago. Just how long do
you think you can stay lucky?”

“Another week ought to do it,” answered Holliday.

“Bah!” Clum growled, stalking toward the swinging doors. “I did my best.”

Then he was gone.

“You know, Doc,” said Roosevelt, “I've got my Rough Riders now, and I'll have a weapon
in two days. There's no reason for you to stick around.”

“You think I should go back to Colorado?” asked Holliday.

“Why not?”

“He's already killed forty-two men before they locked him away, and five more since
he broke out. Do you want him to follow me to
Leadville shooting everyone and everything he sees there, starting with Kate Elder
and the staff of the sanitarium?” snapped Holliday. “Damn it, Theodore, I'm going
to have to face him sooner or later. No one else can stop him.”

“You're right,” said Roosevelt. “I hadn't thought it through. I apologize.”

Holliday turned back to his table and began dealing the cards, Roosevelt sat down
and began reading his book again, and both of them tried to pretend that their minds
weren't dwelling almost exclusively on their confrontations to come.

BOOK: The Doctor and the Rough Rider
9.15Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Finding Home by Lauren K McKellar
The Real Werewives of Vampire County by Ivy, Alexandra; Fox, Angie; Dane, Tami; Haines, Jess
The Rancher Takes a Bride by Brenda Minton
River Runs Deep by Jennifer Bradbury
The Code Book by Simon Singh
No Regrets by Claire Kent
Logan by Melissa Foster