The Doctor and the Rough Rider (2 page)

Holliday tensed.

“Don't even think of it, Doc. I'm not one of those kids you just killed.”

Holliday raised his hands and turned to face his newest antagonist, a tall man with
a gun in each hand.

“Sheriff Milt Andrews,” he introduced himself. “And you, sir, are under arrest for
murder.”

“If you're here this quick, you saw what happened,” said Holliday. “Those two were
waiting for me.”

“No question about it.”

“They were here to kill me, not talk to me,” continued Holliday.

“Anything's possible,” agreed Andrews. “But neither of them pulled a gun, and we got
enough people coming out now because of the sound of the gunshots that I won't be
the only one to testify that they both died with their guns in their holsters.”

“You
saw
it!” said Holliday angrily. “You
know
it was self-defense.”

“I saw it,” echoed Andrews. “And if I wasn't Billy Allen's uncle, I might even agree
with you. Now let's go on over to the jail.” Holliday coughed again. Andrews waited
until he was done and then shot him a cold, humorless smile. “I'll have Kate Elder
send over a supply of your handkerchiefs, since I don't figure you're getting out
anytime soon.”

H
OLLIDAY OPENED HIS EYES
.

He was lying on his cot, it was still dark out, and the deputy who'd drawn the graveyard
shift was two rooms away, snoring peacefully. He swung his feet to the stone floor,
massaged the back of his neck with his long delicate fingers, and blinked his eyes
a few times. He started to reach inside his coat for his flask, then remembered that
it had been taken from him, along with his gun, when he'd been arrested.

He pulled his watch out of a vest pocket by its gold chain and opened it. It was four
thirty in the morning, and as far as he knew the whole damned town was asleep. So
why the hell was he awake?

He felt very uneasy, finally got his eyes to focus, and studied his surroundings—and
then he saw it, perched between the iron bars on the ledge of his window.

“Don't you get tired of pretending to be birds and animals?” he said.

The bird spread its wings and leaped lightly to the floor. By the time it landed,
it had morphed into an Indian—a very familiar Indian.

“I hope to hell you didn't come to gloat,” said Holliday. “I've got a hangover and
my head's splitting open.”

“Your head is intact,” announced the Indian with certainty.

“Figure of speech,” said Holliday. He stared at the Indian. “Well?”

“We have serious matters to discuss, Holliday,” said the Indian.

“Lower your voice,” said Holliday. “If the guy at the desk hears us, he's going to
come over to see who I'm talking to, and when he finds out it's Geronimo himself,
he'll blow you to Kingdom Come.”

Geronimo shook his head. “He will not awaken.”

“You killed him?”

“No. But he will sleep until we are through with our business.”

“I thought we were through with our business a year and a half ago,” said Holliday.

“No,” said Geronimo. “That was
your
business; this is
mine
. Do you remember that I told you there was one White Eyes among your race that I
could treat with?”

“Yes.”

“He has now crossed the great river, which you call the Mississippi.”

“And now the medicine men will end their spell or curse or whatever the hell it is
and let the United States expand to the Pacific?” said Holliday.

“It will not be that easy,” said Geronimo.

“Somehow it never is,” said Holliday with a sigh. “Damn! I wish I had my flask.” He
stared at Geronimo. “I don't suppose the greatest of all the Apache medicine men would
care to magic it to me?”

Geronimo shook head. “You will have access to such things soon enough.”

“You're breaking me out of here?” asked Holliday eagerly.

“I will break nothing.”

“You know what I mean,” said Holliday. “Don't play word games with a man who's got
a hangover.”

The Indian stared at him expressionlessly for a moment, then walked over and sat down
at the end of the cot. “Holliday, I am willing to make my peace with the White Eyes.”

“Good,” said Holliday, certain that nothing was quite that easy.

“There is one man, a man of courage and character, that I will treat with, and no
one else.”

“So you said.”

“He will not come because I ask him,” continued Geronimo.

“Do I know him?” asked Holliday.

Geronimo shook his head. “No. I doubt that you have ever even heard his name mentioned.”

Holliday frowned, trying to follow the Indian's line of reasoning. “Then why should
he come for me any more than he'd come for you?”

“He will not.”

“Then—”

“But he will come because your friend asks him, and it is not in his nature to refuse
a challenge.”

“My friend?” repeated Holliday, frowning.

“The man Masterson.”

“Bat Masterson?” said Holliday, and Geronimo nodded his head. “We're not exactly friends,
him and me. We just find ourselves on the same side most of the time, thanks to Wyatt
Earp. He and Wyatt are lawmen, or at least they were. And Wyatt and I are friends.”
Or at least we were
, he added silently.

“Nonetheless, it is he who knows and has befriended the man I seek, and he who will
convince that man to come to my lodge.”

“Bat's not out here any longer,” said Holliday. “He gave up being a lawman to become
a sportswriter—a newspaperman. He's up in New York,
covering horse races and boxing matches and this new baseball game.”

“That is where he met the man I must speak to,” said Geronimo with absolute certainty.

Holliday was going to ask how he knew that, and then realized the silliness of doubting
a warrior who could change into an animal or back into a man on a half second's notice.
Instead he said: “Who is this miracle man? Grant and Sherman are dead, and George
Custer turned out to be a fool.”

“He is a very young man, but he is already the most accomplished of the White Eyes.”

“If he's
that
accomplished, what if he's too busy to come?” asked Holliday.

“He will come because his curiosity will overwhelm his reluctance. He will want to
see all the wonders that Edison and Buntline are famous for. Further, he has forsaken
the crowded cities of the White Eyes to live on this side of the river, and he will
realize instantly that to refuse my offer is to keep his country forever confined
to the other side of the river.”

“If he's all that special, maybe I've heard of him after all,” said Holliday. “What's
his name?”

“Roosevelt.”

“Is that a first or a last name?”

“It is his name.”

“Thanks,” said Holliday sardonically. “I've never heard of any Roosevelt. How many
men has he killed?”

“None.”

“What is he, some kind of preacher or religious leader?”

“No,” said Geronimo.

“A scientist like Tom Edison?”

“No.”

“And he's the only one you'll treat with?”

“That is correct.”

“Must be a hell of a man,” said Holliday. “What's he done?”

“Masterson will tell you,” answered Geronimo.

“Why not you?”

“I know his aura, not his accomplishments.”

“His aura?”

Geronimo nodded. “All men have them. Yours is black, for the death you bring and the
death that awaits you.”

“And his?”

Geronimo merely stared at him.

“Okay, okay, it must be pretty damned bright if you can spot it from two thousand
miles away.”

“He must come to my lodge.”

“You mean the one near Tombstone, down in the Arizona Territory?” asked Holliday.

“Yes. And he must come quickly.”

“Well, now, we have a little problem in that regard,” said Holliday. Geronimo looked
at him quizzically. “In case it has escaped your attention, I am sitting in a cell
in the Leadville Jail. I can't contact him from here.”

There was an instant of extreme cold and total darkness, and suddenly Holliday found
himself in the Leadville telegraph office.

“You can send a message from here,” said Geronimo, appearing beside him.

“We still have a problem.”

The Indian stared at him, frowning. “What is it?”

“I don't have any money to pay for sending it. My wallet is back in the jail, along
with my gun and my flask.”

Geronimo closed his eyes and tensed, and suddenly Holliday felt somehow different.
He ran his hands over his hips and torso and found that his wallet was once again
in his lapel pocket and his pistol rested comfortably in its holster.

“What about my whiskey?” he asked.

“First the message.”

“There's no one to give it to, and I don't know how to work the machine.”

Geronimo closed his eyes briefly a second time, and when he opened them, a telegraph
operator, still in his nightshirt, looking totally confused and more than a little
bit frightened, sat at his desk.

“Don't be afraid, son,” said Holliday. “It's all perfectly normal, except for the
magic and the jailbreak and the Indian. I want to send a message.”

The young man gulped and nodded.

“To Bat Masterson, in care of the
Daily Telegraph
,” began Holliday.

“Where is that, sir?” asked the operator.

“New York City,” replied Holliday. “Dear Bat: Got a situation here that may result
in ending the barrier that exists at the Mississippi.”

The operator, his eyes wide, began tapping away. “Really, sir?” he asked.

“It all depends on whether he believes me or not,” replied Holliday. “Continuing:
It is essential that you bring your friend Roosevelt to Tombstone as quickly as possible.
I can't tell you more until you get here, but your safety has been guaranteed by a
man whose abilities are not unknown, especially to you.” He paused. “Okay, sign it
‘Doc Holliday’ and send it.”

The operator finished the message and put it on the wire.

“Now, how much do I owe you?” asked Holliday, pulling out his wallet, but he found
himself speaking to an empty chair.

“He is back in his bed,” announced Geronimo. “When he awakes, he will remember nothing.”

Holliday nodded his approval.

“Will Masterson come?” continued Geronimo.

Holliday shrugged. “I suppose so. He'll figure out that you've guaranteed his safety,
and he of all people knows what you can do. After all, you're the one who turned him
into an oversized bat.”

“He killed one of my warriors.”

“After your warrior attacked him.”

“He must come,” said Geronimo, ignoring what Holliday had said, “And
soon
.”

“Why soon?” asked Holliday. “I mean, as long as you've decided to end the spell and
let us expand to the Pacific, what difference does it make whether he gets here in
a month or a year?”

“I may be dead before a year has passed,” answered Geronimo.

Holliday studied him briefly. “I know I'm a dentist and not a physician, but I'd say
you look pretty healthy to me.”

“I will not die from disease.”

Holliday arched an eyebrow and waited for Geronimo to continue. “The other medicine
men, those of the other tribes, do not want to end the spell or treat with the White
Eyes. When they know I am planning this, they will create a creature such as has never
been seen before, and send it out to kill me and those who stand with me. That is
why it must be soon. Even with my powers, I cannot evade the creature or hold it at
bay for long.”

“Why are you so sure they'll create such a creature at all?” asked Holliday.

Geronimo stared at him for a long moment. “Because
I
would,” he said grimly.

M
ASTERSON STROLLED INTO THE
R
UNNING
S
TAG
tavern on Medora's main street and walked up to the bar, which boasted an impressive
set of antlers hanging just above the mirrors.

“What'll it be, sir?”

“Make it a beer.”

“Coming right up.” The bartender stared at him for a moment. “Ain't I seen you before?”

“I doubt it,” replied Masterson. “This is my first trip to Dakota.”

“You ain't seen him,” said the lone customer, a gray-bearded man sitting at a table.
“But you seen his picture.” He turned to Masterson. “You're Bat Masterson, ain't you?”

Masterson nodded.

“I heard you gave up being a lawman and went to New York to be a writer,” said the
man. “What brings you to Medora?”

“I'm looking for a local resident.”

“Got to be the Marquis de Mores or young Roosevelt,” said the man. “Can't imagine
there's anyone else out here that anyone would want to see.”

“It's Roosevelt,” Masterson confirmed.

“Figgers.”

“Because he's American?”

“'Cause he's a lawman too, like you used to be.”

Masterson frowned. “A lawman? I hadn't heard.”

“The best,” said the man. “Makes your pal Wyatt Earp look like a beginner.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I would,” said the bearded man. “But my throat's gone dry, and I probably can't get
all the words out.”

Masterson smiled and turned to the bartender. “A pitcher of beer for the table,” he
said, walking over and sitting down.

“Well, that's damned generous of you, Mr. Masterson.”

“Bat,” said Masterson.

“Bat,” repeated the man. “And I'm Jacob Finnegan.” He extended a gnarled hand, and
Masterson shook it. “Can't say I blame you for hightailing it back to New York. I
been reading all about you in those dime novels.”

“Most of it never happened,” said Masterson as the bartender deposited the pitcher
on the table.

“Go ahead,” said Finnegan. “Ruin an old man's dreams.”

“I'll do my best to,” replied Masterson with a smile.

Finnegan laughed. “I
like
you, Bat Masterson! You're good with a gun, you ain't afraid to face a desperado
or two, and even though you're a writer I can pretty much understand you. Your pal
Roosevelt uses some of the biggest damned words anyone ever heard.”

“He'll lose that habit fast enough,” said Masterson. “He needed it for his last job.”

“And what was that?”

“He was the youngest Minority Leader in the history of the New York legislature.”

Finnegan took a swallow of his beer. “That don't sound right. He's
still
a young man, I'd say no more than twenty-five or twenty-six.”

“That's about right.”

Finnegan frowned, and stopped to pet a dog that had wandered in beneath the swinging
doors. “Must have taken a terrible whooping at the polls to wind up out here.”

Masterson shook his head. “He didn't lose. He quit.”

“Hah! They're as corrupt as we always thought, right?”

“Probably,” replied Masterson with a smile. “But that had nothing to do with it. His
wife and his mother died something like ten hours apart, both in his house, one of
disease, one in childbirth. He dearly loved both of them, and didn't want to stay
there with all his memories.”

“So he brung his memories out to the Badlands?” said Finnegan. “That don't make no
sense.”

“He's a complex man.”

“He's a
determined
one, anyway,” said Finnegan. “You heard about the three killers he brung back?”

Masterson shook his head. “No. Tell me about them.”

“He just don't do nothing in a small way,” began Finnegan. “It wasn't enough that
he bought two ranches…” His voice trailed off as he searched his pockets, found a
small piece of jerky, and tossed it to the dog.

“
Two?
” said Masterson, surprised.

“Your pal thinks
big
. Anyway, he volunteered to be the local deputy. Refused to take any money for it.
Wore that damned star everywhere. We figured he just wanted it the way a woman wants
a pin or a necklace, but then a trio of killers done their evil deeds and Roosevelt
went after them. I don't know where he was when he heard about
it, but he didn't have no gun with him, and he decided not to waste time getting one,
so he just started riding in the worst blizzard you ever saw. We get bad winters up
here, really terrible ones, but we never had nothing like this. ‘The Winter of the
Blue Snow,’ the local paper called it.”

“Evocative name,” commented Masterson.

“Whatever ‘evocative’ means,” replied Finnegan, reaching down to gently push the dog
away. “Go on, pooch. I ain't got no more.” The dog ducked around his hand and remained
where he was. “Anyway,” continued Finnegan, “he eventually caught up with 'em, beat
the crap out of them, took away their guns, and marched 'em all the way to Dickenson.
Must have been fifty miles through that blizzard. They took turns sleeping, but he
didn't dare nod off. Says he read this huge novel by this Russian guy, and when that
was done he read some dime novels about you and the Earps and that Holliday guy, and
somehow he stayed awake for three days and nights, until he finally delivered his
prisoners.”

Masterson nodded his head. “Yeah, that sounds like Theodore.”

“Okay, you know him,” said Finnegan. Masterson looked at him curiously. “He hates
to be called Teddy.”

“That he does,” agreed Masterson. “You got any idea where I can find him?”

“He'll either be at Elkhorn or the Maltese Cross, probably Elkhorn.”

“Those are his ranches?”

“Yeah. Though if you wait long enough, he'll show up here. The Marquis de Mores has
challenged him to a fight.” Finnegan chuckled. “He offered to let Roosevelt choose
the weapons.” A pause and a grin. “I figure he'll choose words.”

“It'd be best for the Marquis if he did,” replied Masterson. “Theodore was a boxing
champion at Harvard.”

“You don't say?” said Finnegan. “Is there anything he
can't
do?”

“Not much,” answered Masterson. “Before he was twenty he was already considered one
of America's three or four leading ornithologists and taxidermists.”

“Orni—?” said Finnegan, frowning and trying to pronounce the word. “Orni—?”

“Ornithologist,” repeated Masterson. “Bird expert.”

“He sure as hell shoots enough of 'em,” remarked Finnegan.

“Can't stuff and mount them while they're still alive,” responded Masterson with a
smile.

“How'd you two meet?” asked Finnegan.

“He wrote me, asking some questions about a series of books he's writing about the
West.”

“He's a writer too?”

Masterson nodded. “And a damned good one. Anyway, I wrote back, we started corresponding,
and we finally met at one of John L. Sullivan's prizefights.” Masterson finished his
beer and got to his feet. “And now, if you don't mind, please tell me how to get to
Elkhorn and maybe I can make it before dark and not get totally lost.”

Finnegan got up, gestured for Masterson to follow him, and walked out onto the raised
wooden sidewalk. “Just head in that direction, and you'll be there in two, maybe three
hours, depending on how lazy your horse is.”

“Thanks,” said Masterson.

“And when you see him, tell him Jacob Finnegan would be proud to hold his coat while
he beats the shit out of that Frenchman.”

“I'll do that,” promised Masterson, shaking the old man's hand.

Then he was atop his horse, heading through the hilly, thickly forested country in
the direction Finnegan had indicated. At first he was on the lookout for wolves or
perhaps even a bear. Then it occurred
to him that Roosevelt had been in the Medora area long enough to make it safe for
travelers, and he stopped staring apprehensively at every bush and shadow.

He rode for ninety minutes, dismounted when he came to a stream and filled his canteen
while his horse drank, then continued the rest of the way. He saw an expansive wooden
house in the distance, and as he approached it he heard a sound that he couldn't identify.
It occurred every few seconds, and finally he saw a well-built young man wearing what
were clearly stylish, store-bought buckskins splitting logs with an axe.

“Greetings, Theodore!” he cried as he drew closer.

Roosevelt lay his axe down and squinted through his glasses until he finally identified
his visitor.

“Bat Masterson!” he said. “What in the world are you doing out here in the Badlands?”

“Looking for you,” said Masterson, climbing down off his horse and leading it the
last few yards.

“It's good to see you!” said Roosevelt. “Let me just finish this last log, and we'll
go inside and visit.”

“Why are you even splitting logs?” asked Masterson. “Winter's over.”

“Got to keep fit,” answered Roosevelt as he brought the axe down on the log. “I run
a few miles every morning, but it rained last night and it was a little too muddy
today, so I'm doing this instead.”

“Don't overdo it,” said Masterson. “You're already the fittest man I know.”

“The Marquis de Mores is pretty fit himself,” said Roosevelt.

“Yeah, I heard about that.”

“You couldn't have come all the way out from Manhattan just to watch us fight.”

“No, I never even heard of the Marquis until a few hours ago. Which reminds me: Jacob
Finnegan wants to be your second.”

Roosevelt offered a toothy smile. “Good old Jacob! In his youth he could probably
have beaten both of us.”

“I doubt it,” said Masterson.

“Well, if you're not here for the fight, and indeed we haven't set a date for it,
what
has
brought you all this way?”

“Therein lies a story,” said Masterson.

“So tell me,” said Roosevelt.

“You know that the Indian medicine men have let some miners and settlers and farmers
past the Mississippi, but that the United States, as a nation, has been stopped there.”

“Of course I know,” said Roosevelt. “Hell, every schoolboy knows it.” He paused. “And
I also know it can't last forever. It's our destiny to expand from one coast to the
other.”

Masterson stared at him. “How would you like to be the man who brings it about?”

Roosevelt returned his stare. “You're serious?”

“I'm here.”

Roosevelt let his axe fall to the ground. “Come on inside and tell me about it,” he
said, throwing an arm around Masterson's shoulder and leading him into the sturdy
wooden house, the living room of which was lined with books on all subjects, and featured
a large writing desk and a comfortable chair.

“I'm here because Doc Holliday knows I know you,” began Masterson.

“Doc Holliday? The shootist?” Roosevelt began reeling off a list of Holliday's gunfights
and victims.

“That's the one,” said Masterson. “But he and I are just middlemen. The person who
is really sending for you is Geronimo.”

Roosevelt's face reflected his excitement. “Geronimo? The greatest
of the Apache medicine men. True name: Goyathlay. Leader of the Apaches since Victorio
was killed four years ago.” He spent another minute recounting Geronimo's achievements.

“Yes,” said Masterson when Roosevelt paused for breath. “
That
Geronimo.”

“This is
exciting
, Bat!” exclaimed Roosevelt. “Will your friend Wyatt Earp be involved in whatever
this is?”

Masterson shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“All right. Why does Geronimo want to see me?”

“You're not going to believe me when I tell you.”

“That's always possible,” answered Roosevelt. “But we won't know for sure until you
do tell me.”

“He's ready to lift the spell,” said Masterson. “And of all the white and black men
in America, you're the only one he'll deal with.”

“But I've never met him!”

“
He
knows
you
.”

Roosevelt frowned in puzzlement. “How?”

“A dozen men can stop the entire nation from expanding across the Mississippi, and
you wonder how one of them can know anything about you?”

“Forgive me,” said Roosevelt with an embarrassed smile. “I'm so excited by your news
that I hadn't thought it through.”

“Then you'll come?”

“To double the nation's territory? Of course!” There was a brief pause. “Hell, I'd
come just to meet Doc Holliday and Geronimo. I mean, Billy the Kid, Wild Bill Hickok,
Jesse James, and at least one of the Younger Brothers are dead, the Earps have gone
to California and Alaska, and John Wesley Hardin has been rotting in a Texas prison
for years. Of all the bigger-than-life figures of the West, Holliday and Geronimo
are just about all that's left. Of course I'm coming!”

“You'll get to meet Tom Edison, too. I'm not certain what he's doing out there, but
he seems to have become a friend of Holliday's.”

“Thomas
Alva
Edison?” said Roosevelt, his eyes widening with excitement. “The inventor?”

Masterson nodded his head. “He's made a lot of changes to Tombstone. Whole town was
lit up by electric lights at night when I was there three years ago.”