The Doctor and the Rough Rider (9 page)

The one-sided fight went on for another five minutes. Roosevelt offered to end it
three different times, but the man, his face a bloody mess, refused. Finally he uttered
one final bellow and made one final attempt to connect to Roosevelt, who blocked one
punch, ducked another, and delivered a haymaker to the man's jaw. He dropped like
a stone.

“Anyone want to claim this trash?” asked Holliday.

There was no response, and Roosevelt dropped to one knee and began examining the damage
he'd done to his opponent's face.

“Henry, get me a wet rag from the bar, will you, please?” said Roosevelt.

“He'd have been happy to let you lie on the floor 'til Doomsday,” remarked Holliday.

“I'm responsible for my actions, not his,” said Roosevelt. Wiggins returned with the
towel, and Roosevelt began cleaning away some of the blood.

The man awoke, and Roosevelt spoke to him soothingly, instructing him to lie still
until he finished getting rid of the blood. Finally he helped the man to his feet.

“I'm willing to admit when I been beat,” said the man. “You got one helluva punch,
Dandy.”

“Thank you,” said Roosevelt. “How are you? Nothing broken?”

“Maybe my nose. Nothing important.”

“What's your name?”

“Luke,” said the man. “Luke Sloan.”

“And I'm Theodore. Let me buy you a drink.”

Sloan looked at him as if he were crazy. “You sure?”

“I'm sure,” said Roosevelt. “We had a disagreement. It's over.” He took his glasses
back from Wiggins. “I hope you don't mind if I wear my glasses.”

“If they make you fight like that, maybe I'll buy a pair myself,” said Sloan. Roosevelt
threw back his head and laughed, Sloan joined him, and soon everyone at the bar was
laughing as the tension faded away.

“I don't know what you're doing out here, Dandy—I mean, Theodore,” said Sloan, “but
me and my horse are at your service if you're looking for help. Maybe I ain't quite
as rough as I thought,” he said, “but against most people I can hold my own and then
some.”

“You're rough enough for me, Luke,” said Roosevelt. “I just might have some use for
a rough rider like you.”

“I'll be around,” said Sloan. “I better get over to the doc's—not
your
Doc—and get some ice for my nose before it swells up so much I can't breathe.”

“I'll be in touch,” replied Roosevelt, as Sloan walked out the door and he returned
to his table.

“I will never understand you,” said Holliday.

“Leave him on the floor and he'd be an enemy for life,” replied Roosevelt. “Now he
wants to ride with me.” He paused and suddenly grinned. “Rough rider. I like the way
it sounds.”

H
OLLIDAY CLIMBED THE STAIRS
to his second-floor room at the Grand, unlocked the door, tossed his hat on the desk
in the corner, unbuckled and untied his holster, hung it over the back of the desk
chair, and was preparing to sit down on the bed when he saw the mouse in the corner
of the room.

“You are not supposed to be here,” he muttered, “but at least when I present your
bullet-riddled body to the management you ought to be worth a discount.”

He reached for his gun, but before his hand closed on it, the mouse was gone, and
standing in its place was Geronimo.

“Don't you ever get tired of sneaking up on people this way?” complained Holliday.
“Or is this your only party trick?”

“If they saw me, they would kill me,” answered Geronimo. “You know that.”

“Yeah, probably they would,” agreed Holliday with a weary sigh. “Well, what is it?
I was about to go to sleep.”

“I spoke to Roosevelt.”

“I hope that's not what this is about,” said Holliday. “He told me about it.”

“He is a brave man.”

“And a soundly sleeping one,” said Holliday. “Get to the point.”

“He plans to face War Bonnet.”

“I know. You told us that. You even gave us a hint of what he'd look like.”

“He is not ready,” continued Geronimo.

“Of course he's not ready,” said Holliday irritably. “How do you get ready to face
a magical giant?”

“By learning more about him.”

“Fine. Let him go learn.”

“He cannot. They will hide War Bonnet from him until they are ready to kill him.”

“Okay, then,” said Holliday. “
You're
the medicine man. You go learn and tell him.”

“They have defenses against me.”

“I'm sorry Roosevelt's not ready and you're no help,” said Holliday, “but what do
you expect
me
to do about it?”

“Face War Bonnet.”

“
Me?
” said Holliday incredulously.

“Learn what you can, and if you survive, bring us the information.”

“Shit!” muttered Holliday. “I'm sobering up.”

Geronimo stood and stared at him silently.

“I thought this was your and Roosevelt's fight,” continued Holliday.

“It is.”

“Then what is this all about?”

“War Bonnet has been created to kill Roosevelt and me,” said Geronimo.

“I know.”

“Roosevelt and me,” repeated Geronimo. “Not you.”

Holliday frowned. “Are you saying I can kill him? Or it, or whatever the hell it is?”

Geronimo shook his head. “No, Holliday, You probably cannot kill him.”

“Well, you'll forgive me if I don't like playing the sacrificial lamb. If you want
to find out how fast he can tear someone apart, send Masterson or someone else.”

“You do not understand,” said Geronimo.

“Enlighten me.”

“War Bonnet was created to kill Roosevelt and me. That is his sole purpose. His every
thought is to kill us. His every defense is to protect himself against us. His every
skill is a skill that is required for killing us.” Geronimo paused and continued staring
at Holliday. “He was not created to kill
you
.”

“Well, now, I find that very interesting and almost worth being sober for,” said Holliday.
“Are you saying that anyone but you or Roosevelt can kill him?”

Geronimo shook his head. “No. He is a monster, created and powered by magic.”

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?” demanded Holliday irritably.

“You have faced many men who were stronger that you, many who were better with their
weapons, many who had no fear of you. Every man you ever faced was stronger and healthier
than you. And yet you have always emerged alive and triumphant.” He paused. “You do
not have to kill War Bonnet. It is entirely possible that you cannot. But it is equally
possible that he cannot or will not kill you, and when you return, you can report
on everything you saw, everything you experienced.”

“He's twenty feet high and made of fire,” said Holliday. “What do you mean, he can't
kill me?”

“I said he
might
be unable to kill you,” replied Geronimo. “Possibly he is constructed only to kill
myself and Roosevelt. Possibly he recognizes no other enemy.”

“And possibly he likes killing, no matter who,” said Holliday.

“That is true,” agreed Geronimo.

“Then why in the world should I risk my life, and probably piss it away, just to get
you some information?”

“Your remaining life is of very short duration,” began Geronimo.

“That's not a very telling argument,” answered Holliday.

“If you die, you will suffer no more than you will suffer at your lodge in the mountains
of Colorado,” continued Geronimo. “And if you live, I can foresee you having two very
fortunate nights at the place you call the Oriental.”

“I'll win big?” said Holliday. “How much?”

Geronimo merely shrugged.

“Well, what the hell, however much or little, it beats losing. And I don't suppose
getting torn apart or set on fire is any worse than spending a final month or two
gasping for air and not quite getting it.” Holliday grimaced, then sighed. “Okay,
I'm your huckleberry.”

“It is agreed, then.”

“Uh…before you go, where do I find War Bonnet?”

“He will not exist, not in a form that is meaningful to you, for three more days,”
answered Geronimo. “When that time comes, I will instruct you where to find him.”

“You might also instruct me about what hurts him, or keeps him at bay.”

“If I knew that, I would not be sending you.”

“How comforting,” said Holliday, but even as the words left his mouth he realized
he was speaking to an empty room.

H
OLLIDAY APPROACHED
E
DISON'S HOUSE
. Long before he reached the door, it swung open and Edison's voice welcomed him in.
He entered, walked into the living room, and waited for Edison to come out of his
lab and greet him.

“How are you, Doc?”

“I've been better,” replied Holliday. A wry smile. “Of course, that was a long time
ago.”

“What can I do for you?” asked Edison.

“Plenty. But before we start talking, call Ned in here. No sense repeating it all
to him.”

Edison frowned, but went back to his lab and summoned Buntline on the primitive communication
system he'd installed between the two houses. Buntline entered the living room a moment
later, chewing on a sandwich and carrying a beer.

“Hi, Doc,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”

“Plenty,” said Holliday. “But not to eat.”

“Have a seat, Ned,” said Edison. “I think Doc's got something important to tell us.”

“Important to me, anyway,” said Holliday.

Both men sat at opposite ends of a couch and stared at him expectantly.

“I've just had a visit from Geronimo,” began Holliday.

“What did he want?”

“He wants me to face War Bonnet.”

“
What?
” shouted Buntline. “He'd better make up his damned mind about who this creature is
being created to kill.”

“Nothing's changed,” said Holliday. “War Bonnet has been or is being created for the
sole purpose of killing Roosevelt and Geronimo.”

“Then I don't understand,” growled Buntline.

“I think I'm beginning to,” said Edison, leaning forward.

“Good!” said Buntline. “Then one of you two can explain it to me.”

“Let me take a guess,” said Edison.

“Go right ahead,” replied Holliday.

“He wants you to face War Bonnet because War Bonnet was not created with you in mind.
At the most extreme, and this probably isn't the case, he is immune only to Theodore's
bullets and blows, and Geronimo's spells, and at the same time, he is deadly only
in combat against Theodore or Geronimo.” He paused and looked at Holliday. “Am I close?”

“You're close. He doesn't guarantee that
anyone
is safe facing War Bonnet, but he's sure that I'll be safer than him or Roosevelt.”

“It's possible,” agreed Edison.

“I still cut and I still bleed,” said Holliday. “How the hell safe can I be?”

“Is Geronimo protecting you with some kind of spell?” asked Buntline.

“He didn't say so,” responded Holliday. “Besides, I have to think if there's one thing
his spells are useless against, it's War Bonnet.”

“So...you're off to face War Bonnet, and you want...what?” asked Buntline. “Weapons?
Protection?”

“Maybe a train back East,” replied Holliday with a wry smile.

“I'm being serious, Doc,” said Buntline. “Have you made up your mind to face him?”

“Geronimo's made up
his
mind,” said Holliday. “I suppose it comes to the same thing.”

“Where is he?”

“Geronimo?”

Buntline shook his head. “No, War Bonnet?”

“Who the hell knows? I assume Geronimo will be more than happy to direct me.” He sighed
deeply. “I'd like to survive it. I'm not afraid to die—in fact, I've been busy doing
it for years—but I hate to do it at the hand of a monster that isn't even interested
in me.”

“We'll do what we can to protect you,” said Edison. “Is there anything new you can
tell us, anything you can add to what we already know?”

“Or think we know,” added Buntline, finally finishing his sandwich.

“Not much,” said Holliday. “It's all guesswork. All Geronimo knows is that War Bonnet
can kill him and Roosevelt for sure, but he can only kill the rest of the world maybe.”

“Well, let's put our heads together, figure out what
won't
work, and concentrate on what's left,” said Edison.

Holliday frowned. “I don't follow you.”

“War Bonnet was made to face Geronimo and Theodore, right?” said Edison. “So, if he's
the threat Geronimo thinks he is, and he's a magical being, he must be immune to anything
those two can throw at him.”

“Of course, being immune to magic is academic,” said Buntline. “But it makes sense
that he's immune to that rifle Theodore favors.”

“In fact, War Bonnet could be immune to
all
bullets and shells,” said Edison. “I know Theodore doesn't have much confidence in
his six-gun, he's said as much to me, but the medicine men don't know that, and could
assume he'll come with pistols blazing.”

“Which brings up an interesting question,” said Buntline. “Is he immune to
all
bullets, or just those fired by Roosevelt?”

“It's a possibility,” replied Edison. “But not one Doc will want to bet his life on.”

“So what weapons can we provide that neither Theodore nor Geronimo will ever use?”
said Buntline.

“Well, there's acid, of course,” said Edison. “But what if he swipes at it with his
hand? If it's made of flame, it may not have any substance at all. Acid might go through
it like water. If there
is
some substance, he still may not feel any pain, and could spill it all over Doc.”

“We can attach it to an arrow and have Doc fire it from a safe distance,” replied
Buntline.

Holliday shook his head. “Won't work. I haven't had the strength to pull a bow back
far enough to shoot an arrow home since I was a teenager.”

The two older men fell silent for a moment, and then Buntline looked up. “I've got
it!” he exclaimed.

“What?” asked Holliday.

“Nitroglycerin!” said Buntline, excited. “We'll blow that son of a bitch all the way
back to wherever he came from.” Edison seemed to be considering it, and Buntline continued:
“Tom, is there a way to coat Doc's bullets with it so they explode when they hit War
Bonnet?”

Edison shook his head. “Coat his bullets and they'll explode inside his gun when he
pulls the trigger.”

“Damn!” said Buntline. “I thought I had something there.”

“Maybe you do,” replied Edison. “But it requires Doc to control
where they meet.” He turned to Holliday. “If you can choose the site, we can salt
it with nitro containers so you can shoot them from a safe distance, hopefully when
War Bonnet is standing right next to them.”

“I've seen nitro kill men who took a bad step while they were carrying it to the mines
outside Leadville,” replied Holliday. “How the hell do I get it to wherever I'm going,
riding a horse over rough terrain?”

“I can give you the constituent parts, and you will mix it carefully—
very
carefully—once you get to where you're going,” answered Edison.

“I don't know,” said Holliday dubiously. “If this War Bonnet is magical…”

“Didn't Geronimo say he was created to face only Roosevelt and Geronimo?” said Buntline.
“It's possible that he's immune to anything they can use against him, but that you
can use the very same things successfully.”

“All right,” conceded Holliday. “I don't know why I'm worried about dying fast. But
just in case this doesn't work, I'd like some alternatives.”

“How much time have we got?” asked Edison.

“Until Geronimo tells me that War Bonnet is here.”

“We'll spend the rest of the day and night coming up with possible weapons,” continued
Edison, “but it's also essential that we give you some defenses.”

“I suppose I could accept that.”

“I can make you some incredibly strong armor, something that'll resist anything even
a thirty-foot-tall giant has to offer,” said Buntline. “But I doubt that you'd be
able to lift it, let alone walk a step in it.”

“You'd be surprised how much I can't lift,” said Holliday dryly.

“I just thought of another potential weakness we'll have to address,” said Buntline.

“Oh?”

Buntline nodded. “I assume you're not going to meet him at the O.K. Corral.”

“A fair assumption,” said Holliday, wondering what Buntline was getting at.

“So you'll meet him out in the desert.”

“I'd assume so.”

“So you ride twenty miles out of town to meet him, and he finds that either for reasons
having to do with the conditions of his creation, or the defenses we've supplied you
with, he can't hurt you. He hits you with all his might, and you don't feel it. He
stabs you with a knife, and the blade never breaks the skin.”

“I like it already,” said Holliday.

“You won't,” Buntline assured him.

“Okay, why not?”

“Because he kills your horse, empties your canteen, and goes back to wherever he came
from. Doc, you can't walk a mile on a cool day with all the water in the world. How
are you going to walk twenty miles back to town across a hot desert with nothing to
drink?”

“Well, I liked it until then,” replied Holliday.

“So,” concluded Buntline, “it's not enough that we arm and protect you. We're going
to have to protect your horse.”

“Maybe he's not bright enough to think of that,” said Holliday.

“Maybe he isn't,” agreed Buntline. “But do you want to bet your life on it?”

“I don't want to seem ungrateful,” said Holliday, “but nobody knows anything! Geronimo
doesn't know, Roosevelt doesn't know, and you don't know—and I've been elected to
face this thing and see how fast he can kill his enemies. I'm headed off to the Oriental
for a drink.”

“I can understand your frustration,” said Edison.

“I doubt it,” replied Holliday irritably as he got up and walked to the door. “
You
don't have to see how fast War Bonnet can kill you so Roosevelt and Geronimo can
prepare for him.”

“All right,” said Edison, electing not to argue with him. “If we come up with something
tonight, I'll send word to the Oriental, and if you're not there, we'll leave a message
at the Grand's desk. Otherwise, come by tomorrow at noon and we'll go over what we've
come up with.”

“And if Geronimo calls me sooner?” said Holliday.

“Then stop by on your way out of town and we'll give you what we have.”

Holliday seemed about to say something, thought better of it, and walked out into
the street. He saw a jackrabbit lingering near the corner and stared at it.

“If I thought you were anything but what you look like, I'd blow your damned head
off,” he said, and turned and walked to the Oriental.

He'd calmed down by the time he arrived, short of breath and coughing more blood.
Henry Wiggins was there and waved him over to his table.

“Hi, Doc,” he said. “You're here early, aren't you?”

“Don't
you
start on me, Henry,” growled Holliday.

“Me?” asked Wiggins, surprised. “What did I say?”

Holliday sighed deeply. “Nothing, Henry. It's just been that kind of a day.” He signaled
for his bottle. “Tomorrow will probably be even worse.”

The bartender showed up with the bottle and a glass, and Holliday promptly filled
it to the top.

“By the way, I like your friend Roosevelt,” offered Wiggins.

“Most people do,” said Holliday. “That's his job.”

“His job?” repeated Wiggins.

“Making people like him. He's a politician.”

“He's a lot more than that,” said Wiggins.

“Oh?”

“I had lunch with him at the Grand. He's a bird expert—”

“Ornithologist,” Holliday corrected him.

“And a taxidermist, and an author, and a boxer, and no end of things. Did you know
that he's writing a series of books on the taming of the West? I imagine you'll be
one of the stars.”

“Or one of the villains.”

“Don't be silly, Doc. He's your friend.”

“He's everyone's friend. That's what politicians do and are.”

“Then he's not destined to be much of a politician,” said Wiggins. “I think there
are a lot of things that young man wouldn't do to get elected, and lying is one of
them.”

Holliday suddenly stared at the ceiling. “Let's see if he lives long enough to run
for office again.”

“Is someone after him?” asked Wiggins.

“You never know.”

“What are you staring at, Doc?”

“There's a bat up there.”

“So what? There are bats in all the rafters in town.”

“Yeah,” said Holliday, “but this one's staring at me, and it's broad daylight.”

“That
is
unusual, isn't it?” said Wiggins.

Holliday stood up. “Henry, I have to leave. The bottle's yours.”

“Are you okay, Doc?” asked Wiggins.

“So far,” replied Holliday, and then added: “But it's early yet.”

He knew he wouldn't be approached in the street, so he walked around the building
and went into the alley behind it. The bat fluttered out through a door a moment later,
and a few seconds after that Holliday was staring into Geronimo's eyes.

“He walks, he breathes,” said Geronimo.

“When does he get here?”

“He comes from the land of the Tsistsistas.”

Holliday frowned. “The Tsistsistas?” he repeated.

“You call them the Cheyenne.”

“It makes sense,” said Holliday. “After all, you killed Hook Nose. When does he get
here?”

“It takes him no time to get from there to here.”