The Doctor and the Rough Rider (11 page)

“It won't be so bad,” continued Holliday. “You're not a Christian, so you won't care
that we don't put a cross on your grave. And once
Geronimo finds all the medicine men who are pulling your puppet strings, we'll bury
them opposite Hardin on the other side of you.”

War Bonnet was silent for a few seconds. Then he began to hum, a very low, very soft
sound that became louder and louder until Holliday clapped his hands over his ears.
The sound morphed into a scream, louder and louder still, until Holliday was sure
it could be heard all the way back to his ancestral home in Georgia.

And then, suddenly, both the scream and War Bonnet himself vanished.

Holliday waited five minutes to make sure he wasn't coming back, then climbed onto
his horse, noticed that the animal was thoroughly lathered with sweat and still tense
and nervous, and began riding slowly back to Tombstone.

“John Wesley Hardin,” he muttered. “Why couldn't it have been something easier, like
all fifty medicine men at once?”

He continued riding, and every half mile or so he'd take another sip from his canteen,
close it, look off into the distance in the direction he thought Texas lay, and say,
grimacing, “John Wesley Hardin. Shit!”

He was still repeating it when he finally rode back into town.

I
T WAS TEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT
when Holliday entered Tombstone. He considered waking Edison and Buntline, decided
not to, and continued riding. He returned his horse to the stable where he'd rented
it, walked to the Grand, asked for Roosevelt at the front desk and was told he'd gone
to bed, and stopped by the bar for a drink.

“I'm surprised to see you here this early, Doc,” said the bartender. “Usually you
shut down the Oriental and then find another game or two before you come back here.”

“I'm just giving the cards one night to recover,” said Holliday.

“I'm sure some of the other gamblers appreciate it,” said the bartender with a smile.

“They'd better,” said Holliday. “I'll be back tomorrow with a vengeance.” He was silent
for a moment. “Tell me, did John Wesley Hardin ever visit Tombstone—before he was
jailed, I mean?”

“I don't think Tombstone even existed when they put him away, Doc,” said the bartender.
“He's been gone a long while.”

“Just curious,” said Holliday.

“You ever meet him?”

Holliday shook his head. “No, never had that pleasure.”

“I gather it wasn't all that much of a pleasure for something like forty-five men,”
said the bartender with a grin.

“Forty-two,” Holliday corrected him. “At least, that's what they were able to prove
in court.”

“Word has it that he's become a lawyer.”

“That's what I hear,” said Holliday. “No reason why not. There's not much else to
do in jail.”

“It means if he ever gets out, he can prosecute and defend himself,” said the bartender,
laughing at his own comment.

“Anything's possible,” agreed Holliday.

“Not getting out,” said the bartender. “If he lives three hundred more years, he'll
still be serving time.”

“Let's hope you're right,” said Holliday without smiling.

He finished his drink, got to his feet, stopped by the desk long enough to leave a
note for Roosevelt to meet him at Edison's house at noon the next day, and went up
to his room, where he had another coughing fit. When it had passed, he looked out
the window to see if any of the birds or bats looked like an Apache in disguise, decided
they looked like birds and bats, and went to sleep.

There was blood all over his pillow when he awoke, which was becoming a regular occurrence
these days. Sometime during the night, while he was sleeping, he'd had another coughing
seizure, but not bad enough to bring him to instant wakefulness, and he'd coughed
up blood on the pillow and bed linens.

He got up, climbed into his clothes, and left a quarter on the pillow to pay for it,
for the blood had seeped through and he knew they wouldn't use it again. Then he descended
the stairs to the main floor. He pulled his watch out, checked the time, decided he
could either have breakfast or get a shave, decided that he couldn't take the sight
or smell of food this early in the day, and opted for the shave.

“Morning, Doc,” said the barber with a big smile.

“What's causing that shit-eating grin?” asked Holliday as he seated himself in the
chair.

“Johnny Behan,” answered the barber. “You put a real scare into him, so he showed
up at nine this morning for a shave, because he knows you sleep until early afternoon.”
A pause. “Matter of fact, you're a little early today.”

“I thought maybe you'd like a tooth pulled,” answered Holliday, leaning back and closing
his eyes.

“I might, if I had any left,” said the barber. “These things in my mouth were all
the tusks of an elephant or hippo or something half a world away.”

“Or a cow from the next town,” replied Holliday.

“Makes no difference to me, as long as I can bite into a steak over at Sarah's Restaurant.
You been there since you got back to town?”

“Not yet.”

“You ought to go,” urged the barber. “Not only does she make one hell of a steak,
but she's got photos of you and the Earps and the O.K. Corral plastered all over the
wall. I'll bet she'd give you a couple of free meals if she could advertise that you've
eaten there.”

“I'll look into it,” promised Holliday, though he knew he wouldn't.

“Okay,” said the barber, spreading the lather and producing a razor. “Don't laugh
or stick your tongue out.”

“I'll try not to,” said Holliday.

Five minutes later he was clean-shaven except for his mustache. He paid the barber,
told him to tell Behan that now that he knew Behan's schedule he was thinking of showing
up at nine o'clock in the morning for his shave, though of course he had no more intention
of getting up early than of eating at Sarah's, and then he was out the door and on
his way to Edison's house.

He arrived a couple of minutes later, walked up to the door, and waited for it to
recognize him and swing open. Then he walked into the living room, where Edison, Buntline,
and Roosevelt were all waiting for him.

“I see you survived,” said Edison. “Of course, we knew you had, because of the message
you left for Theodore. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“Maybe later,” said Holliday. “We have things to talk about first.” He looked around
the room.

“Is something wrong?”

Holliday shook his head. “No, nothing. But Geronimo should be part of this. I was
hoping he was busy being a bird or a cat, hanging around just outside the window.”

Buntline got up and walked to the window, then shook his head. “Nope, there's nothing
out there.”

“What the hell, he was probably watching every minute of it last night.”

“So tell us about it,” said Buntline. “Did you learn anything?”

Holliday nodded. “A bit.” He turned to Roosevelt. “I learned that he was created to
kill Theodore Roosevelts. His eyes seek out Roosevelts, his hands are shaped to choke
Roosevelts, his teeth are uniquely suited for biting off Rooseveltian ears, his—”

“Spare us your flights of fancy,” interrupted Roosevelt. “What, exactly, happened?”

“He tried to kill me, and he couldn't, and I tried to kill him, and I couldn't,” answered
Holliday. “His skin is impervious to my bullets.”

“Surely you're not impervious to his blows,” said Roosevelt.

“Well, you know, that's the funny part,” said Holliday. “It seems that I
am
, and so are Tom and Ned and anyone who isn't named Roosevelt or Geronimo.”

“With size and muscles like that, he couldn't hurt you?” said an incredulous Roosevelt.

“He picked up a boulder,” replied Holliday. “Damned thing must have weighed twice
what a horse and wagon together would weigh. Picked it up like a feather—until he
tried to throw it at me. Then it seemed so heavy that it was about to crush him, so
he turned away, and was able to throw it farther than from here to the street. He
can do anything with that size and strength, as long as it doesn't involve killing
anyone besides you and Geronimo.”

“What about these flaming hands of his?” asked Buntline. “Did he try to grab you with
them?”

Holliday nodded. “Those flames are hot when he's thirty feet away, or twenty feet,
or five feet—but the second he tries to touch me, they're as cool as the air and pass
right through me.”

“Interesting,” said Edison.

Holliday turned to Roosevelt. “But they won't pass through
you
. They'll melt your bones inside your skin.”

“I've been studying the medicine men's magic for almost four years now,” said Edison,
“and this is the first time I've heard of it being so selective, where it will work
against just two people and no one else. I wonder if it's not a bluff, if he's incapable
of doing anything except threatening them?”

“It's no bluff,” said Holliday. “I told you: he picked up a boulder ten strong men
couldn't lift, and threw it maybe a hundred feet.”

“When I go up against him, I'd like you to come along,” said Roosevelt. “Maybe you
can spot something, something that makes sense or shows a weakness, that's different
from last night.”

“If I live long enough.”

“The consumption getting worse again?” asked Buntline.

“No worse than usual,” said Holliday. “But I've got
another problem since last night. When he couldn't harm me, he decided to find someone
who could.”

“I don't understand,” said Buntline.

“He broke John Wesley Hardin out of jail.”

“Even if that's true, why would he come after you?”

Holliday smiled. “It's a
quid pro quo
. Theodore can explain the term to you.”

“I know the term,” said Buntline irritably.

“Do you think he really set him free, or was it just bluster?” asked Roosevelt.

“He didn't strike me as the type who needs to bluster,” said Holliday. “After all,
why does he care if I come along with you? I can't hurt him, he can't hurt me.” He
frowned. “I suppose I shouldn't have taunted them.”

“
Them?
” said Edison.

“Four, five, I don't know how many medicine men. They control him, and they spoke
to me through him. It had to be their idea to free Hardin. War Bonnet doesn't think.
He just kills, or tries to.”

“Can Geronimo use that knowledge?” asked Buntline.

Roosevelt shook his head. “He knows who created War Bonnet, so it stands to reason
he knows who controls him.”

Buntline sighed deeply. “You know what puzzles me more than anything else? He confronted
Doc just a few miles out of town. Why the hell didn't he just come the rest of the
way and try to kill Theodore?”

“I think I can answer that,” said Edison. “Doc's made it clear that the medicine men
haven't just totally turned him loose, that they're controlling him. That's got to
take a
lot
of energy, be it psychic or physical or whatever. I have a feeling that bringing
him into existence for more than a few minutes drains them, and then he vanishes back
to whatever limbo they store him in.”

“It's a possibility,” agreed Buntline. “So what's our next step?” He
turned to Roosevelt. “Even if he's fifteen feet high, even if he's got a blow like
a horse's kick, I can create armor that'll protect you from that.” He frowned. “But
if he can also use magic, and those flaming hands of his make me think he can…” He
sighed. “I just don't know. I can protect you against fire, of course…but eventually
I can protect you against so many possibilities that you won't be able to move or
breathe.” He turned to Edison. “Tom?”

“It's so hard to tell without actually seeing him first,” said Edison, frowning. “For
example, I can design a weapon that will hurl an electric charge at him. We can rig
a trap where he has to stand on a conductor to confront Theodore, and I can shoot
enough voltage into that conductor to light the whole city—but will it work? I think
it comes down to this: Is he alive as we understand life? I can design a weapon to
use against any living thing—but what living thing has hands of flame, and is impervious
to bullets?”

“So you have to see him first?” said Roosevelt.

“It would certainly help,” replied Edison.

“Then you shall!” exclaimed Roosevelt, getting to his feet.

“What are you talking about?” demanded Holliday. “You lure him here, maybe he can't
kill Tom and Ned, but he can destroy all their equipment and three years’ worth of
notes and documents.”

“Not
here
,” said Roosevelt excitedly. “
There!
”

“I'm afraid I don't follow you, Theodore,” said Edison.

“There's one aspect to this whole business I haven't been comfortable about,” said
Roosevelt, starting to pace the floor.

“Only one?” asked Holliday with a sardonic smile.

“I don't like being on the defensive,” said Roosevelt. “We know who the enemy is.
Why sit back and wait for him to pick his time and place?”

“Doc was powerless against him,” noted Buntline, “and I assure you that Tom and I
will be even less formidable under similar circumstances.”

“They won't be similar,” said Roosevelt, still pacing. “You're not going to fight
War Bonnet. We already know that's impossible. You just want to see him in action.
Well, the one thing that can guarantee that action is my presence.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Edison, frowning. “You want the three of us—you,
me, and Ned—to ride out into the desert and wait for him to attack you?”

Roosevelt grinned. “I'm not suicidal. No, if these medicine men spoke to Doc in concert,
they probably got together to create War Bonnet and are still in the same place. Geronimo
must know where.”

“Even if he does,” said Edison, “that's still a New Yorker and two noncombatants against
this monster.”

“Oh, we'll have more than that,” Roosevelt assured him.

“Who?”

“I've already got one Rough Rider—Luke Sloan,” was the answer. “Give me a week and
I'll have a damned formidable team of them.”

“Rough Rider?” repeated Buntline, frowning. “What the hell is a Rough Rider?”

“It's a man with special skills who pledges his loyalty to me,” said Roosevelt. He
turned to Holliday. “We can start by sending for your friend I've heard a lot about—Texas
Pete…”