The Doctor and the Rough Rider (13 page)

H
OLLIDAY
, L
UKE
S
LOAN, AND
H
AIRLIP
S
MITH
spent the day passing the word—as Roosevelt explained, they probably didn't have
much more than a day to select and assemble the Rough Riders—and they began showing
up at the designated spot, which was Baltimore Jack Miller's abandoned ranch a mile
north of town.

The first to make an appearance was Jack “Turkey Creek” Johnson, a burly man with
pale-blue eyes, a nose that had clearly been broken a few times, a thick but well-trimmed
beard, a colorful shirt, and stovepipe chaps over his jeans.

He rode up to the decrepit ranch house with its broken windows and missing door, tied
his horse to a very shaky railing, and walked up to Holliday.

“Howdy, Doc,” he said. “I hear tell you're looking for men.”

“Not me,” said Holliday. He pointed to Roosevelt, who stood on the porch. “Him.”

Johnson walked over and extended his hand. “Turkey Creek Johnson at your service,”
he said. “Any friend of Wyatt's is a friend of mine.”

“I appreciate that,” said Roosevelt. “But it's a bit removed from the source. I'm
a friend of Doc's.”

“And Doc's the best friend Wyatt ever had, and that's good enough for me,” said Johnson.

“May I ask what precipitated this friendship for Wyatt?” said Roosevelt.

Johnson merely frowned in puzzlement until Holliday spoke up. “He means, what caused
it, Turkey?”

“Johnny Behan locked my brother away on a trumped-up charge, and Wyatt got him out.”
Suddenly Johnson smiled. “I was on the Vendetta Ride with him and Doc.”

“So I assume you know how to use that?” said Roosevelt, pointing at his six-gun.

“You just tell me who you want shot, and if it ain't Doc, the deed is as good as done,”
replied Johnson.

“Doc?” asked Roosevelt.

“He's as good as he says,” replied Holliday. “With a pistol, anyway. It gets a little
stranger with a rifle.”

“That's 'cause I lost my specs a couple of years ago, and we ain't got no lens grinders
out here since the Apaches killed old Hermanson as he was taking his wagon from one
town to another,” said Johnson. “But trust me: I can hit anything I can see.”

“How far do you have to be before you can't see it?”

“I don't know,” admitted Johnson. “A ways.”

“Let's find out,” said Roosevelt. “Luke, take that bucket”—he indicated an old bucket
at the corner of the porch—“and set it out a couple hundred feet away.”

Luke Sloan lifted the bucket and began walking.

“You sure you want me to do this?” asked Johnson. “I mean, if I put a hole in it,
you can't use it no more.”

“We're not using it now,” Roosevelt assured him.

Johnson shrugged. “You're the boss.” He paused. “By the way, I didn't catch your name.”

“I didn't throw it,” said Roosevelt with a smile. “But it's Theodore Roosevelt.”

“Okay, Teddy—glad to be working with you.”

“You'll be gladder if you call me Theodore.”

“Whatever you say.”

“That's far enough, Luke!” called Roosevelt. “Set it down.”

Sloan put the bucket on the ground. “Don't shoot yet!” he hollered, trotting back.

“Is something wrong?” asked Roosevelt.

“Everyone knows Turkey Creek is blind as a bat,” said Sloan. “I don't want to be standing
anywhere near what he thinks he's aiming at.”

“I don't suppose you'd like to hit leather right now?” said Johnson angrily as Sloan
reached the porch.

“Hell, even a bat can see from ten or twelve feet away,” said Sloan.

“To hell with Sloan,” said Holliday. “Just kill the bucket.”

Johnson pulled his pistol, held it in front of him with both hands, took aim, and
pulled the trigger. The bullet plowed into the dirt about three inches in front of
the bucket.”

“You missed,” said Hairlip Charlie Smith.

“The hell I did,” said Johnson. He turned to Roosevelt. “The bucket's a man, right?”

Roosevelt nodded. “That's right.”

“Anyone can shoot him in the head or the chest,” said Johnson. “I just shot him in
the balls!”

Everyone laughed at that, even Roosevelt.

“So am I on your team?”

Roosevelt shook his hand. “Turkey Creek Johnson, welcome to the Rough Riders.”

“Who are we going up against?” asked Johnson.

“Certain select medicine men.”

“Geronimo? I been waiting for a chance to go hunting for that Apache bastard.”

“No,” said Roosevelt. “He's on our side.”

Johnson frowned. “If a bunch of white men are siding with a bunch of Apaches, who
the hell's the enemy—a bunch of Chinamen?”

“I'll explain it once we've assembled all the Rough Riders,” answered Roosevelt. “No
sense saying it half a dozen times.”

“Wouldn't bother me none,” said Johnson. “It's either that, or listening to Luke tell
me how no woman has ever said no to him, or having Hairlip Charlie tell me how he
caught a bullet in his lip without flinching, or maybe Doc give me odds on how many
scorpions live between here and that bucket, and if I have to listen to a bunch of
bullshit, at least I ain't heard yours yet.”

“I'm almost flattered,” said Roosevelt. “But I think we'll wait anyway.”

“Just as well,” said Holliday. “Here comes another.”

“He doesn't look like a typical cowboy,” remarked Roosevelt.

“A fair assumption,” agreed Holliday.

The man riding toward them wore a top hat, smoked a pipe, and carried a bright-yellow
umbrella to protect himself from the sun. He didn't wear a holster or a six-shooter,
but Roosevelt could see tell-tale bulges in every one of his coat pockets.

“Good day, one and all,” said the newcomer in a thick British accent. “Word has come
to my ears that you're recruiting men of action.”

“And are you one?” asked Roosevelt.

“My
bona fides
,” said the man, pulling a rolled-up poster out of his otherwise-empty rifle sheath
and handing it to Roosevelt.

“Stay three rounds with English Morton Mickelson and win fifty dollars!” read Roosevelt.
“You're a boxer?”

“The best.”

“Then if I may ask a question, what are you doing here?”

“My manager took my money and ran off with it,” said Mickelson. He flashed a satisfied
smile. “I found him. I didn't want to take a chance of breaking a finger on his jaw,”—he
pulled out a pistol and twirled it around his finger, then replaced it—“so I put a
bullet in his head and two more in his heart, always assuming he had one. That was,
let me see, eleven days ago. I thought it was a nice time to take a vacation—I'd been
fighting in Wichita—so I thought I'd see the Arizona Territory before the Apaches
drive everyone else out of it.”

“Are you any good with that gun?” asked Roosevelt.

“Absolutely deadly, up to five or six feet, after which it becomes problematical.”

“How about your fists?”

“I stand behind my offer. I'll pay fifty dollars to any man here who can last three
rounds with me. Doc Holliday excepted, of course; he could knock me out just by breathing
on me after he's got a morning's worth of booze in him.”

Everyone laughed, even Holliday.

Suddenly Roosevelt took his glasses off, placed them in a jacket pocket, then removed
his jacket and hung it over a chair. “Well,” he said, “since you can't shoot, I suppose
we'd better find out just how well you can defend yourself in close quarters.” He
unbuttoned the cuffs on his sleeves and rolled them up.

“Are you quite certain you can see me without those cheaters?” asked Mickelson.

“If you're close enough to hit, you're close enough to see,” said Roosevelt, walking
down the three wooden steps from the porch to the ground.

“Good answer,” said Mickelson. He closed his umbrella, hung it on his saddle horn,
then put his top hat over it. He took off his coat and tossed it over the porch railing,
where the hidden pistols clattered as they bumped against wood.

“Two-minute rounds, Mr. Mickelson?” said Roosevelt.

“That suits me fine, Mr…. I don't know your name.”

“Roosevelt. But call me Theodore.”

“Fine. And you may call me Morty.”

“Odd name,” remarked Roosevelt.

“But fitting, as you're about to find out.”

“Doc,” said Roosevelt, “pull out your watch, and yell ‘Time’ when you're ready. We'll
fight two-minute rounds with one minute in between.”

“He's got you by thirty pounds, Theodore,” said Holliday, grabbing his watch chain
and pulling out the pocket watch that was attached to the end of it.

“I'll be gentle with him, Doc,” said Mickelson.

“Exactly what I was going to say,” replied Roosevelt with a grin.

Holliday stared at his watch for a few seconds, then yelled, “
Time!
”

Mickelson rushed right at Roosevelt and swung a mighty roundhouse that would have
decapitated him if it had landed—but Roosevelt ducked beneath it, stepped forward,
threw a quick right-left combination to the Englishman's belly, then stepped to the
side.

“Well, I'll be damned!” said Mickelson with a guilty grin. “You do know what the hell
you're doing. I won't make that mistake again, Theodore.”

He leaned forward, holding his fists up in front of him. Roosevelt darted in, went
for his face once, then for his belly, and finally for his face again, but Mickelson
caught all the blows on his forearms.

“Not bad,” said Roosevelt with a grin.

“I'm a lot more than not bad, Yank,” said Mickelson. “Get ready.”

That was all the warning Roosevelt needed. He began bobbing and weaving, never presenting
a stationary target. Mickelson landed a heavy blow on Roosevelt's right shoulder that
momentarily numbed his entire arm, but he managed to sneak a left through, bloodying
the Englishman's nose.

“Time!” said Holliday.

“Where the hell's my corner?” demanded Mickelson.

“We seem to have forgotten about corners and such,” said Roosevelt. “Keep your fifty
dollars, Morty. You've shown me you can box, and that's what I wanted to know.”

“Well, when it comes right down to it, you ain't so bad yourself, Yank,” said Mickelson,
taking his hand. “You ever think about going pro?”

“I'm already in a tougher profession,” replied Roosevelt.

“Shootist?”

Roosevelt grinned. “Politician.”

Mickelson threw back his head and laughed. Then he looked around the porch. “Anyone
got a towel? If I don't wipe this blood off pretty soon, people are going to think
I've got a bright red mustache.”

Luke went into the house, found a rag, emerged, and tossed it to the Englishman.

“Thanks, Tall Man,” said Mickelson. He turned to Roosevelt. “So am I a member of your
gang?”

“In good standing,” said Roosevelt.

“This calls for a celebratory drink, and forgive me if I don't think our dental expert
looks like he feels much like sharing.” So saying, Mickelson walked to his horse and
pulled a flask out of his saddlebag, took a swig, and replaced the flask in the bag.

The next to show up was Sherman McMaster, another member of
the Vendetta Ride, and Dan “Tip” Tipton, who'd been a sailor, a miner, a gambler,
and was just about the only one present who'd never either been a lawman or the face
on a Wanted poster.

The last to arrive was a Mexican bandit—a
former
bandit, as he kept pointing out—named Louis Martinez, but whom Holliday and the others
knew as “Loose” Martinez.

“Is this everyone you passed the word to, Doc?” asked Roosevelt when they were all
assembled.

“All except Charlie Bassett,” replied Holliday. “Too bad he didn't show up. Six-gun,
rifle, or knife, you couldn't ask for a gutsier fighter.”

“He sends his regrets,” said Tipton. “I forgot to mention it 'til I just heard his
name. He's riding a winning streak at the Blue Peacock, and he's not about to leave
the table.”

“Can't blame him for that,” said Holliday. “Well, if we don't leave until morning,
maybe the cards'll cool off.” He grimaced. “Not that I'd wish that on anyone.”

“If we're all here,” said Turkey Creek Johnson, “maybe you'd like to finally tell
us what the hell this is all about.”

“Yes, there's no sense putting it off any longer,” agreed Roosevelt. “If this Bassett
fellow shows up, one of you can tell him.” Roosevelt rolled down his sleeves, buttoned
the cuffs, put his coat back on, and faced the assembled group of men, his hands on
his hips, his jaw jutting forward. “Gentlemen,” he began, “we are going to play a
part in the greatest American enterprise since the Revolution.”

“Just the nine of us?” said Hairlip Smith.

“And Charlie Bassett, if he makes it,” said Roosevelt.

“Oh, excuse me,” said Smith sarcastically. “That makes all the difference.”

“Sometimes one man is all the difference you need. Ask Mr. Lincoln what kind of difference
Ulysses S. Grant made.”

“It's a little late to ask him anything,” said Johnson.

“All right,” said Roosevelt. “Let me get to the gist of it. As you know, the United
States has been unable to expand beyond the Mississippi River due to the magical power—there
is no other term for it—of the Indian medicine men. They've let some of us through,
because we represent little or no threat to them. They've allowed some cattle ranches,
because they don't eat cattle, and they've allowed mining towns, because they don't
care for what we pull out of the mines. But they have made sure that we have not and
cannot overrun their land or bring our government to the West.” He paused, looking
from one man to another. “That, gentlemen, is about to change.”