The Doctor and the Rough Rider (16 page)

T
HE HORSES RAN OUT OF ENTHUSIASM
in a few miles, and they were soon walking in single file across the flat, barren,
featureless ground, with Roosevelt and Manitou in the lead. Night fell, and Sloan,
who knew the desert like the back of his hand, directed him to the only water hole
within fifteen miles.

They slept on the ground, brushing off the occasional insect, killing the occasional
scorpion, and were up at daylight. They had a quick breakfast, refilled their canteens,
and began riding again, following the bird as it led them toward their destination.

Finally Roosevelt reined Manitou to a halt and, shading his eyes, looked off into
the distance.

“Lose the bird again?” asked Tipton.

“He's around,” said Roosevelt. “Probably just finds it too damned hot to keep fluttering
his wings. I can't say that I blame him.”

“He should have turned himself into a rattler, or maybe a scorpion,” said Tipton.
“They seem to love this goddamned heat.”

“They do,” agreed Roosevelt. “But they couldn't keep ahead of us to lead us to the
lodge.”

“I hope to hell that's what he
is
doing,” said Sloan, as his horse walked up beside Manitou.

“What do you mean?” asked Roosevelt.

“Well, he
is
Geronimo, and we're a bunch of white men.”

“He didn't have me come all the way out here just to kill me,” said Roosevelt. “If
he wanted me dead, he could have killed me a couple of times since I arrived.”

“Maybe he wants his pals to take our scalps.”

“No Western Indian takes scalps,” said Roosevelt. “And the one or two tribes that
did it—none of them do it anymore—learned it from the French.”

“There's that book-learning again,” laughed Mickelson.

“Ain't that our bird, Theodore?” asked Turkey Creek Johnson, pointing off into the
distance.

“Yes, that's him,” replied Roosevelt, urging Manitou forward again.

They continued for two more hours, and the land became a bit more interesting, dotted
with small hills and some sparse bushes.

Suddenly Roosevelt pulled Manitou to a stop.

“Get ready,” he announced. “We're very close.”

“What makes you think so?” asked Hairlip Smith.

“Do you see that tree straight ahead, the one with the flowers?”

“Yeah.”

“It's not real.”

Smith frowned. “What the hell are you talking about, Theodore? That's a tree, right
there, big as life.”

Roosevelt shook his head and smiled. “That's Geronimo's way of saying we've arrived,
and he's not sticking around as a bird or anything else that War Bonnet might be able
to recognize and kill.”

“How do you figure that?” asked Sloan.

“That's a white dogwood tree,” answered Roosevelt. “There isn't one within almost
a thousand miles. They can't bloom or even survive in this desert.”

And as the words left his mouth, the tree vanished.

Suddenly guns were drawn and cocked, rifles pulled out, ammunition checked.

“The lodge has got to be behind one of those hills,” said Roosevelt. “Once we can
see it, they can see us. I'm surprised they haven't reacted already, but maybe Geronimo
had shielded us from whatever magic they use to see approaching enemies.” He paused,
staring at the hills. “The lodge can't be very large, not with only ten or twelve
warriors living there. Once we're within sight of it, spread out and charge, guns
blazing. We want War Bonnet to react, and hopefully he'll go to protect the very men
we're after. I know he's going to be pretty awesome to look at, but keep in mind that
he can't hurt anyone but Geronimo and me. Some of your horses may get spooked by his
flaming hands, so if there are any Indians riding out to fight you, try not to shoot
their horses; you may need them to get home.”

“That sounds fine,
if
all your ideas work,” said Johnson. “But what do we do if this giant
thing
comes straight at you, if we don't know who to kill or who's giving it orders?”

“Then I'll be just as dead as if he'd torn the Grand Hotel apart and found me there,
and you're still charged with the task of killing the medicine men before he can kill
Geronimo. In fact, the main thing is to keep Geronimo alive, because he can always
deal with another Easterner. If he dies, it's another century or two before we expand
to the Pacific.”

“I ain't afraid of no Indians, and I ain't particularly afraid to die,” said Sloan,
“but do we
care
if the United States never gets past the Mississippi?”

“This is a hell of a time to think of that,” said Turkey Creek Johnson. “Well,
I
care. I grew up in the United States, I fought for the North in the War between the
States, and I figure I'm still an American.”

“Son of a bitch!” laughed Tipton. “I was a Johnny Reb. I wonder if we ever faced each
other?”

“Couldn't have,” said Johnson with a smile. “You're still alive.”

Tipton turned to Sloan. “That war's over and done with, and I'm as much of an American
as Turkey Creek. You bet your ass I care.”

“I never fought in your sillyarse war,” said Mickelson, “but I'm all for extending
the country to the coast.” He made a face. “I
hate
horses. Let's open this land up to trains.”

Sloan shrugged. “Okay,” he said defensively. “I was just asking.”

“All right,” said Roosevelt, “let's go. And keep your eyes open. They don't have to
attack us with a fifteen-foot warrior. They can post a sharpshooter behind any of
these hills, or even dug into the ground.”

“Hell, he'll probably be a lot cooler in the ground than we are up here on horses,”
said McMaster.

“Well, let's put them medicine men in the ground and see what they think,” said Smith.

They continued riding for another twenty minutes and then, suddenly, as they passed
a small hill, the lodge came into view, half a mile off to the left.

“Don't charge yet,” cautioned Roosevelt. “I know they've just been walking, but our
horses are pretty spent from this heat. I don't want them tiring out or taking any
bad steps before we're ready to charge in earnest.”

“So where's War Bonnet?” asked McMaster. “He ought to stand out like a sore thumb.”

“I don't know,” admitted Roosevelt, frowning. “Since he's a magical creation, it's
possible that he comes into being when they want
him to, and the rest of the time he goes back into whatever limbo they pulled him
out of.”

“Shit,” said Mickelson. “I don't know if I want you to be right or wrong.” He smiled.
“If you're right, we just might kill the medicine men before they call him up. And
if you're wrong, at least he'll show up so we know
who
we're supposed to kill.”

“It's all academic,” said Roosevelt, frowning.

“What are you talking about?”

“There he is.”

Roosevelt pointed to his left, where War Bonnet was either getting to his feet from
a position behind a hill, or rising up from the bowels of the Earth. He surveyed the
riders, and then flashed them a maleficent smile. He extended a burning arm toward
Roosevelt and pointed at him with a burning finger.

“I want
you
!” he thundered, taking a step toward the party of riders.

“Now!” said Roosevelt, and his companions spurred their horses and raced to the lodge,
yelling and screaming, guns blazing.

War Bonnet froze, his gaze turning from Roosevelt to the Rough Riders, back to Roosevelt,
then to the men again. He seemed rooted to the spot for almost a dozen seconds. Then,
with a savage scream, he began racing toward the lodge, covering the ground not only
with his giant stride, but with huge, powerful, gravity-defying leaps.

“
Slow down
,” Roosevelt whispered far too softly for his men—or his enemies—to hear. “
If you beat him to the lodge, you'll never know which ones you want.
”

It was almost as if Mickelson, who was in the lead, heard him, for he carefully, subtly
slowed his horse down, and the others immediately realized what he was doing and why,
and followed suit.

“You give new meaning to the word ‘monster,’” mused Roosevelt.
“These men know you can't hurt them, but Doc had no idea when he faced you. I take
my hat off to him. That is one brave man.”

Half a dozen warriors suddenly ran forward from the lodge, firing rifles. But while
the Rough Riders shot back their primary attention was on War Bonnet, and when he
came to a halt and positioned himself in front of a hut, they knew they'd found their
target.

Mickelson and Sloan brought their horses to a halt twenty feet away and fired at point-blank
range. The bullets had no effect on War Bonnet, who roared like a jungle animal, stepped
forward, and reached out for their horses. His flaming hands went right through them,
doing them no physical harm, but the terrified animals began screaming and bucking,
and it was all Mickelson and Sloan could do to stay atop them.

McMaster saw that shooting at War Bonnet was useless, and aimed his rifle at the wall
of the hut. The bullet went through it, and he heard two screams—one from inside the
hut, and one from War Bonnet, who grabbed his shoulder as if he himself had been shot.
The others saw what was happening, and turned their fire on the hut, but War Bonnet
positioned himself in front of it and absorbed most of the bullets himself.

More and more warriors raced to the hut and began firing, and finally the Rough Riders,
badly outnumbered stationery targets, had to retreat, but not before Tipton took a
bullet in the thigh and McMaster was shot in the shoulder.

“Oh, shit!” yelled Mickelson. “The medicine men are safe. We've got to get back to
Theodore before the monster does!”

And sure enough, War Bonnet had begun striding across the ground toward Roosevelt,
who sat atop Manitou, rifle in hand, watching him approach.

“Remember what Doc told Theodore!” cried Mickelson as he reached Roosevelt's side
and dismounted. “He can't hurt anyone but
Theodore and Geronimo. He can't even try—and he didn't try back at the lodge. All
he did was try to scare the horses.”

The six of them—Mickelson, Sloan, Smith, Johnson, Tipton and McMaster—dismounted and
formed a tight circle around Roosevelt. War Bonnet arrived, smiled a triumphant smile,
and reached out for Roosevelt, but Sloan raised his arms and somehow War Bonnet wouldn't
or couldn't brush them aside.

“Doc was right!” said Mickelson, excited. “Kneel down, Theodore!”

It went against the grain, but Roosevelt saw the wisdom of Mickelson's suggestion,
and he knelt, offering an even smaller target.

War Bonnet screamed, raked his painless flames across the men, and tried twice more
to reach Roosevelt, only to be thwarted again.

“We could be here all day, and I'll bet we get hungrier and sleepier before he does,”
said Roosevelt. “Luke, you're standing behind me, farthest from War Bonnet. Why don't
you back away, get to your horse, and ride back toward the medicine men's hut. My
guess is that War Bonnet will race after you.”

“Then what?” asked Mickelson.

“Then we declare it a draw and ride back to Tombstone. Luke will turn and follow us
as soon as he sees we've mounted.”

“Why won't he chase us all the way to Tombstone?” asked Johnson. “What's to stop him?”

“I think he gets his strength from the medicine men,” said Roosevelt. “And they're
just men, not gods. Otherwise, why would he vanish after Doc faced him? He was only
a few miles out of Tombstone, and not much farther from Geronimo's lodge. Why not
go the rest of the way? But Doc made him work, and the medicine men are new to this.
They've never created anything remotely like War Bonnet before. As they get more used
to him, he'll grow bigger and stronger and he may
not vanish at all, but for the moment, I don't think he'll follow us right after a
battle.”

“And if you're wrong?” asked Smith, uselessly pumping a pair of bullets into War Bonnet's
belly.

“Then we won't be any worse off than we are now,” answered Roosevelt. “And there's
always a chance that he's even stronger here than when he gets farther away from the
medicine men.”

“I'm tired of talking,” said Sloan, backing away and heading to his horse. He had
just begun galloping toward the lodge when War Bonnet suddenly turned and raced back
to protect his creators.

“Now!” cried Roosevelt, and the six remaining men mounted their horses and began galloping
back toward Tombstone.

Sloan caught up with them a few minutes later, and though they kept watchful eyes
on every possible ambush site, there was no sign of War Bonnet.

“Well,” said Mickelson at last, “I think we hit one of the bastards.”

“I agree,” said Johnson. “The first couple of bullets into the hut did it. Nothing
else got a response like that from War Bonnet.”

“I doubt that we killed him, though,” said Tipton. “Ten seconds later War Bonnet was
acting just the same as before.”

“So what's next, Theodore?” asked Mickelson. “You're going to need a cavalry to get
to the medicine men, and all the cavalries I'm aware of are on the other side of the
Mississippi.”