The Doctor and the Rough Rider (21 page)

“That weapon,” began Edison, “that focused sunshine, was never intended to be a long-term
solution. Its entire purpose is to temporarily blind War Bonnet so he cannot attack
or destroy the weapon that
will
kill him.”

“Just what the hell are you talking about?” demanded Roosevelt.

Edison turned, walked into his office, opened a cabinet, withdrew another cylindrical
device, and returned to the living room with it.

“It looks like the other one's little brother,” remarked Roosevelt, staring at it.

“It's the ultimate weapon, Theodore,” said Edison. “Our biggest problem was how to
protect
you
from it.”

Roosevelt took the weapon from Edison, hefted it, noticed that it, too, had a cord
in the back.

“Okay,” said Roosevelt. “I've blinded War Bonnet before he can get his hands on me.
Now what?”

“Now you fire this baby,” said Buntline, “and unless I miss my guess, you're going
to be looking at one dead giant Indian.”

“It clearly doesn't shoot bullets,” said Roosevelt, studying it. “What
does
it shoot?”

“Same thing we were talking about two nights ago, and just a few minutes ago,” answered
Edison. “He has superhuman, supernatural strength. He's invulnerable. But he has human
senses. Vision is one of them. Hearing is the other.”

“This weapon will make such a sound as has never been heard before, Theodore,” said
Buntline. “In fact, I'd hesitate to call it a sound at all. Just as there are sounds
so high we can't hear them but dogs can, and sounds they can't hear but that certain
insects will react to . . . well, this will produce the Ultimate Sound. You won't
hear a thing, and neither will War Bonnet . . . but if we're right, it'll burn out
every circuit in what passes for his brain.”

“Just like that?” said Roosevelt.

“Just like that,” replied Buntline.

“Well, not
quite
like that,” interjected Edison. “First, those black lenses have to work. You have
to not only be able to see him, but to protect yourself if he's thrashing around blindly
and he stumbles in your direction.”

“And second?”

“Second, I can protect you by chemically sealing your ears before you set out to meet
him, but once they
are
sealed, you won't understand a word he or anyone else is saying unless you're a lip
reader. And of course that condition will remain until you make it back here and I
unseal them. It's a delicate process; if anyone else attempts to work on your ears,
you could go permanently deaf, so even if you're wounded and can't return here for
weeks or even months, don't let anyone else work on your ears.”

“Is there any third thing I should know?”

“I'll show you how to connect both weapons to the battery. Then, whenever you're ready,
I'll go to work on your ears. It'll probably take an hour.”

“Might as well start as soon as you show me the batteries,” said Roosevelt. “I don't
plan to have a conversation with that supernatural bastard anyway.”

“Have you thought about how you'll find him?” asked Edison. “You won't want to go
around deaf, carrying two weapons, with a massive battery strapped to your back, for
days or even weeks.”

“It won't take that long,” said Roosevelt. “As soon as you're done with me, I'll start
riding toward Geronimo's lodge. He'll probably be watching me as a bird or a snake
or a rat even as I'm leaving town, and as soon as no one's around he'll manifest himself
to find out where I'm going. And if I'm wrong and I have to ride all the way to his
lodge, it's only a few hours.”

“Why go at all?” asked Buntline. “He has no means of combating War Bonnet.”

Roosevelt grinned. “Can you think of a better way to draw War Bonnet here than to
present him with a chance to kill both of us at once?”

R
OOSEVELT DECIDED THAT IF
E
DISON WAS RIGHT
about his weaponry, the sound would instantly kill Manitou, so he left him stabled
in Tombstone and rented a swaybacked old gelding, then stopped by the inventor's house
briefly to have his ears plugged.

Half an hour later he was riding south out of town, heading in the general direction
of Geronimo's lodge. He wasn't sure he could pinpoint the location, but he was sure
the Apache would know he was coming and was probably watching him already.

An hour out of town he stopped at the one water hole he remembered, and after he filled
his canteen and stood aside to let his horse drink, a brown hawk that had been circling
high above him gently soared down, landed lightly on the ground, and immediately became
Geronimo.

“I see you have been with the man Edison,” noted the Apache.

Roosevelt smiled, shook his head, and pointed to his ears. “I can't hear you.”

“What is wrong with you?” asked Geronimo.

Roosevelt shrugged and pointed to his ears. “I'm sorry. I can't hear you. Edison closed
my ears.”

And then it seemed to Roosevelt that he could
feel
Geronimo's voice inside his head.

“
I understand
,” said the medicine man. “
This has to do with the weapon.
”

“Yes,” said Roosevelt.

“
You think to find War Bonnet out here, in the desert?
”

“I hope to,” replied Roosevelt. “I can't go around deaf for weeks waiting for him
to show up, and I can't lug these weapons everywhere. I don't even know how long the
battery holds a charge.”

“
The battery?
”

“Don't worry about it. It powers the weapons.” Roosevelt wiped some sweat from his
brow. “I was hoping to draw War Bonnet out, that if he thought he'd find the two of
us together he might attack—or if he thought I'd learned something from Edison or
anyone else that might prove detrimental to him, he might want to attack me before
I could contact you.” He paused. “At any rate, my idea was to get him to attack while
I'm ready for him.”

Geronimo closed his eyes for a moment and frowned, as if concentrating on something.
Finally he opened them. “
You are about to get your wish, White Eyes.
”

“Get away from here as fast and as far as you can!” said Roosevelt. “Even you are
not safe from these weapons.”

Suddenly Roosevelt was speaking to empty air. He decided there was no sense getting
back onto his horse, that the weapons were hard enough to handle when he was on solid
ground. Besides, there was no question that the light would blind and probably panic
the horse, and the sound would kill it, and he didn't need to have a horse bucking
in terror or falling over dead on him while he was training his large, awkward weapons
on War Bonnet.

He slipped into the harness Edison had made that held the heavy
battery onto his back, lay the weapon he'd dubbed “the deafener” gently on the ground,
and held the one he called “the blinder” across his chest after making sure it was
connected to the battery.

He stood motionless for a long moment in the blazing sun, wondering if Geronimo had
finally been wrong about something. But then a huge shadow fell across the ground
just ahead of him, and he found himself facing War Bonnet, who seemed to have gotten
even taller and more massive since their last encounter.

“I have come for you, Roosevelt!” thundered the creature. “And this time there are
none to protect you.”

Roosevelt tried to lip read, but it was futile; the monster had no discernible lips.
So he simply pointed the blinder at War Bonnet and prepared to fire.

At the last second he realized he hadn't flipped down his special lenses. He reached
up, lowered them in front of his glasses, hoped War Bonnet was either standing still
or approaching in a straight line, because he couldn't see a thing, and then he pulled
the trigger.

Roosevelt couldn't hear it, but War Bonnet's scream of surprise and anger could be
heard within a radius of five miles—and suddenly he could see, plain as day, through
the almost-opaque black lenses. He depressed the trigger for another four seconds,
then laid the weapon on the ground, removed the clip-ons, and saw the creature staggering
blindly around, some thirty feet away.

Roosevelt knelt down, picked up the deafener, attached it to the battery cord, and
pressed the firing mechanism. War Bonnet screamed, though Roosevelt couldn't hear
him, took a blind step toward his enemy, then clasped his hands to his ears and screamed
again. Roosevelt kept the mechanism depressed, War Bonnet kept screaming and clasping
his ears, and then, about ten seconds later, he literally exploded in a thousand pieces.

Roosevelt lay the deafener down next to the blinder and walked around the area, making
sure there was nothing alive and moving where War Bonnet had been. Satisfied that
the creature was totally gone, he turned to load the weapons onto his gelding, only
to realize that of course the sound had killed the horse, too.

“Damn!” he muttered. “It's going to be a long walk.”

“
You have done a service to your country and saved both our lives. You will not have
to walk alone.
”

And suddenly Geronimo was beside him, picking up the smaller of the two weapons. Roosevelt,
the battery still on his back, retrieved the blinder, and the two men walked back
to town, ignoring the burning rays of the desert sun as best they could.

As they came within sight of Tombstone, Geronimo came to a stop.

“Is something wrong?” asked Roosevelt.

“
I will see you one more time before you return home. And again, many years from now.
”

Before Roosevelt could ask what he had meant, Geronimo, the chief medicine man of
the Apache nation, had vanished.

H
OLLIDAY DRAGGED HIMSELF OUT OF BED
, turned a handkerchief red with the blood he coughed up, walked painfully to the
sink in the corner and splashed some water on his face, then stared blearily into
the mirror on the wall.

“You look worse than usual,” he managed to croak, and was sure his image agreed.

He was getting ready to put on his clothes when he realized that he hadn't taken them
off the night before. He seemed to remember getting back to his room just about the
time the sun was rising, and he thought he'd won something like three thousand dollars,
but he wasn't sure of anything. Everything would become clear after his first drink
of the day, as usual.

He retied his tie, felt for his Derringer, realized it wasn't in his pocket, looked
around, and saw that he'd left it on the nightstand. Just as well. The safety catch
was off, and he might have blown a hole in his chest if he had rolled the wrong way.

“It's so easy to go to bed,” he muttered. “Why is it so goddamned hard to get out
of it?”

He found his holster on the floor where he'd let it drop, put it back on, checked
to make sure his gun was loaded, then looked around for his hat. It lay against a
wall, and he figured he'd aimed at the chair and missed. He picked it up, dusted it
off, and donned it, then decided that the rest of him needed dusting as well.

Finally he was ready to face the world, and he opened the door, walked out into the
corridor, followed it to the top of the stairs, and climbed down to the main floor,
where he saw Masterson at the front desk.

“Good morning, Doc,” said Masterson.

“Well, it's morning, anyway,” replied Holliday. “I see you've got your carpet bag.
Where are you off to?”

“Home.”

Holliday frowned. “Home?”

“Haven't you heard the news?” said Masterson. He studied Holliday's face for a moment.
“No, of course you haven't. You've been asleep all day.”

“What news?”

“Theodore killed War Bonnet,” said Masterson.

“How?”

“You'll have to ask him. He's telling his Rough Riders all about it over at the Oriental.”

“So why aren't you there?” asked Holliday.

“This life isn't for me, Doc, not anymore,” replied Masterson. “I brought Theodore
out here, and I stuck around until he met Geronimo and killed War Bonnet, but I belong
back in New York, writing about a horse race or a baseball game. I served my decade
out here fighting bad guys. It cost me a brother and ten years of any reasonable income.
Now I'm a writer and enjoying the hell out of it.”

“I'm sure you'll be writing about your pal Theodore one of these
days,” said Holliday. “That young man has a hell of a future ahead of him.” He paused.
“He really killed War Bonnet?”

“He really did.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Holliday. “I do believe you woke me up.”

Masterson chuckled. “Anyway, he doesn't need me to guide him back. Anyone who can
do what he's done can find the Badlands or New York City on his own when he's ready
to go back home.”

“True enough,” agreed Holliday. He extended his hand. “Take care, Bat.”

“You too, Doc,” said Masterson. “Theodore killed
his
monster. I hear that yours is still making his way here.”

“He's just a man.”

“And John L. Sullivan is just a guy with a temper. Don't give him any kind of edge,
Doc.”

“You can bank on that,” said Holliday.

Then Holliday was out the door and walking over to the Oriental. When he got there
he saw Manitou tied to hitching post out front, with Edison's weapons hanging from
his saddle.

He entered the saloon and walked over to his usual table.

“Breakfast!” he grated.

“In a glass or a bottle?” asked the bartender.

“Yes.”

“Damn it, Doc…”

“A bottle.”

The bartender brought a bottle over, Holliday took a swallow, and as he did so Roosevelt,
who had been conversing with Hairlip Smith, Luke Sloan, and Morty Mickelson got up
and walked over to Holliday's table.

“Good morning, Doc.”

“If you say so.”

“Well, it 
was
,” chuckled Roosevelt. “Actually, it's about five in the afternoon.” He stared at
Holliday. “You look like death warmed over.”

“That good, huh?” said Holliday.

“Have you heard that I killed War Bonnet?”

“Yeah, Bat told me. But I still don't know how the hell you did it. I shot that bastard
from point-blank range and never made a dent in him.”

“Tom and Ned crafted a pair of weapons that did the trick.”

“I saw them hanging on your saddle.”

“No one's going to take them. I've got the Rough Riders keeping watch on them through
the window.”

“So when are you going back East?” asked Holliday, taking another long swallow and
starting to feel more human.

“Very soon,” said Roosevelt. “I have to say good-bye to Tom and Ned first.” He flashed
Holliday a guilty smile. “I haven't even been to their houses since the battle. I've
been too intent on telling my Rough Riders all the details of what happened. After
all, Tom and Ned made the weapons, but it was the Rough Riders who faced War Bonnet
and kept him from killing me.”

“Buy 'em all a drink,” suggested Holliday.

“I bought a bottle for each of them,” said Roosevelt, flashing the grin that Holliday
was getting used to. “Anyway, in answer to your question, I'll be going East tomorrow
or the next day, but I haven't decided how far east.”

“If your hat floats, you've gone too far,” said Holliday.

“Very funny,” replied Roosevelt. “Anyway, I don't know if I'm going to stop at Elkhorn—that's
my ranch near Medora—or go all the way back to New York.” He sighed deeply. “Nothing's
going to bring my Alice back to me, and there's so much that needs doing. I can't
hide from the world in the Badlands all my life.”

Holliday smiled. “I have a feeling that the world has a way of finding men like you
wherever you hide.”

“There are important things to be done,” agreed Roosevelt. “Things that can't be done
from Medora. Would you think I was crazy if I told you that someday I plan to open
a channel through Panama, so our ships don't have to sail all the way around the tip
of South America to get from one ocean to another?”

“If you plan to do the shoveling yourself, I'd say you were crazy,” answered Holliday.
“Otherwise, I'd say that's a damned useful project.”

“And I have so many more, so many that we truly
need
.”

“Can I offer a word of advice, Theodore?”

“Certainly.”

“Forget the Badlands
and
New York. Go right to Washington, DC.”

Roosevelt uttered a hearty laugh. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

“Hang on to it,” said Holliday. “The country needs someone like you running things,
especially if it's going to more than double its area.”

“I appreciate the thought, and I'll admit it has crossed my mind as well, but I've
got things to do first.”

“And I've got one thing to do last,” said Holliday grimly.

“Hardin? Is there any word on when you can expect him?”

Holliday shook his head. “He could have been here two or three days ago if he'd just
take some time off from all his killing.”

“What makes someone kill like that?” asked Roosevelt.

“Seriously?” asked Holliday.

“Seriously.”

“The fact that he can.”

“That's a hell of an answer, Doc,” said Roosevelt disapprovingly.

“It's an answer based on all the killers I've known, Theodore,” replied Holliday.
“If you can't, you don't even get started. But if you
can, and there's no one who can stop you, then you either kill when you have to, like
me, or when you want to, like Hardin.”

“Do you remember the first man you ever killed?”

“I remember all of them, Theodore,” said Holliday. “That's not to say that they haunt
me; they don't. Every last one of them is better off dead. But when a man puts his
own life on the line to kill you, even if he's just some empty-headed punk kid out
to make a reputation, you remember him. Sometimes you forget the details, and often
you forget the reasons, since almost as often there weren't any real reasons, but
you remember the faces, and usually the names.” Suddenly he smiled. “Do you remember
who you beat in your New York elections?”

“Of course.”

“Same thing.”

“You are one of the most interesting men I have ever met, Doc,” said Roosevelt.

“Clearly your circle of acquaintances is too small.”

Roosevelt chuckled at that. “Well, maybe one of these days I'll return to public life
and make it larger.”

“If you're too young to run for president, and I suspect you are by a decade, then
perhaps you'll stay out here and run for governor, because if Geronimo keeps his word,
we're going to need one.”

“He'll keep it,” said Roosevelt with certainty. “He's an honorable man.”

“I've always found him so,” agreed Holliday, “but never forget that he's an honorable
man who's responsible for twenty times as many deaths as Hardin.”

“He's a warrior, protecting his people,” responded Roosevelt. “Hardin is just a killer,
like…”

“Like me?”

“I was going to say like Billy the Kid.”

“A nice young man, in his way,” said Holliday.

“But you killed him.”

“You don't have to hate what you kill,” answered Holliday. “Johnny Ringo—or what was
left of him, or what he'd become, or however you want to say it—was the most educated
and interesting man I've met out here until you came along. But sometimes liking someone
isn't enough.”

“What was it about them that you liked?” asked Roosevelt. “As far as everyone knows,
they were cold-blooded killers.”

“Well, the Kid was,” agreed Doc. “But Ringo only became a killer when he was drinking,
so I guess you'd call him a hot-blooded killer. Anyway, I could discuss Chaucer and
Descartes and Cicero with Ringo, and I've never been able to do that with anyone else
out here.”

“You never brought them up with me,” said Roosevelt.

“If you stay, we'd get around to it. We've had more pressing business. Anyway, Ringo
was a fascinating man to talk to when he was sober.”

“And the Kid?”

Holliday shrugged. “He reminded me of someone.”

“Oh? Who?”

A smile. “Me.”

“So if Hardin actually shows up, you'll probably like him too,” suggested Roosevelt.

“Probably,” agreed Holliday. “And he'll probably like me too. But it won't stop one
of us from killing the other.”

Holliday took another drink from the bottle.

“Well,” said Roosevelt, “I think I'd better be taking these weapons back to Tom and
Ned, and saying my good-byes. I figure I'll spend the night in the Grand, and set
out right after sunrise.”

He extended his hand and Holliday took it.

“I'm glad we met,” said Roosevelt.

“It's been a privilege to know you,” replied Holliday.

“And now I'll be able to correct all the dime-novel writers and artists,” added Roosevelt
with a grin.

“Heads up, Doc!” said Hairlip Smith.

Holliday looked across the saloon at him.

“I think your company just arrived,” said Smith, pointing out the window.

Holliday turned and looked into the street, where a tall, lean man, dressed all in
black, was dismounting. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder, a sword with an umbrella
handle attached to the left side of his belt, and a well-used pistol tucked into his
belt. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat that had a thin headband with a couple of
feathers hanging down from it. A bunch of fringe, taken from some dead Union soldier's
dress uniform, was sewn onto his right shoulder and arm.

“That's him, all right,” said Holliday. He turned to Roosevelt. “Theodore, he doesn't
want you. Go over there with your Rough Riders.”

“But—”

“Damn it, Theodore!” snapped Holliday. “You can't beat him, and I'm going to be too
busy protecting myself to worry about you too.”

Roosevelt seemed about to object again, thought better of it, got up, and walked over
to sit at a table with Mickelson, Sloan, and the others.

An instant later, John Wesley Hardin walked through the swinging doors, looked around
the tavern, and walked over to stand in front of Holliday.

“It has to be you,” he said.

“Have a seat, John Wesley,” said Holliday. “Bartender, a glass for my guest.”

Hardin sat down and glared at him. “You can't weigh much more than a hundred, a hundred
and ten pounds,” he said. “How the hell did you kill all those men?”

“Force of personality,” said Holliday with a smile. The glass arrived, he filled it,
and placed it in front of Hardin.

“They say you're a lunger, too.”

“True enough,” replied Holliday. “They say you're a lawyer.”

“I am now.”

“Then you know that the law tends to frown on murder.”

“This isn't murder,” said Hardin. “You can go for your gun whenever you want.”

“Perhaps later,” said Holliday, taking another swig from the bottle. “Tell me about
Texas. Has it changed much since I had to leave it in a hurry?”