Weird West 04 - The Doctor and the Dinosaurs (12 page)

“I was so enthused about the dig I hadn't even thought of that,” admitted Roosevelt.

“Neither had I,” replied Holliday. “But I'm almost out of liquor, and I needed an excuse to go to Cheyenne to replenish my supply. Besides, it'll be nice to sleep in a real bed again.”

“I understand Frank James was seen there a couple of months ago,” said Cody. “If you run into him, tell him I've got an offer he can't refuse.”

“That he can't refuse?” repeated Holliday.

“Right.”

“Must be different from all the other offers you've been making.”

“You go to hell, John Henry!” growled Cody. “Come on, Theodore. Let's go find some bones.”

I
T WAS HOT IN
C
HEYENNE
, hot and dry. Holliday couldn't do anything about the heat, but he made it his business to take care of the dry, He headed straight to the Plains Hotel, rented a room, then sat down in the shadiest corner of the bar and ordered a beer. It arrived warm but wet, he downed it, and then ordered a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

A good-looking young woman looked in through the window from the sidewalk, and a moment later entered the bar and approached Holliday's table.

“You're him, ain't you?” she said.

“Anything's possible,” replied Holliday. “Have a seat.”

She shook her head. “You're the one who murdered my pa.”

“I object to the term ‘murdered,’” he said. “I never shot anyone who didn't have a weapon in his hand.”

“Oh, I suspect he had one in each hand and three or four more tucked in his belt and his boots.” She paused. “He was a real son of a bitch, my pa.”

“Let me make sure I've got this straight,” said Holliday. “You're not accusing me of killing your father. You're
thanking
me?”

“Ain't many people deserved it as much as he did,” she said. “He used to beat the hell out of me.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“If you've got a room here, and can buy a girl dinner and a few drinks, I'd be happy to show you how grateful I am,” she said with a smile.

He signaled the bartender to bring another glass to the table. “Pour yourself a drink,” he said. “But I'm afraid dinner is out of the question. I have a previous engagement, always assuming the Bunt Line is on schedule.”

“Ah!” she said, her face lighting up. “Someone's coming from back East to hire you! Who're you going to be killing?”

He returned her smile. “All I'm killing is this bottle, Miss…?”

“I've had lots of names,” she said. “This month I'm using Amanda.”

“And your father was?”

“A bastard who deserved killing.”

Holliday shrugged, his interest waning. He poured himself another glass.

“Strong stuff,” she said, finally taking a swallow.

He nodded. “That's the best kind. It'll kill your memory and put hair on your chest.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “I
like
you, Doc Holliday!” she said. “Hell, if the old bastard was still alive, I'd have been proud to pay you to blow him to hell and gone.”

“I hate to disillusion you, Amanda,” said Holliday, “but I'm not for hire.”

She frowned. “That's not what I've heard.”

“I can't help what you've heard,” he replied. “I'm not a professional killer.”

“You mean you shot all them men just for the fun of it?” she asked.

Holliday just stared at her for a long moment. “I hate to disappoint you again,” he said at last, “but I never shot anyone without a reason, and I never shot anyone who didn't deserve it.”

“I'll vouch for that, at least as far as my pa was concerned,” she said, taking another swallow of her drink. “You know, this stuff ain't so bad when you get used to it.”

“A discovery I made half a lifetime ago,” said Holliday.

“You
sure
you got company for dinner?”

“I'm sure I'm supposed to.” He pulled out his watch. “They're due in about twenty minutes, if they're on schedule.”

“Well,” she said, getting to her feet, “maybe some other time. I still owe you.”

“You do?” he said curiously.

“For killing my pa.”

“Oh, right.”

She turned and walked back out into the street, leaving Holliday idly wondering who her father was and why he had killed him.

He was still wondering and still drinking half an hour later, when Tom Edison and Ned Buntline entered the hotel, with a couple of young men carrying a large trunk between them. He got up and walked over to the foyer to greet them.

“Set it down right here,” said Buntline, handing a coin to each. He turned to see Holliday approaching him. “Hi, Doc!”

“Hello,” added Edison, who was signing the guest book at the front desk.

“Good trip, I hope?” said Holliday.

“Absolutely,” said Buntline. Suddenly he grinned. “And even if it wasn't, I'll never say a word against the Bunt Line.”

Holliday chuckled. “Well, it's been a long trip, so you'll want to rest up for a night, but tomorrow morning we'll head off for Cope's and Marsh's camps. The way these guys are pulling up bones, added to the
way the Comanche are leaving ’em totally alone, leads Theodore and me to think the Comanche have something in mind that won't cost them any warriors. And you know what that'll be.”

“I know,” said Buntline. “And just in case it does happen, I brought a really good camera along.”

“Okay, gentlemen,” said Edison, handing a room key to Buntline and tucking the other into a pocket, “let's unpack and then think about dinner.”

“If you want to eat first, no one's going to run off with that trunk,” said Holliday. “Hell, it took two strong young men to lift it.”

“It's not the trunk we're protecting,” answered Edison. “It's what's in the trunk, and if you couldn't lift it by yourself, it wouldn't be very practical to use against”—he looked around to make sure no one was listening—“what it was created to use against.”

“Will it work?” asked Holliday.

“I think so,” answered Edison. “I hope so.”

“If the best you can do is hope,
you
can use the damned thing,” said Holliday.

“We'll test it out before you carry it into battle,” said Buntline. “Now let's move this equipment to our room, and then get something to eat. The Bunt Line has a lot of virtues, but food isn't one of them.”

They had the desk clerk summon a pair of young men to carry the trunk to their suite, while they followed with their suitcases.

“Where's
your
luggage, Doc?” asked Edison when they reached their rooms and he unlocked his door.

“I'm wearing it.”

“No change of clothes?”

“I'm in a battle, not a fashion contest,” answered Holliday. “Besides, I just got here a couple of hours ago, and I'm heading back to one of the camps tomorrow.”

“Which camp are we going to?” asked Edison as the two men set the trunk down and left.

“Cope's, probably.”

“It's closer?” said Buntline.

“It's pleasanter,” replied Holliday. “Minimally.”

“I don't understand.”

“They each hate each other's guts,” said Holliday. “You know that, of course, but I don't think anyone realizes the full extent of it. I think either would be happy to spend eternity burning in the pits of hell as long as the other starting burning one minute sooner. When I say Cope's camp is minimally more pleasant, I just mean that his hatred of Marsh doesn't slop over to other people as much as Marsh's hatred for him does.”

“That's pretty much what we've heard,” said Buntline, sitting down on a leather couch. “I guess hearing about it doesn't really bring it home like experiencing it.”

“That's okay,” said Holliday. “None of us is working for either of them. Neither is Theodore. We'll do what we have to do
if
we have to do it.” He stared at the trunk. “You
sure
whatever you've got in there will work? You won't believe the size of these damned leg bones until you see them yourselves.”

“They
should
work,” said Edison, seating himself on a high-backed wooden chair. “Hell, there's no reason why a properly placed bullet from Theodore's Winchester won't work.” Holliday made no comment, but his skepticism was clearly written on his face.

“Trust us, Doc,” said Buntline. “If we could light all of Tombstone and Leadville, we can turn the lights off on a dinosaur or two.”

“I hope so,” said Holliday, who was still uncomfortable from his long ride and elected to remain standing, leaning against the only section of wall that didn't have a print or a painting on it.

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Buntline.

“I hope your weapon will turn their lights off, and I hope if they're resurrected there are only one or two, since I think you could have a few thousand buried there.”

“How crazy can the Comanche be?” said Buntline. “One allosaur could wipe out an entire village in a matter of minutes. And from what I hear, a brontosaur could flatten it in even less time.”

“Let's hope they're not quite that crazy,” said Edison.

“I'll drink to that,” said Buntline. “Or at least I will once we get up to our rooms and I unpack a bottle.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said Edison, “before the thought of my being mistaken spoils our appetites, shall we go down for dinner?”

“Why not?” said Buntline, getting up.

“The hotel can watch your luggage until we're through with dinner,” said Holliday opening the front door and starting to step outside. “We can eat in the hotel, of course, but I hear there's a nice restaurant on the next block called the Wheel.”

“Not The Wagon Wheel, or the Some-other-kind-of Wheel?” asked Buntline.

“Just the Wheel,” replied Holliday.

“Why not?” said Edison. “Let's give it a shot.”

Holliday had no knowledge whatsoever of the Wheel. He'd passed it coming into town, and since he was sure that Amanda would be lurking for him by the hotel's restaurant he'd quickly come up with a reason to eat elsewhere.

He was pleasantly surprised when the Wheel actually served up some pretty good steaks, and doubly so when they returned to the hotel and there was no Amanda there to praise him in front his friends for murdering her father.

Edison and Buntline had begun their day at sunrise and went up to
their room to sleep, and Holliday spent an hour in the bar, then spent two more hours breaking even in a poker game at a casino down the street.

When he returned he found that he wasn't sleepy, so he looked around for something to do while drinking from his flask. The only thing he found was a copy of the Bible, so he picked it up, took it to the bed, propped himself up against the headboard, and began reading it by the light of a kerosene lamp.

He hoped it was right, that everything had started with Adam and that Edison and Buntline were wasting their time, as were he and Roosevelt, but somehow he couldn't quite convince himself that things were that simple or that easy.

When he awoke after a restless sleep he still had very little faith in the Bible as an accurate historical document, and was anxious to get back to one camp or the other so he could try out Edison's new weapon.

T
HERE WAS NO WAY THAT A HORSE
, or even a pack mule, could carry the trunk, so Holliday rented a wagon and a team of horses to pull it, attached his own horse to the back of the wagon with a long lead shank, and happily climbed onto the driver's seat.

“You know how to drive one of these things?” asked Buntline dubiously.

“I drove one in Tombstone,” replied Holliday.

“I know,” said Buntline, frowning. “That's why I'm asking.”

“Nothing to it,” said Holliday. “You just aim them in the direction you want to go, yell ‘Giddyap!’ and off you go.” And indeed, as he said the word the horses bolted forward.

“Very good,” said Buntline, frowning. “Now let's go back and get Tom.”

“Damn!” said Holliday. “Wasn't he aboard?”

He turned the team around, went back for Edison, and soon they were heading westward again.

“Which camp are we going to?” asked Edison.

“Cope's,” answered Holliday. “He's three or four hours farther than Marsh, but he's five or six hours pleasanter.”

“Which camp is Theodore at?”

“Marsh's, if he's still in the country.”

“I don't understand,” said Edison, frowning.

“Last I saw of him, he was preparing to show them how to dig. Knowing Theodore, I figure it's no worse than a fifty-fifty proposition that he's dug down to China.”

Edison sighed and nodded. “That's our Theodore, all right.”

“Well,” said Buntline, “I suppose we'd better have a list of the species they've uncovered, so if worse comes to worst we'll know what we're up against.”

“I get the distinct impression that they're making up names as they go along,” answered Holliday. “After all, nobody's ever seen any of these things before.”

As they were leaving town on a westbound trail Holliday suddenly pulled the team to a stop.

“What is it?” asked Edison, looking around.

“Maybe nothing,” said Holliday, not taking his eyes from an owl that perched on a dead limb of a dying tree, staring at him. Holliday stared back, and the two remained motionless for the better part of a minute.

“Is something wrong?” asked Buntline nervously.

“I don't know yet,” replied Holliday, ignoring a pair of flies that circled around his face.

Finally the owl spread its wings and took off in an easterly direction, and Holliday clucked to the horses, which began walking again.

“Well,
that's
a relief,” said Holliday, finally brushing the flies away with the back of his hand.

“What did you think it was?” asked Edison.

Holliday shrugged. “I wasn't sure. Geronimo, maybe, or perhaps one of the Comanche medicine men.”

“It was just a bird,” said Buntline.

“It was an owl, five hundred miles from where it belongs, and out in the noonday sun,” said Holliday. He shrugged. “Well, at least it wasn't Geronimo, and if it was a Comanche, he's probably just watching to see who I'm bringing back with me. No way he could know what's in the trunk.” He paused. “Probably,” he added.

They rode in silence for an hour, then came to a small creek where Holliday let the horses drink.

“I wonder why they picked Wyoming,” said Edison, looking around. “With the Rockies, at least you can gauge the strata and know where to dig after you've pulled out your first dinosaur. This strikes me as too much guesswork.”

Holliday shook his head. “There's not much guesswork involved, not with those two. Either one of them points at the ground and says ‘Dig here!’ and you can bet the farm they'll dig up some bones right there.” A quick smile. “Always assuming you own a farm to bet,” he added.

“Well, what we've got in here ought to work on just about anything,” said Edison, patting the trunk.

“First, I hope we don't need it, and second, I hope you're right,” said Holliday.

“It's been a year or more since we've seen Theodore,” said Buntline. “What's he been doing? I was sure he'd be running for office by now, but I haven't seen anything about him in the papers.”

“Building a home, probably making arrangements to divest himself of his Dakota properties, getting ready to get married again,” answered Holliday.

“That'd be a lot of any normal man,” said Edison with a smile. “Somehow it seems like slow motion for Theodore.”

“Well, he
has
written a few books in the past year, and who the hell knows what else?” said Holliday. “He's going to have to be a little less modest about his accomplishments if he's really going to run for office again.” A sudden smile. “Right now I imagine he's busy getting the equivalent of a college course in paleontology. It's amazing how he can put up with Marsh's manners as long as he can learn from him.”

Edison nodded. “That's our Theodore, all right.”

They rode another hour, then stopped for the lunch Buntline had bought in the hotel's restaurant. While Buntline was pulling it out, Edison hobbled the horses, removed their harness, and let them graze in a nearby glade.

“Okay,” said Holliday. “If you're going to spill your drinks, or drop food on your chests, or forget to button up your pants after you sneak behind the bushes to relieve yourself, this is the time and place to do it.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Buntline.

“This is the last meal where I cannot absolutely guarantee that you'll be watched by one or more Comanche. They
might
be watching us now, but I think we're still a little too far for them to give a damn about. We don't pose a real threat until we go another twenty or twenty-five miles. Five or six hours ought to do it.”

“But they haven't attacked anyone yet?” said Edison.

“Not so's you'd notice it.”

“What the devil does that mean?” asked Buntline, pulling out a pipe and lighting it.

“They haven't attacked anyone while they were digging,” replied Holliday. “I can't vouch for the fact that they haven't killed the occasional white man who wandered off, or maybe some who weren't part of the digging parties but were just passing through.”

“What kind of weaponry do they use?”

Holliday grimaced as a change in the wind blew some of Buntline's
smoke into his face. “About what you'd expect,” he answered, moving a few feet to his left to avoid the smoke. “Bow and arrows, rifles, the occasional six-shooter or spear.”

“Where did they get the rifles?” asked Edison.

Holliday stared at him. “Where do you think?” he said at last.

“Sorry,” said Edison. “I've got to get used to being out here again.”

Buntline pulled a bottle out of the woven basket that had contained their lunch. “Water, Doc?” he offered.

“I'm not dirty,” replied Holliday, pulling out of his flask and draining it. “Okay,” he said, getting to his feet, “now we
have
to get there by sunset. I left a couple of spare bottles in Cope's camp.”

“And some in Marsh's, I would guess,” said Edison with a smile.

Holliday shook his head. “No, if he found them, he'd confiscate them.”

“He's a drinker?”

“No. He just doesn't like anyone else to be.”

They harnessed the horses again, climbed back into the wagon, and began heading west toward the two camps.

About three hours into the ride Holliday made a wide semicircle around where he felt was the farthest Marsh's crew might be digging from their base camp. This took them to some rocky, uneven ground, which was hard on the horses and especially on the wagon wheels, but finally it became reasonably flat again, just as a coyote's howl broke the stillness of the afternoon.

“A real one, do you think?” asked Edison.

“I doubt it,” said Holliday. “If Cody wants a real attraction in his show, he'll hire a bunch of Indians and have them mimic the growls and cries and chirps of every damned animal out here.”

“Well, they were giving coyotes a bad name back when I was in Arizona,” said Buntline. “Every time you heard one, someone would wind up with an arrow sticking out of him a minute later.”

“Until Mr. Morse's telegraph lines run out to the Arizona desert, it's a hell of a lot better communication system that anything we've devised,” said Edison. “You work with what you've got.”

“Point taken,” acknowledged Buntline as two more coyote calls came to their ears.

“I'd say they're half a mile to the north,” offered Holliday.

“You're sure they're just
watching
us?” asked Buntline.

“If they were doing anything more than watching us we'd know it by now,” answered Holliday. “You've got nothing to worry about.”

“I was curious, not worried,” said Buntline. He patted the trunk. “If we can kill a dinosaur with what we've got in here, there's no sense worrying over a couple of Indians.”

“Dinosaurs can fire rifles from a quarter mile away, can they?” asked Holliday in amused tones.

“Okay,” growled Buntline. “I'll just keep my mouth shut.”

Holliday and Edison chuckled at that, and about ten minutes later the coyote howls ended.

“What does the silence mean?” asked Edison.

“That they recognized me,” answered Holliday. “They know I'm connected with the digs, so they figure I'm heading to Cope's camp—after all, I'm giving Marsh's a wide berth—and they'll have warriors posted along the way, watching us. You won't hear another howl unless I change directions, or…”

“Or?” asked Edison.

“Or a real coyote is calling to his ladyfriend.”

They passed three abandoned digging sites in the next two hours, and reached Cope's camp just before twilight. Not much had changed. It was still in the same clearing, with the same configuration of tents spread across it. The more permanent structure, which held the fossils, had been expanded since Holliday had left.

Cope was there, cataloging the day's finds, and his men were scattered around the grounds, some working, some just loafing before dinner, which was cooking on a large fire.

“Mr. Edison,” said Cope after Holliday made the introductions. The paleontologist extended a dirt-covered hand. “This is a great pleasure. And Mr. Buntline; I've read about your work, sir.”

“The pleasure is all ours,” replied Edison.

“What brings you to my humble camp?”

Edison looked surprised. “Didn't Doc tell you?”

Cope looked puzzled. “No, sir. Not a word.”

“They expressed keen interest in seeing your discoveries and meeting you,” said Holliday promptly.

“That's very flattering,” said Cope. “I've been keeping a bottle of fine French brandy for a special occasion. I think this qualifies as such. Excuse me for a moment while I get it.” He turned and walked off toward his tent.

“What the hell was
that
all about?” asked Buntline.

“Why tell him that some of these monsters may be resurrected by Comanche magic?” replied Holliday. “He'd probably post ten of his men as guards. Much better to have them dig, and maybe we can get the hell out of here before anything happens.”

“I agree with Doc,” said Edison. “Why alert them to something that even now, even after we've seen some of the things Geronimo and other medicine men can do, seems impossible to believe?”

“Okay,” said Buntline. “Let's just hope the next location he picks isn't another piece of sacred ground.” He frowned. “Why the hell couldn't they dig in, oh, I don't know, Michigan or Arkansas, someplace back East?”

“Maybe we should ask him,” said Edison. “I'd be curious to know.”

“Maybe we should,” repeated Buntline.

Cope returned from his tent, carrying a bottle and four coffee cups. “This stuff really deserves crystal goblets,” he said apologetically as he walked to a crude wooden table, “but…”

“Not a problem,” said Holliday. “We're drinking the brandy, not the containers.”

Cope smiled. “I'm glad you understand.”

He took the top off the bottle and began pouring.

“Smells good,” said Buntline.

“Smells divine,” Edison corrected him with a smile.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Cope, holding his cup up. “To my world-famous visitors.”

“And our world-famous host,” said Edison.

Suddenly three shots rang out.

“What the hell was that?” asked Buntline.

“I think it may have been our world-famous enforcer,” said Holliday wryly.

They drained their cups as another shot echoed through the camp.

A moment later Cole Younger appeared atop his horse, blood streaming down the side of his face.

“What the hell happened?” demanded Cope as the four men ran the greet him and the rest of the staff began gathering around him.

“I don't know,” growled Younger, dismounting and wiping his ear with a handkerchief. “Four Comanche blocked my way and started yelling at me. I don't speak no Comanche, so I just signaled them to get the hell off the trail. One of them aimed his rifle at me and damned near took my earlobe off.” He paused. “That's four Comanche that ain't ever gonna bother us again.”

“How far away did this occur?” asked Holliday.

Younger shrugged. “Maybe half a mile.” He turned to Cope. “Right at the spot you had picked for digging tomorrow, Professor.”

“You mind if we take a look?” asked Holliday.

“Ain't nothing there but three dead Indians,” said Younger.

“I was asking Professor Cope,” said Holliday.