Weird West 04 - The Doctor and the Dinosaurs (13 page)

“I'll come with you,” said Cope.

“So will we,” said Edison as he and Buntline stepped forward.

“What the hell,” said Younger. “I'll come along too.”

“You stay here and get someone to help you stop the bleeding,” said Cope.

“You sure?” asked Younger. “Them Comanche probably had friends.”

“We're sure,” said Cope. “We'll have Doc with us.”

Younger went off to get help with his ear. Cope waited until Holliday had gotten his horse and his two other visitors had saddled the horses that had pulled the wagon, then began leading them just to the north and east of the camp. After a few minutes they came to the bodies of the three Comanche warriors; one had died fast, two slowly, but all three were definitely dead.

Holliday studied the tracks and pointed to the spot where they had confronted Younger.

“Right here,” he said. “Doesn't look any different from anything else around here. I wonder what the hell they had in mind.”

Cope shrugged. “Who knows? Shall I send someone out to bury them? I mean, after all, it
is
their burial ground.”

Holliday shook his head. “I'd let the Comanche do it themselves.”

“Very well,” said Cope. “Well, we might as well get back to camp before it's totally dark.”

“You go along, Ned,” said Holliday. “I have something I need to discuss with Tom.”

Buntline frowned, but began riding alongside Cope.

“What is it?” asked Edison.

“Something's wrong,” said Holliday.

“I know,” said Edison, looking at the bodies with some distaste. “Three men are dead.”

Holliday shook his head impatiently. “But
why
?” he said. “Marsh and Cope have been digging here for more than a month, and no one's bothered them. Suddenly three warriors try to kill Cole Younger just because he's standing—well, riding—right at this spot. What's changed?”

“I don't have any idea,” said Edison.

“Well,
I
have an idea, and I don't like it much.” He looked around. “Shit!”

“What is it?”

“I have a feeling that if we each had a shovel and started digging right here, we'd come to a stash of bones a lot closer to the surface than Cope thinks…and that they won't be dinosaur bones.”

Edison stared at Holliday. “You really think so?”

“It makes sense.”

“Then what do you think we—” Edison froze. “Doc?”

But even as the word left his mouth, he closed his eyes and prepared for his death as Holliday drew his pistol and fired two shots.

Before Edison could yell, or collapse, or ask Holliday why he was shooting at him, he was almost knocked of his feet as a dead warrior, tomahawk in hand, fell against him as he tumbled to the ground.

“I thought you were shooting at
me
!” breathed Edison.

“He sneaked up right behind you,” said Holliday, holstering his gun. “Another second and he'd have buried that damned hatchet between your ears.”

Edison stepped aside, then turned and looked at the fallen Comanche.

“Thank you for saving my life, Doc,” he said sincerely.

“Happy to,” said Holliday. He walked over to the dead Comanche, and saw that he had been shot in the belly by Younger, “He was ninety
percent dead already.” He scanned the area for more lurking warriors. “If I'm right about what this means—that they're finally digging at an actual burial site—you just may get a chance to save us all.”

H
OLLIDAY WAS AWAKENED BY THE CURSING OF A MAN
who had burned his hand grabbing a too-hot frying pan. He experienced a coughing seizure, sat on the edge of his bed for a few minutes until he felt strong enough to face the day, considered shaving, decided he'd lost enough blood in the past five minutes and he'd wait until his hands were steadier, and wondered, for the hundredth time, why he was risking a life that almost had an expiration date on it.

Finally he got up, looked around for his boots, then realized he'd gone to sleep with them on. He sighed, shook his head, and emerged from his tent into the sunlight. He winced, held a hand up to shield his eyes, and tried to remember why he'd gotten out of bed in the first place.

“Good morning, Doc,” said Ned Buntline, who was half-sitting and half-squatting on a log, a cup of coffee in his hand.

Holliday muttered something unintelligible, yawned, suppressed a cough, and slowly wandered over to Buntline.

“I hear you had a little adventure last night, you and Tom,” said Buntline.

Holliday shrugged. “Nothing very adventurous about it.” Suddenly he smiled. “Interesting expression on Tom's face just before I fired my gun.”

“Yeah, he told me,” said Buntline with a chuckle.

“He still sleeping?” asked Holliday, squinting and scanning the area.

Buntline uttered a hearty laugh. “Only shootists who drink too much sleep this late, Doc. He's off with Cope, looking at some finds—or maybe looking
for
some.”

“He ought to know better,” said Holliday. “Cole and I shot those warriors awfully close to camp.”

“You know nothing scares him,” said Buntline. “Hell, if he was inclined to run, he'd have done so when the Apaches blew his arm off.”

“Yeah, I know,” answered Holliday. “What the hell time is it anyway?”

“Maybe an hour before noon. They've been gone for close to four hours. Those that are coming back for lunch should show up before too much longer.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“Do I look like a paleontologist?” asked Buntline with an amused smile. “I'm a builder, and I figure someone ought to stay here guarding my invention, since it may save us all one of these days.”

“Does it bother you that Tom gets all the credit?” asked Holliday, finally adjusting to the light enough to stop shading his eyes with his hand.

“Hell, no,” said Buntline. “We're like the President and the Congress back East. He proposes, I dispose.”

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

“He gets the idea and designs the mechanism, but I'm the one who builds it. If he didn't dream up the Buntline Special, you couldn't have used it on Johnny Ringo…but if I don't make it, it remains nothing but an idea.” He paused. “Besides, I've got other interests as well.”

“Oh?”

Buntline nodded. “Those dime novels about you and Wyatt and the other shootists are so damned popular that—”

“You're going to publish one?” interrupted Holliday.

Buntline shook his head. “No, there are more than enough people publishing them already.”

“You're going into competition with Cody?” suggested Holliday. “I know Cole Younger plans to start a show, him and Frank James.”

“How the hell many wild west shows does the public need?” replied Buntline. “No, I plan to write about you and the others, not for magazines, but for the theatre. Can you picture it? A play about—”

“Say the O.K. Corral and we just may do a rehearsal right here,” said Holliday grumpily.

“How about the alley behind the Corral?” asked Buntline with a smile.

“Okay, you get to live,” said Holliday, returning his smile. “Though what may happen here if the Comanche get mad enough might be even more dramatic.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Buntline. “Show me how to get a seventy-five-ton brontosaur on stage and I'll consider it.”

“I thought they were the harmless ones.”

“Tell me that after he steps on you, or you get in the way of his tail.”

“Point taken,” acknowledged Holliday.

“On the other hand, maybe—”

Holliday suddenly motioned him to be silent.

“What is it?” whispered Buntline.

“One lone man, not making enough noise. Could be a Comanche.”

Buntline began looking around, frowning. “Where is he?” he whispered. “I can't see a thing.”

Holliday folded his hands in his lap and pointed to his left with his right index finger.

“I don't see a damned thing,” said Buntline.

“Try keeping your mouth shut and using your ears,” said Holliday.

“Sorry.”

Holliday seemed relaxed and indeed appeared half-asleep. Buntline tried to appear nonchalant, and did a terrible job of it.

Finally Holliday raised his voice. “Okay, you can come out now!”

A white man wearing a large Stetson broke from cover and entered the camp.

“Should'a known I couldn't sneak up on you, Doc,” he said.

Holliday turned to stare at him. “You better go back while you can,” he said in level tones.

“I can't,” said the man. “This is my job.”

“He's not paying you enough for this,” said Holliday. “One more chance—go back.”

“Who the hell is he?” demanded Buntline. “You talk like you know him.”

“I've seen him,” said Holliday, never taking his eyes off the man. “He works for Marsh.”

“Doing what?” asked Buntline.

“He's here and he's armed,” said Holliday. “What do you suppose he does?”

“There's no reason for anyone to get hurt,” said the man. “You're not on Cope's payroll, Doc. Let me swipe a couple of bones and I'll go back and tell Marsh I destroyed a wagonload of them, and brought these to prove I'd been here.”

“You're working for the wrong side,” said Holliday. “Theodore would just beat the shit out of you, and then probably nurse you back to health.” He got to his feet. “One last chance. Leave while you still can.”

“I can't, Doc,” said the man, tensing. “This is what I get paid for.”

“Whatever he's paying you, it's not enough,” said Holliday.

“I don't want to kill you, Doc,” said the man.

“We're on the same page. I don't want to die.”

“Don't try to stop me, Doc. I'm going to pick up some bones now.”

“You're a very foolish man,” said Holliday.

The man took a step forward, and Holliday drew his pistol and fired three quick shots. Two went into the man's chest; the third lodged in his stomach.

The man fell to his knees and stared at Holliday in disbelief. “You drew first,” he said accusingly.

“Damned right I did,” said Holliday. “It's a gunfight, not a sporting contest.”

The man fell face first in the dust, dead before Holliday finished his sentence.

“Well,
that
ought to get them back for lunch on the double,” said Buntline, staring at the dead man.

“You know, we could save a lot of trouble by locking Cope and Marsh in a room together and letting the survivor take charge of both digs,” said Holliday, his face registering his disgust with the situation. “We've got a million Comanche who don't want us here, we've got medicine men who will do what they can to kill us, and all they can think of is sabotaging each other.”

“You okay?” yelled Cole Younger's voice.

Holliday turned to Buntline with a grimace. “If we weren't, alerting whoever's threatening us by telling them that you're on the way probably isn't the brightest thing in the world to do.”

“You've got a point,” said Buntline.

“Yell back that we're all right,” said Holliday.

“Me?”

“If I took a deep enough breath to yell, I'd be coughing for the next five minutes.”

“We're fine!” hollered Buntline.

Younger, followed by half a dozen men, all with weapons drawn, burst into the clearing. “What the hell's going on here?” he demanded, staring at the body.

“Saboteur,” said Holliday.

‘Looks like his sabotaging days are over,” said Younger, rolling the corpse over with his foot. “Anyone know this man?”

“That's Jed Wilkes,” said one of his companions. “He used to work for Professor Cope. I guess Professor Marsh bought him away.”

“No wonder he knew when and where to look for bones,” said Holliday. “A couple of you men get some shovels and bury him.”

“Hell, no!” said Younger.

“He's not going to turn into any nosegay,” said Holliday. “Best to bury him now.”

Younger shook his head adamantly. “I'll stick him across a horse and lead him up to Marsh's camp with a note on him, a note that'll say something like ‘You want bones? Try these on for size!’ Something like that. I'll whack his horse on the rump, and head back here while they're running him down and figuring out what happened.”

Holliday shrugged. “It's your war. I'm just here to look at the animals.”

“What animals?” demanded Younger.

“Who knows?” said Holliday noncommittally. He pulled out his flask. “Defending the camp against fools is thirsty work.”

Cope arrived a couple of minutes later, accompanied by Edison and most of his men. Buntline briefly explained what had happened.

“Damn!” he said, turning to Younger. “I was right to leave you here, guarding our finds. Though now that we've got Doc…”

Holliday held his hands up, palms out. “You don't have me. I'm just passing through.” He turned to Edison. “Any sign of anything bigger than a Comanche?”

“Like what?” interjected Cope.

Holliday saw Edison shake his head almost imperceptibly. “Like two Comanche,” he answered.

“The four bodies were gone,” said Edison.

“Makes sense,” replied Holliday. “No sense burying ’em right where the Professor's digging.”

“Okay, men,” said Cope, turning to his crew. “Let's start moving the bones we brought back.”

Holliday walked to the edge of the camp opposite where the men were bringing the bones, accompanied by Edison and Buntline.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“The man's a fanatic, Doc,” said Edison. “If he had even a hint that something he did might get the Comanche to resurrect some dinosaurs, he'd do everything he could to precipitate it.”

“So would Marsh, come to think of it,” agreed Holliday.

“So the trick is
not
to let them know why we're here, and maybe they'll find everything they're looking for and pack up their gear and go somewhere else to dig.”

“You've got a real head on your shoulders,” said Holliday. Suddenly he grinned. “I'll take a wild guess that you've been told that before.”

Edison chuckled. “Once or twice.”

“Well, let's keep a low profile, urge Cope to do the same, hope Theodore's having some luck getting Marsh and Cody to behave, and maybe we can all die in bed, wondering what dinosaurs really looked like.”

“Do you believe it'll be that easy?” asked Buntline.

Holliday sighed deeply. “Of course not.”