Weird West 04 - The Doctor and the Dinosaurs (5 page)

“Originally I was riding shotgun to keep the Indians at bay,” answered Younger. “But then they hired a couple of other shootists. I don't know if they're any good, but they look like they know what they're doing—and I got put in charge of guarding all the bones.” He laughed again. “Can you imagine what the dime novels will make of that? Cole Younger, guarding a bunch of bones!”

“We could have walked away with them any time in the last thirty minutes,” said Holliday.

“I doubt it,” said Younger. “First, you couldn't lift most of the bones we got in that shed. And second, that's where I was taking my afternoon siesta.”

“Point taken,” said Holliday.

“Excuse me, Mr. Younger—” began Roosevelt.

“Just Cole'll do.”

“Cole,” corrected Roosevelt. “But whose camp is this—Mr. Cope's or Mr. Marsh's?”

“This is Professor Cope's camp, though he don't much care if you call him ‘Mister’,” answered Younger. “I'm told not calling Marsh ‘Professor’ is a firing offense. Unless you happen to be one of his shootists, that is.”

“And when is Cope due back?”

“Maybe half an hour before sunset,” said Younger. “He's got about thirty men out digging with him, plus a couple riding shotgun, and at least one or two trying to foul up Marsh's dig.”

“Marsh is nearby?” asked Roosevelt.

“I haven't seen him myself,” answered Younger. “But they say he's about thirty miles north of here…or at least he was four days ago.”

“How has Mr. Cope's dig been going?” asked Roosevelt.

“Pulling out a lot of bones, some of which have got him real excited,” said Younger. “But we've got some trouble too.”

“Oh?”

Younger nodded. “Marsh has hired a damned good saboteur—that's the real reason I'm watching the bones—and the Comanche have picked off three of our men, and also indulged in a little sabotage against a couple of our wagons.” He paused for a moment. “At least, I
think
it's them, but it could be Marsh's doing.”

“I see,” said Roosevelt.

“So we got one or more of Marsh's guys trying to stop us, and the Comanche picking off a man or burning a wagon whenever they think can get away with it—and this ground looks pretty soft, but a couple of our horses have gone lame.”

“I got a feeling all that's going to be the least of your problems,” said Holliday.

“S
O TELL ME
,” said Holliday, as they sat on a pair of tree stumps by the dead fire, waiting for Cope and his party to return, “how the hell did you let a little twerp like Jesse James talk you into that Minnesota thing?”

“You mean the Northfield raid?” asked Younger.

Holliday nodded his head. “It's been written up in enough dime novels.”

“It even made the papers back in New York,” added Roosevelt.

Younger lit a hand-rolled cigarette. “And they all say it was the Youngers and Jesse James?”

“The Younger Brothers and the James Brothers,” said Roosevelt. “It's one of the most famous robbery attempts in our history.”

“Don't know how a story like that gets started,” replied Younger. “Jesse and Frank were nowhere near Northfield. Hell, I'll bet whatever Mr. Cope's paying me that Jesse's never set foot in Minnesota in his life.”

“So who was it?” asked Roosevelt.

“Me and my brothers Jim and Bob, and a couple of other guys.
They got killed, and all three of us brothers got shot up pretty bad.” Suddenly he grinned. “Just as well that they caught us and tossed us in jail. They made it their business to keep us alive until the trial. If we'd have gotten away, filled with lead like we were, all three of us would have died within a week or two.”

“You don't sound at all bitter,” noted Roosevelt.

“Well, we'd much rather have gotten away clean with the money instead of loaded down with lead, but we're rough men, we took a gamble, we lost, and we paid our debt.”

“They let you all out?”

“Me and Jim did nine years each and got paroled. Bob never did recover from all them bullets, and he died in jail.”

“Sorry to hear it,” said Holliday. “He's the only one I never met.”

“Well, you can read all about him,” said Younger.

“I know,” said Holliday. “Same place I read all those phony stories about me.”

Younger shook his head. “No, I wrote my autobiography while I was in jail. Had to do something to kill all that time. And,” he added with a happy smile, “I sold it last month. Some New York publisher that your pal Bat Masterson showed it to.”

“He's not exactly my friend,” said Holliday. “We just seem to be on the same side of issues out here.”

“Well, he's
my
friend,” chimed in Roosevelt. “And as good a sportswriter as the
Telegraph
has on its staff.” He turned to Holliday. “How did you meet Cole and Jim?”

Holliday grinned and looked at Younger. “You tell him, Cole.”

“Me and Jim needed some quick cash, so we hired on as lawmen back in Dallas a couple of years before the Minnesota raid. I can't believe Doc didn't tell you the story about how the sheriff gave him something like ten hours to clear out of town after he shot a man at a gaming table.”

“Yes, I heard it,” replied Roosevelt with a chuckle. “The sheriff had an abscessed tooth, Doc was packing his gear and was the only dentist still awake, so the sheriff came in, Doc put him under with laughing gas, and then”—Roosevelt uttered a hearty laugh—“he pulled all the sheriff's teeth before he woke up, and high-tailed it out of town.”

“That's the story,” agreed Younger. “But Doc wasn't leaving town because of the sheriff. Doc could have taken him without drawing a deep breath.”

“Even back then I couldn't draw a deep breath,” interjected Holliday with a smile.

“Anyway, the reason Doc left in a hurry was so he wouldn't have to face Jim and me.”

“I didn't want to kill you,” said Holliday.

“You wouldn't have,” replied Younger.

“Anyway,” concluded Holliday, “you try to avoid gunfights with your friends—especially when you have as few as I do.”

“So Jesse wasn't involved in that robbery,” said Roosevelt, still dwelling upon the Northfield, Minnesota, raid.

“He'll never deny it—if you knew Jesse, you'd know why—but no, he wasn't there,” said Younger. “Wouldn't have helped if he'd been with us. He ain't the best shot you ever saw, and he can be damned unpleasant when you disagree with him. Frank is the James brother I like. We're talking about getting together and putting on a Wild West show once we get a grubstake together.”

“
The James and Younger Show
,” said Roosevelt. “I like it.”

“
The Younger and James Show
,” Younger corrected him unsmilingly. “At least it'll keep that bastard who's working for Marsh on his toes.”

“That bastard?” repeated Roosevelt, frowning.

“He's just a goddamned publicity hound,” replied Younger. “Hell, I'll bet his fee isn't money, but one of them twenty-foot-high leg bones.”

“Who are you talking about?” asked Holliday.

“Bill Cody,” answered Younger. “He left his Wild West show to work for Marsh for half a year.” He paused and snorted in contempt. “The man's no threat. I don't know how the hell he convinced Marsh he's a shootist.”

“Well, he did kill something like a thousand buffalo,” remarked Roosevelt.

Younger pointed a forefinger toward Roosevelt's ear and pretended to fire it with his thumb. “Riding up and sticking the muzzle of your rifle in a buff's ear when he's grazing ain't the same as shooting someone who's aiming a gun or an arrow at you,” said Younger decisively. “But I figure the real reason old man Marsh got Cody is publicity. There've been three times as many stories about him and his finds than about Mr. Cope and what he's dug up.”

A happy smile spread across Roosevelt's face.

“What are you grinning at, Theodore?” asked Holliday.

“After spending time with a bunch of politicians who would even hedge their bets before declaring that night follows day, you have no idea how pleasant it is to be out here with a pair of shootists who call a spade a spade.”

“You a politician?” asked Younger.

“One of the best,” said Holliday before Roosevelt could answer.

“Really?” said Younger. He paused and thought about it for a moment. “Well, I don't suppose it's much worse than being a shootist.”

“You're going to hear a lot more about this young man if you live long enough,” said Holliday. “He's not only a successful politician, but he's one of the country's leading ornithologists and taxidermists.”

“Whatever
they
are,” said Younger.

“And when he was a volunteer deputy in the Dakota Badlands, he went out unarmed in a blizzard and brought in three armed killers.”

Younger stared at Roosevelt. “I'm starting to get impressed.”

“He's also written some books about the opening of the West,” continued Holliday.

“If one of them says Jesse James was on the Northfield, Minnesota, raid, I'm less impressed,” said Younger with a smile.

“I haven't gotten to that yet,” said Roosevelt.

“Good,” said Younger decisively. “Now you'll write the true story.”

“He also wrote the definitive treatise on naval warfare,” said Holliday.

“Okay, okay, he's a good writer. I hear you.” He paused and flashed a smile at Roosevelt. “That makes two of us.”

“He was also the lightweight boxing champion at Harvard,” concluded Holliday.

“Lightweight? That was a few pounds ago,” noted Younger.

“Want to go a few rounds with him?” asked Holliday with a smile.

Younger took a good look at Roosevelt, his barrel chest, his muscular arms, the muscles in his neck, and shook his head. “No, I wouldn't want to hurt him.”

“Oh, that's a very good answer,” laughed Holliday. “I guess I'm sitting with
two
politicians.”

All three men laughed at that.

“So what exactly
are
you doing here, Doc?” asked Younger at last.

“It's a little difficult to explain,” said Holliday, “but basically I'm here to get your boss and this Marsh fellow to go dig for bones elsewhere.”

Younger frowned. “You know a better spot?”

“Nope,” answered Holliday. “But I know a lot of safer spots.”

“I can handle any trouble that shows up here,” said Younger.

“I don't think so,” interjected Roosevelt.

Younger turned to Roosevelt. “Is this
your
idea?” he demanded pugnaciously.

“No, Cole,” said Holliday. “He's just a friend who I talked into coming along with me. This is Geronimo's idea.”

“Geronimo?” repeated Younger, frowning in puzzlement. That just don't make any sense,” he complained. He turned to Roosevelt. “I know he signed his treaty with
you
.” And back to Holliday. “And I heard that you did him a favor or two, But does he want these bones for himself?”

Holliday shook his head. “He doesn't want ’em at all.”

Younger frowned. “Then I truly don't understand what the hell he's got to do with this.”

“You know where you are right this minute?” asked Holliday.

“Right here, talking to you two.”

“And do you know where ‘right here’ is?”

“Wyoming territory,” said Younger, frowning.

“Close but no cigar,” said Holliday. “You, and Cope's whole expedition, and Marsh's whole expedition, are standing on some sacred Comanche burial grounds.”

“How the hell do you know?” said Younger irritably. “Indians don't plant no crosses.”

“
I
don't know,” replied Holliday. “But Geronimo does.”

“Are you trying to get me to believe that old bastard has made peace with the Comanche?”

“No, he doesn't give a damn about them.”

“I know I spent a lot of years in jail,” said Younger, not trying to hide his exasperation, “but my brain hasn't stopped working, and you're just not making any sense.”

“The two expeditions have to dig through the burial grounds to get to the fossils,” interjected Roosevelt.

“Fossils?” repeated Younger.

“Dinosaur bones.”

“Okay, they have to dig through the small bones to get down to the big ones,” said Younger. “So what? They're all dead.”

“Dead isn't necessarily a permanent condition,” said Holliday. “Don't forget: the combined powers of something like fifty-five medicine men kept the United States from expanding across the Mississippi until Geronimo went against their wishes and signed the treaty with Theodore. He's the most powerful of them all, but they haven't lost their powers.”

“Okay, everyone's powerful,” said Younger irritably. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“He's mostly concerned with the Comanche medicine men,” continued Holliday. “If Professor Cope and Professor Marsh desecrate enough graves, he's afraid the medicine men might magic up some of the creatures the bones come from to either scare you off or kill you.”

“And he's worried about the Comanche turning their critters loose on
us
?” snorted Younger in disbelief. “You'll have to do better than that, Doc.”

“He doesn't give a damn about you,” agreed Holliday.

“Then I still don't—”

“He isn't worried about their supernatural creatures, because they can control what they create,” said Holliday.

“You'd better make some sense soon,” grumbled Younger. “I'm getting ready for dinner and so far you've used a hell of a lot of words to say nothing.”

“They created a creature to kill Theodore a year ago,” said Holliday. “He's still here. They resurrected Johnny Ringo a few years ago and sent him to Tombstone to kill me. I'm still here.”

Holliday took a swallow from his flask. “Their creatures can be awesome, and they're certainly deadly, but they're not perfect. And if you and Cody live long enough, like for another month or two, you'll figure out how to beat them. So Geronimo thinks they may have the
power to resurrect hundreds of creatures, not from inside their heads, but from the bones your two expeditions are digging up.”

“Either way we die,” said Younger, “so why does Geronimo care?”

“Because he doesn't think the medicine men can kill as many monsters as they resurrect, and if they
do
resurrect them to drive you off, they'll start roaming away when they're done with you, and some of them will wind up in Apache territory.”

“Bullshit!” said Younger. “If they make it that far, and he's half as powerful as you think, he'll just order them to turn back.”

“I believe I can answer that, Mr. Younger,” said Roosevelt, who'd been sketching a pair of prairie dogs in the dying light while he listed to the two shootists.

“Cole,” Younger corrected him.

“Cole,” Roosevelt amended. “I'm no expert, but from what little I've read about these dinosaurs, they are about ninety-nine percent instinct and one percent brainpower. It may be that their brains are so small the medicine men, including Geronimo,
can't
control them.”

Younger considered what Roosevelt said for a moment, and then responded. “If you know it, and Geronimo knows it, then surely the Comanche medicine men know it.”

“They know they'll endanger a lot of Comanche lives,” agreed Roosevelt. “But what we don't know is how important that is to them. If the ground is truly sacred to them, maybe it's more important for them to chase the expeditions away or kill them, so the Comanche who die at the same time will find peace in the sacred burial ground.” Roosevelt grimaced and shrugged. “Or maybe they've already resurrected one or two and learned that they
can
control them. Geronimo's powerful, but he's not infallible.”