Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) (12 page)

“Stand back,” Edison warned them as he pointed the device at the mine.

“Why?” said Holliday. “Even if the mine collapses or does whatever it's supposed to do,
we're
not in your field of fire.”

“I don't know what the effects will be,” said Edison. “There could be a ton of smoke or dust, which would be especially hard on your lungs. The whole mine could implode, rather than just the part I'm aiming for, and that could loosen some of those large rocks on the mountain above it.”

“All right,” said Holliday, backing up another ten feet.

“Further,” said Edison, as Buntline joined Holliday in retreating from the mine and the wagon. “Ready?”

“Do I close my eyes because of the brilliance of the light, or put my hands over my ears to protect them from the deafening implosion?” asked Holliday.

“No flash, no bang—
if
it works,” replied Edison. “Here goes.”

He pushed a button on the side of the Imploder. Holliday shielded his eyes just in case Edison had been wrong and there
was
a blinding flash of light. But there wasn't. Nor was there any noise.

“Damn!” said Edison after a totally uneventful moment had passed.

“So there aren't any tiny particles?” asked Holliday.

“Oh, they're there, I'm convinced of that,” said Edison. “But either they can't be imploded, or I still haven't designed the device that can do it.”

“What next?” asked Holliday.

“Next?” repeated Edison. “We have some beer to soften the blow, and then we try the next device.”

Buntline reached under a blanket and brought forth three bottles of warm beer. He opened each in turn, and handed them to Holliday, Edison, and kept the last for himself.

“How the hell did you get involved with Geronimo in the first place?” asked Edison.

“I did him a favor the last time I was in Tombstone, and he did one for me,” said Holliday. He grimaced. “I thought that was the end of it.” Suddenly his face softened. “Still, I suppose I should be grateful that he contacted me again. He knew I needed money and that I'd go after the biggest payday, and he knew the Kid was protected.” He shrugged. “So we made another trade, although this one's getting more complicated. I should have suggested to him that we go after Hook Nose together, kill him, and then go hunting for the Kid. Except…”

“Except?” Buntline prompted him.

“I don't think he wants Hook Nose dead. He just wants him to stop doing things that annoy him, like protecting the station that's on sacred Apache burial ground. I don't think he can hold the United States on the other side of the Mississippi by himself. I think he needs his magic
plus
Hook Nose's magic to do it.”

“They can't be the only two medicine men who practice magic,” said Buntline.

“They're not,” said Edison.

“But they're the two most powerful,” added Holliday. “There are others, and some of them don't care about the white man. They just want to be left alone.”

“Have you met any?”

Holliday nodded. “One. His name was Que-Su-La, of the Hualopai tribe. Good man.”

“Ever have any dealings with him?” asked Edison curiously.

“Ike Clanton killed his son. Killing Clanton was the price for getting the curse lifted from Bat Masterson so he wouldn't turn into a giant bat every night at sundown.”

“But you didn't kill Clanton!” said Buntline. “Wyatt did.”

“You think Que-Su-La gave a damn?” replied Holliday. “He wanted blood for blood, and he got it.”

“I'll give them this, those medicine men,” said Edison. “They may be our enemies, but they're honorable men who keep their word.” He finished his beer. “And now it's time to go back to work and see if we can help you keep
your
word, or at least your bargain, with Geronimo.”

The next five devices either didn't work, or didn't work well enough. Finally Buntline pulled out one last one, something that looked for all the world like a brass lantern.

“This is it,” said Edison. “Whether it works or whether it doesn't, this is everything we've come up with.”

“You've only been working on it for a few days,” said Holliday. “We have more time if you need it.”

Edison smiled and shook his head. “Doc, we didn't come up with all these things since arriving in Tombstone. We've been working on some of them for almost a year.”

“Okay, I hadn't realized that,” said Holliday. He paused and slapped at a fly that was crawling on his cheek. “So, what is this thing and how does it work?”

“It's a prototype…” began Edison.

“Everything in the wagon is a prototype,” interrupted Holliday.

“True enough,” agreed Edison. “But the ones that worked are the ones we'll use. This”—he held up the lantern—“is a miniature. If it works, Ned will have to make one about eight or ten times bigger, if my figures are correct.”

“What does it do?” asked Holliday.

“It aims a burst of sound, so high-pitched that you won't be able to hear it.”

Holliday couldn't repress a smile. “Are you telling me it
yells
at the enemy?”

“In essence,” said Edison.

“You're pulling my leg,” said Holliday.

“Not at all,” said Edison. “Look, we know that bullets and cannonballs don't work against the station. We may try those nitroglycerin bullets, because that's the strongest and most unusual explosive force I could devise, but I don't think they'll make a dent in it. That's why I'm concentrating on other things, like heat and implosion, and in this case, sound. You know that sound can shatter glass. Well, take my word for it, enough concentrated sound can bring down buildings. Whether it can bring down this particular train station remains to be seen, but at least, like everything but the exploding bullets, it's something that hasn't been tried before.”

“Okay,” said Holliday. “It makes sense when you say it like that.”

“Ned?”

“I hope we haven't drained the battery,” said Buntline. “I think we'd better use the auxiliary one, just to be on the safe side.”

“Yeah, I agree,” said Edison. “I'd hate to think it failed, only to find out later that it simply didn't get enough power.”

While Buntline was attaching the coil to a new battery, Edison positioned the lantern at the entrance to the mine.

“What do you expect to happen?” asked Holliday. “You've already turned everything to dust.”

“I'm directing it at that side wall,” answered Edison. “If it can put, not a dent, but a
hole
in it, then I think we'll make the full-sized model.”

“Ready,” announced Buntline.

“All right,” said Edison. “It shouldn't generate so much heat that I can't hold it, but I think I'll wrap my hands in rags anyway.”

“Right,” said Buntline, reaching into the wagon, withdrawing some cloths, and tossing them to him.

“Okay,” said Edison. “Let's see what this machine can do.”

He flipped a switch on the side of it.

The next thing Holliday knew, Ned Buntline was kneeling next to him, gently slapping his face.

“What the hell happened?” muttered Holliday, trying to focus his eyes.

“The device worked,” said Edison, who was sitting cross-legged and dust-covered on the ground a few feet away. “But unfortunately we can't use it.”

Holliday blinked his eyes rapidly, and tried to clear his mind. “What are we doing on the ground?”

“The sound was directed at the mine, and that's where it did the most damage, but it clearly went in all directions.” He nodded his head toward the wagon, “We weren't the only ones it affected. It knocked the horses out. They just woke up about five minutes ago.” He held up his hand so Holliday could see his wristwatch. “We were out about twenty minutes.”

“I never even heard it,” said Holliday.

“I told you you wouldn't.”

“So there's no way you can use it?”

“It's too dangerous. Remember: this was just the miniature model. Hell, the big one would probably knock out every man and animal for half a mile in every direction.”

“So we're down to three weapons.”

“Three
prototypes,”
said Edison. “They're as powerful as anything that exists anywhere in the world, and they operate on principles that will be alien to Hook Nose. But we won't know until we try them on the station if they'll work.”

“Maybe we're looking at this all wrong,” said Holliday.

“Oh?”

“Maybe we ought to be trying them on Hook Nose.”

Edison shook his head. “It won't work.”

“Why not?” asked Holliday.

“First, you don't know where to look for him. He could be protecting that station from hundreds of miles away. Second, if he was an easy target, Geronimo wouldn't be asking for your help. And third, you have to figure that he's at least as well protected as the station, since he's the one supplying the protection.”

“All right,” said Holliday. “It was just a thought.”

“We'll take the train back to Lincoln in the morning,” said Edison. “And it would be better if the Kid didn't know about it. It's going to be hard enough to dismantle the station without his lending his gun to the other side.”

Especially since shooting him if he shows up won't do any good
, thought Holliday. He pulled his flask out of his pocket and took a long swallow.
This may not be all bad
, he concluded.
If we can figure out how to destroy the station, the same thing should work on the Kid.

And then, somehow, through some means he couldn't fathom, he seemed to see Hook Nose peering into his thoughts.

And laughing.

T

Holliday drank himself to sleep while Edison and Buntline went over their notes, discussed which devices to try and in which order, and generally planned their attack on the station and its surroundings. They elected not to get off at the station, but to go into Lincoln, return to their rooms at their hotel, assemble their weaponry, and head back to the station the next day.

When the train screeched to a stop in Lincoln, Holliday awoke, grabbed his suitcase, and made arrangements to meet his companions the next morning. He climbed down from the train, signaled a surrey driver, and was driven to the Grand Hotel, where he went directly to his room, emptied his suitcase, checked to see if there were any birds-that-weren't-birds perched on his windowsill, and then went downstairs to the desk.

“Welcome back, Doc,” said the clerk. “Anything I can do for you?”

“The lady I arrived with,” said Holliday. “Charlotte. I don't know her last name. Is she still staying here?”

“You mean Mrs. Branson?”

“Yeah, Branson—that's right.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Do you know if she's in?”

“I believe so.”

“Good. I'm looking for a dinner companion. Give me her room number, please.”

“It's against our policy,” said the clerk. “But what the hell, since you're friends…”

A moment later Holliday was knocking at Charlotte's door.

“Why, Doc!” she said happily. “I thought you'd left town, someone said for Tombstone.”

“Been there and came back. If you don't have any plans for dinner, I'd be honored if you'd agree to be my guest.”

“I'll be happy to,” she said. “When do you propose to go?”

“Right now, if you're hungry.”

“It's a little early.” Suddenly she smiled. “That just means the restaurant won't be crowded. Just wait while I get my hat.”

She joined him in the corridor a moment later.

“How have you been?” asked Holliday, as they began walking.

“Fine,” she replied. “Though I must confess it's not the most exciting town in the world.”

“It's a little less exciting now than a few days ago, with Billy the Kid in Tombstone.”

“You saw him?” asked Charlotte.

Holliday nodded. “I saw him, I shared some drinks with him, I even shared a meal with him.” He smiled at her. “You'll be better company.”

“What's he like? Everybody's talking about him, but it's very hard to separate fact from fiction.”

“He's a young guy, maybe twenty. Seems nice enough, especially for someone who's killed twenty or more men. He's as good with a gun as any man I've ever seen.”

“You saw him shoot someone?” asked Charlotte as they left the hotel and began walking on the raised wooden sidewalk.

Holliday shook his head. “No, I just saw a little exhibition of speed and marksmanship.” He found the sunlight uncomfortable and tried to remain out of it, but that was almost impossible, as none of the stores had overhangs or awnings. The sidewalk was nearly devoid of people, but he had to keep stepping around chairs and benches that local shop owners had put out front, either to attract customers or for the owners to use when their stores got too warm and stuffy in the New Mexico sun.

“You lead an exciting life,” said Charlotte.

“I could do with a little less excitement and a little more health,” answered Holliday.

“I would have thought this climate would do you a world of good.”

“It's good for asthmatics, not consumptives.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault I've got it, not your fault I can't cure it,” said Holliday, as they reached the closest restaurant. “This good enough?” he asked. “You've had more meals in this town than I have, so I'll be guided by your judgment.”

“It's all right,” she said. “But the one across the street is better.”

Holliday looked where she had indicated and read the sign above the door. “Mabel Grimsley's.”

“She's the owner and the cook,” said Charlotte. “I gather her husband died during Pickett's Charge, and since she was in her early twenties she wasn't ready to lock herself away from the world in widow's weeds, so she went to work for a restaurant over on the next street, and when she'd saved enough money she left it and started her own.”

“Then let's give it a try,” said Holliday, starting across the street with her.

They reached the restaurant, a small room with six wooden tables and an unused fireplace in the corner. There were gas lamps along the walls, but with the sun pouring in through the window there was no need for them to be lit. They seated themselves, the only customers at that moment. After they had read the limited menu, Holliday looked across the table at her.

“You look like you want to ask me something, Doc,” said Charlotte.

“If it's not too personal, just what are you doing in Lincoln? You never said a word about it on the trip here, or during the brief times we've been together since then. It's unusual for a married woman to be traveling alone out here, and even more unusual to stay in a town where she has no family. Or do you have some here?”

“None alive,” she answered. “My brother died in the Lincoln County War. He may even have been killed by Billy the Kid. I have no idea, and I haven't found any eyewitnesses. He'd been a reasonably successful rancher, and I've been putting his affairs in order.” She made a face. “It's taken longer than I anticipated. He kept no records, and while this is an exaggeration it feels like half the town owed him money and he owed an almost equal amount to the other half.”

“My friend Tom Edison says someday there'll be machines to keep track of all your business,” offered Holliday.

“Thomas
Alva
Edison?” she said, clearly impressed. “Is
he
here?”

“He came here to do me a favor.”

“You know him that well?”

“Pretty well,” answered Holliday.

“I'm impressed,” said Charlotte.

Holliday allowed himself the luxury of a small chuckle, hoping it wouldn't bring on a coughing seizure. “I survived the O.K. Corral, and I survived Johnny Ringo, and I had breakfast with Billy the Kid two or three days ago, but what impressed you is that I know Tom Edison.”

“No one's ever going to remember gunfights and killers,” she said.

“That's a minority opinion,” he noted.

“Perhaps, but they'll remember Thomas Alva Edison. Why, in ten or twelve years, people won't be able to remember how they lived before he invented the electric light.”

“You could be right,” answered Holliday. “Personally, I'd rather be forgotten than remembered for killing a couple of men in a gunfight next to a corral.”

The waiter approached and they made their selections. A moment later a middle-aged blonde woman came out of the kitchen and approached their table. She stopped a few feet away and stared at Holliday.

“Doc?” she said at last. “Doc Holliday?”

“At your service,” replied Holliday.

“Damn! My waiter told me it was you!” She took a step toward him and extended her hand. “I'm Mabel Grimsley. This here's my place.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Grimsley,” said Holliday, taking her hand and trying to ignore how vigorously she shook it.

“I've got a proposition for you, Doc,” said Mabel. “There's no charge for the meals if I can post a sign saying you ate here.”

“I accept your kind offer,” replied Holliday. “But do you really think advertising that I ate here will bring in any extra business?”

“Sure will!” she said happily. “Maybe not right away, but when the Kid gets back to town and he learns you've been here, he'll come looking for you, either to team up or to kill you, meaning no disrespect—and either way, people will line up to see it. Only I won't allow any lines in my establishment, so they'll have to sit down and order their dinners.” She paused for a moment, then added: “If you could postpone killing him or getting killed for a few meals, I could pay this place off.”

“I shall endeavor not to get killed,” Holliday promised her.

“That's good enough for me,” said Mabel. “When Jasper—he's your waiter—brings you your check, just tear it up.”

“I'll remember.”

“And if he doesn't,” Charlotte chimed in, “I'll remind him.”

“Deal!” said Mabel, grabbing Holliday's hand and shaking it vigorously, then heading back into the kitchen.

“I'll bet you get offers like that all the time,” said Charlotte.

“It's flattering, but it also tells your enemies where to find you,” replied Holliday.

“I've not asked, but I assume your being here has something to do with Billy the Kid?” said Charlotte.

“Why should you think so?”

“Because for the life of me I can't imagine what other business you have in Lincoln. I know you're not gambling, and you just mentioned that you had breakfast with him in Tombstone.”

“Interesting conclusion based on absolutely minimal evidence,” commented Holliday noncommittally.

“What I can't figure out is what Thomas Edison has to do with it. You said he was here as a favor to you.”

“Then clearly you're wrong about the Kid.”

“But you'd say that whether I was wrong or not,” she persisted.

“Why?” asked Holliday, as Jasper arrived with their food.

“Because if you're here to kill him, it makes sense to deny it so that word never gets to him. And if you're here to do business with him, you don't want Sheriff Garrett or any other lawmen to know about it, so that you're not suspected as being an accessory to any of his crimes.”

“Charlotte, I think you missed your calling.”

“You don't even know what I do, Doc.”

“I know what you
don't
do,” he replied with a smile. “You don't write complex puzzle stories like Mr. Poe back East.”

She laughed. “All right, Doc. I'm all through prying. I hope I haven't offended you.”

He shook his head. “On the contrary, you're the first person who wasn't a lawman, an outlaw, or a medicine man to show an interest in me in a very long time. Your curiosity is flattering.”

“Now you're going to make me blush.”

“Good. Red is one of my favorite colors.”
When it's not wearing buckskins and feathers, anyway.

They began eating their meals and decided that Mabel Grimsley was as good a cook as Charlotte had thought. Holliday, who usually had to force himself to eat a small main course and nothing else, actually ordered a piece of her pie. They finished their coffee as Jasper was nailing up a sign to the effect that this was the famous Doc Holliday's favorite restaurant in all of New Mexico. Finally they got up, Holliday left some coins on the table, and they walked out into the hot New Mexico day.

Charlotte window-shopped her way back to the hotel, admiring some dresses imported from “back East,” which probably meant Dallas or St. Louis. A leather goods store was displaying a line of slim, lightweight suitcases made of buffalo hides, and Holliday made a mental note to pick one up to replace his old, scarred bag before he returned to Leadville.

When they reached the Grand Hotel, Charlotte turned to him.

“Thank you, Doc, for a very pleasant meal.”

“My pleasure,” he said with a gentlemanly bow. “Your husband is a very lucky man.”

“He would have appreciated that,” said Charlotte.

“Would have?”

“He died last year.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Holliday.

They stood in awkward silence for almost a minute. Then she shook his hand, bade him good-night, and went off to her room.

Holliday, who was used to gambling until dawn, still hadn't adjusted to his new hours, and decided to stop at the hotel's bar for a drink. He sat at a table by himself, staring off into space and comparing Charlotte Branson to Kate Elder, who could swear like a cowboy, hit like a prizefighter, had a temper like an enraged bull, and a moral code that made shootists look like saints. He'd enjoyed some of his time with her, hated some of it, and actually feared for his life on occasion.

Then he thought of Charlotte, and found himself mouthing the words: “Maybe, just maybe…”