Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) (14 page)

“But—”

“You sure you don't have a deck of cards?”

“Why do they want to destroy this station?”

“That requires a very complicated answer for this early in the day,” replied Holliday. “Just relax and try not to think about it.”

During the next half-hour they heard explosions, whining, buzzing, and thudding. Each time Holliday would call out and ask if his companions had made any progress, and each time the answer was an increasingly frustrated negative.

Buntline appeared once more. “Just two more to try,” he announced.

“Do you get the feeling that this damned station will be here to the end of Time?” asked Holliday.

“Give us fifteen minutes and ask again,” responded Buntline grimly.

“And you haven't even made a dent in it?”

Buntline sighed, shook his head, and went back to join Edison.

“Can I ask a question, Doc, sir?” said Raymond with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Go ahead,” said Holliday.

“Your friends are trying to blow up the station, right?”

“No,” said Holliday. “They just want to destroy it. They don't much care if they blow it up, burn it down, melt it with electricity, or use some other method.”

Raymond frowned. “And they've been trying for almost an hour, and haven't made a dent?”

“That's what they say.”

“I don't want to offend you, Doc, sir,” said Raymond, “but just what kind of fools are you associating with? This is a wooden building, and they not only can't burn it, but in a full hour they haven't even made a mark on it.”

“Puzzling, isn't it?”

“What are they doing running around loose?”

“Maybe I'll lock them back up when they're done here,” said Holliday.

“I don't understand any of it.”

Holliday reached inside his shirt and withdrew the knife that hung around his neck on a very fine string. One tug and the string broke.

“Here, Raymond,” he said, handing the knife to the surprised attendant. “Carve your initials on a wall.”

Raymond took the knife, aware that Holliday's gun was still trained on him, walked to a wall, and tried without success to make a mark.

“It doesn't work,” he said, surprised.

“Try another spot.”

Raymond walked ten feet to his left and tried again with the same results, then turned to Holliday, frowning in confusion. “It's like it's petrified,” he said at last.

“Try the counter,” said Holliday. “It's clearly a different kind of wood.”

Raymond did as he was instructed. All that happened was that the blade broke.

“I won't even charge you for ruining my knife,” said Holliday.

“I don't understand any of this,” said Raymond. “You see over here, where the counter was coming loose from the wall? I nailed it back in place not ten weeks ago.”

“When did the railroad come through the valley here?” asked Holliday.

“You mean what time yesterday?”

Holliday shook his head. “No. When was the track laid and the station built?”

Raymond shrugged. “Six months ago.”

“Makes sense.”

“Not to me, it doesn't,” said the attendant.

“This isn't Geronimo's home territory,” said Holliday. “He probably didn't learn about it until a month or two ago—and
that's
when it became protected. You could drive a nail in before that, but even he couldn't get rid of it afterward.”

“Geronimo?” repeated Raymond. “What's he got to do with anything?”

“It's complicated,” said Holliday. Before he could say anything further, there was a sudden explosion at the side of the station, followed by a bellowed curse from Buntline. A moment later he and Edison both entered the building.

“I'm about ready to concede defeat,” said Edison unhappily. “I used almost everything we tested at the
Silver Spoon
, and as far as I can tell we haven't made so much as a scratch on the damned wall.”

“Well,” said Holliday, getting to his feet, “I thank you for your hospitality, Raymond.”

“It's hard to believe this really happened,” said Raymond.

“You know what's harder to believe?” said Holliday. “All the time I was pointing
this
at you”—he held up his gun—“you were never in any danger.”

Raymond just stared at him.

“I know it's going to be hard to believe,” said Holliday, “but you're as impregnable as the station.”

“Don't be silly,” said Raymond. “I'm flesh and blood, like everyone else.”

“In this valley, you're flesh and blood like no one else,” said Holliday. “When that knife broke you should have cut your thumb off, but you didn't break the skin or even leave a mark. You can't be hurt until you leave the valley.”

“I don't believe it,” said Raymond.

“You want proof?” Holliday fired two shots into Raymond's chest. The force knocked him back a few feet, but nothing broke the skin. “There's proof.”

“It's a miracle!” exclaimed Raymond.

“It's magic, anyway,” said Holliday. “I should warn you, Raymond, that the likelihood is that we are just as invulnerable in this valley as you are, so if you've got a shotgun hidden behind the counter, I'd think very carefully about using it on us, because sooner or later you have to go home, and once you're out of the valley you
are
just flesh and blood again.”

“I don't have a gun,” said Raymond. “I wouldn't know how to use it if I did.”

“So much the better for you,” said Holliday. He tipped his hat. “It's been nice meeting you.” He turned to Buntline and Edison, “Gentlemen, let's take our leave of this place.”

The three of them walked to the wagon.

“Not a mark?” said Holliday.

“See for yourself,” said Edison.

“About the only thing we accomplished was to attract a hawk,” said Buntline, indicating a large raptor that stood on the roof of the station, staring at them.

“It's an eagle,” said Holliday.

“Hawk, eagle, what's the difference?” said Buntline. “It's a spectator.”

“No need to worry about him,” said Holliday. “Eagles don't eat people.”

“He makes me nervous, the way he keeps staring at me as if he'd like to break his diet and bite off a piece of me,” said Buntline.

“Can't be done,” noted Holliday. “Not while you're in this valley.” He pulled out his gun. “Still, if he bothers you…”

“You can't kill
him
in the valley either,” said Edison.

“No, but I can urge him to go away,” said Holliday, taking aim and firing the gun.

The eagle shuddered as the bullets bounced off it, then flew to the wagon and perched on the seat, staring at him.

“All right, we can't hurt him,” said Edison, “but maybe we can annoy him enough to get him off our wagon.”

He walked to the back of the wagon and pulled out a small, pointed device.

“What's that?” asked Holliday.

“Just a whistle,” answered Edison. “Well, not
just
a whistle. It's at a far higher frequency than even a dog whistle. I didn't use it on the station because it seemed so, well,
puny
after our more powerful devices failed—but it just might drive the eagle away.”

“Do you blow into it?”

Edison smiled and shook his head. “I just push this button here…like this.”

And as he pushed it, suddenly, instead of an eagle, an aging Indian screamed once and fell off the wagon into the dirt, dead.

“What the hell…?” said Buntline.

Holliday walked over to the body and rolled it onto its back with a toe. “He's not Hook Nose,” he said. “He's not wearing any of the Southern Cheyenne totem.”

“He is Isa-tai,” said a familiar voice, and they turned to find themselves facing Geronimo. “The White Eyes know him as White Eagle, a medicine man of the Comanche.” He turned to Holliday. “You can now keep the rest of your bargain, and when the last of the station and the tracks are gone from the valley, I will keep mine.”

“So he wasn't Hook Nose after all,” said Holliday, as he, Edison, and Buntline looked down at the dead White Eagle. He turned back to where Geronimo had been standing, but there was only empty air.

“Was Geronimo ever really here at all, I wonder?” mused Buntline.

“Those aren't imaginary moccasin prints,” said Edison, pointing to Geronimo's tracks.

“Well,” said Holliday, “time to go back to work.”

“Agreed,” said Edison.

“Hey, Raymond!” yelled Holliday.

The attendant stuck his head through the doorway.

“Get out of there,” said Holliday. “You're about to lose your station.”

“I thought you couldn't make a scratch in it.”

“That was then. This is now.”

Raymond frowned. “What's changed?”

Holliday pointed to White Eagle's corpse. “It lost its armor.”

Raymond exited the station, and with one more exposure to the Deconstructor, two minutes later the station was a pile of rubble.

“I can melt the tracks, but I think Geronimo won't consider them
gone
if they're just misshapen,” said Edison. “When we get back to town we'll hire a crew to pull up all the tracks and re-route them outside the valley.”

“How long do you think it will take?” asked Holliday.

“I'll send for two crews—one to construct the new route around the valley, and one to clean up the mess here. They're pretty fast once they get on the job,” answered Edison. “The valley should pass Geronimo's inspecting in perhaps two or three days, four at the outside. It all depends on when they get here. And since it involves my overcoming magic, the government will pay for it.”

Edison wired for the crews when they got back to town late that evening, and Holliday returned to the Grand Hotel, counting the minutes until the Kid was a normal—and vulnerable—man again.

H

“Welcome, Dr. Holliday,” said the bearded teller as he entered the bank. “Isn't it a beautiful day?”

“Except for the sunlight and the fresh air,” replied Holliday.

The teller laughed. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Holliday handed a bill to the teller. “Change this into nickels, dimes, quarters, and gold dollar pieces.”

“What quantities would you like?”

“Whatever's convenient. Otherwise I might have to let Charlotte leave the tip for dinner tonight.”

“Charlotte, sir?”

“Mrs. Branson.”

The teller shook his head. “I'm not familiar with the lady, sir.”

“You must have dealt with her,” said Holliday. “She's in town to settle her brother's estate.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but we've never dealt with a Mr. Branson.”

Holliday grimaced. “Of course not. She's a married woman. I have no idea what her maiden name was.” He described her in detail for the teller.

“No, sir. I'm sure I'd have remembered her. We don't get that many women doing business in here.”

“Is there another bank? Maybe her brother kept his money there.”

The teller nodded. “Go out the front door, turn left for a block, and it's across the street, right next to the dry goods store.” He pulled out a small booklet. “I can give you the name of my opposite number there if you'd like.”

Holliday shook his head. “No, I was just making conversation.” He gathered his coins and put them in a pocket. “Thanks for your help.”

“It's my job, sir.”

Holliday smiled grimly. “You have no idea how little that means to a lot of people.”

He walked out of the bank, and turned left to hunt for a restaurant. He walked along the raised wooden sidewalk, past a casino, a brothel, a butcher shop, a trio of other stores, and finally, after coming to the corner and proceeding to the next block, he came to a restaurant that was open and doing a brisk business. He was about to enter it when he looked across the street and found himself facing the other bank.

He debated with himself for a moment, then walked across the unpaved street and entered the bank.

“Yes, sir,” said a clerk. “May I help you?”

“I was wondering if Mrs. Branson has been in today,” said Holliday.

“Mrs. Branson? I don't think I know the woman, sir.”

“Charlotte Branson,” said Holliday. “She's settling her brother's estate.”

“I'm not acquainted with the lady.”

“My mistake,” said Holliday, turning to leave. “I'm sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother at all,” the clerk called after him.

Holliday, frowning, crossed the street and entered the restaurant, trying to assimilate what he'd heard. Maybe he'd heard her wrong; he wasn't really listening that carefully. Maybe she
hadn't
gone to any bank to clear up the estate.

He shook his head. That was ridiculous. If the brother owed money, if he was owed money, of course she'd be working with a bank.
But probably
, he decided,
she'd see the manager and not a lowly clerk.
That
would be why the tellers didn't remember her.

He ordered coffee and some eggs. He'd have preferred whiskey, but he wanted a clear head to work this out. After all, he'd only spent a little time with her, hadn't touched any part of her except her arm. If she were here visiting a lover and she had lied to him, it was better to know it now before he got involved.

He finished his breakfast in silence, then started making the rounds of the places Charlotte would have had to visit to settle any estate. No one at the assay office knew her. The small clapboard building that served as the city hall had no record of any farm, ranch, or mining claim changing hands in the past seven months. He stopped in at the newspaper office and checked the obituaries for the past year. Seventeen men had died, including three farmers. None listed her as a surviving family member.

It
had
to be a lover. He could find out the man's name just by checking the various hotels in town. There were only six besides the Grand, and he was certain no clerk would deny the notorious Doc Holliday what he wanted. But then what would he do with the information? Shoot her lover? Tell her never to see him again?

He sighed deeply. He didn't have that long to live anyway. He could put up with Kate Elder for another year or two. There was no way he thought he would last any longer than that. The fights, the screaming matches, at least they kept him on his toes, and she had never denied her bed to him. They'd split up three times in the past—no, make it four—and they always got back together. They didn't even have to make apologies any more. One or the other would show up, there'd be no recriminations, and they'd be back together again as if nothing had happened.

Still, he resented Charlotte's lying to him. If she'd just said that she was visiting a friend, he's have instantly figured out what she meant and he wouldn't feel somehow duped or betrayed.

He decided he wanted a drink after all, and went over to the nearest saloon, walking through the swinging doors and approaching the already-crowded bar. There was a piano in the corner, but no one was playing it. A huge mirror hung behind it, perhaps twenty feet long, allowing him a perfect view of the entrance. He didn't think he had any enemies in Lincoln, but one never knew, and it was good to be able to see who came and went.

“Bottle and a glass,” he said, walking past a number of men until he found a space at the bar.

“Mind if I join you?” said a voice, and he turned to find himself facing a tall, well-built man with dark hair, a large mustache, and piercing gray eyes. He wore a shining star on his vest, and a gun on each hip.

“Be my guest,” replied Holliday.

“Thanks,” said the man. He extended a hand. “Garrett. Pat Garrett.”

“The sheriff,” said Holliday. “I've heard about you. And I'm—”

“Doc Holliday, I know,” said Garrett. “I've been hearing about you for years. Especially that shootout at the O.K. Corral in Tombstone. Was it everything they say it was?”

“Probably not,” said Holliday.

“I hear you were there again last week,” continued Garrett. “And that you might have met someone I know.”

“It's possible,” said Holliday. “Who do you know?”

“Let's not play games, Doc. At long as he's in Tombstone, he's safe. Well, safe from
me
, anyway. But if he comes back to New Mexico Territory, it's my job to bring him in or kill him.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” asked Holliday.

“Because you're Doc Holliday,” said Garrett. “There can only be one reason you're here. I just want you to know: if he's anywhere in Lincoln County, he's
mine.”

“Have you ever heard anything—a rumor, an eyewitness account, even a tall tale—about me being a bounty hunter?”

“If you're not here to kill him, you're here to join him, in which case I'll have to kill you too.”

“I'm in a bad mood this morning,” said Holliday irritably. “Threaten me some other time. You'll live longer.”

“I'm not threatening,” said Garrett. “I'm just suggesting that this might be a good time for you to go back to Tombstone or wherever you're from these days.”

“That's good to know,” said Holliday, staring into Garrett's eyes. “Because I've been threatened by experts. Two or three of them are probably still alive. Crippled, to be sure, but alive. Now shut up, drink your drink, and let's preserve at least the illusion of civility.”

Garrett returned his stare. “I don't rattle, Doc.”

“Then you won't make any noise when you hit the floor,” said Holliday. “I suggest you concentrate on the illustrious Mr. Bonney, and leave an honest dentist to his own devices.”

“Just remember,” said Garrett, “don't get between him and me. And if you're here to join him, you're a dead man.”

Holliday stood away from the bar and gathered his coat behind him with his left hand.

“Enough threats,” he said coldly. “Either try to back them up, or walk out of here.”

Garrett glared at Holliday, saw something in his eyes that made him rethink his position, forced an insincere laugh, then turned on his heel and stalked out.

“Is one of you gone?” said the bartender's voice.

“One of us is,” said Holliday, and the bartender stood up from where he'd been crouching behind the bar. Other customers who'd hit the floor began climbing back onto their chairs.

“Thank goodness!” said the bartender. “That mirror cost more than three hundred dollars. One bullet could destroy it.”

“That's a lot of money to pay for a mirror,” noted Holliday.

“We had to do something to make us different from the other bars. It was this, or import Lily Langtry. This was cheaper.”

Holliday smiled. “Not as entertaining, though.”

“Still,” continued the bartender, “it's a shame you didn't follow him outside and kill him. You would have put this place on the map.”

“I doubt it,” said Holliday. “No one will ever remember Pat Garrett.”

“Probably not,” agreed the bartender thoughtfully. “Hell, if you don't kill him this week, the Kid'll kill him next week or next month.”

“Is the Kid in town?” asked Holliday, trying not to appear too interested.

The bartender shrugged. “Who the hell knows? He comes and goes pretty much as he pleases.”

“And no one's tried to claim the reward?”

The bartender smiled. “Usually he'll toss a coin in the air, then draw and put a hole through it before it lands. Most people are content to leave him alone after that.”

“Including Garrett?” asked Holliday.

“Pat used to ride with him. Quite the pair of desperados they were. But Pat, he stopped short of shooting any lawmen. He saw enough friends killed that he decided to change sides, and went to work as a sheriff. He and Billy don't like each other much these days. I know Billy doesn't hate him enough to hunt him down, but he wouldn't think twice about shooting him if they find themselves face to face.”

“And he'd win?”

“He'd win. Garrett is good, don't get me wrong—but the Kid is, well, the Kid.” The bartender stared at him. “Don't take it wrong, Doc, but I think even you couldn't beat him.”

“Your confidence is appreciated,” said Holliday dryly.

“Doc, I didn't mean no offense,” said the bartender nervously.

“None taken,” said Holliday. “Fortunately I'm just a dentist and a card player.”

The bartender chuckled, though he was clearly still nervous. “So if he walks in here today or tomorrow, I shouldn't tell him you're looking for him?”

“I wouldn't want Billy the Kid mad at me,” said Holliday. He placed a couple of coins on the bar. “If he does stop by, buy him a drink for me.”

He left the bar, wandered around aimlessly for a few minutes until the heat of the day began to affect him, and finally returned to the Grand Hotel. He'd never used the bar there; if someone was hunting for him, that would be the first place they'd look.

It was just off the lobby, a little more elegant than the bars he usually frequented. There were curtains on the windows, leather cushions on the chairs, and the long bar had been polished to the point where one could almost see his face in it. Holliday ordered a bottle and a glass, seated himself across from a painting of George Armstrong Custer, and filled his glass.

Edison was coming back from wherever he'd spent the morning, spotted Holliday as he walked through the lobby, and joined him.

“Have a drink,” said Holliday, pushing the bottle over to him.

“Too early in the day for me,” replied Edison. He stared at it for a minute, then sighed and took a swallow. “I'll be honest, Doc,” he said. “I was just about ready to give up. If none of those things worked on the station, how the devil could I stop Geronimo and the others from containing the United States on the east side of the Mississippi? But now I'm on to something. I don't know
why
that ultrasound, or so I call it, killed White Eagle but didn't seem to bother Geronimo at all. I don't know if it'll affect Hook Nose, either—but that's the first positive result I've had in two years. It means they
can
be stopped, and I'm going back to my experiments with renewed enthusiasm.”

“If anyone can do it, you're the man,” said Holliday sincerely.

“Thanks, Doc,” said Edison. “It's easy to get discouraged when you're so long between successes, especially when I know my country's depending on me. I appreciate your support.”

“You want discouragement?” asked Holliday. “Watch the Kid in action. Now,
that's
discouraging. He doesn't
need
magic.” He paused. “How's the clean-up coming?”

“Well, they'll reach the valley tonight or tomorrow morning. I'll be getting daily reports,” said Edison. “As for the Kid, I've never seen him in action—but I've seen
you.
I don't think you have much to worry about, once I find a way to neutralize Hook Nose's magic.”