Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) (17 page)

“I

He was sitting on a leather sofa in the lobby of the Grand Hotel with Holliday and Buntline, who were seated opposite him on overstuffed chairs.

“The problem is, there are only two people we can test it out on,” added Buntline, lighting a thin cigar.

“One,” Edison corrected him.

“Two,” insisted Buntline. “Hook Nose and Geronimo.”

“One,” said Edison. “If it works, we don't want to disable Doc's protector before the crew's done cleaning the valley and we know that the spell's been lifted from both of them—or at least from the Kid.” He turned to Holliday. “That'll be at least another day, maybe two.”

“Why just one or two?” asked Holliday. “Every tribe has at least one medicine man.”

“True,” said Edison. “But only one of them is watching over you at the moment, and only one's protecting the Kid. The others are doubtless adding their powers to keeping the United States from expanding, but I see no reason to think they have any interest in either of you.”

“How soon do you think this thing, whatever it is, will be ready?” asked Holliday, unscrewing the top of his flask and taking a sip.

Edison shrugged. “I don't know. Hell, for all I know it's ready now. But I need to try it out to be sure.” A look of excitement crossed his face. “I'll tell you this much: if it
does
work, if the principle is valid, then I truly believe the United States will extend from the Atlantic to the Pacific during my lifetime.”

“If this thing takes care of Hook Nose, then all you have to do is turn it on Geronimo and your job is done,” said Holliday.

Edison shook his head. “I doubt it. Hook Nose and Geronimo are the two most powerful medicine men, but they're not the only ones. Just about every tribe has one. Alone they're not much, but if they're pooling their power…”

“Are
they?” asked Holliday.

“I don't know,” admitted Edison. “But it makes sense.”

“There's only one way to find out,” said Buntline. “If we eliminate these two—Hook Nose and Geronimo—either we can start spreading across the Mississippi in our millions, or we can't.”

“So what's this principle?” asked Holliday. “Sound or electricity?”

“They're not mutually exclusive,” said Edison. “I need an incredibly strong current to power the ultrasonic device.”

“And that's just for Hook Nose and Geronimo or their surrogates, who are close enough to be watching things,” added Buntline. “If Tom's right about how many medicine men are involved, think of the power we need for the silent sound to reach medicine men in Colorado and Montana, or on the Pacific Coast.”

“So this is just a test?”

“Right,” said Buntline. “And if it works, it's a deadly one.”

“I wish you luck,” said Holliday, who could read the enthusiasm on Edison's face and was afraid he was about to be subjected to a two-hour lecture on how to convert invisible electricity into unheard sound. He was almost happy for the distraction when Pat Garrett entered the hotel and walked right up to him.

“I need an official statement from you, Doc,” said Garrett.

“I'm pleased to see you too,” answered Holliday.

“Damn it, Doc! Billy murdered Nate Crosley and you didn't lift a finger to stop it!”

“It's not as if they agreed to go out in the street and face off,” replied Holliday. “The Kid drew and killed him before he or anyone else knew what was happening, including me.”

“Why didn't you try to stop it?”

“I did. I told your deputy to shut up and stop encouraging him.”

“Goddamn it!” yelled Garrett. “You're the only man in the whole territory besides me who might have stopped the Kid, and you didn't do a damned thing!”

Holliday held his lapel out. “You see a badge?”

“When did you ever need a badge to kill anyone?” growled Garrett.

“I know it's escaped all the dime novelists, but I was wearing a badge at the O.K. Corral.” Holliday smiled. “I'm told you
weren't
wearing one back then. In fact, I'm told you rode with a desperado known as Billy the Kid.”

Garrett tensed, glared at him, muttered “Be at my office in half an hour!” turned on his heel, and walked back out into the street.

“I'd heard a deputy was killed yesterday,” said Buntline. “I didn't know you were there.”

“I can't spend
all
my time drinking in the hotel,” replied Holliday easily.

“And the Kid gunned him down?”

Holliday nodded. “He's got a temper, and the deputy was too stupid to realize it.”

“You make it sound like the deputy's fault,” noted Buntline.

“If you taunt a mountain lion and the lion attacks, whose fault is it?” asked Holliday.

“Does the lion know right from wrong?” interjected Edison.

“I doubt it,” said Holliday.

“Then he needs to be put down before he can harm anyone else.”

“I think that's the purpose of this exercise,” said Holliday with a grim smile.

“It's surprising,” said Edison. “This is the third time I've been in the same town with him, and I've yet to lay eyes on him.”

“He's not all that much to look at,” said Holliday. “Just an ordinary-looking young man with an uncommon skill.”

Edison stared at him. “Do you like him, Doc?”

“I've liked my share of killers over the years,” answered Holliday. “I get along with him, but it's hard to like a man who might try to kill you at any minute on a whim.”

“But he can't.”

“That doesn't make him any more likeable,” said Holliday with a smile.

“He's also a little young and a little uneducated from what I hear,” suggested Buntline.

“With Johnny Ringo dead and John Wesley Hardin in jail, I'm the only educated shootist still walking around free, so that doesn't count against him any more than it counts against anyone else,” said Holliday. “As for being young, hell, I'm the oldest shootist I know, and I'm only thirty-two. It's not a profession that leads to a long life.”

“Well, eventually I suppose I'll meet him,” said Edison.

Holliday nodded. “If someone doesn't kill him first.”

“You think someone will?” asked Buntline. “Someone besides you, I mean?”

Holliday shrugged. “The Kid's only bulletproof for another day or two, and he's got the biggest price on his head that anyone ever saw. All he has to do is turn his back on the wrong man. It doesn't have to be a shootist, just someone who's hungry enough to try for the reward or the fame, and good enough to hit a standing target at maybe twenty feet.”

“I wonder why it hasn't happened yet?”

“Because they only raised the price on him a month ago, and because he's got good instincts. And for the last few months or maybe even longer, he's been invulnerable.” Holliday got to his feet. “And now I'd better get over to the sheriff's office before he comes after me with guns blazing.”

“He wouldn't do that!” scoffed Buntline.

“A year or two back he was riding with Billy the Kid,” replied Holliday. “He became sheriff because he's just bright enough to know that sooner or later everyone who rides with the Kid is going to die, shot down either by the law or by the Kid himself.” Holliday paused thoughtfully. “I've never shot a sheriff before, though I'd have been happy to kill Johnny Behan back in Tombstone. I'm not real anxious to kill one here, when I've come for other business. So it's best that I go before he comes back here.”

He walked out of the bar and through the lobby, then out into the stifling New Mexico heat. He tipped his hat to a pair of women who passed him, nodded to a saloonkeeper he recognized, and then presented himself at Garrett's office.

“There it is,” said Garrett, indicating a sheet of paper on his desk. “I assume you can read and write?”

Holliday simply stared at him.

“Okay, you're a dentist, of course you can,” continued Garrett. “Write down what happened and sign your name. Then I'll have something for the court in case someone slits your ugly throat or they run you out of town.”

Holliday walked to the desk and looked at the paper. “I'll need a pen, an inkwell, and a chair.”

“Here's the pen and ink,” said Garrett, pushing them across the desk. “Pull up a chair yourself.”

Holliday brought a chair over and began writing. He finished in less than three minutes, signed it with a flourish, then pushed the paper back to Garrett's side of the desk.

“You don't like me very much, do you?” said Garrett.

“Not very,” said Holliday.

“I hope you're not dumb enough to side with the Kid.”

“I like him a lot better than I like you, but no.”

“Good,” said Garrett. “I might have a little trouble taking you both at once.”

Holliday stared coldly at him. “You couldn't take either of us on the best day you ever had, and you know it. Now just keep playing at being a fearless sheriff, and sooner or later someone will kill the Kid for you.”

“You've never seen me in action.”

Holliday got to his feet.

“And if you're lucky, I never will,” he said. “I've given you my statement. Now I'm going back to the bar to continue drinking, unless you want me to see you in action right now. I warn you up front that I am not a merciful man, and I do not shoot to wound or disarm.”

The two men stared at each other for a tense minute. Then Holliday turned and walked back out into the street.

E

“I just hope to hell Geronimo knows it,” muttered Holliday.

“He knows,” said a voice from the window. Holliday walked over to it just in time to see a bird flying away.

“Thanks, Tom,” said Holliday. He started getting dressed as Edison left. He'd had a bad coughing fit during the night, so bad that he knew no amount of laundering could ever get the bloodstains off his handkerchief and he'd thrown it out before leaving the hotel, replacing it with a brand-new one.

For some reason the coughing hadn't killed his appetite as it usually did. He went over to Mabel Grimsley's, was shown to his usual table, and ordered three eggs, toast, and coffee. While he was waiting, Charlotte Branson entered and walked over to his table.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

“Happy to have you,” said Holliday. “You'll forgive me if I don't stand up, but I had a hard night.”

“The consumption?”

“Yes.”

“There must be
some
way to cure it!” said Charlotte.

“Tom Edison assures me that there will be,” replied Holliday. He smiled wryly. “But not until some years after I'm pushing up daisies.”

“Don't talk like that!” she said severely.

He shrugged. “Okay, marigolds.”

“Doc, please!”

“You've chosen a business where death is the desired result,” said Holliday. “You shouldn't let the thought of it distress you so much.”

“It's the thought of
your
death,” said Charlotte. She leaned forward confidentially. “I found out where Billy the Kid is staying. After breakfast I aim to ride out there and see to
his
death.”

“Forget it,” said Holliday. “I've seen what you each can do. You haven't got a chance.”

She smiled. “I'm not going to call him out in the street and draw against him, Doc.”

“What
are
you going to do?”

“I thought I'd present myself as a tax assessor,” she replied. “I won't be asking for money, just appraising, so whoever owns the place shouldn't object to my presence.”

“And then what?”

“Then, when he's relaxed and I'm so close I can't miss, I'll blow the back of his head off.”

“Do you know for a fact that he's alone?” asked Holliday.

“It's almost certain that he's not,” she said. “After all, it's a working ranch.”

Holliday was momentarily silent as Mabel herself brought his breakfast, and Charlotte ordered from the short menu. Then, when he was sure they couldn't be overheard by Mabel or any of the diners, he spoke again.

“I'm coming with you,” he said.

“I thought we were friends,” said Charlotte, half hurt, half angry. “He's
mine.”

“I'm just riding shotgun,” said Holliday. “For all you know he's got half a dozen cowboys who won't let you anywhere near him.”

“Doc, if you come along, there's bound to be a lot of shooting,” she said. “If I go alone, there'll be just a single shot, and it'll be over.”

Holliday shook his head. “Your courage does you no credit,” he told her. “It's a result of ignorance.”

“Damn it, Doc!” she said angrily. “I've brought in seven men who were wanted dead or alive, and I've never been in so much as an instant's danger.”

“He's not
any
wanted man,” said Holliday. “I've only seen a couple of men who were in a class with him as shootists.”

“Bill Hickok and who?”

“Not Hickok. Johnny Ringo, who's dead, and John Wesley Hardin, who's rotting in a Texas jail. And me.”

“You don't suffer from false modesty, do you?”

“I don't know that any of the three of us could beat him. I just know that no other shootist I've ever seen would have a chance, current company included.”

“I keep explaining, Doc: I'm not going to draw on him. I'll wait until he's relaxed and his guard is down, and then I'll retire the notorious Mr. Bonney.”

“His guard is never down.”

“If the opportunity doesn't present itself, I'll explain that I have to check some facts in the County Assessor's office and that I'll be back in a day or two.” She frowned. “Except that I hate to do that. There's no guarantee that he'll still be there, or even in New Mexico Territory, two days from now.”

Holliday nodded his head. “It sounds very reasonable.”

Mabel Grimsley brought Charlotte's tea and biscuits, and took Holliday's empty plate away.

“Then I've convinced you?” said Charlotte when Mabel had retreated to the kitchen.

“That you're going about it the safest and most careful way possible? Absolutely.”

“Fine! At least that's settled. How do you plan to spend your day?

“Riding out there with you,” said Holliday.

“Doc!”

“Doing it the safest possible way doesn't mean it isn't a damnfool thing to do when you can't hit a rabbit on the run at ten paces.”

“I keep explaining: he'll be standing still.”

“Then you won't need any backup, and I won't have to draw my gun.”

She sighed deeply. “You insist?”

He smiled a grim smile. “I insist.”

“I suppose the only way to stop you is to shoot you.” Suddenly she smiled back at him. “Too bad there's not a price on
your
head.” She sighed. “I guess we're riding out there together. Just remember: he's
mine.”

“Have I said otherwise?” replied Holliday.

“And you don't mind?”

“He's not mine unless and until he kills you, and I don't mean to let that happen.”

“Actually,” she said, buttering a biscuit and taking a bite of it, “I find that comforting. If I'm going to have someone protecting my back, who better than Doc Holliday?” She took a sip of her tea. “Needs sugar.”

Holliday signaled to Mabel, ordered sugar, and went back to sipping his coffee.

“If you kill him, do you retire and go back home?” he asked.

“That was my initial plan,” she admitted. “But if I can kill Billy the Kid, why should I quit?”

“Because you're about fifteen years older than most of the men you'll be hunting,” replied Holliday. “Doesn't that imply something to you?” He waited for an answer that was not forthcoming. “Charlotte, no one who makes a living, legal or illegal, with a gun lives to a ripe old age. Only a very few make it to early middle age, lawmen as well as desperados.”

“Your friend Wyatt Earp is well on his way to middle age,” she pointed out.

“He has competent friends.”

She was silent for a moment. “Doc, I really haven't decided. Let me think about it after I take the Kid.”

Holliday shrugged. “It's your life.”

“I'm glad you acknowledge it.”

“Just seems a shame to end it twenty or thirty years early.”

“Can we drop the subject, please?” said Charlotte.

“All right,” said Holliday. “Hell, the next argument I win with a woman will be the first.” He finished his coffee. “When did you want to head out to wherever the hell we're going?”

“Right away.”

“Can you wait maybe half an hour?”

She looked concerned. “You said you had a bad night. Are you going to be sick again?”

“No, I'm going to get well,” he said, getting to his feet. “I'll meet you back here. Do you have a wagon?”

“I rented a surrey. I don't like riding atop a horse.”

“We have that in common,” said Holliday. “I'll be back soon.”

He walked out and headed over to the shuttered storefront where Edison and Buntline had temporarily set up shop. Even shuttered, the frame building looked unique, with an electric light over the front door and an electronic bell—and, he was sure, three or four security devices. He was about to knock on the door when it opened and he found himself facing Buntline.

“Good morning, Doc. A bit early for you, isn't it?”

“Good morning, Ned. I need your help for a few minutes, yours or Tom's.”

“Happy to. Come on in.”

Buntline escorted him to the interior of the building, which was filled with wires, batteries, and machines that made very little sense to Holliday. Edison was bent over a desk, scribbling some figures in one of his ever-present notebooks, when he noticed Holliday.

“Hello, Doc,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“You still got that brass armor you and Ned made up for me before the O.K. Corral?” asked Holliday.

“Yes,” said Edison. “But it's just a prototype. Give us a week and we'll have something much better.”

“I haven't got a week. Charlotte's going after him this morning.”

“Charlotte?” said Buntline. “You mean Mrs. Branson?”

“Right,” said Holliday.

“Why in the world…?” mused Buntline. Suddenly he grinned. “Don't tell me she's a bounty hunter!”

“Okay, I won't tell you.”

“But that's
wonderful
!” continued Buntline. “Who'd ever suspect her? She can probably stand out there on the sidewalk and shoot her prey as he walks by, and he'll never know what hit him!”

“I think she'd enjoy chatting with you,” said Holliday wryly.

“So if the Kid's coming to town, why bother with the armor? Let her kill him when he's sitting down to have a drink.”

“Doc's after the bounty, remember?” Edison chimed in.

“Damn!” said Buntline. “I forgot for a minute.”

“If she wants him, she can have him,” said Holliday. “I'll find some other way to make the money I need. Problem is, she's not waiting for him to come to town. She found out where he's staying—some ranch outside of town—and she's going out there after him.”

“She's crazy!” said Buntline. “You'll face him, of course.”

“She's got first shot at him. I'm just along for the ride.”

“Bring her over,” said Buntline. “I've still got some armor left over from Morgan Earp. I'll bet I can adjust it to fit her in an hour or two.”

“You start measuring her legs or her chest and she just might shoot you first,” said Holliday, only half-kidding. “When she sees it on me, she can make up her mind then.”

“All right,” said Buntline. “Let's start putting it on you.”

“Just the legs and the left shoulder,” said Holliday. “It's hot as hell out, this stuff is heavy, and for all I know we're an hour or more away from the ranch. I have enough trouble breathing without that stuff wrapped around my chest, and I want my right hand and arm free.”

“You're the boss,” said Buntline, sorting through a pile of trunks and boxes. Finally he found the trunk he wanted, opened it, and pulled out the still shining brass.

“I wish I had a weapon for you, Doc,” said Edison, walking over and helping Buntline attach the armor. “But the Buntline Special was built to work against an animated corpse. It killed Johnny Ringo, but it won't do a thing against a living man.”

“I understand,” said Holliday. He spread his legs as they attached the brass shin and thigh plates, then stood still while Buntline adjusted the armor on his shoulder.

“I asked you back in Tombstone,” said Buntline. “Are you sure you don't want a brass skullcap? It'll fit right under your hat.”

Holliday shook his head. “You're not talking to a healthy man. If I have to look right or left in a hurry, I don't want any weight on my head.”

“Then,” said Buntline, stepping back and inspecting him, “you're as ready as I can make you.”

Holliday walked to the door, turned to shut it behind him only to find it had closed by itself, and made his way back to Mabel Grimsley's restaurant, where Charlotte was waiting for him.

“What
is
all that?” she asked, looking at his brass armor.

“The latest fashion from New York,” he answered. “Would you care for the ladies' version?”

She considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “No, it'd be a giveaway. What county assessor wears armor?”

“Then shall we go?”

Each insisted that the other ride in the surrey's compartment, and they settled for both sitting up top on the wide driver's seat under the canopy. Within three minutes they were out of town and on their way to confront Billy the Kid.