Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) (21 page)

“How?”

“Get close enough to the owl so you can't miss, and then shoot it.” Holliday merely stared at him without saying a word, and Edison continued. “If you kill it, we know it was just a misplaced and unlucky bird. But if I'm right, bullets won't have any effect on it at all. That's what I'm counting on.”

Holliday frowned. “You're hoping I
can't
hurt it?”

“Right,” said Edison. “Because if you can't, then we know it's part of Hook Nose's or Geronimo's magic—or maybe both of theirs together. And if I can then harm, or kill, or somehow disrupt it with this device, we'll know it's effective against magic.”

“What if it only harms it, but doesn't kill it?”

“Makes no difference,” answered Edison. “It'll mean I've got the right principle, and I simply have to find ways to strengthen and refine it.”

“Am I going to need ear plugs?”

Edison shook his head. “This noiseless sound will be beyond the ability of any man, any dog, any living thing at all, to hear. It doesn't harm people or animals; if it works, what it does is disrupt magic.”

Holliday shrugged. “I hope you're right. I suppose we might as well start right now.”

Edison nodded his assent, and Holliday began walking toward the stand of trees. The owl watched him approach, but made no effort to fly away. Holliday walked around the stand to the far side of it, where he had a better view of the owl. He felt uncomfortable shooting at something that might be, and probably was, magical. He had an urge to pull his gun, fire off three or four quick shots, and then back away, but he knew he had to be sure he hit it. So when he was about twenty paces from the tree he slowly withdrew his gun, took careful aim, and squeezed off a shot. He heard the
thunk!
as the bullet hit, and saw some feathers fly off, but the owl never moved, never gave any indication that it had been shot. He fired twice more with the same effect, or lack of effect, and finally he holstered his gun and walked back toward Edison.

“You're sure you hit him?” asked the inventor.

“I'm sure.”

“Then let's see if I'm on the right track, or if I've wasted a week.”

Edison pointed the device at the bird.

“Don't you want to get closer?” asked Holliday.

“This will affect everything for miles,” said Edison. “In theory, anyway.”

His thumb moved to a small switch that Holliday hadn't seen. There was no noise, not even a low humming, nothing glowed, nothing sprang forth from the end of the device—but the owl screeched, began flying off, and suddenly burst into a fireball and vanished as a handful of ashes swirled down to the ground.

“Well, I'll be damned!” said Holliday.

“But maybe the United States won't be,” said Edison, a satisfied smile on his face.

“That wasn't either of them, was it?”

“I doubt it,” answered Edison. “They knew what I did to White Eagle. They'd have known what we were doing when you fired your gun at them, and would have fled. No, he or they—make it
they
, I'm sure they were both watching, even if only one wove the bird from a spell—just wanted to see how far I've gotten.”

“Have you figured out that makes you a marked man?” said Holliday.

“In a way,” replied Edison. “But they don't know what this can do to them personally, and they don't know what else I've got that might do even more damage. I think I'm reasonably safe for the moment.”

“I think you're an optimist.”

“Perhaps,” said Edison. “But just to put this into historical perspective, this is the first time since the war between science and magic began that science has won a skirmish.”

“White Eagle would disagree with that if he were here,” said Holliday with a grim smile.

“All right, the second time.”

Edison, using overdone gestures, finally got the driver to understand that he was to take them back to town. They climbed back into the coach, and Holliday pulled out his flask and offered Edison a drink.

“No, thanks. I've got to make notes of this, and I'll need a clear head.”

Holliday took a drink, capped the flask, and put it back in a coat pocket. “I was just wondering, Tom…”

“Yes?”

“Do you think maybe the bird
was
Geronimo or Hook Nose?”

Edison looked out the window and smiled. “Not a chance,” he said firmly.

“You sound very certain.”

Edison pointed to a tree, “See that white bird?”

“Yes.”

“It's a Snowy Owl. It has even less business being in New Mexico, and watching us at high noon, than the Great Gray Owl.”

Holliday raised his hand from his lap and waved at the owl. Later he would doubt it, but at that moment he could have sworn that the owl lifted a wing and waved back.

H

He was up at ten the next morning. There was a bird perched on his window. He spoke to it, but all it did was chirp and fly off as he approached it.

He looked around the lobby for Charlotte, in case she was having a late breakfast, couldn't spot her, and went out the front door. He ran a hand over his cheek, decided he needed a shave, and stopped in at the barber shop.

“You could use a haircut too,” noted the barber as he lathered Holliday's face.

Holliday was about to tell him to forget it. Then he looked in a mirror, decided that he
was
getting a little shaggy, and concluded that Charlotte might appreciate a clean-cut dining partner, and okayed it.

“Your friend Mr. Buntline was in earlier,” said the barber as he began clipping away at Holliday's hair. “Tried to sell me a brass razor.” The barber chuckled. “Can you imagine that? A brass razor!”

“I'd buy it if I were you,” said Holliday.

“Actually, he tried to sell me two dozen of them. Swears they'll never get dull.”

“Believe it or not, he's right.”

The barber grinned. “How many hands have I got? If they never get dull, what do I need with twenty-four of them?”

Holliday smiled. “I think he just invented himself out of the market.”

“He wasn't bullshitting, though?” persisted the barber. “They really work?”

“If he says so, I'd believe him.”

“You're his friend, Doc. Tell him if he'll sell me just four, I'll buy.”

“I'll mention it next time I see him,” replied Holliday.

“Okay, hold still now, and I'll take this stubble off your cheeks with a
real
razor.”

It was over in three minutes, Holliday flipped him a dime, and walked out into the street. After spending two years in Tombstone and Leadville, cities Edison had virtually re-made, he found it difficult to adjust to horses tied to hitching posts, to the piles of horse manure as he walked across the street, and to the gaslights that illuminated the interiors of the darker buildings in the daytime.

He made his way to Mabel Grimsley's and sat at his usual table. Mabel came out of the kitchen with a cup in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other and approached him.

“Ah!” she said. “My favorite customer!”

“Your most notorious, anyway,” replied Holliday.

“Same thing,” she said with a smile. “You stay notorious and you'll stay my favorite.”

“Has Charlotte been in here this morning?”

“Two or three hours ago. She said she had things to do, and figured you'd been playing cards and would be sleeping ‘til noon.”

“She was half right,” said Holliday with a wry smile. “I was losing at cards, and I slept ‘til ten.”

Mabel laughed. “I heard you won a few thousand the other night. You can't win every time.”

“No,” agreed Holliday. “But you can wish you could.”

“What'll it be, Doc? Same as usual?”

He'd been about to order toast and a scrambled egg when it occurred to him that he was
hungry
, and decided it came from not drinking as much as usual the night before.

“I'll take a small steak.”

“Funny,” said Mabel, smiling. “I could have sworn you were Doc Holliday.”

She went off to the kitchen, and Holliday pulled a book out of his pocket. He was still reading it when she returned with his breakfast.

“What have you got there?” she asked, indicating the book.

“A biography of President Lincoln,” answered Holliday. “I picked it up in the general store.” He closed the book and put it in a pocket. “How big a reward do you think they offered for John Wilkes Booth?”

“Who was he?” asked Mabel.

“The man who kill Mr. Lincoln.”

She frowned as she considered it. “What are they offering for Billy these days?”

“Ten thousand.”

“Okay, fifteen.”

Holliday smiled. “One hundred thousand.”

“For one man?” she said. “Hell, even Geronimo's not worth much more than twenty.” She shrugged. “That's what comes of reading books. You learn all kinds of useless things.”

“I'll give it to you when I'm through with it,” said Holliday. “In fact, you can have it now if you like. I've found want I wanted to know.”

She shook her head. “No offense, Doc, but I limit my reading to the Good Book. Ten chapters every morning before I come over here.”

“Sometimes ten chapters barely comes to half a page,” noted Holliday.

“It ain't how long they are,” she replied. “It's how important.”

“True enough.”

“Do you ever read the Bible, Doc?”

He shook his head. “Not anymore.”

She nodded her head. “I suppose it'd be a hindrance in your profession.”

“My profession is dentistry.”

“If all you were was a dentist, you wouldn't be getting all these free meals.”

Holliday grinned. “Touché.”

“Whatever
that
means,” she said. “Well, don't just sit there talking about rewards and bibles. Dig in before it gets cold.”

Holliday did as she told him, and decided that the steak tasted even better than it smelled. When he was done he asked for a second cup of coffee, wished his weakened lungs would let him light up a cigar, and pulled the book out once again.

“If your pal Tom Edison would stick his electric lights in here,” said Mabel, cleaning up a table near him, “you could read that a little easier.”

“He's a little busy these days,” said Holliday, “but I'll tell him to come by and look the place over so he can tell you what he'd need to do and how much it would cost.”

“I could make a deal with him, too,” said Mabel. “Free meals for lights.”

“I'll let him know.”

“Thanks.”

Holliday got up, walked out the door, and headed back to the Grand. He stopped by the desk and asked if Charlotte had returned yet.

“No she hasn't, Doc,” said the clerk. “I ain't seen her since she went out maybe three, three and a half hours ago,”

“Did she say where she was going?”

The clerk shook his head. “Nope. Can't imagine why she'd tell me anyway.”

“Got a pen and a piece of paper?” asked Holliday.

“Sure,” said the clerk, reaching behind the desk and withdrawing them. “Here you are, Doc.”

Holliday penned a four-word note—
Dinner at six? Doc
—and handed it to the clerk. “See that she gets this when she comes in, would you please?”

“Sure. She should be back any time. She didn't take her luggage with her.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Holliday, suddenly alert.

“That surrey you two rented a couple of days ago,” said the clerk. “She rented it again.”

“When?”

“I don't know. Maybe eight o'clock, maybe eight-fifteen. She was sitting right over there. I figured she was waiting for you to wake up so you could walk over to Miz Grimsley's for breakfast like you often do. Then some guy came in and said something to her, and she gave him some money and sent him off, and he was back a couple of minutes later with the surrey.”

“Did he go with her?”

The clerk shook his head. “No, she went alone. Didn't say where.” He studied Holliday's face and suddenly felt very uneasy and more than a little bit afraid. “Is something wrong, Doc?”

Holliday shook his head. “Just a little restless.”

“You probably ain't used to seeing the sun in the eastern half of the sky,” suggested the clerk.

“I think I've been up before noon more often in New Mexico than at any time since I was a dentist.”

“I wonder,” said the clerk, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Why do you suppose most men do their drinking and their gambling at night?”

“I don't know. It's a way to relax.”

“That's probably why there ain't a line at any of the bawdy houses at noontime,” agreed the clerk. Suddenly he stared out the front door. “There he is!”

“There
who
is?”

“The guy who was talking to Mrs. Branson this morning.”

Holliday was out the door instantly and approaching the man, who was dressed pretty much like a ranch hand: blue jeans, Stetson, worn boots, a plain shirt, and a bandana around his neck.

“Excuse me,” said Holliday, walking up to him. “May I speak to you for a minute?”

“Sure,” said the cowboy. “You're Doc Holliday, ain't you?”

“Yes, I am. You said something to Mrs. Branson this morning, and then went and got a surrey for her. What exactly did you say?”

“Just that Billy the Kid and Josh Brady were back at Brady's place. She'd paid me a gold dollar a couple of days ago to let her know anytime the Kid was in the area.”

“And that's when she asked you to get her the surrey?” said Holliday.

“Right.”

“Did you actually see him, or did you just hear he was back?”

“I seen him with my own eyes, just after daybreak. So I saddled up and came to town to tell her. I figured that was the least I could do for my gold piece.”

“Thanks,” said Holliday.

“Nice meeting you,” said the cowboy, starting to walk off. “Now if I ever have any kids, I can tell ‘em that I've met Billy the Kid, Cole Younger, and Doc Holliday.”

Holliday began walking toward the stable to rent a buggy, a surrey, a horse and saddle,
anything
, to take him out to Brady's ranch. He was within fifty paces of it when a horse-pulled wagon that was going down the street stopped as it came abreast of him.

“You're Doc Holliday, right?” said the driver.

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Come on over to the undertaker's. I got a body for you to identify.”

“I'll do it right here,” said Holliday with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“It's in the back.”

Holliday walked around to the back of the wagon. A body was wrapped in a pair of blankets. He unfolded them and found himself looking at Charlotte Branson. She had one bullet hole through her right eye, and two more in her chest, just below her heart.

Holliday stared at her, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching, saying nothing. After a couple of minutes the driver climbed down, walked over to Holliday, and stared down at the corpse.

“Is she who I think she is?” he said. “The lady I seen you eating with a couple of times?”

Holliday nodded. “Charlotte Branson.”

“I'll tell the undertaker and Sheriff Garrett, but they may want official identification from you.”

“I'll stop by the undertaker's in a few minutes,” said Holliday emotionlessly.

“And Garrett?”

“I'm on my way,” said Holliday, turning and walking briskly toward the sheriff's office.

He opened the door, walked in, and stood in front of Garrett's desk.

“What is it?” demanded Garrett, making no attempt to hide his dislike for the man facing him.

“In a few minutes, you're going to be told officially that the Kid killed a woman named Charlotte Branson,” said Holliday. “Her body has just been delivered to the undertaker.”

“Shit!”
growled Garrett, getting to his feet. “He's gone too far this time. He's never killed a woman before!”

“Stay where you are,” said Holliday in a low voice. “I'll handle this.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Garrett.
“I'm
the sheriff!”

“I know there's no love lost between us,” said Holliday. “And I really don't want to kill you, but I will if I have to. If you want to live, just sit back down and relax.”

Garrett looked into Holliday's eyes and didn't like what he saw. He sat down.

“You want to tell me why you're preventing me from doing my duty?” said Garrett.

“He's
mine!”
said Holliday so softly Garrett could barely hear the words.