Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) (4 page)

T

HE
B
UNT
L
INE STOPPED
at the edge of the New Mexico Territory, and Holliday transferred to a horse-drawn stagecoach. The ride was rougher, the odor and flies suddenly prevalent, and the possibility of an Indian attack greater.

Their surroundings became flatter, with nothing but the occasional cactus to break the even horizon. It seemed too hot and dry even for snakes and spiders, and they passed occasional stark-white cattle skeletons along the way. Holliday stared out the window, unable to comprehend why the Indians would fight to hold onto this bleak land, or why the United States coveted it.

They stopped twenty miles into the territory at a stagecoach station to rest and water the horses, and Holliday clambered down from the coach and decided to stretch his legs. The stretching was cut short when he saw there was a bar inside the station, and he walked inside for a drink.

“What'll it be?” asked the station master, who doubled as bartender and ticket salesman.

“Just whiskey.”

“I can make something fancier if you like.”

Holliday shook his head. “I'm not a fancy kind of man.”

The station master shrugged. “Whatever you say. I'm not about to argue with Doc Holliday.”

Holliday stared at him. “Do I know you?”

“Never had the honor of meeting you.”

“Then how—?”

“Came over the telegraph,” was the answer. He picked up the message and read it aloud. “'Doc Holliday will be on the next coach. Show him every courtesy, and whatever you do, don't rile him.'”

“They must think I kill someone before breakfast every day,” remarked Holliday, draining his glass.

“If you say you don't, I believe it,” said the station master. “Hell, if you say cows can fly and pigs can piss beer, I'll believe you.”

Holliday couldn't repress a grin. “How about if I just say this is damned good whiskey and I'd like a refill?”

“It's yours, on the house,” said the station master, pouring him another.

“That's very generous of you,” said Holliday. “I'll remember you in my will.”

“They say you can't die.”

Now that I'm broke, wouldn't that be ironic if it were true?

“Oh, everything dies,” he said aloud.

The station master leaned on the bar. “How many men have you killed, Doc?”

“One or two,” answered Holliday.

“They've credited you with twenty-five.”

“One of those damned McLaury brothers must have come back to life,” said Holliday with an amused smile. “Last I heard it was twenty-six.”

“So it's twenty-six?”

Holliday shook his head. “You can't believe everything you hear.”

“Okay,” said the station master, who sensed he had pushed enough. “It'll be your secret.”

“Mine, and a bunch of dime novel writers who can't count,” agreed Holliday, walking out the door.

He adjusted his hat to keep the sun from his eyes, and unbuttoned his jacket. He didn't remember New Mexico being this hot; it could just as well have been Arizona. A hot breeze was blowing sagebrush and sand across the flat ground. A snake seemed content to remain in the shade cast by the coach. The horses had slaked their thirst, but were drenched in sweat.

“Welcome to New Mexico,” said the driver, grinning as he noticed Holliday's discomfort. “Hot enough for you.”

Holliday took a deep breath. “At least the air's a little thicker than up in Leadville.”

“I imagine most of the men you killed are where it's a little hotter right now.”

“Only the first four or five thousand,” said Holliday, forcing a smile to his lips.
What the hell kind of maniac do you people think I am?

“Well, we've got our share that needs killing,” said the driver. “Got one right now.”

“Oh?” said Holliday, trying not to look too interested.

“Well, maybe,” hedged the driver. “They say he's killed twenty men, maybe thirty. But they also say he's a really nice, polite, thoughtful kid, so who knows?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Billy Bonney,” was the answer. “Just busted out of jail a couple of months ago. Killed eight or nine deputies in the process. Maybe twelve.”

“I don't believe I've heard of any desperado named Bonney,” said Holliday, hoping the driver could tell him more details.

“Maybe you've heard of Billy the Kid?”

“Here and there.”

“Don't know why he permits it. Who'd want to get famous as being a kid?” continued the driver.

“Sounds to me like he's chosen a profession where he's not likely to get much older,” answered Holliday. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“They say he's got a Mexican ladyfriend,” was the answer. “I hear he's left-handed, but I don't put much stock in it, since I figure anyone who's seen him draw ain't around to report on it.”

“Makes sense.”

Suddenly a horse-drawn buckboard pulled up, and a woman in her fifties climbed down, tipped the man at the reins, walked over to the stagecoach, handed a ticket to the driver, and entered the coach.

“I guess we can go now,” said the driver. “She's what we were waiting for. Climb aboard, Doc.”

Holliday entered the coach and sat down opposite the woman.

“I'm Charlotte Branson,” she said, extending a gloved hand.

“John H. Holliday at your service, ma'am.”

She frowned. “I heard the driver call you Doc.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm a dentist.”

“You're Doc Holliday, aren't you?”

“I've been called that, yes, ma'am,” he said, tipping his hat.

“I want you to know that I'm not the least bit afraid of you,” said Charlotte Branson.

“I'm terrified of you, ma'am,” replied Holliday.

She chuckled. “I do believe we're going to get along famously, Doc.” Then: “May I call you Doc?”

“Why not?” said Holliday with a shrug.

“Well, how shall we kill the time, Doc?” she continued. “Have you got a deck of cards, or would you rather regale me with stories of the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.”

“How does canasta sound, Miss Branson?” said Holliday.

“It's
Mrs.
Branson, and please call me Charlotte.”

“Very well, Charlotte. Shall we play a friendly game of canasta?”

“How about a friendly game of blackjack, dollar a hand?” she countered.

Suddenly Holliday grinned. “You're right, Charlotte. We're going to get on well together.” He paused. “And when you hear stories about the gunfight, you can tell them that it was in the alley leading up to the O.K. Corral, and your source for that is Doc Holliday.”

“I shall do that,” she promised. “Was Ike Clanton as ugly as they say?”

“Uglier,” replied Holliday, putting his suitcase on his lap and starting to deal.

They played and exchanged stories until the horses came to another watering station three hours later, at which time Holliday was seven dollars ahead.

“Well, I guess I didn't do so badly,” said Charlotte.

“Charlotte, around Tombstone and elsewhere, they say that an outlaw named Johnny Behind-the-Deuce is the best cardplayer in the West.” He smiled at her. “I never had to work this hard beating him at the card table.”

“I'm flattered,” she said, beaming. “Seven dollars poorer, but flattered.”

“Let me spend some of that seven dollars buying you a drink,” offered Holliday.

“Just one,” she said as he climbed down and then held out his hand to her. “I can't get used to—what do you call it?—rotgut.”

“I call it wet,” answered Holliday, offering her his arm and escorting her into the station.

“Welcome,” said the station master. “What can I get for you and the missus?”

“The missus is from back in the States,” said Holliday. “You got anything from east of the Mississippi?”

“Almost,” was the answer. “Is St. Louis close enough?”

Holliday looked questioningly at Charlotte, and she nodded.

“That'll be fine,” he said. As the station master was hunting up the bottle, Holliday added, “It's been a long trip. You got an outhouse around here?”

“There's one out back.”

Holliday turned to Charlotte. “Ladies first.”

“I'm fine, Doc,” she said.

“Then if you'll excuse me…”

He turned and walked back out the door, then circled the station until he saw the outhouse and began approaching it. Then a prarie dog caught his eye. It was sitting on the ground a few feet from the outhouse, staring unblinking at him.

He pulled out a handkerchief and waved it at the prarie dog. “Shoo!” he growled, taking a step toward it—and suddenly he was facing what was becoming the familiar Apache warrior.

“What now?” demanded Holliday irritably.

“He knows why you have come.”

“He sent you here to tell me that?”

“No,” said the warrior. “He sent me here to tell you that you will never conquer Henry McCarty who is known as Billy the Kid on your own.”

“We'll see about that,” said Holliday.

“It will be best if you listen to him. McCarty who is called Billy is protected.”

“By a gang?”

The warrior shook his head.

“By another medicine man?”

The warrior nodded.

“Maybe so,” said Holliday dubiously, “but I haven't come all this way just to turn around and go back to Leadville.”

“He does not expect you to.”

“Can he answer a direct question?” said Holliday. “Just what the hell
does
he want?”

“A service.”

“Why should I do Geronimo a service? He's an enemy of the United States.”

The trace of a smile played about the warrior's lips. “Do you really care about that?”

Holliday shrugged. “No, not really. But my question remains: Why should I do him a service?”

“Because then he will do one for you.”

“One having to do with the Kid?”

“Yes.”

“He'll help me kill him?”

The warrior shook his head. “Only you can do that, if you are capable, and neither he nor anyone else knows if you are.”

“Then what?”

“He will make it possible for you to find McCarty who is called Billy without his protector.”

Holliday frowned. “Just possible, not certain? That's not much of a service.”

“It is
impossible
right now.”

“All right. What does he want in exchange?”

“He will tell you.”

“He's talking to me right now, isn't he?” demanded Holliday.

“He will tell you himself,” said the warrior.

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Why not now, damn it?” growled Holliday, but suddenly he was talking to the prairie dog again. “I'd like it a lot better if you'd use one of Tom Edison's new-fangled telephones,” he muttered. “It's getting to where every time I see a goddamned animal I think it's one of your braves.”

He entered the outhouse and emerged a moment later. The prairie dog, if it actually existed, was nowhere to be seen, and he went back into the station.

“I didn't know you were an animal lover, Doc,” said Charlotte when he had rejoined her.

“I can take ‘em or leave ‘em,” he said. “Why?”

“I looked out the back window and saw you talking to a prairie dog.”

“For how long?” he asked.

“Maybe two minutes.”

“And that's all you saw?”

“Should I have seen something else?”

Holliday frowned and shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”

T

HE COACH PULLED INTO
L
INCOLN
, a town that seemed apiece with its surroundings: brown, flat, dry. No building, not even the church or the courthouse, was more than three stories high, and except for a pair of hotels, the vast majority were low, flat, single-story structures. The Bunt Line hadn't made any inroads here, and horses still provided the most common means of transportation, but it was too hot to leave the animals tied to hitching posts, and they passed a number of stables along the way to the center of town.

Holliday opened the door and did his best to help Charlotte down to the dirt street, though she outweighed him, as did almost any woman who stood more than five feet tall.

When they had retrieved their luggage and the coach had pulled away, Holliday looked up at the hotel. Three windows were cracked, some siding had fallen off and been rather clumsily nailed back, the building hadn't been painted or stained since it had been built and the dust and the sun had both taken their toll of it.

“The Grand Hotel,” he read, and grimaced. “Is there a town anywhere west of the Mississippi that doesn't have a Grand Hotel, almost none of which have more than a nodding acquaintance with the concept of ‘grand'?”

“Do I detect a Southern aristocrat beneath the scowl of the shootist?” asked Charlotte with an amused smile.

“'Way'
beneath,” came the sardonic reply. “The war buried it pretty deep.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I meant no offense.”

“None taken,” replied Holliday. He looked around. “We can stand here gathering dust all day, or we can go inside and register.”

She nodded, he picked up his suitcase with his right hand, and was about to lift hers with his left when she beat him to it and carried her luggage inside before he could protest.

“Got any rooms?” asked Holliday, walking up to the desk.

“That's our business,” said the elderly clerk pleasantly. “One for you and the missus?”

“One for each of us,” said Holliday. The clerk looked surprised, and he added, “She's a missus, but she's not
my
missus.”

The clerk turned to the rack of keys behind him and pulled a pair down. “206 for the lady, 215 for the gentleman,” he announced, handing them over. “How long will you be staying?”

“I'll be here ten days,” answered Charlotte promptly.

“I don't know,” said Holliday.

The clerk stared at Holliday for a long moment. “You're
him
, ain't you?”

“Probably not,” replied Holliday with no show of interest.

“You're him,” repeated the clerk, nodding his head with conviction. “You're Doc Holliday, come to town to kill someone.”

“I'm a dentist and a gambler,” said Holliday.

“You're Doc Holliday, and you're here on business,” insisted the clerk.

“My business is pulling teeth and playing cards.”

“Who are you going to kill?” asked the clerk, oblivious to Holliday's answers. “The bank president, maybe, or perhaps the mayor?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Are you working with the Kid?”

“What kid?” asked Holliday, trying to hide his interest.

“Why, Billy Bonney, of course!” exclaimed the clerk. “Billy the Kid! Our claim to fame!” He looked at the front door, as if he expected someone to enter and interrupt him at any moment, then turned back to Holliday and lowered his voice. “You're in cahoots with him, right?” he said conspirationally.

“I guess I can't fool a sharpie like you,” said Holliday. “Yeah, we're partners. Where can I find him?”

“Hell, he's
your
partner,” replied the clerk with a chuckle.

“I'm new to town. I just want to let him know I'm here.”

“The marshal and his deputies have been looking high and low for the Kid for a couple of months. If
they
can't find him,
I
sure as hell don't know where he is.”

“That's okay,” said Holliday, forcing a nonchalant shrug. “But pass the word that I'm in town and I've got some business to discuss with him.”

“I'll do that,” promised the clerk. “But it could be a month or more before he shows his face. That reward is up to twelve thousand dollars. There's more than a few men, including those who call themselves his friends, that'd like to put a bullet between his pale blue eyes.”

“Thanks,” said Holliday, flipping him a quarter. “And now I think the lady and I will go to our rooms to unpack and freshen up.”

Charlotte was again too fast for him and lifted her own luggage. He sighed, wondering how he would manage both suitcases if he
had
beat her to it, picked up his own, and together they climbed to the second floor. As she was unlocking her door, he stopped and pulled out his watch.

“Two-thirty,” he said. “May I escort you to dinner?”

“I'd like that very much, Doc,” replied Charlotte. “What time?”

“Seven o'clock?”

She nodded. “I'll meet you in the lobby, such as it is.”

He tipped his hat to her and walked down the hall to room 215, where he inserted the key and opened the door. The room was small, but reasonably clean and serviceable. There was a small wardrobe, a single narrow bed with a torn bedspread, a nightstand next to it, a table that had seen better days and was currently doubling as a desk, and a straight-backed wooden chair. One corner held a washstand with a pitcher of water and a basin, and as he looked out the window he could see a quartet of outhouses.

He opened his suitcase on the bed preparatory to hanging up his clothes in the wardrobe. Then he decided the room needed a little fresh air, so he walked over to the lone window and opened it. A small bird immediately perched on the sill, staring curiously at him.

He closed the suitcase, slid it under the bed, turned back to the window—and found an Apache warrior sitting on the sill.

“He wants you,” said the intruder.

“You were the bird,” said Holliday, surprised that he was no longer surprised at the warrior's comings and goings.

“Now,” said the warrior.

Holliday looked out past the warrior. “Is he out there?”

“They would kill him if they saw him.”

“He's in the hotel?”

The warrior shook his head. “I am to bring you to him.”

Holliday shrugged. “All right,” he said. “Let's go and get this over with.”

He walked to the door.

“Not that way,” said the warrior.

“Then how—?” He was going to say more, but he suddenly found himself surrounded by darkness. He had a sensation of movement, though his legs remained motionless. He was sure he wasn't flying, for no wind whipped through his clothes and hair. He tried to analyze whether he was warm or cold, dry or wet, but his senses simply couldn't respond. The only conclusion he could reach was that he was
elsewhere
…and then, seconds after it began, it ended.

He knew he wouldn't still be in his room, but even though he knew the powers of the medicine men, he was surprised to find himself as far from
anything
as he was. He was in a vast valley, surrounded by cactus and tumbleweed and not much else, except for a handful of teepees. Sitting behind a fire before the nearest of them was Geronimo, surrounded by shadowy, ethereal shapes of writhing python-type creatures. He had not changed in the year since Holliday had last seen him: thick, muscular, broad of face and body, unsmiling.

“Goyathlay welcomes you,” said the warrior, who Holliday realized was standing next to him.

“Goyathlay can speak for himself,” said Holliday.

“Goyathlay speaks through me.”

“Why? He understands every word I say. You don't expect me to believe that he can't speak my language.”

“He chooses not to speak the tongue of his enemies.”

Holliday stared into Geronimo's eyes. “If I'm your enemy, what am I doing here, and why should I do you any favors?”

Geronimo stared back, silently, and after a full minute it became obvious that neither man would turn away first.

“I will speak to you,” said Geronimo at last, rising to his feet.

“Good,” said Holliday. “Just remember that I am not the enemy.”

“There is only one member of your race who is not the enemy, White Eyes,” replied Geronimo, “and he is on the far side of the great river that his nation may not cross. You are but a killer.”

“If that's the case, why am I here?” responded Holliday. “Surely you do not lack for killers.”

“There are killings for which the notorious Holliday is better suited.”

“I appreciate what you doubtless think is a compliment, but I'm not a hired gun.”

“No,” agreed Geronimo. “But you are a
traded
gun.”

“Explain.”

“A favor for a favor,” answered Geronimo. “We have done it once before, you and I, a year ago, in the place you call Tombstone.”

“Lawyers call your trade a
quid pro quo,”
said Holliday. “Why should I do you a favor, other than the fact that I'm captivated by your charming personality?”

“I know why you are here, Holliday,” said Geronimo. “You are a drunken fool who lost all his money, and you are dying.”

“I appreciate your sympathy,” interjected Holliday sardonically as a coyote howled in the distance.

“You need money to die in peace, and you have decided to get it by killing the one you know only as Billy the Kid.”

“I don't know him at all.”

“Do not play word games with me,” continued Geronimo harshly. “You are here for the White Eyes' reward for killing the man McCarty who is called Billy the Kid.”

“All right,” conceded Holliday, “I'm here to kill him.”

“You cannot.”

“Suppose you tell me why not?”

“He is protected.”

“So your messenger told me,” said Holliday. “Who is protecting him, and why?”

“He is protected by Woo-Ka-Nay of the Southern Cheyenne,” answered Geronimo.

“Hook Nose?” repeated Holliday, surprised. “I thought you two were partners, the two most powerful medicine men on the continent, the two men whose magic stopped the United States from expanding past the Mississippi.”

“We
are
partners in that enterprise,” Geronimo assured him.

“But McCarty called Billy the Kid operates under his protection.”

“Why? What kind of deal has he made with the Kid?”

“None. McCarty called Billy the Kid does not even know he
is
protected.”

“Then I repeat: Why?” said Holliday, trying to understand.

“Woo-Ka-Nay hates the White Eyes. McCarty called Billy the Kid kills White Eyes. He has never killed one of the People, and until he does, he is protected.”

“And you'll lift his protection?”

Geronimo shook his head. “I am not more powerful than Woo-Ka-Nay.”

“Then why are you telling me all this?” demanded Holliday.

“I probably cannot defeat Woo-Ka-Nay. And if I could, I would not, not to help any White Eyes.” Geronimo paused. “But I
can
negate him, so that you will kill McCarty called Billy the Kid
if
you can kill him.”

“That's not wildly encouraging,” replied Holliday. “I'm a dying man, going up against a kid who is killing men at a faster rate than even John Wesley Hardin, and you not only can't guarantee a win, you can't even be sure you can hold Hook Nose off since he's as powerful as you. Maybe he's even a shade more powerful, and take my word as an experienced shootist, most of the time a shade is all it takes.”

“All this is true,” agreed Geronimo. “But you will agree to a trade anyway, because while you
might
fail with my help, you
will
fail without it.”

Holliday stared at him for a long moment, then spoke. “All right. That's what you're doing for me, such as it is. What do you think I'm going to do for you? Who am I supposed to kill?”

“You will not kill anyone,” answered Geronimo.

“I won't?” asked Holliday, surprised.

“Unless it is necessary.”

Holliday grimaced. “Let's have it.”

“A day from here—” began Geronimo.

“I don't know where
here
is,” interrupted Holliday.

“You will,” Geronimo assured him. “A day from here is a valley very much like this one. There was a time when the two valleys were sisters, when it was clear that the same hand had created them both.”