Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) (9 page)

“Amazing!” said the guide, picking up the shattered pieces of the targets. “He hit every one!”

The Kid bowed to a new round of applause, then fell into step beside Holliday as they walked back up Fremont Street.

“So am I as good as you?” asked the Kid.

“You're damned good, and you know it.”

“But am I as good as you?” persisted the Kid.

“There's only one way to find out,” answered Holliday, “and it seems Hook Nose and Geronimo have denied us that ability.”

“Maybe someday,” said the Kid.

“Maybe.”

They walked another block in silence. Then the Kid spoke again.

“I was wrong.”

“About what?” asked Holliday.

“It only took four seconds.”

And here I am, waiting for Tom and Ned to find a way to blow up the station so that I'm vulnerable to your gunfire again.
A wry smile played on Holliday's lips.
Maybe I should be thinking of offering my services to Hook Nose instead.

“H

“Aren't you supposed to be minding the store, so to speak?” asked Holliday.

Wiggins shook his head. “They're working on something
big
, and they say I'd just get in the way. I don't know whether to feel relieved or insulted.”

“Enjoy your vacation, such as it is. With a little luck it won't last too much longer.” Holliday gestured to the bottle on the table. “Pour yourself a drink.”

“I don't know how you can handle this stuff,” said Wiggins.

“If you feel that way, don't drink after all.”

“Oh, a sip now and then can't do me much harm. But you put it away like there's no tomorrow.”

“For some of us, that's a pretty accurate description,” said Holliday.

“Damn it, Doc, don't talk like that!” complained Wiggins. “You thought you were dying a year ago, when we met, and you're still here. If you'd just stop abusing your body…”

“The consumption's abusing my body,” replied Holliday. “The whiskey's just making it tolerable.”

Wiggins sighed. “Okay, I give up.”

“I appreciate your concern, Henry,” said Holliday. “Truly I do. Most people either actively want me dead, or else don't give a damn. You actually want me to live.”

Wiggins pulled out a thin cigar. “You mind if I smoke?”

“Not a problem. Just blow it in the other direction.” Holliday lifted his glass and took a swallow. “How have you been?”

“Like I told you, it's been the best job I've ever had,” said Wiggins. “I made a good living selling ladies' corsets, and I did all right selling laudanum and other pharmaceuticals, but they were nothing like selling Tom's and Ned's inventions.”

“Everyone wants electric lights and phonographs?” suggested Holliday.

Wiggins nodded. “But you know what I make my
real
money from? Ned's metal women!”

“That's hardly surprising,” responded Holliday, turning his head away for a moment as Wiggins inadvertently blew some smoke toward his face. “Men outnumber women ten-to-one out here.”

“You want to know the crazy part? A quarter of my customers are women!”

“Either we've got a lot of degenerate females out here, or we've got a lot of exceptionally unattractive husbands.”

“The latter. They buy them so they won't have to mingle with their husbands.”

“Interesting word: mingle,” mused Holliday. “The metal women have to be expensive as all hell. You'd think if a family could afford one, the husband's already got a flesh-and-blood woman or two stashed around the landscape.”

“Probably,” agreed Wiggins. “But a husband who's got a mistress or two isn't the kind of man who's inclined to share that information with his wife.”

“Makes sense,” admitted Holliday. “Kate can't be the only woman who gets into killing rages.” He took another swallow. “Well, I'm glad you're making money, Henry. How many kids have you got now?”

“Just the three. I've hardly been home a month, total, since I started working for Tom and Ned.”

“Damned lucky for you traveling salesmen that someone isn't crisscrossing the country selling metal men.”

“Tom says that someday almost all our work will be done by machines,” said Wiggins.

“Not the work his metal chippies do, I hope,” replied Holliday. “How far afield have they sent you?”

“I've hit most of the major settlements out here on this side of the Mississippi,” answered Wiggins. “I've seen a lot of interesting folks and things along the way. I saw where they buried Jesse James. I saw Cole Younger and Clay Allison having a drink together. I even saw Bill Hickok's grave, and the table where he was shot while he was playing cards.”

Holliday smiled. “Henry, you sound like an Easterner who's read too many dime novels.”

“I suppose I do at that,” said Wiggins, returning his smile. “At least someday I'll be able to tell my kids that I saw all these desperados—and that I saw the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.”

“Speaking of desperados, have you met the latest?”

“I've been meaning to ask you about that,” said Wiggins. “He says his name is Henry Antrim, but people say he's really Billy the Kid.”

“I think they've got it backward,” said Holliday. “They call him Billy the Kid, but his real name is Henry Antrim, or if you prefer, Henry McCarty.”

“I don't follow you.”

“His father was McCarty, his stepfather was Antrim—or so he tells me.”

“So where does Billy Bonney come from?”

Holliday shrugged. “Beats me. I'll ask him next time I see him. In fact, he usually stops in here about now.”

“For someone with his reputation, he doesn't look very formidable,” said Wiggins.

“I saw him put on a little impromptu exhibition a couple of hours ago,” said Holliday. “Trust me—he's formidable.”

“Of course I trust you,” said Wiggins. “You were the first man to befriend me when I came out here, and you were the one who made sure I never got in anyone's line of fire.”

“There
were
a lot, weren't there?” said Holliday.

“There were,” Wiggins affirmed. He looked at Holliday, “You sound almost wistful.”

Holliday sighed deeply. “At least I knew what I was up against.”

“And now?” queried Wiggins. “I thought you were just here to gamble.”

“You haven't seen me at a table, have you?”

“Come to think of it, no,” admitted Wiggins. “So why
are
you here?”

“It's complicated.”

“Does it have anything to do with what Tom and Ned are working on?”

Holliday nodded. “It does.”

“If there's anything I can do…”

“Just continue being my friend,” replied Holliday. “I have few enough that I can't spare any.”

“Of course. I'll be as staunch a friend as Wyatt Earp.”

Holliday grimaced and took another drink.

“Oh my God!” said Wiggins, his eyes widening. “You two were the closest friends there were, always protecting each other's back. What the hell happened?”

“I said something foolish,” answered Holliday.

“I'm surprised he cared.”

“It wasn't about Wyatt,” said Holliday.

“Then who—?”

“It's over,” said Holliday. “The subject is closed.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.”

“Hey, Doc!” cried a voice from across the saloon. “Got an empty chair if you'd like to sit in.”

“Perhaps later,” Holliday called back.

“You really
aren't
gambling,” noted Wiggins, frowning. “I don't believe I ever saw you turn down a game, even one with Ike Clanton or the McLaurys.”

“Call it maturity,” said Holliday ironically.

“Is it?”

Holliday smiled and shook his head. “Or poverty,” he added wryly.

“If you're tapped out, I can loan you some money,” said Wiggins, pulling out his wallet and thumbing through the contents. “It's only a hundred and ten dollars, but it's yours if you want it.”

“You'd do that for me?”

“That's what friends do for each other.”

“I'm touched, Henry,” said Holliday. “I truly am.” He pushed the proffered wallet back toward Wiggins. “You keep it. Buy those kids something special with it.”

“You're sure?”

Holliday nodded. “I'm sure.”

Wiggins got awkwardly to his feet. “Well, I guess I'll be moving along,” he said. “I've got some things to buy, and I don't know when Tom or Ned will need me.”

“Take care,” said Holliday.

Wiggins walked out through the swinging doors just as the Kid entered. He nodded to Holliday, but made a beeline to the poker table with the empty seat. He slapped some bills on the table, and they began dealing him in.

A bearded man wearing a deputy's badge entered next, looked around, and walked over to Holliday's table.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Suit yourself, Deputy Breckenridge,” said Holliday.

“Call me Billy, damn it,” said Breckenridge. “I just took this job because when Johnny Behan is the sheriff,
somebody
ought to be enforcing the law.”

“Hell,” said Holliday, “for all I know, I'm still a deputy myself.”

“I think that ended with the Gunfight, Doc,” said Breckenridge. “Or at least with all the murder charges.”

Holliday nodded his agreement. “Probably.”

“I hope you don't mind my sitting here,” continued Breckenridge. “I'm just here to keep an eye on young Antrim there. Word has it he's really Billy the Kid.”

“So arrest him.”

“I don't care what he's done anywhere else. I'm only concerned with whether or not he breaks a law in Tombstone.”

“My understanding is that there's only one law he ever breaks,” remarked Holliday.

“It's what he's famous for, but word has it that he's also a cattle rustler.”

“He picked a lousy place for it,” noted Holliday. “Not much grows on this desert, and certainly not cattle.”

“Hell, Doc, I hope I'm wrong. I hope he's not the Kid, or if he is, I hope he wins a bundle, buys drinks for everyone, and goes home happy. I know enough about his reputation to know you're the only man in town who might have a chance against him.”

Breckenridge hung around for twenty minutes, then got up, walked out into the street, and started making his rounds. Holliday stayed at the table for another half hour, then got up and walked to the door.

“Hold on, Doc!” cried the Kid. Lowering his voice, he told the dealer to cash him out. He stuffed some bills in a pocket and walked rapidly to the swinging doors, where Holliday was waiting for him.

“How'd you do?” asked Holliday with no interest whatsoever.

“Won about fifteen dollars,” answered the Kid. “I just had a feeling my luck was about to turn.” Suddenly he smiled. “I saw the deputy speaking with you, as if he was interested in anything except seeing me shoot a man down in cold blood.”

“Night like this, you'd have to shoot him down in warm blood,” said Holliday. “Must still be close to a hundred degrees.”

“I wouldn't want to live back in New York or even Kansas,” said the Kid. “I
like
heat.”

“Just as well,” said Holliday. “You've probably got a seat reserved for you in hell.”

“Won't be so bad,” replied the Kid. “All the great gunfighters go there.”

A bat fluttered overhead, then flew into the eaves of the church.

“I hate those things,” said the Kid.

“They're just animals.”

“You know what I heard?” continued the Kid, lowering his voice confidentially.

“What?”

“They say Geronimo turned Bat Masterson into a
real
bat.”

Holliday shrugged. “People say a lot of things.”

“He was
your
friend,” persisted the Kid. “Don't you know if it's true or not?”

Before Holliday could answer, the same bat—or at least a similar one—flew overhead again. The Kid drew his gun and fired at it, all in one motion. The bat screeched, veered crazily, and flew behind Mason's General Store.

“You'd better head off to wherever you're staying before they arrest you for firing your gun within the city limits and disturbing the peace,” said Holliday.

“Yeah, I guess so,” agreed the Kid. “See you tomorrow.”

He walked off to the north, and Holliday decided to take a shortcut to the American Hotel, one that led him through the alley behind Mason's store.

When he reached the alley he found an Apache warrior writhing on the ground, a bullet wound in his neck. His thrashings grew weaker, and finally he lay still.

“I know you are working with the magician of the White Eyes,” said a familiar voice, and he turned to see Geronimo standing behind him. “Do not wait too long. My people cannot ascend to the Great Hunting Ground until the offending structure and tracks are gone.”

“It's not up to me,” said Holliday. “I know nothing of how his magic works.”

“Then you will urge him to make haste,” said Geronimo. “My patience is not infinite, and neither,” he added, staring coldly at Holliday, “is your protection.”

Holliday was about to reply when he realized that he would be speaking only to empty air.