The Doctor And The Rough Rider Part 10

"I've had it with you and what you think is funny," said Behan. "I want an apology for what happened in the barber shop, and while I'm thinking of it, I want another one for your behavior right here and now."

"That's a small enough thing to want," replied Holliday. "Me, I'd like a million dollars, one of those robot chippies that used to work at Kate's place, and thirty years of good health."

"Are you going to apologize or not?" demanded Behan.

"Not, I think."

Behan stepped off to a side and nodded to the three men. "He's all yours."

The three of them tensed and faced the table.

"I'll take the three on the left," said Holliday in conversational tones. "You take Behan."

"No," replied Masterson. "I've already spotted two I don't like much."

"I'll bet they never thought when they woke up today that they'd be facing Doc Holliday and Bat Masterson," said Holliday. "If they had any brains, they'd just shoot Johnny Behan for getting them into this fix and then turn around and walk out. I'll swear it was self-defense if you will."

"Oh, I don't know," said Masterson. "I think it might be more fun to kill them. I haven't appeared in one of those dime novels for almost a year."

"That's because everyone you've faced has been dead for over a year. Come to think of it, I suppose you could use the practice."

As they spoke, the three men were getting visibly nervous. Finally one of them turned to Behan.

"You just said you wanted us to put a scare into someone," he said accusingly. "You never said we'd be facing Doc Holliday."

"And Bat Masterson," said Masterson. "Don't forget Bat Masterson."

"Just shoot them, for Christ's sake!" screamed Behan.

"An extra hundred apiece," said another.

"Go for it, Johnny," said Holliday easily. "They're not going to live long enough to collect it."

"f.u.c.k it!" said the first of the men. He turned to Behan. "f.u.c.k it and f.u.c.k you!"

He held his arms out so they could see he wasn't reaching for his gun, and walked out into the lobby. The other two men followed him.

"Nice try, Johnny," said Holliday. Suddenly his smile vanished. "Next time I'll kill you, and that's a promise."

Behan glared at him for a moment, then turned and walked out of the bar.

"Keep an eye on them, Bat," said Holliday as the four men walked out into the street. "They don't look like they care whether they draw on our fronts or our backs."

Two of the men and Behan immediately crossed the dusty street, but the third lingered outside the hotel. Finally he began walking by the bar's window, then turned and drew his pistol-but before he could fire a shot, and before Holliday or Masterson had fired their own weapons, a lean, muscular body hurled itself upon the gunman, knocking him down. He got to his feet just in time to be on the receiving end of a left hook that put him back down on the wooden sidewalk, this time for the count.

"Well, I'll be!" exclaimed Roosevelt as Holliday and Masterson rushed out of the hotel. "I knew this blaggard was going to backshoot somebody, but I had no idea it was you two."

"What the h.e.l.l were you doing here?" asked Holliday.

"I've been jogging at noontime," answered Roosevelt. "The morning bird-watching is too good to skip."

"I see you're growing a mustache," noted Holliday.

"Might as well," replied Roosevelt. "I've got no one to kiss out here."

Holliday looked across the street and saw Behan glaring at him from perhaps fifty yards away. The other two gunmen were nowhere to be seen.

"So, shall we carry this fellow off to the jailhouse?" asked Roosevelt.

Holliday shook his head. "No."

"He just tried to kill you, Doc!"

"He has friends, and even an employer of sorts," answered Holliday. "Someone would make his bail before nightfall."

"Do you just propose to leave him lying here until he wakes up?" asked Roosevelt disapprovingly.

"No," said Holliday, kneeling down next to the man. "I think we'll fine him."

"Fine him?" repeated Roosevelt.

Holliday took the man's gun from where it had fallen and tucked it in his belt, then pulled out the man's wallet and relieved it of all its cash.

"Okay," said Holliday, standing up again. "Justice is served."

Roosevelt flashed him a grin that would someday become famous. "I guess it has been, at that," he said.

"OKAY," SAID BUNTLINE. "So you say he's how tall?"

He was standing in Edison's office, facing Roosevelt, Holliday, and Masterson, who were seated on various chairs and couches. Edison sat at his desk, taking notes.

"How tall is the ceiling?" asked Holliday.

"I'd say eight feet."

"Then he's taller than twelve feet. A few more feet."

"And what is he built like?" continued Buntline. "I don't mean the flames. I mean, is he lean? Burly? Something else?"

"He's pretty well-muscled," replied Roosevelt. "Rather like a heavyweight boxer, but without carrying any excess weight."

"All right," said Buntline, seating himself on a wooden chair at the corner of the desk and writing some figures on a piece of paper. Finally he looked up. "From your descriptions, I make him twelve feet high, possibly as tall as fourteen feet."

Roosevelt nodded. "That seems about right."

"And given the build you tell me he's got, he would go from seven hundred fifty to nine hundred pounds."

"That much?" asked Masterson, wide-eyed.

"That's right," confirmed Buntline.

"That just doesn't sound right."

"Bat, how tall are you?"

"Five feet eight," came the answer.

"And what do you weigh?"

"Maybe one hundred fifty pounds."

"And what does a heavyweight boxer who stands six feet tall weigh?" asked Buntline with a smile.

"It varies," said Masterson uncomfortably.

"But he could weigh two hundred pounds without anyone calling him fat?"

"Yes, he could," conceded Masterson.

"That's a difference of fifty pounds in just four inches," said Buntline. "Do you really think adding six hundred or seven hundred pounds while adding six to eight feet is so far-fetched?"

"No," admitted Masterson. "No, I guess it's not. In fact, when you put it that way, an extra six hundred pounds would probably have him looking skinny as a rail."

"Which brings up another question," continued Buntline. "How does he get from here to there?"

"From here to there?" repeated Roosevelt, frowning.

"If he appears in, say, a Southern Cheyenne village two hundred miles away," said Buntline, lighting up a cigar and using an ashtray of his super-hardened bra.s.s, "and he doesn't magic himself from there to here, how does he get here? I guarantee no thousand-pound horse is going to carry him for more than half a mile or so."

"I suppose he travels by magic," said Roosevelt. "And why not?" he added. "Geronimo conjured up an image of him, which was clearly magic...and his physical attributes, from his size to his flaming hands, would seem to be magic too."

"I wish I knew just how hot those flames are," said Buntline. "And if he can fire them like bullets, or at least flaming arrows, or if he had to reach out and grab you with them."

"Either way they're gonna be hot," offered Holliday dryly.

"It makes a difference, Doc," replied Buntline. "I can make some super-hardened armor for Theodore, and even for his horse-but don't forget that I shape it in a special oven at very high temperatures, and if War Bonnet can match those temperatures, he can totally enclose Theodore in melted bra.s.s."

"Not quite the suit of armor I've always imagined," remarked Roosevelt wryly.

"So what else can you do for them?" asked Masterson.

"It's difficult, because we're really working blind here," answered Buntline. "I could create a hood for Theodore's horse, for example, one that would allow Theodore to close the cups over the horse's eyes on a second's notice...but I have no idea if the sight of a twelve- or fourteen-foot-tall man would upset the horse at all, whereas blinding him by closing the cups might panic him. By the same token, I don't doubt that we could craft ear plugs, but not being able to see or hear might panic the animal more than seeing and hearing something it hadn't experienced before."

"Maybe it's time to ask the genius what to do," said Holliday, taking a drink from his flask and pa.s.sing it to Masterson, who took a swallow, wiped his mouth on a s.h.i.+rtsleeve, and handed it back.

"You mean the other genius," replied Edison with a smile. "Never forget that while my inventions may work in theory, it's Ned and his manufacturing business that makes them work in practice."

"Okay, so what does the other genius think?"

"I think we're working in the dark here," replied Edison. "The unhappy truth is that someone's going to have to see this War Bonnet in person before we can create a weapon that will work against him, and even that probably won't be enough."

"Why the h.e.l.l not?" persisted Holliday.

"Pretend he's standing right over there, by the door, and that the ceiling is high enough to accommodate him," said Edison, getting up, walking to the door, and turning to face them. "He's here to kill you. Ned's already talked about some of the problems of defending yourself, but let's concentrate not on that but on killing, or at least neutralizing, War Bonnet. Okay, Doc, you draw your gun and fire six quick shots. Either they bounce off him, or he absorbs them with no ill effects. Now what do you do?"

"Run like h.e.l.l," said Masterson, only half-kidding.

"Well, right at the moment, so would I," said Edison, returning his smile. "And that's why we need to know more about him."

"For example?" asked Roosevelt.

"If Doc shoots you in a vital spot, you'll die-and if you shoot him, he'll die. That means you each have the same physical weaknesses. Is that true of War Bonnet? Which is to say, it seems obvious that those fiery hands of his are meant to burn you, either at close quarters, as when he grabs you, or at a distance, if he has some mechanism whereby he can aim and release that fire. So the obvious question is: Is he himself susceptible to fire, or at least to heat? If he is, I can create a carbon arc projector that I guarantee will throw more heat at him than he can throw at you...but will that harm, or even bother him? I don't know." Edison returned to his chair while considering his next line of approach. "All right, let's say that he's immune to fire and heat. It's a reasonable a.s.sumption, given that his arms and hands are made of flame. Will water put the fire out, or at least negate it to some degree?"

"It seems reasonable," agreed Masterson.

"I see Theodore is shaking his head," noted Edison with a smile. "Would you care to tell Bat why?"

"I'd have to position myself next to a large source of water. This is not a small warrior, this War Bonnet, and those aren't small flames. And we don't know how hot the flames are. Could they turn the water to steam even before it hits them? Remember: he's a magical creature, so he doesn't necessarily obey all the laws of Tom's science."

"Absolutely right," agreed Edison. He smiled again. "I would expect no less of a Harvard man."

"Let's concentrate on keeping the Harvard man alive," said Holliday. "At least long enough for someone from Yale to come along and kill him."

Roosevelt uttered a hearty laugh. "Says the man who did not have the benefit of a New England education."

"Getting back to War Bonnet," said Edison, "so far we've spoken about only heat, flame, and water. How about one of Doc's or Bat's bullets? I a.s.sume they won't bother him because of his magical origin, but until we know that for sure, we have to consider the possibility that the direct means of confronting and combating him may be the best. And there are factors that seem extraneous but may not be. For example, how's his endurance? Most huge men, well-muscled or otherwise, tire more easily than small, lithe men. What if you face him out in the desert, shoot his horse out from under him, and ride off?"

"He won't be riding a horse, Tom," said Buntline.

"Are you quite sure, Ned?" retorted Edison. "If they can create War Bonnet, why can't they create a horse that stands sixty hands at the shoulder and weighs three tons?"

"d.a.m.n!" muttered Buntline. "I never thought of that."

"Anyway, gentlemen, I could give you all the dozens of possibilities that have occurred to me, but the end result would be the same: it's all guesswork, and it's not even educated guesswork since, based on his very origin, we have to a.s.sume that War Bonnet doesn't necessarily obey the laws of science as we know them. The problem," he added with a wry smile, "is that he may very well obey all of them. We just can't know until he shows himself, by which time it may be too late."

"If one of us does make contact..." began Roosevelt.

"Then based on your firsthand observations, I would hope Ned and I can create a weapon that can be effective. At least we won't be working in the dark."

"You might be anyway," said Holliday.

"Oh?" said Edison, turning to him.

"There's a difference between seeing and shooting him, throwing him in a lake, and giving him a hotfoot." He looked around the room and saw nothing but puzzled expressions. "What I'm saying is that if all we do is see him, you won't have learned anything except that he's as big as Geronimo says, and if we try to harm him without knowing what works, we can't report back to you. Either it works and he's dead, or it doesn't work and we're dead."

"You're not thinking it through, Doc," said Edison.

Holliday arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"