The Doctor And The Rough Rider Part 19

"Are you quite certain you can see me without those cheaters?" asked Mickelson.

"If you're close enough to hit, you're close enough to see," said Roosevelt, walking down the three wooden steps from the porch to the ground.

"Good answer," said Mickelson. He closed his umbrella, hung it on his saddle horn, then put his top hat over it. He took off his coat and tossed it over the porch railing, where the hidden pistols clattered as they b.u.mped against wood.

"Two-minute rounds, Mr. Mickelson?" said Roosevelt.

"That suits me fine, Mr.... I don't know your name."

"Roosevelt. But call me Theodore."

"Fine. And you may call me Morty."

"Odd name," remarked Roosevelt.

"But fitting, as you're about to find out."

"Doc," said Roosevelt, "pull out your watch, and yell 'Time' when you're ready. We'll fight two-minute rounds with one minute in between."

"He's got you by thirty pounds, Theodore," said Holliday, grabbing his watch chain and pulling out the pocket watch that was attached to the end of it.

"I'll be gentle with him, Doc," said Mickelson.

"Exactly what I was going to say," replied Roosevelt with a grin.

Holliday stared at his watch for a few seconds, then yelled, "Time!"

Mickelson rushed right at Roosevelt and swung a mighty roundhouse that would have decapitated him if it had landed-but Roosevelt ducked beneath it, stepped forward, threw a quick right-left combination to the Englishman's belly, then stepped to the side.

"Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned!" said Mickelson with a guilty grin. "You do know what the h.e.l.l you're doing. I won't make that mistake again, Theodore."

He leaned forward, holding his fists up in front of him. Roosevelt darted in, went for his face once, then for his belly, and finally for his face again, but Mickelson caught all the blows on his forearms.

"Not bad," said Roosevelt with a grin.

"I'm a lot more than not bad, Yank," said Mickelson. "Get ready."

That was all the warning Roosevelt needed. He began bobbing and weaving, never presenting a stationary target. Mickelson landed a heavy blow on Roosevelt's right shoulder that momentarily numbed his entire arm, but he managed to sneak a left through, b.l.o.o.d.ying the Englishman's nose.

"Time!" said Holliday.

"Where the h.e.l.l's my corner?" demanded Mickelson.

"We seem to have forgotten about corners and such," said Roosevelt. "Keep your fifty dollars, Morty. You've shown me you can box, and that's what I wanted to know."

"Well, when it comes right down to it, you ain't so bad yourself, Yank," said Mickelson, taking his hand. "You ever think about going pro?"

"I'm already in a tougher profession," replied Roosevelt.

"Shootist?"

Roosevelt grinned. "Politician."

Mickelson threw back his head and laughed. Then he looked around the porch. "Anyone got a towel? If I don't wipe this blood off pretty soon, people are going to think I've got a bright red mustache."

Luke went into the house, found a rag, emerged, and tossed it to the Englishman.

"Thanks, Tall Man," said Mickelson. He turned to Roosevelt. "So am I a member of your gang?"

"In good standing," said Roosevelt.

"This calls for a celebratory drink, and forgive me if I don't think our dental expert looks like he feels much like sharing." So saying, Mickelson walked to his horse and pulled a flask out of his saddlebag, took a swig, and replaced the flask in the bag.

The next to show up was Sherman McMaster, another member of the Vendetta Ride, and Dan "Tip" Tipton, who'd been a sailor, a miner, a gambler, and was just about the only one present who'd never either been a lawman or the face on a Wanted poster.

The last to arrive was a Mexican bandit-a former bandit, as he kept pointing out-named Louis Martinez, but whom Holliday and the others knew as "Loose" Martinez.

"Is this everyone you pa.s.sed the word to, Doc?" asked Roosevelt when they were all a.s.sembled.

"All except Charlie Ba.s.sett," replied Holliday. "Too bad he didn't show up. Six-gun, rifle, or knife, you couldn't ask for a gutsier fighter."

"He sends his regrets," said Tipton. "I forgot to mention it 'til I just heard his name. He's riding a winning streak at the Blue Peac.o.c.k, and he's not about to leave the table."

"Can't blame him for that," said Holliday. "Well, if we don't leave until morning, maybe the cards'll cool off." He grimaced. "Not that I'd wish that on anyone."

"If we're all here," said Turkey Creek Johnson, "maybe you'd like to finally tell us what the h.e.l.l this is all about."

"Yes, there's no sense putting it off any longer," agreed Roosevelt. "If this Ba.s.sett fellow shows up, one of you can tell him." Roosevelt rolled down his sleeves, b.u.t.toned the cuffs, put his coat back on, and faced the a.s.sembled group of men, his hands on his hips, his jaw jutting forward. "Gentlemen," he began, "we are going to play a part in the greatest American enterprise since the Revolution."

"Just the nine of us?" said Hairlip Smith.

"And Charlie Ba.s.sett, if he makes it," said Roosevelt.

"Oh, excuse me," said Smith sarcastically. "That makes all the difference."

"Sometimes one man is all the difference you need. Ask Mr. Lincoln what kind of difference Ulysses S. Grant made."

"It's a little late to ask him anything," said Johnson.

"All right," said Roosevelt. "Let me get to the gist of it. As you know, the United States has been unable to expand beyond the Mississippi River due to the magical power-there is no other term for it-of the Indian medicine men. They've let some of us through, because we represent little or no threat to them. They've allowed some cattle ranches, because they don't eat cattle, and they've allowed mining towns, because they don't care for what we pull out of the mines. But they have made sure that we have not and cannot overrun their land or bring our government to the West." He paused, looking from one man to another. "That, gentlemen, is about to change."

"They're lifting the spell?" said Sloan. "How many hundreds of millions is that going to cost?"

"Nothing," replied Roosevelt. "One visionary medicine man has decided that even magic can't keep the United States confined forever, and that he'd rather lift the spell and make peace now than have us destroy the spell when we grow strong enough and annihilate every Indian on the continent."

"I haven't heard anything about this," said Martinez.

"Neither have I," chimed Johnson. "How come only you seem to know about it?"

"I'm the one he sent for to negotiate with."

"And who is this medicine man?" continued Johnson.

"Geronimo."

"Geronimo?" demanded Smith. "He's the worst of them all!"

"He's the strongest of them all," replied Roosevelt. "And he's the one who's decided that it's time to make peace and lift the spell."

"Why you?" said Tipton. "Last I heard, Jim Garfield was the president."

"It's Chester Arthur," Roosevelt corrected him. "And as to why he chose me, you'd have to ask Geronimo. I just know that he sent for me, and I came."

"And you don't trust him, and that's why we're all gathered here today?" suggested Sloan.

Roosevelt shook his head. "He's on our side. The other medicine men know it, and that's the problem."

"Just have Geronimo wipe 'em out," said Sloan.

"If it were that simple, I wouldn't have gathered you here," said Roosevelt. "The medicine men have created a monster, a huge, magical warrior named War Bonnet. He was created for one purpose and one purpose only: to kill Geronimo and myself. I have yet to see him, but Doc has faced him. Doc, you want to describe him?"

"He's about two and a half times a normal man's height," said Holliday. "Built like an athlete. Muscles everywhere. Except his hands and forearms, which are, as best as I can explain it, living flames. Not much of a mouth or nose, which leads me to think he doesn't breathe, or at least not as much as real men." He paused long enough for the men to get at least a vague mental picture of the creature. "And he's got another feature you should know about. I pumped half a dozen bullets into him at point-blank range. I still don't know if they went into him or bounced off, but I know they didn't hurt him or slow him down."

"Bulls.h.i.+t," said Hairlip Smith. "If he's half what you say he is, how could you live through it?"

Roosevelt forced a grin to his face. "Tell him, Doc."

"He was built for one purpose," said Holliday. "Theodore already told you what it is: to kill him and Geronimo. That is the only thing he can do. He grabbed at me with those flaming hands; they pa.s.sed right through me without burning me. He picked up a rock that must have weighed a thousand pounds. He had no problem holding it up over his head...until he tried to carry it over and crush me with it. The closer he got, the more effort he had to put into carrying it, and finally he couldn't...but when he turned his back and threw it away, I could see that it was light as a feather to him."

"So he can't hurt us and we can't hurt him," said the Englishman. "Therefore, I have to ask: What possible purpose can be served by our confronting him?"

"You're not here to confront War Bonnet," said Roosevelt. "I just want you to know what he is, and just as importantly, what he isn't. There are only two people he can kill, or even harm. The problem is, if he kills either of us, the spell at the Mississippi will never be lifted, at least not in our lifetime. So we are going to seek out the medicine men who create and control the monster, and we are going to kill them,"

"Does War Bonnet vanish just because we kill his...ah, his parents?" asked Mickelson.

"I don't know," admitted Roosevelt. "But at least he'll be without orders, without direction. I'd like to think he'll vanish, but even if he doesn't, this should buy us enough time to figure out how to destroy him." He looked at the a.s.sembled men. "If any of you want to withdraw from this enterprise, now is the time."

n.o.body moved and n.o.body spoke.

"Good!" said Roosevelt. "We meet in front of the Grand Hotel at sunrise tomorrow morning." He bared his teeth in his familiar grin once more. "And then the Rough Riders will prove that a small but motivated group of men can make a difference!"

HOLLIDAY SAT AT A TABLE in the Grand's restaurant, facing Roosevelt, who was clearly enjoying his meal.

Finally the gambler could stand it no longer. "You ever going to talk to me, Theodore?"

"I thought we'd been talking all day," answered Roosevelt, sprinkling some salt on his lamb chops. "By the way, you really should dig in," he continued, indicating Holliday's untouched plate. "These are excellent."

"d.a.m.n it, Theodore!"

"You don't like lamb? Then maybe I'll have one of yours when I'm done with mine."

"Keep this up and you won't have to wait for War Bonnet," said Holliday irritably. "I just may kill you myself."

Roosevelt chuckled heartily. "Yeah, I've heard about your skills as a dentist, Doc."

"Theodore!" growled Holliday.

"Doc, haven't you figured out that I'm not about to discuss anything concerning tomorrow while we're in public. We'll finish our meal, grab some of that scrumptious pecan pie for dessert, and then we'll go up to my room, where there won't be anyone around to overhear."

"What difference does it make who listens and who doesn't?" demanded Holliday. "You're leaving town at sunrise anyway."

Roosevelt looked to his left, then his right. Finally he learned forward and said, very softly, "Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course."

Suddenly Holliday was facing the familiar Roosevelt grin again. "So can I."

"Wyatt had his faults," muttered Holliday, "but you make him look pretty G.o.dd.a.m.ned good as a partner."

"Doc, you're a bright man," said Roosevelt. "If you'll just put that brain to use, you'll know exactly what's going to happen when we go up to my room."

Holliday stared at him, frowning in puzzlement, for almost a minute. Then, suddenly, he smiled and relaxed. "All right, Theodore. I apologize. I've had a lot on my mind."

"Apology accepted," said Roosevelt. "Now, are you going to eat your lamb chops or not?"

Holliday pushed his plate across the table, and poured himself a drink.

"I would never tell a man who seems totally unaffected by liquor to give it up," said Roosevelt, "but you've got to eat more, Doc. What are you-five foot ten or eleven? You can't weigh a hundred thirty pounds."

"A hundred twenty-two, last time I looked," said Holliday. "I guess I'll have to drink more to make up the weight."

"Just out of curiosity, have you ever been drunk?"

Holliday nodded. "Oh, yes," he said, nodding his head. "Worst time was about two years ago. I got so drunk I couldn't count, I thought I couldn't lose, and I blew every penny I'd saved for the sanitarium in one night at the tables."

"I'm sorry," said Roosevelt.

"You should be happy."

"That you went broke?" asked Roosevelt, frowning.

"That I needed money," said Holliday. "That's why I turned bounty hunter and killed Henry McCarty."

"Never heard of him."

Holliday smiled. "Yes, you did. Out here most people called him Billy the Kid."

"I thought Pat Garrett killed him."