The Doctor And The Rough Rider Part 26

He pulled a book out of his pocket and began to read.

"Ben...something," said Wiggins, looking at the cover.

"Ben-Hur," replied Roosevelt.

"Good book?"

"Not to my taste, but reasonably well written."

"If it's not to your taste, why read it?" asked Mickelson.

"Because it's written by General Lew Wallace," answered Roosevelt.

Mickelson frowned. "I know that name."

"You sure as h.e.l.l ought to," said Holliday. "He was the Governor of the New Mexico Territory."

"Why should that matter?"

"He's the man who pardoned Billy the Kid. If he hadn't, the Kid would still be rotting in jail and a lot less men would be dead."

"And Pat Garrett would be a d.a.m.ned sight poorer."

"Right," said Holliday with an amused smile that only Roosevelt understood. Initially he'd been surprised that Holliday made no attempt to set the record straight, until he realized that the last thing the consumptive dentist needed was to face an unending line of young guns who wanted to go up against the man who'd killed Billy the Kid. He'd had enough of that already.

"Why don't you put that book down for a while and play a man's game with us, Theodore?" said Turkey Creek Johnson.

Roosevelt smiled. "Tombstone's already got a mayor."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"Politics is a man's game," said Roosevelt. "Poker is a gambler's game."

"What about war?" asked Mickelson.

"War," replied Roosevelt, "is a fool's game."

"d.a.m.n!" said Holliday with a chuckle. "I can see that drawing a standing ovation at a political rally. Especially from those who have never had to partic.i.p.ate in one."

"Or those who have," said Roosevelt.

"You gonna run for office again, Theodore?" asked Hairlip Smith.

"Let's see if I survive the next few days," answered Roosevelt. "Then I'll worry about it."

"Got to admit he answers like a politician," said Mickelson. "I'd vote for you myself if I'd ever bothered to become a citizen."

"You don't have to be a citizen to vote on this side of the river," said Johnson. "We're not officially a country, you know."

"Keep me alive for two days and I have every intention of changing that," said Roosevelt.

"I can think of a lot of reasons to keep you alive, Theodore," said Sherman McMaster, "but turning this place into another Boston sure as h.e.l.l ain't one of them."

There was general laughter, and then Holliday took his Scotch back to the table.

"We ready to start again?" asked Sloan.

"You got any money left?" asked Holliday. "Any at all?"

"Yeah."

Holliday smiled. "Then we're ready to start again."

Hairlip Smith dealt the cards, and as the game took their attention, Wiggins walked over to Roosevelt's table.

"Care for a little company?" he asked. "I just never got in the habit of wasting my money at poker or faro."

"Certainly," said Roosevelt, closing his book and pus.h.i.+ng it aside.

"They've been talking about War Bonnet all evening," said Wiggins. "Problem is, they've been drinking all evening, and every time they describe him he gets bigger and more terrifying. What was he really like?"

"Big and terrifying," said Roosevelt with a smile. "I hardly saw him at all. For most of the time he had his back to me, and when he didn't, my men had me surrounded while I knelt on the ground, so I never got a good look at him. The man to talk to is Doc, who was as close to him, face-to-face, as I am to you."

"I've heard Doc. If this War Bonnet is half what Doc says and even a quarter of what the others say, why are you sitting here waiting for him? Why not go back to New York? He won't follow you across the Mississippi. From what I understand, all he wants is to stop you from making a deal with Geronimo."

"There are a lot of wrong a.s.sumptions in that statement, Henry," said Roosevelt. "First, I came here from the Dakota Badlands, not New York. Second, there is no reason to believe that he either can't or won't follow me anywhere I go. And third, I'm here because there are some things worth risking my life for, and doubling the size of the United States-more than doubling it-is certainly one of them."

Wiggins stared down at his folded hands and made no reply.

"Is something wrong?" asked Roosevelt after a moment.

"I'm used to the fact that you make me feel totally unaccomplished," replied Wiggins. "But this is the first time you've made me feel like a coward. Even Doc and Wyatt never managed that."

"I'd no intention of doing that," said Roosevelt. "Nor do I think you're a coward. You've come out to a lawless land, and you've made a life for yourself. You walk among shootists without carrying a weapon. And I have no doubt that faced with a choice, there are half a dozen things you'd put your life on the line for. There's no reason why you should share my views about the expansion of the United States. But if your children were threatened, or even Tom and Ned, who befriended you and employed you, I think you'd find that you are far braver than you think you are."

Wiggins stared thoughtfully into s.p.a.ce for a few seconds. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I would risk my life for my children. And for some other things." He extended his hand across the table. "Thank you, Theodore. Thank you for giving my self-esteem a good hard kick in the pants."

Roosevelt grinned. "That's what politicians are for."

Suddenly a well-dressed man Roosevelt had never seen before entered the Oriental, a folded piece of paper in his hand. He looked around and then walked up to the table Holliday was seated at.

"I've been looking all over for you, Doc," he said.

"I thought everyone knew where to find me after dark," said Holliday, getting to his feet and facing the man. "John, this distinguished-looking young man at the next table is Theodore Roosevelt, about whom you've doubtless been hearing. Theodore, say h.e.l.lo to John Clum, editor of the Tombstone Epitaph."

Roosevelt got up, walked over, and shook Clum's hand. "I'm pleased to meet you. Doc has been praising you since I got here. I take it you write a splendid editorial."

"I also write obits," answered Clum, "and if Doc stays in Tombstone there's every likelihood I'll be writing his in a few days."

"Can't be a parade of jealous husbands," said Holliday with a smile. "I'm not the man I used to be." He paused. "Probably I never was."

"I'm serious, Doc." He pulled the paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and held it up. "He's just a couple of days away, and he's killing his way to Tombstone."

"This is John Wesley Hardin you're speaking of?" asked Roosevelt.

Clum nodded. "This mystical Indian everyone's talking about seems to have broken him out of jail on the condition that he kill Doc."

"First he's got to get here," said Holliday. "Then he has to beat me in a gunfight. It's never been done yet."

"He's never lost yet either," said Clum in frustrated tones. "Doc, you're a good man despite your reputation, and I consider you a friend, so please listen to me. You've survived the O.K. Corral, and the thing that used to be Johnny Ringo, and Billy the Kid, and a disease that would have killed most men a decade ago. Just how long do you think you can stay lucky?"

"Another week ought to do it," answered Holliday.

"Bah!" Clum growled, stalking toward the swinging doors. "I did my best."

Then he was gone.

"You know, Doc," said Roosevelt, "I've got my Rough Riders now, and I'll have a weapon in two days. There's no reason for you to stick around."

"You think I should go back to Colorado?" asked Holliday.

"Why not?"

"He's already killed forty-two men before they locked him away, and five more since he broke out. Do you want him to follow me to Leadville shooting everyone and everything he sees there, starting with Kate Elder and the staff of the sanitarium?" snapped Holliday. "d.a.m.n it, Theodore, I'm going to have to face him sooner or later. No one else can stop him."

"You're right," said Roosevelt. "I hadn't thought it through. I apologize."

Holliday turned back to his table and began dealing the cards, Roosevelt sat down and began reading his book again, and both of them tried to pretend that their minds weren't dwelling almost exclusively on their confrontations to come.

ROOSEVELT SPENT THE NEXT TWO DAYS IN THE ORIENTAL. He ate his meals there, he slept there, he frequently cursed the fact that he couldn't bathe there, and he waited there, surrounded by his Rough Riders and other friends standing guard in rotation. Buntline had even sent over a reconditioned robotic prost.i.tute, which was now his cook and housemaid, to patrol the outside of the building.

"She can see in almost total darkness," explained Buntline when he brought the robot to the Oriental, "she can hear sounds that are even beyond a dog's ability to hear, and since she has no emotions-I removed the more primitive ones that people paid for-I guarantee neither War Bonnet nor anything else the medicine men can produce is going to scare her."

Roosevelt was picking at some fried eggs when the robot entered the saloon. He looked up at her curiously.

"He wants you," said the robot.

"He's finally got it built-whatever it is?" asked Roosevelt, getting to his feet.

"All I know is that he has sent for you."

"I'm on my way," said Roosevelt, grabbing his hat from where he'd hung it on the back of the chair and heading for the swinging doors with the robot following him.

"Hey, honey, don't be in such a hurry to leave," said Luke Sloan.

"My duties have ended," replied the robot. "There is no reason to remain."

"I could show you one or two," said Sloan as Roosevelt walked out the door and hurried down the street. A moment later he heard a crash and turned to see Sloan hurled through the plate-gla.s.s window, landing past the raised sidewalk and into the dirt street with a thud.

Roosevelt smiled but kept walking, and a few moments later came to Edison's house. The door was open, and he walked right up to it.

"Is this thing working?" he called out, stopping a few feet short of it.

"It's working just fine," said Edison's voice through a crude metal speaker that was positioned above the door.

"It's wide open."

"That's because it's been told to let you in. If you were anyone else, even Doc, it would have slammed in your face. Now, are you going to stand out there in the sun all day, or are you going to come in and see what we've got for you?"

Roosevelt entered the house, saw that the living room was empty, and made his way to the office, where Edison and Buntline were waiting for him.

"From what I saw over at the Oriental, all I really need is one of those metal harlots to protect me," said Roosevelt. "She packs quite a wallop."

"They should have left her alone," said Buntline. "She's not programmed for that kind of thing anymore." He paused. "I a.s.sume someone laid lecherous hands on her?"

"All I saw was the aftermath," replied Roosevelt. "A body flying through the window into the street. You wouldn't know she was that strong to look at her."

"She has that in common with a lot of women," said Edison with a smile.

"I need her to be that strong," said Buntline. "She can lift an entire bra.s.s stagecoach if she has to."

"You make her sound like Kate Elder," commented Roosevelt with a grin.

"Doc's Kate?" replied Buntline. "If this one had Kate's temper, she'd probably have killed both sides by now-us and the Indians."

"Hard to imagine her as a prost.i.tute."

"That is definitely not what she and the others were created for," said Buntline heatedly. "Medical science is making progress, but the War between the States left us a nation of cripples. If you were shot in an arm or a leg, the odds were fifty-fifty that they were going to have to amputate that limb if you were to live."

"Ah!" said Roosevelt. "I'm starting to understand."

"The first few successful experiments weren't robots like you saw, Theodore," said Edison. "We created them just to offset the costs, since the government was paying me to learn how the Indians worked their magic and to combat it, not to find out how to replace amputated limbs. Anyway, the first few were women with metal legs or arms. Some of them wound up working for Kate Elder, who offered us a very healthy fee if we could make one hundred percent robotic prost.i.tutes for her brothel. Not only were they a unique attraction, but they never got sick, they never asked for more money, they were never bought away by rival establishments, they worked twenty-four hours each and every day, they never had periods, they-"

"Stop, Tom," interrupted Buntline. Edison turned to him questioningly. Buntline smiled. "You were getting too enthused."

Edison actually blushed. "Anyway," he concluded, "it was quite a breakthrough. Once we're back East, I plan to present papers and demonstrations at the leading medical colleges-with Ned's a.s.sistance, of course."

"That's fascinating," said Roosevelt. "It truly is."

"Thank you."

"But I have a more pressing problem," he continued. "I believe you summoned me here to talk about it."

"More than talk, Theodore," said Edison. "As I said two days ago, there is no sense going after War Bonnet's supernatural strengths, so we're going after his very human weaknesses." He turned to Buntline. "Ned? The clip-ons?"

"What's a clip-on?" asked Roosevelt.

"You'll see," said Edison, as Buntline reached into a pocket and pulled out a pair of dark, almost black lenses attached to a metal frame.