Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) (23 page)

H

Then he rode back to Lincoln, dismounted in front of Garrett's office, tied his horse to the hitching post out front, and entered.

Garrett sat at his desk, doing paperwork. He looked up, saw who was confronting him, and pushed the pile of paper aside.

“Well?” he said. “Did you find him?

“I found him.”

Garrett looked out the door. “Is that your horse?”

“For a few more hours,” said Holliday.

“Then where's the body?”

“Back at Brady's ranch.”

“That was a stupid thing to do,” said Garrett. “Anyone could come along and claim it.”

“They won't. I left it less that fifteen minutes ago. Besides, who has any business at Brady's ranch?”

“Mostly horse thieves and cattle rustlers,” admitted Garrett. “Well, if the Kid's there, what are you doing here? I can't send for the reward until I certify he's dead.”

“That's
what I'm doing here,” answered Holliday. “Telling you to come out and identify the body.” He paused briefly. “Is there any warrant for Brady?”

“You killed him too?”

“In self-defense.”

“I wonder if there's been a killing this century that wasn't done in self-defense,” said Garrett sardonically.

“My question?” persisted Holliday.

“Yeah, there's five hundred for him.”

“Dead or alive?”

“Dead or alive,” confirmed Garrett.

“Let's get a wagon and bring them both in.”

Garrett nodded and got to his feet. “Return your horse. The sheriff's office will pay for the wagon.”

They got Holliday's horse, walked it to the stable, and were soon riding out of town atop a buckboard that had seen better days. They rode in silence until the ranch came into view. Garrett urged the horses on, pulled them to a stop by the blanket-covered bodies, checked to make sure one of them was the Kid, loaded him onto the back of the buckboard, then lifted Brady's body and tossed it next to the Kid.

“Any others?” he asked.

“Aren't they enough?”

“This one alone's enough for a lifetime,” said Garrett, patting the blanket-covered body. He looked around. “Nothing else to see here. Might as well head back to town.”

They rode in silence again for the first mile, but Holliday sensed that Garrett had something to say, and finally the sheriff spoke.

“What are you going to do with the money?” asked Garrett, closing his eyes as a breeze blew dust into their faces.

“I'm not sure,” answered Holliday. “I came down here because I was broke, and I needed money to pay for the sanitarium I plan to die in. But I got hot at the tables with the bounties from the two men I killed a few days ago.” He shrugged. “I'll probably just use this bounty to drink and gamble until it's time to move to the sanitarium.”

“You'll never make it that long,” said Garrett. “Every punk this side of the Mississippi who wants to make a reputation will be after the man who killed Billy the Kid.”

“Not much I can do about it,” said Holliday.

“Well, actually there is,” said Garrett.

Holliday turned and stared at him. “Do I detect the hint of a proposition?”

“You don't like me much, Doc,” said Garrett. “And believe me, I like you even less. But you're a man of your word, and I'm a man of mine. If we make a deal, we'll keep it, and that's vital in this case.”

“Tell me about ‘this case,'” said Holliday, “and I'll tell you what I think.”

Garrett pulled the horse to a stop, and turned to face Holliday. “You said you had enough money to buy into your sanitarium before you shot the Kid. Howsabout if I send for your five hundred, and turn over Mrs. Branson's thousand to you as well?”

“And?”

“And you take the money and go back to Colorado, and maybe you'll live long enough to get to that sanitarium before some hotshot newcomer guns down the man who killed Billy the Kid.”

“What do
you
get out of it?” said Holliday. “You're a lawman. You can't collect a reward for doing your job.”

“I won't have to,” said Garrett.

“Explain.”

“I've been offered a lot of money for a book on the life and death of Billy the Kid,” said Garrett. He grimaced. “There's just one catch. They'll only buy it if I'm the man who's responsible for killing him.” He paused. “What do you say, Doc? You never tell anyone I didn't kill the Kid, and I never tell anyone you did.”

“Let me think about it,” said Holliday.

They rode the rest of the way in total silence.

As Garrett pulled the horse to a halt in front of the undertaker's, he turned to Holliday. “Well, Doc?”

Holliday nodded his agreement. “And if I find out that you collected any part of that bounty, I'll come back and kill you.”

“Fair enough,” said Garrett. “And if you ever contradict a word of my book, I'll hunt you down and kill you.”

T

He pulled out his flask, took a quick drink, and was tucking it back into his pocket when Edison walked out the front door, a large suitcase in his hand.

“I didn't know you had to pack a change of clothes to go up to Boot Hill,” observed Holliday cynically, as Buntline came out with another piece of luggage.

“We don't,” replied Edison. “But the last time we left the hotel for more than an hour, the Kid and Brady broke into our room and stole those prototype pistols. I've got all the ultrasonic equipment in these cases, and I'll be damned if anyone's going to steal them.”

“Makes sense,” agreed Holliday. “Well, stick ‘em in the back and we'll be on our way.”

“There's not room for three up there,” said Buntline as Edison climbed up to share the driver's seat with Holliday.

“If you don't mind sitting in the wagon, it'll save you the bother of renting a horse,” noted Holliday.

“Yeah, why not?” said Buntline, pulling himself up to the wagon, sitting at the back, and letting his legs dangle down. “It's only about half a mile out of town, right?”

“Right,” said Holliday, urging the horses forward.

“Did you arrange for a preacher?” asked Edison.

Holliday shook his head. “I don't know what religion she belonged to, but I don't think she was much of a believer. We'll just bury her, plant the headstone, and leave.”

“Headstone?”

“I had one made up,” said Holliday. “It'll be better than Julia Bulette's, anyway.”

“I don't believe I've heard of her,” said Edison.

“She was a madam in Virginia City, up in Nevada,” said Holliday. “Gave a goodly percentage of her take to the local police and fire departments, and when there was a cholera outbreak she turned her whorehouse into a free hospital. Got killed by a drunken customer a few years back, at which point the local ladies, who wouldn't say a word against her when she was alive, decided she wasn't fit to be buried in the local cemetery, and insisted they plant her in Boot Hill. Her only marker was the brass headboard of her bed.”

“Really?”

“Really,” replied Holliday. “At least Charlotte will have a headstone.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence, entered the little graveyard, and stopped the wagon by a recently dug grave where two men were standing, shovels in hand. Holliday tossed them each a gold coin, indicated the casket, and stood aside as they pulled it off the buckboard, carried it to the grave, and lowered it on ropes. Then they quickly filled in the grave, planted the headstone, and left on horseback.

“Maybe you should say a prayer over her, Doc,” suggested Buntline.

“I don't know any,” replied Holliday.

“Not one?” asked Edison.

Holliday shook his head. “Not one.”

“I do,” said a voice, and the three men turned to find themselves facing Geronimo.

“I thought we were even,” said Holliday, frowning.

“We are,” said Geronimo. “I pay tribute to a brave woman.”

“I have no objection to that,” said Holliday, stepping back and allowing the Apache to step closer to the grave.

“But
I
do,” said another voice.

They all turned and saw Hook Nose standing some fifty yards away.

“Stand back, White Eyes,” said Geronimo softly. “His battle is with me, not with you.”

“My battle is with
all
of you!” said Hook Nose sternly. “But it is especially with
you!”
He pointed a finger at Geronimo and a lightning bolt shot out of it.

Geronimo held up his hand and deflected the bolt, then chanted something in his native language and a whirlwind instantly encompassed Hook Nose.

“Do you think to harm me with a mere wind, Goyathlay?” demanded Hook Nose, stepping forward through the whirlwind.

“What I harm you with is immaterial to me,” answered Geronimo, making a mystic gesture. Instantly two hawks appeared thirty feet above Hook Nose and dove down, clearly aiming for his eyes. When they were halfway to him, he made a slapping gesture with his hand; the hawks screamed and vanished.

For another two minutes the two medicine men hurled mystical creatures and weapons at each other, while Edison and Buntline gathered up their luggage and began creeping away. Holliday, though fascinated by the battle, accompanied them.

“Not so fast, White Eyes!” yelled Hook Nose, conjuring up a dragon-like creature and sending it after them.

“They are under my protection!” said Geronimo, holding both hands up. The dragon stopped. Then he uttered a low command, and the dragon turned and began approaching Hook Nose. “Woo-Ka-Nay created him,” said Geronimo, “Woo-Ka-Nay may have him.”

Edison opened his suitcase and began rummaging through it. “Damn!” he muttered. “Wrong one!”

Holliday saw the device they had used to kill White Eagle, reached in, and pulled it out.

“We don't want that one, Doc,” said Edison as Buntline opened the other case.
“This
is the ticket!” he said, and pulled out a smaller device.

“That's the thing that turned the Great Gray Owl into a fireball, right?” asked Holliday.

“Right,” answered Edison.

“Put it away.”

“What are you talking about, Doc?” demanded Edison. “It worked on the owl. It'll work on these two.”

“I know.”

“Then what—?”

“Geronimo's protecting us, Tom. You can't kill him.”

“Then what do we do—just wait this thing out and hope he wins?”

“We lower the odds,” said Holliday, holding up the device he'd taken from the first case.

Geronimo and Hook Nose had escalated their weaponry from conjured creatures to a rain of fire, huge boulders, tornado-like winds—and still each stood up to whatever the other hurled against him.

Holliday began moving forward, the device in his hand, trying to use Geronimo as a shield. Finally when he was just a few feet behind the Apache he took two steps to Geronimo's left, aimed the device, and fired it.

It didn't have the same deadly effect on Hook Nose that it had on White Eagle, but it clearly stunned him, and as he turned to concentrate on Holliday he lowered some part of his psychic guard, for Geronimo threw one last fireball at him. It exploded in his face, and an instant later Hook Nose's headless body fell to the ground.

Geronimo turned to Holliday.

“We seem to have made another trade, John Henry Holliday. What service can I do you in exchange for this?”

“I don't suppose you can make my consumption go away?”

Geronimo shook his head. “It will kill you. Even my magic cannot change that.”

“I was afraid you'd say that,” replied Holliday with a wry smile. “I have nothing else to ask of you. But I think my friend Tom has.”

Geronimo shook his head. “He has done me no service. I will do none for him.”

“That's not so,” said Holliday. “He invented the device that I—” But suddenly he was speaking to empty air.

“What should we do about Hook Nose's body?” asked Buntline.

Holliday shrugged. “Do you feel like digging a grave?”

Buntline looked around. “They took the shovels with them.”

“When we get to town I'll pay someone to come out and bury him,” said Edison.

“Do
Indians get buried?” asked Buntline.

“Unless someone claims him in the next couple of hours,” said Edison, “this one will.”

Holliday walked over to Charlotte's grave and looked at the headstone.

Charlotte Branson

?—1882

A true friend

Who might have been more

He stood there in silence for a minute, then walked to the buckboard.

“Ready to go back to town?” he asked.

Edison and Buntline nodded their assent, and ten minutes later he was packing his bags in the Grand Hotel, preparing to go back to Leadville, make his peace with Kate Elder, and face the slow, painful death that awaited him.