Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) (6 page)

“That's where my first factory is,” said Buntline. “And once Tom figures out and designs what we need, I'll have to make it—and along with being better-stocked, Tombstone is a lot closer than Leadville.”

“It's still operating?” asked Holliday.

“Why not?” replied Buntline. “After all, the government is paying for it, and I've got your friend Henry Wiggins overseeing it.”

“Doc?” said Edison.

“Yes?”

“We're halfway out of the valley. See that prairie dog there?”

“I see him.”

“Shoot him. Let's see how far this protection extends.”

Holliday pulled his pistol and aimed it at the prairie dog without firing, while the little animal stared at him curiously.

“What's the matter?”

“I may know that particular animal,” replied Holliday. “I want to give him time to warn me off.” Finally, when no transformation took place, he squeezed the trigger. The prairie dog fell backward, jerked spasmodically once, and lay still.

“Okay, there's a limit,” said Edison. “Good.”

As they continued on their way out of the valley, Holliday looked at the body of the little animal that couldn't do him any harm, and realized that he felt worse about shooting it than about most of the men he had killed.

“S

Holliday smiled. “The poor kid slept just about all the way. He couldn't have gotten two winks on that rock-hard bench back at the station.”

“I don't see him around,” said Buntline.

“Probably still asleep,” said Holliday. “I gave him a quarter to spend in the dining car. If he doesn't wake up before the train pulls out, it'll have to last him through to California.” He looked around. “I don't think an innocent country boy like that could handle what Tombstone's become, anyway.”

As he spoke, he gestured to a monorail with bullet-shaped brass cars that were just pulling up to the station.

“This was my pride and joy before we left for Colorado,” remarked Buntline, staring lovingly at the brass cars. “Circles the whole city, and cuts across the middle, right in front of the Oriental Saloon.”

“That place saw a lot of action when you and the Earps were here,” added Edison at the mention of the Oriental. “I understand that it's just about empty these days.”

The cars came to a stop and their tops popped open. “Climb in,” said Buntline. “No sense walking. One to a car.”

“You should have made them bigger,” said Holliday, tossing his suitcase into a car.

Buntline shrugged. “A lot of people don't want to ride with strangers, especially out here. But everyone's willing to ride alone if the alternative is walking. Saves a lot of wasted space.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Holliday.

“We have connected houses here, remember?” replied Buntline.

“Well, I can't stay at Kate's whorehouse any more,” said Holliday. “She sold out when she left. I suppose I'll get a room at the American Hotel. Josie Marcus used to stay there before she married Wyatt; it seemed a nice enough place. At least their restaurant's got a well-stocked bar.”

“Nonsense!” said Edison. “You'll stay with me, as my guest.”

“I've got a nicer guest room,” said Buntline. “And”—he leaned forward for the kill—
“indoor plumbing!
”

Holliday shook his head. “I appreciate the offers, but usually you're just waking up about the time I'm going to bed, and whiskey doesn't seem to be in abundance in either of your houses.”

“Check in with us once a day,” said Edison. “That way we'll know you're still alive, and you'll know when we're done.”

They climbed into the coaches, the tops popped down, and they began to circle the entirety of Tombstone. Holliday had almost forgotten how totally Edison and Buntline had transformed it. There were street lights every ten yards, most of the buildings were made of Buntline's impervious brass. The self-propelled stagecoaches of the Bunt Line had made horses almost superfluous and only two were hitched along the street. More than one man had the brass handle of a specially made twin-barreled pistol peeking out above the top of its holster.

After a few minutes, the monorail turned up Fremont Street and shortly thereafter came to a dead stop, though there was no platform and the tops remained closed. Then Holliday looked out the window and saw a huge sign identifying the O.K. Corral, and half a dozen vendors selling souvenirs, everything from false badges and toy guns to dime novels by writers who swore they'd been eyewitnesses to the shootout.

“It wasn't even
at
the goddamned corral!” muttered Holliday to his window. “It was in the alley next to Fly's Photo Studio
near
the corral.” He took a flask out of his vest pocket, unscrewed the top, and took a swig. “They turned the damned place into a shrine!” he growled as the monorail began moving again.

He got off a few minutes later, grabbed his suitcase, and walked to the American Hotel.

“Got a room?” he asked.

“We've always got one for you, Mr. Holliday,” said the clerk obsequiously.

“Doc,” Holliday corrected him.

“Will you be with us long, Doc?”

“I've no idea.”

“Room 112,” announced the clerk.

Holliday shook his head. “Nothing on the ground floor. If someone's going to stick his gun through my window and shoot me while I'm sleeping, I want him to at least have to climb a tree first.”

The clerk checked the rack behind the front desk. “327.”

Holliday shook his head again. “I'm a sick man who has limited physical resources. The second floor is more than enough climbing.”

“210,” said the clerk, making an effort to keep smiling.

“Fine,” said Holliday. “Have someone take my bag up there. I'll get the key later.”

“Uh…sir…” said the clerk uneasily.

“Doc.”

“Doc,” amended the clerk. “This is very awkward, but…”

“Spit it out,” said Holliday.

“You are not without your enemies in this town. If someone calls for you or asks if you're in…?”

“If it's Henry Wiggins, send him up or tell him where I am,” said Holliday. “Same with Tom Edison and Ned Buntline. Anyone else,” he continued, holding up a one-dollar gold piece, “you never heard of me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now I think I'll see if your restaurant's as good as I remember,” said Holliday, tossing him the coin, then turning and walking across the lobby to the restaurant. He thought he spotted a familiar face, took a couple of steps toward it, and peered at it through all the cigar smoke.

“Doc?” said the object of his attention. “Is that you?”

“Hi, Henry,” said Holliday, extending his hand and stepping forward.

“Well, I'll be damned!” said Henry Wiggins, a small, wiry man in a neatly tailored suit. “I never thought I'd see you back here again.”

“And I thought you were going to be selling Tom and Ned's inventions and weapons and robots all over the frontier,” replied Holliday.

“This is just temporary,” said Wiggins as Holliday sat down at his table. “I'm no manager. I'm a salesman. But when your friends ask for a favor…” He paused and stared at Holliday. “Damn, it's good to see you again, Doc! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to town with your two employers.”

“They're here too?”

“I'm sure you'll see them soon. Mind if I help you kill the bottle?” added Holliday, indicating a fifth of whiskey that sat on the table.

“Be my guest,” said Wiggins. He pointed to the small
“HW”
scribbled on the label. “That's how they identify that it's mine. I'm not the kind of drinker you are. It takes me three or four nights to kill one of those bottles.”

“That's because you dilute it with food,” said Holliday, filling an empty glass. “How have things been since Wyatt and I left?”

“Johnny Behan's still a crook, and he's never forgiven Wyatt for taking Josie away from him. John Clum still uses the
Epitaph
to campaign for law and order. Most of the Cowboys are dead or gone. Most of the silver mines have been played out. To be honest, things are getting a little dull around here. Not,” Wiggins added quickly, “that this town couldn't do with a little dullness.”

“Nothing wrong with dull,” agreed Holliday.

“Of course, it won't
stay
dull if Fin Clanton or a few others I could name learn you're back in town.”

“Fin Clanton will live a lot longer if he stays right where he is. Has he learned how to walk again since I blew his knee away?”

“He doesn't leave the ranch, so I don't know,” answered Wiggins. “I'll be damned if I know why he stays there. There's no profit any more in stealing horses from Mexico and selling them up here, not since Tom and Ned's machines have replaced most of the need for horses.”

“Fin was always a slow learner,” replied Holliday.

“You staying here at the American?”

“Yes, I am,” said Holliday. “And you?”

“Too expensive for my taste. I save all my money to spend at the Wildcat.”

“I'm not familiar with that name,” said Holliday, draining his glass and pouring himself another. “Is it a gambling establishment or a tavern?”

“Neither,” said Wiggins. Suddenly he smiled. “It's Kate's old place.”

“Oh?”

Wiggins nodded. “Still got all the metal chippies, too. Along with some flesh-and-blood ones. And the new owner has redecorated it. There's all new beds, they serve good whiskey—well, if you know to ask for it—and they've even got red velvet wallpaper, just like they say is in all the top New Orleans bawdy houses.”

“You know,” said Holliday, “it's been awhile. Maybe I'll go over there with you.”

“And with Kate in Colorado, you can finally sample one of the metal ladies,” added Wiggins with a grin.

“The thought has crossed my mind,” answered Holliday, returning his grin.

“Hell, we can go right now if you want, Doc.”

Holliday shook his head. “Finish your dinner, and let me at least get started drinking mine. It's been there for three years; it'll be there for anther hour or two.”

Wiggins ate, and Holliday drank, and they talked about the past few years. Holliday was surprised at how well his friend had adapted to life on the frontier. Wiggins, for his part, hadn't believed Holliday could become any more gaunt and remain alive until he saw him. He noticed that the shootist's hair was rapidly turning gray, despite being in his early thirties, and marveled at the life force within the emaciated body.

Finally they finished and made their way over to Fifth Street.

“As often as I've been here,” remarked Wiggins, “I can never get used to all the lights going on at once. We had gas lights back in St. Louis and a couple of other towns I've lived in, but we always had to light them one by one, and put them out the same way. But here Johnny Behan just throws a switch, and suddenly the whole town is lit up.”

“I'm glad he does
something
for his pay,” was Holliday's only comment.

They were within sight of the Wildcat in another couple of minutes, and could hear the noise and the laughter when they got to within one hundred feet of it.

“Sounds like everyone's having a good time,” remarked Wiggins.

“Why shouldn't they?” replied Holliday, striding forward and wishing he'd brought his cane with him.

Suddenly a single gunshot rang out, and both men froze.

“It came from inside,” noted Wiggins.

“Must have done its job,” remarked Holliday. “No one's shooting back.”

“Maybe it was just one of the men feeling happy,” said Wiggins hopefully. “Place like this tends to give you high spirits.”

“Maybe,” said Holliday noncommittally.

They climbed the three steps to the broad veranda. Wiggins seemed hesitant to enter, so Holliday opened the door and walked in. He was greeted by a pair of gleaming robotic whores, who each took him gently by an arm and led him in.

“Welcome to the Wildcat,” said a totally human woman, walking up to him. “My name is Dorcas, May I show you around?”

“It's not necessary,” replied Holliday. “I've
been
around.”

She stared at him with a puzzled frown. “I don't remember you, sir.”

“You may very well live longer that way,” said Holliday.

“You don't know him?” said a familiar voice from across the room. “Why, that's the world-famous Doc Holliday!”

Holliday turned and saw his traveling companion from the train ride to Tombstone sitting on a chair with a number of human, cyborg and robotic whores behind him, stroking his arms and neck.

“Henry?” said Holliday. “Henry Antrim?”

“Hi, Doc,” said the young man pleasantly. “I guess you figured to turn up here sooner or later.”

“I thought you were too broke to eat,” said Holliday.

A quick smile. “Who's eating?”

“Well, enjoy yourself,” said Holliday.

“You too, Doc.”

Holliday held out his hand, palm up.

“What's that supposed to mean?” asked Antrim.

“I want my quarter back.”

“Sorry, Doc, but I already spent it, and a lot more, on these lovely ladies.”

“I'll expect it tomorrow, Henry,” said Holliday.

“I'm afraid you're doomed to be disappointed,” said Antrim. “And I've got to tell you something, Doc.”

“Oh?”

“My name's not really Henry Antrim. At least, not all the time. And I'm not broke, and I'm not shy. I was just having a little fun with you.”

“And what
is
your name?” said Holliday, tensing.

“Oh, I got a lot of ‘em. Henry McCarty's one. So's William Bonney.” A huge grin spread across his face. “You can guess the other one.”