Weird West 04 - The Doctor and the Dinosaurs

by Mike Resnick

  “Welcome back, Theodore,” said Cope, emerging from where he'd been cataloging the day's finds. “I hope this means that son of a bitch is dead or disabled, but I suppose it doesn't.”

  Roosevelt grinned. “He sends his love to you, too.”

  Cope chuckled. “You know, I used to like him. Like and respect.”

  “So I've heard.”

  “Just goes to show I'm not perfect,” said Cope. “Will you be staying with us for a while?”

  “Looks like,” answered Roosevelt.

  “Good. I've been reading your history of the West, and I'd like to ask you some questions.”

  “I'll be happy to answer any that I can,” replied Roosevelt. “If you don't mind my saying so, you seem so single-minded about fossils I'm surprised that my books interest you.”

  “I'm especially interested in some of the Indians’ legends,” continued Cope.

  “Ah!” said Roosevelt. “Especially about giant monsters?”

  Cope smiled. “Not that they'd ever have seen any,” he replied. “But if they came upon some fossils, that could give birth to a legend or a superstition.”

  “Theodore was just telling us about some tribe in the Colorado Rockies that had just such a legend,” interjected Edison. “Might be an interesting place to look for bones.”

  “I've been planning to get to Colorado,” said Cope. “Maybe I'll move it up on my list.” He paused. “Would you gentlemen care to join me for dinner?”

  “In a few minutes,” answered Roosevelt. “Tom wanted to ask me a few questions about New York politics, and I'm going to show mercy to your men by not boring them to death with my answers.”

  Cope laughed and headed off toward the fire. “Fine, I'll see you when you're done.”

  The four men continued walking to the tent, and a moment later Roosevelt was squatting in front of the trunk. Holliday found squatting or kneeling too uncomfortable, and simply stood there, hands on hips, waiting for Edison and Buntline to show him the weapon they'd devised.

  “Well, as least you told him where to go,” said Holliday. “Not where I'd have told him and Marsh to go.”

  Edison laughed at that. “You've always been the soul of discretion, Doc.”

  “On a hobnailed boot, maybe,” responded Holliday.

  Edison opened the trunk and pulled out the weapon he had devised and Buntline had built.

  “Damned thing can't be a foot long,” said Holliday, frowning. “That's not going to stop the kind of critter that can do the damage Theodore saw.”

  Edison reached over and pulled a cartridge out of Holliday's gun belt. “This tiny thing can kill a man, Doc. Add a few grains and a little speed to it and it can kill a lion or an elephant. Size has got nothing to do with it.”

  “That's sure as hell not what I've been hearing from Kate for the past ten years,” muttered Holliday.

  “How does it work?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Just like a pistol,” said Edison. “You aim it, and instead of pulling a trigger you press this firing mechanism here, and then you hope your aim was straight and true.”

  “Does it make much of a bang?”

  “It doesn't make a bang at all,” said Buntline.

  “Enough powder behind the bullet to kill something bigger than an elephant, and it doesn't make a bang?” said Holliday, frowning.

  “It doesn't fire bullets, Doc,” said Edison patiently.

  Holliday held the new weapon up, pointed it at his face, and looked down the barrel.

  “There's some kind of hole here,” he said. “What the hell comes out, if not a bullet?”

  “Don't point it at yourself, just to be on the safe side,” said Buntline, gently leaning on Holliday's arm until he lowered it.

  “It emits—I like that word better than ‘fires’—an invisible force that will play havoc with the creature's nervous system. He won't be able to stand, or balance, or even breathe,” said Edison.

  “Why not just a small cannon, something about the size of a rifle?” asked Holliday.

  “A number of reasons,” said Buntline. “Any weapon that fires a bullet or a ball capable of bringing down one of these monsters would break your shoulder the first time you fired it.”

  “Not only that,” added Edison, “but where there's one resurrected dinosaur there's likely to be more than one. Any projectile—that's bullet or cannonball to you, Doc—that can kill one of these beasts, or even knock him down, will almost certainly cause an open wound, and believe me, you don't want a bunch of allosaurs catching the scent and rushing to the scene.”

  “Do they hunt in packs?” asked Roosevelt.

  Edison shrugged. “Who knows? Lions do, tigers don't. It's all guesswork, but why take the chance?”

  “If there's no bang and there's no discernible wound,” said Holliday, “how do you know if you've merely wounded him or missed him altogether?”

  Roosevelt chuckled.

  “What's so funny?” asked Holliday.

  “It's obvious you've never hunted.”

  “Okay,” said Holliday. “Enlighten me.”

  “Being charged by a dinosaur has one thing in common with being charged by a grizzly,” answered Roosevelt. “If you shoot and he's still charging, you don't waste any time worrying about whether you missed him or wounded him. You fire again.”

  “Makes sense, at that,” admitted Holliday.

  “That one's yours, Doc,” said Edison. “I've got another one for Theodore.”

  “How do we load the things?” asked Holliday, moving the gun from hand to hand, aiming it and lowering, getting the feel of it.

  “Ah!” said Edison. “I'm glad you asked. You see this trunk?”

  “Of course I see it.”

  “Have you been wondering why we needed such a huge and obviously heavy trunk to bring two relatively small weapons with us, certainly smaller than the Buntline Special that Ned made for your friend Wyatt?”

  “Not until you mentioned it,” admitted Holliday. “The Buntline Special that you made me back in Tombstone, the one I used against the thing that used to be Johnny Ringo, wasn't exactly a simple weapon either.”

  “It's got to be a battery,” said Roosevelt.

  “How did you know?” asked Buntline.

  “Tom's the Electricity King,” answered Roosevelt. “It figures that he'd use it to power our weapons.”

  “Right,” said Edison, opening the top of the trunk again so they could see the battery. “The guns plug in here,” he pointed to a pair of small connections, “and you'll have to power them up at least an hour a day. Two hours would be even better.”

  “Shouldn't be a problem,” said Holliday. “We can take turns plugging them in once we're all back in camp.”

  “All right,” said Roosevelt. “Let's put these weapons back before Professor Cope comes looking for us.”

  They plugged in one of the weapons and Edison closed the top, then walked to the tent flap.

  “Aren't you going to lock it?” asked Holliday.

  Edison shook his head. “How will you get to the weapons if a raptor or an allosaur kills me while it's locked?”

  “Good point,” acknowledged Holliday. “Dinosaur hunting is new to me.”

  “Well, hunting men will be just as new to them,” said Buntline.

  “I know,” said Holliday. “I figure the only advantage we got going for us is that they make bigger targets.”

  “True,” said Edison. “Looks like it's going to be a moonless night. Let's just hope they're not nocturnal.”

  HOLLIDAY DRAGGED HIMSELF OUT OF BED, slipped into his boots, blinked his eyes a few times, trying to focus them, pulled out his flask, found that he had drained it before he'd gone to bed and had to refill it, growled an obscenity, and walked out into the sunlight, wincing as it hit his eyes.

  “Good morning!” said Roosevelt cheerfully. “I trust you're ready to seize the day.”

  “You go to hell,” growled Holliday, heading off to where he'd conceale
d a bottle of whiskey in the bone shed. He took a long swallow, clumsily filled the flask, spilling some on the floor, tucked the flask into his vest pocket, and emerged into the open air once again.

  “You'd better hurry, Doc,” said Buntline, who was standing by the fire. “There's not much breakfast left.”

  Holliday merely glared at him.

  “It wouldn't be a bad idea, Doc,” said Roosevelt. “You might need all your strength before the day is over.”

  “How much fucking strength does it take to press a goddamned button?” muttered Holliday. He walked to a shaded area, looking around for something to sit on, found nothing, and finally sat down in the dirt.

  “Maybe I should take the second weapon,” said Buntline.

  “Don't be silly, Ned,” said Edison. “You couldn't hit the broadside of a barn—from the inside.”

  “Doc'll be all right,” said Roosevelt with a smile. “Look at him. He's so mad at the world he doesn't need a gun to kill a dinosaur.”

  “Why?” asked Buntline.

  “It's morning,” answered Roosevelt, amused. “He'll be his usual unpleasant self come noon, and by nightfall he'll be almost pleasant.”

  “It's a wonder Wyatt or one of the other Earps didn't kill him one morning,” said Buntline.

  “Never underestimate him, even in the morning,” said Roosevelt. “The reason the Earps lived long enough to make it to the O.K. Corral is because they didn't try to kill him one morning.”

  Cope came out of his tent carrying a large cloth bag.

  “What have you got there, Professor?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Goggles,” answered Cope. “I should have passed them out sooner, but we've been digging in relatively soft earth. But before we quit yesterday we came to some bones that were, how can I express it, affixed to the still-buried sides of some rocky outcroppings. A couple of the men were cut by flying chips as we chopped away at the rocks, so it'll be mandatory to wear these things whenever we're digging through rocky ground. I don't want anyone losing an eye.”

  “Not a bad idea,” offered Buntline.

  Cope glanced at Holliday. “Is he okay?”

  “He's as okay as he gets at this time of day,” answered Roosevelt. “We'll be along in a few minutes.”

  “Fine,” said Cope. “I'll see you there.”

  He signaled to a number of the men who'd been loading the wagons with digging equipment, and a moment later they were traveling north and east to the site they'd been working at the previous day.

  “I've got a question, Tom,” said Roosevelt.

  “What is it?”

  “I should probably be asking Cope, but there's no sense alarming him.” Roosevelt looked around to make sure all the men had left the camp and there were no stragglers who might overhear him. “We know that there's at least one dinosaur wandering around, and based on the way the pronghorn looked, it wasn't killed by any herbivore. It was half-eaten.”

  “I know,” said Edison. “So what's your question?”

  “Just how much danger are we in?” said Roosevelt. “What I'm saying, or asking, is: the carnivorous dinosaurs have never seen a man before. Their prey weighed tons. So my question is this: will they recognize men as prey animals? Or will they simply ignore us?”

  “That would have been a harder question to answer yesterday morning,” replied Edison. “But based on your own observations one of them killed and partially ate a pronghorn, and I doubt that it had ever seen one of them either.”

  “I know,” said Roosevelt. “But there may be a difference.”

  “Between two legs and four?” asked Edison dubiously.

  Roosevelt shook his head. “The pronghorn ran away, and that probably indicated to the dinosaur that it was a prey animal. What if we just stand still or ignore it?”

  “You might be able to, Theodore,” said Edison. “And I don't doubt that Doc would be happier standing his ground than running from anything. But there are thirty impressionable men out there, and I don't think you can count on none of them breaking and running.”

  “Hell,” said Holliday from where he was seated some fifty feet away, “Marsh and Cope would run right toward the goddamned thing.”

  Roosevelt chuckled. “You know, they probably would.”

  Holliday got painfully to his feet, coughed into a handkerchief that was covered with dried blood from the previous day, and began walking to Edison's tent.

  “All right,” he said. “Time to go to work.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” agreed Roosevelt.

  “Stay there,” said Holliday. “I'll get your gun for you.”

  “It's not exactly a gun,” said Buntline.

  “Will it work just as well or poorly if I call it one?” replied Holliday irritably.

  “Go,” said Buntline, waving him toward the tent. When he was out of earshot, Buntline turned to his two companions. “There are days when I can sympathize with Kate Elder.”

  “He's a sick man,” said Roosevelt. “A dying man. He had less than a day left when he made his deal with Geronimo, and this was the best Geronimo would or could do for him. I'd be in an even worse temper if it was me.”

  “You've got a point,” agreed Edison.

  “I've known Doc for about five years,” said Buntline, “and he's always like this in the morning.” He paused, then continued. “Sometimes in the afternoons and evenings, too.”

  “He's been dying for a lot more than five years, Ned,” replied Edison. “And he's accomplished five times as much as most totally healthy men.” Suddenly he inclined his head toward Roosevelt. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  Roosevelt was about to reply when Holliday emerged from the tent, carrying a weapon in each hand. He walked up to Roosevelt and handed one to him.

  “Damned things are too big for holsters,” said Holliday.

  “Yes, I see,” said Roosevelt. “I suppose I'll just have to carry mine. I can't leave it with my horse. If a dinosaur actually appears, every horse figures to take off in the opposite direction.”

  “This could get damnably awkward, carrying it all day,” said Holliday.

  “Not much we can do about it,” said Buntline. “I suppose I could try to fashion a holster, but I don't have any of my tools with me.”

  Holliday shook his head. “Not necessary. I'm carrying another weapon that's not in a holster or tucked in a book.”

  “Oh?”

  Holliday opened his coat, revealing a knife that hung around his neck on a thin cord.

  “Watch,” he said, and in a single motion he grabbed the hilt of the knife, broke the cord, and hurled it into a small tree, all in the space of a second.

  “Impressive,” said Buntline. “I'll see what I can rig that will be strong enough to hold the weapon and yet break the second you tug on it.” He paused. “But I won't be able to do it before tonight,” he added apologetically.

  “Then this'll have to do,” said Holliday, walking to the tree and pulling the knife out of the trunk. He reached into his pocket for a new cord, and re-fastened it around his neck.

  “You ever have call to use that?” asked Buntline.

  “From time to time,” replied Holliday.

  “Well, let's get started.” said Roosevelt. He turned to Edison and Buntline. “There's no need for you two to come along.”

  “Don't be silly,” said Edison. “You've got the only two weapons that might bring a dinosaur down, we know there's one heading this way, and you're suggesting we stay a couple of miles away from the weapons?”

  Roosevelt chuckled. “I hadn't thought of it in those terms. You're right to come along.”

  The four men walked to their horses, and a moment later they were riding toward the previous day's site. It took them about ten minutes to reach it over winding, uneven, frequently rocky trails. Finally they came to a large rock formation that covered a few acres, and saw thirty-two men, all wearing goggles, chopping away at various portions of it.

  “Welcome,” s
aid Cope, looking up from the spot he was concentrating on. “Would you like some goggles too?”

  Holliday shook his head. “I'm not hammering anything.”

  “And I've got my own spectacles,” added Roosevelt.

  Cope shrugged. “Suit yourselves.”

  Holliday and Roosevelt walked to a small rise. “You're the hunter,” said Holliday. “Where's he likely to come from?”

  “There are a couple of wrong assumptions there, Doc,” said Roosevelt.

  “Oh?”

  Roosevelt nodded. “First, we have no idea what is coming. And second, I'm not the hunter. I'm just one of the prey.”

  “Okay, I concede both points,” said Holliday, scanning the landscape. “But surely all predators have things in common.”

  “They kill and eat their prey, and that's about it, Doc,” replied Roosevelt. “We don't know if this thing walks erect or on all fours. We don't know if he's a sight hunter or a scent hunter. We don't know if he's warm-blooded or cold-blooded.”

  “The other two I concede,” said Holliday. “But why the hell does it make any difference if he's warm-blooded or cold-blooded?”

  “A warm-blooded animal, like a lion, or even a dog or cat, eats every day if he can, and certainly every couple of days unless he's starving due to injury,” explained Roosevelt. “But a cold-blooded animal, like a snake or a lizard, can get along just fine on one meal every few weeks.”

  Holliday nodded. “All right, it was a silly question.” He paused. “You saw what was left of the pronghorn. Was there any clue whether the killer was warm- or cold-blooded?”

  “No, not from the body,” answered Roosevelt. “If you want my best guess, it's warm-blooded.”

  “Why?”

  “It should have gone to sleep, nearly comatose, after a meal like that if it was cold-blooded, but I tracked it for a few miles, and it wasn't slowing down.”

  “Wonderful!” muttered Holliday. He held his weapon up in front of him. “These damned things had better work.”

  “I'll second that,” agreed Roosevelt. “You know, maybe we'd each better have one of them—tom or Ned—with us, in case something goes wrong with the weapons.”