by Mike Resnick
“Denver in ten minutes!” announced the driver from his protected cab atop the coach.
“Thanks,” said Holliday, gathering up his cards and putting them in a pocket. “You'd think more people would want to come here from Leadville.”
“Miss Anthony and Mr. Wilde are both speaking today,” answered the driver. “They tell me we're full tomorrow.” He paused. “You got a place to stay, Doc?”
“Not yet.”
“Try the Nugget,” said the driver. “That's where I always stay. Clean and cheap.”
“Sounds good,” said Holliday.
“Stick around five minutes after we stop and I'll take you there myself. I just have to turn the rig over to the guy who's taking it back to Leadville.”
Holliday pulled out his watch, which was attached to his vest by a gold chain. “That'll be fine. The man I'm here to see won't be going to bed for another three or four hours.”
“A gambler like you?”
Holliday shook his head, though of course the driver couldn't see it. “Not a gambler, and not like me,” he replied.
The coach began slowing down as it reached the outskirts of town, and finally came to a stop at the small building serving as the Bunt Line station. Holliday emerged carrying his small suitcase, and waited a few minutes for the driver to climb down. Two women and a man boarded the coach, and after changing batteries the new driver turned it around and headed back toward Leadville.
Holliday checked in to the Nugget, left his bag in his room, and was soon walking toward the Greenback Saloon and Casino. It was far larger than his own establishment, and it took him a couple of minutes to spot the man he was looking for.
A trio of women were carrying drinks and cigars to the forty gaming tables, and Holliday stopped one as she walked by.
“I wonder if I might ask a favor of you,” he said.
She stared at him suspiciously.
“Do you see that tall man at the table in the corner, the one with the brocaded silver vest?”
“Yeah?”
He thrust a dollar bill into her hand. “Please tell him that his dentist is waiting for him at the bar.”
She looked at him like he was crazy, but she walked off and delivered the message, and a moment later the tall man walked over to the bar and approached Holliday.
“How the hell are you, Doc?” he said. “I got the impression you were in Leadville to stay.”
“Hello, Wyatt,” said Holliday. “I had planned to stay there, but conditions have changed.”
Wyatt Earp smiled. “Kate throw you out again?”
Holliday made a face. “No more than once a week. Then she remembers that the whorehouse is a pretty peaceful place when people know I'm living there.”
“So what brings you to Denver?”
“You.”
“Should I be flattered?” asked Earp. “Or should I be looking for the nearest exit.”
“I just need to pick your mind, Wyatt.”
“I don't know if I like the sound of that.”
“Buy us a drink and with a little luck we'll be done before I ask for a second one.”
Earp signaled to the bartender, held up two fingers to indicate the number of glasses he wanted. When the bartender delivered them, he turned to Holliday. “Okay,” he said. “What now?”
“Let's find a table where everyone can't overhear us,” said Holliday, heading toward an empty table by a window.
“This is terrible stuff,” said Earp, taking a sip and grimacing. “I've tasted better cow piss.”
“Not better,” said Holliday. “Just younger.”
Earp laughed. “Damn! I've missed you, Doc! Now seriously, what can I do for you?”
“I lost my stake for the sanitarium in a poker game,” said Holliday. “I don't know how long I'll stay healthy enough to live on my own. I need a lot of money very fast, just to be on the safe side.”
“I don't think they're hiring any deputies in Denver this month,” said Earp.
“I said money, not chicken feed,” retorted Holliday. “You were still in the marshal business until a month or two ago. Who's got a nice price on his head?”
“You're going to turn bounty hunter?” said Earp, arching an eyebrow.
“What's so surprising?” said Holliday. “I am not entirely unacquainted with firearms.”
“Doc, they say a bounty hunter rides a hundred miles for every shot he takes,” replied Earp. “Are you sure you're up to it?”
“I can be uncomfortable now, or when I'm too weak to feed myself,” said Holliday. “It's an easy choice.”
“All right,” said Earp. “Last I heard there's seven hundred and fifty dollars for Bob Olinger, dead or alive.”
“Isn't he a deputy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then?” asked Holliday.
“You never heard of a deputy murdering anyone?” replied Earp.
“Who else?”
“There's Black Jack Ketchum and El Tigre Sains at five hundred apiece.”
Holliday shook his head. “I could spend five hundred just tracking them down. Isn't there anyone with a real price on his head?”
“You already killed Johnny Ringo.”
“Once.”
“John Wesley Hardin's in jail.”
“What about this kid everyone's talking about?” asked Holliday. “Got a bunch of aliases.”
“You don't want any part of him, Doc,” said Earp seriously.
“What's he worth?” persisted Holliday.
“Forget it. He's you, a dozen years younger and in perfect health.”
“Damn it, Wyatt,” said Holliday irritably.
Earp took a deep breath and stared into his old friend's eyes. “Ten thousand.”
“Ten thousand,” repeated Holliday, impressed. “I guess most of those rumors weren't rumors after all.”
“He's killed between fifteen and twenty men,” said Earp. “And if he lived on the other side of the Mississippi he wouldn't be old enough to vote. Leave him be, Doc.”
“Well, he figures to be good for ten thousand dollars.”
“Doc, he just killed two really good men—good with guns, I mean—when he broke out of the jail down in Lincoln. I knew them. I don't think you could have taken them both at once.”
“If you're that worried, come with me and we'll split the money,” replied Holliday.
Earp shook his head. “Governor Lew Wallace posted that reward.”
“He could afford to. Ben-Hur is the best-selling novel in the country.”
“Ben what?”
Holliday sighed. “I forgot. Only one of us has an interest in literature.”
“Anyway,” continued Earp, “half the goddamned territory's out looking for the Kid. They haven't turned him up yet.
“That money will pay for two years in the sanitarium.”
“I thought you were planning on four years.”
“I figure I'll take two years off my health just hunting him down,” answered Holliday. “Come along. Don't tell me you can't use five thousand dollars—and we can treat ourselves to Olinger and the others along the way.”
“I'm not a lawman any more, Doc,” said Earp.
“I never was,” said Holliday. “So what?”
“Yes you were,” said Earp. “Virgil deputized you on the way to the O.K. Corral.”
“I never thought it was legal,” replied Holliday. “Did you?”
“It was legal enough.”
“We're getting off the subject. Come down to New Mexico with me.”
“Doc, I'm a married man.”
“So what?”
“Josie doesn't want me looking for trouble,” said Earp uncomfortably. “We're planning on going up to Alaska and looking for gold instead.
“You can make more in ten seconds facing the Kid with me than you can make in two years of busting your back in a mine,” said Holliday. “Josie is your third wife, Wyatt. You never listened to the first two. Why change now?”
> “This one's different.”
“This one's Jewish,” said Holliday. “Comes from a long line of killers, dating all the way back to what her people did to Jesus. She should approve of killing the Kid.”
“Tread easy there, Doc,” said Earp.
“You think they're not killers?” said Holliday. “Go read the goddamned Bible sometime.”
“I'm warning you, Doc.”
“You can stand up to a sick consumptive man, but you won't stand up to a damned Jewess,” complained Holliday.
“That's it,” said Earp, getting to his feet. “From this minute on we're no longer friends.”
He walked out of the building, leaving Holliday sitting alone at the table.
“Now why did I say that?” muttered Holliday. “Hell, Josie is the only Jew I've ever met, and I like her.” He held up his glass and stared at it. “Someday I really have to give you up. I wish to hell you weren't the only thing that makes life bearable.”
He downed the drink, left the Greenback, stopped at the Bunt Line station, bought a ticket to New Mexico for the next morning, and went back to the Nugget after picking up the latest dime novel, which featured a cover story about the invincible Billy the Kid.
T
HE BUNT LINE STOPPED at the edge of the New Mexico Territory, and Holliday transferred to a horse-drawn stagecoach. The ride was rougher, the odor and flies suddenly prevalent, and the possibility of an Indian attack greater. Their surroundings became flatter, with nothing but the occasional cactus to break the even horizon. It seemed too hot and dry even for snakes and spiders, and they passed occasional stark-white cattle skeletons along the way. Holliday stared out the window, unable to comprehend why the Indians would fight to hold onto this bleak land, or why the United States coveted it.
They stopped twenty miles into the territory at a stagecoach station to rest and water the horses, and Holliday clambered down from the coach and decided to stretch his legs. The stretching was cut short when he saw there was a bar inside the station, and he walked inside for a drink.
“What'll it be?” asked the station master, who doubled as bartender and ticket salesman.
“Just whiskey.”
“I can make something fancier if you like.”
Holliday shook his head. “I'm not a fancy kind of man.”
The station master shrugged. “Whatever you say. I'm not about to argue with Doc Holliday.”
Holliday stared at him. “Do I know you?”
“Never had the honor of meeting you.”
“Then how—?”
“Came over the telegraph,” was the answer. He picked up the message and read it aloud. “'Doc Holliday will be on the next coach. Show him every courtesy, and whatever you do, don't rile him.'”
“They must think I kill someone before breakfast every day,” remarked Holliday, draining his glass.
“If you say you don't, I believe it,” said the station master. “Hell, if you say cows can fly and pigs can piss beer, I'll believe you.”
Holliday couldn't repress a grin. “How about if I just say this is damned good whiskey and I'd like a refill?”
“It's yours, on the house,” said the station master, pouring him another.
“That's very generous of you,” said Holliday. “I'll remember you in my will.”
“They say you can't die.”
Now that I'm broke, wouldn't that be ironic if it were true?
“Oh, everything dies,” he said aloud.
The station master leaned on the bar. “How many men have you killed, Doc?”
“One or two,” answered Holliday.
“They've credited you with twenty-five.”
“One of those damned McLaury brothers must have come back to life,” said Holliday with an amused smile. “Last I heard it was twenty-six.”
“So it's twenty-six?”
Holliday shook his head. “You can't believe everything you hear.”
“Okay,” said the station master, who sensed he had pushed enough. “It'll be your secret.”
“Mine, and a bunch of dime novel writers who can't count,” agreed Holliday, walking out the door.
He adjusted his hat to keep the sun from his eyes, and unbuttoned his jacket. He didn't remember New Mexico being this hot; it could just as well have been Arizona. A hot breeze was blowing sagebrush and sand across the flat ground. A snake seemed content to remain in the shade cast by the coach. The horses had slaked their thirst, but were drenched in sweat.
“Welcome to New Mexico,” said the driver, grinning as he noticed Holliday's discomfort. “Hot enough for you.”
Holliday took a deep breath. “At least the air's a little thicker than up in Leadville.”
“I imagine most of the men you killed are where it's a little hotter right now.”
“Only the first four or five thousand,” said Holliday, forcing a smile to his lips. What the hell kind of maniac do you people think I am?
“Well, we've got our share that needs killing,” said the driver. “Got one right now.”
“Oh?” said Holliday, trying not to look too interested.
“Well, maybe,” hedged the driver. “They say he's killed twenty men, maybe thirty. But they also say he's a really nice, polite, thoughtful kid, so who knows?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Billy Bonney,” was the answer. “Just busted out of jail a couple of months ago. Killed eight or nine deputies in the process. Maybe twelve.”
“I don't believe I've heard of any desperado named Bonney,” said Holliday, hoping the driver could tell him more details.
“Maybe you've heard of Billy the Kid?”
“Here and there.”
“Don't know why he permits it. Who'd want to get famous as being a kid?” continued the driver.
“Sounds to me like he's chosen a profession where he's not likely to get much older,” answered Holliday. “What else can you tell me about him?”
“They say he's got a Mexican ladyfriend,” was the answer. “I hear he's left-handed, but I don't put much stock in it, since I figure anyone who's seen him draw ain't around to report on it.”
“Makes sense.”
Suddenly a horse-drawn buckboard pulled up, and a woman in her fifties climbed down, tipped the man at the reins, walked over to the stagecoach, handed a ticket to the driver, and entered the coach.
“I guess we can go now,” said the driver. “She's what we were waiting for. Climb aboard, Doc.”
Holliday entered the coach and sat down opposite the woman.
“I'm Charlotte Branson,” she said, extending a gloved hand.
“John H. Holliday at your service, ma'am.”
She frowned. “I heard the driver call you Doc.”
“Yes, ma'am. I'm a dentist.”
“You're Doc Holliday, aren't you?”
“I've been called that, yes, ma'am,” he said, tipping his hat.
“I want you to know that I'm not the least bit afraid of you,” said Charlotte Branson.
“I'm terrified of you, ma'am,” replied Holliday.
She chuckled. “I do believe we're going to get along famously, Doc.” Then: “May I call you Doc?”
“Why not?” said Holliday with a shrug.
“Well, how shall we kill the time, Doc?” she continued. “Have you got a deck of cards, or would you rather regale me with stories of the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.”
“How does canasta sound, Miss Branson?” said Holliday.
“It's Mrs. Branson, and please call me Charlotte.”
“Very well, Charlotte. Shall we play a friendly game of canasta?”
“How about a friendly game of blackjack, dollar a hand?” she countered.
Suddenly Holliday grinned. “You're right, Charlotte. We're going to get on well together.” He paused. “And when you hear stories about the gunfight, you can tell them that it was in the alley leading up to the O.K. Corral, and your source for that is Doc Holliday.”
&n
bsp; “I shall do that,” she promised. “Was Ike Clanton as ugly as they say?”
“Uglier,” replied Holliday, putting his suitcase on his lap and starting to deal.
They played and exchanged stories until the horses came to another watering station three hours later, at which time Holliday was seven dollars ahead.
“Well, I guess I didn't do so badly,” said Charlotte.
“Charlotte, around Tombstone and elsewhere, they say that an outlaw named Johnny Behind-the-Deuce is the best cardplayer in the West.” He smiled at her. “I never had to work this hard beating him at the card table.”
“I'm flattered,” she said, beaming. “Seven dollars poorer, but flattered.”
“Let me spend some of that seven dollars buying you a drink,” offered Holliday.
“Just one,” she said as he climbed down and then held out his hand to her. “I can't get used to—what do you call it?—rotgut.”
“I call it wet,” answered Holliday, offering her his arm and escorting her into the station.
“Welcome,” said the station master. “What can I get for you and the missus?”
“The missus is from back in the States,” said Holliday. “You got anything from east of the Mississippi?”
“Almost,” was the answer. “Is St. Louis close enough?”
Holliday looked questioningly at Charlotte, and she nodded.
“That'll be fine,” he said. As the station master was hunting up the bottle, Holliday added, “It's been a long trip. You got an outhouse around here?”
“There's one out back.”
Holliday turned to Charlotte. “Ladies first.”
“I'm fine, Doc,” she said.
“Then if you'll excuse me…”
He turned and walked back out the door, then circled the station until he saw the outhouse and began approaching it. Then a prarie dog caught his eye. It was sitting on the ground a few feet from the outhouse, staring unblinking at him.
He pulled out a handkerchief and waved it at the prarie dog. “Shoo!” he growled, taking a step toward it—and suddenly he was facing what was becoming the familiar Apache warrior.
“What now?” demanded Holliday irritably.
“He knows why you have come.”
“He sent you here to tell me that?”
“No,” said the warrior. “He sent me here to tell you that you will never conquer Henry McCarty who is known as Billy the Kid on your own.”