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

by Mike Resnick

  The Kid made a face. “Big words again.”

  “She felt that if she was willing to bust me out of jail, I shouldn't touch another woman—even a metal one.” He shrugged. “So I didn't.”

  “But you're Doc Holliday!” said the Kid.

  “And she's Kate Elder. She could probably beat the shit out of both of us at the same time.”

  “A woman?” snorted the Kid contemptuously.

  “Not a lot of frail flowers bloom in Tombstone,” said Holliday.

  “I'm sure glad I didn't choose you for my hero when I was a kid.”

  “You're still a kid,” replied Holliday. “Just out of curiosity, who was your hero?”

  “George Armstrong Custer.”

  “Seems to me he ran into some difficulties at the Little Bighorn a few years back.”

  “He went out with his guns blazing,” said the Kid.

  “You know that for a fact, do you?” asked Holliday.

  “Of course he did,” said the Kid heatedly. “The Sioux don't take no prisoners.” He stared across the table at Holliday. “Who was your hero?”

  “Hippocrates.”

  “Is that a person, or an animal that lives in the water?” asked the Kid with a smug, self-satisfied grin.

  “Fella from Europe,” replied Holliday. “And before you ask, he wasn't much with a gun.”

  “Don't sound like much of a hero to me.”

  At least he didn't blunder into Sioux headquarters, thought Holliday. Aloud he said, “How long are you planning to stay in town?”

  “I don't know,” answered the Kid. “I'll probably be heading back to Lincoln County one of these days. I've got friends there.” His face darkened. “And I've got someone who needs killing there, too—Pat Garrett.” He looked at Holliday. “You ever plan on going back, or were you just passing through?”

  “It seemed a pleasant enough place,” answered Holliday. “I suppose I'll pay it another visit one of these days.”

  “If you do, I'll be pleased to show you around.”

  “I'll take you up on that,” said Holliday.

  The waiter arrived with a large plate of scrambled eggs. Holliday expected to be sickened by the sight and smell of them. Instead he found himself getting hungry, and he moved about a third of the contents onto his own plate.

  “You don't mind if I eat the rest?” asked the Kid.

  “Be my guest,” said Holliday. “After all, you're a growing boy.”

  “You know, you're the only man who can get away with teasing me like that and not get shot.”

  “Wouldn't do you any good anyway,” said Holliday with a smile.

  The Kid chuckled. “I forgot. Still, you know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” said Holliday. “You mean you kill people for teasing you.”

  “A man's got to be treated with respect,” said the Kid. “I mean, hell, you demanded that at the O.K. Corral.”

  “It wasn't quite like that,” said Holliday.

  “I was right, then,” said the Kid. “I figured you were going easy on them.”

  Holliday frowned in puzzlement. “Easy on them?” he repeated.

  “Yeah,” said the Kid. “I went over there yesterday, just to see where it happened. Didn't take much to figure it out.”

  “I don't think I follow you.”

  “You couldn't miss from that distance. Five men, five shots, five seconds tops, and it's all over. I figure you held back until you saw the Earps were getting all shot up.”

  “You think you could have taken all five of them out in five seconds?”

  “Why not?” said the Kid. “You couldn't miss, not from that distance.”

  “There was a lot of smoke from the guns,” said Holliday. “One of the McLaurys was hiding behind his horse, and Ike Clanton was running all the hell over. They weren't just standing there being targets. They were firing at us, too. Virg and Morgan went down in the first five or six seconds.”

  “If you'd been firing from the get-go, you could have saved them.”

  “They were wounded, not killed.”

  “I wish I'd been there,” said the Kid.

  “Why?”

  “It was the most famous shootout ever. I'd like to have been a part of it.”

  “Billy Clanton and the McLaury brothers were part of it. I don't think they'd agree with you.”

  The Kid threw back his head and laughed. “I like your sense of humor, Doc!”

  “I didn't know I was being funny.”

  “That makes it all the funnier,” said the Kid, leaving Holliday mystified by what passed for the young man's sense of humor.

  They finished their eggs, Holliday had another half-glass of whiskey, checked the bottle, decided there was enough left not to throw it out, and told the waiter to label the bottle so he could have it ready for dinner. He left some coins on the table, and then, picking up his cane, he and the Kid walked out into the hot, sunny Arizona morning.

  “What are your plans for the day?” asked the Kid.

  “I have no idea,” said Holliday, pulling the brim of his hat down to shield his eyes from the sunshine. “It's been a long time since I was awake before noon. I don't remember what people do in the morning.”

  “I've got a suggestion,” said the Kid.

  “It's too damned early for the Wildcat,” said Holliday. “You go alone and give them my regards.”

  The Kid shook his head, “No, I didn't mean that.”

  “That's a relief.”

  “I thought we'd mosey over to the corral and you could show me exactly how it happened.”

  “It was all over in half a minute, even if you think we were loafing,” said Holliday. “There's just not much to show.”

  “You know how many dime novels have been written about it?” asked the Kid.

  “All by Easterners who haven't been within five hundred miles of it,” replied Holliday.

  “Next you're gonna be telling me that there wasn't any gunfight at all, that some newspaper made it all up.”

  “There was one,” said Holliday. “I just don't know why everyone's still talking about it.”

  “Why don't you show me and let me make up my own mind?” said the Kid.

  “What the hell,” said Holliday. “It's only a few blocks away. We might as well go and get this over with.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  They walked a couple of blocks and came to Fremont Street.

  “This is where I met them,” said Holliday, pointing up the street with his cane.

  “Them?”

  “The Earps. All three of them were dressed in black. Virgil was carrying a shotgun, and he traded it to me for my cane. Not that he thought I needed it, but he didn't want to antagonize the Clantons and McLaurys by holding the damned thing.” A sudden smile. “I never understood why he thought they'd feel safer if I was carrying it. Anyway, I fell into step with them, and we walked the rest of the way to Fly's Photo Studio.”

  “You mean the O.K. Corral.”

  “Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” said Holliday with a shrug. “Truth to tell, they weren't in either place. They were between the photo studio and an assay office in an alley that backed up to the corral.” Suddenly he smiled. “I can see where calling it Gunfight in the Alley Near the Photo Studio lacks a little something.”

  There was a small crowd at the site of the gunfight, while a guide explained where each of the participants had stood, and his partner was selling souvenirs at the entrance to the alley.

  “Well, I'll be damned if it ain't one of the survivors,” said the guide. “Here he is, folks—the legendary Doc Holliday!”

  There was polite applause, and a few expressions of awe, and Holliday tipped his hat.

  “I was just about to give the details of the Gunfight,” said the barker. “But perhaps you'd like to do it?”

  “You go ahead,” said Holliday. “You probably know the details better than I do. I was a bit preoccupied at the time.”

  “I'l
l be happy to,” said the barker. “Now, according to the eyewitness accounts, Wyatt Earp stood here, Virgil here, Morgan here, and Doc was over there, toting a shotgun.”

  He walked over to show where the Clantons, McLaurys, and Billy Claiborne had positioned themselves, and as he did so the Kid walked over to where Doc had stood at the onset of the shootout. He pointed his finger at the guide and fired five quick, imaginary shots, then walked back to Holliday's side.

  “Five seconds, tops,” he said softly.

  Let's find out how good you really are, thought Holliday. He stepped forward and got the guide's attention.

  “My young friend is a rodeo sharpshooter,” he said. “I think if we encouraged him with some applause, he might be happy to give you a demonstration of marksmanship.”

  “Certainly,” said the barker enthusiastically. “How would you like to do it?”

  “Give me five targets,” said Holliday, “one to represent each of the Clanton gang.”

  The guide's partner supplied five souvenirs, carved statues of Wyatt Earp, and Holliday positioned them around the alley, two high, two on the ground, one on a small barrel.

  “All right,” said Holliday, stepping back. “The remarkable Henry Antrim will now take the place of myself and the Earp brothers.”

  Now let's see if you're good enough to hit even three of the targets.

  The Kid looked so relaxed Holliday thought he might have misunderstood, might be waiting for someone to yell “Draw!” or fire a pistol, but then, so quickly that the eye could barely follow him, he drew his pistol and fired five shots in rapid succession, twirled it once when he had finished, and slid it back into its holster.

  “Amazing!” said the guide, picking up the shattered pieces of the targets. “He hit every one!”

  The Kid bowed to a new round of applause, then fell into step beside Holliday as they walked back up Fremont Street.

  “So am I as good as you?” asked the Kid.

  “You're damned good, and you know it.”

  “But am I as good as you?” persisted the Kid.

  “There's only one way to find out,” answered Holliday, “and it seems Hook Nose and Geronimo have denied us that ability.”

  “Maybe someday,” said the Kid.

  “Maybe.”

  They walked another block in silence. Then the Kid spoke again.

  “I was wrong.”

  “About what?” asked Holliday.

  “It only took four seconds.”

  And here I am, waiting for Tom and Ned to find a way to blow up the station so that I'm vulnerable to your gunfire again. A wry smile played on Holliday's lips. Maybe I should be thinking of offering my services to Hook Nose instead.

  “H

  I, DOC,” said Henry Wiggins as he entered the Oriental Saloon and walked over to Holliday's table. “I was hoping I'd find you here.” “Aren't you supposed to be minding the store, so to speak?” asked Holliday.

  Wiggins shook his head. “They're working on something big, and they say I'd just get in the way. I don't know whether to feel relieved or insulted.”

  “Enjoy your vacation, such as it is. With a little luck it won't last too much longer.” Holliday gestured to the bottle on the table. “Pour yourself a drink.”

  “I don't know how you can handle this stuff,” said Wiggins.

  “If you feel that way, don't drink after all.”

  “Oh, a sip now and then can't do me much harm. But you put it away like there's no tomorrow.”

  “For some of us, that's a pretty accurate description,” said Holliday.

  “Damn it, Doc, don't talk like that!” complained Wiggins. “You thought you were dying a year ago, when we met, and you're still here. If you'd just stop abusing your body…”

  “The consumption's abusing my body,” replied Holliday. “The whiskey's just making it tolerable.”

  Wiggins sighed. “Okay, I give up.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Henry,” said Holliday. “Truly I do. Most people either actively want me dead, or else don't give a damn. You actually want me to live.”

  Wiggins pulled out a thin cigar. “You mind if I smoke?”

  “Not a problem. Just blow it in the other direction.” Holliday lifted his glass and took a swallow. “How have you been?”

  “Like I told you, it's been the best job I've ever had,” said Wiggins. “I made a good living selling ladies' corsets, and I did all right selling laudanum and other pharmaceuticals, but they were nothing like selling Tom's and Ned's inventions.”

  “Everyone wants electric lights and phonographs?” suggested Holliday.

  Wiggins nodded. “But you know what I make my real money from? Ned's metal women!”

  “That's hardly surprising,” responded Holliday, turning his head away for a moment as Wiggins inadvertently blew some smoke toward his face. “Men outnumber women ten-to-one out here.”

  “You want to know the crazy part? A quarter of my customers are women!”

  “Either we've got a lot of degenerate females out here, or we've got a lot of exceptionally unattractive husbands.”

  “The latter. They buy them so they won't have to mingle with their husbands.”

  “Interesting word: mingle,” mused Holliday. “The metal women have to be expensive as all hell. You'd think if a family could afford one, the husband's already got a flesh-and-blood woman or two stashed around the landscape.”

  “Probably,” agreed Wiggins. “But a husband who's got a mistress or two isn't the kind of man who's inclined to share that information with his wife.”

  “Makes sense,” admitted Holliday. “Kate can't be the only woman who gets into killing rages.” He took another swallow. “Well, I'm glad you're making money, Henry. How many kids have you got now?”

  “Just the three. I've hardly been home a month, total, since I started working for Tom and Ned.”

  “Damned lucky for you traveling salesmen that someone isn't crisscrossing the country selling metal men.”

  “Tom says that someday almost all our work will be done by machines,” said Wiggins.

  “Not the work his metal chippies do, I hope,” replied Holliday. “How far afield have they sent you?”

  “I've hit most of the major settlements out here on this side of the Mississippi,” answered Wiggins. “I've seen a lot of interesting folks and things along the way. I saw where they buried Jesse James. I saw Cole Younger and Clay Allison having a drink together. I even saw Bill Hickok's grave, and the table where he was shot while he was playing cards.”

  Holliday smiled. “Henry, you sound like an Easterner who's read too many dime novels.”

  “I suppose I do at that,” said Wiggins, returning his smile. “At least someday I'll be able to tell my kids that I saw all these desperados—and that I saw the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.”

  “Speaking of desperados, have you met the latest?”

  “I've been meaning to ask you about that,” said Wiggins. “He says his name is Henry Antrim, but people say he's really Billy the Kid.”

  “I think they've got it backward,” said Holliday. “They call him Billy the Kid, but his real name is Henry Antrim, or if you prefer, Henry McCarty.”

  “I don't follow you.”

  “His father was McCarty, his stepfather was Antrim—or so he tells me.”

  “So where does Billy Bonney come from?”

  Holliday shrugged. “Beats me. I'll ask him next time I see him. In fact, he usually stops in here about now.”

  “For someone with his reputation, he doesn't look very formidable,” said Wiggins.

  “I saw him put on a little impromptu exhibition a couple of hours ago,” said Holliday. “Trust me—he's formidable.”

  “Of course I trust you,” said Wiggins. “You were the first man to befriend me when I came out here, and you were the one who made sure I never got in anyone's line of fire.”

  “There were a lot, weren't there?” said Holliday.

  “The
re were,” Wiggins affirmed. He looked at Holliday, “You sound almost wistful.”

  Holliday sighed deeply. “At least I knew what I was up against.”

  “And now?” queried Wiggins. “I thought you were just here to gamble.”

  “You haven't seen me at a table, have you?”

  “Come to think of it, no,” admitted Wiggins. “So why are you here?”

  “It's complicated.”

  “Does it have anything to do with what Tom and Ned are working on?”

  Holliday nodded. “It does.”

  “If there's anything I can do…”

  “Just continue being my friend,” replied Holliday. “I have few enough that I can't spare any.”

  “Of course. I'll be as staunch a friend as Wyatt Earp.”

  Holliday grimaced and took another drink.

  “Oh my God!” said Wiggins, his eyes widening. “You two were the closest friends there were, always protecting each other's back. What the hell happened?”

  “I said something foolish,” answered Holliday.

  “I'm surprised he cared.”

  “It wasn't about Wyatt,” said Holliday.

  “Then who—?”

  “It's over,” said Holliday. “The subject is closed.”

  “Whatever you say, Doc.”

  “Hey, Doc!” cried a voice from across the saloon. “Got an empty chair if you'd like to sit in.”

  “Perhaps later,” Holliday called back.

  “You really aren't gambling,” noted Wiggins, frowning. “I don't believe I ever saw you turn down a game, even one with Ike Clanton or the McLaurys.”

  “Call it maturity,” said Holliday ironically.

  “Is it?”

  Holliday smiled and shook his head. “Or poverty,” he added wryly.

  “If you're tapped out, I can loan you some money,” said Wiggins, pulling out his wallet and thumbing through the contents. “It's only a hundred and ten dollars, but it's yours if you want it.”

  “You'd do that for me?”

  “That's what friends do for each other.”

  “I'm touched, Henry,” said Holliday. “I truly am.” He pushed the proffered wallet back toward Wiggins. “You keep it. Buy those kids something special with it.”

  “You're sure?”