by Mike Resnick
Holliday nodded. “I'm sure.”
Wiggins got awkwardly to his feet. “Well, I guess I'll be moving along,” he said. “I've got some things to buy, and I don't know when Tom or Ned will need me.”
“Take care,” said Holliday.
Wiggins walked out through the swinging doors just as the Kid entered. He nodded to Holliday, but made a beeline to the poker table with the empty seat. He slapped some bills on the table, and they began dealing him in.
A bearded man wearing a deputy's badge entered next, looked around, and walked over to Holliday's table.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“Suit yourself, Deputy Breckenridge,” said Holliday.
“Call me Billy, damn it,” said Breckenridge. “I just took this job because when Johnny Behan is the sheriff, somebody ought to be enforcing the law.”
“Hell,” said Holliday, “for all I know, I'm still a deputy myself.”
“I think that ended with the Gunfight, Doc,” said Breckenridge. “Or at least with all the murder charges.”
Holliday nodded his agreement. “Probably.”
“I hope you don't mind my sitting here,” continued Breckenridge. “I'm just here to keep an eye on young Antrim there. Word has it he's really Billy the Kid.”
“So arrest him.”
“I don't care what he's done anywhere else. I'm only concerned with whether or not he breaks a law in Tombstone.”
“My understanding is that there's only one law he ever breaks,” remarked Holliday.
“It's what he's famous for, but word has it that he's also a cattle rustler.”
“He picked a lousy place for it,” noted Holliday. “Not much grows on this desert, and certainly not cattle.”
“Hell, Doc, I hope I'm wrong. I hope he's not the Kid, or if he is, I hope he wins a bundle, buys drinks for everyone, and goes home happy. I know enough about his reputation to know you're the only man in town who might have a chance against him.”
Breckenridge hung around for twenty minutes, then got up, walked out into the street, and started making his rounds. Holliday stayed at the table for another half hour, then got up and walked to the door.
“Hold on, Doc!” cried the Kid. Lowering his voice, he told the dealer to cash him out. He stuffed some bills in a pocket and walked rapidly to the swinging doors, where Holliday was waiting for him.
“How'd you do?” asked Holliday with no interest whatsoever.
“Won about fifteen dollars,” answered the Kid. “I just had a feeling my luck was about to turn.” Suddenly he smiled. “I saw the deputy speaking with you, as if he was interested in anything except seeing me shoot a man down in cold blood.”
“Night like this, you'd have to shoot him down in warm blood,” said Holliday. “Must still be close to a hundred degrees.”
“I wouldn't want to live back in New York or even Kansas,” said the Kid. “I like heat.”
“Just as well,” said Holliday. “You've probably got a seat reserved for you in hell.”
“Won't be so bad,” replied the Kid. “All the great gunfighters go there.”
A bat fluttered overhead, then flew into the eaves of the church.
“I hate those things,” said the Kid.
“They're just animals.”
“You know what I heard?” continued the Kid, lowering his voice confidentially.
“What?”
“They say Geronimo turned Bat Masterson into a real bat.”
Holliday shrugged. “People say a lot of things.”
“He was your friend,” persisted the Kid. “Don't you know if it's true or not?”
Before Holliday could answer, the same bat—or at least a similar one—flew overhead again. The Kid drew his gun and fired at it, all in one motion. The bat screeched, veered crazily, and flew behind Mason's General Store.
“You'd better head off to wherever you're staying before they arrest you for firing your gun within the city limits and disturbing the peace,” said Holliday.
“Yeah, I guess so,” agreed the Kid. “See you tomorrow.”
He walked off to the north, and Holliday decided to take a shortcut to the American Hotel, one that led him through the alley behind Mason's store.
When he reached the alley he found an Apache warrior writhing on the ground, a bullet wound in his neck. His thrashings grew weaker, and finally he lay still.
“I know you are working with the magician of the White Eyes,” said a familiar voice, and he turned to see Geronimo standing behind him. “Do not wait too long. My people cannot ascend to the Great Hunting Ground until the offending structure and tracks are gone.”
“It's not up to me,” said Holliday. “I know nothing of how his magic works.”
“Then you will urge him to make haste,” said Geronimo. “My patience is not infinite, and neither,” he added, staring coldly at Holliday, “is your protection.”
Holliday was about to reply when he realized that he would be speaking only to empty air.
“D
ID HE GIVE YOU A DEFINITE TIME LIMIT?” asked Edison when Holliday stopped by his house to report his encounter with Geronimo. For a change, the inventor was in his parlor, sitting in a deep leather chair while Holliday seated himself in its counterpart. “No, just that he's losing patience.”
“Well, I suppose we'd better test what we have.”
“Here or at the station?” asked Holliday.
“Here. The lab's here, and so is Ned's manufacturing plant. If we try it out at the train station and it doesn't work, we'll have to come back here anyway. This'll save two days of traveling.”
“But you won't know if it works,” noted Holliday.
“True,” agreed Edison. “But at least I'll know if it's not working at all.”
“When do you want to try it out?” asked Holliday. “And probably just as important: Where?”
“If Geronimo is getting impatient, I suppose the sooner the better.”
“Tonight?”
“Well, tomorrow morning, anyway. I think Ned turned in early. I'll tell him when he wakes up. I suppose one of the abandoned silver mines is the safest site.” He bent his artificial arm and held his wrist up in front of his face. “Be here at nine o'clock.”
“What the hell's that?” asked Holliday, pointing to the object in question.
“I call it a wristwatch,” answered Edison, extending his arm so Holliday could get a close look at it, a brass clock the size of a gold dollar affixed to his metal wrist. “It's going to replace pocket watches in your lifetime,” he added proudly.
“In my lifetime?” said Holliday dubiously.
“Well, in your or my normal life span, anyway.”
“I don't know,” said Holliday. “I like having my watch on a chain, where no one can steal it. Besides, not everyone's going to let you attach it like that. In fact, almost no one will.”
“They can't steal a wristwatch either, unless they cut your hand off,” said Edison. “And it won't be attached to the wrist. With me it's just a convenience since I have an artificial arm, but most people will just use a leather band, exactly the way some of the cowboys out here wear wristlets, although the band will be much narrower.”
“It could be a distraction or an annoyance if I have to go for my gun in a hurry.”
Edison smiled. “If you have to go for your gun in a hurry, you won't even remember you're wearing a wristwatch.”
“Maybe,” admitted Holliday. “But I think I'll stick with my pocket watch all the same.”
“I really wasn't trying to coerce you,” said Edison. “Though I'd be happy to make one for you if you ever change your mind.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I won't be asking for it anytime soon.”
“All right,” said Edison. “If we're leaving at nine, I've got a lot of work to do. You can see yourself out.”
Before Holliday could reply Edison was scribbling furiously on his notepad. Holliday made his way out to the street,
considered returning to the Oriental but decided against it since he had no money with which to gamble. He thought about walking over to the Wildcat, but concluded that if he partook of its offerings he'd never wake up in time, and if he didn't then there was no sense walking the extra few blocks to get there. Leaning heavily on his cane, he reviewed his few other options, rejected them all, and returned to the American Hotel.
Sheriff John Behan was standing at the polished wooden bar when Holliday arrived, admiring the painting of the well-rounded nude that hung behind it. He turned, saw the dentist approaching the far end of the bar, and glared at him.
“This place is going downhill,” muttered the sheriff. “They let just anybody in these days.”
“Careful, Johnny,” said Holliday pleasantly. “These days I don't have Wyatt holding me back and telling me not to cause problems for him.”
“Here's what I think of Wyatt Earp!” snapped Behan, spitting on the floor.
“That's right,” said Holliday, smiling. “He stole your fiancée right out from under you, didn't he?”
“Good riddance!” muttered Behan.
“That's what I'd say, too, if I couldn't keep my woman.”
“I should have killed you both a year ago!” snarled Behan, reaching for his gun, but before his hand closed on it he was staring down the barrel of Holliday's pistol.
“You're a lucky lawman, Johnny Behan,” said Holliday. “I've got important things to do tomorrow, more important than killing someone as unimportant as you, and I don't want to spend the day in court telling them all the many good reasons I have for ridding the town and the world of you. So don't even think of touching your gun, step back from the bar, turn away, and walk out of here.”
Behan tensed, and his hand snaked down toward the top of his gun.
“Please,” said Holliday. “I hope you do.”
Suddenly all the tension left the sheriff's body, and he turned away from the bar and walked out the door.
“Damn!” said the bartender. “I was hoping I'd have something to tell my grandkids about.”
“He's probably waiting right outside the hotel, gun in hand,” said Holliday. Suddenly he smiled. “He doesn't know I've got a room here. I figure he's going to get good and tired in a couple of hours, especially after he almost shoots the next ten or twenty men who walk out that door.”
The bartender laughed aloud. “Damn, this town has missed you and Texas Jack Vermillion! What the hell were the two of you doing up in Colorado?”
“Initially we were there to avoid arrest warrants,” answered Holliday. “I decided I liked the dry air, and he decided he liked the type of gambler who showed up at the Leadville casinos.”
“Leadville,” said the bartender. “Sounds like this town.”
“Tombstone suits this one better,” said Holliday. He bought a drink, downed it, and painfully climbed the stairs to the second floor, where he went directly to his room. He leaned his cane against the door so he wouldn't forget it when he left in the morning. Then he slipped out of his boots, put his hat on the desk, hung his shirt and vest on a chair, folded his pants over them, and hung his coat in the wardrobe. He slung his holster over the headboard, the handle of his gun within easy reach.
Then, secure in the knowledge that no one could see into the room, he lit the lamp by his bed and lay back to read the latest adventure of the notorious Billy the Kid, killer of more than fifty lawmen and an equal number of rival desperados.
He woke up when the sun beat in through his window, found the dime novel spread open on his chest, and realized that he'd fallen asleep somewhere on page six. He got up, rinsed his face off with the pitcher of water that was on the sink, and got dressed, then paid a visit to the privy down the hall. His pocket watch (which suddenly seemed awkward and bothersome to him) said that it was a few minutes after eight in the morning, so he decided he had time for a shave before he was due at Edison's.
He stopped at the barber shop that was across the street from the American, waited for the barber to spread a cloth over him, gently pulled his gun out of its holster, and held it in his hand just in case any of his many local enemies saw him sitting helplessly in the chair and decided it might be a good time to kill him. When the barber was done, he holstered the gun, paid the barber a dime—a nickel for the shave, a nickel for the tip—and began walking to Edison's combination house and lab.
As he approached his destination, he saw a large wagon with a team of four horses sitting just beyond Buntline's house.
“Good morning, Doc!” called Buntline. Holliday didn't see him at first, but then he appeared from behind the wagon and waved. “Lovely day, isn't it?”
Holliday muttered an obscenity.
“Well, trust me, it is,” said Buntline. “Tom should be joining us in a few minutes.”
“You created the horseless coaches,” noted Holliday. “Why aren't we riding a Bunt Line out to the mine?”
“Ground's too rough,” answered Buntline. “The horses can negotiate it better, and we've got some pretty delicate equipment.”
“Such as?”
“A number of prototypes.”
“Whatever that means.” Suddenly Holliday half-snorted, half-chuckled. “Makes me sound as ignorant of the language as the Kid.”
“They're experimental devices,” answered Buntline. “Even if they don't work on the station, some of them may be of use to the army.”
Holliday frowned. “The army can't cross the Mississippi. You know that. So how the hell can it help them against the Indians?”
“We've already fought two wars against the British,” replied Buntline. “I'd say, based on history, that we're more likely to be attacked from the east than the west.”
Holliday shrugged. “Okay, you've got a point.”
“Ah!” said Buntline. “Here comes Bessie!”
The robot emerged from Edison's house, carefully carrying something Holliday couldn't quite make out. “She's coming with us?” he asked, surprised.
Buntline shook his head. “No, she's just bringing lunch out to the wagon. We could be all day.”
The robot delivered the picnic basket, then stood still, waiting for further instructions.
“Thank you, Bessie,” said Buntline. “You may return to your duties now.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said in a low, mildly feminine monotone.
“Henry tells me he's getting rich off those things,” remarked Holliday.
“Rich is a relative term,” answered Buntline. “To my way of thinking, Andrew Carnegie and J. P. Morgan are rich. As for the machines, one of these days I plan to make them without a gender at all. There are so many services a mechanical being can provide, I feel guilty creating them to perform just one.”
“Adam Smith would point out that this is the nature of capitalism,” said Holliday. “There's a need out here for mechanical women. If you don't supply it, someone else will.”
“You've read Adam Smith?” said Buntline, surprised.
“Despite my ignorance of prototypes, I wasn't born a consumptive shootist,” replied Holliday. “I've had the benefits of a classical education. Even if,” he added wryly, “I haven't applied them.”
“You are constantly surprising me, Doc.”
“I almost surprised Johnny Behan last night,” said Holliday. “I regret missing the opportunity.”
“If that means what I think it means, it's just as well you didn't shoot him,” said Buntline.
“Why? He's a liar and a coward. You have no more use for him than I do.”
“In case it's slipped your memory, you are the reason Tom and I aren't in Colorado right now. If you go to jail, we've wasted the trip.”
“Actually, it had slipped my memory,” admitted Holliday. “Old age will do that to you.”
“Doc, you can't be thirty-five,” said Buntline.
“Thirty-two,” Holliday corrected him. “But that's old age for a shootist.”
“You're a dentist by profession. Yo
u're only a shootist by circumstance.”
“The reason doesn't matter,” answered Holliday. “I've still lived longer than most.”
“How old is the Kid?” asked Buntline.
“I can't pin him down. He says twenty-one. That's probably pretty near right.” Holliday paused. “He might make it to thirty. He's good enough.” Another pause. “I don't know if he's smart enough, though.”
“Does he have to be?”
“The ones who make it to thirty usually are,” answered Holliday.
“Hickok. Allison, Ringo. Masterson. Wyatt and Virgil. The Younger brothers. Well, a couple of them, anyway.”
“And you.”
“And me.”
“And you think the Kid might make it?”
“He might. I hope not. If he makes it to twenty-two, you'll be burying me here or in Lincoln County—and I've got my heart set on gasping my last breath in Colorado.”
“You're not the cheeriest person in the mornings, are you?” commented Buntline.
“This is one of my friendlier days,” replied Holliday.
Edison finally emerged from his house and walked briskly to the wagon.
“All ready?” he asked.
“Been ready for a few minutes,” replied Holliday.
The three men climbed aboard, and Buntline handled the reins.
“This damned seat wasn't built for three men,” remarked Holliday uncomfortably.
“I can stop by the livery stable,” suggested Buntline. “You could rent a horse and ride alongside.”
“It's not that uncomfortable,” replied Holliday, who hated horses.
“We're carrying some interesting inventions here,” said Edison, as the wagon turned onto Allen Street. “Let's hope at least one of them works as planned.”
Buntline clucked to the horses, and they began heading toward the west end of town.
“I got permission to use the old Silver Spoon mine,” continued Edison. “It's not perfect, but then, nothing that isn't protected by Hook Nose is.”
“I have a thought,” said Buntline. “Doc, can you get Geronimo to duplicate whatever Hook Nose did to the station? Then we'd know if any of our ideas are working.”
“Think it through, Ned,” said Edison. “If Geronimo could create the conditions, he'd also know how to eradicate them, and he wouldn't need Doc or us.”