by Mike Resnick
“So what else can you do for them?” asked Masterson.
“It's difficult, because we're really working blind here,” answered Buntline. “I could create a hood for Theodore's horse, for example, one that would allow Theodore to close the cups over the horse's eyes on a second's notice…but I have no idea if the sight of a twelve- or fourteen-foot-tall man would upset the horse at all, whereas blinding him by closing the cups might panic him. By the same token, I don't doubt that we could craft ear plugs, but not being able to see or hear might panic the animal more than seeing and hearing something it hadn't experienced before.”
“Maybe it's time to ask the genius what to do,” said Holliday, taking a drink from his flask and passing it to Masterson, who took a swallow, wiped his mouth on a shirtsleeve, and handed it back.
“You mean the other genius,” replied Edison with a smile. “Never forget that while my inventions may work in theory, it's Ned and his manufacturing business that makes them work in practice.”
“Okay, so what does the other genius think?”
“I think we're working in the dark here,” replied Edison. “The unhappy truth is that someone's going to have to see this War Bonnet in person before we can create a weapon that will work against him, and even that probably won't be enough.”
“Why the hell not?” persisted Holliday.
“Pretend he's standing right over there, by the door, and that the ceiling is high enough to accommodate him,” said Edison, getting up, walking to the door, and turning to face them. “He's here to kill you. Ned's already talked about some of the problems of defending yourself, but let's concentrate not on that but on killing, or at least neutralizing, War Bonnet. Okay, Doc, you draw your gun and fire six quick shots. Either they bounce off him, or he absorbs them with no ill effects. Now what do you do?”
“Run like hell,” said Masterson, only half-kidding.
“Well, right at the moment, so would I,” said Edison, returning his smile. “And that's why we need to know more about him.”
“For example?” asked Roosevelt.
“If Doc shoots you in a vital spot, you'll die—and if you shoot him, he'll die. That means you each have the same physical weaknesses. Is that true of War Bonnet? Which is to say, it seems obvious that those fiery hands of his are meant to burn you, either at close quarters, as when he grabs you, or at a distance, if he has some mechanism whereby he can aim and release that fire. So the obvious question is: Is he himself susceptible to fire, or at least to heat? If he is, I can create a carbon arc projector that I guarantee will throw more heat at him than he can throw at you…but will that harm, or even bother him? I don't know.” Edison returned to his chair while considering his next line of approach. “All right, let's say that he's immune to fire and heat. It's a reasonable assumption, given that his arms and hands are made of flame. Will water put the fire out, or at least negate it to some degree?”
“It seems reasonable,” agreed Masterson.
“I see Theodore is shaking his head,” noted Edison with a smile. “Would you care to tell Bat why?”
“I'd have to position myself next to a large source of water. This is not a small warrior, this War Bonnet, and those aren't small flames. And we don't know how hot the flames are. Could they turn the water to steam even before it hits them? Remember: he's a magical creature, so he doesn't necessarily obey all the laws of Tom's science.”
“Absolutely right,” agreed Edison. He smiled again. “I would expect no less of a Harvard man.”
“Let's concentrate on keeping the Harvard man alive,” said Holliday. “At least long enough for someone from Yale to come along and kill him.”
Roosevelt uttered a hearty laugh. “Says the man who did not have the benefit of a New England education.”
“Getting back to War Bonnet,” said Edison, “so far we've spoken about only heat, flame, and water. How about one of Doc's or Bat's bullets? I assume they won't bother him because of his magical origin, but until we know that for sure, we have to consider the possibility that the direct means of confronting and combating him may be the best. And there are factors that seem extraneous but may not be. For example, how's his endurance? Most huge men, well-muscled or otherwise, tire more easily than small, lithe men. What if you face him out in the desert, shoot his horse out from under him, and ride off?”
“He won't be riding a horse, Tom,” said Buntline.
“Are you quite sure, Ned?” retorted Edison. “If they can create War Bonnet, why can't they create a horse that stands sixty hands at the shoulder and weighs three tons?”
“Damn!” muttered Buntline. “I never thought of that.”
“Anyway, gentlemen, I could give you all the dozens of possibilities that have occurred to me, but the end result would be the same: it's all guesswork, and it's not even educated guesswork since, based on his very origin, we have to assume that War Bonnet doesn't necessarily obey the laws of science as we know them. The problem,” he added with a wry smile, “is that he may very well obey all of them. We just can't know until he shows himself, by which time it may be too late.”
“If one of us does make contact…” began Roosevelt.
“Then based on your firsthand observations, I would hope Ned and I can create a weapon that can be effective. At least we won't be working in the dark.”
“You might be anyway,” said Holliday.
“Oh?” said Edison, turning to him.
“There's a difference between seeing and shooting him, throwing him in a lake, and giving him a hotfoot.” He looked around the room and saw nothing but puzzled expressions. “What I'm saying is that if all we do is see him, you won't have learned anything except that he's as big as Geronimo says, and if we try to harm him without knowing what works, we can't report back to you. Either it works and he's dead, or it doesn't work and we're dead.”
“You're not thinking it through, Doc,” said Edison.
Holliday arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I'd never ask you to face this monster without taking a lot of precautions.”
“You're not telling us to turn tail and run,” said Holliday, trying to comprehend what Edison was suggesting.
“Of course not.”
“Then I'm stumped.”
Edison turned to Roosevelt. “Theodore?”
Roosevelt frowned for a moment, then snapped his fingers and let out a whoop. “We go to the source!”
“The medicine men?” asked Masterson, confused.
“No,” said Roosevelt. “To Geronimo. He's the one who told us War Bonnet exists. He's the one who knows what he'll look like. He's the most powerful medicine man of all. If anyone knows what War Bonnet can and can't do, it'll be Geronimo.”
“Then why didn't he tell us when we were at his lodge?” asked Holliday.
“Maybe he thinks I'm bright enough to figure War Bonnet out myself. Remember, I'm the one American he trusts. Or maybe he wants to see if I'm bright enough to come back and question him.” He paused. “Or maybe War Bonnet is a work in progress, and the longer he waits, the more he'll know—or maybe he really doesn't know. At any rate, that's where I'm going as soon as we leave here.”
“No you're not,” said Holliday.
“Oh?” said Roosevelt pugnaciously. “And why not?”
“He's not there. He left a few hours after we saw him. Remember, he's a target too, so he's going to keep on the move.”
Roosevelt frowned. “Then where will we find him?”
Holliday looked at the window ledge, where a wren was perched.
“Oh, I think a little bird will tell us,” he said with a confident smile.
WHEN HOLLIDAY, ROOSEVELT, AND MASTERSON left Edison's house, the wren swooped down toward them, then paused, fluttering in place about ten feet above the ground, and flew off very slowly to the east.
“He wants you to follow him,” said Holliday.
“Are you seriously suggesting that's Geronimo?” said Roosevelt, frowning.
> “Geronimo or one of his warriors.”
“That's difficult to believe.”
“Is believing in War Bonnet any easier?” asked Holliday.
“Why doesn't he just appear as himself?” asked Roosevelt.
“You've made your peace with him,” answered Holliday. “The rest of the town—of the country, for that matter—is still at war with him.”
Roosevelt stared at the bird for a moment. “All right,” he said. “Let's see if you're right.”
“Of course I am,” said Holliday. “I'm going to the Oriental. You can find me there.” He turned to Masterson. “What about you?”
“What the hell. There's no law says I have to gamble once I get there.” Suddenly he smiled. “Besides, there's always a chance Johnny Behan will be there. I don't like him any better than you do.”
“That's a powerful lot of dislike to reside in just two men,” said Holliday, heading off toward the Oriental, and Masterson fell into step beside him.
Roosevelt followed the bird, which kept distancing from him and then coming back. He walked out of town, and in another hundred yards came to an abandoned barn and corral. The wood was starting to crumble, and a number of the cross posts in the corral were broken. The bird flew around to the far side of the barn, and when Roosevelt reached the spot where he couldn't be seen by any resident of the town, he found himself face-to-face with Geronimo.
“That's quite a trick,” said Roosevelt. “Can you do it whenever you want?”
“Yes,” answered the Apache.
“Just birds, or can you change into other things as well?”
“I can change into other things.”
“Then why not turn yourself into a mighty warrior, three times as big as War Bonnet, and just step on him when he shows up?”
Geronimo seemed amused by the question. “War Bonnet is the product of the combined magical might of many medicine men. With Hook Nose dead, I can match any three or even four of them, but not many more than that.”
“Then, not to put too fine a point on it, we're as good as dead,” said Roosevelt.
“You show no sign of fear.”
“I'm not afraid to die,” was the answer. “But I still have a lot of things I want to do first.”
“Then we must defeat him and them.”
“You just told me that you couldn't,” said Roosevelt.
“But I did not say you couldn't,” answered Geronimo.
Roosevelt frowned. “I possess no magic.”
“You possess an indomitable will.”
“That's not much to put up against a thousand pounds of magical warrior,” replied Roosevelt. “You saw me talking to Edison and Buntline. They're capable of things that seem like magic, but they need more information. We're hoping you can supply it.”
“War Bonnet is not a finished creation,” answered Geronimo. “I showed you what I can.”
“Is he impervious to bullets?”
“He can be.”
“Can a large supply of water douse those flaming hands?” continued Roosevelt.
“Under some circumstances.”
“You're not helping much.”
“I told you: he is not yet finished.”
“Will he be able to feel pain?”
“Possibly.”
“Damn it!” snapped Roosevelt. “I need to know something about him!”
“When he is ready to be sent against us, I will know more,” replied Geronimo.
“That may be too late.” Roosevelt paused, trying to come up with some answerable questions. “Once he looks the way you showed me, can he change his shape? Can he sneak up to me as a beetle or a butterfly and then turn into a giant warrior?”
“That he will not be able to do,” Geronimo assured him. “Once he is completed and sent forth, no one medicine man can change him. It must be done with the consent of all, and they will disperse the moment he is activated.”
“Why?”
“If you were at war, would you want all your generals in one location?” asked Geronimo with the hint of a smile.
“So once they send him after us, he's stuck with whatever abilities and defenses they've given him?”
“With some of them.”
“But you just said—”
“I said he cannot change his shape, and he cannot. But that does not mean he cannot change other things.”
“Give me an example,” said Roosevelt.
“He may have abilities that may remain dormant until he needs them. The simplest example would be food. Even a magical creature must have energy for his body, but he may not feel hunger for days on end, until he finally comes upon a supply of food—and then he may eat enough to make up for all the meals he missed with no ill effects.”
“I see.”
“Or he may never eat at all.”
“But you just said—”
“He may be a vegetable that looks like a man. He may eat sunshine. He may drink by walking barefoot across a stream.”
Roosevelt muttered an obscenity.
“I know you want specific answers, but you must remember that he is the creation of more than fifty medicine men, and each will have his own ideas, and each will have some input, some trait to add or change or eliminate.”
“All right,” said Roosevelt after a moment's consideration. “I have another question.”
Geronimo stared at him. “Ask.”
“Is this creature being created just to kill you and me, or to conquer the whole damned continent?”
A smile of approval crossed Geronimo's face, as if to say, It's about time you thought to ask that. “We are his first challenge, not his last. He is being created solely to battle you and myself, but if he wins, be assured that they will find more for him to do.”
“Wrong,” said Roosevelt firmly.
“Wrong?” repeated Geronimo, frowning.
“We're going to be his first and his last challenge, because we're going to put an end to him.”
“The spirit is strong within you. I approve.”
“Well, I wish I'd found out a little more about him, but at least you gave me a few facts.”
Geronimo looked surprised. “I did?”
Roosevelt nodded.
“What?” asked the Apache.
“They're creating him to kill you and me. So his strengths will be those strengths that work against us, and his weaknesses—and everything has weaknesses—will be those we're not likely to take advantage of.”
Geronimo frowned. “And you find that useful?”
“It could be.”
“How?”
“Our friend Holliday is just about the best shootist still alive and unjailed. You don't use a pistol, and I freely admit that I'm not very good with one. The medicine men must know that, so it's possible that War Bonnet will be susceptible to Doc's six-gun.” Geronimo gave a noncommittal grunt, and Roosevelt continued.
“Or perhaps if I were to train a couple of large dogs to attack, it might be that War Bonnet has no defense against them.”
“Other than his size and strength, you mean?” said Geronimo, looking unconvinced.
“At least these are possibilities. And there are others. For example, if there's any quicksand around here, and I can lure him into it because he's chasing me…”
“What do you think will happen?” asked Geronimo.
“He'll sink into it,” answered Roosevelt, surprised at the question.
“And then what?”
Roosevelt frowned. “I don't understand.”
“It will not suck him all the way through to the other side of the world. There is a floor to every quicksand pit, and if he does not have to breathe—and he may not; that is certainly a trait I would give him—he will come to the floor, and walk through the quicksand to the edge of it and then climb out.”
“All right,” said Roosevelt. “I haven't seen any quicksand around Tombstone anyway. But the principle is still valid: everything has weaknesses. I just have to figure
out what War Bonnet's are—and if I can figure them out soon enough, then Tom and Ned might be able to help me devise a weapon that will work against him.”
“It is important that you find a way,” said Geronimo. “Because if our treaty does not come to pass, there will be lakes of blood spilled when your armies finally cross the river and confront our armies. As thirsty as the earth is, even it cannot drink all the blood that will be shed on both sides.”
“I know,” said Roosevelt. “I won't let you down.”
“It is not me you will let down,” answered Geronimo. “I am an old man. It is your unborn children and grandchildren you will betray if our agreement is broken by War Bonnet or any other.”
“It won't be,” said Roosevelt. He turned and waved a hand in the direction of the distant Mississippi. “We will cross that river, in peace and friendship, in both our lifetimes.”
“That depends on the coming days,” said Geronimo.
Roosevelt turned back to argue, but all he saw was a small bird climbing higher and higher in the sky, and then heading south toward Geronimo's Arizona lodge.
HOLLIDAY WALKED DOWN THE STREET, shading his eyes against the setting sun and wondering once again why he wore a derby instead of a broad-brimmed hat. It was more stylish than a Stetson, but totally useless in these bright desert surroundings. He doffed the derby to a pair of women who were walking on the raised wooden sidewalk in the opposite direction. One smiled at him, the other pretended he wasn't there. He felt pretty good about that; he'd settle for half the people not hating him.
He passed a tobacco store, looked longingly at a box of cigars, decided as always that he coughed more than enough without any help from tobacco, and kept walking.
He realized that he hadn't eaten all day, so he stopped in at the Lazy Bull, ordered a rare steak, thumbed through a dime novel that had him teaming up with Jesse James (who he had never met), put it aside long enough to eat about half the steak, left a quarter on the table, then added a dime for the tip (he was feeling generous), and continued making his way to the Oriental.