The Doctor and the Rough Rider

by Mike Resnick

  “Speaking of Doc, where is he?” asked Mickelson. “That's one man I'd swear never saw the sun in the eastern half of the sky except when he's on his way home from a hard night of gambling.”

  “He won't be coming with us.”

  Mickelson frowned. “Bad decision.”

  “It was his, not mine,” answered Roosevelt. “But I agree with him. You've seen him. We could be in for a hard two-day ride. It could damned near kill him.”

  “But if it didn't, you'd be happy to have his gun on your side. He's the best I ever saw, except maybe for Johnny Ringo.”

  “He killed Johnny Ringo.”

  “The second time around,” noted Mickelson. “Who the hell knows what a dead man's responses are like? I'd have been more impressed if he'd been the first one to kill him.”

  “You don't seem to find it at all unusual that Ringo required killing twice,” said Roosevelt.

  Mickelson shrugged. “Couldn't happen in England. But what the hell—this is the New World, and clearly you haven't exorcised all your ghosts and demons yet.”

  Luke Sloan and Hairlip Smith rode up.

  “’Morning, Dandy,” said Sloan.

  “It's Theodore,” replied Roosevelt.

  “I never asked yesterday, but what does this job pay?” said Sloan.

  “Not a single penny.”

  Sloan smiled. “Then it's Dandy.”

  “Pay me and I'll be happy to call you Theodore,” said Smith. “Hell, pay me and I'll call you President Arthur if it makes you happy.”

  “You're freedom fighters, not mercenaries,” said Roosevelt.

  “We could be both,” offered Smith.

  Roosevelt laughed. “No money.”

  “Oh, hell, I guess I'll call you Theodore anyway.”

  Loose Martinez was the next to arrive, followed by Turkey Creek Johnson and Sherman McMaster. McMaster informed Roosevelt that Charlie Bassett's winning streak hadn't ended and he sent his apologies, but nothing was going to get him to walk away from the table.

  The last to show up was Tip Tipton, who galloped down Third Street, raising quite a cloud of dust behind him. He turned and reached the hotel a few seconds later.

  “Are we ready to go?” he asked.

  “Yes, we're all assembled now,” said Roosevelt. “You seem anxious to get started.”

  “That I am,” replied Tipton. “I didn't see any sense waking up the desk clerk at my hotel, so I jumped down from my balcony.” He frowned furiously. “That goddamned bastard actually took a shot at me!”

  “Just for running out on your hotel bill?” laughed Mickelson. “The nerve of some people.”

  “My view exactly,” said Tipton. He turned to Roosevelt. “Even if he's after me, and I didn't hear no more shots, he'd be half a mile down Third Street and running on foot, and he's packing one helluva belly, so I don't figure he's going to bother us in the next couple of minutes, but it might be a good idea to be on our way.”

  “Just where are we going, Theodore?” asked Johnson.

  “I'll know in a minute,” replied Roosevelt, looking down the street. He couldn't see what he was looking for, but then a small, golden bird swooped down from the roof of the Grand and headed toward the north end of town.

  “Well?” asked Mickelson.

  “I'm going to feel like an idiot saying this,” answered Roosevelt, “but follow that bird.”

  “One of Geronimo's pets?” asked Sloan as they began riding north.

  “Or Geronimo himself,” said Roosevelt. “He'll get us most of the way, but we'll do the last part on our own.”

  “Why?” asked Sloan.

  “Because he has no defenses against War Bonnet.”

  “Neither have you, you know,” said Michelson.

  “Wrong,” said Roosevelt, flashing him a grin. “I have my Rough Riders.”

  “Against a creature that's bigger than an oak tree and stronger than an elephant and can't be hurt,” said Mickelson with a laugh. “That must bring you real comfort.”

  “Have you ever seen an elephant?” asked Roosevelt curiously. “I don't mean in a zoo, but in the wild.”

  “I hate to break it to a proud American,” said Mickelson, “but we have mighty few elephants strolling down Piccadilly or bathing in the Thames.”

  “I mean, have you ever hunted them in Africa.”

  “Good God, no. Why would I?”

  Roosevelt shrugged. “No reason. It's just that Britain's thousands of miles closer to Africa than we are.”

  “By that same token, you're closer to South America than we Brits are. Have you ever gone hunting for jaguar?”

  “Not yet,” said Roosevelt. “But one day I will.” He looked ahead to make sure the bird was still in sight. “But for the moment, let's concentrate on hunting for the medicine men who stand in the way of America's progress.”

  “This probably ain't a bad time to ask,” said Sloan. “Just what do we propose to do when we get there?”

  “The four medicine men we find where we're going—there may be more, but we know we're after Dull Knife, Spotted Elk, Cougar Slayer and Tall Wolf—are the men who are currently in control of War Bonnet, so to disable him we're probably going to have to kill them. I'd love to talk them into deactivating him, but if they were the talking kind, they wouldn't have created him in the first place.”

  “Might as well wipe out the whole lodge,” said Hairlip Smith.

  “Not if it's avoidable. This isn't a war; we will be living side-by-side with the various Indian tribes once Geronimo has ended the spell.”

  “You can say it isn't a war, but will they agree?”

  “Let's hope so,” said Roosevelt. “I want as little bloodshed as possible.”

  “And as fast as possible, if this critter is anywhere near the lodge,” added McMaster.

  “I don't know about this,” said Martinez, who had been silent since they began riding.

  “About what?” asked Roosevelt.

  “The white men want to cross the Mississippi. The Indians say no, and now you're riding off to kill the ones who are stopping you.” He paused, frowning. “Let's say we succeed. You kill the medicine men and War Bonnet and anyone else who stands in your way, Geronimo lifts the spell, and the United States expands to the Pacific.”

  Roosevelt stared at him, wondering what the point was.

  “So you reach the Pacific,” continued Martinez. “And then you turn your gaze south, and there is Mexico. Do you also kill any Mexican who says, ‘No, this is my land, you may not come here?’”

  Roosevelt frowned. “As far as I know, the United States has never had any territorial ambitions in regard to Mexico.”

  “I believe you are telling the truth,” said Martinez, “but how far do you know? Many of you are my friends, and I do not wish any of you ill, but I have decided I cannot ride with you.”

  “I understand your concerns,” said Roosevelt, “and I can only assure you that I believe them to be groundless.”

  “Let us hope so,” said Martinez. “I would not like to take up arms against you.” He jerked on the reins, and his horse reared and spun around. “Adios!” he cried as he rode back to the south.

  “Our noble few just got nobler and fewer,” remarked Mickelson wryly.

  “He has a legitimate concern,” said Roosevelt. “If we live through this, I'll do everything within my power to see to it that his fears remain only fears, that the United States has no territorial interest in Mexico.”

  “In the meantime, we're one less gun,” said Hairlip Smith, “and a damned good gun at that.”

  “Well, we're certainly not turning back,” said Roosevelt. “The rest of you will just have to shoot a little faster and a little more accurately.” Suddenly he smiled. “When you come right down to it, what's one gun more or less when we're facing a bunch of warriors and four powerful magicians?”

  “You ever study maths at Harvard?” asked Mickelson.

  The Rough Riders all laughed at that, and continue
d on their way to their confrontation with War Bonnet and the mages who controlled him.

  “SO HOW FAR ARE WE TRAVELING, DANDY?” asked Sloan as the sun reached its zenith and started moving slowly to the west.

  “We'll know when we get there,” replied Roosevelt.

  “Could be worse,” said Hairlip Smith. “Could be heading south. I always figured that's pretty much what hell feels like, except for the occasional stream.”

  “And the occasional widow-woman,” added Turkey Creek Johnson. “It's an unforgiving land. Lot of men die before their time.”

  “Of course, our friend Doc has added to that total,” said Smith.

  “I wonder how many men he's really killed?” mused Tip Tipton.

  “Probably more than he's been credited with,” offered Johnson.

  “Or less,” said Smith. “I know he got into a couple a fights down in Mexico. They say he killed eight Mexicans at a poker table.”

  “Ah, come on now,” said Johnson. “You ever see nine men play poker all at once?”

  “Maybe they had friends,” said Smith.

  “What do you think, Theodore?” asked Johnson.

  “I think he's a good man with a gun or a deck of cards,” replied Roosevelt. “Probably a good dentist, too.”

  “No, I meant how many men do you think he's killed?”

  Roosevelt shrugged. “Is that important?”

  “Maybe,” said Hairlip Smith. “Ain't you curious to know if you're riding with the greatest shootist there ever was?”

  “That'd be Johnny Ringo,” said Sloan.

  “Bullshit!” snapped Smith. “Johnny Ringo was killed in a gunfight.” He spat on the dusty, featureless ground. “Hell, he was killed in two gunfights.”

  “Can't be Billy the Kid. After all, Doc killed him.”

  “Ringo and the Kid were never the greatest anyway,” said Morty Mickelson. “And neither is Doc Holliday, for that matter. Just because John Wesley Hardin's been locked away for seven or eight years doesn't make him any the less a killer.”

  “How many men do you think Hardin killed?”

  “Nobody knows,” answered Mickelson. “But they proved something like forty-two in his trial. You'd have a hard time proving Doc killed much more than ten or twelve once the witnesses grow old and die.”

  “If they met in the street, I'd take Doc anyway,” said Sloan.

  “Maybe five years ago,” replied Johnson. “But he's a sick man. He walks with a cane more often than not, and he's always coughing up blood. I just don't figure he can be as fast, or have as true an aim, as he used to.”

  “Well, hell, Hardin hasn't hit leather in years,” shot back Sloan. “What kind of shape can he be in?”

  “He's out of practice, not out of health,” said Mickelson.

  Suddenly Roosevelt pulled Manitou to a halt and scanned the horizon.

  “What is it, Theodore? You spotted some Indians already?”

  “No,” said Roosevelt. “I've lost him.”

  “Lost who?”

  “The bird I was—” began Roosevelt. Then: “Ah! There he is!”

  “Is that Geronimo?”

  “I don't know if it's Geronimo himself,” said Roosevelt, “but I know whoever or whatever it is, Geronimo's responsible for it.”

  “Why doesn't he just come along as Geronimo?” asked Mickelson.

  “Because War Bonnet was created expressly to kill Geronimo.”

  “And you,” said Sherman McMaster. “He was created to kill Geronimo and you.”

  “Right,” chimed in Johnson. “I never figured Geronimo as a coward.”

  “He's not,” said Roosevelt.

  “He's also not riding beside us in human form,” said Johnson.

  “He's a medicine man,” replied Roosevelt. “His skills lie elsewhere.”

  “I notice not being a blooded soldier or Indian fighter ain't stopped you from coming along.”

  Roosevelt grinned. “Let me see a show of hands. How many of you would be here if I'd stayed behind?” No hands were raised. “There's your answer,” he concluded.

  “Well, at least stay behind us, Dandy,” said Sloan. “This critter is looking for you, not us.”

  “More to the point,” added Mickelson, “if what Doc says is right, he can't hurt any of us except you anyway.”

  “I don't know about that,” answered Roosevelt.

  “But you told us Doc faced him and War Bonnet couldn't do a damned thing to him,” said Johnson.

  “People tend to learn from their mistakes,” replied Roosevelt.

  “Medicine men are people. There's no reason to think they won't learn from his encounter with Doc.”

  “Either way, you're the one he wants,” said Sloan. “If we can stop him, we will, but if not—”

  “If not, then it won't matter whether I'm leading or trailing the rest of you,” said Roosevelt. “And let me explain once again: whether they've improved him or not, War Bonnet is not your target. Doc couldn't hurt him, and I have to assume you can't either. You're after the medicine men. They made him; they've got to be protecting him. We kill them, and I'll wager he's vulnerable to bullets.”

  “Good term: ‘I'll wager,’” said Mickelson. “Problem is, what you're wagering is your life.”

  “I can go hunting for the men who control him, or I can sit in my room in Tombstone and wait for him to kill me,” said Roosevelt. “It's an easy call.”

  “Well, then,” continued Mickelson, “it's time to start getting practical. Let's say there are a hundred Indians where we're going. How do we know which four we want to kill?”

  “There are maybe a dozen, and I'll point out the four medicine men when we get there—another reason why I shouldn't be bringing up the rear.”

  “You've never seen them,” said Hairlip Smith, “so how the hell will you know which ones they are?”

  “More to the point,” added Mickelson, “if this War Bonnet is half what you say he is, what makes you think he's going to let you get anywhere near the lodge? Why won't he come out to meet you and kill you half a mile or a mile out of the lodge?”

  Roosevelt smiled. “Because no matter what you think, I'm not suicidal.”

  “I'm sure that's a comfort,” continued Mickelson, “but would you like to tell us why we should believe that when you ride two days out of your way to confront a monster that was created for the sole purpose of killing you?”

  “He was created to kill Geronimo too,” Roosevelt corrected him.

  “Big fucking deal,” said Sloan. “How about answering Morty's question?”

  “Because once we're in sight of the lodge, we're going to split up. I'm going to sit on my horse and, in essence, dare War Bonnet to come out after me.”

  “Bright,” said Smith, spitting on the ground. “Real bright.”

  “And the rest of you are going to ride hell-for-leather toward the lodge, and I'm betting that if it's a choice between my dying and their dying or neither of us dying, the medicine men will opt to live, by which I mean they'll call him back.”

  Sherman McMaster, who'd been listening intently without speaking, frowned and shook his head. “That doesn't make any sense. Doc's already proved he can't hurt anyone but you and Geronimo.”

  “We don't know that's still true,” said Roosevelt. “And even if it is, it makes no difference. Only a crazy man would get within reach of a monster like that, especially once you see that your bullets don't harm him at all. I think they'll call him back with the intent of scaring you off.” Suddenly he grinned. “Now do you know how you're going to identify the medicine men?”

  “Well, I'll be damned!” said McMaster.

  “Probably,” agreed Mickelson. “Well, gents, now you see the value of a Harvard education.”

  The bird, which had been hovering a few hundred yards ahead of them, flew back, chirping and squawking.

  “All right, Rough Riders,” said Roosevelt. “I think he's trying to tell us that we're wasting time, that the enemy lies ahea
d of us. Shall we proceed?”

  “‘Shall we proceed’?” repeated Sloan with a grimace. “Come on, Dandy, you're out West now. Say it like a cowboy.”

  “Men,” said Roosevelt, spurring Manitou forward, “let's ride!”

  THE HORSES RAN OUT OF ENTHUSIASM in a few miles, and they were soon walking in single file across the flat, barren, featureless ground, with Roosevelt and Manitou in the lead. Night fell, and Sloan, who knew the desert like the back of his hand, directed him to the only water hole within fifteen miles.

  They slept on the ground, brushing off the occasional insect, killing the occasional scorpion, and were up at daylight. They had a quick breakfast, refilled their canteens, and began riding again, following the bird as it led them toward their destination.

  Finally Roosevelt reined Manitou to a halt and, shading his eyes, looked off into the distance.

  “Lose the bird again?” asked Tipton.

  “He's around,” said Roosevelt. “Probably just finds it too damned hot to keep fluttering his wings. I can't say that I blame him.”

  “He should have turned himself into a rattler, or maybe a scorpion,” said Tipton. “They seem to love this goddamned heat.”

  “They do,” agreed Roosevelt. “But they couldn't keep ahead of us to lead us to the lodge.”

  “I hope to hell that's what he is doing,” said Sloan, as his horse walked up beside Manitou.

  “What do you mean?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Well, he is Geronimo, and we're a bunch of white men.”

  “He didn't have me come all the way out here just to kill me,” said Roosevelt. “If he wanted me dead, he could have killed me a couple of times since I arrived.”

  “Maybe he wants his pals to take our scalps.”

  “No Western Indian takes scalps,” said Roosevelt. “And the one or two tribes that did it—none of them do it anymore—learned it from the French.”

  “There's that book-learning again,” laughed Mickelson.

  “Ain't that our bird, Theodore?” asked Turkey Creek Johnson, pointing off into the distance.

  “Yes, that's him,” replied Roosevelt, urging Manitou forward again.