The Doctor and the Rough Rider

by Mike Resnick

  “And War Bonnet?” asked Buntline.

  “Never saw him again,” answered Roosevelt. He leaned back and finished his coffee. “And that's the whole story.”

  Edison rubbed his chin with his right hand. “Interesting,” he said.

  “Have you spotted something?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Only the obvious, so far.”

  “Nothing's obvious to me,” said Roosevelt. “What have you got?”

  “He's not the brightest Indian you ever came across,” said Edison. “Consider: he's standing almost within arm's reach of you. One of your men rides back toward the medicine men, and he promptly ignores you and races back, and by the time he's gotten there and scared Sloan away—I assume that's all he could do, that he couldn't actually harm or even touch your man—you've mounted up and gone. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, there you have it,” said Edison.

  Roosevelt frowned. “Maybe you have it. I don't.”

  “Think about it, Theodore. Your six men retreated, not because War Bonnet was decimating or even hurting them, but because other warriors showed up and drove them off. And suddenly he leaves you because one man is riding back to the very spot those warriors are stationed? He left the man he was created to kill to protect some medicine men who were in no need of his protection.”

  “Damn!” exclaimed Roosevelt. “I never thought of that.”

  “Don't let it bother you,” replied Edison. “It's probably of little or no use to us. After all, we want to kill him. We already know that he's stupid.”

  “And nothing you shot at him—guns, rifles, nothing—got any reaction?” asked Buntline.

  “Nothing,” Roosevelt affirmed.

  Edison rose and walked to the kitchen. “This sounds like a two-pot problem,” he said, returning with the pot and refilling their coffee cups. “But we won't quit thinking and planning until we've got a solution.”

  “Is there a solution?”

  “If I can electronically light the whole of Tombstone and find a way to power Ned's horseless stagecoaches, I promise you I can find a way to kill a monster who can only appear for a few minutes at a time and can only make physical contact with two men in all the world,” said Edison. “Now let's go over what happened again.”

  And so they did, and then a third time, and then a fourth.

  “You know, Theodore,” said Edison ninety minutes later, “I'm starting to feel exactly like you. I have a feeling that I know everything I need to know, but I just haven't put it together yet.” He went back to the kitchen and started brewing a new pot of coffee.

  “Will you find him in the same place?” asked Buntline.

  Roosevelt shrugged. “It depends. I think they're going to want more warriors to protect the medicine men in case I come back with a bigger group of Rough Riders—or they may want more medicine men if that'll make War Bonnet stronger. I don't imagine they'll move any closer.”

  “So you've got at least a day and a half's ride to confront him again.”

  “Not necessarily,” replied Roosevelt. “Don't forget, he showed up just outside of Tombstone when Doc faced him. I imagine if Geronimo sends the word—and he doesn't need a runner or a telegraph to send it—that we're together and waiting for him, he'll show up there, wherever there is, a couple of minutes later.”

  “Does Geronimo contact him or the medicine men?”

  “Beats me,” said Roosevelt. “If I was to guess, I'd say the medicine men. They control him; I'm sure it doesn't work the other way around.”

  “No, that makes sense,” agreed Buntline. “If he was a fifty-foot-high gorilla, I could build a cannon in two days' time that could put a hole in him the size of a bar stool. But a creature that's invulnerable…” He shook his head. “It's a mystery to me.”

  “We were sent out here to solve just such mysteries,” said Edison, returning to the room with a coffee pot and three clean cups on a tray. He placed the tray on a table, took a cup, and sat down.

  “I can go over the incident again,” offered Roosevelt.

  “No, Theodore,” said Edison. “Four times is enough for both of us. Now it's a matter of finding the right way to look at the problem.”

  “I'm not sure I follow you, Tom,” said Roosevelt.

  “Don't let it distress you,” said Buntline. “When he starts thinking, no one can follow him. That's why he's Thomas Alva Edison.”

  “We've put enough thought into this to realize that we're examining it from the wrong angle,” said Edison.

  “I still don't follow you,” said Roosevelt.

  “What have we been doing? Looking for a way to kill an invulnerable monster. Bigger bullets? A bigger cannon? Something sharp?” He sighed deeply. “None of that will work, and we're wasting our time trying to find a way, to put it bluntly, to puncture skin that is protected by magic and can't be punctured.”

  “Okay, I can agree with that,” said Roosevelt. “But if we can't puncture his skin, how do we kill him?”

  “We have to find a way,” answered Edison, “and at least we know what won't work. I don't suppose asphyxiation will work either. Doc had a feeling that even though he has a nose and a mouth, he doesn't breathe—and even if he does, I don't see any way to cut off his air that he can't overcome. You can't gag him—he'd rip you apart before you got close enough.”

  Roosevelt walked over to the table, poured himself a cup of coffee, and returned to his seat.

  “Too bad he doesn't eat,” he remarked. “We could save a lot of trouble by poisoning his food.”

  Suddenly Edison smiled. “Say that again, Theodore.”

  “About poisoning his food?” repeated Roosevelt, frowning. “But we can't, and like I say, even if we could, he doesn't eat, or at least no one's ever seen him eat.”

  “I know,” said Edison, the smile growing larger. “What a stupid way to hit upon a solution.”

  Roosevelt stared at him. “Are you quite well?”

  Edison chucked. “Quite.”

  “Then I don't know what—”

  “Give me just a second to work it out, Theodore.”

  Edison closed his eyes, placed an elbow on his knee, formed a fist, and propped his chin up with it.

  “It's okay, Theodore,” said Buntline softly, so as not to disturb his partner. “I've seen him like this before. He'll be fine in a minute. He'll sit so still you think he's gone catatonic, and then he'll open his eyes and explain whatever he's figured out in terms you and I can understand.” He smiled reassuringly. “You'll see.”

  “It must drive you crazy,” said Roosevelt.

  “The results are worth it.”

  They sat in silence for almost two minutes, staring at the motionless Edison, who finally opened his eyes and sat erect.

  “Let me ask you a couple of very simple questions, Theodore,” he said.

  “Go right ahead,” said Roosevelt. “I'm dying to learn what I missed.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  Roosevelt frowned, trying to remember. “I don't think so,” he said at last. “He yelled a threat or two, but I was talking to my Rough Riders. No, I don't think any of us spoke directly to him.”

  “Doesn't really matter,” said Edison. “We know Doc spoke to him. Next question: Why did he stop coming after you and race off to protect the medicine men's hut?”

  “My men were attacking it.”

  “How did he know?”

  “They were screaming and shooting and riding directly toward it. He couldn't have missed that, not with all the shooting.”

  “One more question,” said Edison. “When your men encircled you and you were kneeling on the ground, did he try to reach over them for you?”

  “Yes,” said Roosevelt. “They couldn't hurt him or drive him back, but he couldn't move them either.”

  “That's not what I meant,” replied Edison. “He knew where you were. When one of them told you to kneel down, did he change his means of attack in any way? Which is to s
ay, did he lean over and try to reach down to grab you?”

  “Yes, but they kept pushing his arms away.”

  “But he knew you were kneeling?” persisted Edison. “He tried to reach you where you were, not where you'd been standing.”

  “That's right.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?” repeated Roosevelt, surprised. “That's all?”

  Edison smiled. “That's all. The rest is up to Ned and me.”

  “I don't understand at all,” said Roosevelt.

  “Remember what I said: we were wasting our time trying to think of ways to pierce his skin, because he is invulnerable.”

  “Right.”

  “And we also decided there was no sense going after the medicine men again, that they'd be better protected this time.”

  “I know…” said Roosevelt, trying to follow Edison's chain of reasoning.

  “It comes down to facing War Bonnet,” said Edison. “We know that his body is invulnerable to bullets, and we can conclude based on both your and Doc's experiences with him that he's impervious to pain. There's every likelihood that he doesn't eat—that he's not in this plane of existence long enough to work up and satisfy an appetite. And there's a chance that he doesn't breathe, though I personally doubt that, because you need air to force out words, and we know he talks.” Another smile. “Do you see it yet?”

  “Oh, hell!” bellowed Roosevelt. “Of course I do. How could I have been so stupid?”

  “It wasn't stupidity, Theodore,” said Edison. “You are a remarkably adept problem-solver. This problem is just a long way beyond your area of expertise.”

  “It's still beyond mine,” growled Buntline. “Will one of you two geniuses please enlighten me?”

  “You go ahead, Theodore,” said Edison.

  Roosevelt leaned forward, facing Buntline directly. “What that litany Tom just recited did was list everything that was magical or supernatural about War Bonnet. He can't be hurt. He can't feel pain. He probably doesn't eat. He may not breathe. The trick,” continued Roosevelt, smiling triumphantly, “the step I couldn't take when I was thinking about it last night, was to find if he has any trait or talent that isn't magical or supernatural, and to attack it.” He paused, still grinning. “And since he can speak and hear and see, that's what we have to attack.”

  “We can't shoot him in the eyes,” said Buntline. “The bullets will just bounce off. So we need another tactic.”

  “Same with his hearing,” said Edison. “Unless you think Theodore can bite his ear off,” he added with a laugh.

  “How long will you need to make whatever it is you're going to make for me to use against him?” asked Roosevelt.

  “I'd like a week,” said Edison. “But we'll do it in two days if we have to.”

  “So if I were you,” added Buntline, “I'd make myself mighty scarce for the next forty-eight hours.”

  “He can find me anywhere I hide,” said Roosevelt. “I mean, hell, if a bloodhound could find me, it should be child's play for a creature of the medicine men.”

  “I don't think we can produce what you need any sooner, Theodore,” said Buntline.

  “That's all right,” said Roosevelt. “I've got an idea that ought to work.”

  HOLLIDAY WAS HAVING A LUCRATIVE NIGHT at the Oriental, as Geronimo had promised. He was up four thousand dollars, and he'd won half of it on the preceding hand when he'd had nothing but a pair of deuces but bet his entire pile of chips and bluffed his four opponents into tossing in their hands rather than paying to see what he held.

  He'd decided it was time to take a ten-minute break and celebrate with some imported Scotch. Not that he preferred it, but since it cost twice as much, it was what he drank when he was celebrating.

  The usual crowd was there—all of Roosevelt's Rough Riders, plus Charlie Bassett, Loose Martinez, even Henry Wiggins, who rarely drank and never gambled. John Behan walked past the window, looked in, didn't like what he saw, and kept walking.

  “Bartender!” said Holliday.

  “Come on, Doc,” said the bartender. “You know perfectly well that my name is Tom.”

  “True,” agreed Holliday. “But ‘Bartender’ sounds so much more dramatic. However, let's split the difference.” He cleared his throat. “Bartender Tom, drinks for the house.”

  “Scotch?” asked the bartender.

  “I'm merely generous, not philanthropic,” replied Holliday. “Make it whiskey.” He looked out the window into the street. “And if the gentleman I see approaching the Oriental actually enters, get him a glass of milk or sarsaparilla, whichever comes first.”

  Roosevelt entered the saloon, waved to his men, and sat down at a table. “I'll have some tea, please.”

  “You sure you don't want milk?” asked the bartender.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Or sarsaparilla.”

  “Never tried it,” replied Roosevelt. “Is it any good?”

  “Beats me,” said the bartender with a shrug.

  “Might as well find out,” said Roosevelt. “Bring me a bottle.”

  “There's saloons where you put your life in danger just ordering a bottle of that,” noted Holliday.

  “Well, hopefully this isn't one of them,” answered Roosevelt. “Right now my life is in Tom and Ned's hands.”

  “They think they'd found a way to kill War Bonnet?” asked Holliday, and suddenly all other talk ceased.

  “It's possible,” said Roosevelt. “The problem is, it'll take them two days to make the weapon I need. I thought, just in case he shows up before I'm ready for him, I might prevail upon the brave men who just returned with me to perform the same service here that they did when he tried to attack me in Indian country.”

  “You can count on me, Dandy,” said Sloan.

  “And I,” added Mickelson.

  Soon all six Rough Riders had pledged their support.

  “I'm sorry I couldn't ride with you before, but I'll do whatever I have to—if you'll have me,” said Charlie Bassett.

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Bassett—”

  “Charlie.”

  “Charlie,” corrected Roosevelt. “And from everything I've heard about you, you're a man whose help would be most welcome.”

  “I've never fired a gun in my life,” said Wiggins, “but I'll lend all the moral support I can.”

  “That will be more than sufficient, Henry,” said Roosevelt.

  “What the hell,” said Martinez. “Count me in too.”

  “This is precisely the reaction I'd hoped for,” said Roosevelt. “It's only for two days, and in all likelihood nothing will come of it. Once the weapon is completed, your job is done and mine begins.”

  “Are you planning on facing this monster alone?” asked Bassett.

  Roosevelt nodded his head. “Either the weapon will work or it won't. If it works, I won't need any help, and if it doesn't, I'll be past needing help by the time I know it.”

  He pulled a book out of his pocket and began to read.

  “Ben…something,” said Wiggins, looking at the cover.

  “Ben-Hur,” replied Roosevelt.

  “Good book?”

  “Not to my taste, but reasonably well written.”

  “If it's not to your taste, why read it?” asked Mickelson.

  “Because it's written by General Lew Wallace,” answered Roosevelt.

  Mickelson frowned. “I know that name.”

  “You sure as hell ought to,” said Holliday. “He was the Governor of the New Mexico Territory.”

  “Why should that matter?”

  “He's the man who pardoned Billy the Kid. If he hadn't, the Kid would still be rotting in jail and a lot less men would be dead.”

  “And Pat Garrett would be a damned sight poorer.”

  “Right,” said Holliday with an amused smile that only Roosevelt understood. Initially he'd been surprised that Holliday made no attempt to set the record straight, until he realized that the last thing the consumptive dentist
needed was to face an unending line of young guns who wanted to go up against the man who'd killed Billy the Kid. He'd had enough of that already.

  “Why don't you put that book down for a while and play a man's game with us, Theodore?” said Turkey Creek Johnson.

  Roosevelt smiled. “Tombstone's already got a mayor.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Politics is a man's game,” said Roosevelt. “Poker is a gambler's game.”

  “What about war?” asked Mickelson.

  “War,” replied Roosevelt, “is a fool's game.”

  “Damn!” said Holliday with a chuckle. “I can see that drawing a standing ovation at a political rally. Especially from those who have never had to participate in one.”

  “Or those who have,” said Roosevelt.

  “You gonna run for office again, Theodore?” asked Hairlip Smith.

  “Let's see if I survive the next few days,” answered Roosevelt. “Then I'll worry about it.”

  “Got to admit he answers like a politician,” said Mickelson. “I'd vote for you myself if I'd ever bothered to become a citizen.”

  “You don't have to be a citizen to vote on this side of the river,” said Johnson. “We're not officially a country, you know.”

  “Keep me alive for two days and I have every intention of changing that,” said Roosevelt.

  “I can think of a lot of reasons to keep you alive, Theodore,” said Sherman McMaster, “but turning this place into another Boston sure as hell ain't one of them.”

  There was general laughter, and then Holliday took his Scotch back to the table.

  “We ready to start again?” asked Sloan.

  “You got any money left?” asked Holliday. “Any at all?”

  “Yeah.”

  Holliday smiled. “Then we're ready to start again.”

  Hairlip Smith dealt the cards, and as the game took their attention, Wiggins walked over to Roosevelt's table.

  “Care for a little company?” he asked. “I just never got in the habit of wasting my money at poker or faro.”