The Doctor and the Dinosaurs

by Mike Resnick

  “Good!” said Roosevelt. He pulled his horse to a halt, placed two fingers between his lips and whistled shrilly. The sound made both their horses uneasy, but while Roosevelt's was prancing nervously, he turned in his saddle, faced the two Comanche, and signaled them to join him and Holliday with a waving motion of his hand. The two Indians sat motionless, staring at him.

  “What the hell's got into you, Theodore?” demanded Holliday.

  “You say they don't want to kill us,” answered Roosevelt. “So why not have them take us to their medicine men and see if we can reach an accommodation?”

  “I said they probably don't want to kill us,” growled Holliday. “And you can't make any deals for Cope or Marsh until you talk to them and get them to okay it.”

  “Geronimo's not worried about Cope or Marsh,” said Roosevelt. “He's worried about the Comanche medicine men, so the sooner we find them and open a dialogue, the better.”

  “You've been out East too long, Theodore,” replied Holliday. “You've forgotten how things work out here.”

  “I'm more concerned with making sure they do work,” said Roosevelt. He peered off at the Indians, who had retreated behind some trees and shrubbery. “Ah, well, it was worth a try,” he added, his face reflecting his disappointment.

  “I've just been given a year,” said Holliday, urging his horse forward again. “I'd hate to lose the last fifty-one weeks of it.”

  “All right,” said Roosevelt. Then he shrugged. “They're gone anyway. We might as well keep going.”

  “In five minutes,” said Holliday, pulling his horse to a stop and dismounting. “The goddamned horse may not need a rest, but I do.” He reached for his flask, then shrugged and pulled his canteen off his saddle horn instead.

  “You do know where their camps are, right?”

  “I know the general area. I figure they'll keep moving around, but they're not hiding their presence, so we'll find enough signs to follow.”

  “Good. It'll give me a chance to practice my tracking skills,” said Roosevelt. “In the meantime, since this thing they sold me is a pretty spiritless trail horse…” He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a book.

  “Don't you ever rest or relax?” asked Holliday.

  “Reading relaxes me.”

  “I'm sure it relaxes a lot of people—but not on horseback, in enemy territory, when we're almost certainly being watched or followed.”

  “Being watched and followed in enemy territory is practically a given,” answered Roosevelt. “If they start shooting, I'll put the book away.”

  It comes back to me, thought Holliday. I admired your brain and your energy and your courage, but I never really liked you. You are not only the most accomplished man I've ever met; you can also be the most irritating. I'm so annoyed now that I might as well climb back up on this goddamned horse. Which he did.

  They rode in silence until it was too dark to read. Then Roosevelt pulled some beef jerky out of his saddlebag, offered a piece to Holliday, and carefully replaced his book in a different compartment.

  “What were you reading?” asked Holliday, washing down a bite of jerky with a swig from his flask.

  “A Tale of Two Cities,” answered Roosevelt. “By—”

  “I know,” interrupted Holliday. “Better than The Pickwick Papers, not up to David Copperfield.”

  “Right,” said Roosevelt. “I keep forgetting that you're one of the literate shootists.”

  “It gave me something to do while my patients were screaming in agony,” replied Holliday.

  Roosevelt threw back his head and laughed. “You can be a very witty man when you forget that you're mad at the world.”

  “Oh, I forgive it most of its transgressions. I just wish it would leave me alone.” He grimaced. “And I guess it will, in a year at the outside.”

  “I wouldn't bet on it, Doc,” said Roosevelt.

  “That was my deal.”

  “I know, but Geronimo's an intelligent man. He'll find more uses for you.”

  “Well, next time I'm going to insist on a full recovery,” said Holliday, coughing into a blood-stained handkerchief.

  They decided not to build a fire or rest for the night. They couldn't be sure all the Comanche warriors would be content merely to watch and follow them, and the sooner they reached one of the paleontologist's camps the sooner they'd stop being easy targets should the warriors have a change of heart.

  It was in mid-afternoon of the next day that they began seeing unmistakable signs of a white man's camp. Half an hour later—it should have taken ten minutes, but Roosevelt kept stopping to watch birds and sketch unusual plants and trees—they came upon a dozen tents, which would only provide shelter for another month or two before the nights became too cold, and a hastily constructed log building. Though empty, the camp showed signs of recent habitation, so the two men dismounted, turned their horses loose in a primitive corral, and sat down by the remains of the morning's fire.

  “That log building has to be where they're keeping whatever they pull out of the ground,” remarked Roosevelt.

  “You could always find out for sure and take a look,” said Holliday.

  Roosevelt shook his head. “I don't mind being rude and not waiting for them to come from their dig to show me, but I have absolutely no idea what I'd be looking at.”

  “Yeah, I suppose that does make a difference,” agreed Holliday.

  “How big can this burial ground be?” mused Roosevelt.

  “Well, the one back in Arizona, where we had them move the train tracks, was at least twenty miles long, and maybe three or four miles wide,” said Holliday. He thought about it, and shrugged. “Hell, for all I know, it was fifty miles long. All I know for sure is that we had them move it.”

  “And was that the only burial ground?”

  “You mean for the Apaches?” asked Holliday. “No, I know of at least three or four more.”

  “So Cope and Marsh could be fifty, maybe a hundred miles apart, not desecrating the same burial ground, but digging in different ones,” said Roosevelt, poking the fire with a long stick to get it going again.

  “I suppose so,” said Holliday. “It all depends on what signs they look for, where they know to dig for these bones they're after. Maybe Wyoming's loaded with them from one border to the other, or maybe they're all concentrated within a few miles of where we're sitting.”

  “I wonder what this landscape looked like when the dinosaurs roamed the land,” mused Roosevelt, staring off toward the mountains to the west.

  “You'd better have a damned good reason for being here, or you're about to find out,” said a cold voice from behind them.

  Roosevelt and Holliday turned to face the speaker, a lean man with unkempt black hair and a beard of black stubble. Roosevelt, seeing a gun pointed at them, raised his hands, but Holliday just smiled.

  “Well, hello, Cole,” he said. “When did you become a scientist?”

  The man stared at him, clearly surprised. “Doc?” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Mostly, hoping you won't shoot me,” said Holliday.

  The man holstered his gun. “Same old Doc!” he said with a laugh.

  “Theodore,” said Holliday, “say hello to the notorious Cole Younger.”

  “I've read about you,” said Roosevelt.

  “Lies, mostly,” said Younger. “And you are…?”

  “Theodore Roosevelt.”

  Younger's brow furrowed in thought. “You're the guy who made the treaty with Geronimo?” he said at last.

  “I had that honor.” Roosevelt studied him. “I must say that you don't look like your picture.”

  “I've been shot full of holes and served a lot of jail time since I posed for any pictures,” answered Younger. “I used to be able to stand up straight. These days I walk kind of hunched over—but at least I'm still here.”

  “And what are you doing out here on a dinosaur hunt?” asked Holliday.

  “Originall
y I was riding shotgun to keep the Indians at bay,” answered Younger. “But then they hired a couple of other shootists. I don't know if they're any good, but they look like they know what they're doing—and I got put in charge of guarding all the bones.” He laughed again. “Can you imagine what the dime novels will make of that? Cole Younger, guarding a bunch of bones!”

  “We could have walked away with them any time in the last thirty minutes,” said Holliday.

  “I doubt it,” said Younger. “First, you couldn't lift most of the bones we got in that shed. And second, that's where I was taking my afternoon siesta.”

  “Point taken,” said Holliday.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Younger—” began Roosevelt.

  “Just Cole'll do.”

  “Cole,” corrected Roosevelt. “But whose camp is this—Mr. Cope's or Mr. Marsh's?”

  “This is Professor Cope's camp, though he don't much care if you call him ‘Mister’,” answered Younger. “I'm told not calling Marsh ‘Professor’ is a firing offense. Unless you happen to be one of his shootists, that is.”

  “And when is Cope due back?”

  “Maybe half an hour before sunset,” said Younger. “He's got about thirty men out digging with him, plus a couple riding shotgun, and at least one or two trying to foul up Marsh's dig.”

  “Marsh is nearby?” asked Roosevelt.

  “I haven't seen him myself,” answered Younger. “But they say he's about thirty miles north of here…or at least he was four days ago.”

  “How has Mr. Cope's dig been going?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Pulling out a lot of bones, some of which have got him real excited,” said Younger. “But we've got some trouble too.”

  “Oh?”

  Younger nodded. “Marsh has hired a damned good saboteur—that's the real reason I'm watching the bones—and the Comanche have picked off three of our men, and also indulged in a little sabotage against a couple of our wagons.” He paused for a moment. “At least, I think it's them, but it could be Marsh's doing.”

  “I see,” said Roosevelt.

  “So we got one or more of Marsh's guys trying to stop us, and the Comanche picking off a man or burning a wagon whenever they think can get away with it—and this ground looks pretty soft, but a couple of our horses have gone lame.”

  “I got a feeling all that's going to be the least of your problems,” said Holliday.

  “SO TELL ME,” said Holliday, as they sat on a pair of tree stumps by the dead fire, waiting for Cope and his party to return, “how the hell did you let a little twerp like Jesse James talk you into that Minnesota thing?”

  “You mean the Northfield raid?” asked Younger.

  Holliday nodded his head. “It's been written up in enough dime novels.”

  “It even made the papers back in New York,” added Roosevelt.

  Younger lit a hand-rolled cigarette. “And they all say it was the Youngers and Jesse James?”

  “The Younger Brothers and the James Brothers,” said Roosevelt. “It's one of the most famous robbery attempts in our history.”

  “Don't know how a story like that gets started,” replied Younger. “Jesse and Frank were nowhere near Northfield. Hell, I'll bet whatever Mr. Cope's paying me that Jesse's never set foot in Minnesota in his life.”

  “So who was it?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Me and my brothers Jim and Bob, and a couple of other guys. They got killed, and all three of us brothers got shot up pretty bad.” Suddenly he grinned. “Just as well that they caught us and tossed us in jail. They made it their business to keep us alive until the trial. If we'd have gotten away, filled with lead like we were, all three of us would have died within a week or two.”

  “You don't sound at all bitter,” noted Roosevelt.

  “Well, we'd much rather have gotten away clean with the money instead of loaded down with lead, but we're rough men, we took a gamble, we lost, and we paid our debt.”

  “They let you all out?”

  “Me and Jim did nine years each and got paroled. Bob never did recover from all them bullets, and he died in jail.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” said Holliday. “He's the only one I never met.”

  “Well, you can read all about him,” said Younger.

  “I know,” said Holliday. “Same place I read all those phony stories about me.”

  Younger shook his head. “No, I wrote my autobiography while I was in jail. Had to do something to kill all that time. And,” he added with a happy smile, “I sold it last month. Some New York publisher that your pal Bat Masterson showed it to.”

  “He's not exactly my friend,” said Holliday. “We just seem to be on the same side of issues out here.”

  “Well, he's my friend,” chimed in Roosevelt. “And as good a sportswriter as the Telegraph has on its staff.” He turned to Holliday. “How did you meet Cole and Jim?”

  Holliday grinned and looked at Younger. “You tell him, Cole.”

  “Me and Jim needed some quick cash, so we hired on as lawmen back in Dallas a couple of years before the Minnesota raid. I can't believe Doc didn't tell you the story about how the sheriff gave him something like ten hours to clear out of town after he shot a man at a gaming table.”

  “Yes, I heard it,” replied Roosevelt with a chuckle. “The sheriff had an abscessed tooth, Doc was packing his gear and was the only dentist still awake, so the sheriff came in, Doc put him under with laughing gas, and then”—Roosevelt uttered a hearty laugh—“he pulled all the sheriff's teeth before he woke up, and high-tailed it out of town.”

  “That's the story,” agreed Younger. “But Doc wasn't leaving town because of the sheriff. Doc could have taken him without drawing a deep breath.”

  “Even back then I couldn't draw a deep breath,” interjected Holliday with a smile.

  “Anyway, the reason Doc left in a hurry was so he wouldn't have to face Jim and me.”

  “I didn't want to kill you,” said Holliday.

  “You wouldn't have,” replied Younger.

  “Anyway,” concluded Holliday, “you try to avoid gunfights with your friends—especially when you have as few as I do.”

  “So Jesse wasn't involved in that robbery,” said Roosevelt, still dwelling upon the Northfield, Minnesota, raid.

  “He'll never deny it—if you knew Jesse, you'd know why—but no, he wasn't there,” said Younger. “Wouldn't have helped if he'd been with us. He ain't the best shot you ever saw, and he can be damned unpleasant when you disagree with him. Frank is the James brother I like. We're talking about getting together and putting on a Wild West show once we get a grubstake together.”

  “The James and Younger Show,” said Roosevelt. “I like it.”

  “The Younger and James Show,” Younger corrected him unsmilingly. “At least it'll keep that bastard who's working for Marsh on his toes.”

  “That bastard?” repeated Roosevelt, frowning.

  “He's just a goddamned publicity hound,” replied Younger. “Hell, I'll bet his fee isn't money, but one of them twenty-foot-high leg bones.”

  “Who are you talking about?” asked Holliday.

  “Bill Cody,” answered Younger. “He left his Wild West show to work for Marsh for half a year.” He paused and snorted in contempt. “The man's no threat. I don't know how the hell he convinced Marsh he's a shootist.”

  “Well, he did kill something like a thousand buffalo,” remarked Roosevelt.

  Younger pointed a forefinger toward Roosevelt's ear and pretended to fire it with his thumb. “Riding up and sticking the muzzle of your rifle in a buff's ear when he's grazing ain't the same as shooting someone who's aiming a gun or an arrow at you,” said Younger decisively. “But I figure the real reason old man Marsh got Cody is publicity. There've been three times as many stories about him and his finds than about Mr. Cope and what he's dug up.”

  A happy smile spread across Roosevelt's face.

  “What are you grinning at, Theodore?” asked Holliday.

 
; “After spending time with a bunch of politicians who would even hedge their bets before declaring that night follows day, you have no idea how pleasant it is to be out here with a pair of shootists who call a spade a spade.”

  “You a politician?” asked Younger.

  “One of the best,” said Holliday before Roosevelt could answer.

  “Really?” said Younger. He paused and thought about it for a moment. “Well, I don't suppose it's much worse than being a shootist.”

  “You're going to hear a lot more about this young man if you live long enough,” said Holliday. “He's not only a successful politician, but he's one of the country's leading ornithologists and taxidermists.”

  “Whatever they are,” said Younger.

  “And when he was a volunteer deputy in the Dakota Badlands, he went out unarmed in a blizzard and brought in three armed killers.”

  Younger stared at Roosevelt. “I'm starting to get impressed.”

  “He's also written some books about the opening of the West,” continued Holliday.

  “If one of them says Jesse James was on the Northfield, Minnesota, raid, I'm less impressed,” said Younger with a smile.

  “I haven't gotten to that yet,” said Roosevelt.

  “Good,” said Younger decisively. “Now you'll write the true story.”

  “He also wrote the definitive treatise on naval warfare,” said Holliday.

  “Okay, okay, he's a good writer. I hear you.” He paused and flashed a smile at Roosevelt. “That makes two of us.”

  “He was also the lightweight boxing champion at Harvard,” concluded Holliday.

  “Lightweight? That was a few pounds ago,” noted Younger.

  “Want to go a few rounds with him?” asked Holliday with a smile.

  Younger took a good look at Roosevelt, his barrel chest, his muscular arms, the muscles in his neck, and shook his head. “No, I wouldn't want to hurt him.”

  “Oh, that's a very good answer,” laughed Holliday. “I guess I'm sitting with two politicians.”

  All three men laughed at that.

  “So what exactly are you doing here, Doc?” asked Younger at last.

  “It's a little difficult to explain,” said Holliday, “but basically I'm here to get your boss and this Marsh fellow to go dig for bones elsewhere.”