Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) (18 page)

H

OLLIDAY COULDN'T HELP BUT NOTICE
a certain sameness in the landscape, a sameness that extended all the way to Tombstone hundreds of miles to the west. You couldn't travel by horseback, by stagecoach, by wagon, even by foot, without raising clouds of dust. If you passed a plant, it would most likely be a cactus or a sagebrush. If you passed a tree, it was rarely much higher than ten feet at the top. And if you passed a water hole, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that it had gone dry. There was the occasional rabbit, the infrequent bird, the rare coyote, and for the life of him Holliday couldn't figure out how this arid landscape was able to support enough cattle to feed the inhabitants.

He pulled out a handkerchief, not to cough into it for a change, but to wipe the sweat from his face. He considered taking a drink from his flask, but instead decided to take a swallow from the canteen that someone at the stable had thoughtfully left just beneath the driver's seat.

He wished that Buntline's automated stagecoach line had established a branch in Lincoln so that he could ride inside it, on a comfortable cushion, but he wouldn't leave Charlotte alone to drive the surrey, so he sat up top, trying to ignore the heat, the dust, and the occasional flies.

“Are you ready to tell me where we're going?” he said after they'd gone three miles.

“Josh Brady's ranch,” answered Charlotte. “From all I've been able to gather, he's been a horse thief ever since he moved out here.”

“Horses?” said Holliday, frowning. “I thought the Kid rustled cattle when he needed money.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” she said. “I don't understand why he doesn't rob a bank.”

Holliday smiled. “If he steals cattle or horses from Mexico, he's got one ranch coming after him, and even if they find him, he can probably get enough help to kill them or chase them back over the border. But if he robs the Lincoln bank, or any other bank, he's got every citizen in the town and probably most of the ranch owners gunning for him. Even the Kid can't face odds like that.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Charlotte admitted. “That does seem to explain it, doesn't it?”

“If you're going to hunt down criminals, you have to learn to think like them,” replied Holliday.

“So how did
you
learn?” she asked.

“Don't believe everything you read in the dime novels,” said Holliday. “I've never been convicted of a crime, and I've worn a badge more than once.”

“Didn't I hear that Kate Elder broke you out of jail?” said Charlotte.

“Yes, she did.”

“Well?”

“I'd been arrested, and was awaiting trial.” He smiled. “Obviously we never had the trial, so I was never convicted.”

She chuckled. “I think you're embroidering the situation just a bit.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“The history books may see it differently.”

“Nothing you or I do will ever be recorded in any history books,” said Holliday. “We're just the flotsam and jetsam of the history of the frontier.”

“Who do
you
think will be remembered?” she asked.

“On this side of the Mississippi? For starters, the governor of this territory.”

“Lew Wallace?” she said, surprised. “What's he ever done, besides bribe the Kid with his freedom in exchange for testifying against all his gang members.”

“He wrote a novel called
Ben-Hur
a couple of years ago that figures to outlast all of us. And just before I came south I met an Englishman, a bit of a dandy, named Oscar Wilde, who has it in him to be a fine writer—though he probably doesn't count, since he's just here on tour. And there's John Clum, who has written some damned fine articles and editorials for the
Tombstone Epitaph.”

“Why, John Henry Holliday,” she said with a smile, “I do believe you're a closet elitist!”

“I'm a dying man with a gun,” he replied. “That allows me the luxury of being honest.”

“I wish you wouldn't talk that way.”

“I don't mean to upset you,” said Holliday. “We celebrate birth as a miracle, and we forget dying's just an extension of the same process. It's nothing special.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Don't you?” he responded.

“No.”

“That's curious,” said Holliday. “When you've meted out death as often as I have—and I would have thought as often as you have, too—I don't know how you can look at it any other way.”

“I just figure they're bad men, and the world is safer and better off without them,” said Charlotte.

“I think maybe the difference between us is that I knew most of the men I've killed, and you've known none of them.”

“Still, you'd never kill a friend.”

Holliday thought back to an animated corpse in Tombstone. “I killed one of the best friends I ever had.”

“I'm sorry,” said Charlotte.

“I'm not,” said Holliday. “He needed killing, and he
wanted
killing—a
permanent
death. But it hurt just the same.”

“Was that Johnny Ringo?”

Holliday nodded. A dust devil—a whirling cloud of sand—suddenly blew into their faces, and they were blinded for almost a minute. The horse kept walking, and when the wind died down and they were finally able to see the landscape, they saw a ranch house in the distance, with a trio of corrals off to the left.

“Is this it?” asked Holliday.

“Horses in the corral,” said Charlotte. “And this is where they told me I'd find it. I'd say we're here.” She stared at him, frowned, and pulled the horse to a stop. “How am I going to explain your presence away? I hadn't thought about it.”

“He should know I'm not here to kill him. I've had too many opportunities here and in Tombstone.” Suddenly he smiled. “Hell, he probably thinks we still
can't
kill each other.”

“Can't?” she repeated.

“Don't worry about it,” said Holliday. “He bleeds, just like you and I.”

“I still need a reason why you're with me.”

“I heard you were coming out to the farm, someone told me the Kid might be there, and I came along to have a drink with him and warn him that Garrett's back in town and looking for him.”

“He'll never buy it if you're wearing that armor.”

“You have a point,” he said, starting to unstrap it. “Hell, I never could stand the way this stuff feels anyway.” He laid the armor down beneath the seat.
“Now
he'll buy it.”

“You're sure?” asked Charlotte.

“Why not?” responded Holliday. “It's true. Garrett
is
looking for him, someone—you—told me he might be here.” He paused. “I figure the safest way for you to kill him is while I'm drinking with him and he's concentrating on me.”

Charlotte considered his answer, then nodded her head.

She clucked to the horse, and it began moving forward again.

A lone bird flew high overhead, riding the warm thermals.
There was a time when I would have looked and thought, “There's a bird,”
thought Holliday.
Now I wonder if it's Hook Nose or Geronimo.

As they drew closer they could see that two men were feeding hay to the horses, while a third stood on the ranch house's porch, leaning against a post that supported the overhang, staring at the surrey.

“Be careful,” said Holliday softly. “I've seen this one on wanted posters.”

“What's his name?” asked Charlotte.

“I never paid any attention. I'm not a bounty hunter.”
Well, except for the man I don't see here.

The man on the porch held his hand up, signaling them to stop.

“That's far enough,” he said. “What's your business here?”

“Are you Mr. Brady?” asked Charlotte.

“He's not here. My name's Luke Beckett. What can I do for you?”

“Beckett—that was his name,” whispered Holliday. “Watch out for him.”

“I'm from the County Assessor's office,” said Charlotte without missing a beat. “We heard that Mr. Brady had made some improvements, and I'm here to inspect and evaluate them.”

Beckett issued a harsh laugh. “This house look improved to you, lady?”

“Our records say you only have two corrals on the property,” she replied, lying on the spot, “yet I can see three from here.”

“So what?”

“I'm just doing my job, sir,” said Charlotte. “If that's the only improvement I find, I doubt that there will be any increase whatsoever in Mr. Brady's property taxes.”

“He doesn't pay property taxes.”

“If that's so, I'm sure someone else from our office will be out to discuss that with him. My job is simply to appraise the property.”

“You always travel with a famous killer?” asked Beckett, indicating Holliday.

“I don't like riding horses,” replied Holliday. “The Kid and I are friends. I heard he was out here, and this lady, Mrs.—I've forgotten her last name—was kind enough to offer me a ride.”

“He ain't here either,” replied Beckett. “He's off taking care of business with Brady.”

“Do you mind if I get out of the sun while this lady is going about her business?”

Beckett considered the suggestion, then shrugged. “Yeah, go ahead. But leave Josh's whiskey alone. He don't like no one touching it without his okay.”

“It's still morning,” said Holliday. “Why would I sample his whiskey before noon?”

“You got a reputation,” said Beckett. “Go inside if you want, but keep your hands off the booze.”

“You have my word as a gentleman,” said Holliday, clambering down from his perch and then helping Charlotte down. As he did so he looked for her pistol, but couldn't spot it. He hoped she wasn't carrying it in her purse; she'd never have time to get it out.

“Any idea when the Kid is due back?” asked Holliday as Charlotte was brushing the accumulated dust from her dress,

“Day or two, maybe three,” answered Beckett.

“Ah, well, tell him I'll catch up with him in town when he returns,” said Holliday, walking toward the house.

He was almost there when he heard the single shot. He whirled around and saw Charlotte standing over Beckett's body as blood trickled out from the hole in the back of his head.

“I hope you were right about the reward,” she said, tucking the tiny revolver back into her sleeve as he approached her.

“Go into the house
now!”
said Holliday harshly.

“What are you—?”

“NOW!”
he repeated.

“If you think you're going to claim the reward for yourself…” she began.

“Shut up and move!” he snapped, turning toward the corral, where the two men were approaching on the run.

“I'm sorry, Doc!” she said. “I didn't mean—”

“Just go. I can't face them and watch you at the same time.”

“I can help you.”

“I'm going to try to talk to them. Now move, damn it!”

She reluctantly backed away toward the ranch house while Holliday stood next to Beckett's body.

“Goddamn it!” snarled one of the men. “What did you want to do that for?”

“There's a price on his head,” said Holliday.

“Hell, there's a price on
all
our heads!” said the other. “So what?”

“You're gonna pay for what you did!” roared the first.

“Take a good hard look at me and see if you know who I am,” said Holliday.

Both men squinted at him in the bright sunlight, shading their eyes.

“Damn! You're Doc Holliday!”

“That's right,” said Holliday. “I have no business with you and no grudge against you. Are you sure you want to go up against me?”

“You can't just come out here shooting people!”

“Of course I can. There are prices on all your heads. Now, do you want to walk away whole, or do you want me to cart your corpses into town?”

“Why should we bother? When the Kid comes back, he'll kill you.”

“A sage decision,” said Holliday. “Now lift your guns out
very
slowly and toss them on the ground.”

The two men moved their hands carefully to their guns. Then the one on Holliday's left tried to draw and fire it, and got a bullet lodged between his eyes before the weapon cleared its holster. The other probably had been planning on obeying his instructions, but instinctively pulled and tried to fire his gun when he heard the report from Holliday's gun, and was dead an instant later, falling across the body of his companion.

“I'm certainly glad I don't have to go after
you!”
said Charlotte admiringly, walking back to stand at Holliday's side as he surveyed the carnage.

“The Kid's as good, maybe better,” said Holliday. “You haven't got a chance against him.”

“We'll see.”

“Damn it, Charlotte! You didn't have the brains or the experience to kill Beckett when he was alone. How are you going to go up against the Kid?”

“He was as alone as he was going to be,” she replied defensively.

“Did you think the other two would just keep feeding the horses?” continued Holliday.

“I thought if they didn't, you and I could each handle one.”

“And I thought your specialty was shooting unsuspecting men when their backs were turned. That little toy of yours isn't accurate at much more than ten paces. What did you plan to do if they fired from where they tried to fire at me?”