Free The Doctor and the Rough Rider by Mike Resnick Page B

you face
     him or whatever the hell it is.”
    “I repeat: everything I told you about Roosevelt is true.”
    “I know.”
    A guilty smile crossed Masterson's face. “But yeah, I'm dying to see War Bonnet.”
    “I'm kind of curious myself.”
    “I'm a writer now, Doc,” said Masterson. “I choose my words with a little care. And
     I'm not willing to die to see War Bonnet.”
    “How much worse can he be than some of the men you faced in Dodge or back in Texas?”
    “He's magical , Doc—and I'm still not through having nightmares about my last experience with Indian
     magic.” An involuntary shudderran through him. “You don't know what it was like to turn into a giant bat—a giant hungry bat—every night at sundown, and wake up naked on some roof or balcony every morning.”
     He paused again, and Holliday could see the torment on his face. “I'm torn, Doc. Part
     of me wants to see this War Bonnet thing, maybe even face him, but part of me says
     to leave him to Geronimo's magic and go home while I can.”
    “Geronimo's magic won't work against him,” said Holliday.
    “What makes you think that?”
    “He said so.”
    “Damn!” muttered Masterson. Then: “Well, hell, if Geronimo can't kill him, Theodore
     sure as blazes can't.”
    “Theodore won't be unarmed,” said Holliday.
    “From what he's described, bullets, even a shotgun, would just annoy War Bonnet.”
    “He won't face War Bonnet armed with just a pistol or a shotgun.”
    “What will he be carrying?” asked Masterson.
    Holliday shrugged. “Whatever Tom and Ned can create for him. Geronimo's magic won't
     work, but maybe Tom's will.”
    “And if not?”
    “Then I guess it's going to be a century or two before anyone plants the American
     flag on the Pacific shore.”
    “Well, at least he'll have you standing with him,” said Masterson.
    Holliday shook his head. “Geronimo tells me he's got something special planned for
     me.”
    “What is it?”
    “I don't know, but he seemed to imply that it was as deadly as War Bonnet, and more
     to the point, that no one else could face it.”
    “What the hell have we gotten ourselves into, Doc?” asked Masterson, frowning.
    “I'm going to die soon anyway, so it doesn't make much differenceto me. But I think you've got the right idea: go back East and be a sportswriter.”
    “Oh, shut up,” said Masterson. “You don't think I can leave him to face War Bonnet
     alone now that I know he won't have Geronimo or you by his side, do you?”
    Masterson signaled for a glass, then filled it when the bartender brought it over,
     took a quick swallow, and made a face. “God, that's horrible stuff! How can you drink
     it this early in the day?”
    “My taste buds don't wake up 'til sunset,” answered Holliday.
    “That stuff'll kill you,” said Masterson.
    “It's better than what's killing me right now. Besides, I thought you were more worried
     about what might kill our Mr. Roosevelt.”
    “He's a very special young man, Doc. He'll never leave himself an escape route, because
     it'll never occur to him that he could fail at anything he tries to do.” A wry smile.
     “After all, he never has yet.”
    “What the hell was he doing in the Badlands anyway?” asked Holliday. “What makes a
     man with his credentials just walk away after he's not only been elected to office
     but risen right to the top so fast?”
    “His wife and his mother had died, and he wanted to get away from all the memories.”
    “What did they die of?”
    “I don't know about the mother,” replied Masterson, “but his wife died in childbirth.”
     Masterson shook his head sadly. “He must have loved her very much. He won't allow
     anyone to talk about her or even mention her name in his presence.”
    “In childbirth?”
    “Right.”
    “Lost the baby too, did he?” said Holliday, taking another drink. “Now I can understand
     why he left. Hell, that's three generations in one day.”
    “No, I gather she's still