Free Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) by Mike Resnick Page B

alternative is walking. Saves a lot of wasted space.”
    “Where are you staying?” asked Holliday.
    “We have connected houses here, remember?” replied Buntline.
    “Well, I can't stay at Kate's whorehouse any more,” said Holliday. “She sold out when she left. I suppose I'll get a room at the American Hotel. Josie Marcus used to stay there before she married Wyatt; it seemed a nice enough place. At least their restaurant's got a well-stocked bar.”
    “Nonsense!” said Edison. “You'll stay with me, as my guest.”
    “I've got a nicer guest room,” said Buntline. “And”—he leaned forward for the kill— “indoor plumbing! ”
    Holliday shook his head. “I appreciate the offers, but usually you're just waking up about the time I'm going to bed, and whiskey doesn't seem to be in abundance in either of your houses.”
    “Check in with us once a day,” said Edison. “That way we'll know you're still alive, and you'll know when we're done.”
    They climbed into the coaches, the tops popped down, and they began to circle the entirety of Tombstone. Holliday had almost forgotten how totally Edison and Buntline had transformed it. There were street lights every ten yards, most of the buildings were made of Buntline's impervious brass. The self-propelled stagecoaches of the Bunt Line had made horses almost superfluous and only two were hitched along the street. More than one man had the brass handle of a specially made twin-barreled pistol peeking out above the top of its holster.
    After a few minutes, the monorail turned up Fremont Street and shortly thereafter came to a dead stop, though there was no platform and the tops remained closed. Then Holliday looked out the window and saw a huge sign identifying the O.K. Corral, and half a dozen vendors selling souvenirs, everything from false badges and toy guns to dime novels by writers who swore they'd been eyewitnesses to the shootout.
    “It wasn't even at the goddamned corral!” muttered Holliday to his window. “It was in the alley next to Fly's Photo Studio near the corral.” He took a flask out of his vest pocket, unscrewed the top, and took a swig. “They turned the damned place into a shrine!” he growled as the monorail began moving again.
    He got off a few minutes later, grabbed his suitcase, and walked to the American Hotel.
    “Got a room?” he asked.
    “We've always got one for you, Mr. Holliday,” said the clerk obsequiously.
    “Doc,” Holliday corrected him.
    “Will you be with us long, Doc?”
    “I've no idea.”
    “Room 112,” announced the clerk.
    Holliday shook his head. “Nothing on the ground floor. If someone's going to stick his gun through my window and shoot me while I'm sleeping, I want him to at least have to climb a tree first.”
    The clerk checked the rack behind the front desk. “327.”
    Holliday shook his head again. “I'm a sick man who has limited physical resources. The second floor is more than enough climbing.”
    “210,” said the clerk, making an effort to keep smiling.
    “Fine,” said Holliday. “Have someone take my bag up there. I'll get the key later.”
    “Uh…sir…” said the clerk uneasily.
    “Doc.”
    “Doc,” amended the clerk. “This is very awkward, but…”
    “Spit it out,” said Holliday.
    “You are not without your enemies in this town. If someone calls for you or asks if you're in…?”
    “If it's Henry Wiggins, send him up or tell him where I am,” said Holliday. “Same with Tom Edison and Ned Buntline. Anyone else,” he continued, holding up a one-dollar gold piece, “you never heard of me.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Now I think I'll see if your restaurant's as good as I remember,” said Holliday, tossing him the coin, then turning and walking across the lobby to the restaurant. He thought he spotted a familiar face, took a couple of steps toward it, and peered at it through all the cigar smoke.
    “Doc?” said the object of his attention. “Is that you?”
    “Hi,