you going to apologize or not?” demanded Behan.
“Not, I think.”
Behan stepped off to a side and nodded to the three men. “He's all yours.”
The three of them tensed and faced the table.
“I'll take the three on the left,” said Holliday in conversational tones. “You take Behan.”
“No,” replied Masterson. “I've already spotted two I don't like much.”
“I'll bet they never thought when they woke up today that they'd be facing Doc Holliday and Bat Masterson,” said Holliday. “If they had any brains, they'd just shoot Johnny Behan for getting them into this fix and then turn around and walk out. I'll swear it was self-defense if you will.”
“Oh, I don't know,” said Masterson. “I think it might be more fun to kill them. I haven't appeared in one of those dime novels for almost a year.”
“That's because everyone you've faced has been dead for over a year. Come to think of it, I suppose you could use the practice.”
As they spoke, the three men were getting visibly nervous. Finally one of them turned to Behan.
“You just said you wanted us to put a scare into someone,” he said accusingly. “You never said we'd be facing Doc Holliday.”
“And Bat Masterson,” said Masterson. “Don't forget Bat Masterson.”
“Just shoot them, for Christ's sake!” screamed Behan.
“An extra hundred apiece,” said another.
“Go for it, Johnny,” said Holliday easily. “They're not going to live long enough to collect it.”
“Fuck it!” said the first of the men. He turned to Behan. “Fuck it and fuck you!”
He held his arms out so they could see he wasn't reaching for his gun, and walked out into the lobby. The other two men followed him.
“Nice try, Johnny,” said Holliday. Suddenly his smile vanished. “Next time I'll kill you, and that's a promise.”
Behan glared at him for a moment, then turned and walked out of the bar.
“Keep an eye on them, Bat,” said Holliday as the four men walked out into the street. “They don't look like they care whether they draw on our fronts or our backs.”
Two of the men and Behan immediately crossed the dusty street, but the third lingered outside the hotel. Finally he began walking by the bar's window, then turned and drew his pistol—but before he could fire a shot, and before Holliday or Masterson had fired their own weapons, a lean, muscular body hurled itself upon the gunman, knocking him down. He got to his feet just in time to be on the receiving end of a left hook that put him back down on the wooden sidewalk, this time for the count.
“Well, I'll be!” exclaimed Roosevelt as Holliday and Masterson rushed out of the hotel. “I knew this blaggard was going to backshoot somebody, but I had no idea it was you two.”
“What the hell were you doing here?” asked Holliday.
“I've been jogging at noontime,” answered Roosevelt. “The morning bird-watching is too good to skip.”
“I see you're growing a mustache,” noted Holliday.
“Might as well,” replied Roosevelt. “I've got no one to kiss out here.”
Holliday looked across the street and saw Behan glaring at him from perhaps fifty yards away. The other two gunmen were nowhere to be seen.
“So, shall we carry this fellow off to the jailhouse?” asked Roosevelt.
Holliday shook his head. “No.”
“He just tried to kill you, Doc!”
“He has friends, and even an employer of sorts,” answered Holliday. “Someone would make his bail before nightfall.”
“Do you just propose to leave him lying here until he wakes up?” asked Roosevelt disapprovingly.
“No,” said Holliday, kneeling down next to the man. “I think we'll fine him.”
“Fine him?” repeated Roosevelt.
Holliday took the man's gun from where it had fallen and tucked it in his belt, then pulled out the man's wallet and relieved it of all its cash.
“Okay,” said Holliday, standing up again. “Justice is served.”
Roosevelt flashed him a grin that would someday become famous. “I guess it has been, at that,” he said.
“OKAY,” SAID BUNTLINE. “So you say he's how tall?”
He was standing in Edison's office, facing Roosevelt, Holliday, and Masterson, who were seated on various chairs and couches. Edison sat at his desk, taking notes.
“How tall is the ceiling?” asked Holliday.
“I'd say eight feet.”
“Then he's taller than twelve feet. A few more feet.”
“And what is he built like?” continued Buntline. “I don't mean the flames. I mean, is he lean? Burly? Something else?”
“He's pretty well-muscled,” replied Roosevelt. “Rather like a heavyweight boxer, but without carrying any excess weight.”
“All right,” said Buntline, seating himself on a wooden chair at the corner of the desk and writing some