The Doctor and the Rough Rider - By Mike Resnick Page 0,3
the first shootist they've ever faced.”
“Why should you think so?”
“They're still alive,” said Holliday with a grim smile.
“Do not be careless,” said the prairie dog. “We have things to discuss—important things.”
“Now?”
“Soon,” said the prairie dog, and vanished.
Holliday had gotten about halfway to Kate's brothel when Billy Allen stepped out into the street about twenty feet away from him.
“Been waiting for you, Doc,” he said. “It's gonna be a pleasure to kill you.”
“Be more of a pleasure if both of you faced me like men,” said Holliday with no show of alarm or concern. “You can come out of hiding, Johnny. I can see you over there in the shadows.”
Johnny Taylor walked out into the street and stood about fifty feet away from Billy Allen. “How are you going to handle this, Doc?” he asked with a smile. “Which one are you going to try to shoot while we're both drawing on you?”
“You think this is a contest?” said Holliday, pulling out his pistol, instantly putting a bullet between a startled Billy Allen's eyes, and turning to aim at Taylor. “You think I'm going to wait for a referee to ring the bell? You came here to kill me, son. I'm going to let you in on a little secret. The graveyards are full of kids like you who thought they could kill men like me.”
Johnny Taylor went for his gun, but it was too late. Holliday fired another shot before his gun had cleared his holster, and he was dead before he hit the ground.
“Damn!” muttered Holliday, holstering his gun and pulling out his handkerchief as he felt another coughing seizure coming on. Isn't one of you ever going to be good enough to put me out of my misery?
“Don't turn around, Doc,” said a deep voice from behind him. “Hands in the air. Reach for your gun and you'll still have one hand left to vote for me come reelection time.”
Holliday tensed.
“Don't even think of it, Doc. I'm not one of those kids you just killed.”
Holliday raised his hands and turned to face his newest antagonist, a tall man with a gun in each hand.
“Sheriff Milt Andrews,” he introduced himself. “And you, sir, are under arrest for murder.”
“If you're here this quick, you saw what happened,” said Holliday. “Those two were waiting for me.”
“No question about it.”
“They were here to kill me, not talk to me,” continued Holliday.
“Anything's possible,” agreed Andrews. “But neither of them pulled a gun, and we got enough people coming out now because of the sound of the gunshots that I won't be the only one to testify that they both died with their guns in their holsters.”
“You saw it!” said Holliday angrily. “You know it was self-defense.”
“I saw it,” echoed Andrews. “And if I wasn't Billy Allen's uncle, I might even agree with you. Now let's go on over to the jail.” Holliday coughed again. Andrews waited until he was done and then shot him a cold, humorless smile. “I'll have Kate Elder send over a supply of your handkerchiefs, since I don't figure you're getting out anytime soon.”
HOLLIDAY OPENED HIS EYES.
He was lying on his cot, it was still dark out, and the deputy who'd drawn the graveyard shift was two rooms away, snoring peacefully. He swung his feet to the stone floor, massaged the back of his neck with his long delicate fingers, and blinked his eyes a few times. He started to reach inside his coat for his flask, then remembered that it had been taken from him, along with his gun, when he'd been arrested.
He pulled his watch out of a vest pocket by its gold chain and opened it. It was four thirty in the morning, and as far as he knew the whole damned town was asleep. So why the hell was he awake?
He felt very uneasy, finally got his eyes to focus, and studied his surroundings—and then he saw it, perched between the iron bars on the ledge of his window.
“Don't you get tired of pretending to be birds and animals?” he said.
The bird spread its wings and leaped lightly to the floor. By the time it landed, it had morphed into an Indian—a very familiar Indian.
“I hope to hell you didn't come to gloat,” said Holliday. “I've got a hangover and my head's splitting open.”
“Your head is intact,” announced the Indian with certainty.
“Figure of speech,” said Holliday. He stared at the Indian. “Well?”
“We have serious matters to discuss, Holliday,” said the Indian.