would eventually have faced each other in the street. Of course, he had an edge, the Buntline Special that Tom and Ned had created for him—but then Ringo had an edge too; after all, he was already dead.
He wished he'd stopped by Edison's and Buntline's connected houses and picked up something, anything, with which to face War Bonnet. But Geronimo had been adamant: this was where he would be at such-and-so a moment, and if Holliday wasn't there to meet him, he'd go into town, ripping it apart in his efforts to find Roosevelt and killing dozens of innocent people in the process.
Now, Holliday wasn't convinced that there were a dozen men in Tombstone who were innocent of anything, and he didn't really give a damn if War Bonnet wiped them all out—well, except for Tom, Ned, and Roosevelt, and maybe that fawning Wiggins—but he'd consented to go, not out of any noble or heroic notions, but simply because he wanted to collect Geronimo's reward if he actually survived, and because a quick death didn't seem any worse to him than the slow, debilitating, painful one he was facing.
He estimated that he was five miles out of town, and three miles from anything or anyone remotely alive. He keep looking for hawks, eagles, wrens, prairie dogs, rabbits, anything that might be Geronimo or one of his braves keeping watch on him, but he saw absolutely nothing.
“It's mighty empty and more than a little foreboding out here,” he muttered to his horse. “I'd sing if I knew how to, and if I didn't have to take any deep breaths.”
The horse grunted, as if pleased to know that his rider was neither asleep nor dead.
Holliday kept scanning the horizon, looking for a sign of War Bonnet or anything else, but it remained barren and empty, and he realized that he probably wouldn't see or hear a magical creature's approach anyway.
He pulled the Derringer out of his lapel pocket, checked it for the third time since he'd ridden out from town, and replaced it. He drew his six-gun to make sure there were no obstructions—there had never been any, but he was a careful man—and slid it back into his holster. He knew that young guns practiced their draws all the time, as if fast were more important than accurate, or as if either meant more than cold, emotionless efficiency. He'd been outdrawn many times, and yet except for a minor wound at the O.K. Corral, he'd never been hit in any of his gunfights.
“I hope you're listening,” he said aloud, “because I'm going to give it just ten more minutes, and then I'm turning around and heading back to town. He's got enough advantages already; there's no sense facing him in the dark.”
There was no answer.
He looked down at the back of his horse's neck, which was obscured by a long black mane.
“I don't suppose it's you, is it?” he said.
The horse continued walking, and didn't reply.
And then, suddenly, the horse stopped, and Holliday could feel it tense beneath him, because standing there some fifty yards away from him was War Bonnet. Not Geronimo's wavy, semitranslucent apparition, but a real—well, surreal—flesh-and-blood creature, his hands afire, the blaze in his eyes matching them.
“You're bigger than he said,” said Holliday, some of the tension actually leaving him now that he was finally confronting the huge Indian.
“What does Goyathlay know?” said War Bonnet contemptuously in a harsh, exceptionally deep voice. “When I finish with him and the one who hides his eyes behind glass, they will be less than the dust on the ground.”
“That's what we have to talk about,” said Holliday, trying to steady his mount.
“We know you, Holliday,” said War Bonnet. “You are a dying drunkard. We have nothing to say to you.”
“We?” repeated Holliday, frowning. “All I see is one big bastard who's going to jar the ground when he falls.”
“We made this warrior,” was the reply. “We can address you through him. He obeys our will.”
“And just who the hell are you?”
“We are the medicine men of all the assembled tribes except the Apache,” replied War Bonnet expressionlessly. “We are Dull Knife of the Cheyenne, Spotted Elk of the Lakota, Cougar Slayer of the Arapaho, Tall Wolf of—”
“You're not going to bore me until sunrise with this, are you?” interrupted Holliday.
“No,” came the reply, and now War Bonnet's face was animated again. “I am going to kill you.”
“I and not we?” asked Holliday. “Make up your mind, or don't you have