“If the guy at the desk hears us, he's going to come over to see who I'm talking to, and when he finds out it's Geronimo himself, he'll blow you to Kingdom Come.”
Geronimo shook his head. “He will not awaken.”
“You killed him?”
“No. But he will sleep until we are through with our business.”
“I thought we were through with our business a year and a half ago,” said Holliday.
“No,” said Geronimo. “That was your business; this is mine. Do you remember that I told you there was one White Eyes among your race that I could treat with?”
“Yes.”
“He has now crossed the great river, which you call the Mississippi.”
“And now the medicine men will end their spell or curse or whatever the hell it is and let the United States expand to the Pacific?” said Holliday.
“It will not be that easy,” said Geronimo.
“Somehow it never is,” said Holliday with a sigh. “Damn! I wish I had my flask.” He stared at Geronimo. “I don't suppose the greatest of all the Apache medicine men would care to magic it to me?”
Geronimo shook head. “You will have access to such things soon enough.”
“You're breaking me out of here?” asked Holliday eagerly.
“I will break nothing.”
“You know what I mean,” said Holliday. “Don't play word games with a man who's got a hangover.”
The Indian stared at him expressionlessly for a moment, then walked over and sat down at the end of the cot. “Holliday, I am willing to make my peace with the White Eyes.”
“Good,” said Holliday, certain that nothing was quite that easy.
“There is one man, a man of courage and character, that I will treat with, and no one else.”
“So you said.”
“He will not come because I ask him,” continued Geronimo.
“Do I know him?” asked Holliday.
Geronimo shook his head. “No. I doubt that you have ever even heard his name mentioned.”
Holliday frowned, trying to follow the Indian's line of reasoning. “Then why should he come for me any more than he'd come for you?”
“He will not.”
“Then—”
“But he will come because your friend asks him, and it is not in his nature to refuse a challenge.”
“My friend?” repeated Holliday, frowning.
“The man Masterson.”
“Bat Masterson?” said Holliday, and Geronimo nodded his head. “We're not exactly friends, him and me. We just find ourselves on the same side most of the time, thanks to Wyatt Earp. He and Wyatt are lawmen, or at least they were. And Wyatt and I are friends.” Or at least we were, he added silently.
“Nonetheless, it is he who knows and has befriended the man I seek, and he who will convince that man to come to my lodge.”
“Bat's not out here any longer,” said Holliday. “He gave up being a lawman to become a sportswriter—a newspaperman. He's up in New York, covering horse races and boxing matches and this new baseball game.”
“That is where he met the man I must speak to,” said Geronimo with absolute certainty.
Holliday was going to ask how he knew that, and then realized the silliness of doubting a warrior who could change into an animal or back into a man on a half second's notice. Instead he said: “Who is this miracle man? Grant and Sherman are dead, and George Custer turned out to be a fool.”
“He is a very young man, but he is already the most accomplished of the White Eyes.”
“If he's that accomplished, what if he's too busy to come?” asked Holliday.
“He will come because his curiosity will overwhelm his reluctance. He will want to see all the wonders that Edison and Buntline are famous for. Further, he has forsaken the crowded cities of the White Eyes to live on this side of the river, and he will realize instantly that to refuse my offer is to keep his country forever confined to the other side of the river.”
“If he's all that special, maybe I've heard of him after all,” said Holliday. “What's his name?”
“Roosevelt.”
“Is that a first or a last name?”
“It is his name.”
“Thanks,” said Holliday sardonically. “I've never heard of any Roosevelt. How many men has he killed?”
“None.”
“What is he, some kind of preacher or religious leader?”
“No,” said Geronimo.
“A scientist like Tom Edison?”
“No.”
“And he's the only one you'll treat with?”
“That is correct.”
“Must be a hell of a man,” said Holliday. “What's he done?”
“Masterson will tell you,” answered Geronimo.
“Why not you?”
“I know his aura, not his accomplishments.”
“His aura?”
Geronimo nodded. “All men have them. Yours is black, for the death you bring and the death that awaits you.”
“And his?”
Geronimo merely stared at him.
“Okay,