been.
“Nice trick,” said Holliday. “Did you run home to get some advice?”
“No, walking corpse. I went to the land you call Texas.”
“Waste of time,” said Holliday. “They don't scare any easier than I do.”
“There is a jail there. After I reached an agreement with an inmate, I tore his cell apart and freed him.”
Holliday stared at him, waiting for him to finish his story.
“There is a man who is even a greater killer than you,” continued War Bonnet.
Holliday finally saw where the tale was going, and nodded his head. “You broke John Wesley Hardin out of jail.”
“In exchange for his promise to hunt you down and kill you.
“You might be disappointed.”
“You think you and the thing that was once Johnny Ringo were the greatest killers of all, but John Wesley Hardin has killed more than both of you put together.”
“I'll make you a promise,” said Holliday.
“Your promise to leave and not involve yourself is too late,” said War Bonnet.
Holliday shook his head. “That wasn't what I had in mind.”
“What is your promise?” demanded War Bonnet.
“I promise that after I kill Hardin and Roosevelt kills you, we'll bury you side by side.”
“This is Hardin—the greatest killer ever to walk across this land,” said War Bonnet. “And you are a dying man who cannot walk fifty paces without gasping for breath.”
“Nevertheless.”
“You are a fool, Holliday. If you run now, perhaps you will die before he finds you, for you will surely die the day he does find you.”
“Remember what I said,” replied Holliday. “Side by side.”
War Bonnet glared at him furiously, but said nothing.
“It won't be so bad,” continued Holliday. “You're not a Christian, so you won't care that we don't put a cross on your grave. And once Geronimo finds all the medicine men who are pulling your puppet strings, we'll bury them opposite Hardin on the other side of you.”
War Bonnet was silent for a few seconds. Then he began to hum, a very low, very soft sound that became louder and louder until Holliday clapped his hands over his ears. The sound morphed into a scream, louder and louder still, until Holliday was sure it could be heard all the way back to his ancestral home in Georgia.
And then, suddenly, both the scream and War Bonnet himself vanished.
Holliday waited five minutes to make sure he wasn't coming back, then climbed onto his horse, noticed that the animal was thoroughly lathered with sweat and still tense and nervous, and began riding slowly back to Tombstone.
“John Wesley Hardin,” he muttered. “Why couldn't it have been something easier, like all fifty medicine men at once?”
He continued riding, and every half mile or so he'd take another sip from his canteen, close it, look off into the distance in the direction he thought Texas lay, and say, grimacing, “John Wesley Hardin. Shit!”
He was still repeating it when he finally rode back into town.
IT WAS TEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT when Holliday entered Tombstone. He considered waking Edison and Buntline, decided not to, and continued riding. He returned his horse to the stable where he'd rented it, walked to the Grand, asked for Roosevelt at the front desk and was told he'd gone to bed, and stopped by the bar for a drink.
“I'm surprised to see you here this early, Doc,” said the bartender. “Usually you shut down the Oriental and then find another game or two before you come back here.”
“I'm just giving the cards one night to recover,” said Holliday.
“I'm sure some of the other gamblers appreciate it,” said the bartender with a smile.
“They'd better,” said Holliday. “I'll be back tomorrow with a vengeance.” He was silent for a moment. “Tell me, did John Wesley Hardin ever visit Tombstone—before he was jailed, I mean?”
“I don't think Tombstone even existed when they put him away, Doc,” said the bartender. “He's been gone a long while.”
“Just curious,” said Holliday.
“You ever meet him?”
Holliday shook his head. “No, never had that pleasure.”
“I gather it wasn't all that much of a pleasure for something like forty-five men,” said the bartender with a grin.
“Forty-two,” Holliday corrected him. “At least, that's what they were able to prove in court.”
“Word has it that he's become a lawyer.”
“That's what I hear,” said Holliday. “No reason why not. There's not much else to do in jail.”
“It means if he ever gets out, he can prosecute and defend himself,” said the bartender, laughing at his own comment.
“Anything's possible,” agreed Holliday.
“Not getting out,” said the bartender. “If he lives three hundred more years, he'll still