Sloan reached the porch.
“Hell, even a bat can see from ten or twelve feet away,” said Sloan.
“To hell with Sloan,” said Holliday. “Just kill the bucket.”
Johnson pulled his pistol, held it in front of him with both hands, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The bullet plowed into the dirt about three inches in front of the bucket.”
“You missed,” said Hairlip Charlie Smith.
“The hell I did,” said Johnson. He turned to Roosevelt. “The bucket's a man, right?”
Roosevelt nodded. “That's right.”
“Anyone can shoot him in the head or the chest,” said Johnson. “I just shot him in the balls!”
Everyone laughed at that, even Roosevelt.
“So am I on your team?”
Roosevelt shook his hand. “Turkey Creek Johnson, welcome to the Rough Riders.”
“Who are we going up against?” asked Johnson.
“Certain select medicine men.”
“Geronimo? I been waiting for a chance to go hunting for that Apache bastard.”
“No,” said Roosevelt. “He's on our side.”
Johnson frowned. “If a bunch of white men are siding with a bunch of Apaches, who the hell's the enemy—a bunch of Chinamen?”
“I'll explain it once we've assembled all the Rough Riders,” answered Roosevelt. “No sense saying it half a dozen times.”
“Wouldn't bother me none,” said Johnson. “It's either that, or listening to Luke tell me how no woman has ever said no to him, or having Hairlip Charlie tell me how he caught a bullet in his lip without flinching, or maybe Doc give me odds on how many scorpions live between here and that bucket, and if I have to listen to a bunch of bullshit, at least I ain't heard yours yet.”
“I'm almost flattered,” said Roosevelt. “But I think we'll wait anyway.”
“Just as well,” said Holliday. “Here comes another.”
“He doesn't look like a typical cowboy,” remarked Roosevelt.
“A fair assumption,” agreed Holliday.
The man riding toward them wore a top hat, smoked a pipe, and carried a bright-yellow umbrella to protect himself from the sun. He didn't wear a holster or a six-shooter, but Roosevelt could see tell-tale bulges in every one of his coat pockets.
“Good day, one and all,” said the newcomer in a thick British accent. “Word has come to my ears that you're recruiting men of action.”
“And are you one?” asked Roosevelt.
“My bona fides,” said the man, pulling a rolled-up poster out of his otherwise-empty rifle sheath and handing it to Roosevelt.
“Stay three rounds with English Morton Mickelson and win fifty dollars!” read Roosevelt. “You're a boxer?”
“The best.”
“Then if I may ask a question, what are you doing here?”
“My manager took my money and ran off with it,” said Mickelson. He flashed a satisfied smile. “I found him. I didn't want to take a chance of breaking a finger on his jaw,”—he pulled out a pistol and twirled it around his finger, then replaced it—“so I put a bullet in his head and two more in his heart, always assuming he had one. That was, let me see, eleven days ago. I thought it was a nice time to take a vacation—I'd been fighting in Wichita—so I thought I'd see the Arizona Territory before the Apaches drive everyone else out of it.”
“Are you any good with that gun?” asked Roosevelt.
“Absolutely deadly, up to five or six feet, after which it becomes problematical.”
“How about your fists?”
“I stand behind my offer. I'll pay fifty dollars to any man here who can last three rounds with me. Doc Holliday excepted, of course; he could knock me out just by breathing on me after he's got a morning's worth of booze in him.”
Everyone laughed, even Holliday.
Suddenly Roosevelt took his glasses off, placed them in a jacket pocket, then removed his jacket and hung it over a chair. “Well,” he said, “since you can't shoot, I suppose we'd better find out just how well you can defend yourself in close quarters.” He unbuttoned the cuffs on his sleeves and rolled them up.
“Are you quite certain you can see me without those cheaters?” asked Mickelson.
“If you're close enough to hit, you're close enough to see,” said Roosevelt, walking down the three wooden steps from the porch to the ground.
“Good answer,” said Mickelson. He closed his umbrella, hung it on his saddle horn, then put his top hat over it. He took off his coat and tossed it over the porch railing, where the hidden pistols clattered as they bumped against wood.
“Two-minute rounds, Mr. Mickelson?” said Roosevelt.
“That suits me fine, Mr…. I don't know your name.”
“Roosevelt. But call me Theodore.”
“Fine. And you may call me Morty.”
“Odd name,” remarked Roosevelt.
“But fitting, as you're about to find out.”
“Doc,”