okay, it must be pretty damned bright if you can spot it from two thousand miles away.”
“He must come to my lodge.”
“You mean the one near Tombstone, down in the Arizona Territory?” asked Holliday.
“Yes. And he must come quickly.”
“Well, now, we have a little problem in that regard,” said Holliday. Geronimo looked at him quizzically. “In case it has escaped your attention, I am sitting in a cell in the Leadville Jail. I can't contact him from here.”
There was an instant of extreme cold and total darkness, and suddenly Holliday found himself in the Leadville telegraph office.
“You can send a message from here,” said Geronimo, appearing beside him.
“We still have a problem.”
The Indian stared at him, frowning. “What is it?”
“I don't have any money to pay for sending it. My wallet is back in the jail, along with my gun and my flask.”
Geronimo closed his eyes and tensed, and suddenly Holliday felt somehow different. He ran his hands over his hips and torso and found that his wallet was once again in his lapel pocket and his pistol rested comfortably in its holster.
“What about my whiskey?” he asked.
“First the message.”
“There's no one to give it to, and I don't know how to work the machine.”
Geronimo closed his eyes briefly a second time, and when he opened them, a telegraph operator, still in his nightshirt, looking totally confused and more than a little bit frightened, sat at his desk.
“Don't be afraid, son,” said Holliday. “It's all perfectly normal, except for the magic and the jailbreak and the Indian. I want to send a message.”
The young man gulped and nodded.
“To Bat Masterson, in care of the Daily Telegraph,” began Holliday.
“Where is that, sir?” asked the operator.
“New York City,” replied Holliday. “Dear Bat: Got a situation here that may result in ending the barrier that exists at the Mississippi.”
The operator, his eyes wide, began tapping away. “Really, sir?” he asked.
“It all depends on whether he believes me or not,” replied Holliday. “Continuing: It is essential that you bring your friend Roosevelt to Tombstone as quickly as possible. I can't tell you more until you get here, but your safety has been guaranteed by a man whose abilities are not unknown, especially to you.” He paused. “Okay, sign it ‘Doc Holliday’ and send it.”
The operator finished the message and put it on the wire.
“Now, how much do I owe you?” asked Holliday, pulling out his wallet, but he found himself speaking to an empty chair.
“He is back in his bed,” announced Geronimo. “When he awakes, he will remember nothing.”
Holliday nodded his approval.
“Will Masterson come?” continued Geronimo.
Holliday shrugged. “I suppose so. He'll figure out that you've guaranteed his safety, and he of all people knows what you can do. After all, you're the one who turned him into an oversized bat.”
“He killed one of my warriors.”
“After your warrior attacked him.”
“He must come,” said Geronimo, ignoring what Holliday had said, “And soon.”
“Why soon?” asked Holliday. “I mean, as long as you've decided to end the spell and let us expand to the Pacific, what difference does it make whether he gets here in a month or a year?”
“I may be dead before a year has passed,” answered Geronimo.
Holliday studied him briefly. “I know I'm a dentist and not a physician, but I'd say you look pretty healthy to me.”
“I will not die from disease.”
Holliday arched an eyebrow and waited for Geronimo to continue. “The other medicine men, those of the other tribes, do not want to end the spell or treat with the White Eyes. When they know I am planning this, they will create a creature such as has never been seen before, and send it out to kill me and those who stand with me. That is why it must be soon. Even with my powers, I cannot evade the creature or hold it at bay for long.”
“Why are you so sure they'll create such a creature at all?” asked Holliday.
Geronimo stared at him for a long moment. “Because I would,” he said grimly.
MASTERSON STROLLED INTO THE RUNNING STAG tavern on Medora's main street and walked up to the bar, which boasted an impressive set of antlers hanging just above the mirrors.
“What'll it be, sir?”
“Make it a beer.”
“Coming right up.” The bartender stared at him for a moment. “Ain't I seen you before?”
“I doubt it,” replied Masterson. “This is my first trip to Dakota.”
“You ain't seen him,” said the lone customer, a gray-bearded man sitting at a table. “But you seen his picture.” He