the hell will you know which ones they are?”
“More to the point,” added Mickelson, “if this War Bonnet is half what you say he is, what makes you think he's going to let you get anywhere near the lodge? Why won't he come out to meet you and kill you half a mile or a mile out of the lodge?”
Roosevelt smiled. “Because no matter what you think, I'm not suicidal.”
“I'm sure that's a comfort,” continued Mickelson, “but would you like to tell us why we should believe that when you ride two days out of your way to confront a monster that was created for the sole purpose of killing you?”
“He was created to kill Geronimo too,” Roosevelt corrected him.
“Big fucking deal,” said Sloan. “How about answering Morty's question?”
“Because once we're in sight of the lodge, we're going to split up. I'm going to sit on my horse and, in essence, dare War Bonnet to come out after me.”
“Bright,” said Smith, spitting on the ground. “Real bright.”
“And the rest of you are going to ride hell-for-leather toward the lodge, and I'm betting that if it's a choice between my dying and their dying or neither of us dying, the medicine men will opt to live, by which I mean they'll call him back.”
Sherman McMaster, who'd been listening intently without speaking, frowned and shook his head. “That doesn't make any sense. Doc's already proved he can't hurt anyone but you and Geronimo.”
“We don't know that's still true,” said Roosevelt. “And even if it is, it makes no difference. Only a crazy man would get within reach of a monster like that, especially once you see that your bullets don't harm him at all. I think they'll call him back with the intent of scaring you off.” Suddenly he grinned. “Now do you know how you're going to identify the medicine men?”
“Well, I'll be damned!” said McMaster.
“Probably,” agreed Mickelson. “Well, gents, now you see the value of a Harvard education.”
The bird, which had been hovering a few hundred yards ahead of them, flew back, chirping and squawking.
“All right, Rough Riders,” said Roosevelt. “I think he's trying to tell us that we're wasting time, that the enemy lies ahead of us. Shall we proceed?”
“‘Shall we proceed’?” repeated Sloan with a grimace. “Come on, Dandy, you're out West now. Say it like a cowboy.”
“Men,” said Roosevelt, spurring Manitou forward, “let's ride!”
THE HORSES RAN OUT OF ENTHUSIASM in a few miles, and they were soon walking in single file across the flat, barren, featureless ground, with Roosevelt and Manitou in the lead. Night fell, and Sloan, who knew the desert like the back of his hand, directed him to the only water hole within fifteen miles.
They slept on the ground, brushing off the occasional insect, killing the occasional scorpion, and were up at daylight. They had a quick breakfast, refilled their canteens, and began riding again, following the bird as it led them toward their destination.
Finally Roosevelt reined Manitou to a halt and, shading his eyes, looked off into the distance.
“Lose the bird again?” asked Tipton.
“He's around,” said Roosevelt. “Probably just finds it too damned hot to keep fluttering his wings. I can't say that I blame him.”
“He should have turned himself into a rattler, or maybe a scorpion,” said Tipton. “They seem to love this goddamned heat.”
“They do,” agreed Roosevelt. “But they couldn't keep ahead of us to lead us to the lodge.”
“I hope to hell that's what he is doing,” said Sloan, as his horse walked up beside Manitou.
“What do you mean?” asked Roosevelt.
“Well, he is Geronimo, and we're a bunch of white men.”
“He didn't have me come all the way out here just to kill me,” said Roosevelt. “If he wanted me dead, he could have killed me a couple of times since I arrived.”
“Maybe he wants his pals to take our scalps.”
“No Western Indian takes scalps,” said Roosevelt. “And the one or two tribes that did it—none of them do it anymore—learned it from the French.”
“There's that book-learning again,” laughed Mickelson.
“Ain't that our bird, Theodore?” asked Turkey Creek Johnson, pointing off into the distance.
“Yes, that's him,” replied Roosevelt, urging Manitou forward again.
They continued for two more hours, and the land became a bit more interesting, dotted with small hills and some sparse bushes.
Suddenly Roosevelt pulled Manitou to a stop.
“Get ready,” he announced. “We're very close.”
“What makes you think so?” asked Hairlip Smith.
“Do you see that tree straight ahead, the one with the flowers?”
“Yeah.”
“It's not real.”
Smith frowned. “What the hell are you