Read Online Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) by Mike Resnick - Free Book Online

Doc?”
    “I've spent most of my adult life looking for a place with air I can breathe where not too many people want to shoot me.” He paused, then offered her a self-deprecating smile. “I'm still looking. For both.”
    “Are you considering Lincoln?”
    He shook his head. “I'm just here on business.”
    “Where were you before this?”
    “Leadville, Colorado.”
    “Are you going back there when you're done with your business?”
    He shrugged and uttered a sigh. “I don't know. They've got the medical facility I want…” His voice trailed off.
    “But?”
    “But the air is so damned thin there even the birds prefer to walk.”
    “Then you really should consider staying down in the flatlands here, or in Arizona.”
    Another smile. “That runs smack dab against the other consideration.”
    She frowned, confused. “Other consideration?”
    “Finding a place where not too many people want to shoot me,” he replied.
    “It's none of my business, Doc,” said Charlotte, “but Lincoln's not known as a gambing center, and we passed a dentist's office on the way in, so I assume you're here for some other reason. Something to do with that,” she concluded, pointing to his gun.
    “It's possible,” he admitted.
    “Well, then?”
    “I'm a dying man. I'm just trying to raise enough money so that I can die under competent medical care.” A sudden smile. “With my boots off.”
    “Damn you, Doc!” she complained. “Why do you have to be so honest? Now I'm not going to enjoy my dinner at all!”
    “Then we'll demand a refund from the guy who recommended this place.”
    A waiter approached them nervously.
    “Excuse me, Doc,” he began. Then: “You are Doc Holliday, aren't you?”
    Holliday nodded his head. “Is that a problem.”
    “Absolutely not, sir,” the waiter assured him. “The management, that is to say, my boss, would like to treat you and the lady to the specialty of the house if he can post a sign saying that you ate here.”
    “Tell him he's got a deal,” said Holliday.
    “Thank you, sir!” said the waiter, rushing off.
    “Does this happen a lot?” asked Charlotte.
    “From time to time.” He smiled across the table at her. “They got away cheap.”
    “I don't understand.”
    “If I stay in town another two or three days, the undertaker will offer me ten dollars if I write a note saying he's got the right to bury me, and he'll make it twenty-five or even fifty if I give him permission to display me in his window for a few days first.”
    “That's horrible!” said Charlotte.
    “What's horrible,” explained Holliday in amused tones, “is that whether I take the more expensive deal or not, he's going to display me anyway.”
    “That's all you mean to him—a body to display?”
    He nodded. “And one to bury.”
    “I don't know how you shootists can live like that.”
    “It's dying like that that upsets us,” replied Holliday wryly.
    Their steaks arrived.
    “Well, nothing's going to change you,” said Charlotte. “So you might as well regale me with tales of other shootists you know or knew. It'll keep my mind off how overcooked the steak is.”
    “I can tell you about Wyatt Earp and his brothers,” offered Holliday. “Or Curly Bill Brocius. Or Bat Masterson.”
    “I've heard of all of them,” she said. “Do you know Wild Bill Hickok?”
    “No, I regret to say I've never had the pleasure. But I knew Clay Allison and Ben Thomson and the McLaury Brothers.”
    “They say you killed the McLaurys,” said Charlotte.
    “It's possible.”
    “You're a walking dime novel,” she said with a laugh. “Who was the most memorable?”
    “Johnny Ringo,” said Holliday without hesitation.
    “An interesting man?”
    Holliday nodded his head. “The most interesting man I ever met. And as good a friend as I ever had.”
    “Is he still around?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “Who killed him?”
    “I did,” said Holliday.

 
    T
     
HE BUCKBOARD STOPPED at the top of the rise and