Read Online Weird West 04 - The Doctor and the Dinosaurs by Mike Resnick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike Resnick
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Indian, but when he got there he couldn't find any sign of the corpse.
“Shit!” he growled. “Either you're collecting human bones too, or the Comanche found their warrior and took him off to bury him, hopefully where you won't dig him up again while he's still fresh.”
He dismounted, tied his horse to a small tree, and began examining the area. From the moccasined footprints, he concluded that three Comanche had come across the body. It would have had to be since sunrise, since the corpse was too well-hidden to have been found in the dark.
Holliday frowned. Why had three braves been just five minutes away—at a slow walk—from the camp in the daylight?
He heard a horse whinny off to his left, he turned, and there, perhaps sixty yards away, was a row of some twenty Comanche warriors.
“I hate mornings!” said Holliday as he turned to face them.
He stared at the warriors, who sat motionless on their horses, staring back at him.
“Let's go,” he muttered, flexing his right hand. “Or are you just killing time until lunch?”
One of the Comanche put an arrow in his bow and let it fly. It hit the ground twenty yards short of Holliday. He wanted to throw back his head and laugh at such a futile and misguided action, but he was afraid if he did it would bring on a coughing fit and he didn't want to show any weakness.
Instead he pointed his finger at the warrior in the middle, pretended to shoot him, and then went through the pantomime of holstering his finger.
A burly warrior from the right side of the line began moving his horse forward. Holliday considered his options. The one thing he didn't want to do was show them how short a firing range his pistol had before the bullet lost both accuracy and velocity. He decided that if he faced the brave with his hand poised above his holster they would see how puny his weapon was at even thirty yards. Finally he decided to fold his arms across his chest as if he was totally unconcerned and was just biding his time before drawing and firing his weapon, which in a way was true, though not for the reasons he hoped to imply.
The warrior was fifty yards away, then forty, and then two more warriors began urging their horses forward.
Suddenly they stopped and looked at something Holliday couldn't see, well off to his left.
“Don't worry, Doc,” said Cole Younger's voice. “We'll be there in another half minute.”
Holliday turned in the direction of the voices, and suddenly saw a column of some thirty men—Younger, the six from the campfire, and close to twenty-five more—approaching him in single file. They fanned out on either side of him, brought their mounts to a stop, and faced the Comanche warriors, who held stock-still, staring back at them.
“What the hell are you doing here?” said Holliday. “Not that I'm not glad to see you.”
“I got to thinking,” said Younger. “I'm being paid to ride shotgun and keep the Indians at bay, not to guard a bunch of bones. And you've seen those bones. It'd take four of them to lift one of the big ones, and most of their ponies couldn't carry ’em anyway, so even if they wanted the damned bones they'd still be there trying to load them for the next couple of days—and I knew you weren't going more than a mile or two from camp, so why the hell not ride out, just in case they'd arranged this very type of reception for you?”
“That's some pretty smart thinking,” said Holliday, never taking his eyes off the warriors. “Just keep on doing it while I'm around.”
“You'd think being a soon-to-be famous author would make thinking easier,” complained Younger wryly. “If we fire even a single shot, we're probably going to get in a shootout that'll kill all of one side and two-thirds of the other, and truth to tell I ain't ready to hobnob in hell with Jim and Bob just yet.” He paused. “On the other hand, if we don't do anything, sooner or later the Professor is going to come back this way, and if they see
“Shit!” he growled. “Either you're collecting human bones too, or the Comanche found their warrior and took him off to bury him, hopefully where you won't dig him up again while he's still fresh.”
He dismounted, tied his horse to a small tree, and began examining the area. From the moccasined footprints, he concluded that three Comanche had come across the body. It would have had to be since sunrise, since the corpse was too well-hidden to have been found in the dark.
Holliday frowned. Why had three braves been just five minutes away—at a slow walk—from the camp in the daylight?
He heard a horse whinny off to his left, he turned, and there, perhaps sixty yards away, was a row of some twenty Comanche warriors.
“I hate mornings!” said Holliday as he turned to face them.
He stared at the warriors, who sat motionless on their horses, staring back at him.
“Let's go,” he muttered, flexing his right hand. “Or are you just killing time until lunch?”
One of the Comanche put an arrow in his bow and let it fly. It hit the ground twenty yards short of Holliday. He wanted to throw back his head and laugh at such a futile and misguided action, but he was afraid if he did it would bring on a coughing fit and he didn't want to show any weakness.
Instead he pointed his finger at the warrior in the middle, pretended to shoot him, and then went through the pantomime of holstering his finger.
A burly warrior from the right side of the line began moving his horse forward. Holliday considered his options. The one thing he didn't want to do was show them how short a firing range his pistol had before the bullet lost both accuracy and velocity. He decided that if he faced the brave with his hand poised above his holster they would see how puny his weapon was at even thirty yards. Finally he decided to fold his arms across his chest as if he was totally unconcerned and was just biding his time before drawing and firing his weapon, which in a way was true, though not for the reasons he hoped to imply.
The warrior was fifty yards away, then forty, and then two more warriors began urging their horses forward.
Suddenly they stopped and looked at something Holliday couldn't see, well off to his left.
“Don't worry, Doc,” said Cole Younger's voice. “We'll be there in another half minute.”
Holliday turned in the direction of the voices, and suddenly saw a column of some thirty men—Younger, the six from the campfire, and close to twenty-five more—approaching him in single file. They fanned out on either side of him, brought their mounts to a stop, and faced the Comanche warriors, who held stock-still, staring back at them.
“What the hell are you doing here?” said Holliday. “Not that I'm not glad to see you.”
“I got to thinking,” said Younger. “I'm being paid to ride shotgun and keep the Indians at bay, not to guard a bunch of bones. And you've seen those bones. It'd take four of them to lift one of the big ones, and most of their ponies couldn't carry ’em anyway, so even if they wanted the damned bones they'd still be there trying to load them for the next couple of days—and I knew you weren't going more than a mile or two from camp, so why the hell not ride out, just in case they'd arranged this very type of reception for you?”
“That's some pretty smart thinking,” said Holliday, never taking his eyes off the warriors. “Just keep on doing it while I'm around.”
“You'd think being a soon-to-be famous author would make thinking easier,” complained Younger wryly. “If we fire even a single shot, we're probably going to get in a shootout that'll kill all of one side and two-thirds of the other, and truth to tell I ain't ready to hobnob in hell with Jim and Bob just yet.” He paused. “On the other hand, if we don't do anything, sooner or later the Professor is going to come back this way, and if they see
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