The Doctor and the Rough Rider by Mike Resnick

Author:Mike Resnick [Resnick, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Science Fiction, Steampunk, Fantasy, Western
ISBN: 9781616146900
Publisher: Pyr
Published: 2012-12-04T06:00:00+00:00

HOLLIDAY, LUKE SLOAN, AND HAIRLIP SMITH spent the day passing the word—as Roosevelt explained, they probably didn't have much more than a day to select and assemble the Rough Riders—and they began showing up at the designated spot, which was Baltimore Jack Miller's abandoned ranch a mile north of town.

The first to make an appearance was Jack “Turkey Creek” Johnson, a burly man with pale-blue eyes, a nose that had clearly been broken a few times, a thick but well-trimmed beard, a colorful shirt, and stovepipe chaps over his jeans.

He rode up to the decrepit ranch house with its broken windows and missing door, tied his horse to a very shaky railing, and walked up to Holliday.

“Howdy, Doc,” he said. “I hear tell you're looking for men.”

“Not me,” said Holliday. He pointed to Roosevelt, who stood on the porch. “Him.”

Johnson walked over and extended his hand. “Turkey Creek Johnson at your service,” he said. “Any friend of Wyatt's is a friend of mine.”

“I appreciate that,” said Roosevelt. “But it's a bit removed from the source. I'm a friend of Doc's.”

“And Doc's the best friend Wyatt ever had, and that's good enough for me,” said Johnson.

“May I ask what precipitated this friendship for Wyatt?” said Roosevelt.

Johnson merely frowned in puzzlement until Holliday spoke up. “He means, what caused it, Turkey?”

“Johnny Behan locked my brother away on a trumped-up charge, and Wyatt got him out.” Suddenly Johnson smiled. “I was on the Vendetta Ride with him and Doc.”

“So I assume you know how to use that?” said Roosevelt, pointing at his six-gun.

“You just tell me who you want shot, and if it ain't Doc, the deed is as good as done,” replied Johnson.

“Doc?” asked Roosevelt.

“He's as good as he says,” replied Holliday. “With a pistol, anyway. It gets a little stranger with a rifle.”

“That's 'cause I lost my specs a couple of years ago, and we ain't got no lens grinders out here since the Apaches killed old Hermanson as he was taking his wagon from one town to another,” said Johnson. “But trust me: I can hit anything I can see.”

“How far do you have to be before you can't see it?”

“I don't know,” admitted Johnson. “A ways.”

“Let's find out,” said Roosevelt. “Luke, take that bucket”—he indicated an old bucket at the corner of the porch—“and set it out a couple hundred feet away.”

Luke Sloan lifted the bucket and began walking.

“You sure you want me to do this?” asked Johnson. “I mean, if I put a hole in it, you can't use it no more.”

“We're not using it now,” Roosevelt assured him.

Johnson shrugged. “You're the boss.” He paused. “By the way, I didn't catch your name.”

“I didn't throw it,” said Roosevelt with a smile. “But it's Theodore Roosevelt.”

“Okay, Teddy—glad to be working with you.”

“You'll be gladder if you call me Theodore.”

“Whatever you say.”

“That's far enough, Luke!” called Roosevelt. “Set it down.”

Sloan put the bucket on the ground. “Don't shoot yet!” he hollered, trotting back.

“Is something wrong?” asked Roosevelt.

“Everyone knows Turkey Creek is blind as a bat,” said Sloan.

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