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and shaman on this side
     of the Mississippi except Geronimo.”
    “So you're saying that there may actually be a war coming…”
    “Right,” said Holliday. “With Geronimo and Roosevelt on one side, and every other
     Indian on the other.”
    “Where do you fit in, Doc?” asked Edison.
    “Me? I'm just a dying man who's putting two interested parties together.”
    “Rubbish. For one thing, you're the best shootist alive.”
    “Well, alive and free,” amended Holliday. “Don't forget John Wesley Hardin.”
    “Is he still incarcerated in some Texas jail?” asked Edison.
    “Last I heard.”
    “Anyway, you're not the type to sit on the sidelines.”
    “I may be so sick I'll have to lie down on the sidelines,” replied Holliday.
    “I hope you're joking.”
    “I hope so too,” said Holliday. “But if I were a betting man…”
    “Enough,” said Edison. “For a dying man, you're as indestructible as any man I've
     ever met.”
    “Good,” said Holliday. “Then I'll be around to see what you bring to the battle.”
    “Me? But Geronimo doesn't even want to see me.”
    “He'll want to see what you can produce.”
    “What makes you think I'll produce anything?” asked Edison irritably.
    “Because if we're to have a country that extends to the Pacific, I have a feeling
     Geronimo and Roosevelt are going to need all the help they can get.” Holliday smiled
     at Edison. “And that means you.”

H OLLIDAY WAS SITTING AT A TABLE in the Oriental when Masterson entered the saloon, followed by his companion.
    “Damn, but you made good time!” said Holliday, surprised to see them. He got to his
     feet. “You must be Theodore Roosevelt.”
    Roosevelt extended a hand. “I've been anxious to meet you,” he said. “I've heard and
     read a lot about you.”
    “Most of it lies, I'm sure,” said Holliday, taking his hand. “I've heard a bit about
     you myself.”
    “From Democrats?” said Roosevelt with a grin. “ All of it lies.”
    Roosevelt released Holliday's hand, and Holliday immediately began trying to shake
     some life back into it. “That's quite a grip you've got there,” he said. “Shake my
     hand three or four more times and I'll have to learn to shoot left-handed.”
    Roosevelt laughed heartily. “I like you already!” he said. “But of course I knew I
     would.”
    “You have an affinity for dentists?” said Holliday sardonically.
    “Not that I'm aware of. I hope you have one for politicians. Well, former politicians.”

    “The only good politician is a former one,” said Holliday. “Or a dead one.”
    “I wish I could offer more than a token disagreement,” said Roosevelt. He looked around
     the interior of the Oriental, then pulled a chair over and sat down, and Holliday
     and Masterson followed suit.
    “Any problems along the way?” asked Holliday, offering his bottle to Roosevelt, who
     shook his head, and to Masterson, who took a swallow.
    “Nothing to speak of,” replied Masterson. “A couple of highwaymen tried to hold us
     up on our way through the New Mexico Territory.” Suddenly he grinned. “The world is
     changing.”
    “What happened?”
    “Young Mr. Roosevelt got the drop on them with his rifle—they must have figured anyone
     wearing spectacles is blind, because they weren't paying him any attention—so he disarmed
     them, offered to go a few rounds of fisticuffs with them, beat the crap out of them,
     then patched them up and treated them to dinner.” Masterson chuckled at the memory.
     “Now I know how he wins the voters over. Those two volunteered to ride shotgun for
     us as we passed through Southern Cheyenne country, and swore their eternal friendship
     when we parted.” He shook is head in wonderment. “It's not like riding with Wyatt,
     let me tell you.”
    Holliday laughed. He expected Roosevelt to look uncomfortable, but the Easterner simply
     looked pleased with the result of the story.
    “Too bad Johnny Behan's not sheriff anymore. I'd