"It's pleasanter," replied Holliday. "Minimally."

"I don't understand."

"They each hate each other's guts," said Holliday. "You know that, of course, but I don't think anyone realizes the full extent of it. I think either would be happy to spend eternity burning in the pits of hell as long as the other starting burning one minute sooner. When I say Cope's camp is minimally more pleasant, I just mean that his hatred of Marsh doesn't slop over to other people as much as Marsh's hatred for him does."

"That's pretty much what we've heard," said Buntline, sitting down on a leather couch. "I guess hearing about it doesn't really bring it home like experiencing it."

"That's okay," said Holliday. "None of us is working for either of them. Neither is Theodore. We'll do what we have to do if we have to do it." He stared at the trunk. "You sure whatever you've got in there will work? You won't believe the size of these damned leg bones until you see them yourselves."

"They should work," said Edison, seating himself on a high-backed wooden chair. "Hell, there's no reason why a properly placed bullet from Theodore's Winchester won't work." Holliday made no comment, but his skepticism was clearly written on his face.

"Trust us, Doc," said Buntline. "If we could light all of Tombstone and Leadville, we can turn the lights off on a dinosaur or two."

"I hope so," said Holliday, who was still uncomfortable from his long ride and elected to remain standing, leaning against the only section of wall that didn't have a print or a painting on it.

"What the hell does that mean?" asked Buntline.

"I hope your weapon will turn their lights off, and I hope if they're resurrected there are only one or two, since I think you could have a few thousand buried there."

"How crazy can the Comanche be?" said Buntline. "One allosaur could wipe out an entire village in a matter of minutes. And from what I hear, a brontosaur could flatten it in even less time."

"Let's hope they're not quite that crazy," said Edison.

"I'll drink to that," said Buntline. "Or at least I will once we get up to our rooms and I unpack a bottle."

"Well, gentlemen," said Edison, "before the thought of my being mistaken spoils our appetites, shall we go down for dinner?"

"Why not?" said Buntline, getting up.

"The hotel can watch your luggage until we're through with dinner," said Holliday opening the front door and starting to step outside. "We can eat in the hotel, of course, but I hear there's a nice restaurant on the next block called the Wheel."

"Not The Wagon Wheel, or the Some-other-kind-of Wheel?" asked Buntline.

"Just the Wheel," replied Holliday.

"Why not?" said Edison. "Let's give it a shot."

Holliday had no knowledge whatsoever of the Wheel. He'd passed it coming into town, and since he was sure that Amanda would be lurking for him by the hotel's restaurant he'd quickly come up with a reason to eat elsewhere.

He was pleasantly surprised when the Wheel actually served up some pretty good steaks, and doubly so when they returned to the hotel and there was no Amanda there to praise him in front his friends for murdering her father.

Edison and Buntline had begun their day at sunrise and went up to their room to sleep, and Holliday spent an hour in the bar, then spent two more hours breaking even in a poker game at a casino down the street.

When he returned he found that he wasn't sleepy, so he looked around for something to do while drinking from his flask. The only thing he found was a copy of the Bible, so he picked it up, took it to the bed, propped himself up against the headboard, and began reading it by the light of a kerosene lamp.

He hoped it was right, that everything had started with Adam and that Edison and Buntline were wasting their time, as were he and Roosevelt, but somehow he couldn't quite convince himself that things were that simple or that easy.

When he awoke after a restless sleep he still had very little faith in the Bible as an accurate historical document, and was anxious to get back to one camp or the other so he could try out Edison's new weapon.

THERE WAS NO WAY THAT A HORSE, or even a pack mule, could carry the trunk, so Holliday rented a wagon and a team of horses to pull it, attached his own horse to the back of the wagon with a long lead shank, and happily climbed onto the driver's seat.

"You know how to drive one of these things?" asked Buntline dubiously.

"I drove one in Tombstone," replied Holliday.

"I know," said Buntline, frowning. "That's why I'm asking."

"Nothing to it," said Holliday. "You just aim them in the direction you want to go, yell *Giddyap!' and off you go." And indeed, as he said the word the horses bolted forward.

"Very good," said Buntline, frowning. "Now let's go back and get Tom."

"Damn!" said Holliday. "Wasn't he aboard?"

He turned the team around, went back for Edison, and soon they were heading westward again.

"Which camp are we going to?" asked Edison.

"Cope's," answered Holliday. "He's three or four hours farther than Marsh, but he's five or six hours pleasanter."

"Which camp is Theodore at?"

"Marsh's, if he's still in the country."

"I don't understand," said Edison, frowning.

"Last I saw of him, he was preparing to show them how to dig. Knowing Theodore, I figure it's no worse than a fifty-fifty proposition that he's dug down to China."

Edison sighed and nodded. "That's our Theodore, all right."

"Well," said Buntline, "I suppose we'd better have a list of the species they've uncovered, so if worse comes to worst we'll know what we're up against."

"I get the distinct impression that they're making up names as they go along," answered Holliday. "After all, nobody's ever seen any of these things before."

As they were leaving town on a westbound trail Holliday suddenly pulled the team to a stop.

"What is it?" asked Edison, looking around.

"Maybe nothing," said Holliday, not taking his eyes from an owl that perched on a dead limb of a dying tree, staring at him. Holliday stared back, and the two remained motionless for the better part of a minute.

"Is something wrong?" asked Buntline nervously.

"I don't know yet," replied Holliday, ignoring a pair of flies that circled around his face.

Finally the owl spread its wings and took off in an easterly direction, and Holliday clucked to the horses, which began walking again.

"Well, that's a relief," said Holliday, finally brushing the flies away with the back of his hand.

"What did you think it was?" asked Edison.

Holliday shrugged. "I wasn't sure. Geronimo, maybe, or perhaps one of the Comanche medicine men."

"It was just a bird," said Buntline.

"It was an owl, five hundred miles from where it belongs, and out in the noonday sun," said Holliday. He shrugged. "Well, at least it wasn't Geronimo, and if it was a Comanche, he's probably just watching to see who I'm bringing back with me. No way he could know what's in the trunk." He paused. "Probably," he added.

They rode in silence for an hour, then came to a small creek where Holliday let the horses drink.

"I wonder why they picked Wyoming," said Edison, looking around. "With the Rockies, at least you can gauge the strata and know where to dig after you've pulled out your first dinosaur. This strikes me as too much guesswork."

Holliday shook his head. "There's not much guesswork involved, not with those two. Either one of them points at the ground and says *Dig here!' and you can bet the farm they'll dig up some bones right there." A quick smile. "Always assuming you own a farm to bet," he added.

"Well, what we've got in here ought to work on just about anything," said Edison, patting the trunk.

"First, I hope we don't need it, and second, I hope you're right," said Holliday.

"It's been a year or more since we've seen Theodore," said Buntline. "What's he been doing? I was sure he'd be running for office by now, but I haven't seen anything about him in the papers."

"Building a home, probably making arrangements to divest himself of his Dakota properties, getting ready to get married again," answered Holliday.

"That'd be a lot of any normal man," said Edison with a smile. "Somehow it seems like slow motion for Theodore."

"Well, he has written a few books in the past year, and who the hell knows what else?" said Holliday. "He's going to have to be a little less modest about his accomplishments if he's really going to run for office again." A sudden smile. "Right now I imagine he's busy getting the equivalent of a college course in paleontology. It's amazing how he can put up with Marsh's manners as long as he can learn from him."

Edison nodded. "That's our Theodore, all right."

They rode another hour, then stopped for the lunch Buntline had bought in the hotel's restaurant. While Buntline was pulling it out, Edison hobbled the horses, removed their harness, and let them graze in a nearby glade.

"Okay," said Holliday. "If you're going to spill your drinks, or drop food on your chests, or forget to button up your pants after you sneak behind the bushes to relieve yourself, this is the time and place to do it."

"What are you talking about?" asked Buntline.

"This is the last meal where I cannot absolutely guarantee that you'll be watched by one or more Comanche. They might be watching us now, but I think we're still a little too far for them to give a damn about. We don't pose a real threat until we go another twenty or twenty-five miles. Five or six hours ought to do it."

"But they haven't attacked anyone yet?" said Edison.

"Not so's you'd notice it."

"What the devil does that mean?" asked Buntline, pulling out a pipe and lighting it.

"They haven't attacked anyone while they were digging," replied Holliday. "I can't vouch for the fact that they haven't killed the occasional white man who wandered off, or maybe some who weren't part of the digging parties but were just passing through."

"What kind of weaponry do they use?"

Holliday grimaced as a change in the wind blew some of Buntline's smoke into his face. "About what you'd expect," he answered, moving a few feet to his left to avoid the smoke. "Bow and arrows, rifles, the occasional six-shooter or spear."

"Where did they get the rifles?" asked Edison.

Holliday stared at him. "Where do you think?" he said at last.

"Sorry," said Edison. "I've got to get used to being out here again."

Buntline pulled a bottle out of the woven basket that had contained their lunch. "Water, Doc?" he offered.

"I'm not dirty," replied Holliday, pulling out of his flask and draining it. "Okay," he said, getting to his feet, "now we have to get there by sunset. I left a couple of spare bottles in Cope's camp."

"And some in Marsh's, I would guess," said Edison with a smile.

Holliday shook his head. "No, if he found them, he'd confiscate them."

"He's a drinker?"

"No. He just doesn't like anyone else to be."

They harnessed the horses again, climbed back into the wagon, and began heading west toward the two camps.

About three hours into the ride Holliday made a wide semicircle around where he felt was the farthest Marsh's crew might be digging from their base camp. This took them to some rocky, uneven ground, which was hard on the horses and especially on the wagon wheels, but finally it became reasonably flat again, just as a coyote's howl broke the stillness of the afternoon.

"A real one, do you think?" asked Edison.

"I doubt it," said Holliday. "If Cody wants a real attraction in his show, he'll hire a bunch of Indians and have them mimic the growls and cries and chirps of every damned animal out here."

"Well, they were giving coyotes a bad name back when I was in Arizona," said Buntline. "Every time you heard one, someone would wind up with an arrow sticking out of him a minute later."

"Until Mr. Morse's telegraph lines run out to the Arizona desert, it's a hell of a lot better communication system that anything we've devised," said Edison. "You work with what you've got."

"Point taken," acknowledged Buntline as two more coyote calls came to their ears.

"I'd say they're half a mile to the north," offered Holliday.

"You're sure they're just watching us?" asked Buntline.

"If they were doing anything more than watching us we'd know it by now," answered Holliday. "You've got nothing to worry about."

"I was curious, not worried," said Buntline. He patted the trunk. "If we can kill a dinosaur with what we've got in here, there's no sense worrying over a couple of Indians."

"Dinosaurs can fire rifles from a quarter mile away, can they?" asked Holliday in amused tones.

"Okay," growled Buntline. "I'll just keep my mouth shut."

Holliday and Edison chuckled at that, and about ten minutes later the coyote howls ended.

"What does the silence mean?" asked Edison.

"That they recognized me," answered Holliday. "They know I'm connected with the digs, so they figure I'm heading to Cope's camp-after all, I'm giving Marsh's a wide berth-and they'll have warriors posted along the way, watching us. You won't hear another howl unless I change directions, or..."

"Or?" asked Edison.

"Or a real coyote is calling to his ladyfriend."