They passed three abandoned digging sites in the next two hours, and reached Cope's camp just before twilight. Not much had changed. It was still in the same clearing, with the same configuration of tents spread across it. The more permanent structure, which held the fossils, had been expanded since Holliday had left.

Cope was there, cataloging the day's finds, and his men were scattered around the grounds, some working, some just loafing before dinner, which was cooking on a large fire.

"Mr. Edison," said Cope after Holliday made the introductions. The paleontologist extended a dirt-covered hand. "This is a great pleasure. And Mr. Buntline; I've read about your work, sir."

"The pleasure is all ours," replied Edison.

"What brings you to my humble camp?"

Edison looked surprised. "Didn't Doc tell you?"

Cope looked puzzled. "No, sir. Not a word."

"They expressed keen interest in seeing your discoveries and meeting you," said Holliday promptly.

"That's very flattering," said Cope. "I've been keeping a bottle of fine French brandy for a special occasion. I think this qualifies as such. Excuse me for a moment while I get it." He turned and walked off toward his tent.

"What the hell was that all about?" asked Buntline.

"Why tell him that some of these monsters may be resurrected by Comanche magic?" replied Holliday. "He'd probably post ten of his men as guards. Much better to have them dig, and maybe we can get the hell out of here before anything happens."

"I agree with Doc," said Edison. "Why alert them to something that even now, even after we've seen some of the things Geronimo and other medicine men can do, seems impossible to believe?"

"Okay," said Buntline. "Let's just hope the next location he picks isn't another piece of sacred ground." He frowned. "Why the hell couldn't they dig in, oh, I don't know, Michigan or Arkansas, someplace back East?"

"Maybe we should ask him," said Edison. "I'd be curious to know."

"Maybe we should," repeated Buntline.

Cope returned from his tent, carrying a bottle and four coffee cups. "This stuff really deserves crystal goblets," he said apologetically as he walked to a crude wooden table, "but..."

"Not a problem," said Holliday. "We're drinking the brandy, not the containers."

Cope smiled. "I'm glad you understand."

He took the top off the bottle and began pouring.

"Smells good," said Buntline.

"Smells divine," Edison corrected him with a smile.

"Well, gentlemen," said Cope, holding his cup up. "To my world-famous visitors."

"And our world-famous host," said Edison.

Suddenly three shots rang out.

"What the hell was that?" asked Buntline.

"I think it may have been our world-famous enforcer," said Holliday wryly.

They drained their cups as another shot echoed through the camp.

A moment later Cole Younger appeared atop his horse, blood streaming down the side of his face.

"What the hell happened?" demanded Cope as the four men ran the greet him and the rest of the staff began gathering around him.

"I don't know," growled Younger, dismounting and wiping his ear with a handkerchief. "Four Comanche blocked my way and started yelling at me. I don't speak no Comanche, so I just signaled them to get the hell off the trail. One of them aimed his rifle at me and damned near took my earlobe off." He paused. "That's four Comanche that ain't ever gonna bother us again."

"How far away did this occur?" asked Holliday.

Younger shrugged. "Maybe half a mile." He turned to Cope. "Right at the spot you had picked for digging tomorrow, Professor."

"You mind if we take a look?" asked Holliday.

"Ain't nothing there but three dead Indians," said Younger.

"I was asking Professor Cope," said Holliday.

"I'll come with you," said Cope.

"So will we," said Edison as he and Buntline stepped forward.

"What the hell," said Younger. "I'll come along too."

"You stay here and get someone to help you stop the bleeding," said Cope.

"You sure?" asked Younger. "Them Comanche probably had friends."

"We're sure," said Cope. "We'll have Doc with us."

Younger went off to get help with his ear. Cope waited until Holliday had gotten his horse and his two other visitors had saddled the horses that had pulled the wagon, then began leading them just to the north and east of the camp. After a few minutes they came to the bodies of the three Comanche warriors; one had died fast, two slowly, but all three were definitely dead.

Holliday studied the tracks and pointed to the spot where they had confronted Younger.

"Right here," he said. "Doesn't look any different from anything else around here. I wonder what the hell they had in mind."

Cope shrugged. "Who knows? Shall I send someone out to bury them? I mean, after all, it is their burial ground."

Holliday shook his head. "I'd let the Comanche do it themselves."

"Very well," said Cope. "Well, we might as well get back to camp before it's totally dark."

"You go along, Ned," said Holliday. "I have something I need to discuss with Tom."

Buntline frowned, but began riding alongside Cope.

"What is it?" asked Edison.

"Something's wrong," said Holliday.

"I know," said Edison, looking at the bodies with some distaste. "Three men are dead."

Holliday shook his head impatiently. "But why?" he said. "Marsh and Cope have been digging here for more than a month, and no one's bothered them. Suddenly three warriors try to kill Cole Younger just because he's standing-well, riding-right at this spot. What's changed?"

"I don't have any idea," said Edison.

"Well, I have an idea, and I don't like it much." He looked around. "Shit!"

"What is it?"

"I have a feeling that if we each had a shovel and started digging right here, we'd come to a stash of bones a lot closer to the surface than Cope thinks...and that they won't be dinosaur bones."

Edison stared at Holliday. "You really think so?"

"It makes sense."

"Then what do you think we-" Edison froze. "Doc?"

But even as the word left his mouth, he closed his eyes and prepared for his death as Holliday drew his pistol and fired two shots.

Before Edison could yell, or collapse, or ask Holliday why he was shooting at him, he was almost knocked of his feet as a dead warrior, tomahawk in hand, fell against him as he tumbled to the ground.

"I thought you were shooting at me!" breathed Edison.

"He sneaked up right behind you," said Holliday, holstering his gun. "Another second and he'd have buried that damned hatchet between your ears."

Edison stepped aside, then turned and looked at the fallen Comanche.

"Thank you for saving my life, Doc," he said sincerely.

"Happy to," said Holliday. He walked over to the dead Comanche, and saw that he had been shot in the belly by Younger, "He was ninety percent dead already." He scanned the area for more lurking warriors. "If I'm right about what this means-that they're finally digging at an actual burial site-you just may get a chance to save us all."

HOLLIDAY WAS AWAKENED BY THE CURSING OF A MAN who had burned his hand grabbing a too-hot frying pan. He experienced a coughing seizure, sat on the edge of his bed for a few minutes until he felt strong enough to face the day, considered shaving, decided he'd lost enough blood in the past five minutes and he'd wait until his hands were steadier, and wondered, for the hundredth time, why he was risking a life that almost had an expiration date on it.

Finally he got up, looked around for his boots, then realized he'd gone to sleep with them on. He sighed, shook his head, and emerged from his tent into the sunlight. He winced, held a hand up to shield his eyes, and tried to remember why he'd gotten out of bed in the first place.

"Good morning, Doc," said Ned Buntline, who was half-sitting and half-squatting on a log, a cup of coffee in his hand.

Holliday muttered something unintelligible, yawned, suppressed a cough, and slowly wandered over to Buntline.

"I hear you had a little adventure last night, you and Tom," said Buntline.

Holliday shrugged. "Nothing very adventurous about it." Suddenly he smiled. "Interesting expression on Tom's face just before I fired my gun."

"Yeah, he told me," said Buntline with a chuckle.

"He still sleeping?" asked Holliday, squinting and scanning the area.

Buntline uttered a hearty laugh. "Only shootists who drink too much sleep this late, Doc. He's off with Cope, looking at some finds-or maybe looking for some."

"He ought to know better," said Holliday. "Cole and I shot those warriors awfully close to camp."

"You know nothing scares him," said Buntline. "Hell, if he was inclined to run, he'd have done so when the Apaches blew his arm off."

"Yeah, I know," answered Holliday. "What the hell time is it anyway?"

"Maybe an hour before noon. They've been gone for close to four hours. Those that are coming back for lunch should show up before too much longer."

"And what are you doing here?"

"Do I look like a paleontologist?" asked Buntline with an amused smile. "I'm a builder, and I figure someone ought to stay here guarding my invention, since it may save us all one of these days."

"Does it bother you that Tom gets all the credit?" asked Holliday, finally adjusting to the light enough to stop shading his eyes with his hand.

"Hell, no," said Buntline. "We're like the President and the Congress back East. He proposes, I dispose."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"He gets the idea and designs the mechanism, but I'm the one who builds it. If he didn't dream up the Buntline Special, you couldn't have used it on Johnny Ringo...but if I don't make it, it remains nothing but an idea." He paused. "Besides, I've got other interests as well."

"Oh?"

Buntline nodded. "Those dime novels about you and Wyatt and the other shootists are so damned popular that-"

"You're going to publish one?" interrupted Holliday.

Buntline shook his head. "No, there are more than enough people publishing them already."

"You're going into competition with Cody?" suggested Holliday. "I know Cole Younger plans to start a show, him and Frank James."

"How the hell many wild west shows does the public need?" replied Buntline. "No, I plan to write about you and the others, not for magazines, but for the theatre. Can you picture it? A play about-"

"Say the O.K. Corral and we just may do a rehearsal right here," said Holliday grumpily.

"How about the alley behind the Corral?" asked Buntline with a smile.

"Okay, you get to live," said Holliday, returning his smile. "Though what may happen here if the Comanche get mad enough might be even more dramatic."

"Perhaps," agreed Buntline. "Show me how to get a seventy-five-ton brontosaur on stage and I'll consider it."

"I thought they were the harmless ones."

"Tell me that after he steps on you, or you get in the way of his tail."

"Point taken," acknowledged Holliday.

"On the other hand, maybe-"