He took another swallow, and then, as he was replacing it in his coat pocket, his horse screamed once, reared up, broke off the branch he had been tethered to, and raced off through the woods with the remains of the branch hanging from his reins, banging against his chest with every stride.

Holliday was on his feet instantly, his pistol in his hands, scanning the area. He saw some trees swaying about two hundred yards away, heard branches cracking as something moved through them, and heard the grunt of something large.

Very large.

He holstered his gun, then turned to reach for his rifle, but of course it was still with the horse.

"Shit!" he muttered.

He realized that the last place he wanted to be standing was out on the trail in plain sight of whatever it was, and he stepped back behind a tree.

And waited.

Now he could hear birds screeching their warnings, so he knew that it was something that couldn't reach as high as they were, but the knowledge didn't bring him any comfort.

He checked his pistol to make sure it was fully loaded. Maybe whatever it was would come at him with its mouth open, and there might be a vulnerability to a pistol shot placed somewhere in the back of its throat. If not, he'd put a bullet in each eye and at least make it a hell of a lot harder for whatever it was to find him.

He calmly and coolly considered his tiny handful of options, but he knew he was in deep trouble if it found him. He wished he had the rifle back, though he wasn't sure it would fare a lot better than a pistol. After all, they'd had Tom invent and Ned create those special weapons for a reason.

He heard branches cracking about sixty yards away, and the screaming of the birds intensified until it became deafening. He edged his head out from behind the tree, trying to see what was approaching, but it was still hidden by the trees.

Well, he thought, maybe it's coming because it scents Theodore's dead bird-thing. Maybe it's just looking for a quick, easy meal.

A moment later a tyrannosaur broke cover and, after testing the wind, walked over to where the pteranodon's corpse lay. It was leaning over, preparing to take a large bite- -when Holliday sneezed.

Instantly the tyrannosaur straightened up. Slowly his head turned in Holliday's direction, and he took a tentative step toward him, then another-and then, as he finally saw the source of the sneeze, he opened his mouth and roared.

Holliday knew it was an act of futility, but he stepped back out onto the trail where he had a clearer view, held his gun out ahead of him, and prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible.

THE TYRANNOSAUR FIXED ITS GAZE ON HOLLIDAY and took a single step forward. Holliday took aim and fired two quick shots at the creature's left eye. It screamed and began shaking its head vigorously, and he knew he'd hit his target even before the blood began gushing out of its eye socket.

It turned to better see him with its uninjured eye, and he fired off three more shots into it. It screamed again, even louder this time, seemed dizzy and disoriented, and began rubbing its head against the sturdy bole of a tree as blood streamed down its face and onto its body.

Suddenly it began thrashing its small forelegs wildly, and began swaying back and forth, and Holliday finally realized that at least one of his bullets had hit the brain through the only route a pistol shot could reach it.

The tyrannosaur fell onto its side, struggled to its feet, screaming and swaying. It suddenly stood still, sniffing the air, and just about the time Holliday was sure it had found his scent and pinpointed his location, it turned and bent over the corpse of the pteranodon, preparing to take a bite out of it-but before it could do so it fell heavily to the ground, and this time, despite its efforts, it could not get up again.

Holliday stood where he was, staring at the huge beast, for the better part of five minutes, amazed that he was still alive, and that he had killed such a monster with such a puny weapon.

Finally Roosevelt drove up in the wagon, took in the situation in a single glance, climbed down, walked over to examine the tyrannosaur, and saw one wing of the pteranodon sticking out from beneath it.

"So much for my trophy," said Roosevelt from where he sat on the wagon.

"So stuff and mount him," said Holliday, jerking a thumb in the tyrannosaur's direction.

Roosevelt smiled. "I have better things to do with the next thirty years of my life." He studied the creature's head. "You were lucky. The way his head is structured, I think the eye provides the only path to the brain for something with no more power than a pistol. Probably one or two bullets went all the way through to it."

"I feel lucky, I'll confess to that," replied Holliday.

"Well," said Roosevelt, pulling out his hunting knife and going to work, "let me at least take the wing back. Maybe I can do something with it."

He walked over to the wing and spent the next five minutes cutting it loose.

"I'll have to join you on the wagon," said Holliday, walking over and climbing up onto it.

"Where's your horse?"

"Probably miles away by now."

"Ah!" said Roosevelt with a grin. "So he's the smart one."

"You'll get no argument from me," replied Holliday. He withdrew his flask and drained the rest of its contents.

When they reached camp they found that Holliday's horse had preceded them, and Younger was getting ready to mount a search party. Holliday went off to refill his flask and returned as two men were unhitching the horses and Roosevelt was preparing to move the wing to his tent.

"I've made up my mind," announced Cody, walking up to them.

"That's good," said Roosevelt. "Everyone should always try to make up his mind. Now step aside, please."

"Damn it, Theodore! I'm leaving!"

"You don't have to leave," said Roosevelt. "Just step aside."

"I'm leaving this idiotic expedition, and I'd like you and Doc to come with me!"

"I don't have any skills that you can put on display," replied Roosevelt. "And to be honest, I don't have any interest in appearing in your show."

"Not in it," explained Cody. "But any guy who's run for office and won, especially in New York, should make a hell of a barker."

"Not interested."

"Okay," persisted Cody, "if not a barker, an advance man. You go to each city a day or two before the show gets there and talk it up, put up posters, things like that."

Roosevelt left the wing alone and turned to face him. "Bill, I like you, and I even like your Wild West show. I'd pay money to watch Annie Oakley do her trick shots. Now, it may be egomaniacal for me to say this, but I believe I have the capacity to do better things than hang an endless series of posters for you in one town after another."

"You're sure?" said Cody.

"Do I look undecided?"

"Well, I tried," said Cody. He turned to Holliday. "How about you, Doc?"

"I'm no trick-shot artist," said Holliday. "I just shoot people who are trying to shoot me."

"I can arrange that."

"What?" demanded Holliday and Roosevelt in unison.

"With blanks," said Cody with a grin. "Hell, we can even enact the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral every night."

"I've fought it once," replied Holliday. "That was enough."

"I could make you famous!"

"I've already got a little more fame that I can handle," said Holliday.

Cody sighed. "You two are a couple of hardheads. It's a shame I like you so much."

He turned and walked away. When he was just out of earshot, Holliday turned to Roosevelt. "He may like us, but he likes Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show better."

Roosevelt chuckled, then went back to moving the wing off the wagon, decided it was too awkward to carry, and placed it onto a cart that he could then take to his tent. Holliday began heading toward Edison's tent to see if he and Buntline were interested in seeing Roosevelt's grisly trophy when Cole Younger walked up to him.

"Cody try to buy you away?" he asked.

"He tried," acknowledged Holliday.

"You said no?"

"I said no."

"Good!" said Younger. "Because Frank James and I will pay you twice what he would have paid."

"You're really starting a show with Frank?" asked Holliday curiously.

"Yeah," said Younger. "Face it, Doc, the shootist's day is just about over. I suppose I could rob a bank or two, but it ain't as easy as the dime novels make it sound. I got shot up all to hell last time I tried, and it cost me and my brothers a lot of years in jail. No, I think a Wild West show is the answer. I mean, hell, you and me and Frank, we are the Wild West, or damned near all that's left of it anyway. Why don't you join us?"

"I don't think so."

"Hell, say *Yes' and we'll even make you a partner!" said Younger.

"Cole," said Holliday, "that's a damned handsome offer, and under other circumstances I'd probably take it, but I'm afraid I've got to turn you down."

"You're sure?" urged Younger. "Why not cash in on your reputation? Believe me, it beats gambling for the rest of your life."

Holliday shook his head. The problem, he thought, is that my life's of much shorter duration than you think.

"Okay, I did my best," said Younger. He extended a hand. "No hard feelings."

"Between two members of a vanishing species?" said Holliday with a bittersweet smile. "None."

He continued making his way to Edison and Buntline's tent. Once there, he described the events of the day. Roosevelt joined them a moment later.

"That's a hell of a bird!" exclaimed Buntline, wincing in pain as he tried to sit up. "It must have an eighteen-foot wingspread."

"Twenty," offered Edison, moving his wounded limbs very carefully. "But look at the leather, Ned-and no trace of feathers, just the same kind of fuzz you find on a bat's wings. I wonder if it's a bird at all."

"It was once," said Roosevelt. "Millions of years ago." He paused. "Anyway, it flew, so I don't know what else you'd call it."

"Did it have teeth?" asked Edison.

"I don't know," admitted Roosevelt. "The head is buried under about seven tons of tyrannosaur."

"With the jaws it had, I don't know if they were necessary," added Holliday. "It grabbed a bird and just seemed to swallow him whole."

"But we don't know if birds were that small back when he was alive," noted Roosevelt.

"Too bad," said Edison. "It would have been interesting to examine him."

"Well, if you're so inclined, you can have someone cart you out there and examine something that tried to eat him for breakfast," said Holliday.

"I don't think anybody should go out there," said Roosevelt. "A body that big has got to attract scavengers...and around here, that means carnivores bigger than hippos and rhinos."

"When you put it that way, it sounds damned foolish to stay," said Buntline. "If we survive today's enormous carnivore, all that means is we have to face tomorrow's."

"What can we do?" said Edison. "You've met Cope and Marsh. You couldn't move either of them out of here if there were just fossils in the area. How are we going to convince them to leave when they can encounter real dinosaurs any time of the night or day?"

"Maybe we should just let the damned dinosaurs eat them, and then everyone can go home," said Holliday half-seriously.

Roosevelt shook his head. "You're a shootist, Doc, not a murderer."

"I'm adaptable," answered Holliday.

"Besides," continued Roosevelt, "we don't know that they look any tastier than the sixty or seventy men who are working for them and never bargained on having to face creatures out of their worst nightmares."

"So we just sit here until one of them develops either a conscience or, better still, an instinct for self-preservation?" asked Edison. "If that's the case, Ned and I had better go build a weapon for every man here."

"The problem is, most of the men probably won't be here any longer by the time you built the weapons and bring them back here," said Roosevelt.

Edison frowned. "I hadn't considered that," he admitted. "But it makes sense when you say it."

"Or I could just kill Cope and Marsh, and then everyone could go home," said Holliday.

"This is serious, Doc," said Roosevelt. "Stop your joking."

"Am I smiling?" replied Holliday.

CODY HAD DEPARTED, taking two men with him, when Holliday awoke the next morning. He got up, looked around for his boots, finally realized that he had slept with them on, got to his feet, walked outside, and winced as he moved into the sunlight.

"I have got to start wearing a Stetson," he muttered to himself as he tried to shield his eyes from the sun.

When he'd adjusted to the brightness of the morning, he walked over to the remains of a campfire, realized he'd overslept breakfast again, and sat on a tree stump, waiting for everything to come into focus.

Buntline, on crutches, joined him a few minutes later.

"Good morning, Doc," he said.

Holliday winced. "Not so loud."

"I'm just speaking conversationally," replied Buntline. He raised his voice. "This is loud."