"No."

"And he's the only one you'll treat with?"

"That is correct."

"Must be a h.e.l.l of a man," said Holliday. "What's he done?"

"Masterson will tell you," answered Geronimo.

"Why not you?"

"I know his aura, not his accomplishments."

"His aura?"

Geronimo nodded. "All men have them. Yours is black, for the death you bring and the death that awaits you."

"And his?"

Geronimo merely stared at him.

"Okay, okay, it must be pretty d.a.m.ned bright if you can spot it from two thousand miles away."

"He must come to my lodge."

"You mean the one near Tombstone, down in the Arizona Territory?" asked Holliday.

"Yes. And he must come quickly."

"Well, now, we have a little problem in that regard," said Holliday. Geronimo looked at him quizzically. "In case it has escaped your attention, I am sitting in a cell in the Leadville Jail. I can't contact him from here."

There was an instant of extreme cold and total darkness, and suddenly Holliday found himself in the Leadville telegraph office.

"You can send a message from here," said Geronimo, appearing beside him.

"We still have a problem."

The Indian stared at him, frowning. "What is it?"

"I don't have any money to pay for sending it. My wallet is back in the jail, along with my gun and my flask."

Geronimo closed his eyes and tensed, and suddenly Holliday felt somehow different. He ran his hands over his hips and torso and found that his wallet was once again in his lapel pocket and his pistol rested comfortably in its holster.

"What about my whiskey?" he asked.

"First the message."

"There's no one to give it to, and I don't know how to work the machine."

Geronimo closed his eyes briefly a second time, and when he opened them, a telegraph operator, still in his nightshirt, looking totally confused and more than a little bit frightened, sat at his desk.

"Don't be afraid, son," said Holliday. "It's all perfectly normal, except for the magic and the jailbreak and the Indian. I want to send a message."

The young man gulped and nodded.

"To Bat Masterson, in care of the Daily Telegraph," began Holliday.

"Where is that, sir?" asked the operator.

"New York City," replied Holliday. "Dear Bat: Got a situation here that may result in ending the barrier that exists at the Mississippi."

The operator, his eyes wide, began tapping away. "Really, sir?" he asked.

"It all depends on whether he believes me or not," replied Holliday. "Continuing: It is essential that you bring your friend Roosevelt to Tombstone as quickly as possible. I can't tell you more until you get here, but your safety has been guaranteed by a man whose abilities are not unknown, especially to you." He paused. "Okay, sign it 'Doc Holliday' and send it."

The operator finished the message and put it on the wire.

"Now, how much do I owe you?" asked Holliday, pulling out his wallet, but he found himself speaking to an empty chair.

"He is back in his bed," announced Geronimo. "When he awakes, he will remember nothing."

Holliday nodded his approval.

"Will Masterson come?" continued Geronimo.

Holliday shrugged. "I suppose so. He'll figure out that you've guaranteed his safety, and he of all people knows what you can do. After all, you're the one who turned him into an oversized bat."

"He killed one of my warriors."

"After your warrior attacked him."

"He must come," said Geronimo, ignoring what Holliday had said, "And soon."

"Why soon?" asked Holliday. "I mean, as long as you've decided to end the spell and let us expand to the Pacific, what difference does it make whether he gets here in a month or a year?"

"I may be dead before a year has pa.s.sed," answered Geronimo.

Holliday studied him briefly. "I know I'm a dentist and not a physician, but I'd say you look pretty healthy to me."

"I will not die from disease."

Holliday arched an eyebrow and waited for Geronimo to continue. "The other medicine men, those of the other tribes, do not want to end the spell or treat with the White Eyes. When they know I am planning this, they will create a creature such as has never been seen before, and send it out to kill me and those who stand with me. That is why it must be soon. Even with my powers, I cannot evade the creature or hold it at bay for long."

"Why are you so sure they'll create such a creature at all?" asked Holliday.

Geronimo stared at him for a long moment. "Because I would," he said grimly.

MASTERSON STROLLED INTO THE RUNNING STAG tavern on Medora's main street and walked up to the bar, which boasted an impressive set of antlers hanging just above the mirrors.

"What'll it be, sir?"

"Make it a beer."

"Coming right up." The bartender stared at him for a moment. "Ain't I seen you before?"

"I doubt it," replied Masterson. "This is my first trip to Dakota."

"You ain't seen him," said the lone customer, a gray-bearded man sitting at a table. "But you seen his picture." He turned to Masterson. "You're Bat Masterson, ain't you?"

Masterson nodded.

"I heard you gave up being a lawman and went to New York to be a writer," said the man. "What brings you to Medora?"

"I'm looking for a local resident."

"Got to be the Marquis de Mores or young Roosevelt," said the man. "Can't imagine there's anyone else out here that anyone would want to see."

"It's Roosevelt," Masterson confirmed.

"Figgers."

"Because he's American?"

"'Cause he's a lawman too, like you used to be."

Masterson frowned. "A lawman? I hadn't heard."

"The best," said the man. "Makes your pal Wyatt Earp look like a beginner."

"Tell me about it."

"I would," said the bearded man. "But my throat's gone dry, and I probably can't get all the words out."

Masterson smiled and turned to the bartender. "A pitcher of beer for the table," he said, walking over and sitting down.

"Well, that's d.a.m.ned generous of you, Mr. Masterson."

"Bat," said Masterson.

"Bat," repeated the man. "And I'm Jacob Finnegan." He extended a gnarled hand, and Masterson shook it. "Can't say I blame you for hightailing it back to New York. I been reading all about you in those dime novels."

"Most of it never happened," said Masterson as the bartender deposited the pitcher on the table.

"Go ahead," said Finnegan. "Ruin an old man's dreams."

"I'll do my best to," replied Masterson with a smile.

Finnegan laughed. "I like you, Bat Masterson! You're good with a gun, you ain't afraid to face a desperado or two, and even though you're a writer I can pretty much understand you. Your pal Roosevelt uses some of the biggest d.a.m.ned words anyone ever heard."

"He'll lose that habit fast enough," said Masterson. "He needed it for his last job."

"And what was that?"

"He was the youngest Minority Leader in the history of the New York legislature."

Finnegan took a swallow of his beer. "That don't sound right. He's still a young man, I'd say no more than twenty-five or twenty-six."

"That's about right."

Finnegan frowned, and stopped to pet a dog that had wandered in beneath the swinging doors. "Must have taken a terrible whooping at the polls to wind up out here."

Masterson shook his head. "He didn't lose. He quit."

"Hah! They're as corrupt as we always thought, right?"

"Probably," replied Masterson with a smile. "But that had nothing to do with it. His wife and his mother died something like ten hours apart, both in his house, one of disease, one in childbirth. He dearly loved both of them, and didn't want to stay there with all his memories."

"So he brung his memories out to the Badlands?" said Finnegan. "That don't make no sense."

"He's a complex man."

"He's a determined one, anyway," said Finnegan. "You heard about the three killers he brung back?"

Masterson shook his head. "No. Tell me about them."

"He just don't do nothing in a small way," began Finnegan. "It wasn't enough that he bought two ranches..." His voice trailed off as he searched his pockets, found a small piece of jerky, and tossed it to the dog.

"Two?" said Masterson, surprised.

"Your pal thinks big. Anyway, he volunteered to be the local deputy. Refused to take any money for it. Wore that d.a.m.ned star everywhere. We figured he just wanted it the way a woman wants a pin or a necklace, but then a trio of killers done their evil deeds and Roosevelt went after them. I don't know where he was when he heard about it, but he didn't have no gun with him, and he decided not to waste time getting one, so he just started riding in the worst blizzard you ever saw. We get bad winters up here, really terrible ones, but we never had nothing like this. 'The Winter of the Blue Snow,' the local paper called it."

"Evocative name," commented Masterson.

"Whatever 'evocative' means," replied Finnegan, reaching down to gently push the dog away. "Go on, pooch. I ain't got no more." The dog ducked around his hand and remained where he was. "Anyway," continued Finnegan, "he eventually caught up with 'em, beat the c.r.a.p out of them, took away their guns, and marched 'em all the way to d.i.c.kenson. Must have been fifty miles through that blizzard. They took turns sleeping, but he didn't dare nod off. Says he read this huge novel by this Russian guy, and when that was done he read some dime novels about you and the Earps and that Holliday guy, and somehow he stayed awake for three days and nights, until he finally delivered his prisoners."

Masterson nodded his head. "Yeah, that sounds like Theodore."

"Okay, you know him," said Finnegan. Masterson looked at him curiously. "He hates to be called Teddy."

"That he does," agreed Masterson. "You got any idea where I can find him?"

"He'll either be at Elkhorn or the Maltese Cross, probably Elkhorn."

"Those are his ranches?"

"Yeah. Though if you wait long enough, he'll show up here. The Marquis de Mores has challenged him to a fight." Finnegan chuckled. "He offered to let Roosevelt choose the weapons." A pause and a grin. "I figure he'll choose words."

"It'd be best for the Marquis if he did," replied Masterson. "Theodore was a boxing champion at Harvard."