The Doctor and the Rough Rider Read Online Free Page A

he heard aboutit, 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 crap out of them, took away their guns, and marched 'em all the way to Dickenson.
     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.”
    “You don't say?” said Finnegan. “Is there anything he can't do?”
    “Not much,” answered Masterson. “Before he was twenty he was already considered one
     of America's three or four leading ornithologists and taxidermists.”
    “Orni—?” said Finnegan, frowning and trying to pronounce the word. “Orni—?”
    “Ornithologist,” repeated Masterson. “Bird expert.”
    “He sure as hell shoots enough of 'em,” remarked Finnegan.
    “Can't stuff and mount them while they're still alive,” responded Masterson with a
     smile.
    “How'd you two meet?” asked Finnegan.
    “He wrote me, asking some questions about a series of books he's writing about the
     West.”
    “He's a writer too?”
    Masterson nodded. “And a damned good one. Anyway, I wrote back, we started corresponding,
     and we finally met at one of John L. Sullivan's prizefights.” Masterson finished his
     beer and got to his feet. “And now, if you don't mind, please tell me how to get to
     Elkhorn and maybe I can make it before dark and not get totally lost.”
    Finnegan got up, gestured for Masterson to follow him, and walked out onto the raised
     wooden sidewalk. “Just head in that direction, and you'll be there in two, maybe three
     hours, depending on how lazy your horse is.”
    “Thanks,” said Masterson.
    “And when you see him, tell him Jacob Finnegan would be proud to hold his coat while
     he beats the shit out of that Frenchman.”
    “I'll do that,” promised Masterson, shaking the old man's hand.
    Then he was atop his horse, heading through the hilly, thickly forested country in
     the direction Finnegan had indicated. At first he was on the lookout for wolves or
     perhaps even a bear. Then it occurredto him that Roosevelt had been in the Medora area long enough to make it safe for
     travelers, and he stopped staring apprehensively at every bush and shadow.
    He rode for ninety minutes, dismounted when he came to a stream and filled his canteen
     while his horse drank, then continued the rest of the way. He saw an expansive wooden
     house in the distance, and as he approached it he heard a sound that he couldn't identify.
     It occurred every