Doctor and the Kid, The (A Weird West Tale) (Weird West Tales) by Mike Resnick

door, he stopped and pulled out his watch.
    “Two-thirty,” he said. “May I escort you to dinner?”
    “I'd like that very much, Doc,” replied Charlotte. “What time?”
    “Seven o'clock?”
    She nodded. “I'll meet you in the lobby, such as it is.”
    He tipped his hat to her and walked down the hall to room 215, where he inserted the key and opened the door. The room was small, but reasonably clean and serviceable. There was a small wardrobe, a single narrow bed with a torn bedspread, a nightstand next to it, a table that had seen better days and was currently doubling as a desk, and a straight-backed wooden chair. One corner held a washstand with a pitcher of water and a basin, and as he looked out the window he could see a quartet of outhouses.
    He opened his suitcase on the bed preparatory to hanging up his clothes in the wardrobe. Then he decided the room needed a little fresh air, so he walked over to the lone window and opened it. A small bird immediately perched on the sill, staring curiously at him.
    He closed the suitcase, slid it under the bed, turned back to the window—and found an Apache warrior sitting on the sill.
    “He wants you,” said the intruder.
    “You were the bird,” said Holliday, surprised that he was no longer surprised at the warrior's comings and goings.
    “Now,” said the warrior.
    Holliday looked out past the warrior. “Is he out there?”
    “They would kill him if they saw him.”
    “He's in the hotel?”
    The warrior shook his head. “I am to bring you to him.”
    Holliday shrugged. “All right,” he said. “Let's go and get this over with.”
    He walked to the door.
    “Not that way,” said the warrior.
    “Then how—?” He was going to say more, but he suddenly found himself surrounded by darkness. He had a sensation of movement, though his legs remained motionless. He was sure he wasn't flying, for no wind whipped through his clothes and hair. He tried to analyze whether he was warm or cold, dry or wet, but his senses simply couldn't respond. The only conclusion he could reach was that he was elsewhere …and then, seconds after it began, it ended.
    He knew he wouldn't still be in his room, but even though he knew the powers of the medicine men, he was surprised to find himself as far from anything as he was. He was in a vast valley, surrounded by cactus and tumbleweed and not much else, except for a handful of teepees. Sitting behind a fire before the nearest of them was Geronimo, surrounded by shadowy, ethereal shapes of writhing python-type creatures. He had not changed in the year since Holliday had last seen him: thick, muscular, broad of face and body, unsmiling.
    “Goyathlay welcomes you,” said the warrior, who Holliday realized was standing next to him.
    “Goyathlay can speak for himself,” said Holliday.
    “Goyathlay speaks through me.”
    “Why? He understands every word I say. You don't expect me to believe that he can't speak my language.”
    “He chooses not to speak the tongue of his enemies.”
    Holliday stared into Geronimo's eyes. “If I'm your enemy, what am I doing here, and why should I do you any favors?”
    Geronimo stared back, silently, and after a full minute it became obvious that neither man would turn away first.
    “I will speak to you,” said Geronimo at last, rising to his feet.
    “Good,” said Holliday. “Just remember that I am not the enemy.”
    “There is only one member of your race who is not the enemy, White Eyes,” replied Geronimo, “and he is on the far side of the great river that his nation may not cross. You are but a killer.”

     
    “If that's the case, why am I here?” responded Holliday. “Surely you do not lack for killers.”
    “There are killings for which the notorious Holliday is better suited.”
    “I appreciate what you doubtless think is a compliment, but I'm not a hired gun.”
    “No,” agreed Geronimo. “But you are a traded gun.”
    “Explain.”
    “A favor for a favor,”