by Edward Gates
Charlie got up, put on his shirt, boots, and jacket and quietly left Doc Morgan’s home. The streets were dark and deserted. He walked up Polk Street heading for the livery to get Gus when he noticed a dim light coming from Marshal Cook’s office. Charlie peered through the only window in the marshal’s office and saw Deputy Johnson sound asleep in his chair behind the desk. The marshal was nowhere to be seen. Charlie figured he was probably off finally getting some rest.
By the time Charlie reached the livery, the sky in the east was beginning to show a faint grey light. Gus saw Charlie as soon as he opened one of the barn doors, and he gave a loud neigh in happy recognition, nodding his head.
“How you doing, old boy?” Charlie put his arm around his neck and stroked the side of his face. Gus nuzzled his neck across Charlie’s shoulder.
Charlie saddled Gus in the stall, untied the halter rope and led him outside. He closed the barn door, climbed into the saddle and they quietly walked out of town. When they reached his cabin, Charlie left Gus saddled, but loosened the saddle cinch, as he put him in the makeshift corral. He gave him a helping of grain and filled his water bucket.
Charlie got a fresh bucket of water from the stream, stripped down and bathed himself outside by the old stump. He then put on some clean clothes and finally shaved his weeks’ worth of whiskers. He stared at himself in the broken mirror above his washstand. He felt like a new man, but all this cleaning still didn’t help his state of mind regarding Russell, Abe and Mac.
The last thirty years flashed through Charlie’s brain like lightening. He remembered the day that he arrived in 1862 from the later part of the twenty-third century. His unintentional time jump gave him a new reprieve on life. Circumstances presented themselves to Charlie that led to his decision to stay and live in the past. Maybe someday he would go back. But that “someday” never came.
Charlie opened the trunk by his bed and removed the canvas bag that contained his time belt. It wasn’t very impressive, nothing more than a black synthetic strap that had small silver and gold cylinders attached in an alternating pattern all around the belt. It resembled a cartridge belt one might have for a rifle. In the front of the belt, where both ends clasped together, was a small square black plastic frame that contained a sensor screen and a single switch.
Charlie sat on the edge of his bed holding the belt, still thinking about Mac. He’d been living in a world where he wasn’t supposed to be. Since he arrived here he had always tried to live by the simple rule that he could not affect any life or events in this era. There was no way he could just out and out kill someone. He tried hard to follow this rule, but sometimes circumstances dictated otherwise. Sometimes, he had no choice. Facing Mac might be one of those times.
Then there was Russell. Charlie worried about Russell surviving so he could get back to his own time era. If Russell Hicks was the same Russell Hicks he met when he was a boy, then he would have to make sure Russell got back to fulfill a destiny that he knew nothing about. He couldn’t tell Russell what an important role he would eventually play in the future development of time travel and teleportation. He would have to find that out on his own. He kept running different scenarios through his mind of what could happen to the future if a time traveler disappeared in the past. Then it dawned on him; he was a time traveler that disappeared in the past, over thirty years ago.
Charlie was sure that Russell didn’t just happen here by mistake. In spite of what the boy said, it was not possible. The dimensional matrix, that makes time travel possible, knew exactly and precisely where and when space/time is altered. There couldn’t have been any error. The matrix does not make mistakes, it’s mathematically impossible. Russell either came here by his own choice or someone sent him here for a reason. Maybe that someone was trying to get rid of Russell and thought the middle of the desolate Texas panhandle in 1892 was the way to do it.
Charlie could see no other course. The solution to getting rid of Russell, he decided, was simple. As soon as Russell could move on his own, Charlie would send Russell home with the time belt. That was the mechanism he used 30 years earlier to come here. But he knew that, one way or another, he would have to deal with Abe and Mac. And it wouldn’t be as easy as sending someone home.
Charlie stood with the belt in his hand and let out a long sigh. He didn’t like time jumping. However, being who he was, he really had no choice. He had to find out what history had been recorded so he could act accordingly in this time.
“You’ve done this before,” Charlie said to himself out loud, trying to work up the courage for the jump. “One more trip and then you’re done, forever.”
Charlie set his pocket pistol and his gun belt on the table, and strapped the belt around his waist. He turned on the switch, took a deep breath, and placed his index finger on the sensor screen. Immediately, a haze of blue-green light surrounded Charlie and formed a transparent cocoon-like appearance around him. A virtual display appeared in front of his eyes where he could determine settings for his destination. Charlie punched in the coordinates for Austin, Texas, June, 1895, three years in the future. He watched the counter step down, closed his eyes, heard a familiar snap, and then blacked out.
When Charlie opened his eyes, he was laying in the middle of a rancher’s field just outside the city limits of Austin Texas. His heart jumped when he opened his eyes and saw a number of longhorn cows standing over him. He stood up, shooed the cattle away and began walking to the Austin City Hall. Judging by the sun’s position in the eastern sky, Charlie guessed it to be mid-morning. As he walked into town, he pulled his shirt out over top of the time belt so no one would see it.
When Charlie reached the City Hall, he greeted the guard and the two exchanged some small talk. Charlie had been there a number of times before and the guard was familiar with him. After a brief conversation, Charlie went into the records room where he could look up the records of anyone who was born, lived in, or died in Texas. He was having a harder time than usual focusing on the pages. Again he brushed it off as not having enough rest.
He found that there were no records at all for Mac Sherman. That would mean that three years in the future, Mac was either still alive, or he left Texas altogether, or his body had never been found. He wondered if Mac Sherman was his real name, or just an alias that he picked up when he left Missouri.
He found that Abe Walker died in Amarillo, Texas in June of 1892. The certificate, signed by Doctor Walter Morgan, stated he died of consumption. This was good news for Charlie. He got his answer about Abe, but he’d have to take his chances with Mac.
Lastly, Charlie looked for any records of himself. He found a death notice for Charles Turlock who died from a fire in June, 1892. A cold sweat broke out across his body. A strange fear overtook him as he stared at his own death certificate. It too was signed by Doc Morgan. “We’ll see about that.” He ripped the page from the file and folded it up and stuck it in his pocket. “Fire. I doubt it.”
He then looked up the land records for Walker’s ranch and found that between the years of 1892 and 1895 various sections of Walker’s property had been homesteaded or sold at auction to various ranchers and farmers. Charlie thought it was strange that Mac didn’t claim Walker’s estate. As close as those two had become, and no heirs, Charlie was certain that Mac would have gotten everything; either by decree or by force.
Charlie left the City Hall and walked a long way out of the city until he came to an area where he didn’t see anyone around. In a flash of a pale blue light and a loud snap, Charlie was back at his cabin again.
After Charlie woke up, he took off the belt and returned it to the canvas bag and set it back in the trunk. He stared at it for a little while holding the trunk lid open. He thought that once Russell leaves with his belt, he would never have the opportunity to return to the future ever again. A coldness surged through him. That’s when he realized that all these years he had been holding on to that one comforting thought of being able to return anytime he wanted
. It was his crutch. He knew he could run away from anything with that belt. Something he’s been doing his whole life.
“The hell with it.” Charlie let the trunk lid slam closed.
Charlie strapped on his gun belt, slid his .32 pistol in his belt behind his back and walked out to Gus. He pulled his ’73 Winchester from the saddle scabbard, checked to make sure it was fully loaded, and reinserted it back into the casing. He stroked Gus’s nose and watched him finish the few remaining oats in his bin.
His trip to Austin created more questions than answers. The only thing he was sure of was that Abe Walker never left Amarillo alive. But what happened to Mac? Why wasn’t Walker’s estate claimed by Sherman? … Or anyone? Why did it get split up? And what about that fire?
“I’ve got a feeling we’ve got a tough time ahead of us,” Charlie said. Gus’s ears perked up and he looked intently at him. Charlie tightened up the saddle straps, climbed into the saddle and in the morning light headed down the trail back toward town.
15
Awakening
Charlie rode Gus to the hitch rail just outside Marshal Cook’s office. Before he could dismount, Marshal Cook came out.
“The boy’s awake,” the marshal said. “Doc’s with him now at Hanna’s.”
Charlie jumped off Gus and ran through the restaurant into the small kitchen. Russell lay on his side while Doc Morgan removed the bandage he put on the day before and looked at the stitching.
Hanna stood next to Doc Morgan peering over his shoulder. When Russell saw Charlie he managed a slight smile. A warm feeling flushed through Charlie to see Russell awake and smiling at him.
“How’s it looking, Doc?” Charlie asked.
“Not bad,” Doc Morgan smiled, seeming rather pleased with his own handiwork.
“What happened, Charlie?” Russell asked.
“You were shot. Mac Sherman thought you were me and tried to kill you,” Charlie said.
“Why would he think I was you?”
“It was dark. You were walking my horse, wearing my hat and my old vest. You were lucky.”
“Lucky!” Russell repeated. “Apparently you’re the lucky one. I don’t feel so damn lucky!”
“The bullet hit your rib and bounced out. If it hadn’t, Doc here would be putting you in a box right about now.”
“Charlie’s right, son,” Doc Morgan said. “It’s a shame you were shot, but you really are lucky to be alive.”
Russell shook his head. “This has got to be the worst two days of my life.”
Doc asked Russell if he could sit up which he did with some obvious discomfort. The doctor placed a new linen pad, soaked with chemicals, over the wound and Russell grimaced when the wet pad hit his wound. Doc retied the linen strip around his torso.
Russell appeared a little pale. “I’m feeling pretty dizzy. I think I have to lie back down.”
“That’s expected,” Doc said. “You lost a lot of blood. You feel sick?”
“No, just a little dizzy.”
“You need to eat something.” Doc Morgan turned and nodded to Hanna. “Hanna will fix you some food. Eat as much of it as you can. You need to get your strength back.”
Hanna smiled. “I got some nice soup for ya’, Hicks.” She added wood to the stove and pulled the soup pot over to the iron plate above the fire box.
“Can he be moved?” Charlie asked.
“He shouldn’t be; at least not at this time,” the doctor said. “Where you want to take him, Charlie?”
“I was just thinking he might be a little more comfortable in a bed at the hotel.”
“Well, you might be right. But I’d wait and see how he feels after he eats something.” Doc packed up his instruments. “Try not to move around too much. You got a hell of a hole in your side. We don’t want it to start bleeding again.”
Charlie followed Doc Morgan out of the kitchen. Hanna stayed near Russell while the soup warmed up.
Marshal Cook joined Charlie and the doctor when they came out of the restaurant. “How’s the boy doing?”
“He’ll be fine. He just needs some time to heal up,” Doc Morgan said. “I’d better get back to my office. I got a couple bodies to bury.”
Doc Morgan walked up Polk Street to his home near the stockyards, and Charlie followed the marshal back to his office. When they entered, Charlie looked at the marshal’s empty desk.
“A lot of the guns are missing,” Charlie said.
“Yeah, after the shooting, it got pretty quiet here. Most of those cowboys came back in, picked up their hardware, and left without a problem. I still have that other one in the cell with Walker. And neither one of them are very happy about it.”
The marshal looked through the small window of the large wooden cell door. Walker was sitting on the only cot in the cell. There were streaks of blood on his shirt from his coughing spells. He looked like he hadn’t slept all night. The other cowboy sat on the floor leaning against the stone wall.
“What am I going to do with Walker, Charlie?” Marshal Cook paused, looked at Charlie, and let out a sigh. “I don’t like it.” He sat down on the corner of his desk. “They tried to break out Abe last night. Sherman may bring that whole camp in here to get his boss. If that happens, there’s no tellin’ how many people will get hurt. You think they’d be trying that again?”
“I doubt it,” Charlie said. “Doc said Abe is so bad off he wouldn’t make it back to the Pecos from here. He may not even make it out of Amarillo.” He paused. “It might be best to just let nature take its course. The problem might solve itself.”
“What are you getting at?” The marshal stood and starred at Charlie. “If that ol’ bastard dies here without unloading his herd, we’ll have a whole new set of problems to deal with.”
“That’s my point,” Charlie answered. “Let Walker out. Tell him he did his time.”
“What? You mean just let him go?”
“The first thing he’ll do is round up his boys and get his cattle sold,” Charlie said. “Once he pays off his hands, most of those transient cowboys will scatter, heading off to their next job. The few hands that work directly for Walker will most likely head back to the Pecos with the wagons and the leads.”
“And that will leave just Walker and Sherman,” the marshal interjected.
“Right,” Charlie agreed. As a second thought he added, “But what about that other fella you got in jail?”
“He stays. He tried a jail break and tried to kill me. I think I’ll keep him around until the circuit judge gets here.”
“When’s that?”
“A couple of weeks. Give him a chance to heal up for his trial.”
The two chuckled, and the marshal offered to buy Charlie some breakfast at Hanna’s. He tossed the cell key to Deputy Johnson and told him they’d be next door.
The two lawmen ate a leisurely breakfast of Hanna’s biscuits, eggs and bacon. Marshal Cook did all the talking during the meal. Charlie just listened and nodded while he ate and occasionally got up to check on Russell in the back room. But his mind continued running.
He thought about Abe’s impending death and his eventual final meeting with Mac. He thought about Russell and getting him back to the twenty-third century where he belonged. While he listened to Marshal Cook and ate his breakfast, a course of action began to formulate in Charlie’s mind. All he needed now was a miracle.
16
Cowboy’s Camp
Hanna refilled the coffee cups for the lawmen and picked up their empty plates. “Hicks ate some soup, Charlie,” she said, apparently anticipating Charlie’s question.
“That’s good, Hanna. Thank you.” Charlie chuckled. It felt good to laugh. He couldn’t remember the last time he did. How sad that his life was in so much turmoil that he had nothing to laugh about. He knew he could always count on Hanna to bring a smile to his face. Somehow, just being around her brought a little comfort to him and made his day a bit brighter, even if it was only momentary. He sipped his coffee and t
hought about the upcoming day and the things he had planned.
Marshal Cook finished his coffee, picked up his wide brimmed hat, and settled the costs with Hanna. “I’m riding out to Walker’s camp to see about Sherman. You wanna come along?”
“Mac’s a regular curly-wolf, Amos. Those cowboys just might shoot us down before we get there.”
“You got a better idea?” the marshal asked.
Charlie sipped his coffee. “I guess not. Just doesn’t seem like a right healthy plan of action, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s my job, Charlie. I have to go and you know it. You’re welcome to come along if you’re that worried about me.” The marshal shut the door behind him and headed back to his office.
Charlie sat alone at the table near the front window, sipping his coffee and watching people walk by outside. When the few remaining patrons left the restaurant, Hanna sat down at his table.
“Hicks really ate good, Charlie. Soup and biscuits,” she said again, seemingly pleased with herself. “He fell asleep again after he ate.”
“You did fine, Hanna,” Charlie said. “I’m going down to talk with Henry and get a room at the hotel for him. He’ll be more comfortable there and he’ll have a staff of people watching out for him.”
Hanna nodded. “You want more coffee, Charlie?”
“No thanks, Hanna. I have to go.”
Hanna stood up to leave but Charlie lightly grabbed her hand. “I want you to know that I really appreciate you watching over the boy back there. I know it’s a burden on you that you really don’t need.”
“Oh, Charlie, it’s no trouble at all.” Hanna smiled. “You needed help, I was glad to do it. Besides, it gives me someone to look after. I haven’t had anyone since Walter passed.” A frown appeared on her forehead as she lowered her head and paused. Charlie could see that she was lost in a solemn memory. After a moment she said “You go on, now, and do what you got to do.” Hanna carried Charlie’s coffee mug to the back room.