A Ranger's Time

by Edward Gates

  “I have to go see Doc Morgan, Hanna. I’ll be back later to check on you. Are you gonna be all right?”

  Hanna didn’t answer. She gave the marshal a brief nod and slowly got up from the table seemingly in a trance. After the marshal left, Hanna closed her restaurant and locked herself away in her room. She was so distraught that she could not face a single person. Later that evening, Marshal Cook tried to talk to her, but she didn’t want to see anyone. She wouldn’t answer the door.

  Doc Morgan was normally not a drinking man, but today he sat with a bottle of whiskey and a glass, trying to drink away his grief. He was so overwrought he couldn’t bring himself to go into the back room of his house to see the body, much less work on it. His work room was already filled. He had Abe Walker’s body back there on the large wooden table, and the bodies of the two cowboys shot down in the street the previous night. Now, there was Charlie’s body lying on a wooden plank on the floor. He sat in his parlor on the sofa where Charlie laid just a few nights before. Charlie was a good friend. He would certainly be missed.

  Marshal Cook rode his bay to the rear of Doc’s place and went in. He was expecting to see Doc Morgan there busy working on Charlie’s body. Instead, the back room was dark and deserted, except for the bodies. The stench from the three corpses and Charlie’s burnt remains was overpowering. The marshal propped the back door open to let in some fresh air.

  “Doc? Doc, you here?” Marshal Cook walked through the back room into the parlor and found Doc Morgan sprawled out on his sofa. A bottle of whiskey sat on the parlor table half empty. A glass lay overturned on the carpet next to the sofa. The marshal sympathized with Doc, but he had to get him awake and coherent. He pulled the doctor up into a sitting position.

  “Doc! Doc! Come on now, wake up.”

  Doc Morgan’s head rolled from one side to the other. He opened one eye and tried to focus on the marshal. “Go away. Leave me be.” He waved a hand at the marshal as if dismissing him.

  “Come on, Doc. You got to look at that body.”

  “Go away!” the doc shouted. His eyes moistened.

  “Doc! Damn it! You got to look at that body. I don’t think its Charlie!”

  The doc looked at Marshal Cook through blurry, bloodshot eyes. He put both hands up to his head. He wrinkled his forehead, shook his head, and looked back at Marshal Cook. “What? What was that you said?” The doc reached out and grabbed the marshal’s arm.

  “There’s something that’s been bothering me about that body.” The marshal sat on the sofa next to Doc Morgan. “But I was so upset over the thought of Charlie being dead that I missed it. The more I thought about it, I realized the body is all wrong. It’s too short and too thin to be Charlie. I also think the boots are wrong. But I need you to look at it.”

  Doc Morgan sat on the edge of the sofa. He ran his hands through his mussed hair. He again looked at the marshal with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Are you all right?” the marshal asked. “Can I get you something?”

  “Water. There’s some water in that pitcher on the stand,” the doc said. Cook poured some water in a glass and handed it to Morgan. The doc took a long drink and then stood up and steadied himself. Marshal Cook stood by to catch him if he wobbled too much.

  “Not Charlie?” the doc asked again.

  “I don’t think so. But you’re the one who can tell me that.”

  “If it’s not Charlie, who is it?” the doctor asked.

  Marshal Cook shook his head.

  Doc Morgan walked through the parlor to his back room. He stopped at the first table and poured water from a bucket into a large metal bowl. He splashed water into his face a few times and then wiped his hands and face on a nearby towel.

  “Light that lamp there,” he said.

  Marshal Cook complied and brought it to Morgan. The two moved Abe’s body to the floor and lifted the wooden plank carrying the burnt body and set it on the table. Doc grabbed a long pointed instrument from his box and along with the lamp, slowly walked around the charred corpse looking at every detail. He looked at the charred remains of the head and the few strands of hair that remained, the tiny bits of clothing seared to the flesh, the remains of the leather boots blistered to the feet. He measured the length and width of the body at different points. After the walk-around examination, the doc went back to the bowl and washed his hands.

  The marshal stood by anxiously waiting for the doc to say something. “Well?”

  “You might be right. At first look, it don’t look to be Charlie,” the doc said.

  “I knew it!” the marshal said.

  “Now hold on there. It still might be Charlie. Fire has a way of shrinking down and distorting a body. Burns away skin, fat and muscle in nothing flat. The only thing that makes me doubt it being Charlie is the length. That usually doesn’t change very much. I’ll need to look at it a little closer. At this point, if I had to make a guess, I’d have to say it ain’t Charlie.”

  “Is that Hicks?”

  “No. I thought that too, for a moment,” the doc said. “But Hicks was a couple inches taller than Charlie. This body is shorter than Charlie. Fire wouldn’t cause that much shrinkage in their height.” The doc stood quietly for a moment and then looked at Marshal Cook. “Something else, this fella has a couple of gunshot wounds. He may have more. I won’t know until I look at it some more.”

  “I don’t understand,” the marshal said as he and the doctor walked back into the parlor. “If that ain’t Charlie, then where is he? And who’s back there on the table?” They both sat down and remained quiet, trying to digest this latest revelation.

  “You think Charlie did this on purpose?” Doc Morgan poured another glass of water.

  “Why would Charlie want everyone to think he’s dead?” the marshal asked.

  “Maybe he and Hicks just wanted to get away and start over somewhere else. Maybe Charlie went to California with Hicks. We both know he was going to leave the Rangers soon,” the doc said.

  “It couldn’t be that simple. It doesn’t make any sense. Charlie wouldn’t go like that.”

  “Why not? He’s done with the Rangers. He don’t have Abe Walker’s threat hanging over him anymore,” the doc said. “Hicks would have a tough time traveling with that wound in his side. Charlie probably decided to leave with him to take care of him. It’s the perfect time to leave.”

  “But why leave? And why leave like this? He has a lot of friends here. His life was here. Just don’t make no sense,” the marshal said. “And who the hell is back there on that table? There’s got to be something else. I can’t imagine him doing something like this. I smell foul play here.”

  “Why do you think something bad happened to him?”

  “Cuz his horse and everything he owned was there. Nothing’s missing – his guns, his clothes, his saddle. Charlie wouldn’t have left all that.”

  “Gus was there?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I mean. None of it makes sense.”

  The two sat quietly for a few minutes evaluating all the information they had. Doc Morgan got up and poured another tall glass of water and drank it all down at once.

  “Wait a minute.” The marshal stood up and looked at Doc Morgan. “Charlie said he was going after Mac Sherman.” He paused while he fitted together the puzzle pieces in his mind. “That’s it,” he exclaimed. “That has to be it.”

  “What? What has to be it? What are you talking about?”

  “Mac Sherman. That has to be Sherman on that table.” Marshal Cook began to pace a bit. “The last thing Charlie said last night was that he was going after Sherman. The next time I saw him he was running to the livery and he and Gus lit out like the devil himself was after him.” Doc Morgan sat down on the sofa, listening intently to Cook’s theory.

  “I’ve never seen Mac Sherman,” the doctor said. “Was he short?”

  “I only saw him close-up once a few days ago when Hicks got shot. But I remember him from a few years back when they
came through here. He was a short, wiry fella with a fierce scar across his forehead. Mean as a box of snakes.”

  “If that’s the case, then you might be right. That could be him lying back there on the table. But then again, where’s Charlie and Russell?”

  Marshal Cook shook his head and sat down in the easy chair next to the sofa. Doc Morgan looked down at the empty water glass he was still holding. Both were in deep thought trying to piece together what they’ve learned so far.

  “Charlie had to have started that fire.” The marshal broke the silence. “That’s the only explanation. But why? There has to be a reason.”

  Doc Morgan looked over at the marshal. “He wanted everyone to think it was him.”

  “But why, Doc?” the marshal asked.

  “I don’t know.” Doc Morgan stood and looked out the window at the stockyards across the street. “I don’t know.” He turned back to the marshal. “You know, Charlie seems to have gone to a lot of trouble to make people think he’s dead. Maybe we should stop wondering about it and just let it be.”

  Marshal Cook had a disapproving look on his face. “I don’t like to leave unanswered questions.”

  “Well, what good would it do, Amos?” the doc replied. “Charlie’s gone. If you wanna go running around the country lookin’ for him, then you go ahead. But you know Charlie, if he don’t want to be found, you’re never gonna find him. If he’s alive and if he wants us to know where he is, he’ll let us know. He’ll more-n-likely get settled in somewhere and send us a telegram. I say we let it go. Let Charlie go out the way he wants.”

  “What if he didn’t want it?” the marshal countered. “What if this was all set up by … by … someone else?”

  “Who? Who else is left? Walker’s dead, half his crew is either dead or you got ‘em locked up, and now Sherman’s dead. Who else would want to harm Charlie?”

  The marshal looked at Doc Morgan as if he was just bested in a game of wits. He shook his head and sat back down. “It just doesn’t make sense. Charlie burned down everything he owned and then left without Gus. Even if he just lit out, he would have taken something with him. And he wouldn’t have just abandoned Gus.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” doc said. “But until we have his body or we hear from him, we’ll never know for sure.” Doc Morgan paused and then added. “I’ll look at that body some more. See what else I can find out. In the meantime, let’s just keep this between us. It won’t do no good to get everyone all riled up with no answers.”

  Doc Morgan stood up and held his hand out to Marshal Cook. The marshal took Doc’s hand and shook it.

  “This is just between you and me then,” the doc said. “No one else is to know. Until we get some answers!”

  “Agreed,” the marshal said. They shook hands again and the marshal went out the back door and rode his bay back to his office.

  Doc Morgan went back and did a more thorough inspection of the burnt corpse. There was very little left to identify the body. The only thing he found was the partially melted City Marshal badge. All Doc knew was that the body was a man who was a little shorter than Charlie. He turned the body over and discovered some small patches of clothing on the back of the body that were spared from the intense fire. He never saw Charlie in a shirt with that pattern and color.

  Everything he found out about this corpse pointed to it being someone other than Charlie. Doc Morgan was now certain that this burnt body was not Charlie. Probably Mac Sherman, like the marshal said. He was also fairly certain that Charlie set this all up. He remembered the oath he and Marshal Cook shook hands over. No one will know until Charlie lets us know.

  The doctor knew he couldn’t embalm or prepare the body at all. He just wrapped it in linen and put it in one of the pine boxes he built earlier that week. He roughly chiseled the name TURLOCK into the wooden lid and nailed it shut. He’d work on the other three corpses later.

  The next day, most of the town and all of the rangers turned out for a brief ceremony and prayer service held at the grave site. Everyone believed the pine casket contained the body of Charlie, everyone except the marshal and the doctor. During the prayer service, Hanna stood dressed in black leaning against Marshal Cook and holding onto his arm. Cook wanted desperately to tell her about Charlie, just to ease her grief, but he knew in his heart she would be the worst person to tell. It would be best to let her grieve and then move on with her life. Doc Morgan and the marshal were true to their oath and never spoke of the burnt body again.

  With the service done, the casket was lowered into the grave and everyone went back to town to restart their daily lives. The grave was filled in with dirt and a simple wooden marker was placed on the grave with Charlie’s name on it, nothing more. For a long while, every Sunday, a small bouquet of Amarillo wildflowers appeared on the grave with Charlie’s marker on it. Eventually, the bouquets stopped appearing. But no one really noticed.

  Life in Amarillo eventually returned to normal. The stories about Charlie got fewer and farther between. As the old timers who knew Charlie moved on and went away, the stories of Ranger Turlock went with them. Eventually Charlie was nothing more than an old embellished story that got shared in a saloon over a drink. He was finally lost to the time.

  29

  Upton

  June, 2220

  When he opened his eyes, Russell was unsure what had happened. He found himself lying on the lawn in the dark, completely confused. He pulled himself up to a sitting position. He tried to remember where he was and why he was sitting outside on the ground behind the maintenance building. For some reason, his short term memory was a scrambled mess. His eyesight was hazy and everything appeared cast in various oscillating hues, switching from one color to another. He tried to focus on the side of a building wondering what was happening to him. His nerves felt like they were on fire. Random images and thoughts popped into his mind for a fleeting moment and then vanished as quickly as they came. Nothing made sense.

  He tried to stand up, but a piercing pain shot through his right side and he fell back to the ground. He grabbed his side and placed his hand on the sutured gunshot wound. He vaguely remembered he had a wound, but could not remember how he got it. He noticed the jeans and tee-shirt he was wearing, and then the time belt.

  “What is all this? What does all this mean?” Russell said. “It all seems kind of familiar, but I don’t understand.” The burning pain from his nerve endings began to subside. Favoring his right side, he managed to get to his feet and stand up. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Something was wrong. Everything seemed somewhat familiar, but he could not tie it all together. His eyesight finally returned to normal.

  “My name. What’s my name?” he said to himself. He concentrated and tried to remember. “Russ? Charlie? Doc? Where are these names coming from? Why are they in my head?” He kept trying to tie the memory fragments together. The harder he tried the more fragments surfaced and confused his mind even more. Finally, as he concentrated, certain thought patterns began to fall into place. Then, as if someone sneaked up behind him and tightened up some loose bolts, everything started to come together. He finally began to feel he was intact. He must have regained consciousness before his transformation was complete.

  “Charlie!” he said aloud. “Damn, he did it. I’m back.” He remembered it all, now. Amarillo, getting shot, Doc, Marshal Cook, it was all coming back to him in waves. Then he remembered his botched time jump. He remembered what he needed to do.

  Staying in the shadows of the buildings and hiding behind the shrubbery and stacks of cargo in the yards, Russell limped to his living quarters on the other side of the complex. On the way he contemplated the transformation problem he just experienced. He would have to study this belt.

  When he reached his quarters, his facial image was scanned at the door panel of the apartment building and the door swung open. Entering the hallway, he made his way to one of the many individual transport tubes. His wound was beginning to bleed again. He unstrapped the t
ime belt and held it rolled up tightly in his hand. At this time of night, the halls were normally deserted. Before he stepped into the tube he checked the clock in the hallway; it read 9:10 PM. It had taken him ten minutes to revive and walk to his living quarters.

  The transporter scanned him and flashed his picture and identity on a display in the tube, showing his apartment on the fourth floor. In a matter of seconds he was shot upward to his floor. When the tube’s door slid open, Russell stuck his head out and saw the empty hallway. He walked to his apartment door, and placed his hand on the sensor screen on his door panel. A light scanned his palm, and a mechanical voice said “ACCESS VOICE RECOGNITION.” Russell answered in as clear a voice as he could muster: “Hicks, Russell. ID code is 49920.”

  He heard a slight click and the door panel quickly slid open. As soon as Russell went inside, the door panel slid closed behind him. Pre-set lights came on in his apartment and pre-programmed music began to play. He was immediately engulfed in red and green laser lights that scanned his body from head to toe.

  “GOOD EVENING MR. HICKS. YOU APPEAR TO BE INJURED. I WILL NOTIFY MEDICAL,” a mechanical voice announced.

  “No,” Russell replied. “Cancel medical.”

  “CANCEL CONFIRMED.”

  Russell moved into the bedroom and removed his clothes. He hid the time belt in his dresser. He’d find a more secure place for it later. Then he stepped into the bathroom and stood in the middle of the shower chamber.

  “Shower,” Russell commanded and steady streams of warm soft water began spraying him from the nozzles strategically placed in various locations on all the marble and stainless walls, floor, and ceiling. His wound burned as the chemically treated cleansing water poured over it. He cleaned himself thoroughly and commanded “Stop.” The water jets ceased. Warm soft air began blowing on him slowly at first and steadily increased in velocity until he was completely dry.