“I am,” the Marshal said as he pulled the seat out and sat, “and, as I said, this is the best place in Dodge to eat.”
Bill smiled and sat as he shook his head. “Got to hand it to you, Marshal, you noticed an awful lot about me in a short time.”
Earp nodded. “Keeps a man alive, Mr. Scott.”
“Guess it does. I once heard a general say that the winner of the battle is the person who can ward off the battle by knowing his opponent and how he would react to any given move. You, I believe, are that type of person, Marshal.”
“Sir, you honor me.” Earp bowed slightly from the waist. “Will you join me in the tavern for a drink after dinner, Mr. Scott?”
Bill nodded. “I will, and it’s Bill.”
“Good, Bill. Call me Wyatt.”
Bill and the marshal skipped coffee and left Pearl’s as Wyatt explained the town’s customs and problems. He said he wanted to outlaw guns in Dodge. But in order to do so, he said he needed a few good men to help him enforce the law. He said with certainty, “More than one cowboy will test it, and has to be stopped short.”
As they approached the Long Branch bar, Bill saw an interior lit by oil lamps and candles. He felt as if he were in an old-time cowboy movie. There was a piano player, saloon girls and card games going on in the garishly painted, smoke filled room. The roar went down a notch or two as Wyatt opened the swinging doors. They walked over to the bar. The bartender whispered something to Earp and motioned to a middle-aged, heavy-set man who had grabbed a chorus girl by the throat. The marshal turned to Bill and made a space for him at the bar. “Have what you want and I’ll have a Red Leaf Whiskey,” he said.
Bill ordered the same as the lawman walked slowly over to the troublemaker. Earp put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and the troublemaker spun around and drew a knife. The crowd of people around them suddenly parted. The man’s eyes opened wide as he recognized Earp. He dropped the knife and put his hands up. Bill noticed that Earp’s gun was still holstered.
The marshal pointed to the door and commanded, “Out.” The man ran out into the night, bringing the crowd to a roar of laughter. Bill made room for Earp at the bar. They picked up their drinks, and Bill clicked Earp’s glass, saying. “Cheers!”
Earp looked quizzically at Bill and said, “Good health!” They downed their drinks as the noise level in the room went back up and a happy bartender poured them another round.
At two in the morning, the place was as full as ever. Bill was starting to feel the Red Leaf, but it didn’t seem to bother the marshal at all. Earp ordered another two as he looked at Bill questioningly.
Bill caught the glance and asked, “What?”
Earp looked at him with raised eyebrows, “What, what?”
Bill answered, “What is it you want to ask me?”
“What makes you so sure I want to ask you something?” the marshal countered.
“Just seems like you did. Seems like you want to ask me something but are holding back.”
“And I shouldn’t?”
Bill said, “No, you shouldn’t. Never hold back.”
Earp paused, and then said, “I’m looking for a few good men for my office. Would you like to be one of them?”
Taken off guard, Bill blurted out, “Me? Heck no, I’m no lawman.”
The marshal continued, “You’re better than most. I’ve been watching you. You keep your back to the bar or are watching your back in the mirror. No, you have what it takes. Just got to see how you handle that fancy gun of yours.”
Bill hoped to end this turn of the conversation by saying, “I’m a writer, and a good writer is constantly aware of his surroundings. That’s all.”
“Naw, there’s more to you than you show,” Earp said quietly. “But if that’s your calling, so be it, partner.”
Bill hurriedly tried to move on to a new topic. “Speaking of a few good men. I heard a name,” he said as he took out a small notebook and read, “Bat Masterson.”
“Bat Masterson? You mean William Masterson?”
Bill was about to say something when he remembered that Bat was a nickname. His real name was William Barclay Masterson. “Yes, William Masterson. Isn’t he a reliable man?”
Enthusiastically, Earp said, “The best! Absolutely the best! But as a lawman, never! Tough man, but there has never been a worse shot in Dodge. I’d be looking for a replacement in a day or two, and I’d have lost a good friend. Besides the newspaper editor would have my head. He’s their best writer.”
The crowd’s attention suddenly turned to a man outside the tavern screaming Earp’s name. They looked at the marshal; they wanted to see some action before going home.
Earp shook his head and asked the bartender, “What time is it, Clem?”
The bartender took out his timepiece. “Three o’clock, Wyatt.”
”Damn, I thought I’d have one night where I didn’t have to kill some fool. Guess not.” He gulped down the two drinks and ordered another.
Bill turned to him and asked, “Is there anything I can do, Wyatt?”
“No thanks, Bill. Stay aside. This is what I get paid for. Wonder where Mr. Eddilson is about now?”
He walked to the swinging doors with his drink in his hand. Outside, the same big man he had thrown out earlier, stood with a large knife in his hand.
“C’mon out, Earp, c’mon out, so I can cut you good.”
The marshal walked slowly out the door, stopped and downed his drink. He turned to a chorus girl, gave her the empty glass and took her long, white scarf. He wiped his mouth with it as he walked toward the man. “Listen, mister, I don’t want a fight. It’s after three in the morning, and I’ve been drinking all night. What say we sleep it off?”
“No! You’re yellow, Earp!” The big man shouted. “I’m gonna cut you up real bad. And I ain’t waiting ‘til tomorrow neither.”
Wyatt wiped his mouth again as he got closer to the man. He stopped just out of reach of the man’s knife-hand and spread out his arms, the white scarf dangling from his left hand. “Mister, I’m just not up to fighting anyone right now, so why don’t you go . . .” He dropped the white scarf, and for a split second the knife-wielding man’s eyes inadvertently glanced at the dropping fabric. Wyatt caught the man’s jaw with a right cross and he dropped like a stone. The lawman took the knife, tucked it in his boot, and turned to Bill. “Guess we should call it a night, eh, Bill?”
Bill nodded. “Damn, that was a classic, Wyatt.”
“Just proves the hand’s quicker than the eye. He’ll wake up tomorrow and if he still wants some of me, he’ll end up in Boot Hill. Most likely, he’ll be out of town by the rooster’s call.” He tipped back his hat and said, “Had a good evening, Bill. See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, and I did too.” Bill responded. “Good night, Wyatt.”
Bill slept very well on his first night in Dodge.
The next morning the pocket watch Bill brought along from the future chimed softly and woke him. His head hurt from a hangover but not as bad as he thought it would. He popped two aspirins he had also brought along, then washed and shaved with the water left over from the night before.
He changed into his western outfit and went out. On the way to Pearls, he walked past the marshal’s office. It was locked and a small sign read: ON PATROL.” Bill wondered if he was really on patrol or just sleeping late.
Breakfast was as good as any Bill had had in any century. Got to watch this eating, he reminded himself feeling the tightness of his belt.
At the counter, Pearl wiped her hands on a clean apron. “How was it?”
“Outstanding. Ever think of going to New York City and opening a place there?”
Pearl put a hand on her hip, “Now, why would I want to do that?”
“So I could eat there every day,” he said, “and not have to travel hundreds of miles for a great meal.”
She laughed. “Instead, I’ll give you a copy of my cookbook.”
“Fair enough,” said Bil
l opening his billfold, “Can you tell me how to get to the Journal’s office?”
“Sure, honey. Just go out and make a right. Walk three streets, and it’s on the corner. Can’t miss it, it’s the only red brick building in town.”
After thanking her and leaving a generous tip, Bill stepped outside. Another cloudless day, he thought fixing his hat brim to block the rays of the early morning sun as he strolled down the creaking wooden sidewalk. When he reached the first corner, the marshal came around it and they nearly collided. He was cradling a double-barreled shotgun.
“Morning, Marshal,” Bill said.
“Morning, Bill,” Earp responded. “Sleep well?”
“Like a log, and you?”
“Same. Nice duds. You sort’a lost that dude look. Now all ya need is some upper lip hair.”
“I really needed to air out my other clothes and I look terrible with a mustache.”
Earp grinned, “Don’t remember if you said how long you’d be in town?”
Bill shrugged. “Not sure. I’m going to try to get an interview with B . . . Mr. Masterson.”
“Masterson is at his desk right now. Just saw him typing away. See you later. If ya hanker for lunch, you’ll catch me at Pearls’ at noon.”
“Lunch it is marshal.” They both nodded and continued on their way.
Bill arrived at the Dodge City Journal, scraped his boots on the front step and opened the door. There were about a dozen wooden desks with piles of paper stacked on top of them, along with early model, Royal typewriters. Two were occupied, and Bill recognized Masterson from his archived photo as he pecked away on his typewriter.
Not a tall man, he stood at five-feet eight inches and tended to be on the portly side. He had long, black hair parted down the middle and a small mustache, as did most men in this time period. Masterson wore a white shirt open at the collar as wide black suspenders held up his black pants.
Bill approached him, and Masterson looked up. He squinted at Bill, then stood and offered his hand. “Mr. Scott. Am I right, sir?”
“Yes, you are.” Bill smiled as they shook hands. “Are you that good a reporter that you know someone’s name by looking at them, sir?”
“Ha. No sir, not at all. I just had my morning coffee with the marshal. He told me of last night’s adventures in Dodge, and he made mention of your name. More than once I might add.”
“Nothing bad I hope.”
“Nope! All to the good. He spoke of you wanting to write about the real Dodge, not the Dodge they turn out for the eastern trolley riders.”
Bill nodded. “That’s what I’d like to do. And I’d like nothing better than to have your collaboration on it.”
“My collaboration? Why mine?” Masterson said, with surprise. He turned and pointed to an older man working at another typewriter. “Why not Chester? He’s been living here for thirty-four years. I’ve been here for just one year.”
“Mr. Masterson, I’ve read your stories. They strike a style unlike others I’ve read. I’d really be proud to have you join me in this venture.”
“And where would this be printed, Mr. Scott?”
“I do not yet have a publisher, Mr. Masterson, but I’m sure of the mission I’m on. And would you address me as Bill?”
“Well, if we are to work together, Bill, then please call me Will. Now,” he pulled a chair over for Bill, “sit and tell me your storyline.” He sat back, his arms crossed behind his head.
Bill faced him across the desk. “Will, I want to write about the difference between the average man of the West who can shoot well, and the man who can’t. I don’t need to write about the cowboy, that’s been done many times over. I mean the average man who has to make a living in the West of today.”
“Bill, any man can shoot a gun. Is this the story you really want to pursue?”
Bill shook his head. “No. Any man can pull the trigger, Will. But not every man can shoot well. That’s the story I want to do. I want to know if the better shot has more confidence in himself, more charisma, more gumption, more admirers, pretty much more everything, than the man who just doesn’t have it.”
Masterson had the look of a man deep in thought. “This does sound different from any dime novel I’ve read. It’s like looking into many a man’s soul. It’ll be like telling them, you can either stay here in the West, or be on your way. It’s going to be a rude awakening for many. It’s like the Roman Empire making gladiators. All can swing a sword, but just a few rose to the top and fame.”
“Right, Will, its true journalism. No sugarcoating the cowboy with his six-shooter. He may be one in ten, twenty or fifty.”
“Okay, Bill. I’ll work with you on this. What do you want me to do?”
“There’s a second part to this, Will. I’d like to take an average man with poor shooting ability, teach him to shoot well, and then write about how his life changes. I’d like you to pick this man.”
Masterson pulled his chair closer to Bill’s. “Pheww! That’s a tough one. That’d be like fingering a man who’s not up to snuff, so to speak. It’s sort of insulting him, telling him that we know he’s not as good as his neighbor.” He got up and walked to the coffee pot sitting on a potbelly stove. “Want some coffee? It’s just warm, got a low flame on, so we don’t melt the place.”
Bill joined him and took a mug from the rack. Masterson poured two cups and swished the rest in the pot. “Chester, want the last cup? Still warm.”
The elderly, gray haired man got up and walked slowly to the two men. He looked at Bill, pulled on his long, gray mustache and said with a smile, “Will’s a wily guy. He knows whoever finishes the last cup has to make a new pot.”
Masterson smiled. “You’re in luck this mornin’, Chester. I feel the need for some real coffee today, not the kind you make. I’ll be making a fresh pot.”
“Damn civil of you, Will, damn civil,” he said as he poured the last cup. Chester walked back to his desk and spoke over his shoulder, “To a real reporter, the story is everything, Will. Remember that. To get the story is the thrill. To nail down what no one else has, that’s the thing. The gentleman has a good idea. He needs an average gun handler and came to you.” He sat at his desk and looked at both men over his coffee mug. “I’d be the average gunslinger, but I’m over the hill. What this story needs is an average man with gumption. A man who would back up his thoughts even if he can’t shoot worth a lick. Will, I hate to say it, but you’re that man. I saw you take that big stick we keep to fix the print jams and whack a man on the head ’cause he cussed in front of some women folk. Didn’t bother you that he wore a six-gun. You’d be perfect for this story. Might even get ya’ a job in some big city paper.”
Masterson shook his head, “Sorry, Chester, I’m the worst shot for miles around.”
Here we go, thought Bill as he addressed Masterson, “This could be the answer, Will. If you are as bad a shot as you say, you’ll be perfect. And look at all the pluses. We don’t have to insult a towns person. Nobody would have to know you were taking lessons. And you’d get to be a better shot, too. You’re in a win-win situation. What do you say?”
Will smiled. “A win-win situation? That’s a good one. Never heard it said that way before. Would it be you giving me lessons?”
“No, not me, uh . . . my cousin,” he said with crossed fingers, ”I’ll be back in town in about two weeks and then we can start. Okay with you?”
“Just so we have it straight, no one is going to know about this, right?”
“Right. Just us. That’s a promise.”
Chester cleared his throat. “Boy, does this ever mean the end of me making fresh pots o’ coffee. Hallelujah!”
Bill and Masterson smiled.
DATELINE: 2011, PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK
Bill was back in the club in New York City. Man, I love time travel, he thought, but as the saying goes ‘there’s no place like home.’ As he removed his boots, Matt set down a pot of coffee and the peanut butter and jelly sa
ndwich that Bill had asked for as soon as he arrived.
“Pleasant trip, sir?”
“Very. I think I found the source of the deviation in the time stream. Has Miss Emma Walters been in attendance during my absence?”
“She was here the evening before last.”
“Was it a large gathering?”
“Sixteen members, sir. Tonight’s list shows thirty-seven reservations. As you know sir, a Friday brings in most of the members.”
“Matt, I’m going to take a long hot shower and go to bed until 6 pm. I intend to be in attendance tonight.”
Matt nodded and left with Bill’s Western clothes. His face showed that he was aware of their aroma.
At the dinner that evening, Bill sat at the head of the banquet table. He had on a light gray, three-piece suit with a dark blue cravat at the neck of his starched white shirt. He wore white spats with his highly polished, black button-up shoes and had a dark blue silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. He felt refreshed and sharp. The diners were seated at a long table.
The day’s newspaper headlines shouted about the poor workmanship of the Union’s rifles. The table conversation was mostly about the lathes being used by the Northern factories versus the European types.
Jerome Thompson, who had money in a large firearms factory in New Jersey, claimed that the Europeans were paying large sums to spread rumors of their products being superior to the North’s. Nathan Hersey denied this loudly in his Cockney accent.
All was fine in The 1800 Club, thought Bill.
Seated at the middle of the table was Emma Walters. Bill nodded as he caught her eye. She returned his nod with a smile.
After dinner, Bill broke away from a group of members discussing cotton prices and its production, which they thought would be key to the rebuilding of the South after the war.
Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club [Book I] Page 11