by Jack L Knapp
T fired up the barbecue grill and cooked a simple dinner, steaks and potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil baked on the grill. Bobby had a glass of scotch while T contented himself with water.
“Bobby, I’m leaving tomorrow early. I’ll comm Shezzie to let her know what I’ve found out, then I need to get a good night’s sleep. As soon as I wake up tomorrow I’m gone.”
“All right, T. I’ll have as much gold ready as I can. Maybe a money belt around your waist, under your shirt? You might want to wear a coat too; you don’t know where you’re going or what you might find when you get there.”
“Good thinking, Bobby. I’ve still got the belt I used before. Listen, if something happens...”
“I understand, T. I said the same thing to one of my buddies before I boarded that helicopter in Afghanistan. I’ll make sure that Shezzie and Ana Maria have everything they need. They’ll never want for anything, Shorty too.”
“Thanks, Bobby. Yeah, I don’t know if Shorty has health insurance.”
“Don’t worry about it, T. You just worry about bringing Libby and Ray back home.”
Chapter Eight
Ray walked uphill, following the path by the stream. As soon as he was out of sight of anyone who might have been watching from the bar, he tossed the broken knife into the brush, then drifted upward. Levitating above the treetops, he flew north.
He’d felt no response while trying to sense the thoughts of the drunken bully. Now, letting his telepathic sense search, he expanded it as far as possible. He felt none of the familiar tingle that accompanied a comm; the sense of other telepaths was missing. Much of the familiar white-noise he sensed from others, whether he was attempting to hear their thoughts or not, was absent. Since acquiring his abilities, he’d only felt a similar sense of psychic silence while floating high above the Franklin Mountains or when crossing the nearly-uninhabited desert of southern New Mexico.
What now? Where was he, and more importantly, what was he to do? Should he try to go back or wait, or see what developed here? There was no certainty. Neither option seemed better or worse than the other. He needed information, but since he was here already, wherever he was, it would likely be better to what had happened before he resumed his search for Libby.
The primitive mining camp disturbed him. He’d seen a lot of New Mexico, but nothing like that. Mining often used heavy machinery. Had he really gone that far back in time? And how far had he gone back?
Half an hour later he swung east. The Rio Grande lay in that direction, assuming the mining camp was where the bartender had said it was. If anyone had seen him depart, they’d have no idea of where he might have gone and no one would believe their story anyway.
Albuquerque had been his earlier destination and that was still a good place to start. It should be easy to find, just follow the river north until he came to the city.
Minutes later, he spotted a large adobe structure ahead. Atop the building stood a square steeple that supported a wooden cross. A number of smaller adobe dwellings sprawled out around it. The church looked very much like the one he’d seen in Socorro, the one that he’d visited with T. But where was the town? This collection of huts looked nothing like the Socorro he’d visited.
Turning, Ray slowly orbited the town. Where was the university? Hadn’t it been in Socorro for a considerable amount of time? If this was Socorro, there was no university here, not yet.
The man who ran the bar had said “New Mexico Territory”; when had New Mexico become a state? Wasn’t it around 1910 that the Territory had been split, the sections being admitted as the states of Arizona and New Mexico? Even so, by the turn of the century people had built houses and developed roads, evidence of civilization that he’d not seen in the unnamed settlement around Charlie’s saloon. Ray concluded that he’d likely gone back to sometime in the 1800’s. Tthe men had been Anglos, so this period was therefore sometime after the Civil War had ended but before statehood.
Ray felt a sudden chill; T, with his help, had removed a number of desert caches buried by Doc Noss in the late 1800’s. The treasure had financed the purchase of their Nevada ranch and there had been enough left to set up Shezzie’s clinic in Little Dry Creek. For that matter, some of the gold still remained unsold.
Was Noss even now digging the treasure from the mountain cavern he had discovered?
Ray would not go there. He had helped recover that treasure in the 21st Century, and it had been where Doc Noss left it. The whole area was best avoided, just in case some sort of time paradox might become involved.
The church also confirmed the idea of time travel; it looked, if not new, better maintained than when he had visited it with T.
Landing on the deserted road south of the village, Ray walked north. Perhaps he could find where and when he was. Meantime, if he was going to remain here, he wold need some way of earning money.
After an hour of walking, he came to a freight yard. Three wagons were being loaded by four Mexican laborers; the only white man in the yard was overseeing the work. Ray walked up to him.
“I could use a job. I haven’t eaten all day, and I’d be willing to help with the loading for a meal. I can also handle horses or mules.”
The wagon boss looked at Ray unbelievingly. “Wearing those clothes? Mister, you don’t even have proper work boots!”
“You hiring me or my boots, mister?”
The man chuckled. “I’ll pay for your meal. Let’s see how fast you can work; those bales need to be stacked on the wagons. The other men are used to working together, so don’t get in their way.”
“Fair enough.” Ray walked over and joined the sweating crew. They looked back resentfully. “Buenas dias, Señores.”
That didn’t thaw the resentment, so Ray picked up the nearest bale. Some sort of cloth perhaps, or raw wool? Whatever it was, the burlap-wrapped bale weighed well over a hundred pounds. He lifted it easily and walked over to the wagon, stacking it in reach of the two men working atop the wagon bed. They picked it up and carried it to the front, adding it to others already stacked there. Ray walked back to the bales and picked up another one. This time he remembered to make it appear more difficult.
An hour later the job was done. Ray waited with the others as the wagon boss opened a leather pouch and began counting out coins.
“Cantina’s just up the street, pardner. Grub’s plain, but it ain’t bad. I never expected a skinny dude to stand up to the work like you done; you’ll do. If you want a job, I’ll put you on, regular wages and found until we get to Las Cruces.”
“Thanks anyway. I’m heading north.”
“Good luck to you, then. M’ name’s Oscar.”
“Ray.” He shook hands with Oscar and turned toward the village, looking for the cantina.
Five minutes later Ray walked through the open door. The woman who approached him spoke Spanish, but he managed to convey that he wanted food and beer. She nodded and indicated a table. Several of the men who’d worked with him were already there. Ray nodded at them and sat down.
He’d felt none of the tingle he expected from another telepath. Still, perhaps if he put out another call...?
He waited, but there was still no contact. The familiar low murmur of thoughts was back, but, no one responded to his comm.
#
T thought for a moment.
#
Libby followed along, watched by three wide-eyed children. The woman carrying a spear led the file, the one carrying a packboard with her infant came next, and the rest of the women were behind Libby.
Their buckskins made only a soft whisper while brushing past the occasional bushes, while her jeans and sneakers seemed to make as much noise as the entire column of women. Somehow, even the bagged nuts they carried made no noise. Libby attempted to walk quieter and finally managed to suppress part of the noise, but the scratching noise when her jeans rubbed past sticks or branches could not be suppressed.
Their path led down from the hills toward a slow-moving stream. The water was low, but showed signs of being considerably higher in the past. Low, domed huts of brush and limbs were scattered in the flats along the river, while a single tipi of hides stood slightly apart. Was this where the chief lived? As she got closer, Libby saw that a few of the domed huts--wikiups? Wasn’t that what her teacher had called those?--had skins stretched over part of their brush walls and roof.
A woman sat in a chair beside the tipi. She had a quill in her hand and seemed to be writing, occasionally dipping the quill into an ink container that sat on a stool by her side. Elma led the way toward the teepee, motioning to Libby to come with her. The other women simply walked away from the file, moving separately to the wikiups.
“Whites call my sister Sarah.” The remaining conversation was carried on in rapid-fire language that Libby couldn’t follow. Even their thoughts were shielded. She caught murmurs, but nothing she could understand. Strange, to hear thoughts that were as devoid of meaning as hearing a cricket chirp! Finally, Elma walked away and the seated woman spoke.
“I have taken the name Sarah Winnemucca. I work for the Army and the Territory from time to time, helping with translations. You are called Libby?”
“Yes. I had hoped to find Reno, or if that town is too far maybe you’ve heard of Las Vegas?”
“I do not know of Reno. I have been to California and to Sacramento, also to San Francisco. We went there after crossing Lake’s bridge. It is not yet a town where the bridge is located, but only a place where a few white people farm the meadows named for my father. I lived at that place while I was a child, and learned English and Spanish. I have not heard of the places you seek. There is a town in New Mexico Territory called Las Vegas, but I have not been there. I only know of it because I heard white men speak of it. How have you come to the homeland of my people?”
“I...” Libby stopped, confused. How could she explain what she didn’t really understand herself? She suddenly realized just how great had been the chance she’d taken.
“You work for the Army and for the Territory? Is this not the state of Nevada?”
“Some hope that one day there will be a state called Nevada. There is only the Territory, and it is held by soldiers of the white father. I have been asked by my people to go to the place called Washington and speak to the white father. Whites have done many wrongs to my people. They have taken our lands, murdered our brothers and sisters, and stolen our children. It may be that if I speak to your white chief he will understand. He has many soldiers and will send the Army to protect my people if he is told of our just claims.”
“Sarah, do you know what year this is?”
“We do not count years as your people do. I cannot tell you what you ask.”
“Oh, my. I...my grandfather needed me. I wanted to find him, but he is not...” Libby stopped. What had gone wrong? She was lost in the past. What could she do now? What would her parents think?
Libby eased herself to the ground and rested her head on her knees. Unbidden, the tears came, running down her face to drip finally on the sandy ground.
Chapter Nine
#
The Suunto M-3D compass hung from a neck strap. At some point, T would need an instrument that showed single-degree markings, but the Suunto would do for now. It was always possible to interpolate between the scribe lines that marked off degrees. He patted his pockets to ensure that the maps he’d drawn were in place; those showed not only directions but elevations. Whether teleporting was truly instantaneous or whether there was a rapid transit from the first to the second place, he didn’t know. If instantaneous, then it might not matter what was between the two points. But if there was an object between, even the bubble might not save him.