by April Hill
I shed a dainty tear.
"Of course," he said, "money's only money, and hardly worth killin' a man over now, is it?"
I agreed and smiled gratefully. "Thank you," I cried. "I'm so grateful!"
"Well now, that's all well and good," the man drawled, "but that don't mean you're goin' to walk outta here without paying some price for what you done."
I gulped. "I will do whatever I can to pay you back, sir, but as of this moment, I have no money. None, at all!"
The man looked me over carefully. "Yes, ma'am, I can see that. You are just about the poorest, most down at the heels soul I've seen around these parts in a long time. I figure that's why you helped yourself to what wasn't yours in the first place. There's no need to pay me back, 'cause you didn't get what you tried for, so you don't need to be worryin' that pretty little head of yours about the money."
I sighed with relief–a bit too soon.
"The thing of it is," he said, stroking the end of his mustache thoughtfully, "that what you done is ag'nst the law, and even the Good Book calls stealin' from a man a sin, as I recall. And a sin's got to be paid for. It's been some time since I read much from that worthy book, but it also says somewhere or other in there that sparin' the rod surely spoils a child. Isn't that right?"
I said nothing.
"You still ain't rightly a child," he continued, "but I'm real sure there's somethin' in the scriptures that says a man shouldn't suffer himself to be robbed without him doin' somethin' about it. Now, if we had us a judge here, we'd abide by what he said, but since there ain't. I been around Indians for a long time, and they ain't even Christians, but it always looked to me like they had the right idea. When they catch a woman stealin', they got a habit of just cuttin' off her damned nose. 'Course, that kinda makes for a real ugly woman, and drops her bride price real quick, if she ain't already married. So, they usually let her off easy the first time by haulin' her over a log and givin' her thieving' little ass one hell of a hard whuppin'. Why, I've seen Indian ladies get their butts strapped so bad with a war bridle they couldn't barely walk for a couple days."
I sighed. What in the world was it about me, I wondered, that made me keep meeting these sorts of men?
"I promise I'll never do this again," I said fervently, with absolute sincerity. "I was desperate!"
"Well, now, I know that, and I figure anyone kin make one mistake."
I breathed a second sigh of relief.
He shook his head. "And that's why I ain't gonna cut your nose off. But you are gonna get that whippin'." To my horror, the man began to unbuckle his gun belt. "I reckon you better just raise that there ugly dress of yours and get them britches down, now." He nodded to two of the saloon's closest patrons. "Why don't you fellas fetch the little lady up there over the bar for me and haul down her britches, while you're at it. Looks like she's not ready to do it herself."
"Sir," I pleaded, backing away. "In front of all..."
"Hell," he laughed. "You don't need to be shy. These fellas here seen more bare ass than one, I can tell you. You and ever'body in the place needs to know what happens when you cheat Bill Hickock. Kinda like an insurance policy, if you know what I mean, in case the next pretty lady thinks she can help herself to what's mine. I won't be too hard on you, but I warrant you'll remember this lickin' for a while, that's for damned sure."
"Bill Hickock," I cried, almost distracted from what was about to happen. This man was the famous, notorious Wild Bill Hickock!
Before I could finish being amazed, however, I was lifted off my feet by two sets of strong, callused hands, and dumped unceremoniously on my stomach across the bar. Seconds later, with the two men holding my arms and my feet dangling two feet from the saloon floor, the infamous James Butler Hickock tossed up my skirts, yanked down my drawers, and with no further delay, delivered what I will always remember as the absolutely very worst opening blow I have ever received. As the wide leather belt cracked across the most exquisitely tender part of my buttocks like molten metal, I opened my mouth and howled with shock and pain. Wild Bill Hickock had quite obviously done this before.
Chapter Six
As I dangled from the bar and awaited the second of what would turn out to be–by actual count–twenty-eight excruciating strokes across my indiscreetly bared buttocks, I thought grimly of Edward and of the Time Machine, and wondered again how I had managed to end up in this awful town in this humiliating and ridiculous posture. And then, as each scorching blow of the wide leather strap arrived at its destination, I shrieked another vow to myself that should I survive this adventure, I would instigate divorce proceedings against Edward immediately upon our return to London. Enough!
If my garbled screams seemed curious or incomprehensible to Wild Bill Hickock, it certainly didn't discourage him from delivering every last agonizing blow of what he no doubt considered frontier justice–in which he had served as both judge and jury. Mr. Hickock, in fact, seemed very well pleased with what he had accomplished.
"Well now, that's a nice, round thirty," he said with some satisfaction. "I reckon that oughta be enough to make this little lady reconsider a life of crime. What do you think, boys?"
One of the boys was kind enough to point out that I had been short-changed and that the number delivered had actually been only twenty-eight. His ability to count surprised me somewhat, since the boy in question looked somewhat less intelligent than the curious local creatures Edward had called groundhogs. I protested the count, but Bill merely thanked the fellow and added the last two swats with renewed gusto. "Damn," he cried appreciatively, leaning closer to investigate my flaming bottom. "If that's not exactly the color of one of our prairie sunsets, I'll go ahead and just eat my damned hat!"
The barroom erupted in raucous laughter as two of the less inebriated patrons lifted me from the bar and set me on my feet. With my eyes lowered in embarrassment, I pulled up my drawers and straightened my skirts as best I could. Too tired to cry, or even to react to the crude laughter, I stumbled away from the bar, my face flushed as red as my throbbing bottom. Hickock followed me, rearranging his gun belt with its two pearl-handled pistols. He pulled out a chair, and at his order, I sat down painfully, wincing as I tried to balance one side of my hip on the chair's rough edge.
"I can't pay whatever financial fine you have in mind," I said miserably. "So if you want to put me in jail, go ahead. Beat me again, if you wish, but I still haven't any money."
He nodded and pushed a small glass of whiskey across the table to me. I shook my head, then thought better of it and drained the glass in one gulp.
He whistled. "Well, now, missie, you sure belted that down quick, for a lady."
I gave him as disdainful a look as I could manage. "I grew up stealing the best single malt whiskey in the world from my uncle's library liquor cabinet," I spat at him. "That swill isn't whiskey. In Scotland, they'd use it as boot polish."
Hickock put his head back and roared with laughter. "It's not even good enough to be boot polish! I figured you weren't from around here. How'd someone like you end up here in a shithole like Deadwood?"
I put my head down on the dirty table. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, and now that we're discussing it, what an awful name for a town."
He sighed. "Awful, maybe, but accurate, mostly. You look just plain tuckered out, little lady, and unless I miss my guess, you haven't eaten in a while, either." He motioned to a spindly, underfed boy standing near the bar, and the youth rushed over eagerly. "Run down to Mabel's and bring me back a steak–rare and thick," Hickock ordered, "and a heap of fried potatoes to go with it. Get yourself some supper while you're there, and tell Mabel I sent you." He gave the boy a handful of coins, and before I could stop the young man, he had dashed out the swinging doors on his errand.
I was about to explain yet again that I couldn't pay for my dinner when Hickock raised his hand. "Don't worry about it. Mabel and me have an arrangement, so to speak. After you get that steak down, you need to get som
e shut-eye, so I'll tell you what. I reckon you and me are square, now, so how about if I get you a room? Nothin' low down or nasty about it, neither. Just you, sleepin' in a clean bed by your lonesome?"
I was shocked by the offer, but too worn out to show it. "Thank you, but I can't."
"Why not?"
"I have a husband here… in your jail."
"What did he do?"
"Nothing, really."
"It wasn't for beatin' you, was it?"
"Of course not," I cried. "Edward wouldn't..." I stopped, having decided not to go into the precise detail of my relationship with Edward.
Hickock nodded. "Good. I can't stomach the kinda fella who beats his woman. After supper, maybe you and me'll take a little walk down to the jail and see what we can do about springin' this husband of yours. How's that?"
"You'd do that for me?"
"We don't get a whole lot of tourists in Deadwood," Bill laughed. "And so far, you've not had a real good first impression of our hospitality."
Normally, I am not so demonstrative with strangers, especially those who have recently abused me, but now I leapt up and threw my arms around him. "Thank you!"
After I had eaten a portion of the enormous steak, I folded the remainder of my supper into a sheet of newspaper and followed Bill down the street to the jail, where we found the office deserted–but poor Edward exactly where I had last seen him. As we approached the cell, I saw Bill look Edward over from head to foot.
"Seems like kind of a weasel-looking critter," Hickock observed, and I will have to admit that Edward's appearance was something less than elegant. He was unshaven, dreadfully rumpled, and dusty. When I gave him the remains of the steak, he took it, but watched Bill warily.
"We have been through a terrible ordeal," I explained to Bill. "The like of which I doubt that you will believe." Edward shot me a warning look, but I was beyond caring who knew about our misbegotten adventure or about the Time Machine. At this low point, I could scarcely imagine our situation being any worse than it was, and this man Bill Hickock had been (excluding my recent flogging, of course) almost kind.
Hickock chuckled. "Well now, you just might be surprised what I'd believe, my dear. Just about everybody who turns up in a place like Deadwood's on the run from somethin', or somebody, or lookin' to do some sorta mischief. Which is it with you two?"
"We just want to go home," I said glumly.
"To Scotland?" he asked–a reference, I suppose, to our earlier discussion about strong spirits.
"England," Edward said, finally. "My wife and I live outside London."
"You've got yourself a long trip home then," Bill said.
Edward grimaced. "You have no idea."
Bill took immediate offense. "I know where goddam' London is, mister. You think I'm ignorant, is that it?" he roared.
"Please," I intervened. "It's not that! What Edward means is that we came here from… All right, you may as well know this. We came here from the future."
Yes, I said it. Just like that. Edward clapped his hand over his eyes and groaned, but Bill just gave me an odd sideways glance. "Seems to me you've been sluggin' down a little too much of that Scottish whiskey."
I drew myself up and faced him. "It's absolutely true. Edward and I are from the future–the year 1909, to be precise. I swear it, and we can prove it to you. If I am not telling the truth, you may thrash me again!"
Edward could only watch and listen with horror as I opened my mouth and told Bill everything. I began with our unexpected departure from Uncle Herbert's laboratory, and thence to King Arthur's castle, to the year 3599 and the land of the Drollums, and now, to this dreadful place. When I was finished, I was completely out of breath. Edward was watching dolefully from behind iron bars, unable to stop me, and Wild Bill Hickock was stroking his black handlebar mustache thoughtfully.
"That's about the goldarndest yarn I ever heard," he said with a shake of his head.
"Be that as it may, every word is true," I said wearily. "Believe me or not, as you wish. In any event, I am beyond caring. I have been dragged back and forth through time, abused and manhandled in several different centuries, and I stand here now in a revoltingly ugly dress that happens to be the only thing I still possess–and yes, I stole it. If you choose to hang me or to shoot me, I will make no protest whatever. Actually, I will take it as a great kindness." With that, I plopped down on a long wooden bench–and yelped.
Hickock looked through the bars at Edward, who was finishing his supper. "Is she tetched?"
Edward sighed. "If you are asking me if my wife is a raving lunatic, the answer is no. Beyond that, I can only say that she is sometimes… excitable."
"Not exactly a gallant sorta fella, are you?" Bill snarled. "Looks like the little lady's the one with the guts in this family. Now, all I want to know is what she's talkin' about with all this Time Machine shit?"
Before answering, Edward gave Bill what I recognize as his slow, hard look of assessment.
Finally, he replied simply, "She's…imaginative, as well. All I can say is that she believes what she says, and I try to humor her."
Bill chuckled. "Some kinda snake oil business looks like. Mind you, I don't believe any of this shit she's been spoutin', but I'm damned curious to know what's goin' on with the two of you. Come on outta there, mister. We got things to do." Bill walked back to the tiny office, reached behind a pile of books on a shelf and drew forth a key. "Reckon they won't mind me borrowin' this."
Edward and I exchanged looks. "Aren't you the sheriff here?" I asked.
Edward spoke before Bill could. "Not here, Abby. I believe that Mr. Hickock was marshal of Abilene–around 1871, I think, but not here in Deadwood. Deadwood is where he'll be..." Abruptly, Edward stopped. Bill Hickock was looking at him with an intensely odd look.
"My husband reads a great deal," I said quickly. "But if you're not the marshal, or sheriff, or whatever… Why did you kill those men? Last night… in the street?"
Bill shook his head grimly. "I've not killed a man since I put a bullet in my own deputy by mistake, a few years back. Just knocked the wind outta them fellas last night–except for the one who got himself shot in the balls. Reckon my aim was a little on the high side. My eyes aren't what they used to be. Now, what were you about to say, mister? About me, and Deadwood?"
"Just that you were… you're retired, now," Edward said quickly. "If I'm correct about the year, 1876 is it?" He winked broadly at Bill, and I rolled my eyes. Edward has often pretended that I have lost my mind.
As he leaned over to unlock Edward's cell, Bill nodded. "The first of August, 1876, and hot as blazes."
For a moment, I saw something in Edward's eyes–something that I hoped Bill hadn't seen.
"All right, now," Bill said. "After I get you two a room for tonight, I'll go roust the sheriff and fix whatever it is he's got you charged with. Then, first thing in the mornin', after you two get some shut-eye, we'll ride on out and take a gander at this Time Machine of yours."
Edward sighed. "We have no funds, Mr. Hickock."
Bill chortled, and nudged my arm. "Me and the lady already had that discussion," he said. "The only thing I'll need is your word you won't try to high-tail it outta Deadwood before mornin'. I reckon your missus has got reason to know better than to try somethin' dumb, but how about you? Can I trust you?"
"Of course," Edward replied huffily. "But first, we must have your promise to keep all of this in strictest confidence." He winked again.
"You sayin' my word's no good?"
I stepped between them. "We trust you implicitly, Mr. Hickock."
Bill found us a room at a decrepit hotel that he claimed was the best in town, which I believed, having looked around. It was this place, Bill explained, or upstairs at one of the many saloons, which, though pleasant enough for him, wouldn't be fittin' for a lady. The rules of frontier etiquette seemed very odd, indeed. Not an hour earlier, this man had pulled down my drawers, exposed my bared buttocks to a room fu
ll of drunken ruffians and strapped me virtually raw, and now, I was to be treated as a lady of genteel sensitivities.
In any case, the bed, while none too clean, looked soft, and we were finally able to bathe in a large cast iron tub in the bathroom down the hall from our room. When I had bathed and washed my hair, I returned to our room where Edward was standing by the window, obviously in a very foul mood. I tried to ignore him, wrapped myself in a large towel and shook out the awful dress to air it over a chair.
Edward walked around the room several times, and looked out the window again to the darkened street. I sat down on the edge of the bed and combed my hair with my fingers. The stained mattress sagged in the middle, and wadding was sprouting from a number of rips and worn spots. "Bill said this was the best hotel in town," I observed as cheerfully as I could.
"It looks like the San Francisco Palace compared to where I spent last night," Edward observed. Since I had spent the night under a box in an alleyway, it was difficult to be sympathetic, but I was extremely eager to lighten the mood.
"I had no idea you'd been to San Francisco," I exclaimed. "Was it as lovely as the slides in our Stereopticon? I have always dreamed of seeing San Francisco, you know. Uncle Herbert went a few..."
"You're trying to change the subject, Abigail, but even after a night with no sleep at all, I can see through it. Your attempt at avoiding the issue at hand is hopelessly transparent."
"And what does that mean?" I snapped.
"Despite my very clear warnings, you opened your idiot mouth and told that blasted man everything."
"And you implied to him that I was insane."
What I did next was, in retrospect, not wise, but at that moment with everything that I had been through, I simply didn't care. I bonked Edward on the head with a flowered chamber pot–an empty one, fortunately, but a chamber pot nonetheless.
Edward leveled an all too familiar look at me. "Since you are already without your drawers, it seems a shame to waste the moment." With that, he removed his belt and pulled me– naked still wet, and shivering–over his knee.