Time Travel Adventures Of The 1800 Club, BOOK I
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beat around the bush on things, but now we are pressed for time.”
“Mr. Roosevelt, the pleasure was all mine, believe me.”
They walked out the door, and Roosevelt disappeared into a crowd of dock leaders.
Bill walked back toward the building that housed The 1800 Club in 2011. He was puzzled. The books I read on Roosevelt said he was not only a close friend of Bat Masterson’s, he thought, but also that they used to sit around talking military strategy. I just don’t understand it. From all I’ve read about Masterson, he was a man full of confidence and it rubbed off on his friends, so maybe by not meeting him, Roosevelt simply followed his upbringing and took the safest routes in life.
He stopped and headed toward a newspaper stand. This stand is already looking old, thought Bill, as he fished for change. He looked over the available periodicals. The old man who evidently owned the stand leaned out and watched him as he thumbed through the Police Gazette and a few others.
“What’cha looking for, mister?” the man asked.
Bill looked up, “Um . . . I’m not sure. Do you carry Wild West stories?”
“Another cowboy admirer,” the man mumbled, as he reached over his head to an inside section. He passed three magazines to Bill. “Here. I got ’ta keep ’em inside ’cause these kids read ’em without paying. I got’a make a living, too, I tell ’em. But do they care? No. They just want to know what’s going on ’cross the continent. They can all go and stay there if ya’ ask me.”
Bill nodded in agreement to keep him talking. “Do any of these have Bat Masterson stories in them?”
The old man took off his knitted cap and scratched his head. “Bat Masterson, ’ya say? Don’t know if I heard of him. Is he a new one? They seem to get new cowboys every time I turn around. Is he a white hat or bad guy in a dark hat?
“Ah, I believe he wears a white hat,” Bill said, as he thumbed through one of the pulp magazines. “I hear he’s a lawman.”
“Well, he better be quick on the draw out there, ’cause if’n he ain’t, he ain’t gonna be in them books too often.”
Bill nodded again. “How much for the three?
“Gimme twelve cents and we’ll call it even.”
Bill paid for the magazines, rolled them up and put them in his pocket as he headed uptown and home.
DATELINE: 2011, PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK
Bill ate alone in his living room that evening as he read the stories in the magazines he had purchased that day, or rather, that day over one hundred years ago. He pushed back his plate and stared out the window at the New York of today. The magazine he had purchased spoke of Annie Oakley and her shooting abilities, Wild Bill Hickok and Jesse James, but not a word about Bat Masterson.
Bill pondered: Could this be the reason that Roosevelt was a changed man? Masterson was a big influence on him. What if they didn’t hit it off? What if they never met? Bill lit a cigar and paced the floor. Matt came in and removed the dishes. He saw that Bill was in a quiet mood and left him to his thoughts.
According to the Roosevelt he spoke with, the Governor never met the lawman. Bill flopped down on a large, comfortable 1848 couch. He flicked his ash into an upright ashtray and came to a decision. I have to meet Bat Masterson. And I have to go soon because this is getting eerie. He booted up his computer and typed into the search engine: Bat Masterson: Timeline.
He scrolled down the cowboy’s timeline. Bill found that Masterson was in Dodge City, Kansas, in 1875 and was recruited by Wyatt Earp as his deputy marshal.
He called Matt. “I’m making another trip tomorrow, Matt, and I’ll need two hundred U.S. dollars, from the 1875 period.”
Matt asked, “Will you be gone long, sir? The club will be open tomorrow.”
“Not sure. It’ll run without me for a day or two.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Oh, and another thing, Matt. I’ll make out a list of clothes I’ll need, along with a Colt pistol and holster. And I’ll need about thirty rounds with it. I’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning.”
“Very well, sir.”
The next morning Bill tried on a dark outfit with scuffed boots that Matt had provided from the club’s large and ever evolving clothing section. His clothes were well worn and his pistol and holster looked used, as well. He studied his image in the full-length mirror as Matt held a long, black range-coat and a ten-gallon, black, cowboy hat.
“Sir, did the fellows on the wrong side of the law really wear black hats?” Matt queried.
“No, Matt. That’s stuff that the pulp magazines printed for the cities on the East Coast.”
Matt handed him the 1875 bills and the coat, which Bill put on. He then placed the money in his billfold and satisfied, changed back to his three-piece brown suit and packed his western outfit in a light carpetbag, carrying case.
“Have a safe trip, sir.” Matt said, as he watched Bill open the door to the past.
“Will do, Matt. See you soon,” Bill replied. He went down the stairs and out into the garden of 1875.
DATELINE: 1875 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK
Bill stood by the gate until a horse-drawn cab strolled into view, and he hailed it.
A big mustached man wearing a frayed top hat looked down from his high seat and asked “Where to, sir?”
“I need to catch a train to Kansas,” Bill answered. “What would be the best way to go?”
The driver scratched his chin as he said; “I’ll take you to the ferry to New Jersey. From there, you can catch a coach and sleeper to as far west as the weather or them Indians let it go.”
“That’s all I can ask for,” quipped Bill as he placed his bag into the cab’s interior, stepped on the iron rung and into the well-worn cab.
It was a thirty-minute, bumpy ride on the cobblestone streets and Bill was all-eyes as he passed places he had seen only in the 1800s club library. He was happy when the cab pulled over to the curb as the horsehair-stuffed seat had been flattened by many passengers before him making it feels as though he had sat on a wooden board for the whole ride.
The ferry ride was an adventure itself with bucking horses and drivers trying to calm them down as they all jockeyed for the best position . . . it reminded him of the chariot race in the movie, ‘Ben-Hur.’ The ship rode low in the water, its single tall stack belching thick, black smoke, and Bill thought the other steamers came a little too close at times. He marveled at the sight of the much lower New York City skyline but was glad when the trip across the Hudson River was over.
Bill had asked a deckhand the best way to the train station, and found that it was attached to the Ferry Terminal. Finally, he was at the station and in front of the ticket counter.
A very efficient man behind a small window sold him a ticket that stated in small type: “The holder of this ticket may ride all the way to Kansas on this railroad company line, and if they must change for another line, because of weather or Buffalos, this line will honor the seat or the sleeping quarters he has paid for.”
The ticket agent said the price for the entire trip was seven dollars and the train was being fired up, so Bill could board immediately on Track 2.
The time traveler carried his gear out to the train and couldn’t help but stand in front of the large engine, as he looked wide-eyed at what he thought to be an oversized Lionel train set. My gosh, he thought, I feel like a kid on his birthday. This is for real!
The train belched steam and groaned as the boilers waited to send power to the big steel wheels. He watched as a man dressed in coveralls, oiled the gear that connected the wheels. The engineer actually wiped the condensation that formed on the sides of the engine. What pride these men have for their train, he thought as he watched them perform their maintenance on their version of the family automobile. Bill was brought back to reality by the call, ‘all aboard.’ He ran down the wooden platform and stepped up onto a short steel staircase that brought him into the car.
The conductor checked hi
s pocket watch and waved to the engineer as he stood with one hand on the steel handrail and the train started with a sudden lurch followed by a smoother acceleration as the man swung up and onto the step.
Bill entered the car and was immediately surprised by the dark interior. The walls were painted a dark brown and tan and the windows were too dirty to allow direct sunlight. Not the crew’s fault, thought Bill as he got a closer look at the windows, the soot from the engine has permanently darkened them. Because of the fear of lit embers entering the cars, all the windows were closed. The seats were overstuffed, yet hard, and businessmen puffing cigars filled most of them. In a very short time, the entire car was a smokehouse.
It had been a long day, and the smoke-filled car helped Bill decide it was time to turn in. He asked the trainman to show him his sleeper and was thankful the sleeping car was two back from the smoker. He removed his shoes and hung them on a peg on the small berth’s wall, then lay down with his clothes on. Bill then pulled the curtains closed and even though the bed was as hard as the seats, went right into a deep sleep lulled by the clickty-clack of the wheels on the rails.
The rocking motion that put him to sleep also woke him the next morning. The engine purred and the steel wheels clacked on the rails as the springs rocked the cars like a boat on the high seas.
Bill went into the small washroom that was at the end of each car and was glad he had decided to bring a few items from