Time Travel Adventures Of The 1800 Club, BOOK I

by Robert P McAuley

long ornate key and said, “Room 203, and I’ll bring yer water up myself.”

  Bill climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, opened the door to Room 203 and entered. It was a dusty room with one window that was dirty except for a circle in the center where the last person tried to wipe away the grime to see out. The window had a poor excuse for a curtain and the walls were covered with wallpaper that sported a flowered print. The furniture consisted of a small wooden table and chair, a single bed, a small washstand with a washbasin and a dented, tin pitcher sitting in it. On the table stood the only light source: a candleholder with half a candle in it.

  He put his bag on the bed, looked at his pocket watch and realized how hungry he was at only five-thirty in the afternoon. I better get some food before it gets too dark to find my way around town, and, he thought as he glanced at the small candle, I think it’s going to be a dark evening.

  A shuffling outside his door announced the clerk with his water. Bill opened the door and saw that the pitcher was half empty from spillage and the towel was damp from the same spilled water. He took the pitcher before the clerk spilled more, poured the contents into the pitcher in the room and gave him back the empty one.

  “Can you tell me which way to Pearls?”

  “Step out of the hotel, go right and cross two streets. It’s on the corner. Say, did I mention we serve food?” the desk clerk asked eagerly.

  “Thanks, I have to meet someone there,” Bill, responded.

  “Oh? Who might that be? I mean, yer new in town, after all.”

  “Just an old buddy.” Bill shrugged his shoulders casually to end the conversation with the nosey clerk and closed the door.

  He washed as well as he could with the small amount of water provided. Leaving his hat and cravat behind, he stepped out to get dinner. Not sure why, but maybe to just be in vogue, he strapped on his pistol and holster, but he let his jacket cover them.

  The evening was warm with a slight breeze once again bringing the smell of horses his way. As he walked in the direction of Pearls, he heard a clanging and came to the blacksmith shop. Bill had to force himself to keep walking past the big man working iron on his anvil. He wanted to stop and watch, but he realized he’d be the only one looking, as it was a common sight for the people of this era.

  He walked past the marshal’s office and saw a tall, slim man with a droopy mustache, sitting on his desktop cleaning a shotgun. Their eyes met, and Bill got a chill. He kept walking but looked back once and saw that the man followed him with his eyes.

  Looking out of place, with crisp, clean linen curtains on the windows, was Pearls. Even if he did miss the ‘PEARL’S FOOD’ printed on the window, he couldn’t miss the aroma of Pearl’s kitchen. The time traveler looked through the window and he saw that the room was about half full. He entered and stood by the door as he might in the New York of his time, then quickly realized there was no Maitre’d to seat you, it was seat yourself.

  The man from the future took a corner table so he could look out the window and observe all around him.

  A white haired, heavyset woman came over and smiled. “Hello, mister. If you’re hungry, we have two pork chops, fried onions, sliced boiled potatoes and corn. Corn bread’ll be ready just about the same time yer about to have coffee. Now, if you just want a small meal, I have a cold, sliced pig’s foot on hard, brown bread. I can pour some hot gravy over it if’n ya like. The dinner’ll cost you one dollar, and the other will cost you twenty cents. What’ll it be, stranger?”

  “I’d like to try your pork chops, ma’am.”

  “Ten minutes,” she said with a smile, “and believe me it’s worth the wait. I killed the porker myself jus’ this afternoon.”

  Bill smiled and picked up a newspaper from the empty table next to his.

  The Dodge City Journal was a local paper and, it stated, ‘Proud of its circulation of three hundred and sixty-five.’ The large headlines screamed, “WYATT EARP TAKES GRAFT” and led into the article that continued, “says Aaron Eddilson, who as you know would be the next marshal if he had his way. When asked for proof, Eddilson stated, ‘Proof? The proof is that he (Earp) has friends all over town asking citizens to vote for him in the upcoming elections. His friends just happen to own the largest stores and companies in Dodge. It is simple arithmetic. They pay him to watch their businesses, and in return he gets the people to vote for him. I, on the other hand, have no one to back me in these elections, and I go on record as saying I do not receive any monies from these groups.’ When asked by this newspaper of his past experiences as a peace officer, Eddilson said he had none, but a person had to start somewhere and he has great ideas for Dodge. When asked to expand on these ideas for our fair city, Mr. Eddilson accused the paper of being one of Earp’s financial backers who would turn these ideas over to Mr. Earp to use for his own benefit. (Ed. Note. This newspaper has never taken nor given favors for any position in the great city of Dodge.)

  “It’s not true, you know.”

  The deep voice startled Bill, and he quickly lowered the newspaper. Facing him was the man from the marshal’s office. He was dressed in a faded black, three-piece suit with a black wide-brimmed hat. His white shirt was sweat-stained around the collar and he wore a black string tie. A long dark mustache framed a strong, square chin. He motioned to the paper. “As I said, stranger, it’s not true.”

  Bill nodded as he put the paper back on the table. “As you said, I’m a stranger in these parts, and I don’t know the facts, so I take your word for it, sir.”

  The man looked at him with steel blue eyes and said nothing.

  Bill returned his gaze and asked, “Did you follow me or are you here for food?”

  The man pushed back his hat and relaxed a bit. “Now, why would I want to follow you? You walked past my office and looked in. Then you looked back. That’s just not done unless a person wants to catch a fellow off guard. You are clean-faced, not the average cowpoke. You have a nice shiny pistol and a handmade holster, not the average store-bought. You walk with a confidence of a man who’s done things. You stepped over and around horse dung with the grace of a man used to dodging opponents in fisticuffs or military combat, yet you are a bit young to have been in the War Between the States. As to whether I followed you here, well, this is the best place in Dodge to eat. Does that answer your question, Mister. . . ?”

  Bill rose halfway out of his chair, put out his hand and said, “Scott, Bill Scott.” The man slowly extended his hand and each tested the other’s grip. Bill continued, “I’m a freelance writer. I came out here from New York City to write about Dodge City. Not the dime novel trash they sell in the cities, but the real story. I did my time with the military, as you said, and I have spent some time in a fighting ring.” He gestured to the empty seat at his table. “And I assume that you are Marshal Wyatt Earp?”

  “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