Over the intercom, the Captain heard the Flight Director, “Six - Five - Four - Three - Two - One. Molecular separation sequences begin...”
Captain Scarburg felt nothing... no movement... no noise on the intercom... nothing; except he was experiencing a slight tingling sensation. “By-ned’ (the Captain’s usual swear word), this darn thing, didn’t work again. Another billion dollars of good ole American taxpayer’s hard earned money shot up a wild hog’s rear end. Hey Rousseau, can you hear me? What is happening? Did something go wrong? Rousseau? Rousseau you there?” He yelled into the headset.
The four inch thick porthole located directly in his front was smoky. He could not see out. “Rousseau? Watkins? I see smoke... is everything okay? Is Pegasus on fire? Someone talk to me... what’s happening.”
DEEP IN A COW PASTURE IN THE HEART OF TEXAS
Suddenly there was a bright flash of white light. Later the Captain would say it reminded him of a thousand flashes of lightening going off at the same time. That was the last thing he saw - he blacked out. How long he was out he did not know. When he awoke the bright light was gone, the tingling sensation had stopped, and the smoke or fog was beginning to disappear from the porthole, but something was wrong. Everything seemed tilted. He felt as if he were sitting on the side of a steep hill. Oh, I was afraid of this - this shift in the space/time continuum has caused a blood vessel to pop inside my head - I’m having a stroke! I must get out, get out, he thought. I only have a few seconds to disrupt the potential assassin. Got to get this hatch open and get out onto the roof! Looking around the inside of the interior nothing was in color - it was as if he were watching a black and white movie. What’s happening? What’s wrong with my eyes? A stroke, yes, that must be it, a stroke. And what is that sound... it’s music... not exceptionally loud, but yes that IS music... say I recognize the song... I’ve heard that before... listen... listen... yes that’s... that’s “Amazing Grace.” Where in the world is that music coming from? By the time the Captain had recognized the soft sounding, beautiful song the bagpipes and drums abruptly stopped.
Flipping the “OPEN” switch the hatch automatically swung wide open, “What the...,” he said out loud as he surveyed the landscape. “This sure isn’t the roof-top of the Texas State Book Depository!”
The time was... was... well Captain Scarburg honestly did not know.
The sight that greeted him was one of trees, grass, dirt, a number of old pumped out oil wells and cows. Dozens of cows with white faces, well, he thought, they looked white, and he was sure they were cows. In fact, he had stepped from Pegasus down to the ground into a fresh pile of cow manure. By-ned - got this contraption finally to work, and I’m still in deep do-do!! Not only am I in a pasture full of cow dung I landed on a tree stump - that’s what caused the tilted feeling inside.
Taking a 360-degree look around he could see nothing - well there were cows and old oil wells, trees and two small ponds, which appeared to be built by beavers. No signs of life, or a house of any kind. With the exception of an old, dilapidated, barn-looking structure, a few hundred feet off toward the north, there was nothing else. I Wonder where I am? He thought. Remembering one of the dials inside the time machine was a GPS indicator he reasoned it would be a good idea to check it out. Before moving he removed his digital camera from his pocket, and snapped a couple of pictures. He had to prove to that genius Ryan Rousseau his computer program was off just a tad.
Searching the sparse winter ground, he found a clump of grass and attempted to remove as much cow manure from his boot as possible, without much success. The five-minute time limit on the hatch closing was about to expire. This forced him to abandon the effort to clean his boot for the moment and climb back inside his traveling abode. Once safely inside he searched the instruments for the GPS dial. Oh yeah, here you are, he said to himself. The reading on the dial was 32 degrees, 64 minutes, 47 seconds North, 96 degrees, 48 minutes, 30 seconds West. That’s not right... no, something is wrong... I have the coordinates written down on a piece of paper in my pocket just for safekeeping, he thought, wiping his boot on a white towel embossed with the letters S.C.A.R. Before finding the information on his note pad, he tossed the soiled towel over into a corner of Pegasus’ flight deck.
Withdrawing the scrap of paper, yes, here it is. The numbers written were 32 degrees, 46 minutes, 47 seconds North 96 degrees, 48 minutes, 30 seconds West. The 46 minutes had been changed to 64 minutes, slight difference in numbers but a long distance in miles. Where in the blazes am I? I must be in Texas it’s too darn flat and full of cows and oil pumps to be anywhere else. But, which way do I go, and by-ned I’ve, probably, missed the shooter on the roof!
Pressing the interior hatch release button there was a swishing noise suggestive of escaping air. The hatch swung open, and the Captain slipped out once again to the grass and dirt. In his hand, he carried his old Army Model 1911 .45 automatic pistol with him. Originally, when the concept of time travel had been discussed SCAR made a draft of rules that time adventurers should observe - one was no modern firearm would be transported back in time. It was too dangerous - the modern ballistic technology could fall into the wrong hands. The Captain knew this rule, but chose to ignore it. He reasoned he might have use of a gun on the roof to dissuade the shooter if need be. Now he needed to hide it. The hatch on Pegasus had closed, and he couldn’t be discovered walking around with a loaded handgun in his pocket. He walked over to a nearby tree and sat down. He leaned back; resting his back against the rough bark he pondered his situation. Okay, he thought to himself, I’ve got a few things to figure out. Where am I? And, which direction do I go to get out of here? And most importantly why was the GPS setting wrong? I wonder if this is the 22nd day of November? It might be, but in what year? He looked as his calendar watch, but of course, it was useless the time was 2:30. The date was 21, and the month was November. His watch was still on the time and date when he left, and besides the crystal was cracked and broken, and the watch was not running. Today was supposed to be November 22nd and the time should be around 12:30... or was it?
Thinking, he tried to analyze the GPS data carefully. Let me think now. If 32 degrees, 46 minutes, 47 seconds North 96 degrees, 48 minutes, 30 seconds West, is Dallas, then that would make 32 degrees, 64 minutes, 47 seconds North north of Dallas. How much? Then 64 minutes minus 46 minutes means I am 18 minutes north of Dallas. If I remember correctly back to my old Army days a minute of latitude, was roughly 1 to 2 miles at 32 degrees latitude. So 64 minutes minus 46 minutes equal 18. So I guess I am somewhere roughly 20 to 40 miles north of Dallas. Hmmm... I didn’t miss the Texas School Book Depository rooftop much! But on the bright side - at least I AM here...I just don’t know where HERE is. Captain Scarburg didn’t know at the time, but Pegasus had plopped itself down in a cow pasture a mile or two northwest of the little Texas town of Celina. Celina was exactly 42 miles north-northwest of Dallas.
All right, now that I know I have to go south my only two questions are ‘which way is south? And ‘how do I get there?’ No sooner had that thought crossed his mind, when he heard what he thought was the sound of an automobile, out of sight over the distant horizon. The trees obscured his view, but if it were a car he heard there must be a road leading to civilization also.
After his reverie against the tree, he got to his feet, discovered a squirrel hole about waist high in the trunk of the tree and hid his automatic pistol inside. He then began breaking the limbs off some small brush growing nearby and covered the Pegasus vehicle, so it would go unnoticed sitting in the grove of cottonwood trees. Everything else was going wrong; he figured Pegasus might not disappear in its allotted five-minute time frame. It was supposed to become invisible five minutes after ‘landing’ but without a watch he figured five minutes had long passed, and the machine was still sitting there in its stainless steel splendor. He was so confused he did not know what would happen next. Dusting off his pants he left Pegasus sitting alone in the pasture, and began walking in the di
rection of the automobile sounds.
Looking up into the cloudless, blue sky the Captain noticed the sun was off his right shoulder. If it’s roughly 1:00 p.m., then a sun on my right means I am walking south. Good maybe I’ll find that road reasonably soon. The stroll turned into a hike and the hike soon became tiring as the Captain trudged through the tall sagebrush, tumbleweed and grass, but no road was to be found.
Chapter Twelve
‘BORROWING’ SOME CLOTHES
What was that he saw? There, off in the distance - a farmhouse. Finally, he thought, civilization. I need a picture, so the folks back home will enjoy my ‘vacation’.
Nearing the old 1890s lap-sided, un-painted, two-storied, wooden dwelling he thought back to those days of yesteryear. Walking toward the house his mind, in spite of his other troubles, couldn’t help but think about the early pioneers. Hearty settlers who homesteaded the wild, savage Texas land, constructed this old home, probably miles from their nearest neighbor, out in practically nowhere, and survived only by the sweat of their brow. How did they live such a desolate existence? Surveying the old weather beaten house and the matching near-by barn Captain Scarburg thought, by-ned, things sure haven’t changed much in the last hundred years! The place was bleak, cold and un-inviting. I hope the people who live here are friendlier to strangers than this place portrays.
The old, worn, weather-beaten front porch creaked as he ascended the dilapidated, wooden, front steps and walked across the rickety boards to the front door. A rusty, torn, screen door barely, hung loosely from its ancient, metal hinges. Tugging on the screen door, he heard the screech of its worn-out spring as he opened it wider and wider. This decrepit spring just re-enforced the fact that everything around this place was aged and shabby.
‘Rap’... ‘rap’... ‘rap’..., the sound his knuckles made as he lightly knocked on the door... no one answered - again he knocked... this time, much harder than before... ‘thump’... ‘thump’... ‘thump’..., still no movement was heard from inside. Walking down the rough planks of the porch, which extended the entire length of the front side of the house, he peered around the edge toward the barn. Nothing! Not a soul was seen. No horses, no dogs, no chickens... nothing. What he did see was an old, well water hand pump and a clothesline with freshly washed clothes left out in the cold, sunny air to dry. At least, he thought, someone actually lives in this decrepit place.
What truly caught his eye were a flannel shirt and a pair of denim overalls with the right knee ripped out. The flannel shirt was red, and the overalls a denim blue, but the Captain with his messed up eyes could not recognize the colors. He didn’t care what color they were; both were just about his size. Regardless, if he were in Texas in November or somewhere else it was getting rather cold, he wished he had a coat, but he was extremely bothered that he still couldn’t see the colors of the clothing or anything else for that matter. That was beginning to alarm him. What was wrong with his eyes?
These two pieces of clothing would allow him to get out of his flight suit. But... he could not just steal them... that wouldn’t be right... but no one was home. The Captain was in a predicament. He had to have these clothes! Why, he thought, had I been so stupid and not realized I should have brought a change of clothing with me?
He went into the barn to change clothes and look for, he didn’t know, something to write with like a piece of paper and a pencil. Maybe something on which to write a note telling whoever lived here he would return and pay for the clothing someday... what was he thinking he didn’t even know what today was. After a thorough search, no paper or pen could be found.
What could he use to make a note? Over in the corner of the barn was a stack of fertilizer in fifty pound brown paper sacks. The name on the sacks read: “Bulldog Granulated Ammonia Nitrate 34-0-0”, Perfect, I can write on a part of the paper sack! Now a pencil, a pen...he laughed...a typewriter or a computer would be agreeable. Fumbling around on the farmer’s workbench he found a half empty can of graphite that had been used to lubricate locks and hinges. An idea hit him... oil... are there any oil cans here. He looked and looked, but no oil could be found. What type of man is this farmer? He is too neat. He properly discards his used cans! Wait the tractor - tractors have oil. I can get oil from the dipstick. Not much but I don’t need much.
Back out in the barnyard the Captain walked around, bent over searching intently for something on the ground. What was he looking for? I’ve Got you... you little devil! He reached down and picked up an object. What? What did he find? It was a chicken feather! Now I have everything I need, he thought racing back into the barn. Using a lid from a Mason jar as a container he mixed a small amount of the powdered graphite with a drop or two of oil from the tractor’s dipstick and made himself, a fairly, respectable black ‘ink’. After tearing off a piece of fertilizer sack, he dipped the end of the feather into his homemade ‘ink’ and on the back of the paper he wrote:
“I borrowed a shirt and a pair of your overalls. I will return when I can and pay you $100.00 for them.” Signed: A desperate man.
Grabbing the piece of the paper sack he hurried from the barn back to the front porch. Jumping the three steps with one bound he crossed the porch to the front door. Opening the screen he placed his note between the screen door and the wooden doorframe. Surely the family will see this when they return, he thought to himself.
He noticed the dirt driveway was covered with automobile tracks. This must have been where I heard the automobile. As his eyes followed the driveway away from the house, he saw it intersected with a road. What... a road? A real road... a road cars travel on... now I can get out of here. Walking down the dusty driveway he heard a slight rumble of thunder off to... off to... which direction did it come from? Okay, the late evening sun is to my rear. That is west, so I must be walking east. That thunder was off my right shoulder, so it is coming from the southwest. As he neared the road at the end of the driveway, the wind was beginning to pick up a bit. It will be raining, in a while, I suppose.
The time was... was... well, he still didn’t know.
Chapter Thirteen
CLEM AND PENELOPE
As he was leaving the old farmhouse he did not notice the breeze had increased enough to allow the screen door to swing open ever so slightly. Slightly was all that was needed to allow his note to escape, fly off the porch and be whisked away on the currents of the brisk wind. Believing Dallas was south of his current location Captain Scarburg walked from the farmers yard, took a right onto the dusty, dirt road, and in an hour or so encountered a more traveled, graveled road. Turning right he took his first steps towards Big D as the wind began to freshen a bit in anticipation of the impending thunderstorm.
He had not walked far down the country road when he heard the crunching of gravel; a vehicle was approaching from his rear. Turning he could see it was an old, dirty, rust eaten, 1955 F-600 Ford wrecker. Both the driver and the truck were a perfect match. This, so called truck pulled up beside Captain Scarburg and a gnarly cowboy stuck his head out the passenger’s window. All the Captain could see was the brim of an old, brown, sweat stained, tattered cowboy hat.
“'Hou-dee! Where yew headin’?”
“Dallas.”
“Dallas huh? Mister you must have some mighty good hooves stuck in them there brogans if’en yer plannin’ on walkin’ the hole way.”
“How far do you suppose Dallas is from here?” inquired the Captain.
“I won't say it's fer, but I had to grease the wagon twice afore I hit the main road,” he said snickering. “But it’s really plum near forty miles of bad road. Dog gone, gotta get my gitar out when I git home, that would make a fine name for me a new tune ‘Forty Miles of Bad Road’, but feller I ain’t headin’ that fer, but yer wellcome to climb aboard and ride as fer as I’m agoin’.”
“Yeah, thanks mister. I sure would appreciate a ride,” Captain Scarburg said opening the passenger side door and stepping up into the cab of the wrecker. He tried to avoid the end of
a spring sticking out of the seat, but, unfortunately, he could not. It was positioned right where he had to sit. Thinking to himself, I don’t know which is worse - the walking or this spring! However, the cab of the truck did contain an intriguing object – sitting next to the driver was the most beautiful, miniature dog the Captain had ever seen.
“Mister! Did you call me mister? Feller... afore we move another inch my Pap was Mister - you jest call me Clem. Well all full my names Clemson, but nobody calls me Clemson, not even me, and this here is Girl,” Clem said motioning toward the dog. We got’er from a neighbor, and I never got around to givin’ her a name. Whats your’n?”
“My ‘urine’! What? Oh, ‘your’n’, you’re asking my name? Okay... uh... Clem I’m... I’m... uh... uh... John... John Doess nice to meet you Clem, and you too Girl.” At the mention of her name, the dog moved over from Clem and rested her head in the Captain’s lap. He stroked her head and rubbed his hand up and down the soft, silky, sable and white hair on her back. What a magnificent animal, he thought.
“Would you mind if I could ask you a couple of questions Clem? But before I ask my questions, I know it is none of my business, but your miniature collie ought to have a proper name.”
“Yeah, I know’s John, I jest ain’t got around to givin’ her one yet. You got any idees?”
“She is such a gorgeous, elegant looking little dog Clem, how about ‘Lady’? It fits her to a tee.”
“As fer as Girl’s name I like ‘Lady’, believe you’re right, a dog ought to have a proper name – I’m gonna make that her name from now on. ‘Lady’, yeah, I like that, but one thang, she ain’t no collie, shes a Shetland sheepdog.”
Justification For Killing Page 11
