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 his 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 his time, such as toothpaste and a toothbrush. The overhead, gravity-feed system provided only a slow, warm trickle of water. The toilet was a wooden seat with an open hole that allowed you to see the passing railroad ties fly by, and if you opened the small window to freshen the air, smoke and sparks flew in. Still, he thought, I am back in the 1800s. It’s what I always wanted, and here I am. He straightened his clothes as best as he could in the tiny compartment and smiled to himself. Start every day as though it were the first day of the rest of your life. He unlatched the door and stepped out onto the tight aisle and walked forward to the dining car.
Low wooden partitions surrounded tables that sported white linen tablecloths. Most were taken already, and Bill was surprised at the girth of most of the men. He thought, the people of my time are always crying that we are the fat generation. Well, this proves the contrary. Then again, these people don’t have the benefit of knowing about fats and cholesterol, and indulge as they see fit.
A burly man finished his breakfast and Bill slid into the seat he vacated. Even after noticing the girths of his fellow passengers, he was lured by the smell of fresh bacon, sausage, and eggs with toast smothered in butter. He ate every bit of the breakfast that was set before him and washed it down with two cups of coffee from the smiling waiter. Making sure that there was nobody waiting for a seat, Bill then followed the others by lighting up a cigar. Oh well, when in Rome, he thought as he listened to the various conversations in the car.
The talk was mostly about past trips taken by his fellow riders. So far, the consensus was that this was a good trip. No bison ripping up the track while trying to scratch the itch caused by their new horns, no miles of wild horses crossing in front of them, and no Indians. At least not yet, Bill thought as he settled down to watching the Wild West roll by.
Later that day, at the end of a small town called, Rattlesnake Haven, the train stopped to take on water. The conductor announced that it would take almost an hour so most of the passengers got off to stretch their legs. Bill went into town and was surprised to see that the hot sun kept most of the townsfolk off the streets. Horses stood with their heads hanging low, all tied to rails in front of stores, their tail whipping back and forth chasing flies. One of the places with the most horses out front was the bar, “The Dustoff,” and Bill decided to step in out of the sun.
He stepped through typical, swinging doors and went to a long, wooden bar. It was cooler inside but not by much. Bill thought, well, at least it’s out of the direct sunlight. Not wanting to seem nosey he stood at the bar and used one of the three large mirrors behind it to look around. Most of the round tables were full of card players and many had silver nuggets in front of them. There was an upright piano against the wall and a skinny man with a thin mustache played some songs unknown to the time traveler.
A tall, heavyset man with his black hair parted down the middle asked as he wiped down the bar, “What’s yer poison, friend?”
Bill looked at what two men down the bar from him were drinking and said, “Beer.”
The bartender pumped a long wooden pump-handle attached to a keg beneath the bar and it splashed beer into the large, chipped glass he held beneath the spout. Seemingly satisfied that the foamy head was larger than the yellowish beer, he placed it in front of Bill and said, “Four cents or a pinch of silver.”
“Afraid you’re going to have to settle for the coins, my friend,” said Bill with a grin as he put the coins down. He remembered that the bartenders and other tradesmen in the boomtowns were picked because of the size of their thumbs and index fingers. The reason was simple: if a miner paid in gold dust or silver nuggets, the man with the larger digits was able to get more from the bag the miner carried it in.
He took a pull of his beer as the barman walked to another customer. Hey, he thought, pretty darn good! He saw a sign behind the bar with chalk printing that stated: Pork sandwiches 7 cents or 2 pinches of silver. Ham/boiled or fried-same price. Steak when available-15 cents or 6 pinches of silver. Potatoes or carrots extra.
Bill decided to stay with the proven foods of the railroad and not take a chance with a town that will probably disappear as soon as the silver does. He finished his drink and left to stroll down the main street. Once again it was deserted except for a group of dogs sniffing around. A sharp blast of the train’s whistle told all to get back aboard and Bill walked back down the tracks to the huffing train. He got back as the engineer was shifting the waterspout from the filler cap on top of the train’s engine back to the large, wooden water tank.
Boy, he thought watching something that never takes place anymore in his time, this is the best! I have to start bringing a small camera along on these trips.
Hopping aboard he got to his seat as the train blew its whistle once again and started to roll along. It was a constant battle between the people who wanted to open the windows to fight off the heat and the people with window seats who were burned by the hot sparks as they were sucked into the car.
Relief came after five days when Bill heard the conductor announce that Dodge City, Kansas, was about an hour away. Although it was a fantastic experience, the time traveler was happy to take leave of the train. He reminded himself to bring more underwear next time he took a cross-country trip in this time period. And if possible, another suit, a lightweight one, plus extra socks. Lessons learned, he thought as the hot train slowed to a stop.
Alighting from the train, he saw what passed for a horse-drawn cab and, even though the town was in walking distance he knew it was a chance to get some information, so he waved to the driver, a young boy with long, black greasy hair tucked under a yellowish straw hat that was frayed all around the brim. The shoeless boy jumped down and grabbed Bill’s carrying case. He
was evidently happy to be hired.
“Welcome to Dodge City, mister. Where to?”
“Not sure. Is there a hotel around here?”
“Yessir, the Splinter House,” answered the talkative boy, happy to have gotten a fare, “It’s not really called the Splinter House, it’s the Coronado, but it’s made o’ wood and it’s old and if’n ya’ walk on the front walk without yer boots, ya’ get a splinter.”
Bill smiled. “I’ll make sure not to take my boots off then.”
“Want to go there, mister?”
“If you recommend it, why not?”
The boy beamed at being listened to. Bill took the seat next to him. The youngster pumped the reins and shouted, “Giddyap!
Bill held on tight to the wooden seat as the buggy hit a few ruts and asked, “Tell me, son, do they serve food at the Splinter House?”
“Yessir, but if’n you want good grub, go to Pearl’s on Main Street. She’s a real good cook. And she washes the dishes after every meal. I know ’cause I work there.” He said proudly, “My name’s Timmy.”
“Then Pearl’s it is, Timmy,” said Bill, as he looked at sights seen only in his dreams. He noticed that the boy kept his wagon’s wheels in two ruts that ran down the right hand side of the street and any wagon coming toward them drove in the two ruts on their side. Pretty smart, he thought, ride the groove and have fewer bumps on the wheels. Of course, they probably all disappear after a rainstorm. Then again it doesn’t rain too often here.
Timmy took him to the Coronado Hotel on the main street.
“How much, Timmy?” the time traveler asked as they pulled up in front of the hotel.
The boy removed his hat and held it in his hands as he said with a shrug, “I dunno, mister. Nobody ever rides with me. They mostly jus’ walk ta town.”
“Well, then,” said Bill as he dug into his pocket, “how’s about ten cents?”
Timmy’s eyes bulged as he stammered, “Ah-I mean, well, sure mister. Ten cents is sure okay with me. Are ya sure though?”
“I’m positive.”
“Thanks a whole lot, mister an’ if ya need help getting’ around town, jus’ find me in Pearls.” He tipped his hat, slapped the reins gently and rode off with a big smile on his freckled face.
Bill smiled to himself as he stepped over a dried mud hole and piles of horse droppings to reach the front walkway. Timmy was right, he thought as it creaked beneath his feet, it’s old and worn.
The creaking alerted the clerk as Bill approached the small front desk. The short, chubby man with thick, red sideburns jumped to attention, as Bill dropped his traveling bag on the floor, raising a small dust cloud.
“Yes sir! Welcome to the Coronado. How long ya’ figure on staying?”
“Not sure, a day or two.”
The clerk turned a dirty book toward him and pushed a straight pen and ink bottle forward. “Put yer marker here or just plain put an ‘X’ if’n ya’ need to.”
Bill printed, “Bill Scott.”
The clerk turned the book around again. “Mr. Scott. That’ll be one dollar a night.
Bill counted out three singles and laid them on the counter. The man immediately put the cash in a drawer and said, “Another fifty cents if’n you want a towel and one dollar for hot water for a bath. We serve breakfast and dinner, but it’s not part of the dollar. Ya’ gotta’ pay extra for that.”
Bill put down another half dollar. “A clean towel and I assume there’s cold water available?”
The man grabbed the coins and stuffed them in his pocket rather than the drawer, as he looked around. He handed Bill a 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?”
Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club [Book I] Page 10
