Time Travel: Recent Trips

by Paula Guran

  Meanwhile Ike was muttering threats to anyone who'd listen and knocking back whiskey.

  Around noon I looked at my goose-egg watch and knew that about now Marshal Virgil Earp was being awakened by Deputy Marshal Andy Bronk, after all too little sleep. "There is likely to be Hell, Virgil," Bronk would tell him. Virgil, his head pounding, would go out to see about all these threats made against himself and his brothers.

  Minutes later Virgil found Ike outside the very saloon I was in—I watched the encounter through the window. A cold wind was blowing, searching through the half-open door, when Virgil stepped up behind Ike and grabbed the Winchester. Ike snatched at his pistol and Virgil neatly "buffaloed" him, cracking his own six-shooter over Ike's head, knocking him down. (My historian's heart was pounding—that was Virgil Earp himself, a big man in a dark suit with a bushy ginger mustache, and the slender man with the black mustache joining him was his younger brother Morgan!)

  "I heard you were hunting for me, Ike," Virgil said, staring down at the fallen Ike.

  "I was," Ike said, holding his head. "And if I'd seen you a second sooner you'd now be dead."

  "You're under arrest for carrying firearms within city limits."

  I knew what would happen then. Ike would be dragged by Virgil and Morgan Earp into Judge Wallace's court. There'd be an altercation there, with Wyatt Earp arriving and calling Ike a "damned dirty cow thief," and adding, "You have been threatening our lives and I know it."

  "Fight is my racket, and all I want is four feet of ground," Clanton would respond.

  The judge would merely fine Ike, and his weapons would be sent over to his hotel room. As the Earps left the court, they'd encounter Tom McClaury outside, who'd come to check on Ike. Earp would demand to know if McClaury was heeled, and McClaury would say that he'd fight Earp anywhere, if he wanted it. Still furious from the encounter with Ike, Wyatt would pistol-whip Tom McClaury for his impertinence, knocking him to the ground. And so the fury on both sides would build.

  Billy Claiborne would find Frank McClaury and Billy Clanton at the bar of the Grand Hotel and tell them that Wyatt had pistol-whipped Tom—

  That was it! That's where Billy would be, having come in with Frank McClaury. The Grand Hotel. From there, trying to avoid trouble with the Earps—who after all were local lawmen—Frank McClaury would take Billy to the OK Corral to get their horses. At the OK Corral they'd encounter Tom McClaury, his head bandaged, with the same idea, and then Ike, who'd unknowingly doom them with his drunken nattering about the Earps, keeping them in the vacant lot next to Fly's Photo Gallery and the OK Corral a few minutes too long.

  And local men, having heard talk of a gunfight all night and day, would see the Clantons and McLaurys gathered near the OK Corral, talking earnestly, Frank and Billy with hands on their guns, and suppose them making ready to fight the Earps. And those helpful townsmen would warn the Earps and Holliday that the outlaws were massing for a fight—when in fact they were probably going to leave town—and the Earps and Holliday, assuming Ike's threats were real, would come marching down the street to "make a fight."

  And a few minutes later, in a gunfight lasting about thirty seconds, three men would be shot dead by the Earps and Holliday: Frank McClaury, Tom McLaury, Billy Clanton. In Billy's case, it took him a while longer than the others to die.

  That's how it would happen, inexorably—unless I could get Billy Clanton out of the line of fire.

  I made my way to the Grand Hotel, getting there before Billy and Frank arrived. I ordered a sarsparilla—no one looked askance at that, for it was still early—and watched the doorway.

  Could I really bring myself to do it? Rather than witnessing this cornerstone of gunfighter history, I'd be interfering with it—perhaps stopping it. Sending up perturbations in the flow of time. Affecting history, perhaps, in bigger ways than I intended—for all I knew, Billy Clanton, if he lived, might get it into his head to assassinate a president, some day.

  Unlikely. These were minor players on the stage of history. No great large-scale change would come about.

  But the urge to witness the gunfight was strong. Perhaps I could witness it as it had been known to happen—and then come back again, and change it next time. Perhaps . . .

  But here was Billy Clanton, walking through the door, coming into the room with me. I knew him instantly—and I saw echoes of my Becky in his face. I could not let him be shot down. I could not forget my mission to save Becky. He was a living reminder of my purpose.

  Both men were dressed in suits for a visit to town, Frank's a bit too small for him, Billy's a tad too large. Billy was but nineteen years old—a freshfaced boy, smiling, glad to be in town.

  The smile would fade when Claiborne came in, with news of Wyatt Earp's pistol-whipping of Tom. I had to intercept Billy quickly—tell him that I was a friend of his brother Ike, and Ike was out in the alley with urgent news, wanting to see him alone. I'd take him out there and bring out the ether I'd bought at the apothecary's, and I'd grab him from behind, dose him before he knew what was up, drag him somewhere and keep him safe there. Maybe the gunfight would go on without him, maybe not, but he would be safe.

  I strode over to him—Frank a dark, bearded man; Billy a hulking, freshfaced youth taking off his Stetson, wiping dust from his eyes. "Blowin' out there, mister. Say, do I know you?"

  "Why, no, sir. My name is Wells. I have lately become a business partner with your older brother, Mr. Isaac Clanton—and he waits without. He has information he would impart to you, and only to you."

  "Ike and me have no secrets, mister," McClaury rumbled.

  "Well, sir, he was hoping you would watch the front door . . . For the Earps are coming."

  "Are they now? And I'm to watch for them? So be it. But keep your hand on your Colt, Billy, you don't know this man."

  Billy shrugged and gestured for me to lead the way. My heart hammering, one hand going into my pocket for the bottle of ether, I led the way out the back, into the dirt alleyway. Billy came out alone with me. And stared at the man waiting there—we both stared at him. I was more shocked by the man's presence than Billy was.

  It was myself. Dressed just as I was. The only difference was, this version of me, of Bill Washoe, had not shaved in a day or two, and his hair looked lank.

  "What the blue blazes have we got here?" Billy said wonderingly. "Your twin! And I never saw two men more alike. And where's my own brother? What's afoot?" His hand went to his gun.

  "Ike will meet you at the OK Corral," said the other, unshaven Bill Washoe. "There's been a change my twin here didn't know about. You'll talk with Ike there. It's an emergency—you boys are in danger!"

  Billy backed away from us, not wanting to turn his back till he had to— then he hustled through the door. "Frank!" he shouted, as he went in. "We got to go to the OK Corral!"

  I was too busy staring at myself, this other version of myself, too busy trying to cope, to interfere with Billy. Finally I managed, "What . . . uh . . . ?"

  "I'm you," I said, stating the obvious with an apologetic shrug. "From a little bit in your future—your future a little later than the Bill Washoe of 1976 that you were, when you came here. I tried to get here earlier in the day but somehow—I was drawn here, and now. Probably by you. There's some kind of psychic magnetism between us—and you reached some kind of peak intensity here when you interfered with Billy. This is the point where you started changing events."

  Bill Washoe of 1976! The wooden walls of the buildings around us wavered, and began to seem distant. The sounds from the street became murky, distorted . . .

  "Don't!" I said. "I am here—here in October 26th, 1881!" I looked down the alley to the side street and saw a buggy going by with a lady in a bustle sitting up very straight in it, buggy whip in hand. 1881. Renewed by my focus on that distinct feature of the time, the alley reified, became more definite.

  The later me made a suggestion. "There's a secret Collier didn't know, for staying in the past—pain." He . . . the
other I . . . raised his hand and I saw he had a badge in it, an antique U.S. Marshal's badge from this era—he'd held it so tightly it had bloodied his hand. He squeezed it there again so that fresh blood dripped. "Once you're in the past, pain fixes you there, if you sustain it." He tossed me a similar badge. I caught it. "Squeeze it till it hurts, cuts your hand. That'll keep you as I tell you what I must."

  I squeezed it till the pain came and he went on: "Billy stayed with Isabella, because of what I did—what you want to do—and her son stayed with his wife and so on. And Becky's father stayed with the family. That much you accomplished. Some behavior is imprinted—but some is inherited. Like the tendency to cruelty. And it can be carried on both by imprinting and genes. Billy abused Isabella and the boy abused his wife and child and . . . and Becky's father carried it even farther."

  Blood was dripping from my hand . . . 1881 stayed firmly in place, stuck on the thorn of my pain . . . and my growing fear.

  "He raped Becky." The two of me said it, together. As I realized and he simply explained. He spoke on, alone: "When I . . . when you . . . got back from Tombstone, it was hard to find Becky. I established that she hadn't committed suicide—but where was she? We were no longer married. But she was out there, alive somewhere—I found her in Phoenix, found her by harassing her sister till she told me what had happened to her. Sandra got away from the family before the father returned from jail—and it seems Becky's dad made her his little sex slave. Eventually she ran away, only to become a junkie. To pay for the heroin she fell into prostitution. She was stoned out—so she wasn't careful. She got serum hepatitis, and syphilis. Got very sick—very, very sick—and when I left the future to come back here again, she was dying . . . dying very slowly. It was too late to treat the syphilis and she was . . . Oh, God, she would have been far, far better off dead." The other Bill Washoe swallowed and went on. "I came back to stop you from saving Billy. If you'd left it alone, she would have had some happiness. And it would have ended quickly, at least, in that empty swimming pool . . . "

  I stared. "I don't care," I said at last. A terrible momentum was on me. My sense of purpose had a life of its own. "I can go back to our time—I can perfect time travel and I can go back to save her from her father and . . . and . . . "

  "No, no you can't. I've tried. You can't travel in time endlessly—you go mad if you do. Maybe I have gone mad. I'm not even sure I'm talking to you now. You seem real enough . . . I mean—I seem real enough . . . "

  I shook my head emphatically. "I'm not going to lose my focus. I'm going after Billy and I'm going to save him. Stop him from the OK Corral fight. Then I'll do something about her father—I'll save her from that life too. I'm going after Billy now—don't try to stop me." I started for the OK Corral.

  "No!" The other, later Bill Washoe stepped in front of me. He was reaching for his pistol . . .

  I drew mine first. I outdrew myself. I think I—he—had been drinking . . .

  And I shot him down. Shooting myself down felt kind of good, really.

  The other Bill Washoe lay there in a pool of blood . . . I was aware of the portly, aproned bartender coming to the door behind me, staring.

  The dying man looked up at me and said, hoarsely, "You slowed Billy down already . . . you, trying to stop him . . . from before . . . time has an inertia . . . it's . . . psychic, what we do. Our minds will . . . and you will . . . you must . . . "

  He didn't finish saying it. His eyes went glassy and his let out a final breath—and died. But I soon knew what he was trying to say. Because in a few moments I felt a long, icy shiver pass through me, as his consciousness left him . . . and merged with mine.

  We were the same person. The same soul. The spirit has its own thermodynamics, its own "law of conservation of matter"—so our souls merged. And I knew what he knew. What he'd been through, since he'd gone back to our time, poured into me, when our souls combined. His memories became mine.

  And the most aching of his memories asserted itself: Rebecca Clanton lying in the hospital bed, covered in sores, foaming at the mouth, her face the color of rancid butter, her wrists raw in the restraints, as a droning doctor explained that it was too late for her, too late.

  It would be a slow, horrible death. A murder, really—by her father. By extension. And maybe, by me. Maybe I'd murdered her with my interference.

  I saw the other Bill Washoe had been right. I knew what had to be done. I had slowed Billy Clanton down, interfered with the original pattern. Things would be a little different. He would be a little later getting to the OK Corral, and even more on his guard now. Maybe he wouldn't die in the gunfight . . .

  I ignored the shouting bartender, and I ran to the OK Corral.

  The OK Corral was actually a long strip of land between Allen and Fremont Streets. I ran through the corral, past horses and water troughs, and climbed the fence, coming to the narrow strip alley behind Camillus Fly's Photo Gallery, a small building that stood behind Camillus Fly's Boarding House. I still had my gun in my hand—and I saw the two parties lined up in the eighteen-foot-wide lot, with Tom McClaury to one side, standing behind a horse, his hand on a Winchester in its saddle scabbard; Doc Holliday, a small ash-blond man with a black mustache, bringing a shotgun from under his gray cloak; beside him were Virgil, Morgan—and there was Wyatt, with a droopy sandy mustache: a tall, almost skinny man in a long black coat, wide-brimmed black hat. He was just pulling a pistol from his coat as Billy Clanton—not standing where I thought he'd be, historically, but now half hidden behind a post—drew his pistol and fired, at the same time as Earp. But Earp fired at Frank McClaury, hitting him in the stomach—McClaury already had his gun out, while Ike Clanton shrieked that this must stop, and he tried to grab Wyatt Earp's gun hand, saying he was not armed himself, and Earp shouted, "The fight has commenced! Go to fighting or get away!" and shoved him so that Ike turned and stumbled into Fly's Boarding House, as the wounded McClaury shot Virgil in the leg, knocking him down, and Doc fired at Tom McClaury with the shotgun before Tom could get that Winchester free, hitting him twice, then dropping the shotgun to pull a silvery pistol which he fired at Billy—

  But the bullets hit the post, and Billy wasn't hit yet—my interference had been just enough. He was going to get away! He was turned sideways—and he was aiming carefully at Wyatt Earp . . .

  Firing from the corner of Fly's Photo Gallery, out of sight of the Earps and everyone else, I shot Billy Clanton, twice.

  I shot the son of a bitch down myself. Saw him spin and fall.

  Then I drew back under cover and let go of the bloody badge, and as the pain ebbed, I thought about 1976. I thought about disco, and hollow-eyed Vietnam vets . . .

  The last of the shooting died away. Billy was lying on the ground screaming in pain . . . his voice becoming distant, distorted . . . the wall beside me wavered . . . and then became solid again. And it stayed that way.

  I looked around, and realized that I was going to stay in this time. Pain and time and my interference and thus intertwining with this time, perhaps, had fixed me here.

  There was shouting from the lot beside Fly's Boarding House. Someone was saying, "Was there shots, too, from back there?"

  I turned and stumbled away, around the corner, through the Corral, between buildings, almost blindly . . . till I found myself approaching a group of men behind the bar where I'd shot . . .

  Where I'd shot myself dead.

  I expected to find them marveling at the bartender's story—how a man had shot his twin and the twin had vanished. For surely the body would not remain in this time.

  But there it was—six men turned to stare at me, and the portly bartender pointed. "Why, it's the killer himself! Look at his face and the man dead before you! He is the spitting image! He has killed his own twin brother!"

  "They even wear the same clothing!"

  Guns were pointed at me then and, numbly, I dropped my own.

  Now I sit in the territorial jail awaiting execution. The gallows has l
ong been built—I watched from my jail cell window as they used it for a couple of renegade Apaches just last week. I have asked for this sheaf of paper and this pen so that I may write this account, to seal in an envelope and give to the exasperated man appointed as my lawyer. I wish I had the clip from the Nugget to include—but it exists in my own time. Old West historians routinely read the pioneer newspapers, and I remember once, in my time, reading in the Nugget, with some bemusement, about the man who killed his own twin, in Tombstone, and how the man would say only, "Is it a murder for a man to kill himself? I cannot explain, gentlemen, you would not understand." I said the same yesterday, and never remembered the article till I spoke those words. The story about twin murdering twin had been buried in all the excitement about the "OK Corral fight," scarcely noted. I'd assumed the article a fabrication, not uncommon in frontier newspapers, in the effort to amuse the public. Especially when it was revealed that neither man had identity papers and the surviving man would not reveal his name. Surely it was a story someone had made up.

  I chuckled then—and I laugh sadly, now, thinking about it.

  I will ask my lawyer to send this to a certain library archive in San Diego, which exists even in this time, the envelope addressed to "Doctor Crosswell"—who does not yet exist—in the hopes it may find its way to him someday. Someone should know what I shared, and didn't share, with Richard Collier. Not just time travel—but love lost.

  Perhaps there's an afterlife. Perhaps I'll meet Becky there, her burden lifted at last.

  The only thing certain, though, is that at dawn they will hang me for murdering myself.

  I might've made up a story about my psychotic twin, and shooting him in self-defense, to save my life—a gun was found on him, after all. But I didn't have the heart for it. You see, Bill Washoe was an arrogant man, who did too little for the woman he loved when she was alive; who did all the wrong things once she was gone. So I was glad to shoot Bill Washoe dead. And it will be a good thing when he has been marched to the gallows and hung.