by Keta Diablo
The next shot brooked no warning. It whizzed over Slick’s head.
Okay, going to be that way, is it? Burke put the rifle butt to his shoulder, placed his cheek against the cold wood and sighted down the barrel. The Winchester was a much older model than what he’d grown up with, the sight inadequate. His finger on the trigger trembled. With the coach jouncing over the road, he questioned his ability to shoot straight.
Calm down. You’ve done this before. No problem.
He concentrated, and his hand steadied. He took careful aim and fired high. A warning shot of his own.
An answering bullet whooshed past his left cheek close enough to give him a shave. Another bullet struck the coach. A woman inside screamed.
Damn! These outlaws were crazy serious.
Spook barked and moved restlessly from the floor to the seat and back again, his protective instincts on alert.
Burke fired again and hit a man in the arm. His gun arm.
Confidence returned.
The injured robber cried out and reined in his horse. The others kept coming.
The rattling, bouncing coach caught up and sped past them. Yelling for them to stop, the outlaws fired their weapons, striking the coach. Another terrified screech came from the woman passenger.
Slick snapped the whip.
The angry robbers gave chase.
Burke twisted in his seat to aim at the pursuing gang. A trunk, leather valises, and hat boxes on the baggage rack blocked his view. He turned, set a knee on the seat and clung to the rack with one hand to keep from being flung off.
The man he’d struck in the arm rejoined the gang. Four against one again.
An outlaw rode up alongside the coach, hooked the reins around the saddle horn and stood up on the saddle.
Damn. The man intended to climb aboard. Burke fired at his leg. The shot went wide. He fired again, this time striking him in the thigh. Screaming, the bandit plummeted to the ground.
With two men wounded, the gang fell back.
Another crack of the whip and the coach left them behind.
"Good golly damn, you done it, son!" Slick shouted.
With the shooting over, Spook sat down and pawed Burke’s knee for attention. Exhausted, Burke collapsed on his seat and wiped sweat from his brow with one hand while he petted Spook with the other. His legs shook.
"Whoo-ee!" Slick grinned.
Nausea roiled inside Burke’s stomach. Spook whined in sympathy.
An eternity later, they rounded a curve, and Eagle Gulch came into view.
Named Stubbed Toe at first, the mining town received its final name from the wide draw it occupied amidst high mountain ridges. Main Street followed raggedly along the winding stream the men panned in the early days. When the placer gold played out, and they had begun to dig in the side hills seeking the main veins.
Stores lined the road. Houses sat helter-skelter with narrow lanes zig-zagging one to the other. Several bridges crossed the stream. The new pine-scented structures bore coats of sparkling white paint. Others awaited completion. Tents and temporary shelters sat here and there. Men with pickaxes walked the streets. Piles of trash sat everywhere, even tumbling into the creek.
Burke knew instantly he'd find no Dairy Queen here. He had never stepped foot in this town.
The stage drew up in front of a two-story building. A sign overhead read, "Hennessey's Hotel".
"Eagle Gulch," Slick yelled to his passengers. "This here's the hotel."
Burke stayed put. He had yet to catch his breath and convince himself he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating.
No big rolling cameras, so, not a movie set.
No onlookers meant no reenactment.
Everything appeared too real to be believed.
Three men alighted from the stagecoach. A fourth helped a half-hysterical woman alight.
A clerk wearing a long apron over his vest and trousers, and bands to hold up his sleeves, emerged from the hotel.
"Nearly got robbed," a passenger told him.
"What happened?"
"Had four men after us. Fella up top fought 'em off."
The hotel man looked up at Burke on the coach seat, then at the driver. "Howdy, Slick. Got ya a new shotgun, eh?"
"Just temporary, Abe. Picked him up on the road. Lucky I did." Slick climbed down in time to greet a tall bearded man wearing a tin star on a leather vest.
Something about the lawman struck Burke as familiar, but he didn't have enough use of his brain at the moment to figure out why. Trying to figure out the what, when, and how of all that had happened was all he could deal with at the moment.
False-fronted buildings. Horses switching their tails at hitching posts. Women in bonnets and long dresses.
Burke had seen a bushel of odd things in his time, many most folks didn't believe existed, like ghosts, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined winding up in the 1800s.
As incredible as it might be, though, and as badly as he wanted to disbelieve the conclusion his brain came to, he couldn’t deny the truth.
He had somehow traveled back in time.
Across the street, a sign over a building with a short swinging door said Galloping Goose Saloon. The tinkle of piano music filtered out into the street.
Whiskey sounded good. Lots of it.
A girl in a low-necked, knee-length dress in the doorway crooked a finger at him. He shook his head. A drink was one thing, a woman another. Women meant trouble, especially mixed with booze. Burke had enough on his plate.
Surprised, he watched her saunter across the street to the side of the stagecoach below his perch. He averted his eyes from the deep cleavage visible from his position. She gave him a knowing grin.
"Howdy. I'm Lucy. Sure you don't want a drink, maybe some company?"
She looked pretty in a hard sort of way. Light brown curls rained down her back and over her shoulders. She flicked them back as if making sure her finer attributes showed. A pro.
"Sorry. Have business to attend to." Seemed a good excuse.
Her vermilion-smeared lips pouted. "That's no fun. Come by later?"
"We'll see."
"All right." She kissed her finger and blew it to him, flipped about and marched back to the saloon.
Word of the attempted robbery spread and people gathered to hear the tale. Most were men in suit type coats buttoned to the top and shirts underneath, also buttoned to the top. Burke fingered his open collar, thinking how choked these men must feel all fastened up like that. The few women among them had every inch of their figures covered with fabric, laces, and feathers. Children ran around the outskirts of the crowd, the boys in short pants, girls in long dresses.
Spook moved restlessly and whined beside Burke, eager to get down and make friends with the town dogs.
Burke picked up snatches of conversations and shook his head in amazement.
"Man’s a hero...."
"...a stranger...."
"...good shooter...."
"Saved the stage coach...."
Him, a hero? Even Gabe would find this joke off the charts.
As if he had screamed his partner's name, Burke's watch announced a text. Holy shit. Unbelievable. He brought up the message and shook his head again. Stranger and stranger.
Gabe: Headed to town. Where r u?
Burke: Don't look for me. Not there.
Gabe: ??
What could Burke say? He glanced around to see if anyone noticed his phone. He had no idea why, but suspected modern conveniences like cell phones would be construed as objects of magic and label him a witch.
He studied the town, the towering, naked hills, and the mountain peaks above. Terrain as familiar to Burke as his own hand. Yet different. Here and there, tailings piles a lighter color than the rest of the ground dotted the hills, along with mine buildings and crude roads. Could something about the mines have altered the frequencies, allowing texts to go through?
Burke had no idea. He was just glad for his P.S.I. watch
and its special apps. Maybe Gabe might find an answer to Burke's dilemma.
He texted back: Can’t explain. Stay motel. Contact u later.
A voice interrupted. "Hey, you up there...."
Burke looked down to see the man with the badge motion him down off the coach.
Spook leaped to the boardwalk. Burke took his time. Shaky as he was, he feared falling on his face.
"Who are ya, stranger?" the lawman asked before Burke's boots hit dirt.
"Name's Burke. I'm...." He glanced around. "I'm sort of passing through."
"Sort of?" A bushy pair of salt and pepper eyebrows lifted above intense green eyes. Graying hair hung below his hat. The lawman appeared a bit old for such a job, but what did Burke know? At the age of thirty-two, Burke already had a few gray hairs.
"You have an office where we can talk, Sheriff?" he asked.
"Marshal. Sheriff rules the county. I just guard the town."
The jail stood a few doors down. The street noise quieted with the door shut. The marshal took the chair behind the desk, Burke the one opposite. Another man, short and scrawny, came from an open cell and leaned against the wall a few feet away—a deputy, the badge on his chest proclaimed.
"So, what's your story, son?" the older man asked.
Burke’s head spun as he tried to think what to tell this man of the law. Best stick as close to the truth as possible.
Or not.
Chapter Three
One glimpse of the office and Burke could easily imagine he'd stepped onto a Gunsmoke movie set. "Marshal Dillon," older than the TV version, sat at a desk cluttered with posters, fliers, coffee cups, old-fashioned handcuffs, and an empty ceramic plate smeared with congealed gravy and a few peas. Both marshal and deputy had beards and bushy mustaches, lined faces from days in the sun, and gun belts around their hips. Worn kerchiefs circled their necks. Neither wore headgear, but two wide-brimmed hats hung from wall hooks.
Burke wanted to laugh. He wanted to find the whole situation hilarious but found no humor within him.
The marshal cleared his throat, reminding Burke he awaited an answer.
"Let me ask you a question, sir," Burke said. "I am in Eagle Gulch, aren't I?"
"Yep. Looking for someone?"
"Maybe he's lost, Ted," the deputy suggested.
What explanation could he give for a situation he didn’t understand? He averted his gaze to the cells while his mind churned. Each cell boasted a worn, lumpy cot and a ceramic chamber pot. Thunder mug, Grandma Dorothy would say. "Definitely lost," he muttered.
The two lawmen exchanged glances Burke found impossible to decipher.
"Got a name, son?" the marshal asked.
"Burke."
Another glance full of question marks passed between the lawmen. Burke looked out a window. A man in a buckboard chatted with another on horseback. Horses, carriages instead of cars, old-fashioned clothes—Colorado didn't have Mennonites, did it?
Stop grasping at straws, Burke. Face reality. You're not in a reality show, or on a movie set.
But there has to be a logical explanation.
"Good to meet you. Is Burke your given name or surname?" The marshal pulled a small pouch out of his vest pocket. From it, he took a sheaf of thin business card-sized papers. Holding a paper on one palm, he shook tobacco from the pouch in a line down the middle. After using his teeth to close the drawstring bag, he rolled up the paper with the tobacco inside. A homemade cigarette.
The marshal met his gaze, and Burke remembered the question he'd been asked. Instinct warned against giving more information than necessary, so he left the "son" of the end. "My surname is James."
The deputy took a sulfur match from a small tin container and lit Ted's smoke. A match safe. Burke yearned to own one like it. A great souvenir to show off when he made it home to Denver. If he made it back.
"Want a smoke, son?" the marshal asked.
"No, thanks. Tobacco causes cancer." Idiotic thing to say. Tired suddenly, Burke relaxed in his chair. "I came here, actually, to report a possible missing person."
That got the lawman’s attention. "Possible missing person?"
Burke had a feeling this wouldn’t go well but figured he’d give it a try. "Yes, sir. You see, I went out to the Halstead place tonight with my partner." His brow furrowed at a new thought. "He's kind of missing, too. Anyway, we found a horse on the road, saddled but with no rider. I figured the guy must have been thrown so I mounted up and gave the mare free rein to take me to him. Didn't find anyone, but I thought I should report it."
The marshal took up a pencil and wrote on a pad. "You did the right thing. Tell me about the horse. Markings? Anything about the saddle or tack that might identify the owner?"
"She was a silvery, dappled gray. Young. Well trained."
"I appreciate a man who takes the time to help folks in trouble." The marshal stood up and held out a hand. "I'm Marshal Ted Jameson. Sorry for my manners. Should have introduced myself straight off."
Jameson? Burke stood and accepted the handshake, at the same time searching his memory for a relative named Ted. Unluckily, his memory of family genealogy didn’t extend that far back.
"Do you have brothers who live here?" he asked.
"No. My family’s in Virginia. I’m the only wanderer in the bunch."
Burke motioned to the pot on the stove. "Any coffee in that pot?" He desperately needed caffeine to deal with this confusing quandary he found himself in.
"Hell." The deputy rose and shook it. "This thing's never empty. Just gets a little water and grounds added now and again. Name's Amos. Amos Gibbs."
"Glad to meet you, Deputy Gibbs."
"Here you go." He filled a cup that looked clean and handed it over. "Call me Amos."
"Thanks. I needed this." Burke took a drink. The chill of his long walk faded as the heat seeped through his fingers to his innards. Strong enough to hold a spoon upright, but tasted like Heaven.
"Sun’ll be going down shortly. Be too dark to search for this missing fellow by the time we round up men and get out to the Halstead place." Ted Jameson sat back down. "We'll see to it at first light. That suit you?"
"Sure." Burke sipped again, using his thirst as an excuse to stay silent. Where would he sleep that night? He knew no one here and had no money he dared to use. "Tell me, do you have today's paper?"
"Got the weekly right here." Ted rustled up a battered newspaper from the paraphernalia strewn over the desk and handed it to him.
Burke set down his cup while he searched the first page for the date. And there it was, bold as could be: Wednesday, September 17, 1881. So, the paper at Halstead House was new.
Eighteen-Holy-Hell-Eighty-Shitting-One.
What was he to do now?
"You have a place to stay, Burke?" Ted asked, snatching him from his dark thoughts. "I understand the hotel's full up."
At that moment, clear as glass, Ted Jameson's profile with its patrician nose and high forehead rang a bell in the recesses of Burke's memory. He'd seen that profile on a cabinet card in a tattered shoe box of old family photos.
Theodore Jack Jameson.
Well, I'll be damned.
Theodore—Ted—Jameson, Marshal of these here parts. Burke's own blasted...what? He did some quick math. Ted was his third-great-grandfather, who had made a small fortune mining for gold and retired young.
In 1881.
Burke doubted he'd ever get used to the idea of standing beside a man long dead. How had it happened? There must be some portal to cross through, one Gabe hadn’t encountered. Some connection. To find himself in the past was totally amazing, but to be here with distant relatives from the past seemed too huge a coincidence to have simply happened.
Was someone playing with his life?
Cut it the hell out, damnit.
His thoughts backtracked to the first moment he felt something was wrong. The van dying. The horse from out of nowhere. Riding the mare. The field she had cut across. Burke remembered a ga
te on the ground and the horse trotting over the old splintered wood. It had been immediately after that when he noticed the trees had been cut down. Was that gate a portal into the past? Had that been where he had slipped from the twenty-first to the nineteenth century?
He felt for his watch in his jeans pocket where he’d put it so it wouldn’t draw attention. Still there. If only he'd turned on the special features before he took his ride on the mare.
Great-Granddad cleared his throat.
Oh, yeah, did Burke have a place to stay? Burke swallowed, hoping his face didn’t reflect the level of his shock. "Not really. Make a bed in the woods, I guess. I'm a bit short on cash at the moment." Cash he could spend in 1881, anyway.
"You'll come home with me then. You have supper yet?"
Burke chuckled, a choked sound that lacked humor. "No to that too, I'm afraid."
The marshal stood. "Let's get you to the house then. Mother'll have your belly stuffed in no time. See you in the morning, Amos."
"I’ll be here," Amos said. "Night."
Surreal. Unreal. Supper and a bed under his great-granddaddy's roof.
In 1881.
Mother'll have your belly stuffed.
What was his great-grandmother's name? Kathy? Sadie? Annie? Something with a double "e" sound at the end.
"Amos is my night deputy. Good man." Ted ushered Burke out the door.
"Seemed nice." Spook stood up at the sight of Burke. "This is my dog. Mind if I bring him along?"
"Not at all." Ted bent to pet the Vizsla. "Got a sheep dog myself. The more, the merrier."
"Thanks."
Keep your head on straight, Burke. You're in a totally different world than what you're used to. Be very, very careful.
A dangerous world where would-be robbers jump out from behind buildings with guns blazing. His head began to throb.
Few people would believe his story.
Gabe might, though. Burke needed to text him ASAP.
And find a way to get home.
* * *
Great-Grandfather Jameson lived in a two-story Victorian house twice as big as the Halstead place and far better cared for. A broad veranda with gingerbread decoration fronted the home and wrapped around one side. Out back, Burke saw a stable and other outbuildings. He supposed one of them was the "necessary" house as his widowed grandmother on his mom's side called the outhouse. At eighty-five, she'd developed her own way of saying things. Burke adored her. She would have loved being with him here tonight.
