"You're saying we've run into a second possibility of time travel?"
"Maybe the third."
"Third?"
He nodded, "What about that scream and the footprints that just disappeared into the forest?"
"You mean what if that were someone who just disappeared into time?" When he nodded, Heather forced a sardonic smile and quipped, "I think I liked it better when it was just a pervert or a Peeping Tom."
Chapter Eight
October 27, 1869
Frank Hollis slammed his Bowie knife down in disgust and the point dug deep into the wooden table. It swayed there ever so slightly for just a moment, as if Frank's anger still existed in the blade. The looks in the eyes of the other men in the room made one think they were thinking the same thing as they looked at the knife.
Frank demanded, "You mean to tell me I send out five big, strapping men to get rid of one lousy hard rock miner and you come back with nothing."
"Well," Ketchum started to object.
Hollis interrupted him, "I take that back. You didn't exactly come back with nothing! You came back as four men with the fifth one riding face down across his saddle. You also brought back three bullet wounds and a knife scar between you. Only Ketchum here was either smart enough to keep from getting scraped, or he rode in the back on the attack and in the front on the retreat."
Except for the fact that Ketchum couldn't take Frank any day of the week, even with an advantage, he might have spoken up. As it was, he was trying to figure out a way to slip off from this group but was afraid Hollis would track him down and kill him. Hollis's assessment had been fairly accurate.
Frank Hollis, wanted in Texas for murder and suspected of like crimes in other places, pulled the knife out of the table. Gesturing with it casually, as if it were just a twig or piece of grass, asked, "Dillon, I ain't heard much from you. Why don't you explain to me real calmly what happened? And don't leave out anything, all right?"
The bullet hole in Dillon's shoulder felt like it was on fire, and he didn't feel much like talking. Still, he couldn't have taken Frank Hollis with much more chance of success than Ketchum even when he wasn't carrying lead, so he cleared his throat. "Well, boss," he began slowly, "It was like this. We dressed up like Ute Indians, just like you told us to. Even put brown paint on our faces and hands like you said. War paint, them leather skins you stole from the trading posts, the whole bit. I seen Injuns before, Boss, and we looked just like 'em.
"Anyhow, we come up on that miner, Stillwell isn't it? His dog heard us or smelled us or something and set up a racket. Stillwell, he grabs his gun and starts running for his camp up on the hill. Smart man would have stayed put, so we figured we had 'im.
"He had a head start but we wasn't worried, though. We had horses and he had a long run to make it to that camp of his on the hill. 'Cause, see, we caught him down on the stream just like you planned. Well, anyway, he grabs his rifle, levers a quick shot in our direction, then starts to hot foot it across that little meadow. He made it to the trees, but we was right behind him.
"Him being on foot and us being on horses, he put a little ground betwixt us'n him while he cut through the trees; but I figured it wasn't going to do him no good. There weren't no where for him to hide in them trees and he was going to have to cross that other meadow before his camp. So we stayed back and let him get ahead.
"When he hits that meadow a running, I figure we'll give him the chance to get half across it before we come a foggin' it." Dillon, not the brightest of any company he had ever kept, smiled as he related, "When we come out of them trees, a hooting and hollering like honest to goodness injuns, you could see him go white to the gills. We roars out across there and he knows there's no way he can make it to the trees, so he turns around and whips up his rifle to get a shot.
"Right then, Ol' Clay outs with his six shooter—ain't injun like, but we figured who cares? Clay starts to bring his gun up and, all of a sudden, this other feller just appears right in front of us."
"What other fellow?" Hollis demanded sharply.
"I don't know, Boss. I swear it was like he just appeared out of nowhere in that meadow. All of a sudden, he's right there in front of Johnny's horse and the horse rares up scared like. Just then Stillwell gets off a shot and it catches Johnny right in the breadbasket. Johnny goes flying, but he's got his tommyhawk in his hand and it looked to me like he clomped that stranger a good'um before they both went down."
Dillon took a deep breath then continued, the memory scaring him almost as much as the real event had. He had always enjoyed tales, though, so he enjoyed telling this one. This was, after all, supposed to have been some quick and easy money and it hadn't quite sunk in on Dillon that the money might not be forthcoming and the easy part was long out the window. "When Johnny's horse started acting crazy, it set off Ketchum's, then mine. Only Clay's horse showed any kind of sense, but it didn't matter cause Clay took Stillwell's next bullet and hit the ground."
He stopped and Hollis bellowed, "What happened then?"
Clay, holding a not too clean rag against the wound in his side, said, "I ain't sure, Boss. I grabbed the reins to Johnny's horse cause I was afraid it was going to step on me. Then I shoved Johnny up and across it and lit out for the trees, hoping to get some cover." He quickly added, "From which to fire on Stillwell."
"Uh huh," Hollis nodded sarcastically.
Ketchum finally spoke up, "That just left me and Dillon out there against Stillwell's rifle. Morrison's horse had bolted on him and we didn't see him again until we found him bleeding by the trail. Looks like Stillwell shot him in the back whilst he was riding away—the skunk." Even Hollis did a double take at the odd sense of propriety Ketchum seemed to hold. It apparently didn't register on the outlaw that Stillwell might feel justified in taking any steps necessary to defend his claim against murderers and thieves.
"Didn't anybody get any lead into Stillwell?" Hollis finally asked in exasperation.
"Maybe," Dillon finally replied. "When his rifle ran out of bullets and only me and Ketchum was left in the meadow, he outs with his knife and starts to back away. I threw some lead his way and he dropped like I might have hit him in the leg, but I seen him crawling off."
Hollis swore. He knew Stillwell well enough to be sure a bullet to the leg wouldn't stop the old miner. Only one to the spine or the brain would stop the man. Hollis was beginning to think his contract to steal mines for Wilson wasn't worth the money he was being paid. On the other hand, things might go better if he just trusted to his own talents and not those of hired idiots.
Hollis grumbled, "Considering none of you got that close to Stillwell, I probably don't want to know where your knife wound came from, do I, Clay? One thing I do want to know: what happened to this guy in the meadow that put you fellows in such a tizzy?"
The three conscious idiots looked at each other, but no one answered. Hollis began gesturing with the knife and repeated, "What happened to him?" When no answer seemed forthcoming, he pointed the knife meaningfully at Ketchum and asked, "Well?"
Ketchum cleared his throat and answered, "I don't know."
"Me either," Dillon quickly replied, before the threat could come his way..
Hollis looked at Clay and said, "The last you saw of him was when Johnny fell on him. You picked up Johnny and put him on his horse—why, I'm not sure. But you should have been the last person to see the stranger. What happened to him?"
Clay hesitated, then replied, "I don't know, Boss. I didn't think about it at the time—I was just trying to get to cover so's I could fire—"
"You were trying to get to cover so you could hide," Hollis corrected, "But go on."
"I really don't know what happened to him, Boss. I didn't really give it no thought until we was on our way home, then it kind of occurred to me to wonder. But I don't remember even seeing him when I picked up Johnny. It was like he just plumb vanished!" The other two outlaws agreed on that score.
Hollis nodded and said calml
y, "Let me get this straight. A complete stranger pops up in the middle of the meadow, disrupts your attack, then just disappears. Is that about it?"
They all agreed that that was how it had happened. Hollis smiled wickedly and asked, "How come I don't believe you? What did this man look like?"
"Tall feller," Ketchum quickly responded.
"He had dark hair and a black mustache," Clay chimed in.
"And he dressed funny," Dillon added. At Hollis's questioning look, Dillon explained, "He was wearing short britches. Like kids wear sometime when they're going to a swimming hole or something."
"You're in the middle of carrying out a murder when a man in short britches just appears in the middle of the meadow, scares your horses, then disappears?" When the three outlaws nodded, Hollis angrily spat, "You know what I think? I think Stillwell must have got the drop on you. Then, you three tinhorns got scared and started shooting. Stillwell probably didn't shoot his gun at all. I think the three of you popped at one another and—at some point during the skirmish with yourselves—one of you stabbed Clay in the arm!"
Ketchum objected, "That ain't the way it was at all, Boss! It was just like we done told you."
Hollis dealt Ketchum a backhanded blow to the face that sent the outlaw to join Morrison in unconsciousness.
Chapter Nine
July 18, 1963
Regina Parker pulled into the driveway and was surprised to find it paved when the road to get there had itself been dirt. She shrugged the thought off as she pulled her car to a halt. Many houses in town had paved driveways even though the streets they were on were, at best, macadam. Checking her hair after the long drive, she got out.
Regina Parker was a plumpish, middle aged woman who dressed like she thought she could pass for younger. Her hair was done up the same way she had done it up for the last fifteen years, in spite of the fact that hair fashion had changed during that time and she was hopelessly out of date. Regina was one of those people who were almost completely oblivious to the passage of time—in mind if not in body.
As she got out of the car, she took notice of the cars already parked in the driveway. Not one who ordinarily even gave cars a second thought, these both caught her attention. One was a pick up and the other was a sports car. The truck was beaten, but of a familiar body style while the car was of some futuristic design. She had seen pictures of what the cars of the future might look like on television or in the magazines, but had never seen them in real life. It surprised her not only to be seeing such a futuristic (and odd) vehicle, but to be seeing them in this particular driveway. She would have never thought Melissa Combs—or any of the Combs family, for that matter—to be into such things.
She shrugged that thought off and went up the walk to the house. The house, too, was different from what she expected. It was built of logs, but smooth logs. Not like the old miners cabins that one still saw in places in the mountains. (Really, the county needed to do something about those old eyesores!) And it was covered with a roof of some odd material. Definitely not wooden shingles—or even a tin roof. It looked like a metal roof—bot not the kind of metal roof she was used to seeing. She thought to herself that, if Melissa Combs really was into all these odd things, maybe they didn't want her in the Ladies Club after all. They had had trouble in the past with "forward thinkers" and no one wanted to go through that again. There were still hard feelings from the "instant pudding" fiasco.
Regina rang the doorbell and it was soon opened by a young woman who most decidedly was not Melissa Combs. She was tall—all of five eight—and had dark black hair. She was beautiful, no denying that, but Regina knew immediately that she didn't like the young woman. And she could have quickly rattled off half a dozen reasons just from the young woman's clothing alone.
"Hello. Could I help you?" the young woman asked affably.
She was dressed most shamelessly, Regina noticed. A cotton pull over shirt (through which one could easily distinguish the outline of her underthings!), and shorts that didn't even come to her mid thigh. Her legs were shapely and long like the baser sort of men preferred, but to display them so brazenly! Like a chorus girl! Regina thought to herself. She had never actually seen a real-life chorus girl, but she had an idea of what she figured one would look like from all the westerns on TV.
Regina regained her composure, sort of, and asked, "Is Melissa home?"
The young woman shook her head and replied, "I'm afraid you must be at the wrong house."
Regina seemed a bit relieved to learn that, and let out a sigh. She said, almost absently, "I thought this was the Combs's residence."
The young woman nodded, as if in recognition, and told Regina, "Oh. Well, we bought this place about four years ago from a man named Combs. I don't know if there was a Melissa living here at any time, but it had to have been a while back. No one had lived on this property since the late sixties until we bought it."
"The late sixties?" Regina asked in confusion. A moment ago she was thinking she must have stumbled upon a house of ill repute or some sort of beatnik hang out. Now, she was thinking she must have run across a loony bin. This young woman didn't even know what YEAR it was. Probably came from laying about in shameful clothes, Regina thought.
At Regina's questioning look, the young woman adopted one of her own. Then, she seemed to be looking Regina over in a most uncomfortable way. It was as if she thought Regina's attire as inappropriate as Regina knew the young woman's clothing to be. She cast a glance at Regina's car and mumbled, "1960 Ford. Oh, good grief."
Regina tried to force a smile and said politely, though tremblingly, "I better get going. Sorry to have bothered you."
The young woman said nothing as Regina practically ran to her car and got quickly in. As she sped away, she decided she would just invite Melissa Combs to HER house next time. Or maybe she would just call her on the phone.
Chapter Ten
It had been more than a month since they had found the arrow sticking in the front door and nothing untoward had happened in La Plata Canyon since. As an autumnal snow fell on ground still too warm for it to stick, Garison spent his days in his laboratory working on Heather's Christmas present.
He had over two months in which to complete the project, but he wanted it to be just right. He had kept up his woodworking skills since returning from the eighteenth century, but many of the tools were new to him and had to be learned. In the two years since he had been back, he had gotten proficient at most of the tools. A couple still gave him trouble now and then, but it was because he was still unused to their power. Jobs that had once taken days, took hours—thanks to power tools. The challenge then was to take his time and do the job right, not just quickly. He was determined to achieve perfection, though, with Heather's present.
She had mentioned more than once about how she had always wanted a really nice wardrobe. He had, at first, thought she mean clothes, which Garison thought she had plenty of. And while he wouldn't mind her having more, he had learned in the past that he was lousy at selecting clothes for her. Then, he had found her admiring actual wardrobes: the big wooden constructions that were a combination dresser and closet. He didn't see that their bedroom necessarily needed one—what with two walk in closets—but he had seen her admiring them in stores often enough to know it was what she wanted. So he had barred her from his woodshop, except under his supervision, as he built her the wardrobe.
Garison had studied the wardrobes she seemed to admire the most and had tried to incorporate the best elements in his design. When finished, it would have drawers of three different sizes, a place for hang up clothes, and a beautiful etched mirror in the door. The only thing it wouldn't have was a door to Narnia. He still wasn't sure where in their bedroom it would fit (or how he would eventually get it up the stairs) but he was determined to get it there. He figured he'd enlist Charlie to help—and maybe the Durango High School weight lifting team. Most likely, he guessed, he would have to take out the bay window in their bedroom and hois
t it through the opening.
The intercom to his shop buzzed and Sarah's voice said, "Daddah! Eat!"
Garison smiled and, punching the talk button, said, "I'll be right there, Sarah. You fix me a Dr Pepper, OK?"
She gurbled something in reply and Garison could see her in his mind as she toddled over to the refrigerator for the appropriate can.
He pulled a tarp over his work and smiled as he thought of his daughter. He had actually put the intercom in so Heather could contact him if need be, or so he could request a snack (or a kiss). It was used most often, though, so Sarah could say, "Daddah, love you." But he and Heather did use it for actual business now and then. He had once requested something else over the intercom, but Heather had nearly killed him because Sarah had heard the request and asked what Daddy meant. It hadn't been anything bad, just something married people do and Heather believed toddlers didn't need to know about.
He stepped outside his shop and was half way between it and the house when, out of nowhere, he heard whooping and shouting like a tribe of Indians on the warpath. He looked up just in time to see five Indians in full war paint about to ride down over the top of him. They were carrying lances and bows and riding paint horses and screaming at the tops of their lungs. The enormity of the moment froze Garison in his tracks—right in the middle of their path.
His appearance must have startled them as much as theirs did him for they seemed to suddenly be thrown into confusion. The horse nearest to Garison reared up on his hind legs and whinnied with fright. Garison threw up his arms to protect himself from the hooves and heard a gunshot at the same instant. The shot had come from somewhere behind Garison, up the hill behind the house a little ways.
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time Page 8
