by Simon Hawke
The Six Gun Solution
( Time Wars - 12 )
Simon Hawke
Simon Hawke
The Six Gun Solution
Prologue
It was said that the town of Tombstone in the Arizona Territory was hell on Earth and Scott Neilson believed it. It was certainly hot enough. He would have welcomed air conditioning, but such conveniences did not exist in 1881. He would have felt more comfortable in a pair of khaki slacks, boat shoes and a polo shirt. but such attire would have made him a decided oddity in the Oriental Saloon.
All around him. men were dressed in high-heeled boots and jeans and long-sleeved, loose cotton shirts in solid colors and prints. Some wore leather or cloth vests. Some even wore overcoats or trail dusters. Most wore kerchiefs and high crowned Stetsons, while others wore black bowlers. The men in bowlers were more elegantly dressed. in long, black frock coats and pinstripe, stovepipe trousers, white shirts and silk cravats with stickpins, silk vests with gold watch chains dangling from them. Many of them also carried walking sticks. And beneath that, they wore union suits. They had to be sweating like pigs, thought Neilson. He knew he was. None of them openly wore guns.. though Neilson knew there were bound to be some Remington derringers and the occasional six-gun concealed here and there
The law in Tombstone was clear on the subject of firearms. Only officers of the law or men with special permits issued by those officers were allowed to carry guns. On entering Tombstone, one was supposed to check his guns at one of the corrals or leave them in a hotel. The practice of going armed on the streets of Tombstone was definitely frowned on and could result in arrest and a fine of twenty-five dollars. Nevertheless, many people disregarded the law and wore concealed weapons beneath their coats, often tucked into their belts or waistbands. Tombstone, it was said, had a man for breakfast every morning, which was a wry way of saying that there was at least one killing every night.
The town did not exist when prospector Ed Schieffelin arrived in 1877, looking to make a strike. Thirty years old and a seasoned miner, Schieffelin was a wild-looking character with long, dark red hair and a matted beard, his clothing patched with animal skin. The country he had come to prospect was desolate and ruled by the Apaches. After he arrived at the Army post at Camp Huachuca, he did some prospecting in the area and then accompanied an Army detachment as a scout through the Sonoita Valley and the Patagonia Mountains, near the Mexican border, then back along the San Pedro River. Upon returning, he announced his intention to go back and do some prospecting in the area. He had taken a fancy to the hills he saw along the San Pedro.
— All you’ll find out there is your tombstone,” he was told. “The Apaches will see to that.”
Nevertheless, Schieffelin went and made a silver strike that was the richest in the territory. Remembering the warning he’d been given, he showed his sense of humor by naming his claims Tombstone and Graveyard. News of the strike soon had settlers flocking to the area and the town that grew up on Goose Hats also came to bear the name of Tombstone, as did the hills around it. It soon became the largest mining boomtown in the country, rivaled only by Colorado’s Leadville, nestled in a Rocky Mountain valley at an elevation of ten thousand feet. At least it was cool up there, Neilson thought, wistfully.
He had arrived in Tombstone early that afternoon and checked into the Grand Hotel. He had come in by stage from Benson, which was as far as the Southern Pacific railroad went. However, he had not arrived in Benson on the train. He had used a considerably more advanced form of transportation and he had come a long, long way. Over eight hundred years, in fact. He had made the trip in the blink of an eye, using his warp disc, which he wore camouflaged as a heavy silver Indian bracelet on his left wrist. The large, blue-green turquoise stone was actually a cleverly hinged cover, hiding the chronocircuitry controls.
Sergeant Scott Neilson was a temporal agent, a soldier in the First Division of the United States Army Temporal Corps, an elite commando unit tasked to adjust temporal disruptions. With the advent of the Temporal Crisis, the First Division had been merged with the Temporal Intelligence Agency under the directorship of Brigadier General Moses Forrester, commander of the First Division. Neilson had come to Tombstone to investigate a situation involving Observer Outpost G-6898. The three Temporal Observers assigned to this sector had failed to make their last two scheduled reports.
Given the hazardous nature of their duty, any of a number of things could have happened to them. The Arizona Territory could be highly dangerous. If something had happened to them as a result of the normal dangers of this time sector, Neilson’s job was to ascertain precisely what it was and arrange for their replacement. But if something had happened to them that was not a result of the normal hazards of this period, it could mean serious trouble. It could mean an infiltration by soldiers of the Special Operations Group, the undercover commando strike force from the parallel universe. And Tombstone could become another battlefield in the Time Wars.
Neilson had been selected for this assignment for a number of reasons. One was that he had already proven himself on a significant temporal adjustment mission in 19th-century London, when the insane, crosstime terrorist named Nikolai Drakov had brought about a temporal disruption by using his genetic engineering skills to release a plague of vampires and werewolves upon the unsuspecting city. That mission had been one of the most complex and dangerous assignments the T.I.A. had ever faced and Drakov was their most dangerous antagonist. Half of the adjustment team in that assignment had been killed. Neilson had been one of the survivors, which had netted him both a promotion and a decoration. Another reason he was chosen was that his file showed him to be a student of the frontier era, as well as a collector of antique firearms and an expert in their use.
He had grown up in Tucson, Arizona, though the Tucson of the 27th century was a far cry from the town of Tombstone in the 1800. In his own time, Tucson was a sprawling, multi leveled metropolis with skyscrapers over a hundred stories tall. Yet even so, many of its residents still clung fondly to the tradition of its Wild West beginnings and even in the 27th century, some of them still wore western boots and Stetsons. Neilson’s father had been a university history professor whose hobby was studying the Old West. Over the years, at considerable expense and time involving extensive computer searches of collector lists and estate auctions, he had accumulated a collection of antique western firearms that was worth a fortune. It included old black powder pistols such as Patterson. Walker and Navy Colts, Remingtons and Colt Single Action Armys, Winchester carbines and shotguns and Sharps buffalo rifles. Most of these weapons were in poor condition and would have been dangerous to fire. Shooting them would also have diminished their collector value, However, Scott’s father had also obtained a number of late-20th-century reproductions and he had a number of them duplicated by skilled Japanese artisans so that they were identical to the authentic western guns down to the last detail. And those could be safely fired.
Ammunition for them was, of course, no longer available and had to be made from scratch. It had been necessary to make the brass cases and melt the lead to be poured into antique bullet molds. Lead projectile weapons had not been in general use for several hundred years and the smokeless powder for them that had been used in the 20th and 2Ist centuries was no longer commercially available. It had been necessary to duplicate the old black powder of the frontier era, but this was more easily accomplished and had appealed to Scott’s purist father. The most difficult thing about the process had been manufacturing the primers, but Scott’s father had been determined to pursue authenticity at all costs.
The result was that, as a child! Scott had learned to shoot just like the gunfighters of the Old West had and, si
nce the weapons were hopelessly outdated reproductions, they had not required special permits to own His natural hand-eye coordination was excellent to begin with and by the time he was in his late teens. Scott had become an astonishingly proficient marksman. He had picked up an interest in the Old West from his father at a very early age and, in addition to becoming an expert in its history, incessant practice in trick shooting had given him an almost supernatural level of skill. His fast draw had been clocked at 25/100 of a second and he had mastered the technique of “point shooting-(firing from the hip without using the sights) to such a degree that he could split cards edgeways at ten paces. It had pleased his father, and Scott had gotten a great deal of enjoyment out of it. However, he had always believed it was a completely useless skill… until he enlisted in the Temporal Corps.
Now, at the age of twenty-five. Neilson’s skill had already saved his life and the lives of fellow agents on several occasions during missions to the past. Life as a temporal agent was hazardous in the extreme and the mortality rate was very high. but for Neilson, as for most other temporal agents, the adventure was well worth the risk. It was a chance to literally see history in the making. And, at the same time, to preserve it from disruption. Added to that, one of Neilson’s great joys on becoming a temporal agent was the opportunity to augment his collection.
It was, of course, illegal to bring anything back from the past. but General Forrester had a tendency to wink at the practice and look the other way. Forrester, himself, possessed perhaps the most priceless collection of artifacts in the entire world, many of them presented to him by the people under his command as they returned from missions to the past. It was considered a singular honor to obtain something worthy of being included in the Old Man’s collection, which he kept housed in a room behind a hidden panel in his quarters at TAC-HQ. Among his prized collection were the sword of El Cid, a. 45 Colt semiautomatic that had once belonged to General Patton, the mask of Zorro, the helm of Genghis Khan, and the original manuscript of 20.000 Leagues Under the Sea-the actual original, not the one which the author had painstakingly copied by hand and submitted to the publisher. This one, unknown to history, had been specially inscribed by the author himself-“To my very dear friend, Moses Forrester. who allowed me to glimpse the wonders of the future. With undying gratitude. Jules Verne.”
Scott Neilson’s own collection was nothing compared to that. He had inherited the collection of his father, which he kept stored in a vault, yet he delighted in adding to it at a cost to him that was a mere fraction of what his father had paid for the pieces he acquired. And the weapons Scott obtained in Minus Time were in spanking new condition.
The first thing he had done on his arrival in Benson was to outfit himself with a brand-new Colt Single Action Army in. 45 caliber, nickel-plated, with a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel and gutta-percha grips. He paid a total of thirty dollars. In his own time, even in condition that was less than pristine, the pistol would be worth several thousand times that sum, even after it had been fired. Unfired, it would have been nearly priceless. However, on this assignment, Neilson knew that he could easily find himself in a situation where he would have to fire the piece, so he had purchased several boxes of cartridges and gone outside the town limits, to fire his new weapon and see how close the bullets struck to point of aim. The pistol’s sights were fixed and not adjustable, meaning that there was only a front sight blade on the end of the barrel and a groove along the top, but it shot close enough to point of aim to satisfy him. Within twenty-five rounds, he was capable of hip-shooting it with unerring accuracy.
He had also purchased a Winchester carbine and a floral-carved holster for his Colt, made by the Lawrence Company, along with a money belt that was looped for cartridges. Other supplies, such as a horse and saddle, he could either purchase or rent in Tombstone. He had arrived already suitably attired for the time period in black, pinstripe trousers; high-heeled boots: a dark green calico shirt, a black cloth vest with a silk back; a black frock coat and a black, flat- crowned Stetson. His light blond hair was long, down to his shoulders, and he was clean-shaven, largely because he’d never been able to grow a decent beard or moustache. With the antiagathic drugs used in the 27th century, he would retain his youthful appearance long past the normal human lifespan and in this time period, at the age of twenty-five, he looked no more than seventeen.
It was common practice for temporal agents to go unshaven and not to get their hair cut unless it was demanded by a mission, in case long hair or a beard proved a requirement for an assignment in the past. If necessary, wigs could be woven into their own hair, and beards cosmetically applied in such a manner that they could only be removed with special solvents. However, such procedures were uncomfortable and. if possible, agents liked to rely on their own hair. This unofficially sanctioned practice was initially frowned upon by many senior officers in the regular Corps. Shaggy hair and stubble looked decidedly unmilitary in the 27th century, but Forester had made it clear that any officer harassing the people under his command would have to contend with him, personally. That quickly brought an end to questions regarding hirsute temporal agents.
Before he left the 27th century, Neilson had gone in for mission programming, which entailed a computer download via the biochip implanted in his cerebral cortex. The program data was designed to give him all the knowledge he would need to function in this time sector, but for Neilson, most of it was redundant. This time sector, in particular, had long held a fascination for him. One of the most famous incidents in the history of the frontier would soon occur right here in Tombstone. And events which would lead up to it had already begun by the time Neilson arrived.
His assignment would probably be brief. He figured it would take a day or two, perhaps a week, at most, if he could not immediately locate the Observers or ascertain what happened to them. At any rate, he would no longer be in Tombstone by the time October 26th rolled around, which was a bitter disappointment to him. He would not have the opportunity to witness the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. However, while he was in Tombstone, there was a good chance that he would see some of the participants and the thought filled him with an almost childish excitement.
He had a job to do and he could not afford to waste any time in doing it, but he fervently hoped that he’d be able to go back to the 27th century and tell his friends that he shook hands with Wyatt Earp.
The Oriental Saloon was a place that Wyatt harp was known to frequent. He had a financial interest in the saloon and did a lot of gambling here. As Neilson walked in through the doors, he could barely restrain a gleeful grin. It was all just as he’d imagined it would be. A raucous place, with a high ceiling and an ornate, mirrored bar valued at over one hundred thousand dollars. There were, of course, no stools in front of the bar. One stood. There were tables to sit down at and, at many of these, men were playing cards. The room was filled with smoke and the smells of sweat and kerosene. An upright piano was being played in on corner. He looked around the room and received not a few curious glances in return. He walked over to the bar.
The bartender, in a white shirt, vest, and bow tie, with short, neatly combed dark hair. a handlebar moustache and large, striking eyes, came over and wiped down the bar in front of him.
“Howdy, stranger.” he said. “What’ll it be?”
Neilson immediately recognized him from old photographs he’d seen in countless books on western history. It was none other than Buckskin Frank Leslie, the famous scout and buffalo hunter, a man who often entertained himself by shooting flies off the ceiling and the occasional cigar out of someone’s mouth. A good friend of Wyatt Earp’s.
“Whiskey.” Neilson said.
“Comin, right up.” Leslie replied, setting a glass in front of him. “New in town?” he asked, as he poured.
“Yep.” said Neilson, paying for his drink.
Leslie was sizing him up. “Where you hail from, son?”
“Montana.” he replied, taking a drink. He kn
ew that a lot of these characters had drifted all over the west, from Dodge City to San Francisco, but the Montana Territory was still fairly Wild and sparsely populated. There wasn’t much happening in Montana yet except for cattle ranching and farming in the western part of the territory, along the Bitterroot. And Indian trouble. Especially Indian trouble.
“Is that right?” said Leslie, with some surprise. “Montana Territory, eh? Where ole George Custer met his Maker?”
“Yep.”
“Ever meet ’im?”
“Nope. Heard all about him. though.”
He was one hell of a man.” said Leslie.
One hell of a stupid man, if you ask me.” said Neilson.
Leslie raised his eyebrows. “How old are you, son”
“Old enough.” said Neilson.
Leslie grinned as he wiped out a glass, amused by the arrogance of youth. “What brings you to Tombstone?”
Neilson shrugged. “Heard some bends of mine might be here. prospectin’.”
“That right? What are their names? Could be I know ’em.”
“Ben Summers, Josh Billings and Joe McEnery.”
Leslie’s grin faded. “Hell. I know ’em, all right Or knew ’em. I should say I’m right sorry to tell you, son, they’re dead All three of ’em.”
Neilson put down his glass and stared at him. It was what he’d feared. Only how did they die?
Before he could ask Leslie, shouting broke out behind him and he heard a chair crash to the floor.
“ You goddamn. cheatin’ tinhorn, son of a bitch!”
Neilson turned around. Out of the corner of his eye. he saw Leslie’s hand go down below the bar.
“Step aside, son.” Leslie said, softly, his eyes on the table where the altercation was taking place.
There were five men scaled at the table. One of them, a cowboy, had jumped up. sending his chair crashing to the floor. He had pulled a six-gun from beneath his coat and cocked it. The others were still sitting at the table, staring at him nervously. All except one man, who sat very still with his hands flat on the table.
