Time Travel Adventures Of The 1800 Club, BOOK I

place was as full as ever. Bill was starting to feel the Red Leaf, but it didn’t seem to bother the marshal at all. Earp ordered another two as he looked at Bill questioningly.

  Bill caught the glance and asked, “What?”

  Earp looked at him with raised eyebrows, “What, what?”

  Bill answered, “What is it you want to ask me?”

  “What makes you so sure I want to ask you something?” the marshal countered.

  “Just seems like you did. Seems like you want to ask me something but are holding back.”

  “And I shouldn’t?”

  Bill said, “No, you shouldn’t. Never hold back.”

  Earp paused, and then said, “I’m looking for a few good men for my office. Would you like to be one of them?”

  Taken off guard, Bill blurted out, “Me? Heck no, I’m no lawman.”

  The marshal continued, “You’re better than most. I’ve been watching you. You keep your back to the bar or are watching your back in the mirror. No, you have what it takes. Just got to see how you handle that fancy gun of yours.”

  Bill hoped to end this turn of the conversation by saying, “I’m a writer, and a good writer is constantly aware of his surroundings. That’s all.”

  “Naw, there’s more to you than you show,” Earp said quietly. “But if that’s your calling, so be it, partner.”

  Bill hurriedly tried to move on to a new topic. “Speaking of a few good men. I heard a name,” he said as he took out a small notebook and read, “Bat Masterson.”

  “Bat Masterson? You mean William Masterson?”

  Bill was about to say something when he remembered that Bat was a nickname. His real name was William Barclay Masterson. “Yes, William Masterson. Isn’t he a reliable man?”

  Enthusiastically, Earp said, “The best! Absolutely the best! But as a lawman, never! Tough man, but there has never been a worse shot in Dodge. I’d be looking for a replacement in a day or two, and I’d have lost a good friend. Besides the newspaper editor would have my head. He’s their best writer.”

  The crowd’s attention suddenly turned to a man outside the tavern screaming Earp’s name. They looked at the marshal; they wanted to see some action before going home.

  Earp shook his head and asked the bartender, “What time is it, Clem?”

  The bartender took out his timepiece. “Three o’clock, Wyatt.”

  ”Damn, I thought I’d have one night where I didn’t have to kill some fool. Guess not.” He gulped down the two drinks and ordered another.

  Bill turned to him and asked, “Is there anything I can do, Wyatt?”

  “No thanks, Bill. Stay aside. This is what I get paid for. Wonder where Mr. Eddilson is about now?”

  He walked to the swinging doors with his drink in his hand. Outside, the same big man he had thrown out earlier, stood with a large knife in his hand.

  “C’mon out, Earp, c’mon out, so I can cut you good.”

  The marshal walked slowly out the door, stopped and downed his drink. He turned to a chorus girl, gave her the empty glass and took her long, white scarf. He wiped his mouth with it as he walked toward the man. “Listen, mister, I don’t want a fight. It’s after three in the morning, and I’ve been drinking all night. What say we sleep it off?”

  “No! You’re yellow, Earp!” The big man shouted. “I’m gonna cut you up real bad. And I ain’t waiting ‘til tomorrow neither.”

  Wyatt wiped his mouth again as he got closer to the man. He stopped just out of reach of the man’s knife-hand and spread out his arms, the white scarf dangling from his left hand. “Mister, I’m just not up to fighting anyone right now, so why don’t you go . . .” He dropped the white scarf, and for a split second the knife-wielding man’s eyes inadvertently glanced at the dropping fabric. Wyatt caught the man’s jaw with a right cross and he dropped like a stone. The lawman took the knife, tucked it in his boot, and turned to Bill. “Guess we should call it a night, eh, Bill?”

  Bill nodded. “Damn, that was a classic, Wyatt.”

  “Just proves the hand’s quicker than the eye. He’ll wake up tomorrow and if he still wants some of me, he’ll end up in Boot Hill. Most likely, he’ll be out of town by the rooster’s call.” He tipped back his hat and said, “Had a good evening, Bill. See you tomorrow?”

  “Yes, and I did too.” Bill responded. “Good night, Wyatt.”

  Bill slept very well on his first night in Dodge.

  The next morning the pocket watch Bill brought along from the future chimed softly and woke him. His head hurt from a hangover but not as bad as he thought it would. He popped two aspirins he had also brought along, then washed and shaved with the water left over from the night before.

  He changed into his western outfit and went out. On the way to Pearls, he walked past the marshal’s office. It was locked and a small sign read: ON PATROL.” Bill wondered if he was really on patrol or just sleeping late.

  Breakfast was as good as any Bill had had in any century. Got to watch this eating, he reminded himself feeling the tightness of his belt.

  At the counter, Pearl wiped her hands on a clean apron. “How was it?”

  “Outstanding. Ever think of going to New York City and opening a place there?”

  Pearl put a hand on her hip, “Now, why would I want to do that?”

  “So I could eat there every day,” he said, “and not have to travel hundreds of miles for a great meal.”

  She laughed. “Instead, I’ll give you a copy of my cookbook.”

  “Fair enough,” said Bill opening his billfold, “Can you tell me how to get to the Journal’s office?”

  “Sure, honey. Just go out and make a right. Walk three streets, and it’s on the corner. Can’t miss it, it’s the only red brick building in town.”

  After thanking her and leaving a generous tip, Bill stepped outside. Another cloudless day, he thought fixing his hat brim to block the rays of the early morning sun as he strolled down the creaking wooden sidewalk. When he reached the first corner, the marshal came around it and they nearly collided. He was cradling a double-barreled shotgun.

  “Morning, Marshal,” Bill said.

  “Morning, Bill,” Earp responded. “Sleep well?”

  “Like a log, and you?”

  “Same. Nice duds. You sort’a lost that dude look. Now all ya need is some upper lip hair.”

  “I really needed to air out my other clothes and I look terrible with a mustache.”

  Earp grinned, “Don’t remember if you said how long you’d be in town?”

  Bill shrugged. “Not sure. I’m going to try to get an interview with B . . . Mr. Masterson.”

  “Masterson is at his desk right now. Just saw him typing away. See you later. If ya hanker for lunch, you’ll catch me at Pearls’ at noon.”

  “Lunch it is marshal.” They both nodded and continued on their way.

  Bill arrived at the Dodge City Journal, scraped his boots on the front step and opened the door. There were about a dozen wooden desks with piles of paper stacked on top of them, along with early model, Royal typewriters. Two were occupied, and Bill recognized Masterson from his archived photo as he pecked away on his typewriter.

  Not a tall man, he stood at five-feet eight inches and tended to be on the portly side. He had long, black hair parted down the middle and a small mustache, as did most men in this time period. Masterson wore a white shirt open at the collar as wide black suspenders held up his black pants.

  Bill approached him, and Masterson looked up. He squinted at Bill, then stood and offered his hand. “Mr. Scott. Am I right, sir?”

  “Yes, you are.” Bill smiled as they shook hands. “Are you that good a reporter that you know someone’s name by looking at them, sir?”

  “Ha. No sir, not at all. I just had my morning coffee with the marshal. He told me of last night’s adventures in Dodge, and he made mention of your name. More than once I might add.”

  “Nothing bad I hope.”

  “Nope! Al
l to the good. He spoke of you wanting to write about the real Dodge, not the Dodge they turn out for the eastern trolley riders.”

  Bill nodded. “That’s what I’d like to do. And I’d like nothing better than to have your collaboration on it.”

  “My collaboration? Why mine?” Masterson said, with surprise. He turned and pointed to an older man working at another typewriter. “Why not Chester? He’s been living here for thirty-four years. I’ve been here for just one year.”

  “Mr. Masterson, I’ve read your stories. They strike a style unlike others I’ve read. I’d really be proud to have you join me in this venture.”

  “And where would this be printed, Mr. Scott?”

  “I do not yet have a publisher, Mr. Masterson, but I’m sure of the mission I’m on. And would you address me as Bill?”

  “Well, if we are to work together, Bill, then please call me Will. Now,” he pulled a chair over for Bill, “sit and tell me your storyline.” He sat back, his arms crossed behind his head.

  Bill faced him across the desk. “Will, I want to write about the difference between the average man of the West who can shoot well, and the man who can’t. I don’t need to write about the cowboy, that’s been done many times over. I mean the average man who has to make a living in the West of today.”

  “Bill, any man can shoot a gun. Is this the story you really want to pursue?”

  Bill shook his head. “No. Any man can pull the trigger, Will. But not every man can shoot well. That’s the story I want to do. I want to know if the better shot has more confidence in himself, more charisma, more gumption, more admirers, pretty much more everything, than the man