Emma, I suggest that we relax the ‘No speaking Out Of Club Time’ rule this evening.”
Her smile showed her agreement.
Matt served the ice cream, and they both had coffee. After Matt had cleaned up and they were alone, Emma picked up her travel bag and took out a leather case, gun belt and holster. She handed them to Bill. “Are you familiar with handguns, Bill?”
“Yes, but not six-shooters.”
She nodded and passed him a pistol handle first.
Bill held the Colt, checked that it was empty and spun it around his finger. “I was with the U.S. Navy SEALS for a time, and we had to become familiar with all types of guns. Usually with automatics though, not revolvers. So, I’m familiar with pistols, but not fast draw.” He handed her the gun. “So, show me what a fast-draw champ can do.”
She automatically flipped open the chamber and checked that the weapon was empty. Next, Emma strapped on her belt and holster, tied the holster to her thigh, put the Colt in it and stepped back.
Bill watched as he noted, Wow! She’s another person now. She’s zoning in on the draw. And just like that the pistol was in her hand and pointing downrange.
Bill blinked. “Wow! That was fast!” he said.
“Thanks. I’m off a bit. Haven’t had time to practice for a few days.”
“Well, I couldn’t tell. Wow, that was fast.”
“Thanks again.”
“Let me see that one more time.”
“Okay,” she said, and once again Bill saw just a blur, and the gun was out and pointing at an imaginary target.
“Emma, you are fast! Is there anyone faster?” He asked with admiration.
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you teach classes?”
“I taught an old boyfriend once, but you can only teach so much. It’s either there or not. You have to have it. Are you looking for lessons?”
“Not me, a friend of mine. Interested?”
She frowned slightly. “Teaching my ex-boyfriend was one thing, but a stranger. I’m not sure.”
Wanting to keep the conversation going, Bill asked, “How long do you think it would take for someone to become faster?”
“Become faster? So your friend has had lessons. If someone else tried to teach him, I’d have to break old habits first.”
“Then you are saying yes?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I really don’t know. It’s not what I do, I mean, the teaching part. That’s a different thing entirely. How much training has he had? And is it a he? Men have different learning traits than women.”
“It’s a he, and he’s been around guns his whole life. I believe he just needs a good teacher.”
“Who’s the prospective student?”
Bill looked at her. “I knew sooner or later I would have to answer that question. I once had an art teacher who used to say, ‘a picture is worth a thousand words.’ Well, it’s true. In order for you to believe the prospective student’s identity, I have to completely gain your confidence. I thought of a way to do that, so, let me ask you a question: If you could have anything, within reason, from New York City in the 1800s, what would it be?”
“Anything? That’s easy, an Allen Pepperbox double-action revolver.”
Bill made a note of that on a pad and went on. “And where and when would you be able to purchase one in New York City in the 1800s?”
Emma crossed her arms, “Easy again. Aberdeene and Withers on Seventeenth Street, off Broadway in 1861. That was the place where many Union Army officers bought their ‘boot weapon,’ a backup to their regulation rifle and pistol. Sort of a last-ditch weapon. Small but deadly at close range.”
“Expensive?” Bill wanted to know.
“Yes. And in great demand now, too.”
“And why do . . .”
“Why do I want it? Not for money. My grandfather owned one and had to sell it during the Depression to feed his family. It was a gift from his father who said it saved his life during the Civil War. Grandpa is ninety-two and it’d really make his day to have another just like it. Of course, that’s all wishful thinking. There are just a handful left and all are owned by collectors who would never part with them.”
Bill looked at his pocket watch. “Will you do me a favor? Stay here and wait for me to return, say, in about ten minutes?”
“You want me to wait here while you go out? I . . . I don’t know, I mean, that’s sort of . . .”
“Inappropriate. I know, but I need you to trust me on this. Believe me, you won’t be disappointed. About ten minutes is all I ask. Okay?”
Emma was perplexed but smiled. “Well, it is different, but then again the whole idea of this club is different. Fine. I’ll wait here.”
“Good. There’s coffee and if you need anything, just ring and Matt will get it for you. Be right back.”
Bill slipped out the door at the rear of his office, rushed down the stairs and out into the garden of 1863.
DATELINE: 1863 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK
Immediately Bill spotted a horse drawn-cab and waved him down.
The driver tipped his hat as Bill got in, “Good day, sir. Where to?”
“How fast can you to get to Aberdeene and Withers on Seventeenth Street and Broadway?”
“It’s normally a ten-minute ride, but hold tight sir.” He slapped the reins on his horse’s rump. “Giddyap.”
Bill held onto the leather straps next to the cab’s window as it sped down the cobble-stoned streets. Closest thing to seat belts, he thought as he was bounced around.
Just under ten minutes later, Bill held a small pistol as he spoke to the clerk in the armament shop. “It’s a work of art.”
“Yes and a good choice, sir. I’ve had many a soldier come back and thank me for this saver. As you can see it’s a caliber .31 with six barrels and can almost be concealed in the palm of your hand. We do get a lot of calls for this type.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Want to come out back and test fire it?”
“No thanks, I’m sold, and can you sell me about fifty rounds for it?”
“Yes sir.” The clerk wrote out a receipt. “Twelve dollars and fourteen cents, sir.” He wrapped the revolver in paper, and Bill put it in his pocket.
He was back at the club in a little over thirty minutes. He stuffed a five-dollar bill in the driver’s hand, ran through the club’s garden then up the stairs. Outside of the door he set the TFM to ten minutes after he left and unlocked the door.
DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK
He entered the room and stood in front of Emma, a little out of breath.
She smiled, “You have a great library.”
“Thank you. Now all I need is the time to read them. Thanks for waiting.” He handed her a small parcel. She looked uncertain.
“Go ahead, open it,” he said.
She removed the wrapping, and her face lit up as her hand told her what she was holding. She slowly removed the pistol, her eyes wide and her mouth open in amazement.
“How . . . how . . . how did you . . . where did you . . . I don’t understand?” She gazed at it. “It’s an authentic Allen Pepperbox double-action revolver. Manufactured in 1837, according to the patent date stamped on the barrel. My God, it’s like new! A six-barrel, .31 calibers with the conventional trigger. This is fantastic!”
She looked at him. “Where did you get it? There’s no way you could have known I’d ever ask for this particular gun, and I don’t think you have every gun ever made behind that door.”
Bill put his hand in his pocket and handed her a fistful of bullets. Once again, she stared. “They’re brand new. And I don’t mean manufactured today. I mean made in 1837. How is it that they aren’t even slightly handled or dented? This is almost impossible.”
He then handed her the receipt. She stared again and said in a whisper, “It’s dated today’s date, but 1863! And the paper is fresh, not yellowed and stiff like old documents. Pl
us it’s on Aberdeene and Withers letterhead. No way you could have forged this so fast. What’s the story, Bill?”
“Then you do believe it’s authentic?”
“Absolutely. Please tell me where you got it?”
“It’s yours.”
She shook her head and put the pistol down. “No way! Thanks, but I will buy it from you if it’s for sale.”
“If I put a price on it, the price would be to give my friend gun-handling lessons.”
“Done!”
He looked at her. “Sit down. Let me get you a drink. I’ve got a story to tell you.”
She sat and picked up the gun again. “It’s perfect,” she whispered as she looked up at Bill getting her a drink. “Who’s the person I have to teach?”
He handed her a drink and looked into her eyes as he said, “Bat Masterson.”
“Bat Masterson? You mean, like, his great-great-grandson?”
Bill came over and sat next to her. “Emma, the other evening you said you would love to take a train as far west as you could. I said you would be a lot for those cowboys to handle and I meant it.”
“I remember. So, is my teaching job in some sort of a cowboy-reality place?”
Bill shook his head, “No, it’ll be teaching the real Bat Masterson how to shoot . . . in 1875.” He put his hand up to stop her from speaking, “Emma, this club has the ability to travel in time.”
She stood and placed her drink down. “Okay, the evening’s over. It was fun for . . .”
Bill rose too, and said imploringly, “I can prove it to you. I left here a while ago, went back to New York in 1863 and purchased that revolver. Look at it. As you said, I couldn’t have known what you were going to ask for. Yet, I granted your wish.”
She shook her