Excerpt from War of the Wild West
1928.
The Atherton compound, north of Los Angeles, California.
United States of America.
In times of greatest danger, the Council of Time Defense turned to its greatest agents.
The ongoing attacks by the forces of the mighty Klomtoo threatened the existence of not only the Council and the Timeline, but the Earth itself. Never were circumstances as dire, and none but the Council had access to the most brilliant, the foremost strategists and engineers, the brightest thinkers and the greatest fighters. The greatest that the Council had to offer were all of these and more: they were the boldest, the most noble and quickest to put their lives in harm’s way, as betokened their supreme sense of honor. These great men and women would not shrink from danger or personal sacrifice; they would seek it out, searching for the greatest challenges, to shoulder the highest responsibility. Such men and women would not wait for duty to call, they would anticipate it, and dedicate their lives to its most vigilant pursuits. With the survival of the human species at stake, the heroic men and women who were the Council’s best did not need to be asked to step forward and lead the charge against this existential threat; but if so they would answer boldly and clearly, with a resounding and resolute “YES.”
“No! Absolutely not!!” exclaimed Professor August Atherton, as he sat with his feet in a steaming bath of magnesium salts, and both hands wrapped in plaster and cotton bandages, infused with healing balm. “I refuse to be drawn into another of your personal quests. And don’t you dare try to tell me it’s one of those…what do you call them?”
“Priority One Emergencies?” April offered.
“Priority One Emergencies! Right!” August snapped. “The last time you snookered me into one of your Priority One Emergencies I nearly got a spinal tap from a Zulu spear. And I ended up with sleeping sickness! I still can’t function properly, unless I get at least eight hours -”
“I’m afraid this time you don’t have a choice,” Doctor Ross interrupted. He was waving a scanning device in August’s direction, with particular attention toward his plaster-encased hands. “We’ll get those bandages off right away. I have something to make you good as new.”
“You leave my bandages alone!” August protested, and he moved his hands behind his back, in stubbornness rather than defiance. April, his own niece, had transported from an origin point in the year 1985 and from August’s present and undisplaced perspective, she had not yet been born. But he knew, with as great a degree of certainty as he knew she was here talking to him and this morning the sun rose in the East, that she would have her way, and for a purely futile gesture he might as well attempt to reverse the rotation of the Earth as make any show of stubbornness or defiance in the face of April’s iron will, which was further bolstered by the fact that the 1985 version of his niece was several years his senior, and that she outranked him with her Ambassador’s title.
And he also knew instinctively that she and Dr. Ross were completely correct. The challenge that faced them was unprecedented, and their response, if they were to be successful, would require August’s immediate and full attention, and every possible resource at his disposal.
As the bandages came off, August regarded the sorry state of the unhealed epidermis of his scalded hands, burned to an unhealthy brownness by a flaming bolus of pig manure and trinitro toluene, during a spirited engagement beneath the particularly strong fortifications of a walled town on the Samarkand plains, where he and his great-Aunt, the peerless Mrs. A, were attempting to correct a historic imbalance of forces caused by the interference of unscrupulous individuals and their extraordinary time-displaced technology.
Now, he realized that second-degree burns were the least of his troubles. And, just having returned from a physically demanding excursion to Samarkand, he was unlikely to get his preferred eight hours of sleep in the next twenty-four.
He noticed that Dr. Ross carried an equipment case, attached to a leather strap that was studded with smaller boxes and pouches, slung over one shoulder.
“What is that?” August inquired, knowing that in accordance with Council protocol, Dr. Ross would share exactly as much and as little information as was relevant, regarding the specifications of the 1980s technology he carried.
“It’s everything you need to know,” said Ross, unslinging the equipment case and removing one of the smaller boxes, dissociating it from the strap although it was still connected to the case via a series of multi-colored, rubber-insulated wires. He held this box in front of August’s face. “Speak your name, Council rank, and today’s date, common Latin designation, directly into this,” he instructed, and August complied, while Ross fidgeted with a sequence of dials and knobs on the front of the larger case.
August was obligated to repeat his statement of name and rank several more times, until the persnickety Ross was satisfied, and he finally disconnected the multi-colored wire connection and handed the box over.
“This is a custom Vox Data Cabinet. Keep it connected to your communications array at all times,” Ross explained, and he demonstrated for August the function of this remarkable unit, which stored crucial information in a format that made it accessible only to the designated individual, on an as-needed basis; all of this was necessary to adapt two technological platforms that were separated by almost six decades of natural development, a process that was controlled and enforced by the most rigorously detailed Council protocol.
He was well aware of that protocol, as it stood in accordance with the Council’s functions as of the year 1928, but August nevertheless bristled under its provisions as April and Ross made themselves very much at home in his home, particularly his workshop, where the two visitors seemed all too familiar with his custom-designed equipment, and its design limitations and flaws.
At a work-bench, April glanced at the pieces of a disassembled Temporal Discordance Analyzer, a remarkably useful hand-held device that could detect the presence of a person or object that had been displaced from its natural position in the Timeline. August, quite rightfully, took a great deal of pride in this device, which he helped to design and improve; this latest prototype incorporated a miniaturized T-wave generator, enabling the unit to function essentially as its own self-contained temporal transporter, dramatically curtailing the deleterious effects of radiation backscatter, which tended to knock the analyzer out of calibration and sometimes render it utterly useless.
August thought he detected an irritating note of uncaring callousness as April moved the disassembled prototype to the side of the bench with a swipe of her arm, clearing space for her own devices, which she removed from her Tactical Kit and laid out before her. But he was fascinated by the technology that was strange and unfamiliar to him, as it represented the state-of-art from a period of development that would remain unknown to him for many years.
If he lived to a very old age, August fancied, he might one day have the occasion to use the same equipment that April busied herself with now, and his natural curiosity and technological aptitude made it impossible for him to tear his gaze away from what looked like the keyboard of a tiny typewriter, attached to a sheet of smooth glass, that glowed with tiny lights in the form of an ever-changing output of text and numerical data and diagrams. He was largely ignorant of such technology, although he had encountered it on a handful of other occasions, when critical situations necessitated Timeline actions on his part, or of others who had come into contact with him.
But memories of those occasions tended to be hazy or incomplete, as predicted by Professor Richard Bortosky’s Fourth Law of Temporal Dynamics, otherwise known as “The Paradox Complex.” Unless he made a detailed study of the technology, and supplemented that study with extensive audio and visual stimuli, and reinforced the knowledge with constant re-exposure, all serious violations of relevant Council protocol, August’s familiarity with technology that did not yet exist from his own point of reference would always fade into obscurity.
Still, unable to resist the temptation, he assaulted her with questions, and April ignored them pointedly, as her fingers flew over the tiny typewriter. Her facial expression changed with every permutation of the tiny lights, from grim to more grim, to still more grim. Ross was standing over her shoulder, and as he observed the lighted text and data, his countenance conveyed no more optimism than April’s.
“It’s growing much faster than we thought,” April said with determination, “uncertainty factor spiked at a hundred percent. From both ends of the Timeline, and one major disturbance in the middle.”
In contrast to his ignorance of their technology, August was not completely unfamiliar with the problem at hand, nor with their adversary, whose malicious interference with the Timeline, just six months ago by his current reckoning, had already unleashed a world of troubles upon him and his great-Aunt, the illustrious Mrs. A; not to mention the entirety of life on the planet, when an armada of heavily armed spacecraft arrived in Earth’s upper atmosphere, threatening war and destruction and compulsory servitude.
On that occasion, August and Mrs. A undertook an extraordinary action, to protect both Earth and Timeline, and transported themselves to the year 1985, fifty-seven years in the future, and it could be no coincidence that April and Dr. Ross were here now, having transported from the same date.
“We had a bit more trouble in 1985,” Dr. Ross explained to August, “and unfortunately, you’re in it. Our visitors managed to fire off some kind of time-charge. One that we’re unfamiliar with, and we couldn’t detect it, until it had already transported.”
“Transported where?” August inquired, although he already had an inkling; the pertinent question was when.
“1910. Right here, at the Atherton compound,” April cut in, “although we’re not sure if the target was you, or Aunt Barty, or both.” And she went on to summarize the facts pertaining to the matter, and she shared a great deal about what they knew – and did not know.
“So what do you plan to do?” August asked.
“We don’t know,” Ross answered, “we’re still doing damage control, trying to figure out what we have to work with. Things were already starting to come apart when we transported out. You might say we escaped in the nick of time.”
This comment earned a glare from April, who added, “and our reconnaissance is incomplete. What we know for certain is that you’ve been transported – your ten year old self, that is. Our best guess is that you’ve landed in 1866. That’s where the Council has detected a very unusual zone of temporal instability. Where is Aunt Barty? We’re going to need her.”
“She’s in Hollywood,” August replied, “at a movie premiere. New Charlie Chaplin picture. She never misses one.”
“You’ve got to get to her, and the two of you get to safety, quickly as possible,” April said, “then, you’ll have a lot to do, to set things right. You must get your young self back to where he – where you – belong. Then, repair any incidental damage along the way.”
“And hope that’s enough to prevent the Timeline from completely rolling up,” Dr. Ross added, “and obliterating the entire Council, along with just about everyone who’s ever been associated with us.”
“Just a minute!” August snapped. “You’re here to help me, right? So, why is this all my job?”
“Because if my calculations are correct,” April replied, with a note of urgency, “Dr. Ross and I are about to die. We have about two minutes.”
“What do you mean?” August demanded.
“I mean, that in about two minutes, we will be utterly destroyed, obliterated, by a time-hammer,” April said levelly. “So, Uncle August, I hope I’ve gotten your attention. Now, can we rely on your cooperation and assistance?”
****************
June, 1866.
Yankton, Dakota Territory.
Benjamin Pedlow, the owner and proprietor of Pedlow’s Mercantile Exchange and Purveyor of Dry Goods, untied the string and opened the heavy canvas bag that the two boys had lugged, proudly, into his place of business.
“How many ya got?” he asked, peering into the bag.
“Twenny-seven! Some’s a little small, but mostly they’s nice big ones,” said the larger of the boys. “My brother here only got five or six. I got the rest!” he beamed.
Unslighted, the younger brother grinned, revealing two roughly parallel rows of randomly ordered adult and juvenile teeth, interspersed with occasional gaps of one or two tooth-widths.
Pedlow puffed on a Meerschaum pipe, and through a haze of tobacco smoke he regarded the boys. Each boy was heavily weighed down by a rusted, ancient Stockdale musket.
“Used birdshot, did you?” Pedlow asked.
“Yes, sir!!” the sibling duo sang in concert.
But a moment later, their spirits sank.
Pedlow re-tied the bag with a grunt, puffed his pipe, and blew a new cloud of smoke across the counter, as he pushed the bag back toward them.
“Don’t want ‘em,” he gruffed.
“What??” they cried, crestfallen.
“You see, my lads, the quail’s a small bird,” Pedlow explained patiently. “Time you dig out all the birdshot, ain’t nothing left to eat. Customers ain’t payin’ for quail that’s been birdshot, and I won’t neither. You got to trap ‘em.”
“But that’s a lot harder!” complained the older boy. “We was out there all day yesterday! Box traps an’ ratcatchers dint get no birds a’tall!”
“Well, that’s the trick, ain’t it?” Pedlow seemed to take a modicum of pleasure in the boys’ disappointment. “Here’s what you do. Take a piece of leather cord, and…”
His thoughts and words were interrupted at just that moment, as a fourteen-year-old girl in an oversized brown Stetson hat, miner’s denim pants and embroidered men’s shirt sashayed into the Exchange.
She stepped up to the counter with a bright greeting of, “Hallo, Mister Pedlow!” and a canvas bag just like the boys’, also bulging with quail.
Across her back was a Winchester rifle, and on her left hip was holstered a Colt .45 revolver.
Like the Red Sea before Moses and the Israelites, the boys parted, leaving space for the girl to step between them and hoist her bag onto the counter.
“Hello, Wildcat! How many ya got, today?” Pedlow asked, greeting the girl with a friendliness that made the two boys bristle.
“Thirty-eight! Mostly real big’uns, too!” was the girl’s proud reply.
Pedlow lifted the bag, estimating its weight. Then he stroked his chin thoughtfully, and took the pipe from his mouth.
Grinning, he blew a smoke-cloud that would leave remnants hanging in the warm summer air for hours, if not days.
Then, he reached under the counter and withdrew a number of coins, and as the two boys watched dumbstruck, he handed the coins over to the girl, with a smile and a small entrainment of fresh smoke-puffs.
“I know I can trust you, Wildcat!” said Pedlow, as he inverted the open bag over a dried-out pickle-barrel, which served as a smokehouse box, and the small avian bodies poured into it with little thumps. “You gave me two extry, last time!”
“Well, twice I got two with one shot!” was her reply, and she offered it without a trace of modesty. She accepted the handful of coins, weighing them in her hands with a smile. It was at least three dollars, according to the estimate of the older boy, who attempted an accounting of the coins as the girl dropped them into a leather pouch on her belt.
“Thanks, Mister Pedlow! Reckon I’ll see ya again in a couple’a days,” said the girl called “Wildcat” as she accepted the now-empty canvas bag from the beaming Pedlow.
Glancing at the boys for the first time since arriving at the Mercantile Exchange, the girl politely touched the brim of her brown slouch hat, while subtly fingering the handle of the Colt. Then, she turned and walked briskly out.
Exasperated, not understanding why Pedlow had paid good money for what the girl – a girl !! - had bagged, the older boy sputtered a series of inarticulate half-questions and accusations.
“SHE dint trap no quail!” the other boy summed up.
But Pedlow understood the nature of the boys’ frustration, and he patiently explained to them again, why trapped quail are preferable to birdshot quail.
And why he paid for quail that had been shot - not trapped - by the girl nicknamed Wildcat. He was confident that these quail would make for perfect eating, with no chance of cracking a tooth on a pellet of birdshot. He was certain that each and every one of the birds he purchased had been killed with a single shot to the head.
And he told the boys, if they wanted to be marksmen or bird-hunters, to take heart. Practice hard, learn to steady their aim, and maybe one day they might be as good as that girl with the Winchester and the Colt, and the denim pants and embroidered men’s shirt.
But right now, that girl was the quickest and most proficient hand with a firearm in the southern Dakota Territory.
She stepped outside of Pedlow’s Mercantile and paused for a moment, standing on the broad front porch that wrapped around three sides of the clapboard structure, one of the larger buildings in town, exceeding even the two-story Courthouse that distinguished Yankton as the capitol of the Dakota Territory.
Located on the fertile banks of the mighty Missouri, just above its confluence with the James River, the town was ideally situated as a steamship port, and so Yankton was a growing community. The recent conclusion of the great Civil War promised to bring an increased tide of human traffic, of pioneers and homesteaders and fur trappers and traders and travelers along the ever-flowing Missouri. Pedlow and other merchants stood ready to serve, and conduct business, and to prosper.
That prosperity, and growth, would soon bring great changes to the town, especially along the riverfront, but for right now the great swaths of brush in the plentiful riparian habitat was rich with good hunting, of small game birds like the Bobwhite quail.
The girl opened the leather pouch on her belt, and felt the cool burnished metal of the coins, the ones she had earned for a morning’s work, and cost the lives of the roughly three dozen Bobwhite that now filled Pedlow’s smokehouse box.
And then, quick as a rattlesnake strike, the fingers that had been touching the coins were wrapped around the handle of her .45, and she whirled in a tight circle, drawing the Colt and a perfect bead on the midsection of a boy, who had been lurking just outside the doorway of Pedlow’s.
“Tryin’ ta sneak up on me? Snatch my stake?” the girl demanded, as the boy’s eyes widened to saucer size and he raised both arms, his empty palms pointed forward. “Ya been horseflyin’ me all mornin’. I heard ya, like a ruttin’ bull crashin’ aroun’ in the brush, thinkin’ yer quiet as a feather duster. Who are ya? Why ya doggin’ my trail?”
The boy swallowed hard before replying, and he kept his hands raised; but they did not tremble, and neither did the boy’s voice. “You’re Molly Pepper, aren’t you?”
She could not prevent a reflexive eye blink, and a slight sideways jerk of her head, but “Wildcat” Molly Pepper also tightened her grip on the Colt and raised it to eye level.
She sidled forward. And she took a step, and a half of another step.
And she extended her gun-hand, so that the tip of the revolver’s barrel was now about twelve inches in front of the boy’s nose.
“An’ I dunno you from Eve’s Adam,” Molly said, pronouncing the word ‘you’ with studied care, perhaps trying too hard to add a tone of menace that was lacking in her natural speaking voice. She regarded the boy, observing his smallish physique and absence of sidearms, the tattered condition of his odd clothing, and the fact that he wore no hat, and carried no pack. “Look at ya! Ragged as a turned-out cockroach. And ain’t even tall ‘nuff ta see o’er a swayback burro.”
She started to lower the gun, but as she did so, the boy moved to brush aside a lock of his unruly, shoulder-length black hair, that had fallen in front of his eyes and obscured his vision. This innocuous motion nevertheless caused the gun-hand to spring up again, so when the boy was able to see clearly, his sight line led straight down the cool, .45 caliber steel barrel.
“Still, ya don’t wanna wake up hearin’ harp music,” said Molly Pepper, “an’ the way I got it figgered, my best bet’s a sendin’ ya to the parade o’ saints. No more discussin’ the matter. Wanna change my mind? Ya better unhitch that tongue an’ make like a opry singer, right quick, ‘fore ya git on my fightin’ side.”
He swallowed again; and again his voice was calm. No fear showed in his gaze as he held up his empty hands. “Please, Miss Pepper… Molly…,” he managed, “I’m not here to try to hurt you, or steal your money. I… I need your help. Please, put down the gun. I’m not even armed, you see? You’re not going to shoot an unarmed kid, are you? Why… why, they can hang you for that.”
“You lissen ta me, yearlin’,” Molly replied, “No one’s hangin’ me for nothin’. They all knows me aroun’ here, and not from no pitcher on no Wanted poster, neither. Someone follers me, tries to sap me, I send ‘em hoppin’ over coals in Hell, and I don’t spend much time mullin’ over no legal matters. Not ‘til after I re-load, and just afore Sund’y school. An’ so far, I ain’t never gargled on no rope.”
She paused, just to cock the hammer on the single-action Colt.
“I reckon what conscience I got don’t bother me much,” she continued, “so I don’ see no reason why you should fuss over it, neither. Now, tell me yer name, an’ say it slow, so I kin be sure they get the spellin’ right on yer gravemarkin’ stone.”
Another lock of long, dark hair fell again, in front of one eye; and again the boy moved to brush it away.
“My name is August Atherton,” he said.