My
Heroes Have Always Been Gunslingers
Continued
CHAPTER FIVE
“We’ve got
to go down…”
“Captain?”
The
voice intruded into Jim’s dream and he groaned as he moved his heavy head from
side to side, then muttered, “It’s just not fair, Marissa…”
Then his eyes shot open all and he lurched upright in his command chair .
. . groaned, “Uhhh…” with his head in his hands.
“My tongue feels like I’ve been chewing on a tribble…”
He shuddered with the thought.
Again
the intruding voice spoke: “Perhaps this will help,” it said and something
warm was thrust into his hand.
“Spock?”
He blinked more of the ambiguity away and found a very welcome cup of
coffee-plus (high in energy as well as caffeine) in his hand.
He took a sip, found it just right temperature-wise and gulped it down.
It was better than cold water in his face.
“Ah, thank you, Mister Spock,” he said and returned the cup, sat a
little straighter in his chair.
The
rest of his bridge crew was coming out of their Time-Warp stupor rather more
slowly, some stumbling around a bit, others holding their heads or shaking life
back into limbs. He didn’t see
anyone injured and wasn’t receiving any reports other than green lights all
across his command-com, but he imagined the galley would be handing out a lot of
their coffee-plus – the human body required readjustments after Time-Warps
and, even weeks apart, two was a bit over taxing to the system.
When the lift doors whooshed open and one of the galley orderlies began
handing out the drinks, he knew he’d have to commend the Galley Chief for his
insight.
Jim turned to Spock. “So,
what’s the news?”
“The
news is both good and bad, Captain,” Spock returned, standing at ease with his
hands behind his back.
Jim
sighed, “Well, give me the good first, then.”
“We
have succeeded in following Klag’s ship into the past.”
Wishing
to put off the inevitable, Kirk asked, “How far into the past, Mister
Spock?”
“Four-hundred-twelve
years, from our original time-line; two-hundred-thirty-one years from our first
Time-Warp jump, Captain.”
“It’s
eighteen-seventy . . . something down there?”
Spock’s
brows twitched as he corrected, “Eighteen-seventy-three, to be precise,
Captain.”
And
this was the “good news?” Jim thought.
He
cleared his throat and squirmed in his chair a bit, but there just didn’t seem
to be a position any more comfortable than another.
“And the bad news?”
“According
to residual readings, at least one Klingon – possibly Klag himself –
transported down to the surface shortly after recovering from their Time-Warp
while the Bird of Prey appears to have withdrawn behind Earth’s satellite.”
Now
Jim was all attention. “Why would
he leave his ship?” he asked and then thought about it.
“He wants to split our forces, have us looking in two different
directions?”
“That
would have been my first assumption, Captain,” Spock answered.
“However, Klag’s ship has now sustained some minor hull damage and
they have again lost total control of their starboard impulse engines.
They may have retreated only for repairs.”
“But
why would Klag leave his own ship and crew?” Jim wondered aloud.
“Was he afraid his ship would blow up?
Or was he sure we’d blew it out from beneath him?
Was it a cowardly attempt to escape Federation as well as Klingon
justice?” He shook his head –
he hated mysteries. “One thing is
certain: he’ll have a bad time trying to ‘blend in’ with that
population… Unless,” he
chuckled, “he joins some circus.”
Spock’s
cocked brow was an inquiry, but Jim didn’t let his thoughts get sidetracked .
. because those thoughts had rapidly turned dark.
“Mister
Spock, do you suppose he intends to wreck havoc on an unsuspecting and ignorant
population, change our history by demonstrating there is
extra-terrestrial life out there in the Universe before they are ready?”
“I
may speculate, but I hardly understand the mind of the Klingon warrior, Captain,
therefore my supposition would be useless.
He may have, as you have suggested, simply . . . muddied the water so to
speak and is compelling us to split our forces.”
Jim
cocked his head. “Mister Spock,
have you been studying Earth euphemisms?”
His Science Officer’s brows ascended, but Jim waved that aside to
return to the proper subject. “Actually,
Mister Spock, it doesn’t matter why he’s down there, he’ll cause an
anomaly just by being there, especially if he encounters anyone...”
He rubbed his face, said, “I don’t even want to think what could
happen if he uses that disruptor on anyone. . . ‘important,’ Mister Spock.
“And
our presence could disrupt our future as well, but we simply have no choice but
to follow. We’ve got to
send a party to the surface and find him, to get a visual reference for any
‘changes’ he will make . . . before he can cause some chaotic event that
will radically upset the future,” he said…
…And
remembered the Melkots and how they had used Checkov’s own thoughts to create
a version of “the wild west” in an attempt to kill his crew and himself.
Thankfully Checkov hadn’t taken it all that seriously and hadn’t actually
“died,” but down there, on that Earth below and in this time..?
It wasn’t the Melkots “mind games” they’d be playing and
“death” would be very real indeed.
“I
agree,” Spock answered and brought Jim back to reality.
“What
coordinates did Klag use to transport?”
“He
seems to have chosen a rather remote area with few inhabitants, Captain,”
Spock answered and offered his tricorder.
Jim
nodded over the readings. “Well,
at least that’s something positive. Maybe
he won’t wander into someone’s yard and frighten some poor woman half to
death. I’m sure one look would be
all it would take…
“Lieutenant
Uhura?”
The
Communications Officer swiveled her chair around and removed the rather useless
earpiece (now that there were no Star Bases or planetary governments to contact
or listen in on). “Yes,
Captain?”
“Contact
Ships’ Archives if you would, tell them we require complete and authentic
attire from Nineteenth Century,
Her
dark face lit in a smile as she no longer felt so superfluous, which had
obviously been Jim’s intent in asking her to do what he could have done
himself sitting right there in his chair. “Yes,
sir!”
Jim
pushed a button on his chair’s arm. “Security
Chief. I’ll need four…
No, make that five of your best men for a ground operation.
Because of the nature of this maneuver, they should be Caucasian only.
And, if they have at least a knowledge of horses and how to ride, that
might come in handy. Also, have
them armed with small phasers and mini-tricordes that can be easily concealed.
No one must be seen carrying weapons or anything out of . . .
Nineteenth-Century-ordinary. As
soon as you’ve chosen your team, have them report to the Archives for
appropriate garments. That includes
footwear; I don’t want to see anyone displaying Star Fleet issue anything,
understand?”
He
received the confirmation of orders and logged off, slapped the chair’s arms
and thrust himself up . . . with a rather inappropriate “smile” on his face.
“Mister Spock, I’d ask you to go down to Archives to help me pick out
my costume, but since you won’t be accompanying us…”
“I
understand, Captain,” Spock answered, not at all perturbed that he hadn’t
been “invited.” “I then
presume I shall be taking your chair to either pursue the Klingon vessel, or
remain in synchronous orbit?”
Jim
had already turned toward the lift, but spun on his heal and returned.
“Glad you mentioned that, Mister Spock.
You’re in charge, so do what you believe is prudent to the situation…
And you have permission to fire at will,” he said and,
uncharacteristically in front of crew, gently poked Spock in the chest with his
finger.
The
Vulcan eyebrows descended. “I
would caution against such lightheartedness, Captain.
This is a serious matter.”
“Yes,
I know,” Jim answered and lowered his eyes and head.
“It’s just… We
haven’t had much to laugh or joke or feel happy about since this incident
began and…” When he lifted his
face, that smile was again trembling on his lips.
“It’s absurd, but . . . I’m happy to get off this bridge for
awhile, to walk a land that we never knew.
“That
area down there, this place we’re about to visit..?”
He pointed at the screen and the cloud-shrouded blue planet beneath them.
“That area there is now a park-housing complex, Mister Spock.
I’m going to see it before the military put bunkers and silos in those
mountains and hills that were nearly raised during that terrible war.
I’m going to see it before Zephrem Cochrane was born, before the
survivors’ children’s children plowed it over and ‘farsighted
developers’ diverted the water supply to create their ‘planned community’
I spoke of. As lovely as this area
is back on the Earth we know, this…” he stabbed his finger at the view
again, “This is the way it was, the way it should be.
Do you understand, Mister Spock? Can
you understand what I mean?”
Spock
retained his stoic self-respect, but there was almost “sadness” in
his eyes. He dipped his head once.
“Yes, Captain, I can. And
I trust you will . . . enjoy your adventure.”
James
Kirk smiled. “Thank you, Mister
Spock. We’ll take care of Klag.
You just take care of my ship,” he said, turned and left
the bridge.
*
Mister
Spock faced the screen and, hands behind his back, patiently observed the
ever-changing pattern in the cloud cover below.
He revealed no emotion.
*
Jim
met his assigned escort at the main
They
were also supplied with the much smaller, palm-sized tricorder units which had
limited range, but were more easily hidden.
Kirk
looked each man over, nodded his acceptance of their outfits or suggested some
adjustment, then told them what was to be expected of them as well as what they
might expect to find “down there in this past.”
“This
isn’t going to be a country outing. We’re
after a Klingon and all of you by now should be aware of how dangerous they
can be. But Klag is a
‘traditional,’ which means he is ugly and isn’t trying to look ‘human’
like some of the others we’ve run up against in the past.
Believe me, you will be able to recognize him immediately.
And being a ‘traditional’ also means he’ll be twice as dangerous
and more likely to attack – maybe even more so as the climate planet-side
isn’t going to be what I’d call ‘preferable’ to a Klingon.
Don’t take any chances. If
you even think you see him, stun first and ask questions later; is that
understood?”
He
received nods and “Aye, Captain.”
“One
other thing,” he added. “Don’t
call me ‘Captain.’ I don’t
look like a ‘Captain’ and if we should happen upon any other people down
there, it would sound suspicious. Therefore,
I order you to either call me ‘Mister Kirk,’ or ‘James’.”
A
ragged chorus of, “Yes, Mister Kirk,” and, “Aye-aye, James” answered
that, then an additional order to, “drop the ‘aye-aye’s’,” as well
ended that language lesson. Everything
else would have to be dealt with when they came to it.
It
would have been easier, and simpler, just to pick up Klag’s very distinctive
signature and beam him directly into a secure holding cell, but it was important
Jim Kirk discover how much damage Klag’s presence might have caused.
Therefore, Mr. Scott (always manning the transporter controls whenever
his Captain went on a mission) had set coordinates at the Klingon’s beaming
point. They’d follow his trail
with Spock monitoring above. If the
need was great, they could be transported directly to Klag’s present location.
The
five security men followed their Captain on to the transporter platform and
found their pads; Jim smiled at Scotty and raised his hand, “Mister
Scott…” brought it down in a chopping motion, “energize.”
Three
seconds later, five oddly dressed Star Fleet Security Guards and one Captain of
the Federation Constellation class Starship,
The
sun was still a promise on the undulating, hilly horizon, the landscape but
vague silhouettes dressed in the silvery-grey of what remained of the setting
moon. Despite this lack of
definition and the cold wind, James T. Kirk stopped just to look around and
breathe the sweet air. “Beautiful,”
he whispered before pulling the tricorder from his pocket to take a reading.
……………………………….
CHAPTER SIX
“Worst day of
my life…”
The
moment Jess got out of bed he knew this wasn’t going to be one of his better
days. Right off, as they gathered
around the breakfast table set with Daisy’s typically wonderful, if basic
fare, Slim announced he couldn’t put off working on the books any longer and
he’d probably be at them for most of the day.
That meant Jess would have to take care of all the chores by himself,
plus finish fixing that section of fence Slim and he’d been struggling with
for the past week. Naturally Mike
enthusiastically offered to help out, but he was stared down by Slim while Daisy
reminded the boy he wasn’t about to skip going to school today no matter how
much he wanted to miss that arithmetic test.
Jess
tousled Mike’s hair and, in a sympathetic tone, said, “Sorry, Tiger; maybe
next time.”
Then
Mike gave him the strangest look, ran his hands through his hair to smooth it
back down and barked, “Thanks,” like he’d been betrayed.
He stalked around the table and plopped into his seat, flicked Jess
another “hateful” look before he grabbed his napkin and got very interested
in placing it in his lap.
Jess
stood there a moment with his mouth open, wondering what just happened, what
he’d done to call up such a reaction from the boy.
Then,
to make matters worse, Jess accidentally knocked his coffee cup – just
refreshed – into his lap while making a grab for the last large and fluffy
biscuit. Slim got the prize while
Jess, howling in pain and humiliation, ran to the bedroom and slammed the door
(amid Slim’s and Mike’s snickering and Daisy’s call of concern).
He
yanked off his boots, hurriedly stripped off both wet pants and underwear,
anxious about how much damage he’d done to himself.
Thankfully the liquid had only reddened the top of both thighs.
He grabbed the water pitcher and gritted his teeth as he splashed the
cold, cold water on his legs, then had to shout to keep whoever it was
tentatively knocking at the door from walking in on him with only his shirttail
to hide his embarrassment. It was
Daisy offering him some salve (which she passed though the meager crack he
allowed between jamb and door). It
did soothe the burn enough so he could just tolerate putting on another pair of
softer, if a bit raggedy old denims he’d found stuffed in the saddlebags he
kept under the bed . . without undergarment!
He didn’t think he could tolerate that quite yet.
He
came out of the bedroom, walking like some tenderfoot who’d ridden all day on
a saddle too small (amid more snickers and Daisy’s admonitions to be kind,
though even she couldn’t hide her grin).
But when he sat down to finish his breakfast…
The
seat of his pants made the crudest noise as the material parted all the way from
the bottom to top along the seam!
He
just sat there, totally mortified, his head cradled on his forearms while the
rest of the table – including the usually sympathetic Daisy – chortled until
they all but fell out of their chairs.
Daisy
gracefully made her own self scarce in the kitchen while Jess, his napkin held
like a shrunken shield before him, sidled back into the bedroom without exposing
his bare backside any more than he already had.
He also crammed a chair beneath the doorknob to keep out intruders.
But he could still hear intermittent and what he considered rather rude
remarks accompanying the snickering and giggling.
Had
they all planned this wreck of a morning, his disgrace couldn’t have been more
awful. And, of course, this thought
didn’t help his mood or his pain and he went through his neatly arranged
outfits like a tornado, searching for something else to wear.
The
only thing he could do was put on some underwear (he grabbed the least scratchy
of his meager inventory) then found that other pair of pants that someone –
maybe one of those farmer’s he’d helped in his “hired gun days” – had
given him. They’d been a little
too big for him then and were still too big, but, when he stormed out of the
bedroom this time, his belt cinched tight and britches bunched at the back, he
didn’t even glance at his plate or the people still sitting at the table.
He went directly to the front door, grabbed his hat from the peg and
stomped out . . . into the early fall’s morning freeze!
Maybe,
if he was lucky, he thought, one of the relay horses that didn’t want to be
put out into the cold would just stomp him to death…
Five
minutes later, while Jess was shooing the reluctant team out the back of the
barn and into the corral, Slim brought out his wonderfully fire-warmed heavy
sheepskin coat, helped him shrug it on and patted him on the back. “Don’t
worry, Pard; it can only get better from here.”
Jess
thought, “Yeah, sure it could…” because he’d heard that sly
“snicker” in Slim’s voice.
When
the sun came up the day got unusually warm and the minor burns on Jess’ legs
went for being merely annoying to tingly-itchy with sweat.
So, when he brought his coat in to hang it up, he continued toward the
bedroom for another round of salve.
Slim
was at his desk, hunched over the books and frowning at a pile of receipts and
other papers large enough to choke a whole team of horses.
Jess tried to sneak past, but Slim caught him off guard by thrusting a
piece of paper at him.
“What
is this?” Slim asked, looking around.
Jess
tentatively leaned over to read what he could.
“A receipt?” he answered.
“For
fifteen pounds of ten-penny nails?” Slim accused.
“What were you thinking?”
Jess
rocked back on his heals, trying to remember what he had been thinking besides
getting some relief. “Oh…
Yeah. That was the time we
had that big wind that tried to take off the barn roof.
You were in
Slim’s
brows rose as he considered. “All
right; seems I do remember a telegram. But…
Fifteen pounds worth? You
almost could have rebuilt the barn with that.”
“It
was a big wind, Slim; caused a lot of damage,” Jess answered defensively.
“I had to replace some shingles and even nail down part of this
roof,” and he pointed at the ceiling.
“So,
how many nails are left?”
Jess
frowned, looked away and sucked a tooth before he came back to his partner’s
“inquisition-face” again. “I
guess about . . . oh, maybe seven . . . eight pounds?
One keg and a half anyway. Give
or take…” he enhanced with a shrug.
Slim
shook his head and sighed, “All right. So
we don’t have to worry about purchasing any more nails for the next . . . two
years. I just wish you’d consider
how much we’re taking in before you start throwing around what little we do
have and buying things by the gross.”
“But
it was a…”
“A
big wind,” Slim completed for him. “I
think I understood that the first time.”
“Well…
It was,” Jess answered, hands on hips.
“Just
. . . go on with whatever you were about,” Slim said, waving him away.
Jess
expelled a huffed breath, transferred his weight in preparation of continuing to
the bedroom when Daisy, having entered the room unseen, cleared her throat and
startled him.
“Uhm
. . Slim? Jess?”
The
chair squeaked as Slim swiveled it around.
“Yes, Daisy?”
She
clasped her hands before her and cleared her throat again like an apology,
glancing first at Slim, then at Jess. “I
hate to be the barer of bad news, but… The
new sack of flour you brought home the other day, Jess, has weevils.”
Jess
swallowed hollowly. “Please
don’t tell me you made those biscuits this morning…”
Daisy
laughed and fluttered a hand. “Oh,
my, no; that was the last of the old flour.
I just opened the new sack. I
was going to make another apple pie besides the one already in the oven
and…” she raised her hands. “Well,
someone will just have to replace that flour.”
When
Slim pointedly looked at him, Jess backed up a step and raised his hands.
“Hey, I’ve got a lot of work to do.
There’s that fence… And
Daisy needs more wood chopped…”
Slim
reached around and snagged some more papers.
“So do I, Pard. The
new Superintendent is coming though later this week, maybe even tomorrow, and I
have to have these books in order or we could lose the contract.”
“But…
I just got supplies,” Jess countered rather lamely.
“You
want this job?” Slim asked, rattling the papers.
“I’ll be more than happy to take the buckboard to town and let you
deal with all this bookwork. Now we
might get away with not having enough . . . nails handy – that is, if
the house doesn’t blow away,” he said snidely, “but food is a priority and
flour is right at the top of that list.”
“All
right-all right, I got your drift,” Jess answered and stomped toward the
bedroom.
“Where
do you think…” Slim started.
Jess
spun at the doorway, feeling the flush of ire rise from his throat to the top of
his head. He moved his left hand up
and down his sweat-stained and barn-filthy shirt as well as his slightly too
loose and dirty pants as he asked, his usually reserved accent coming to the
fore with his anger, “You want me t’go in lookin’ like this?”
Slim
sighed and waved a casual hand at him. “Go
on. But hurry.
The stage is due…”
“…this
afternoon,” Jess inserted, his voice slightly muffled (and altogether miffed)
as he was already in the room and closing the door.
Before it shut completely, he thrust his head out and barked, “I’ll
be back, Pard! I promise!”
and slammed the door.
*
Slim
jumped and looked around at Daisy. She
merely shrugged and went back into the kitchen.
*
Jess
slapped the team into a lope, swept out of the yard and onto the road without a
backward glance. He kept the horses
at that speed for the first couple of miles or so, the flour bouncing around in
the back sending up “smoke signals” every time the buckboard hit a rough
patch of road, which was all the time.
No
one had come to wish him farewell once he had that retied flour sack over his
shoulder, not even Daisy, too busy with whatever she was making to do more than
give him a perfunctory good-by and a reminder (in his state of mind, a
“reprimand”) to “look before you bring another home.”
Therefore, as an afterthought, Jess saddled Traveler and roped him to the
tailgate. His horse wasn’t too
happy to be dragged along, but Jess had a plan in mind: he’d get that flour,
then wait around for Mike to get out of school (maybe grab a beer or two and
some friendly conversation in the saloon or eat lunch with Mort Cory in
the Sheriff’s office), then he would let the boy drive the buckboard home,
maybe stop at their fishing hole. It
would make him too late to help with the afternoon stage, but Mike would be one
happy kid. None of it would sit
well with Slim, or Daisy for that matter; he’d most likely get one of her
“oh-so-sweet little lectures” while Slim would engage him in some “verbal
combat” that could very easily become physical with Jess’ present state of
mind. But he really didn’t care
at the moment. His legs hurt,
despite the reapplication of the soothing salve.
At least the redness had diminished, if not the burning feeling, probably
because he was wearing another pair of his tighter pants.
He’d disengaged his tie-down because the leather bit into his leg and
he suspected the top of his thighs had swollen a bit.
The
team had slowed a little and he flicked the reins and “clucked” at them to
get them going at their good clip again. He
didn’t usually push a horse so hard, certainly not a team, but it was a light
load and, after he exchanged the flour, he’d take the horses to the stable,
pay the hostler to take care of the team while he relaxed in the back of the
cool saloon. Slim wouldn’t like
that either, but to Hell with him; Jess had his own money in his pocket and
he’d damn-well do what he wanted! He
needed to erase the memory of what had begun as a bad day…
Well, if he couldn’t do that, at least he’d have a measure of
pleasure in between the beginning and the end of it; he’d make certain of
that.
He
slapped the reins against the horses’ rumps as they again slowed to take the
incline of another small hill and the curve, his thoughts on that nice, cool
beer, when, without warning, a dark-skinned man with a mass of wild, black hair,
a long, stringy goatee and wearing strange clothing leaped out into the middle
of the road, brandished what looked like a gnarled stick at him and growled
something totally incomprehensible!
Jess
was suddenly fighting the frightened, rearing team and trying to reach for his
pistol at the same time . . . and then the day, the rearing horses, the odd and
crazy highwayman . . . everything . . . went black…
…………………………………
CHAPTER SEVEN
Earth, 1873;
morning through afternoon – Captain Kirk and security escort
“On the
Hunt”
Forty-five
minutes into their search with the sun in their faces, Jim contacted
“Mister
Spock, any directions you can provide? We’ve
kind of lost the spoor over some rocky ground in the dark.”
“Are
your tricorders not functioning properly, Captain?
I could beam down one of the larger units.”
“We’re
trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Mister Spock,” Kirk answered.
“Understood,”
Spock returned. “Klag is now
moving rapidly, approximately five kilometers east of your present location.
“Also,
Captain, I suggest you cease communication and find cover immediately as a small
party of ‘horsemen’ is now approaching over the rise to your right.”
“Kirk
out,” Jim said and closed his communicator, pointed to a large rock
outcropping about twenty yards to their left.
“Cover…”
They
ran to this fortress of stone, scrambled into it and ducked down behind the
boulders just a fraction of a second before they heard the horses and the first
rider’s head showed over the hill.
“Hey,
Pa!” a young voice called as the rider pulled his horse to a stop.
“Think I found me a footprint!”
Jim
held his breath, heard the young man dismount.
The boy was a little too close to their hiding place and he hoped it
wasn’t their footprints the boy had found…
“Billy,
you been seein’ them strange things ever since you got up this mornin’,”
someone older – and a lot less tolerant – answered. “Less they’s prints
of them that run our cattle off, I don’t rightly care, hear?
An’ who’d be fool enough to chase steers on foot anyhow?
Jest forget ‘em an’ start findin’ which way them cattle went.
We got plenty of sign most of the herd was here this mornin’.”
“But,
Pa, I told you it was them lights I seen last night that scared ‘em in
t’runnin’. It weren’t no
‘cattle thieves.’ It was that
sparklin’ kind’a lightnin’ way up in the sky.
Scared me plumb t’death, and sure ‘nough triggered that
stampeed, too.”
“An’
I told you I didn’t hear no thunder ‘til them steers started runnin’,”
the older man returned in an angry voice.
Three
other mounted men rode by where Jim and his men were hiding and a moment later
one of those men yelled, “Hey, Red!”
Sound
of horses trotting… “What’cha
got, Stormy?” – the boy’s father’s voice.
“They
was mostly bunched right here for a spell before them steers was spooked again
by somethin’. About a third took
off to the west, the rest went hell-bent north-east, but I ain’t found no
horse prints, not a one. Maybe yer
boy is right, Mister McCormack.”
“Don’t
matter what spooked ‘em,” came the growled response.
“Billy, get yerse’f back in that saddle.
Now! We got hard ridin’
ahead if we want to get our beef back to their winter graze,” and he and the
other riders moved away at a canter.
Billy
“grumbled” something Jim couldn’t hear, but a moment later a horse
galloped past.
Jim
waited until all he could hear was the sound of the wind soughing through the
grass and brush before he took a tentative peek around their cover.
There were three men, about a quarter of a mile away, headed away from
them. He went to the west side of
the rocks and saw two others riding over a ridge to the north-west.
None of them were interested in what was behind them.
Jim
grabbed a deep breath, turned to his team.
“All right, it looks like we’ve found the first ‘disruption’ of
history: Billy’s ‘lights in the sky.’
“Doberman?”
“Yes,
Mister Kirk,” the “businessman” stepped forward.
“See
if you can find that boot print ‘Billy’ identified.”
“Will
do.” Doberman crawled out of the rocks and, eyes on the ground and palm-corder
in his hand, started following the tracks of the horses.
The
breeze was beginning to get a lot warmer as the sun rose higher.
“Indian Summer,” Jim muttered to himself and removed his coat, nodded
for the men to do the same as he folded his and draped it over his arm.
“All
right,” Jim said to the four. “Mister
Spock reported that Klag’s damaged ship may have briefly entered atmosphere.
Unfortunately we now have substantiated proof that is what happened and
the incident was clearly noted. And
it’s probably a good bet that Billy and his cattle weren’t the only one’s
to view this . . . peculiar ionized aurora in the stratosphere either.
Let’s just hope there wasn’t some astronomer directing his telescope
to that part of the heavens this morning. Even
so, eventually this phenomenon will make its way around the world.
I don’t know what that might do to our history, but any speculation now
concerning ‘other life in the Universe’ won’t be just theory if Klag’s
presence is reported.”
“But
. . . Mister Kirk,” Cosswell asked, “aren’t we going to . . . put it back
the way it should be?”
“We
can only hope…” Jim answered, realizing how difficult that could turn out to
be. But that was Spock’s
expertise and Jim and company had their own job to do.
He
led them out of the rocks and found Doberman kneeling over something.
The man raised his arm – at least he had sense enough not to shout.
Jim
and the rest trotted over to see what he’d found and, sure enough, when Jim
knelt beside him, he saw that square-toed Klingon print.
Even the characters were clear as Klag had stepped in a slightly muddy
depression between some rocks sometime early this morning and the wind hadn’t
been able to erase it.
“That
young man has good eyes,” Jim said as he took a reading as well as a
line-of-sight mark. “He was on
horseback and, if we didn’t have tricorders, as limited as these are, we’d
have stepped right over it and never seen it.”
Jim stood and deliberately rubbed the toe of his boot over Klag’s sign
to obliterate it.
“All
right; Klag appears to be heading almost due east.
We’ll use that stand of trees about a kilometer and a half ahead as a
guide, but take a tricorder reading on this spoor and keep your eyes on the
ground, too. Maybe we’ll get
lucky again…
“And
Meredith?”
“Yes,
Mister Kirk?” the “cowboy” answered.
“Turn
your tricorder’s volume down a bit, please?
You alert anyone else who might be around every time it alerts you.
And all of you,” he looked at each man, “watch each other and don’t
call out.
“Good
job, Doberman. Come on.”
They
spread out a bit to better cover the uneven ground.
A
good three hours later, foot-weary and clearly sweating from the exertion as
well as the warming day, Jim pulled them over to another maze of concealing
boulders, folded his coat and sat on it. His
team found their respective rocks and did the same . . . with a communal sigh of
relief.
“We’ll
break here for lunch . . . and rest. But
we’ve managed to put quite a few kilometers behind and the Klingon’s spoor
is getting fresher. We can only
hope these mini-‘corders will give us a good lock soon.
“Meredith
and Phillips, take up position as lookouts.”
As
these “cowboys” moved to either side and found good vantage spots, Jim
contacted
“Mister
Spock, how are we doing?” he asked.
“You
are making good time, Captain. Klag
is now but two kilometers ahead of you and still moving east.
Would you prefer to be beamed to his location?”
“Well,
it’s tired going; this isn’t exactly a foot-path we’re following, but I
still need to see if there are any more . . . anomalies that may require a . . .
readjustment of your calculations. We’re
also wiping out his tracks, when we can find them.”
“Understood,
Captain,” Spock answered and, though to anyone else his voice would sound as
neutral as ever, Jim’s brows descended.
“Is
there another problem, Mister Spock?”
Slight
pause…“Nothing that you must concern yourself with at this moment, Captain.
The Klingon Bird of Prey has, so to speak, vanished.
There is some indication the ship has left the vicinity of the Earth and
may be hiding in the Asteroid Belt, yet long range sensors cannot confirm.”
“The
ship might be eluding your detection behind the planet itself,” Kirk offered.
“That
possibility has been taken under consideration as well, the reason I have not
moved
Jim
swiped his finger across his forehead and flicked the sweat away.
“But you believe they may still be making repairs?”
“Their
hull integrity has been restored; sensors would detect any residual atmospheric
discharge had it not been.”
“And
you could follow that like breadcrumbs…” Jim interjected with a grunt.
“Captain?”
Spock responded, clearly uncertain what he implied.
“’Hansel
and Gretel,’ Mister Spock; check ship’s archives under ‘Brothers Grimm,’
correlation, ‘fairy tales.’
“Sorry,
Mister Spock,” he grabbed a tired breath, “simply an associative memory.
Please continue.”
“I
have informed the Galley Chief you require nourishment.
This shall be beamed to you shortly.”
Jim
smiled. “Thank you, Mister Spock.
That will be very welcome.
“Anything
else?”
“Not
at this time, Captain. Shall I
inform you when telemetry is received?”
“I’ll
set my communicator to vibrate so it won’t frighten the wildlife,” Jim
smiled. “Thank you, Mister Spock.
Kirk out.” He closed the
top, set the vibrate mode and put the device in his shirt pocket to better feel
it if or when it went off, pulled down his vest to cover the pocket.
“Heads
up, men,” he said. “Lunch is
about to arrive. Don’t move
about.”
Muttered
gratitude and very large smiles greeted him before one man – Phillips, the
“cowboy” wearing the blue bandana on guard-duty – asked in a hopeful tone,
“Uh, Mister Kirk? Is there any news on how far this Klingon is now?”
Jim
quirked a smile. “I know you’re
all tired… So am I, but we still
have some ground to cover, Phillips. Why?
Aren’t you enjoying your walk out in this fresh air?”
His
men returned his smile, nodded, then really grinned as the distinctive
“humm” of the transporter beam notified them their feast had arrived.
“All
right,” Jim said and rubbed his hands together.
“Let’s eat…”
An
hour later they were back on “the trail” with all evidence of their meal
returned to the ship and they, themselves, revitalize and eager to get this Klag
found and beamed into the brig. But
it was only fifteen minutes into their march when Kirk’s communicator
“buzzed” against his chest.
He
halted the men and withdrew his link. “Mister
Spock?”
“We
have detected a low-yield disruptor discharge, Captain,” Spock answered.
Jim’s
heartbeat quickened. “Where?”
“Approximately
four kilometers ahead of your present location; I am sending coordinates…”
Jim
interrupted, “Just beam us within eighty meters of the site, Mister Spock.”
“Yes,
Captain. But Klag is again moving
away from the area.”
Jim
grabbed a strangled breath, “Can you get a lock on him?”
“Yes,
Captain. I shall inform…”
All
at once an explosion, followed close by the emergency claxons immediate
response, drowned out anything else Spock intended to say.
Jim yanked the communicator away, his face reflecting the pain of sound
as well as stunned incomprehension and fear.
“Spock! Spock!”
he yelled into the link as he automatically looked up at the sky.
“
“Beam
me up!”
“I
am afraid the Transporter circuits were also damaged, Captain, and I would not
advise a request for a shuttle…”
“Of
course,” Jim said, hearing his voice crackle with anger.
“I know you’ll do everything you can,” and added with rising
inflection and a whole world of wrath behind his words: “But you blast those
Klingon sons-of-bitches to hell and gone, Mister Spock, and take care
of my ship!” He
snapped the communicator shut with a muttered, “Damn!”
His
Security team stood around him with open mouths and worried expressions on their
pale faces. “Captain?” Cosswell
asked, forgetting all protocol.
Jim
took a deep breath, closed his eyes. “
*
The
guards looked at each other, the question on every mind clear on their startled
faces – Are we stranded here, then? – before the team trotted to catch up
with Jim’s long, desperately hurried strides.
*
Jim
strode quickly over ground that was rocky or uneven, but trotted when the land
leveled; they made good time. The
chilly wind had picked up again, but, hot and tired, neither Jim nor his men
thought to put coats back on as they scrambled to the top of yet another ridge.
Jim
went prone immediately and patted the air for the rest to follow his example.
“That’s
a road down there, well traveled by the look,” he panted.
Phillips
thrust a hand out, pointed. “I
see a body.”
Jim
wiped gritty sweat from his eyes and squinted into the dusty haze, finally
picked out the darker blotch half concealed by a stunted tree or bush.
It was a good two-hundred rather steep meters down the hill to the road
and a good view of the dirt track in both directions.
“Meredith,
stay on the hill and watch for traffic along the road.
If you see anything, use your communicator to signal us; it’s a blind
spot on that curve down there.”
Meredith
nodded compliance.
“The
rest of you follow me.”
They
slipped and slid down the slope until they reached more level ground.
Jim sent Phillips and Cosswell to look for Klag’s sign while he took
Doberman and Shaughnessy straight down to check out the “casualty.”
The
first thing he noticed was Klag’s prints, or what remained of them as the wind
had begun to erase them from the soft, fine dirt of the road.
But it appeared the Klingon had stood there a moment.
The
reason must have been the man lying face down in the dust at the side of the
road.
“Shaughnessy,
check out the other side, see if you can determine where Klag went,” Jim said
as he knelt beside the man. “And
see if you can establish what caused that churned up ground over there, see if
it was made by a buggy or a wagon – some wheeled conveyance – pulled by one
or two probably very frightened horses.
“Oh,
and take a branch or something to wipe out your own prints in this dust,” he
added. “We can’t take the
chance the wind will erase our sign and we don’t want our presence
discovered.”
“Should
I also erase the Klingon’s sign as well?” Shaughnessy asked.
A
moment’s thought and Jim said, “Not yet.
We’ll wait for the others.”
Doberman
put out his hand to turn the man on his back, but Jim grabbed his wrist, shook
his head. “Don’t touch him,”
he said and took a reading with his tricorder instead, sat back with a grateful
sigh. “He’s alive, which is
something of a mystery. Klingon’s
aren’t known to employ those low-yield settings very often, but I’m grateful
he did. Still, it’s certain this
man saw Klag.”
Doberman
met that with a frown. “How would
you know that, Mister Kirk?”
Jim
pointed to the archaic firearm still in the man’s rather low-slung holster.
“See that looped piece of leather? That
fits over the hammer – that curved piece of metal sticking up at the back.
It keeps the pistol in the holster.
It’s been partially slipped off, indicating this man was trying to pull
his weapon before he was rendered unconscious.
He was obviously startled by what he’d seen.”
Doberman
turned raised eyebrows in his direction. “How
do you know about such . . . ancient weapons, Mister Kirk?”
Jim
smiled at him. “Let’s just say
I once had something very similar on my hip and in my hand, though this one is
the true model. It looks like a
Colt forty-five caliber.”
Doberman’s
brows went down…
“Check
archives, Stardate forty-three eighty-five point three; Melkot…” Jim said
and looked up at the sky where his ship was fighting for her life far above
those wind-swept tufts of cloud.
Though
he was certain that, if all was lost, Spock would have contacted him – with
his dying breath if it came to that – but it still didn’t make him feel any
less useless. He wanted – needed!
– to be on her bridge, helping her fight.
He whispered a curse and stood. “Wipe
out our presence here, please, Doberman.”
“But,
sir… I mean…”
Jim
waved that aside. “He’ll awaken
in a little while, with one hell of a headache, but relatively fine.
Only he’ll also have one hell of an interesting story to tell his
friends or family when he gets home. We’ve
got to pick up Klag and . . . hopefully get out of here so we can reverse this
whole mess. Let’s get back on
that trail.”
Doberman
wrenched out a branch from the nearest bush and began sweeping the area free of
their presence.
When
the rest of the team had been called in, they set to work obliterating the rest
of Klag’s and their own prints.
…
But
one heavy tumbleweed had come to rest on top of one, lone print, affectively
hiding it from their presence.
It
was one piece of overlooked evidence that would eventually bring grief…
…………………………….
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jess Harper–
afternoon –
“What
the…”
Jess heard
someone voice a low moan. It took
him a moment to realize it was him doing the moaning.
He finally managed to get his face out of the dirt and roll over onto his
back . . . with another groan. He
hurt all over, but his head felt ready to burst between the shaky,
wooden-feeling gloved hands he raised to keep it on his shoulders.
For a long
moment he couldn’t even recall who he was or what he’d been doing.
And then everything rushed back like a speeding avalanche.
His eyes snapped
open…
This time he
actually yelled; the light hurt! His
eyelids slammed down and he turned, writhing, onto his side, hands covering his
face, teeth clenched with the agony that pierced his skull.
Thankfully it didn’t last too long, but that pain had nearly sent him
back into unconsciousness again and he didn’t want that.
He needed to find out what happened and he couldn’t do it rolling
around in the dust with his eyes closed.
His bruised
right thigh told him he was still armed – and what robber would let him keep
his pistol, or even let him live if desperate enough?
He had to find out if the buckboard was still there, or if it had been
taken, too, as he didn’t question the fact that Traveler would be absent at
least – damn it! He’d
personally hang whoever that had been if his horse was injured at all!
That is, if he could find him, which wasn’t likely if he was
feeling sorry for himself…
Tentatively –
carefully! – Jess squinted through his gloved fingers.
There was no pain, but it was still awfully bright.
He blinked the tears from his eyes and the intense light diminished until
he could actually see something besides white.
That accomplished, he managed to get the strength to sit up, even though
all the muscles in his body rippled with protest.
“What the hell
did he hit me with?” he croaked, cleared his throat and tried again.
“I swear I’m gonna give it back to him . . in spades!”
In all truth, he
hadn’t expected to ever wake up again. That
hadn’t been a stick the stranger held, but some kind of unknown weapon.
He’d been shot with it, but not . . . mortally wounded.
There didn’t appear to be any holes in his anatomy, but whatever it
was, it had sure knocked the stuffing out of him.
He shaded his
face – his hat was somewhere about – and squinted up at the sky, trying to
calculate how long he’d been . . . out. He’d
left before
“Oh, damn…
Can’t be that late, can it?”
He’d missed
lunch and might well be on his way to missing supper, too, especially if he had
to walk back. Heck, if he’d lain
there any longer, the
Maybe they’d
just been delayed, or preoccupied… Maybe
he’d been stashed under a bush and they didn’t see him…
He didn’t want to dwell on the alternatives, but there was a crazy man
with a very strange gun running around!
“Slim’s
gonna kill me sure…” he muttered as he got his feet under him, stood . . .
and almost fell down again as the ground seemed to tip precariously underneath
his boots. He had to stagger around
a bit before he could get his equilibrium adjusted and figure out which was
right and left, up and down.
He found his
hat. It was under a bush.
Unfortunately neither his Traveler nor the buckboard and team were under
any bushes, or beside them, so it looked like he’d either have to wait for the
stage to
But should he go
to town? Then what?
Tell Mort he’d lost a buckboard, the team, his best horse and a sack of
weevily flour to an odd man who shot him and knocked him out with a gun that
looked like a stick? Or should he
go back to listen to Slim’s ranting accusations of neglect, Mike’s sneering
jokes and Daisy’s smothering pity?
A tremble shot
though him: why had he thought that? That
wasn’t what he really felt about Slim or Mike or Daisy, so where’d that come
from? He didn’t know, but he sure
didn’t like it much.
He shivered
again and crossed his arms, but this time the chill came from the outside as the
cold breeze seemed to pass right through him as it ruffled the hair sticking out
from under his hat. Oh, sure,
he’d brought his coat. It was tied to the back of his saddle!
Best plan was to
find tracks, if the wind hadn’t already erased everything, and to this end he
started walking back and forth across the road.
He found sign of the buckboard not far away.
It looked like the team had run off the road, headed roughly east and a
little north with Traveler still secured to the tailgate and dragged along
whether he liked it or not. That
could be a good sign; maybe the horses had already made their way back to the
ranch by now and someone would be out looking for him…
Unfortunately,
there was no sign that someone else had passed recently, on a horse or a
buckboard or a stage…
And then, by
mere chance, he saw that one, lone boot print of the crazy man when a gust of
wind lifted the tumbleweed just enough to expose it.
He hunkered down, using his own body as a shield to keep the wind off,
removed the heavy, prickly weed and knew immediately this wasn’t like any
print he’d ever seen before.
The boot that
had made it was wide and square-toed, marked with symbols or writing or . . some
unusual pattern in a line from heal to toe.
He’d seen Chinese characters before, on the Chinese Laundry sign in
town, but the symbols in the dirt looked nothing like those on Mister Quan’s
establishment.
The track
pointed east, but at least this stranger was still afoot and not riding his
Traveler!
Should he try to
follow, see if he could find any other sign?
It was a little
hard to think, to reason – maybe the aftereffects of whatever happened.
Another brisk breeze swept across the road.
He shivered again, wrapped his arms around himself and stood, made his
decision: he’d find his horse, get his coat and then go after this character
for no other reason than to determine just who, or what, he was!
Because he might
have looked like some slightly deformed human, only Jess had a feeling
this . . . person wasn’t exactly a “man.”
(As he moved
away, the wind began eroding the strange print as well as his own…)
He marked a hill
by line of sight, a rough calculation of the direction the stranger had taken,
then followed the buckboard’s easier trail through the dry, yellow grass.
He found the
buckboard about a mile from the road, left front wheel smashed against a rock
and flour scattered across the ground like swirling snow, blown by the wind.
The terrified team had broken away, trailing the shattered wagon tongue,
but Traveler hadn’t. He was still
haltered to the tailgate that was now canted at an odd angle.
The bay was nibbling on the dry grass, but looked up and nickered as Jess
approached.
Soothing words
and quick once-over feel had Jess convinced Traveler was none the worse for his
experience. He untied his coat from
the cantle, shrugged it on (grateful for its immediate warmth) before taking the
rope from the broken wagon and from his horse.
Coiled, he tied the rope to the saddle before he swung aboard.
But before he turned away to locate any more sign of the individual
who’d attacked him, he checked the fit and ease of movement of his pistol in
the holster.
“Ain’t about
to get caught flat-footed again,” he muttered and lined up Traveler with that
hill he’d seen.