But suddenly, the chair was empty. Darkness had simply disappeared. Except for the empty whiskey glass standing on the table, it was as if he'd never been there.

Neilson clocked back into Tombstone shortly before dawn. P.R.T. (Present Relative Time). He had been gone slightly longer than twelve hours, but only three minutes had elapsed in 19th-century Tombstone since he had left. He had "gained" a day, a phenomenon of time travel that was one of the most difficult things fin rookie temporal agents to grow accustomed to. They would depart upon a mission to the past, or Minus Time, and could be gone for days or weeks or months or even years, yet when they returned, often no more than several hours had passed. And duty spent in Plus Time, or in the 27th century, was all that counted toward the completion of an enlistment period. This was always made very clear to new recruits, but the consequences of it were often overlooked, Since there were two different pay scales in the service—one for duty served in the present and one for time spent in the past, with the latter being far more lucrative. The pay scale for Temporal Observers, for example, was higher than that found in almost any other career, and if one was able to avoid the hazards of the duty and survive to complete his tour of enlistment, he could retire a very wealthy man.

But it was not, by any means, a route to easy street. As Neilson had already discovered. It was an exciting way to make a living, but it was highly dangerous. as well. Most temporal agents found that they had to leave their former. civilian lives completely behind them. After Neilson had returned from his first assignment to the past, he had taken some leave and gone back to Tucson to visit his family and his girl. It had been a shock to them to discover how much he had changed. For them, from the time he had gone off to join the service to the time he returned from his first tour of Observer duty in the past, only a month or so had elapsed. For Scott, it had been four years. Four years in which he had grown immeasurably older and more experienced He had found it difficult to connect with them. His girl, whom he had loved with all the fierce intensity of youth, had suddenly seemed immature and superficial. And the concerns of his family seemed suddenly irrelevant to him. He was still his mother's little boy.” but he had returned a man and found that she could not snake the adjustment Since then, he had not gone back home again. It was a different time and place

As he reappeared inside his room in the Grand Hotel, it looked no different than when he had left, about twelve hours earlier. Only minutes had passed here. The outline of Jennifer's head was still impressed into the pillow. He gazed at the rumpled sheets on the bed and thought about her. He found those thoughts disturbing.

It was hard to believe she was a prostitute. He was not naive about the subject. He was in the service, he'd been with prostitutes before. Only this had been different. He'd only had a couple of experiences with hookers and, at first, there had been a sort of illicit thrill to it, but it was a thrill that was very short-lived. He knew that some men liked going with prostitutes because it was easy, uncomplicated sex, coupled with a sort of sleazy thrill, but he had found it frustrating and unsatisfying. He'd heard it said that prostitution victimized women because it made them into objects, but in another sense, it also victimized those who patronized them—to the hookers, they were objects, too. There was really no personal connection. It was, in many respects, a lot like masturbating. He had found it even less satisfying, because there was another human being involved, yet there was no real emotion, no affection, no genuine desire or intimacy. And when it was over, he was left with an empty feeling.

Only with Jennifer, it had been different. He had expected a relatively quick coupling, with little or no foreplay, and with her making all the obligatory expressions and sounds of sexual passion, only it had not turned out that way. It had started with that damn calico dress. It made her look like something out of Little Women, for God's take, demure and innocent. The moment they entered the room, he had expected her to start stripping in a matter-of-fact way, only she hadn't done that. She had approached him rather shyly, put her hands upon his shoulders and stood on tiptoe to kiss him softly on the lips. It was a hesitant, gentle kiss, almost chaste. They had exchanged several kisses like that, very brief and tentative, and then she had sighed as he pressed her against him and started undoing the buttons on the back of her dress.

In bed, he had marveled at the soft, lithe suppleness of her, the flawless, creamy skin, the gentle curves, the silky texture of her hair. . . They spent almost half an hour languorously exploring one another's bodies, kissing and caressing and whispering endearments to each other, and when they moved beyond the foreplay and started making love, that too had been nothing like what he'd expected. There were no melodramatics; rather there had been a genuine, loving intimacy that took him completely unprepared. He could not believe she was that good an actress. He had climaxed quickly, carried away by the intensity of his feelings, yet she had not gotten out of bed to use the washbasin, dressed and gone away. Instead, she had lingered, and they had held each other and talked, and then they made love once more, and the second time, as she reached orgasm, she had cried out softly and wept real tears. She left shortly before dawn, after hugging him and holding him close for a long time, and it was only after she had gone that he had realized she had never even mentioned money.

He wondered what the hell he was getting into. Was he falling in love with a hooker? Jesus, that would be really stupid. Stupid and destructive. And yet, he couldn't stop thinking about her. What they had shared was real. He had no doubt of that. He did not know how he felt about it. Logically, he told himself, he should forget it. Don't get involved. He had a job to do and he could not afford distractions. Nor could he afford to fall in love with someone who, when he was born, had already been dead for over eight hundred years.

He could not reconcile the image of the tender and loving young woman he had made love to with the image of a girl who worked in a saloon and hustled drinks and would have sex with any cowboy who could afford the price. A hooker with a heart of gold? Come on, he told himself, get real. Don't be an asshole. Yet, he kept thinking of her lying on top of him, with her hand gently placed against his cheek, her beautiful blue eyes gazing deeply into his, as if in wonderment. . .

Don't do this, he thought to himself. It was just a brief sexual encounter, nothing more. She had been excited by the prospect of making it with a handsome, dangerous, young gunfighter and there was nothing more to it than that. Hell, it was probably only a come-on. Next time, she'd charge him. If there was a next time. He knew it would be stupid. There would be no next time, he told himself. However, his resolution lacked conviction. He sat down on the bed and touched the pillow where her head had lain Jesus, he thought, she had actually cried.

Why had she cried?

Hop Town was west of the Tombstone business district, just past Third Street, yet it might as well have been on the other side of the world. It was Tombstone's Chinatown, home to some five hundred Chinese immigrants, "coolies." as they were often called, who came to work on railroad construction gangs and in mining operations and in laundries and whatever other menial labor they could find. For most of the Chinese residents, it was a temporary situation, a way to find some work and make some money and return to the homeland, so they made little attempt to become acculturated to American society. As a result, Hop Town was like a little slice of China dropped into the frontier. Most of the residents of Tombstone never ventured there, preferring their own saloons to the Chinese opium dens and gambling houses. There was one exception.

Jennifer Reilly entered the opium parlor and held her breath as she walked through the smoke-filled room with its tiers of wooden couches, like cramped little bunk beds, most of them occupied by Chinese men reclining in states of drug-induced stupor. Jennifer had often thought that if there really was a Hell, it must be a lot like this. Heaven, she imagined, with a childlike simplicity, would be like some Elysian field, with waving heather and wildflowers and dreamy little thatch-roofed cottages from which harp music emanated while laughing little children, those innocents who had tragically died young, ran barefoot through the grass with little lambs and goats. It was a wistful vision, made melancholy by her certainty that she would never go there when she died.

She wasn't sure if she would go to Hell. She was a sinner, of that she had no doubt. She never went to church. Aside from the fact that it would have scandalized the respectable women of Tombstone if she had done so, she knew that she did not belong there. Church, like Heaven and Hell, was a place where people went. Real people. Not creatures like herself.

Often, when she looked in the mirror, she thought to herself that she looked real. She looked pretty—she knew that because so many men had told her so, and she knew they could not tell that she was not what she appeared to be. When she examined her own image in the minor, she thought that she could not tell, either. But she knew. She would often think to herself, longingly, 'How am I different?" And yet she knew she was. Because she had not been born. She had been made.

The nature of her creation was something that she didn't really understand. God created Man and Woman. The Master had created her. He was the closest thing to God that she would ever know.

He had made her in his laboratory, where she had been born not of a woman, but of an artificial womb, and he had molded her mind and placed her with others like herself, a man and a woman who had acted as her parents, though they were not her parents and could not be parents, ever, for they were just like her. She could never have a child. She could never be like other people. Real people. Those who had acted as her parents, until she was old enough to be of use to the Master, had taught her all about who and what she really was. She was not a human being, but a creature called a "hominoid, someone who only looked human but was really something less. She owed her existence, and her unquestioning allegiance, to the Master. And she had never questioned it, till now.

That she could even think of questioning the Master's wishes frightened her. Yet, it seemed impossible for her to think of Scott as being an enemy. The Master said he was. He had told her that he was one of those who came from the future, to seek him out and kill him. She knew that Scott could kill. She found it hard to believe that he could kill the Master, because the Master was so powerful and his enemies had always failed in the past. Yet the Master was concerned about them, concerned that they could interfere with his plans. If he had told her to kill Scott, she would have done it, without question. Only now, after what had occurred between them, she was not so sure.

She had been with many men since she had come to Tombstone. She had been told what to do and she had done it, though prior to coming to Tombstone, she had never been with a man and was not sure what to expect. The Master had told her, in brief, clinical terms, and explained that all she had to do was whatever the men wanted and act as if she enjoyed it immensely. She had not found it enjoyable. The first time, it had been painful and. despite her efforts, the man had not been pleased. She had cried afterward and felt terrible. But, as time went on, she found that it became less unpleasant, though it was never really pleasant. Most of the men were coarse and rough. Some of them had hurt her. A few, like Doc, were not so bad. She did not really mind doing it with Doc, though when he'd been drinking, he could be very rough, and Katie had told her that if she ever found out she was with Doc again, she'd cut her face up. Katie would do it, too. But Scott . . . with Scott, it had been different.

She'd felt differently about him from the very first. She knew that he was dangerous and that he was the Master's enemy, but she still found herself drawn to him. He was nicer than the other men. Cleaner. More of a gentleman. And he had been gentle. Tender. It had never been like that with anyone before. The orgasm she had experienced with him had been her first and she did not really understand what it was, but when it had happened, it had overwhelmed her. It had both thrilled and frightened her. So that's what it's like, she thought to herself later. That's what love feels like. Until then, she had not known. She had not thought herself capable of feeling it. Love, after all, was something only humans felt.

She had wept when it had happened, both because of the powerful feelings it had released in her and with joy, because she had discovered that she could feel those feelings, and at the same time, with utter misery, because she had deceived him. She had cheated him. She was not a real person and he believed she was. She had cheated others in that manner before, but it had never really mattered to her because she knew that she had never really mattered to them. Only Scott was different. She was in love with Scott. And she had no right to be in love. Not with any man, and especially not with Scott, who was the Master's enemy.

As she walked through the opium parlor toward the back room, no one except the attendants paid any attention to her. For most of them, she could have walked past them stark naked and it would have made no difference, but the attendants backed away from her, bowing deferentially, keeping their eyes averted. Not because of who she was, but because of who the Master was.

The people of Hop Town did not quite know what to make of the Master. He frightened them. He spoke their difficult language as well as any of them and he knew and understood their customs in a way no other white man did. He could do things that reduced them to a trembling awe. They believed that he was a powerful magician and it puzzled them, because they had not thought that there were wizards among the white men, yet he unquestionably was one. He had demonstrated to them what would happen if they did not do exactly as he said. As a result, he had become the lord of Hop Town. They would do his bidding, no matter what he asked. The penalty for disobedience was too terrible to contemplate.

Jennifer knew that what the Master did was not magic. It was science, which seemed like a sort of magic, since she didn't fully understand it. There was no need for her to understand. If there was a need for her to know or understand anything, the Master would give her that knowledge. He would also, if she performed her duties for him well, give her a child one day, and a man to live with, someone like herself, to act as father to that child. It would not be the same as having a child of her own, but it was the closest she would ever come to it and she had always dreamed of having that chance, that honor. Only now, she dreamed of something else. She had not thought she could feel love, but she had discovered that she could. Perhaps, if that was possible, there might be a way for her to have a child, as well.

She stepped through the door to the back room, where crates of supplies were kept, and continued on to a small closet at the very back. She unbolted the wooden door and opened it. Inside, assembled on the floor, were the softly glowing border circuits of a chronoplate. She took a deep breath, bit her lower lip, and stepped into the circle.

The weakness and dizziness struck her as soon as she stepped out into the room, a room that was thousands of miles away from Tombstone, and hundreds of years away, as well. She felt ill. Someone took her arm and steadied her.

“Come on," he said, "the Master's waiting."

She was conducted through a door and into an elegant living room in the penthouse of a luxury apartment building. Through the sliding glass doors at the back, leading out to the terrace, she could see the sun setting on 23rd-century London.

She knew it was the 230 century, but she would not have guessed it from the furnishings. Nikolai Drakov was, at heart, a 19th-century man and he always liked surrounding himself with the trappings of that time. The wall-to-wall carpeting had been taken up when he moved into the apartment, the floors redone in handsome parquet and covered with expensive Persian rugs. The furnishings were all Victorian, from the sofa to the sideboard with its gasogene, and the reading chairs with their lace antimacassars. The apartment was lavishly decorated with sculptures and oil paintings and weapons of various sorts. from medieval broadswords to Zulu spears and shields to Kukri knives and pearl-inlaid jezail muskets. Not displayed, but available close by, were more sophisticated weapons.

Drakov stood by the bay window, staring out at the skyline of the city. He was dressed in wool slacks and a brocade smoking jacket. Jennifer could never quite get over how big he was, how powerful his arms looked. He heard her come in and spoke without turning around.

"This used to be a beautiful city," he said. "A city with character. Now look what they've done to it. I often recall the words of King Charles, spoken when he was still Prince of Wales. Referring to the Second World War, he said that you had to give one thing to the Luftwaffe. When they bombed London, they didn't replace the buildings with anything more offensive than rubble. The British themselves did that." He turned around. "Well, what have you managed to learn'?"

"His name is Scott Neilson," she said.

Drakov smiled. "Ah, He is the one, then."

"There can be no mistake?" asked Jennifer. "Perhaps his having the same name is only a coincidence."

"In temporal physics, Jennifer, there is no such thing as a coincidence. Every event proceeds from cause and effect. If Neilson is here, then the others cannot be far behind. You have managed to establish a relationship with him?"

"Yes," she said, softly.

Drakov smiled. "Good. I had every confidence in you. Neilson is a professional, so you will have to be careful, but he is still very young, which means that he is emotionally vulnerable. I want you to play on those vulnerabilities. You've slept with him?"

She looked down at the floor. "Yes," she said, in a very low voice.

"Good. Very good. From now on, you will sleep with no one else. You will continue to work in the saloon, but you will no longer dispense sexual favors for money. If anyone questions you about that, and they undoubtedly will, you will tell them that it's because you have met someone very special. The implication will be that you're in love, and that the man you are in love with is Neilson. That you have given up prostitution for him will be certain to have an effect upon him. It will make him trust you."

Jennifer would have no trouble following those instructions. She had always hated allowing men to use her and, after what happened with Scott, the thought of going back to those rough and smelly cowboys was unbearable.

"Be careful not to crowd him." Drakov continued. "I want you to do nothing that could arouse his suspicion, but I do want you to report to me concerning everything he does and whom he sees. Especially anyone newly arrived in town. I'll have him watched, so I don't want you following him. But when you're with him, pay close attention to everything he says. If he asks you about Stone and Bailey, as he most assuredly will, play on his suspicions. You have already made a good beginning. Emphasize that both men have not been in Tombstone long and little is known about them, only be subtle. In particular, direct his attention at Ben Stone. You've been with Stone. Tell Neilson that there was something about him that seemed foreign somehow, something more than a little frightening, though you couldn't put your finger on it. Tell him he was cruel."

"He was." said Jennifer. She shuddered. "The things he made me do. . . ."

"Tell him that," Drakov said. "The way you just told me. With that little shiver of disgust. It's perfect. Neilson will ask what sort of things. Any man would. Only you will refuse to go into any details. You will beg him not to press you on the subject. It's painful and humiliating. Neilson's imagination will supply the rest.”

“Master forgive me, hut is there no chance that you could be mistaken about him?"

Drakov stared at her and frowned. "Mistaken'?"

"It's . . . it's just that he seems so nice . . . so kind . . . so gentle. .

. . It seems, so hard to think of him as an enemy."

"Ah. I see," said Drakov. "Do not allow his manner to deceive you, Jennifer. Naturally, he will not seem as coarse and rough as the men that you have grown accustomed to. He comes from another time. He is much more hygienic, more educated, more refined. That is only to be expected. His attitudes toward women are much different from those of the men you'll find in Tombstone. But take care not to let that influence you. Do not underestimate him. You have already seen that he is an accomplished killer. Think about that and not his gentle manner. If he were to discover what you really are, he would kill you without the slightest hesitation. Remember that.

"

Jennifer felt a chill run through her. "1 . . . I will remember."

Drakov nodded. "Good. You have done well. Now go."

Jennifer turned and left the room. She was escorted back to the chronoplate and she stepped into its field. The border Circuits flashed and she disappeared, to another place and time.

4

George Spangenberg's gun shop wasn't much to look at, merely a small store with wood-plank floors and walls, a few wooden chairs, a cracker barrel and three glass-topped display cabinets, but to Scott, it was like entering a wonderland. The racks behind the counters displayed Winchester rifles, carbines and shotguns, and even a few Sharps buffalo rifles chambered in .50 caliber.

The holster rigs gave off the pleasant smell of brand-new leather. Some were made in the Territorial style, covering the entire gun except for the grips, so that the weapon sat very low in the holster. It was not a rig designed for a fast draw, but it provided greater security for the weapon. Others were cut slightly lower, such as the Main and Winchester holsters designed for percussion revolvers and the slim, open-bottomed holsters for metallic cartridge pistols. There were doubled-looped, Texan-style holsters, with wide leather skirts, some in plain, smooth leather, others border-stamped with decorations or carved with floral designs. The belts were looped for cartridges, some made in smooth leather, others in roughout, some plain and others carved, some sewn as money belts, so that coins could be slipped into them through an opening behind the buckle. There were leather carbine scabbards for carrying a rifle on a saddle, military-style flap holsters and leather pouches, handsome silver buckles and even Civil War belts with the letters "C.S.A." on the buckles. Union buckles with the letters "U.S." on them were conspicuously absent. But the guns in the display cases were what really caught Scott's attention. There was a profusion of Colt Single Action Armys, chambered in .45 and .44-40 calibers, most with the longer, seven-and-a-half-inch barrels, blued with color case-hardened finish and oil-stained walnut grips. There were a few Colts that would become known to future-era collectors as "U.S. Marshalls," those made under government contract and stamped on their wood grips with the date of manufacture and the government inspector's cartouche, as well as with the letters "U.S." on the left side of the frame. There were Colt and Remington derringers and pocket pistols, percussion pistols that had been converted to fire metallic cartridges, Smith & Wesson top-break revolvers. sidehammers, Colt Navys and Remington revolvers and even a couple of cased Walker Colts.

These monsters, with nine-inch barrels and a weight of four pounds and nine ounces, chambered in .44 caliber, were the largest production handguns Colt had ever made, named in honor of Captain Samuel Hamilton Walker, the Texas Ranger who had helped design them. When fired, they sounded like a howitzer going off. There were only about a thousand of them made. They were the rarest of all Colt pistols and Scott burned to have them for his collection.

"Help you, sir?"

The man who'd spoken was a small, trim, slightly bookish-looking individual who looked to be in his late forties. He had a receding hairline and wore little, round, wire-rimmed glasses and a leather apron over a white shirt and dark wool trousers.

"You'd be Mr. Spangenberg?" said Scott.

"No, sir. Mr. Spangenberg is out. I'm his assistant, Zeke Bailey. Is there something I can show you?"

"Oh, you're the gunsmith, then."

"Yes, sir."

"I was admiring these Walkers," Scott said. "Always wanted to get me a couple."

"I'm afraid those aren't for sale, sir. They are only for display purposes."

"I could make you a good offer."

"No. I'm sorry, sir, they're not for sale, as I said. They're my personal property. They belonged to my father. I couldn't possibly sell them. However, if you're interested in percussion pistols. I could show you some very fine Colt Navys that we have, just like Wild Bill Hickok's."

"No. I don't think so." Scott said. He would have liked to have them, but he reminded himself that he wasn't here shopping for his collection. "I think I need something a bit more practical."

"Well, then, you can't go wrong with one of these." said Bailey, opening up a display case, teaching in and taking out a Colt Single Action Army .45 with a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel, blued with a color case-hardened frame and walnut grips.

“I think I'd like a shorter barrel." Scott said.

"Ah," said Bailey, replacing the revolver in the case. "Something like this, perhaps?"

He took out a Colt with a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel, blued and color case-hardened, with dark walnut grips. It was also a .45.

Scott took it from him and examined it. He pulled back the hammer to half cock and slowly rotated the cylinder, holding the gun close to his ear and listening to the lockwork.

"I see you know your guns," said Bailey. "You're the Montana Kid, aren't you? I've heard about you. Heard you shot three men in the Alhambra the very first day you came to town."

"It was two men, in the Oriental." Scott said," and it was self-defense."

"Oh, I have no doubt that it was," Bailey said, hastily. "I merely wished to say that it's a privilege to have a shootist such as yourself in our store. In fact, I think we could even arrange a discount. I'll let you have that piece right there for twenty-five dollars and I'll throw in two boxes of cartridges."

"Sounds like a good deal to me." said Scott.

"Hear you use the crossdraw." Bailey said. "I have an unusual rig here that just might strike your fancy."

He turned around and took down a peculiar looking holster rig from a coat tree that was festooned with them.

"Fella came in about six months ago and ordered it made up special. Heard about that holster vest John Wesley Hardin used to wear and wanted a two-gun shoulder rig made up. Man was a greenhorn. You could tell straight off, but his money was just as good as anybody else's. When he picked it up, he put it on and stuck two brand-new Colts in it. Had them made up special too, ordered straight from the factory in Hanford. Had more money than sense, if you ask me. Right fancy lookin' things. Think I got 'em here somewhere."

He continued talking as he rummaged through one of the wood cabinets behind the counter_ Scott picked the rig up and examined it, then took off his coat to try it on.

"Anyway," Bailey continued. Still looking through the cabinet, "he puts on that there rig, sticks his fancy Colts in it, and goes straight down to the Oriental_ God only knows what the damn fool had in mind. And who does he run into but Doc Holliday. Didn't know who Doc was, though. Like I said, a real greenhorn. Anyways, Doc sees the guns beneath his open coat and asks him if he knows that there's an ordinance against going armed in Tombstone. And the greenhorn opens up his coat to show off those fancy gun' of his and says to Doc, so help me. 'Mister, I'd feel plumb naked without my shootin' irons.' Well, Doc just stares at him with his mouth open for a second and then commences laughin'. Pretty soon, the whole damn place is laughin' too and everybody's repeatin' what the greenhorn said.

'Mister. I'd feel plumb naked without my shootin' irons.' The greenhorn gets real hot under the collar and says to Doc. 'Mister, I don't take too kindly to been'

sported with.' Well, this only makes Doc start laughin' even harder. He just about split his sides. Ah, here they are. .

Bailey straightened up, holding a wood gun case in his hands. He set it down on the counter.

"So the greenhorn says to Doc, real mad now, 'Mister, you stop that laughin’

right now or I'll drill you so full of holes you'll look like a fountain every time you take a drink.' Well. as you might imagine, that only made things worse. Doc was laughin' so hard, he had tears cumin' from his eyes. He's leanin' up against the bar and slappin' it with his hand and the whole place is in an uproar. So the greenhorn, God help him, goes to jerk his pistols. Only as he tries to cock and draw them both at the same time, the butts knock into each other and the guns go off, both of 'em. One bullet goes into the floor, the other one goes right into the greenhorn's foot. He screams and falls down, grabbin' his foot, and Doc falls down too. 'cause he's laughin' so hard he starts himself to coughin'. They had to get a couple of the boys to carry the greenhorn to Doc Warren's to get his foot fixed up and as soon as he was able to get up and about, he took the next stage out of town. Don't think he stopped till he got clear back to New York City. Sold me back the rig and fancy guns before he left. I paid maybe one-tenth what they were worth. Don't know what you'd think of them. They're right fine guns, but you might find them a bit gaudy. .

He opened up the case and Scott almost gasped

The silk-lined case held a matched pair of Colt Single Action Army .45s with four-and-three-quarter-inch barrels. They were silver-plated and profusely engraved, with scrollwork even on the barrels and the hammers. The grips were finely engraved pearl. They were the most beautiful guns Scott had ever seen. Not so much weapons as works of art.

"Good Lord." he said.

"Yeah. like I said, they're a bit gaudy." Bailey said, "but I could make you a good deal on 'em. Figure seventy-five dollars, for the whole kit and kaboodle. Guns and holster rig. I'll even throw in a couple boxes of cartridges."

Seventy-five dollars! Scott held his breath. The holster rig would have some curious collector value, but the guns would be almost priceless. He could retire from the service a rich man from what he could get from a collector for just one of them.

"Well. I don't know." he said, picking up one of the guns and examining it critically "They certainly are a little on the showy side, aren't they?"

"Well, anybody else might get a little ribbing with a rig like that." said Bailey, "but I figure a serious shootist like yourself could carry them off without much trouble. And they'd be something that could add to your reputation. you know, like Bill Hickok and his brace of Navys. Tell you what. I'll let you have the whole thing for sixty dollars and it's a steal at that."

"All right." said Scott, barely able to hide his excitement.

"Hear tell you're a good hand with a knife, as well." said Bailey. "Don't know as you'd be interested, but if you'd step over to this display case over here. I've got a few that I made up. Be anxious to see what you might think of

'em."

Scott walked over to the other ease and once again, he caught his breath. The case held a number of Green River-style knives, popular among Buckskinners, as well as several large Bowies with staghorn grips, all extremely well-crafted specimens, but the blade that caught his eye was one forged of Damascus steel. It was a seven-inch stiletto with a rib running down the length of the entire blade, giving it strength. It had a narrow wood handle, flaring slightly at the middle and tapering at the ends and toward the guard. It was completely useless for skinning or any other task but one. Killing. Except for being forged of Damascus rather than stainless steel, it was an exact copy of the famed Fairburn-Sykes commando knife used in World War II.

He was suddenly aware that Zeke Bailey was watching him carefully from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.

"What do you think?" he asked.

That one in the middle.”-Scott said. "I've never seen a knife like that before."

Bailey took it out of the display case and handed it over to him. "Don't know that I have either." he said, in a neutral tone. He shrugged. "The idea just sorta came to me one day. George, he took one look at it and said he couldn't see what use a knife like that would be. Said it would make a lousy skinner and thought it might break likely as not, but I made it pretty strong."

"I don't guess you'd use a knife like this for skinning." said Scott. feeling the perfect balance of the blade.

"Though it might make a nice boot knife for a gambler." Bailey said," or somebody who might want a knife like that for serious business."

"It looks serious, all right," said Scott.

"It's balanced so as you can throw it." Bailey said, he pointed to a wood target mounted on the wall across the room. “Go ahead. Give it a try."

Scott grabbed the knife by the blade, holding it not by its point, but so that his hand was along the side of it, fingers on the central rib. He threw it in a smooth, practiced motion. The knife struck the target dead center.

"Guess you are a good hand with a knife at that." said Bailey.

Scott went over to the target and pulled the knife out "How much do you want for this?" he asked.

"Well, it's a one-of-a-kind," said Bailey. "Twenty dollars."

"That's a lot of money for a knife." said Scott.

"It's a lot of knife. And I've got a leather sheath goes with it.”

All right." said Scott "I'll take it. What do you call a knife like this?"

"I figured I'd call it a Bailey fighting knife." He shrugged. "Rezin Bowie made a knife up for his brother Jim and now everybody knows it as a Bowie knife. Maybe someday everyone will know that kind of knife as a Bailey. You never know."

"You never know," said Scott. "There might be a fair chance of that."

Bailey showed no reaction to his use of the word "fair." as in Fairburn. Scott paid for his purchases.

"Gunsmithing, knifemaking—you're a talented man. Mr. Bailey."

"Just tryin' to make a livin'." Bailey said. "And call me Zeke.”

"Where you from, Zeke?"

"Oh. here and there, I've traveled some. Grew up back East, on a horse farm in Pennsylvania. Ever been there?"

"Can't say as I have," Scott replied. "Never been back East. You been in Tombstone long?"

"Not too long." Bailey replied. "But I kind of like it here. Lots of opportunities for a man in a boomtown like this. What brings you to Tombstone?"

"I came to look up some friends of mine," said Scott, "but all three of them were killed out at their claim."

"Heard about it." Bailey said, nodding. "Damn shame." "Yeah."

"You lookin' to find who did it?"

"You have any ideas'?"

"Could've been anyone. I guess. Maybe somebody only passin' through."

"Maybe," Scott said, "but somehow. I don't think so. I have a feeling that whoever killed them is still around." He casually inspected some of the guns in the display cases. "I figured I'd stick around a bit and see what I can turn up. Might be somebody knows something. Sure do have a nice selection here. Zeke. Say, isn't that one of those new Colt bisley target models?"

"A Bisley Bailey said, with a frown. "No, that can't be. They didn't make those until . .

His voice trailed off.

"Until 1894," said Scott, softly. "That's thirteen years from now."

Bailey swallowed hard.

At that moment, the door to the shop opened and the proprietor. George Spangenberg, entered. "See we got us a customer, Zeke," he said. "Say, aren't you the Montana Kid?"

"That's right," said Scott, not taking his eyes off Zeke Bailey, who was suddenly perspiring. "I just told Zeke here I was admiring your selection. He sold me some nice guns." He held up the knife. "Bought one of his knives, too."

"Is that right?" said Spangenberg, with mild surprise. "Heck, and I told him we'd never sell that thing. No damn good for skinning. I told him. Not much you can do with a knife like that 'cept stick it in somebody."

"Be a pretty good knife for that, though." Scott said. He smiled at Zeke.

"You might even say it's ahead of its time." He touched the brim of his hat. "Be seein' you, gents."

"Stop in anytime. Kid." said Spangenberg.

Scott paused by the door. "I'll do that. Nice talkin' to you, Zeke. We'll have to do it again real soon."

"Seemed like a nice fella," Spangenberg said, after Scott had left. "Heard he shot four men over at the . . . say, Zeke, you fellin' all right'? You look white as a sheet."

"Okay. people, we've got a problem. According to 'history, there was never anyone known as the Montana Kid in this temporal scenario. So who the fuck is he?”

Tim O'Fallon looked around at the men stated at the table in the ranch house. He was young, slim, and good looking, with dark hair and a neat moustache. His eyes were large and expressive. His features were not entirely his own. They had been altered with cosmetic surgery to match the features of the man whose place he'd taken, a man who now lay buried in an unmarked grave in the Chiricahau Mountains a few miles outside of Galeyville.

"Could be just another young gun out trying to make a rep for himself." said one of the other men. "Somebody only passing through, someone who never achieved any real notoriety.”

"I don't buy it." said O'Fallon. "Word is he's greased lightning with a gun. They say he's even faster than Wyatt Earp. It's hard to believe someone like that could have been a complete historical nonentity. What's more, both the Nugget and the Epitaph reported that shooting in the Oriental, when he killed Carter and Demming. And according to our research, neither paper ever made any mention of anyone known as the Montana Kid. So we're looking at a temporal anomaly. The question is, exactly what kind of an anomaly does he represent? It's possible that he could be the result of a disruption of some sort that occurred earlier in the timestream. Or he could be T.I.A. Or even S.O.G."

"He's been asking around about those three miners who were killed," one of the others said. "Word is they were friends of his."

"Friends? Or fellow agents?"

You think those three might have been Observers?"

"It's possible. Or they could have been advance scouts for the S.O.G. Which makes their deaths much more significant. If they were Observers, then was the S.O.G. responsible? If so, then how did they manage to penetrate their cover when we couldn't? And if they were S.O.G., then who the hell killed them?"

"Maybe it was Temporal Intelligence." one of the other Network men said.

"Again, it's possible. But that means they would have had to discover their presence here somehow. If that's the case, then what tipped them off that we missed? And the T.I.A. sanctioned those three men, then why is the Kid here asking questions?"

"Maybe the Kid is S.O.G."

"You think maybe Bailey killed them?” another man asked.

"I find that hard to believe." O'Fallon said. "Bailey's afraid of his own shadow. I can't believe he would have done anything like that without consulting me. He simply hasn't got it in him. We've got too many unanswered questions. I don't like that."

"You think we should put off the stage job?"

O'Fallon thought a moment. "No. No, I don't think so. There's a good shipment of bullion going out and I don't intend to miss it. Besides, it might help force the issue. All we've got to go on for the moment is the Kid. How he responds to the robbery might tell us something. "

"I still think we should waste him, just to be on the safe side. Demming's dying for a crack at him. He almost got him the other day at the hotel If it wasn't for Doc Holliday—"

"From what I hear." said one of the others, "even if Holliday hadn't been there, the Kid might still have taken out both Demming and Mclaury."

"So send Curly Bill along next time. He's been asking if the Kid's really as fast as people say. And Slim Carter was a friend of his. He's been wanting a chance to go into town and check the Kid out for himself.”

"No. let's wait until after the stage job." said O'Fallon. “For now, the word to all the cowboys is to keep away from the Montana Kid. I don't want to do anything about the Kid until we know more about him Meanwhile, get word to Bailey that—“

There was a loud knocking at the door.

"Paul, go see who it is," O’Fallon said.

A moment later. Paul came back in. "It's Bailey." he said. He just drove up in his rig. He insists on seeing you. Curly Bill's outside with him."

"Damn it." said O'Fallon. "I told him never to come here. All right, bring him in."

Paul went back out and returned with a very worried-looking Zeke Bailey.

"What the hell's the matter with you. Bailey?" said O’Fallon . "I told you I didn't want you coming here."

"I'm blown." said Bailey.

O’Fallon frowned. " What?"

"It's the Kid," said Bailey. "He knows. Christ, I need a drink.

"Paul, get Zeke a whiskey." said O’Fallon. "Okay, now slow down and let's have it."

"He came in today and bought some guns," said Bailey. 'I sold him a shoulder rig. And then I showed him the knives, like you said. He wanted to know about the Fairburn-Sykes right away, but I wasn't sure about him he just seemed curious. I didn't see any recognition there and I was watching him carefully."

Paul handed him a drink and he gulped it down.

"Thanks. I needed that."

-Go on." said O’Fallon

"I told him to go ahead and try it out. He threw the thing and hit the target dead center. He decided to take the knife, even though it was the most expensive one in the case. But I just couldn't be sure about him. He asked some questions, like how long I'd been in Tombstone, where I came from, that sort of thing. And then he tricked me up.”

"What do you mean?"

"He was just sort of talking, and he was looking at some of the guns in the display cases. He stopped at this one case and seemed to be looking at one of the guns. Asked if it was one of the new Colt Bisley target models. It took me off guard and I just blurted out that it couldn't be, because Colt didn't make the Bisleys until. . . and then I caught myself and he was standing there, staring at me, and he said. . . until 1894.That's thirteen years from now.' And just then Spangenberg came back in and the Kid left. But he said we'd have to talk again real soon. I told Spangenberg I was feeling sick and came right over to tell you.-

"You idiot," said O'Fallon. "He probably followed you right here."

"No, I was real careful. I made sure. . .

"You made sure," O’Fallon said, with disgust. "You never would have spotted him. He's probably sitting out there somewhere right now."

"I had to come," protested Bailey. "Look, you told me that if something like this ever happened, you'd get me out. I've done everything you said. O’Fallon. I've exposed this guy for you. “

"Exposed him?" said O’Fallon, wryly. “What you've done was to expose us, you fool. You probably led him straight to us. Paul, I want security doubled right away."

"Got it," Paul said, as he turned to leave the room.

"No, wait. . . O’Fallon said. "All he knows is that Bailey came straight here. He still doesn't know who he came to see. If he's out there watching and he sees increased security, that will only give away the operation. Let's keep him guessing. At this point, all he knows about for sure is Bailey."

"You said you'd help me, O’Fallon." Bailey said. "You promised!"

"You've put me in an awkward situation, Zeke.”

"All right, at least give me back my warp disc!" Bailey pleaded. "I can't take the chance of staying around. He knows about me now I've got to get out of here!"

"Yes." said O'Fallon. "I can't afford allowing you to be interrogated. You simply know too much."

Bailey paled "Oh, Jesus Christ . . . you . . . you're not going to kill me?"

"You haven't given me a great deal of choice. Zeke," O'Fallon replied.

Bailey swallowed hard. "O'Fallon, please . . . you don't have to do this. You don't know for sure that I was followed. But if I was, and he doesn't see me leaving here, he'll know. He'll know for sure!"

"Yes, I'm afraid you have a point.” O'Fallon said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“So what do you suggest I do, Zeke?"

"Give me back my warp disc," Bailey said. "I've got Underground contacts in other time periods who can help me. I'll never say anything about you or your operation. I swear to God. If I did, they'd cut me off, you know that. They wouldn't want to risk exposure."

"Yes, that's true enough." O’Fallon said.

"I'll leave here and start driving back toward town." said Bailey. "There's still plenty of daylight, I'll see the Kid coming if he's out there. If he gets anywhere near me, I'll just clock out. He'll never know where I went. Otherwise, I'll wait till I get back to my place and clock out from there."

O’Fallon thought about it for a moment. "I don't know." he said. "It's risky."

"I won't let him take me, I swear to God I won't."

For a long moment, O'Fallon didn't speak.

“O’Fallon . . . " Bailey said, his voice barely above a whisper. " Please . .

."

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Zeke," said O’Fallon. “I'11 send Paul with you. I'll give him the warp disc I took from you. Perhaps we can turn this situation to our advantage."

"I'll do anything you say," said Bailey.

"Go back to your place, Zeke." O'Fallon said. "Paul will ride along. I don't think the Kid will try anything if you're not alone. He won't be certain of the situation. If he's out there somewhere, and I'm betting that he is, he'll follow you to your place, hoping to catch you alone. Paul will escort you that far, then he'll continue on to town. In the meantime, we'll clock some of the boys ahead to your place and see if we can't arrange a nice reception for the Montana Kid, whoever the hell he is. If we're lucky, we might even take him alive."

"What about me?" asked Bailey.

"After you've done your part, you'll be free to go." O'Fallon said.

"Frankly. I couldn't care less what happens to you."

Bailey looked enormously relieved, do whatever you say, O’Fallon.”

O’Fallon nodded. "All right," he said. "Paul, you go with Zeke. Steve, Randy, Allan, you'll pick up your ordnance and clock over to Bailey's place. At least now we know for sure the Kid is from the future. Let's see if we can find out which future."

As the men started to leave, O'Fallon said, "Steve . . ."

The man named Steve hesitated, waiting till the others had left.

"When Bailey gets back to his place," said O'Fallon softly. "kill him."

Scott watched from the ridge as Bailey's rig drove out through the gateposts of the ranch. He saw that Bailey was not alone. There was another man with him in the rig, his saddled horse tied to the back and following along. They took the road heading back toward town.

This wasn't what he'd hoped. He had hoped to catch Bailey coming out alone. The fact that he was not alone alerted him. Bailey had gone straight from Tombstone to the Clanton ranch. Interesting,

thought Scott. Very, very

interesting. It looked as if someone among the rustlers was not who he appeared to be. Maybe them were several of them. Only who? The Clantons themselves? The McLaurys? Ringo'? Brocius? One or more of their hired hands'? It could be any of them. He had no way of knowing. Not unless he could get Bailey alone to question him.

He had read Bailey exactly right. He had gone straight to whomever he was working with. Only who were they? The Special Operations Group? The Underground?

The Network'? The smart thing to do, he thought, would be to wait until Priest. Cross and Delaney showed up. Only he wasn't sure when they would be clocking in.

Perhaps they were already in Tombstone. But meanwhile, he was alone out here and he hated to take a chance on Bailey running, perhaps clocking out to some other time period. He had blown his cover purposely, setting himself out as bait, but if he could question Bailey, he could improve his chances of survival by learning where the attack might come from. The man with Bailey could be one of them. Or he might simply be one of the cowboys. There was no way of knowing. And when you don't have enough information. Scott told himself, the best thing to do is to do nothing.

He was sorely tempted to follow them, but he realized that could be exactly what they were expecting him to do. They could be trying to draw him into a trap. Whoever they were, he was at a disadvantage. They might try to catch him on the road or lead him into an ambush. It was possible they were unaware that he had followed Zeke, if that was really his name, but he was not about to take that chance. Better to gamble on the opposition being smart, not stupid. He had already discovered two valuable pieces of information—that Zeke Bailey was not what he appeared to be, and that whoever he was working with was involved somehow with the Clanton ranch.

The Network, he thought. It had to be. The whole setup had all the earmarks of a Network operation. He knew the Clantons were involved in rustling. They were part of a large outlaw faction that included the McLaury brothers, Johnny Ringo, and Curly Bill Brocius. Most of them were ranchers, people who had been here before the silver boom, and with the proximity of the Mexican border, rustling had grown commonplace. Men from both sides of the border frequently conducted rustling raids for horses and cattle. The rustled stock could then be cheaply sold to other ranchers in the area, to augment their herds and to be consumed in Tombstone. Consequently, rustlers frequently found a warm welcome at most of the ranches in the area and they often went out of their way to ingratiate themselves with local ranchers, who were, after all, their market. Many people in Tombstone and its environs did not really consider the rustlers outlaws. But that was slowly changing.

As Tombstone grew, it was inevitable that certain of its citizens would come to view the rustlers as a disruptive element. The community was polarized. There were those to whom the rustlers were their friends, hard-working cowboys just trying to make a living. And there were others to whom they represented a potential threat. Especially as it was just one short step from stealing stock to robbing stages, with their cargo of silver bullion.

It was a perfect setup for the Network. Not one of their large-scale operations, obviously, but nevertheless one that afforded the opportunity for easy profit with a minimum of risk. How hard would it have been for them to infiltrate the rustlers and nudge them toward robbing stages? Or perhaps keep them out of it entirely and simply use their rustling operations as a cover for robberies of silver bullion? Either way, it would be relatively simple. A small operation, with no overhead to speak of, .that would produce untraceable assets that could readily be liquidated. The Special Operations Group would not be interested in anything like that.

If there was a confluence point somewhere in this temporal sector, then it would be all the more reason for the S.O.G. to maintain a very low profile. They would set up a base of operations, carefully concealed, from which they could patrol the confluence point and stage hit-and-run operations in other temporal sectors. It would make sense that they would want to keep their involvement with the locals at a minimum. On the other hand, if it was the Network, then it would make sense for them to station someone like Zeke Bailey in town, keeping an eye on all new arrivals. That would explain the seemingly careless act of having a Fairburn-Sykes commando knife on display in the store. Most people in this time period would react to it the way George Spangenberg had. A knife that simply wasn't very useful for anything except maybe "sticking" people. Anyone with any sense would choose a skinner or a Bowie. To people in this time sector, a knife like that would simply not appeal. But if anyone showed a marked curiosity about it. it could signal a warning.

What bothered him was Bailey. A Network man, it seemed to him, would have been too professional to have made that slip about the Bisleys. Bailey was a bundle of nerves. He simply did not fit the profile of a Network agent. But then, maybe he wasn't. At least, not part of the inner group. The Network was not above recruiting outsiders, often using criminals from the 27th century in their varied operations. They had contacts in the Temporal Underground, as well. Bailey could be a deserter from the future who was working for them. And, as such, he would be easily expendable.

The question was, what would they do now that they knew he'd broken Bailey's cover and revealed his own? Would they move against him or would they rush to shut down their operation in this sector and clear out? Much as he wanted to nail them. Scott had to recognize that the preservation of temporal continuity came first. If he alarmed the Network into shutting down and moving out, it would, in effect, have accomplished the primary goal of his mission. It would eliminate a potentially disruptive influence in this temporal sector. Taking the Network people into custody would be highly desirable, of course, but his first priority had to be safeguarding temporal continuity.

What would Forrester want him to do? The Old Man would not want him to take any unnecessary risks. He'd want him to wait until the others had arrived and convey what he had learned to Colonel Priest, who would take command of the mission. Much as he wanted to make a try for Bailey. Scott knew that the smart thing to do, for now, would be to wait.

"Play it safe. Neilson." he said to himself, out loud. "Keep a rein on it and play it safe."

He released the horse he'd rented and slapped it hard on the rump, sending it running down toward the road. It would make its way back to the corral in town. He'd clock back, to avoid any risk of being ambushed on the road, and simply say the horse had shied at a snake or something and had thrown him just outside of town. Then he'd wait and see who came for him. Would it be Wyatt Earp, unpersuaded by Doc Holliday and intent on seeing him on the next stage out of town? Would it be Demming, intent on avenging his brother's death? Or would it be the Network?

He grimaced, wryly. This was playing it safe?

5

Lucas and Andre got off the stage and waited for the driver to unload their bags. It hadn't been a very long ride from Benson, perhaps twenty-five or thirty miles, but it hadn't been very comfortable, either. Every jolt had been communicated to the passengers and the dust had seeped in everywhere. Both Lucas and Andre were well accustomed to discomfort, and there had been times in their careers when they had traveled in far less comfort. Lucas had never found anything to beat the sheer misery and exhaustion of forced marches with the Roman Legions and Andre had ridden for days on horseback, wearing full medieval armor. Nevertheless, they were grateful when the stage finally arrived in Tombstone.

Though they could easily have clocked into Benson, they had taken the Southern Pacific all the way from Lordsburg, the better to establish their cover. Lucas was posing as a writer from New York City, working on a series of articles for newspapers and magazines on the "Wild West." Andre was his wife, secretary, and personal assistant. Finn Delaney would arrive separately, on horseback, with the cover of a drifter, a cowboy looking for work in the boomtown or on one of the ranches in the area. Between them, they hoped to be able to cover all contingencies.

Their first step was to check into the Grand Hotel, where Lucas made sure the desk clerk knew why he was in town. A promise to put the desk clerk's name in the article he was writing immediately turned the man into a font of information enhevilbaS5about "the town that had a man for breakfast every morning." The next step was to stop in at the hotel bar, where Lucas interviewed the bartender and some of the patrons, who regaled him with stories about the Earps, Bat Masterson. Doc Holliday, and the young gunslinger who had recently arrived in town, the Montana Kid.

"You missed Bat Masterson," the barman told him. "He had to leave town and go to Dodge to help out his brother. Jim, with some trouble he was havin' back there. But you'll still find plenty to write about right here in Tombstone. mister. There's trouble brewin’ you mark my word."

“What sort of trouble?' Lucas asked him.

"There's bad blood between the Earps and some of the cowboys." said the barman, like the Clantons and the McLaurys. And a lot of folks in town are startin' to choose up sides Even the newspapers are getting’ in on it."

"What's it all about?" asked Lucas, while Andre sat beside him, taking notes, he bought another drink and invited the barman to have one for himself.

"Well, near as I can tell, the bad blood between the Earps and the McLaurys got started back around July of last year," said the barman, a loquacious sort who clearly liked to gossip. He needed little prompting. "See, some soldiers came to town one day to see the Earps Seems some mules got stolen from out at Camp Rucker and they wanted some help from the local law to track the rustlers down. Well, sir, the trail took 'em out to the McLaury ranch. They found some mules, all right, but they couldn't prove that they were Army mules. Frank McLaury said that they were his and the Earps thought that the brands were changed. Anyways, they couldn't prove the mules were stolen and the Army didn't get 'em back, but Frank McLaury didn't like bein' called a thief and he went around tellin’ anyone who'd listen how the Earps were spreadin’ lies about him."

"Did Frank McLaury steal the mules?" asked Lucas.

"I'm not sayin’ he did and I'm not sayin' he didn't." said the barman, but it wouldn't have been the first time stock was rustled around here There's been a lot of that sort of thing goin' on. And lately, there's been some stage robberies, as well. We got a lot of silver bullion goin' out and not all of it gets to where it's goin'. See, lot of small ranchers around here have done a bit of rustlin'

from time to time. There's nothin’ unusual about it. Folks take a ride across the border and come back with some stock. Mexicans do the same damn thing. Been goin'

on for years. Only now there's talk that some of the ranchers around here have taken to robbin' stages as well as rustlin’ stock and some of that talk is comin’

from the Earps and others. And that ain't the half of it."

"What's the rest?" asked Lucas, paying for another couple of drinks.

"Well, the Mclaurys are real tight with the Clantons." said the barman. "And they're all friends of Sheriff Johnny Behan. Now Johnny, he's not a bad sort, you understand, but he doesn't go out of his way to look for trouble, if you get my drift. Now a while back, this girl showed up in town, name of Josie Marcus. She was an actress came to town with a show called Pinafore on Wheels. Seems she knew Johnny from before. Anyway, the two of them set up house together and Johnny was introducin’ her to everybody as his fiancée. Only it seems that Josie didn't care too much for the sort of company that Johnny kept. Boys like the Clantons, the McLaurys, Curly Bill and Johnny Ringo. They'd have these all-night poker games out at Johnny's place and I guess Josie didn't like it. Anyway, it wasn't long before they had a fallin' out and Josie took up with Wyatt Earp."

"So you're saying there's a love triangle involved?" asked Andre.

"Well, now, I’m not tellin’ you any secrets," said the barman. "The whole town knows all about it. Part of it's a question of property, too. In more ways than one. See. Johnny and Josie built their house on money Josie's daddy sent her, only Johnny owns the lot it stands on. One time, when Wyatt was away, Johnny came to try and dispossess her. Only Wyatt had asked Morgan to look in on her from time to time and Morg was there. They had some words and Morg knocked Johnny clear off the front porch_ Johnny didn't bother Josie anymore after that, but you can see why he's never been too fond of the Earps. And it's like their trouble with property was just like the trouble many folks had here in town."

"How's that?" asked Lucas, plunking down for two more drinks.

"Well," said the barman, pouring. "Arizona's still a territory, you understand, and we ain't never had much in the way of law around here. Back when the boom got started, there was a good deal of lot jumpin' goin' on and it got so it wasn't very clear who owned what, you understand. Well, the mayor at that time. Alder Randall, went and transferred all the titles to the company of Clark and Gray. Seems the law let him do that, for the purpose of getting all the paperwork cleared up or somethin'. Only what Clark and Gray did was turn around and demand payment for all the lots in town and those who wouldn't pay were threatened with eviction. Some of the boys they used to do the dirty work were the same cowboys who were doin' a lot of the rustlin' in these parts. It turned into one big mess, let me tell you, and there's still lawsuits pending over the whole thing. It pretty near split the town in half. There was Clark and Gray and their friends in the County Ring, who own the Nugget and hold some of the offices in town, and there was John Clum, who's now the mayor and runs the Epitaph and a bunch of local businessmen around here who sided up with him.

"Now the Earps own some property in Tombstone," he continued, "and they got involved in the whole thing, as well. When they first came here, they were goin'

to open up a stage line, only we already had two lines so the Earps got into other business. They own some mining claims around here and got interest in one of the saloons, plus a few more things. Virgil got himself a badge and Wyatt wrangled himself an appointment as deputy U.S. Marshal. Between them, they got the power to make Morgan deputy if need be and Wyatt's always got Doc Holliday and one or two others to back him up. Now on the other side, you got the County Ring, and Johnny Behan is their man, along with his deputies, Billy Breakenridge and Frank Stilwell. And Stilwell, for certain, with his buddy. Pete Spencer, has done some rustlin' with Ike Clanton. So we got ourselves one big kettle of stew on the boil, let me tell you."

"Sounds like something's bound to come to a head sooner or later," Lucas agreed. "Looks like I picked an interesting time to arrive in Tombstone."

"That you did, partner. And now that the Montana Kid's in town, there's no tellin' what's liable to happen."

"Tell me about the Montana Kid." said Lucas. "Who is he?"

"I don't rightly know," the barman replied, this time standing Lucas to a drink. He was clearly enjoying himself with his captive audience. "He came into town a while back lookin’ for some friends of his, three men named Ben Summers, Josh Billings and Joe McEnery had a small claim up in the hills. Only they'd been murdered 'bout two weeks before. Nobody ever learned who did it. Anyways, the Kid was in the Oriental, askin' questions, when this fracas breaks out between Bat Masterson and a couple of Ike Clanton's boys, Slim Carter and Jack Demming. Slim and Jack both jerked their pistols and it looked bad for Masterson, but the Kid shot ‘em both quick as you please, dead center in the heart, each one. I didn't see it myself, sorry to say, but folks that did say the Kid's draw was the fastest thing they'd ever seen."

"Really?"

"That’s what they say, and I can believe it, too. Why, just the other day. Ross Demming that's Jack's brother—came in here lookin’ for the Kid with Frank Mclaury. The Kid was sittin' right at that table over them, with Jenny Reilly. she's a saloon girl over at the Oriental. Jenny's about the prettiest girl anyone's ever seen in town and she was real popular. I can tell you, but since the Kid arrived in town. Jenny won't have anything to do with anybody else, if you catch my drift—beg pardon, Ma'am," he added, with a glance at Andre. "So there's a lot of cowboys aren't too pleased to have the Kid around. Anyways, there the Kid was, sittin' right there and havin' himself a meal, talkin’ to Jenny, when in comes Ross Demming, full of fight, with Frank McLaury to back him up. Both men wearin' guns. too, and the Kid had given his to Virgil Earp, 'cause of the ordinance, you know."

"So the Kid was unarmed?" asked Lucas.

"It sure looked that way," the barman said. By now, they had an audience.

"Jenny tried to talk Frank into makin’ Ross back off, hut Frank wasn't havin' any of it. The Kid just sat there, quiet as you please, tellin’ the boys he didn't want any trouble. When Frank found out he didn't have a gun, he offered to let the Kid use one of his. And right then Doc Holliday came in and got the drop on 'em. Made ‘em both leave and as soon as they got outside. Virgil and, Morgan took their guns and led 'em off to jail."

"So the Kid got lucky," Lucas said.

"Well, that's what Doc told him," the barman replied. "Asked him what he'd have done if it hadn't been for him showin’ up when he did. And what happened next. I saw with my own eyes. The Kid makes a move like this . . ." the barman demonstrated, crossing his wrists,". . . and pulls out two little knives and throws 'em, so fast you couldn't hardly see him move. And they went right into the wall there, where Frank and Ross were standin'. If you go on over there, you can see where they went in. Let me tell you. I've seen some fast men in my time, but never anything like that, not in all my born days! You want to get yourself a story, mister, the Kid's the man you want to see. Hardly old enough to take a drink, yet there's not a grown man in this town won't step aside to make way for him."

"Sounds like a fascinating individual." said Lucas. "Where can I find him?"

"Well, sir, he's got a room right here in this hotel. You stick around, you're bound to see him and I'll be pleased to point him out to you. Or you can head on over to the Oriental. Kid's been spendin' time down there, since he got sweet on Jenny. And there ain't been much trouble down there since the Kid has been around, no, sir! Even Wyatt harp had to admit that."

"How do the Earps feel about the Kid?" asked Lucas.

“Virgil he don't care one way or the other, long as the Kid stays out of trouble. Wyatt, he didn't care for him one bit and told him to leave town, but Doc Holliday seems to like the Kid and I guess he had a word with Wyatt. Anyways, since Wyatt has an interest in the Oriental, and the Kid bein' there keeps trouble down, seems Wyatt doesn't mind too much. But I don't think he trusts the Kid, entirely."

Lucas thanked the barman for all the information and left him a generous tip, then he decided to head over to the Oriental saloon.

"You might as well check out some of the local stores," he said to Andre.

"Meet some of the local women, see what you can learn. Respectable women of this time didn't hang out in saloons

Andre grimaced. "Right," she said. "I'll meet you back here later."

As they stood on the walk in front of the hotel, Finn Delaney came riding by He nodded and touched the brim of his Stetson. Lucas nodded back.

"He's right on time." he said. "Which leaves only Darkness." He sighed.

"Damn it. I hate not knowing what he's up to."

"From the way he talked, it's pretty serious." said Andre.

"Yeah. Here we are trying to pull off a temporal adjustment mission and meanwhile. we're part of something in his past that he’s trying to change. Only he can't tell us what it is, any more than we can tell the people here. The only difference is that they don't know what they're caught up in and we do. Or at least we know that we're caught up in something_ God knows what.”

"There's not much point in worrying about it now, since there's nothing we can do about it anyway." she said. "At least not until Darkness tells us what it is."

"That's just what worries me." said Lucas. "What if he's wrong? What if whatever it is he expects us to do back here isn't the right thing to do? How the hell do we know?"

"We don't. We're simply going to have to trust him."

"Yeah. He wants our trust, only he won't give us his."

"Maybe he can't afford to." she said. "It's like he said, if we know more than we should, it could affect the outcome."

"Only what is the outcome?" Lucas asked, with exasperation. He paused as several people passed by, then turned to Andre. "What happened in the future, where he came from? Was it a timestream split? A chain reaction? An invasion from the parallel timeline? What?"

"There's no way we can know” she said. ”We don't know what time period he came from. Even if we were crazy enough to take the risk and clock ahead, we wouldn't know which sector to check out. Or if we'd be able to make it back."

"He made it back."

"He's faster than light. We're not. Don't even think about it. Lucas. It would be crazy. It's against all the rules."

"How do we know he's playing by the rules?"

"We don't." she said. "Rut where he came from, the rules might have ceased to matter. We've got to trust him. Lucas. We have no other choice. Remember what he said. When the time comes for whatever it is we have to do, there'll be no time for doubt or hesitation."

"I know. I've been thinking about that. It tells me that whatever it is that's going to happen, or that has already happened from his temporal point of view, is going to happen so fast that a split second could make all the difference. And that scares the hell out of me."

"It scares me, too," she said "But I have to believe that Darkness knows what he's doing. After all. if it hadn't been for him, I would have lost you.”

Lucas looked at her and took her hands in his. "I'm very much aware of that myself." he said. He smiled. "I wouldn't have come back from the dead for just anyone, you know."

"Just don't die on me again," she said, "or so help me. I'll kill you. Remember, you promised to marry me."

He grinned. "That promise was extorted under false pretenses."

"I might hold you to it just the same.”

“We'll talk about it later. In about eight hundred years. Meanwhile, let's split up and see what we can learn. I'll meet you back here later."

Jenny was sitting beside a dapper man who was dealing in a card game when Scott came into the Oriental Saloon. The moment she saw him, she whispered something to the man, got up and rushed over to him.

"Hi. stranger." she said, with a dazzling smile. "I missed you."

"Who was that man you were sitting with?" asked Scott, as he stepped up to the bar. Frank Leslie set a glass of whiskey before him with a wink.

You jealous?" Jenny asked, coyly.

Scott was surprised to discover that he was. That wasn't a good sign. It wasn't a good sign at all. He couldn't afford to get involved. Or was he already involved?

"Maybe," he said. "What if I am?"

"I think I like that," Jenny said, pressing up against him and rubbing his chest.

"Who is he?"

"That's Ben Stone. He's the gambler I told you about. Came to town just a little while before you did."

"About the same time my friends were killed?" asked Scott, softly.

She looked at him wide-eyed "You think he might have had something to do with it?"

"I don't know." said Scott. "What do you think?"

She bit her lower lip. "I don't think I'd be surprised," she said. "Not that I know he did," she added quickly, seeing Scotts sharp glance. "Only there's something about him . . . something strange. And dangerous. He gives me chills."

You ever been with him?" asked Scott, uneasily.

She looked up at him. "Scott. I've been with lots of men. You know that. But that's all in the past now. Oh, I still sit with cowboys and get them to buy drinks because that's my job here. Sometimes I might let them put their arms around me. but no more than that, honest. No more trips to the back room. All that's over now. It's been over ever since I met you. Things are different now. Does it really matter what happened in the past?"

"Sometimes it matters more than you might know, Jenny,” said Scott, somewhat distantly. Then he smiled at her. But that doesn't change the way I feel about you."

"Then that's all that really matters." she said.

Ben Stone put down his cards and got up from the table. He picked up his hat and cane and came over to them. Scott watched as he approached. He was a tall man, very fit looking. with short, neatly trimmed dark hair and gray eyes. He was clean-shaven except for a dark, close-trimmed, pencil-thin moustache. He was wearing an elegant dark suit and waistcoat, a gold watch chain, and a neatly tied cravat held down by a pearl stickpin. He would have looked like a fashion model. Scott thought, if it wasn't for those light gray eyes. They were alert, shrewd and calculating eyes. Eyes that didn't miss a thing.

"You must be the Montana Kid." said Stone. He offered his hand. Scott took it. "Benjamin J. Stone, at your service."

Scott nodded. "Mr. Stone."

"I've been looking forward to meeting you," said Stone.

"Is that right?"

“I wanted to see the man who managed to capture Jenny's affection. The moment she saw you, she excused herself and rushed right over to you. If I wasn't such an easygoing man, I might have taken exception. Jenny brought me luck. The moment she got up from the table. I started losing. A man can't afford to do much of that in my profession."

"No. I don't guess he can.” said Scott. "Jenny's told me about you, but I don't believe I've seen you in here before."

"I've been playing down at the Alhambra for the past week or so," said Stone. "Thought, I'd come back to the Oriental for a while. You never want to push a streak of luck too far in just one place."

"So you've been lucky, then?"

"I like to think that skill has a bit to do with it. but luck plays a part, as well. May I buy you and the lady a drink with my winnings?"

"It would be a pleasure, Mr. Stone, thank you “

"Call me Ben. Kid. All my friends do. And from what I've heard about you. I'd rather count you among my friends than among my enemies."

"You have many enemies, Ben?"

“A few, here and there Some men like losing less than others. But I've always taken great care to stay on the right side of the law. Sometimes the only thing between you and a bullet is the local lawman, isn't that right, Marshal?"

Scott turned to see that Wyatt Earp had come up behind them.

"Isn't what right, Mr. Stone?"

"I was just telling the Kid here that a man always has to have respect for the local law, because sometimes it's all that stands between him and a bullet. Isn't that right?”

"I reckon I can go along with that." said Wyatt. He glanced at Scott's open coat. "See you got that fancy gun rig George Spangenberg had over in his shop."

"That's right, Marshal. But I made sure to get that special permit from your brother before I put ‘em on. And I picked up that one that he was keeping for me, too."

I know. I heard about that Seein' as how you're workin’ to keep order in here. I don't guess I mind that too much, so long as things don't get out of hand. And I suppose that havin' you wearin' your guns is a lot safer than havin' you without 'em. Otherwise you're liable to prove a temptation to certain folks around here.

"I appreciate your understanding, Marshal." Scott said. "Like I told you before, I'll do my best to stay out of trouble."

"Speakin' of trouble," Wyatt said, you bought those guns from Zeke didn't you?"

"That's right said Scott, suddenly on guard.

"Mind if I see one?"

"Not at all." Scott took one of the Colts out and handed it to Wyatt.

"Sure is gaudy-lookin'." Wyatt said. "I figure folks will be askin' about your guns as much as they talk about how fast you are with 'em. You seen Zeke since he sold 'em to you?"

"No. I can't say as I have. Why'?"

"Just wonderin'," said Wyatt. "Seems after you left, he told George he was feelin' poorly and went home. After he closed up. George rode out to look in on him and see how he was feelin'." Wyatt shook his ahead. "Turns out Zeke wasn't feelin' too good. Fact is, he wasn't feeling anything at all. He was dead."

"Dead!" said Jenny.

"What happened?" asked Stone. "Was it fever?"

"Nope. It was a bullet A bullet from a .45. just like this one " he handed the Colt back to Scott. "Zeke was shot right through the heart And ole Ned, down at the corral, said you rented a horse from him this afternoon and rode out of town. Be about the same time Zeke went home to his place:

"Wyatt!" Jenny exclaimed.

"Are you suggesting that I killed him, Marshal?" Scott asked.

"I'm not suggesting anything, Kid. But I don't suppose you'd care to tell me where you went today?"

"I took a ride out to that old claim my friends had," Scott replied. "I thought maybe I'd file on it and find someone to work it for me. See if they were really going broke or if they'd made a strike and hadn't told anyone about it."

"And what did you decide?"

"I'M still thinkin' about it."

"Anyone see you go out there?"

"Wyatt, how can you suspect Scott of killing Zeke?" asked Jenny, shocked.

"Why. Zeke never had an enemy in the world! Scott barely even knew him!"

"Like I said, Jenny. I'm not suggestin' anything just yet. I'm only making an investigation, that's all. What about it Kid?"

"No, nobody saw me." Scott said.

"That horse you rented came back to the corral alone." said Wyatt. "What happened?"

"It spooked at a rattler and threw me. just outside of town, Scott replied.

"I had to walk in. If you want to examine my other gun, Marshal, you'll see that it hasn't been fired, either. I haven't even had a chance to try 'em out yet. As for the one I came to town with, your brother still had that until after I got back." He offered the other one to Earp. but Wyatt made no move to take it.

"So he did." said Wyatt. "I already checked on that. I don't think you had anything to do with Zeke's murder, Kid, but there's some that might. I don't really think you're a bad sort, but I still think you're trouble. Sooner or later, you're goin' to have to make some choices. Whether to walk on the right side of the law or the wrong one. For somebody like you, I don't think there's goin' to be any in-between. I'd think on that if I were you. Jenny, Mr. Stone . . ."

"Aren't you going to ask me where I was this afternoon, Marshal?" Stone asked.

"Why, you were right here. Mr. Stone," said Exp. "chasin' a big winning streak. I already asked."

He touched the brim of his hat, turned and left the saloon.

"Interesting things sure do happen around you. Kid," said Stone. "I wonder what Zeke Bailey did to get himself killed. Like Jenny here just said, he wasn't the sort of man that you'd think of as having any enemies."

"Then maybe someone ought to be lookin’ at his friends." said Scot

“I hardly knew the man myself." said Stone.

“I didn't say you did." said Scott. "Besides, you were here playin' cards all afternoon, in front of witnesses, isn't that right"

They matched gazes for a moment. Stone smiled, but his eyes didn't.

"That's right. Too bad you weren't around to sit in, Kid. Looks like you could have used some witnesses yourself. I'll be seeing you around. Jenny."

He tipped his hat and left. Scott stared after him.

"There's something very odd about that man.” said Jenny.

"Yes," said Scott, thoughtfully. "There is."

6

Lucas sat across the table from Wyatt Earp in the Oriental Saloon, taking notes. On the other side of the room. Neilson was playing poker with several men. No sign of recognition had passed between them when Lucas came in. Good, thought Lucas, the kid's playing it smart. He decided to follow Neilson's lead for the time being. He was already on the scene and would be more on top of the situation. Maybe he was planning to make contact at the proper time. If not, and he was waiting for him to make the first move, Lucas knew he would have ample opportunity to do so in his cover as a journalist, when he sought to interview the Montana Kid. For now, he was more intent on firmly establishing his cover and getting his own reading on the situation in Tombstone. And in his cover as a journalist, he could hardly pass up the chance to interview the famous Wyatt Earp, who already possessed quite a reputation as a lawman from his days in Dodge

“He found Wyatt Earp to be amiable enough, a forthright, plainspoken man who talked easily and openly about his days as a lawman in Dodge City with Bat Masterson. He did notice, however, that while Wyatt Earp was not given to the sort of braggadocio that was often, attributed to him later, he did have a tendency to give a version of events that placed him in the most favorable light. Lucas went through the obligatory questions that a writer could be expected to ask and listened to Wyatt's stories about Dodge, then finally brought the conversation around to Tombstone.

"Would you say that Tombstone, in its own way, is as wild a town as Dodge was. Mr. Earp

Wyatt seemed to consider his response. "Well, in some ways, yes. And in some other ways, no. We don't really get the cattle drives the way that Dodge does, so there isn't as much trouble with the Texans comin' through. See, these cowboys spend a long time on the trail with nothin' much to do. Driving cattle's plenty of work, make no mistake, but there isn't really anything the men can do for entertainment on the trail, so when they get to town, they tend to run a bit hogwild. That's understandable, so long as they don't get too out of hand. They gamble away most everything they've earned and what they don't gamble away they either drink up or spend on women. Trouble is, they get all liquored up and decide to hurrah the town. gallopin' through and givin' rebel yells and firin' off their six-guns. Somebody could get hurt and property could get damaged. So when that kind of thing gets started, you have to put a stop to it right quick.

"Now you take most men." he continued, "they get a little too much whiskey, they step out of line and usually all it takes is buffaloing one or two of ‘em to put a stop to things, Man wakes up in jail in the morning with his head sore from too much drink and from a good blow with a six-gun barrel, he understands how things are He pays his fine and says he's sorry he got drunk and caused a little trouble and he goes his way with no hard feelin's. None on my part, either But some of them tend to be mean-spirited and those are usually the real troublemakers. You need to come down real hard on them. You have to keep the peace. It's what you're paid for. Of course, every now and then, you get some cowboy who really ties one on and starts stalkin' through the streets, braggin’

about how he's goin' to face down the local lawman. Clay Allison did something like that once. Well, so long as the gent isn't causing any real trouble, then you just keep out of his way and before too long, he'll get tired of it and go sleep it off somewhere.

"Now in Tombstone, the situation's a bit different. It's a boomtown and you get a lot of people comin' through. You get your businessmen and speculators, you get your greenhorns, you get your cowboys, you get your preachers and your gamblers and your bunco artists. . . Wherever you find men makin' money, you find other men ready to separate 'em from it. We got us a sizable bunch of rustlers up in Galeyville and a few of ‘em have ranches just outside of town. Many of 'em were here when Tombstone was no more than a few tents and empty lots, but now they get attracted by the money in this town and a few of 'em don't mind takin' a few shortcuts to get their hands on some of it."

“You're referring to the stagecoach robberies that you've been having lately?" Lucas said.

“That, for one." said Wyatt. "Once a man takes it in his head to steal some stock, he hasn't got far to go to holdin' up a stage. And he can make a lot more money that way. Then there's claim jumpin'. We've had our share of that, as well. Every now and then we have a shootin'. That's why we have an ordinance against carryin' guns in town, though that doesn't stop some people.”

"I heard about some shootings you had here a little while ago," said Lucas. prompting him.

"That's right. Had two right here in this saloon," said Wyatt. "Matter of fact, that young fella playin' cards right ova there was the one that did it."

"You're talking about the Montana Kid?" asked Lucas, turning around. Which one is he'?"

"The one with the light blond hair, wearin' it long, like a plainsman.”

“So that's him, is it?" Lucas said. "He looks very young."

"He's young, all right," said Wyatt, "but Billy the Kid was even younger when he killed his first man. You don't need hair on your chin to pull a trigger, mister."

"No. I guess you don't, at that," said Lucas. “But I was referring to the murders of those three miners out at their claim a little while back.”

Wyatt Earp frowned. "Which three miners is that?"

'Let's see, I think I wrote their names down somewhere." Lucas said, glancing through his notebook as if he needed to refresh his memory. "Ah, here we are. Their names were Ben Summers, Josh Billings and Joe McEnery."

Wyatt Earp was still frowning. "You sure you got that right, mister? This is the first I've heard of it."

Lucas looked up at him sharply. "It would have been about a couple of weeks back," he said. "Three men found shot dead out at their claim. Very mysterious circumstances. Apparently. their murderers were never found."

"Seems to me like their bodies were never found, either." Wyatt said. "I think you must have got your information wrong, mister, or someone was feeedin'

you a story. I'm not aware of any men by those names bein' murdered."

Lucas stared at hint, completely taken aback. "Ben Summers, Josh Billings and Joe McEnery? Those names mean nothing to you?"

Wyatt shook his head. "Never heard of 'em. Where’d you get this story?"

Lucas shook his head. "Why. I . I'm not exactly sure. I think I must have heard it in the bar over at the hotel. But I suppose I might have got it wrong somehow. You're sure those names mean nothing to you? Three men found dead in very mysterious circumstances?"

Wyatt smiled. "Sounds to me like somebody was pullin' your leg. You're liable to get some of that around here. City slicker like yourself, out to write about the Wild frontier, folks are liable to string you along a bit. You'll have to watch out for that sort of thing."

Lucas was thoroughly confused. Why would Earp deny any knowledge of the killings? It made no sense, unless he wasn't anxious to have some reporter from back Fast writing about a case he couldn't solve. But then, surely he'd hear about it from others in town. Maybe it was just Earp's way of not wanting to talk about it.

Well . . . I guess maybe I might've got taken in a bit." said Lucas. "I did tell people I was looking for interesting stories about life on the frontier. Somebody might have just made that one up to get a few drinks out of me."

"You offer drinks for stories, mister, you'll get more than your share; said Earp, with a smile, "and most of 'em right fanciful, to boot. But I don't guess that really makes much difference, does it" You writers like to spice things up a bit. I don't suppose it does much harm."

"No, I . . . I don't suppose it does," Lucas replied, still mystified by Earp's curious denial. "But I was wondering.--"

"The stage's been robbed!" someone shouted.

Wyatt was on his feet in an instant, rushing over to the man.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"They shot Bud Philpot! Bob got the stage back, but Bud's dead and one of the passengers was shot. They didn't get the silver shipment."

"I'm goin' to need a posse!" Wyatt called out, quickly taking charge. "Lem, you run down and get Virg and Morg. Where's Bob at?”

“He's outside with the stage," said the man who came running in with the news. "He got banged up some, but he's okay."

"You need some help. Marshal'" Neilson asked.

"I can use a good gun, Kid. Come along."

"Marshal Earp!" said Lucas. "I'd like to ride along, if I

"A posse's no place for a greenhorn, mister. No offense."

"I can ride," said Lucas. "I know how to shoot, too. I used to be a soldier. I'd like to help."

"All right, if you feel you're up to it, we'll get you a rifle. Come along."

Still no sign of recognition from Neilson, thought Lucas. All right, he'd wait and see. They went out into the street and hurried a short distance down the block, to where the stage had pulled up. Sheriff Behan was already there, along with several other men. A crowd was gathering rapidly. Wyatt pushed his way through to the man at the center of attention, the shotgun guard, Bob Paul . He was covered with dust and his clothing was disheveled

"What happened, Bob?" asked Wyatt.

"I was just akin' him that," said Sheriff Behan, irritably. Lucas noticed a look of dislike between the two men.

"They got us a short way out of Contention." Paul said. "Bud was havin'

stomach cramps, so I told him I could drive for a bit till they eased up. We'd pulled over and traded places, but we hadn't gotten more than a few miles north on the road to Benson when they hit us. We'd just gone across a dry wash and started up a hill when a masked man stepped out into the road and shouted. 'Hold!' Next thing we knew, there was a hunch of 'em around us, three, four, maybe more. I couldn't tell, it all happened so fast. Bud went for the scattergun and they shot him. The horses-bolted and then they were all shootin". I lost the reins and had to climb down to retrieve ‘em. Almost fell off into the road,

They get the silver?" Behan asked.

"No. they didn't get it. They didn't have a chance 'the horses ran off soon as they shot Bud. One of the passengers took a bullet, too. Name of Peter Roerig, was sittin' in the dickey seat up back. He looked bad. They took him to the doc's, but I don't think he's goin' to make it."

Virgil and Morgan had arrived. "We're gettin' up a posse." Wyatt told them.

"Outlaws just robbed the stage and killed Bud Philpot. If we get a move on, we might catch 'em."

"Wait a minute. Wyatt," Behan said. "I'm the sheriff. I'm takin' this posse."

"Fine, then, take it. But we're comin' along."

Behan looked as if he was going to make an argument of it, then changed his mind.

"I'm goin' too. Wyatt," Paul said.

"You sure you're up to it?"

They got Bud." Paul said, with a hard edge to his voice. -I'm goin’."

Within moments, the posse was organized and mounted, galloping out of town on the road to Contention, about eight miles northwest of Tombstone. Lucas found himself riding next to Neilson, but aside from a curious look, nothing else passed between them. Lucas wondered if Neilson was being watched by someone in the posse and was aware of it. He was playing it very cool. Until he had a chance to speak with him alone, he'd have to follow his lead. Neilson could have discovered more about what was going on here since the time he'd last made his report.

It was late by the time they reached the place where the robbery had occurred and the darkness slowed them down, making the trail hard to follow. They were still tracking the outlaws when daylight came.

"Looks like the trail's leading to Len Redfield's place," said Virgil.

"Somehow I'm not surprised," said Wyatt, dryly. "Len's real friendly with Ike Clanton."

The trail, as Virgil had predicted, led straight to the ranch, where they discovered several horses in the corral that had been ridden very hard.

"Looks like they might have traded horses here." said Wyatt, as Lucas rode up beside him.

Suddenly a shot cracked out.

"Hold it right there, mister!'

It was Neilson who had yelled and fired. Lucas frowned.

That was getting a little too involved. The man who had taken off running from the corral, heading toward the house, stopped in his tracks and raised his hands in the air.

"Don't shoot!" he shouted.

"It's Luther King." said Behan, riding over to him. Wyatt and Bob Paul followed.

"Virg, you and the others go and check the house." he said. "And watch yourselves."

"I didn't do nothin'!" King protested. "What the hell did you shoot at me for?"

"Why'd you run, Luther'?" Wyatt asked, looking down at the man from his horse.

"How was I supposed to know who you were?" protested King. "I thought you might be outlaws!"

"Did you, now?"

"Well, how was he to know?" asked Behan.

Wyatt gave him a hard look. "Why don't you go and check the house. Johnny?

See if your friend Len can tell us anything."

Behan hesitated, again seeming as if he was about to argue, then once more thought better of it. He wheeled his horse and trotted toward the house.

"Been out ridin' tonight, Luther?" Wyatt asked.

"I've been here all night." King replied, nervously. "I didn't have anything to do with it."

"You didn't have anything to do with what, Luther?" Wyatt asked, calmly.

"With . . with whatever it is you boys are out for."

"Somebody tried to rob the Kinnear stage tonight. Luther." Wyatt said. "Bud Philpot was shot and killed. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?"

"How the hell would I know? Like I told you. I was here all night."

"Were you? What were you doin' out by the corral?". . .

“I came out to milk the cows.”

"You always strap your guns on when you go milkin'. Luther?"

King hesitated. "Man can't be too careful these days. Might have been Indians around." •

Morgan Earp snorted with disgust, "Indians, my foot! You were one of them Luther, weren't you?"

"I told you. I was here all night! I didn't have nothin' to do with it! Ask Len!"

"How do we know that Len wasn't involved'!" asked Wyatt. "You've got some horses over there in that corral look like they were ridden pretty hard. You got anything to say about that?"

"Yeah, well . . . there was some riders came by not long ago. Wanted to trade some horses."

"Who were they?"

"I .. I don't know. I didn't know who they were. I never saw 'em before."

"You're lyin', Luther.”

"I ain't lyin'! I told you, I don't know anything about any robbery!"

"It's more than robbery, Luther." Wyatt said. "It's murder. Bud Philpot's dead."

"Passenger got wounded, too," said Virgil. "Looks like he might not make it. That'll be two murders."

"Three. Virg," Wyatt said. "Don't forget Katie." Virgil frowned.

"Katie?"

"Isn't that right. Bob?" Wyatt said, turning to Bob. "Didn't you tell me Katie Elder took a bullet? Killed her on the spot, you said. Doc just about went crazy when he heard about it."

Bob Paul picked up on it, "Yeah. that's right. I never saw Doc like that before. It was somethin' terrible."

"Doc Holliday's woman was on that stage?" asked King. his eyes wide."She was headin' out to Benson, to take the train and visit some relatives for a spell," said Wyatt. "When Doc found out she'd been shot, he swore up and down he'd get every last one of those outlaws if it took him the rest of his life."

"Oh, my God." said King.

"If Doc gets in his head you were involved, Luther. I don't know that there's anything in this world that will stop him," Wyatt said. You know how he is."

"Listen, Marshal, you gotta promise me you'll tell Doc I had nothin. to do with it, I swear!" said King, in a panic. "Well, now, I don't know that for a fact. Luther." "Marshal, please! You gotta believe me! Look, you gotta tell Holliday it wasn't me! I didn't do any of the shootin'.

God's my judge! I only held the horses! You gotta tell Doc, I only held the horses! I never even fired my gun! I wasn't even there! I was just down the road a piece! I didn't know there was goin' to be any killin'! I swear. I didn't!

Please. Marshal, you gotta tell him!"

"Well now. I might, Luther, if you were to tell us who the rest of 'em were."

"It was Head. Leonard and Crane!" said King. "I don't know which one of 'em shot Philpot! I heard the shootin', but I didn't see it! Like I said, I only held the horses!"

"Head, Leonard and Crane, eh?" said Wyatt. "Where are they now'?"

"They rode out a while back. I ain't sure where they went and that's the truth, I swear it! The whole thing went wrong! But you gotta tell Holliday I didn't do any shootin'. Marshal. You gotta tell him!"

Wyatt glanced at Bob Paul and grinned. "I always knew that had temper of Doe's would come in handy one day."

Sheriff Johnny Behan and his deputy. Billy Breakenridge, took charge of the prisoner and rode back to town with him while the rest of the posse continued on the outlaws' trail. Lucas took the opportunity to ride back with the prisoner, expecting Neilson to volunteer to do the same, only the Montana Kid continued on with the posse. Not so much as a meaningful look had passed between them. Andre was waiting at the hotel when he returned.

"Did you learn anything?" she asked. "Did you have a chance to talk to Scott?"

"No, to both questions." Lucas said, easing himself onto the bed. It had been a while since he had been on horseback and he was saddle-sore. "Neilson acted as if he didn't even know me. The only explanation I can think of is that someone in the posse was watching him and he was aware of it. He's still out there with them. I guess he thought that if he came back with me, it might tip off whoever's watching him."

"Any clue who it might be?"

Lucas shook his head. "It could've been any of them." He frowned. "I don't know. There's something bothering me." "You, too?"

"You pick up on something'?"

"You first."

"Actually, it's a couple of things, but I'm not sure if it means anything. For one thing, there's Masterson's leaving town to go back to Dodge City According to our historical records. he shouldn't have done that until after the stage robbery. He should have been on that posse. But then, our records have been wrong before. Maybe that's all it is. The other thing is that Wyatt Earp claimed to know absolutely nothing about the deaths of those Observers. Said he didn't even know any men named Summers. Billings and McEnery. He told me that someone must have been pulling my leg and making up a story for my benefit. It's possible he just didn't want to talk about it and denied the whole thing because he didn't want to discuss a crime he couldn't solve. I can't think of any other explanation. but why would he want to lie about it? We could easily corroborate that story with anyone in town."

"You want to bet?" she said.

He glanced at her with a frown. "What do you mean?"

"I spent the evening last night visiting some of the stores and meeting some of the local women." Andre said "I even managed to meet Wyatt's girl. Josie Marcus, and have dinner with her And nobody would admit to knowing anything about those three Observers. Who they were, how they died, nothing. They all wanted to know where I came up with such a story. It was news to all of them."

Lucas simply stared at her. "What the hell is going on here?"

"I don't know," said Andre, "but it's as if somebody told the whole town not to talk about it."

"Wait a minute." Lucas said. "That barman downstairs, what's his name, Mohan, he talked about it, remember?"

"Good luck getting him to admit it." Andre said. "I spoke to him briefly after dinner. He looked blank when I brought it up. Said I must have gotten mixed up with a story about something that happened somewhere else. Denied ever telling us anything about it and looked at me like I was crazy."

"Somebody got to him." said Lucas.

"Apparently."

Lucas looked worried. "That might explain why Neilson didn't make any contact." he said. "Our cover might be blown already."

"How? We haven't done anything to tip anybody off," she said. "We've only just arrived in town."

"Maybe we were recognized," said Lucas. "There are people in the Network who know who we are. If one of them spotted us when we came into town, our cover could have been blown right there and then."

"I suppose that's possible," Andre said. "Only if that's the case, what would be the point in hushing up the deaths of those Observers? That would only put us on our guard."

Lucas shook his head "You're right. It makes no sense. And how the hell could they get to everyone so fast and make sure nobody talked about it?"

"They were late getting to Mehan." Andre said.

"That makes no sense, either," Lucas said, with a frown. "You'd think he would've been the first one they'd warn to keep his mouth shut. And the fact that they could do that, whoever they are, would presuppose that they control the entire town. That doesn't seem possible."

"Maybe it doesn't seem likely." Andre replied, "but it's not impossible."

"That would mean that this whole town is a Network operation," Lucas said.

"I can't believe that. There's got to be some other explanation."

"I'm open to suggestions." Andre said

Lucas sighed heavily, "Yeah. The trouble is. I haven't got any. Did you talk to Finn?"

She shook her head. "I saw him going into the Oriental Saloon shortly before I went to dinner. He was with a couple of cowboys, so I didn't try to make contact."

"And he didn't make contact last night'?" Lucas asked, with concern

Andre shook her head. "No. But then he could have gotten into an all-night poker game or picked up a lead on a job at one of the ranches that the rustlers work out of."

Lucas shook his head. "I don't like it. He should have made contact by now."

"There's got to be a reason why he didn't," Andre said.

"Maybe he learned something that warned him off."

"Or maybe something happened to him." Lucas said. He struck the bed with his fist. "Damn it! We only just got here and already things are out of our control!

What aren't we seeing? What don't we know?"

"Whatever it is, we're not going to find out now," said Andre. "You look beat. Why don't you try to get some sleep?

I'll stand watch."

She reached into her carpet bag, pulled out a laser pistol and doublechecked its chargepak.

"I wouldn't mind lying down for a while," Lucas said. "But I don't know if I'll get any sleep "

"Try," said Andre. "Meditate or something. All we can do now is wait, anyway. Something's bound to break. And I don't need you tired when it does."

"Okay, you've got a point." said Lucas, lying back on the bed. "I'll try to get some rest. Hut I'd feel a lot better if I knew what Delaney was doing."

Moments later, he was fast asleep. Andre sat down in a chair and put her feet up, holding the laser pistol in her lap. She kept close watch on the windows and the door. Something wasn't right She had the nagging thought that if she could just back off a bit and look at it a certain way, she'd see it.

She sighed. "Come on. Finn." she whispered, softly, so as not to disturb Lucas. "Where are you?"

"Dealer takes two," said Finn Delaney, dealing himself two cards. "It's your bet, mister."

"Well, let's see if we can't make this interesting," said Stone, putting down his bet.

"Feelin’ sure of yourself, are ya?" said Delaney.

The gambler smiled. "Confidence is half the game."

"Luck is the other half," said Finn. "I'll see you and I'll raise you ten."

"Too rich for me," said one of the players, folding.

"I'm out," said another.

"Luck, is it? I thought it was skill," said Stone, his eyes twinkling. He matched Finn's bet. "Call."

"Three of a kind," said Finn, putting down three eights.

"Sorry, Mister," said Stone. putting down his cards. "Three ladies." He reached for the pot.

"And two aces make a full house." said Delaney, putting down his last two cards.

"Son of a bitch." said Stone.

"Whoo-eee!" said one of the other men, clapping Delaney on the back. "That's the way to play 'em!"

"Drinks on me. gents." said Finn, gathering up the pot.

"Looks like it's your lucky night. cowboy," Stone said. He gathered up the cards. "Tell you what. I'll cut you for that pot you just won. Double or nothing."

"No, not me." said Finn, with a smile. "I might believe in the luck of the Irish, but not enough to push it."

Stone smiled. "Suit yourself. We'll have to play again sometime. Give me a chance to get some of that money back. Unless you're just passing through."

"No, I think I'll stick around a bit." said Finn, as the others got up from the table. "You go on and get your drinks, boys, and tell the bartender I'll take care of it," he said.

"Thanks, mister."

"Where you from, cowboy?" the gambler asked.

“Oh, all over," Delaney replied, "guess I'm what you'd call a drifter. I never seem to stay in any one place too long. What about yourself?"

"Boston," said the gambler.

“Boston? Is that right?"

"Ever been there'?"

"Yeah, back in another life." said Finn. He smiled. The gambler seemed to hesitate a fraction of a second before he smiled back. "Got some of the finest food around in Boston. The old Oyster House by Faneuil Hall.”

"I know it well. What brings you to Tombstone?"

"The wind, my friend, the wind." Delaney said. "I just follow where it blows me."

"You seem to have a touch of the romantic in your soul," said Stone. "That would be the Irish in you. A land of poets and dreamers."

"Aye, that it is." said Delaney. He grinned. "It's lucky for me I ran into you tonight. Mr. Stone. My roll was gettin' mighty thin. I'm much obliged to you."

"Well, you can't win them all." said Stone. "And call me Ben."

"My friends call me Finn."

“It's a pleasure, Finn. Jenny! Bring us a bottle, will you, dear?"

"Well, now. I said drinks were on me," said Finn.

"Very well, I won't argue. Feel free to pay."

Finn chuckled and stared appreciatively as Jenny brought a bottle of whiskey over to their table.

"Thank you, darling," Stone said.

She smiled. "Anytime, Ben.”

They both watched as she moved off.

"Pretty girl." said Finn.

“That she is," Stone agreed. "But if you've got any ideas along that line. I'd advise you to forget them. Time was, not too long ago, she'd have been happy to accommodate you, but not since the Montana Kid arrived in town. Now she's got eyes only for him. A big, husky fellow like yourself might not be deterred by that, but I'd think twice if I were you. The Kid's one hell of a fast gun."

“Is he, now?"

"Killed two men right here in this saloon. And they knew their business, too. He's young, but don't let that fool you. The Kid is deadly."

"I'll keep that in mind," Delaney said. "Sounds like this town can get a mite rough for a man."

"Well, it isn't Boston, that's for sure." Stone replied. "You get many killings here?"

"More than our share."

Finn fought back the temptation to ask about the dead Observers. He didn't want to ask too many questions. He was aware of Stone's light gray eyes watching him carefully, not smiling when his mouth smiled. Neither one of us an too sure about each other, are we? He thought. He had a feeling about Stone and he was pretty sure that Stone had the same feeling about him. Not quite a certainty, but close enough for government work, as they said. They were both gambling men and Finn would have bet Stone was a pro. Stone would probably have made the same bet, too. There were all sorts of telltale little things that ordinary people would have missed, things that, to a pro. couldn't really be disguised. Body attitude and language. A sense of fine control. Alert and watchful eyes, eyes that picked up much more than most people's did. But mostly, it was a feeling like two predators sensing each other. It was possible that Stone was simply the same breed of man. Capable, crafty, dangerous. Delaney knew he could be wrong. But he didn't think he was.

"Seems like a man could do all right for himself in a town like this," said Finn.

"Well, I guess it would all depend on what he had in mind." Stone replied. Finn shrugged. "I'm in no hurry. I think I'll just sort of stick around and get the feel of things before I make any decisions. Find out who's who around here, what sort of opportunities there are."

"There anything special that you had in mind?" asked Stone.

"I said, let go of me!"

Stone turned around. "Oh-oh. Looks like trouble."

A cowboy sitting at a table had Jenny by the arm and was refusing to let go. She struggled, but he was much stronger and held on firmly.

"Come on. Now, honey, don't be like that! You weren't too good for me last week!"

"That was last week!" Jenny said. "Things are different now. I don't do that anymore. Now let me go!"

"The Kid's not going to like that," Stone said.

"He around?"

"No, he went out on that posse with the Earps. And Frank Leslie rode out with the sheriff when they went back out after they brought in their prisoner."

"I said, let me go!"