The only possibly regrettable aspect about what he'd begun calling the "Great Move Westward" was the unbearable heat. New England (the name chosen by a group of nitwits and one Mr. Adams scrabbling for "independence" – never independent, not with that name) had been cool, comforting; though sometimes he remembered Mr. Hancock (signature consuming the parchment as though giving England the finger) wiping his face with his sleeves and complaining about how "bleeding hot" it was.

Well. Mr. Hancock had obviously never been out west.

Not that Alfred was complaining (much). He could take the hellish weather if it meant these wide-open graveyard skies, the vast horizons spread before him in welcome, beautifully painted sunsets across the golden plains, the horses and wildlife and the smell of coal and steel where the railroads were being built.

Okay, not so much here.

Tombstone, Arizona was a small town, geographically speaking. Small enough that Alfred didn't know on which part of himself it was located. It made up for it enough in population, which was quite sizable thanks to the discovery of silver, which had brought in a flood of those longing to strike it rich – but the population seemed young even it was booming, like it didn't quite know the town yet, and the buildings were run-down (even the new ones); Hell, he wasn't even sure if the town had a sheriff. But he was here now, sitting on a haystack in the back of a wagon, squinting in the bright hot sun (the annexation of Texas made each streak of sun glare on his new glasses), hands coming up to shade them, wishing beyond wishing that he had one of those fancy Stetsons.

Not to mention that his mouth had become a desert in this damn Western heat; he thought he even tasted sand.

"'Scuse me," he spoke up. "This is good," he told the wagon driver, trying to sound polite. "You can stop here."

The driver turned slightly, tugging on the reins a bit to pull to a stop. The horses made minimal protest, but the woman turned to glance at him as if she was sorry he had to go so soon. "Surprised a strappin' young man like yourself don't got a horse o' your own." Her voice held a flirtatious note as she eyed him from under the brim of her hat. Alfred smiled at her as he hopped down from the wagon, spurs – that he didn't need, they were a gift and he didn't want to be rude – jingling on his boots.

"It ain't for lack of tryin'," he told her truthfully, picking up on her accent with the ease of a native. "Just younger than I look, is all."

Older than I look, he told himself inwardly. But she'd never believe that, not in a million years.

She smiled back. "Well, if it's money you're lackin', here's a good place to get it as any." His heart missed a beat when she waved. "Good luck, stranger."

With a snap of her reins, she was off again. He realized he'd forgotten to thank her for the ride here. Oh well, he supposed, and turned to face the town, wiping sweat and dust from his brow. His people seemed happy enough out here. The men bore dusty faces and wide-brimmed hats, women fanning themselves politely in their bustles and shapely dresses.

I wonder if they know how few of them are going to get any money out here, he wondered, but mostly he thought, I wonder where I can get some water.

Also, Boy, is it crowded crossed his mind at one point, because it was. He kept bumping into people, apologizing profusely, had to dodge a speeding horse at one point before he got run down. This expansion business was doing him good, but it was getting a bit ridiculous, sometimes. All the talk of gold and silver and boomtowns and sudden fortune – it gave his people a false hope, disappointment, and crowded Western cities.

Oh. Right. And it was hot.

He fanned himself with his hand as he made his way to the shade of an overhang. A group of working girls giggled and waved at him, their hair up in ringlets, corsets tightening up their torsos; the dark-haired one lowered her lashes and even bent toward him a bit, so her breasts were more visible. Alfred swallowed, face warm, and only gave them a nod of greeting.

The redhead twittered, "Look, Mary Lou, he's blushing!" and they all giggled before he finally sauntered over to them, annoyed and flustered.

Somehow, he managed to remember his manners, and he let himself smile politely. "Can I help you ladies with something?" Unfortunately, his accent had dropped back into his usual New Yorker one.

The busty brunette smirked. "Would you like to?" They all went into giggles again while Alfred's glasses steamed up from the force of his blush. He coughed, and removed them to wipe off the lenses.

"Oh, we were just playin'," one of the two blondes said through a wide smile and put her slender arm through his own. A cloud of perfume seemed to waft around her like dust, so Alfred had to hold his breath a little as she leaned in close. "Not often we get handsome rich strangers in Tombstone. Most of 'em come here hopin' to strike it rich, y'see, so a good number of 'em are dirt poor… really too bad, in our business."

Her breath had the smell of alcohol when she spoke close to his face. "Well," she added, "except that Earp fella. But he's got his wife, anyway. He ain't any fun."

Alfred paused and looked to her. "Earp?" he echoed, remembering the name from somewhere. He almost felt bad about forgetting; these were his people, for God's sake, how could he just forget? But all this expansion, this great move west (growing taller than England could've ever imagined), it made him struggle for his mind and memory to keep up. Still, the name nagged at his brain until something finally clicked.

"You mean… Wyatt Earp?" he clarified. "That lawman from Kansas?" Alfred did keep up with the Earp brothers – Wyatt, Virgil, and Morgan, if he remembered correctly – but he didn't think they'd be here. Wyatt Earp was simply too big for this little boomtown.

But…. "The very same," the woman told him. "Came on over here with his family. Too bad he's married." The girls twittered again; Alfred's head reeled. Wyatt Earp? Here?

The Wyatt Earp?

"I think he just went in there if you wanna see him," the other blonde said, pointing at the door to his left.

Alfred looked to the sign above, reading simply "Oriental." The door was red and had bizarre carvings on it - even the outside had a feel like one of Yao's bars.

"Can't go in there."

The girl smiled. "Why not?"

"I ain't of age." He wasn't, not by anyone's standards. To England, America was close to one-hundred, and still a child of a nation. To these girls, to his President and people, he was only about fourteen years old, despite his height, and this proved quite frustrating in these sorts of situations.

Of course, he wound up going in anyway. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, right?

For something resembling a saloon, it was very empty, with only a scarce few men in the corner, and he remembered that this bar was going out of business. A shame, really, because it was a nice enough atmosphere, and the bartender kept wiping glasses optimistically, though his eyes kept darting over to the men in the corner.

Curious, he did as well, even took a few steps in when the barkeep didn't protest to his presence. The tallest man – with dark hair, a dark hat, a mustache, and narrow suspecting eyes – had his face close to the shortest man's (fat and shaking with a bleeding mouth and small watery eyes). Playing cards lay spread across the table amongst the half-full glasses of beer, the empty shot glasses of whiskey.

But it wasn't the poker they were arguing about, Alfred realized. The tall man hit the shorter one across the face, hissing, "You gonna say something or just stand there 'n' bleed?"

And Alfred felt a coldness trickle through his veins, exciting him to a point of trembling. This… this, Alfred thought, this is how the country should be run. No mercy, just like England taught me.

The fat man was thrown out of the bar, but the tall and dark one wiped his forehead with the cuff of his sleeve, then tipped his hat to the bartender. When his eyes fell on Alfred, there was a long pause.

"Boy, this is no place for kids," he said seriously, nudging him back outside. "Likely gonna get yourself hurt if you're not careful."

Alfred couldn't help but feel the grin pull at his face as he turned back around. "You're Wyatt Earp, ain't you?" The man paused, eyed him; stoic-looking, like… like one of England's knights or one of Greece's warriors, or…. Truly, he looked like a hero would look. America was grinning at him like an idiot, and Wyatt tugged the brim of his hat down as if to hide his eyes.

"'Fraid so," he replied. "Listen, kid, I'm not in that business anymore. Law isn't for me. I'm retired, so you can just quit that grinnin' of yours. I'm just here for the money, just like everyone-"

"You ain't gonna find any."

Wyatt – can you believe it? Wyatt Earp! – rose his eyebrows at him. He had nice thick eyebrows, like England. "And how d'you reckon that?"

Alfred put his hands up, like France in surrender. "I'm not saying you ain't gonna live a fine life," he specified. "Just… you probably ain't gonna find any silver. Besides, it's not your style. You probably wanna find some money, settle down with your wife, have some kids?" He shook his head. "Won't be happy like that. You like adventure, just like me."

Wyatt gave him a look of amusement. "Where are your parents anyway, speaking of adventure? Ain't your mama looking for you somewhere?"

"Oh, I don't got parents." Not unless you count England, he added silently, and even then, I pretty much disowned myself after 1776. He didn't want to look foolish in front of Wyatt Earp, though, so he decided to keep his trap shut about the whole 'nation' thing for the time being. "Well… I get along okay by myself, anyway. Don't need parents."

One of those bushy brows went up in an 'uh-huh' look. "And you're takin' care of yourself?" Alfred nodded and thought, More than you know. "You're only, what, sixteen?"

"N-no," Alfred laughed. "No, I'm fourteen. That's why I don't got a horse, sir."

"Awful tall for a fourteen-year-old…"

He grinned. Even for his round, sort of babyish face, he knew he was taller than he should be for his age, and loved to think about that. Taller than England, taller than France; buying all of that Louisiana Territory had apparently been a smart move on Jefferson's part, all of this beloved Westward Expansion. He'd grown a good three inches from that, at the very least.

"Guess I'm just lucky that way."

For a long moment, he still couldn't believe he was talking to Wyatt Earp. Most of the "important" or "famous" Americans Alfred got to speak to in person were in his higher, presidential government. Never had he met one of his everyday heroes like this, not face-to-face. Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Lincoln – God, but it still stung to think about Lincoln – they were important. Stoic. Necessary.

The Earp brothers were just as much so, and it showed as Wyatt cocked a smile at him. "C'mon, kid," he said, motioning to his horse. "Let's get you out of the sun before you have a stroke. I have to meet my brothers anyway."

Grinning, Alfred followed him, feeling that maybe this little boomtown had a lot more to offer than silver after all.