Chapter Three: Welcome Back to the Hellmouth. Enjoy Your Stay...
"The hot bath is an art form, and one I wish I had the time to practice assiduously." ― Walter Slovotsky
July 19, 1898 – Morning:
True to prediction, amazingly enough, it was early morning after the second day after they'd arrived and they were sitting their horses on a hillside overlooking the Little Town on the Mouth of Hell.
Well, he and Cordy and Kevin Smith and Glenn Scott. The rest of the train was about a half a day's travel behind them. They'd ridden ahead, leaving the other scouts and outriders to guide them the rest of the way in. Should be safe enough...
In two days of riding, they'd – also amazingly enough – not been attacked by anything, even at night. Probably too large and too heavily armed a group for vampires or anything other than a large pack of demons to attack. Probably. Several times, at just dawn and near dusk, he'd seen shadowy movement off along ridge-lines or hillsides above and away from them.
Too furtive and moving too... oddly to be wild game, like California Mule Deer or Cougar. Or Coyotes.
All occasions, he'd drawn the big, long Winchester High-wall, and watched through the aperture of the peep tang sight until the movement was no longer visible. And then for a bit longer... before letting out a deep, ragged breath and lowering the heavy rifle.
He wasn't sure that a heavy three hundred plus grain lead slug would actually hurt some of the stuff around Sunnydale, but it sure couldn't improve it any.
No attacks on people, anyway, which was what really mattered. On the next day after his and Cordy's arrival, about an hour before full sundown, something all too hairy, lean, and fast moving with way too many teeth had burst out of a chaparral choked arroyo and attacked some of the cattle herd. A heavy, lead two hundred and seventy grain flat point from the 1886 had stopped it, and a second one sent it rolling – to be dropped, kicking, snarling, squalling and choking its life out in the brush by a third.
Neither he nor Glenn had been able to identify it.
It could have been a mutated cougar, maybe, but...
That was when he'd discovered for certain that none of their horses were the least bit gun-shy. The pack mare was the only one that even flinched and kicked up a fuss at gunfire, the next day when someone else had spotted something and taken a pop at it. Good thing, he had the feeling.
Anyway... Not nearly as much town down there as there was in their day and time. And place. For all of Cordelia and Buffy's biting commentary about 'One Starbucks towns', a town of thirty-eight thousand people wasn't that small. Modern day Sunnydale actually had several bars, not just the Bronze and Fish Tank, a UCS campus, two smaller colleges -slash- private academies, more than one high school and junior high and elementary, a zoo, mall, Cineplex, and museum, and an "International" (read: regional) airport, as well as a bus and Amtrak station.
Down below was along Main Street – what would probably be Wilkins Boulevard in their time and place. With several short side streets intersecting, and a collection of, well, Western buildings with western style false front facades. And a number of Mission style and Spanish colonial buildings here and there, including a church.
Not Mission Revival, or Spanish Colonial-Hacienda California faux Spanish. The real stuff: adobe and stucco and tile roofs that had a bizarrely... authentic look.
There was an adobe and stone walled mission about where Sunnydale High should be, he judged, covering the area of the modern school grounds. And another mission style, but smaller, building and compound at the far end of Main, with a cluster of shacks past it. A tall brick and stone building that just had to be the Arms. A brick church with a tall steeple past and off to the side of that, also. Off in the distance, what looked to be a wooden palisade Western fort about where Fort Halleck should be. A sprawl of two cemeteries...
'Naturally,' Still Small said. 'Tis Sunnydale, after all.'
Long building at the crossways street at this end of Main, what would probably become the old Sunnydale train station before it was torn down to make way for the new Amtrak depot. Had to be, judging from the double line of rail starting to extend a couple miles thisaway from that end. With a stock yard, pens, barns, and corrals near the still under construction depot.
There the medieval looking height of the water tower -slash- standpipe at Gunnery Hill, over where the wealthy neighborhoods, including Cordy's, and Angel's old Crawford Mansion, would be one day. Sunlight gleamed on the slate of the distinctive pyramid roof. And the old Standhouse water tower up on its hilltop at what would one day be The Heights, back and north of town.
There was the base and first few stories of a new all brick water tower and standpipe growing from a rise down near the fishing village of the waterfront district, out where Old Carpinteria would soon be. Hmm... uh, the seventeen story reach of what would one day be the Altamira Water Tower; tallest structure in Sunnydale for a long, long time. Damn. He hadn't known that was being built around now...
There was the dirt oval of a race track, with stands, out just past the tent city towards them, up from the growing sprawl of the Great Northern Pacific train station. Around three eighths of a mile, maybe. Quarter horse track. Heh. In Camptown, natch. Camptown ladies sing this song, doo dah.
Cordelia glanced over at him at the snicker he let out. He shook his head, not sharing the lame joke, and she scowled.
Docks, with what looked like fishing boats and small to medium fishing village down where the beach and waterfront was. A few – very few store type and bar type shacks and buildings down there. Probably what would later become Old Carpinteria... Beyond the town proper, and around it, houses, and then shacks. And then an awful lot of tent city sprawling out north and east past Main, and north and west toward Fort Halleck.
Ok. And, down there on the flats between Sunnydale and Old Carpinteria, a longer, mile long or so, track. The thoroughbred and trotter track where the Carpinteria Polo fields would be later, and Sunnydale Riding Stables where he and Jesse used to work in the summers.
Booming town. Growing like a sprawl of kudzu in the Southern California sun.
Maybe four to five thousand people, he estimated, judiciously. A lot for this time, he figured. Hell – Santa Barbara probably wasn't more than twenty thousand right now, if that.
Beyond town, to the north and coming down from the foothills of the Santa Ynez, along what would later be Sundowner, was a cloud of dust that through the binoculars, proved to be a stagecoach with an eight to nine horse team, heading in. Maybe a half hour to an hour or so off yet. Maybe.
Xander wasn't sure what the nineteenth worked out to, day wise, in 1898, but it probably wasn't a Sunday. No church or Mission bells tolling people in to Mass. Maybe a Saturday... there was an awful lot of crowd going on down there, and what looked to be an outdoor party or festival.
He hoped it wasn't a lynching. That'd be just too much fun. Not.
He made a chk-chk! sound and nudged the big Appaloosa into a sidestep, away from a lazy desert rattler that flicked its tongue at them contemptuously, and s-curved on its way without even bothering to rattle.
Kevin glanced over at him approvingly, and nodded. "And once again I say: nice piece of horseflesh. All of them," he said. "Well trained, too."
"Thanks," Cordelia said, grinning. Love me, love my horses... he missed her dog. Their dog. The big Afghan hound would be fun out here, in this.
He'd been a bit concerned once he found out that Glenn worked for Chase that he might recognize the brands. And then he remembered vaguely that brands evolved and changed over time, and the current Chase brand probably wouldn't even resemble the Rocking-C of their time. Besides, when he'd checked, he'd found that all of Glenn's horses wore a Star-C, for some reason... so it probably had changed.
"Not completely cow pony trained, but they'll pick that up soon enough, as needed," Xander said. "That big black Saddlebred of yours is pretty nice, too." He eyed the dust cloud again, and jerked his head to Glenn. "Any idea on that?"
Glenn shaded his eyes, squinting and declining the offer of the binoculars. "Stage out of Bakersfield and all, through Casitas Pass. Probably, oh... quarter to a half hour out yet."
"You're probably a better judge than I," Xander said. "Shall we?"
"Let's do."
God. He needed a bath. And a shave. So did Cordy... not that he'd say that to or around her.
Heh. You think women don't explode, just drop one real hard...
They nudged the horses into a walk, and then a canter, and headed down to their doom.
Figuratively, he hoped.
"Welcome to" (Paradise Happydale Sunny Acres - with all of those crossed out, Xander noted) "Sunnydale. Population" (513 1024 2341 2765) "Approximately 4,234 + and Growing!" the sign proclaimed.
Another sign, a banner across Main, announced "Today Only! Bi-Annual Shooting Contest EX-Travaganza! All WELCOME!" Another below that promised: "Pistol, Rifle, Shotgun, and Long Range!"
"Huh." Cordelia caught his eye, and motioned him back slightly with a jerk of her head. He fell in beside her as she slowed her big brown Moriesian a bit. Laertes, that was it. After the Shakespeare character...
"So... can you shoot like you can draw?" Cordelia asked, arching an eyebrow at him.
"Hmm." Xander shrugged, reaching back to see if the little scriptwriter had provided anything. Huh. He had... "Well, I'm fast. You saw that. Bill Jordan fast, probably."
"Whatever that means," Cordelia said, frowning.
"Famous lawman," Xander said, grinning at her. "Don't worry about it. On the rest... gonna have to go with: yeah. Probably. Won't know til it comes up in practice, really."
"So... " she arched her eyebrows again.
Shrug. "Decent rifle, better than pretty good handgun, and real good long range rifle."
"Uh huh." Cordelia nodded, and nudged Laertes back into a trot to catch up. He did the same, shaking his head and grinning.
They headed to the livery stables at the edge of town, just past Tent City, to stable and get their horses cared for. Glenn and Kev said they were headed in for a drink somewhere, after. They pulled up out front to the sound of a hammer ringing on anvil somewhere to the back.
A grinning, very dark boy of about eleven or so came up to take their reins. He grinned even wider when he was flipped several quarters by Glenn, Kevin, and Xander, juggling them all expertly out of the air before they could hit the ground. A smiling, very pretty, coffee colored girl of about their age – his and Cordy's apparent age, anyway, say mid twenties or so – came up to take their money.
"Any idea how long for?" she asked.
"Not a clue," Xander said. "Clueless, am I."
"Just the day for us, ma'am. Maybe two," Glenn said. "We're heading out after the rest of the train gets rested, fed, and ready."
"All righty," she said, naming a price that seemed ridiculously low to Xander. Probably to Cordelia, too, for she blinked, looking stunned. "And I'll put your five in for a week. You get the difference back if you leave earlier, how's that?"
"Oh... fine," Cordelia said. "Sounds great."
"Gunn's?" Xander said, jerking his head up in the direction of the sign.
"My man's name. Gunn, as in William Gunn. William, not Bill or Will," she said. She grinned, "Me, I'm Isabelle."
"Xander Harris," Xander said, touching his hat brim. "And this is Cordelia."
"Pleased."
The boy brought back their rifle scabbards and saddlebags, looking way too overburdened by the mass. Xander took them off his hands with a grin, resisting a bizarre urge to ruffle his hair. He'd always hated that as a kid.
"Well," Glenn said. "We're off for that drink. And a bath, most likely."
"Oh, dear gods... a bath." Cordelia looked like she was going to pass out at the thought.
Kevin grinned at her. He and Glenn put out their hands to shake. "Good riding with you. You decide to work for something other than family, head up and see Glenn. Or me, in Santa Barbara."
"Hell yeah, any time," Glenn said. "Later."
"Laters," Xander said. He and Cordelia watched them head off, bemused. "Good people," he said.
Cordelia nodded. "Yeah. Nice."
The sound of the ringing hammer ended, and after a short while, a slight bit shorter than medium height, broad shouldered, reddish haired man came out from the side and back, stretching, blinking, and rolling his shoulders. Farrier. Or blacksmith. He was wearing a blacksmith's leather apron over a bare chest and blue jeans.
Impressive chest and shoulders. Damn. Guess that hammer would do that for you. Xander made a mental note to work out more..
Cordelia's jaw dropped. "Oz?"
The man looked at her curiously, and at Xander. "I know you?"
Damn. It was Oz. Voice and all.
"Maybe?" Xander said. "We grew up around here... awhile back. Cordelia," he indicated her, "And Xander Harris is me."
"Ah. Possibly." Oz nodded. "I know some Harrises."
Heh. Still a man not to use two words when one would do. Xander grinned. "Probably my uncle," he said.
"Probably." Oz nodded again. "Well, good to see you. Have to get back to work," he said. "Drop by. Visit. We'll talk." He stretched again, and turned and headed back the way he came.
"Damn." Cordelia blinked. "Oz?"
"Heh. So that's what Oz's natural hair color is. I never knew."
Cordelia swatted him. They headed out to the street, Xander carrying his two rifle scabbards, and both saddle bags slung over his shoulder, and Cordelia carrying her own rifle. Lots of people, lots of them wearing Sunday Best. Victorian maybe, or American equivalents, and some... Edwardian? Not sure. A few brand new ancient looking automobiles spooking horses and people. Even a couple of steam cars.
They made it down Main almost past the church, through the crowds, gazing around curiously, until...
"Well, fuck me running," a deep, rich voice said. A woman's voice scolded him. "Xander Harris, as I live and breathe." Xander turned to see a very familiar, albeit much younger face than expected face jumping down from a wagon seat and heading toward them. "And little Cordelia – only not so little, any more."
"Uncle Rory," Xander said, his face spreading out into a wide grin.
"Wasn't expecting you for another month, boy. At least."
Well, day-um. And damn, even.
Xander had always thought his Dad's oldest brother, Rory Harris, slightly resembled an older Powers Boothe the way his dad kinda resembled an older Fred Ward, if you squinted a bit. Here, it was more than just a slight resemblance, and not so much in the older.
This Uncle Rory was about forty-ish, and with salt and pepper rather than gray hair that still had a lot more pepper than salt. And a still black, neat handle bar mustache and goatee-slash-beard that was mostly black, still.
New blue shirt with faint pinstripes, jeans, and brown suede chaps over brown square toed Trooper style boots, like Xander's. A broad, flat brim Mexican style Stetson, also dark brown. And a broad cartridge belt with a pistol in a crossdraw holster that covered too much of the gun for Xander to identify it.
Much closer to what people actually carried guns in back in the Old West. But at that slant... with the grips uncovered, that rig would be fast.
'And as the info man says, I seem to recall that he is fast with it,' Still Small remarked. 'And accurate, which is better.'
Uh huh. Real fast often misses. Slower but accurate often kills. How often had the real Rory told him that when he was teaching him to shoot, way back when?
While his mind was processing all of that, his mouth was on autopilot, as usual. "Hey. Made better time than expected. Caught a steam sailer – the SS Great Eastern II – out of Auckland, bound for Honolulu to San Diego, instead of catching the Wave Witcher bound for the coast via Panama. We made up some days when a Clipper would have been calmed and stalled."
Rory nodded like Xander had had an actual clue what he'd just said. Xander hoped Info Dump Guy at least knew what he was talking about...
Cordelia nodded, giving Rory her best and most genuine thousand watt toothpaste smile. Well, her and Aura had always liked the real world Rory when they were little kids. Stands to reason she'd like movie Rory.
"And, damn," Cordelia said. "You look good."
"Well, thank you, young Miss," Rory said, sweeping off his hat in a low bow. "And you sure are a vision, yourself." He straightened, and threw a wide grin back at the wagon. Nice, big red four seat hitch wagon, with a matched four horse team of equally nice American Cream Draft pulling it.
"Hey, Bethany. It's our nephew and his young lady," Rory called out.
"I see that," Bethany Harris said. Wow. So that was his great great grandmother Beth...
Redefining GMILF since 1898...
Dark blonde hair with a wash of auburn and only a hint of gray, in an up-do, witch loose strands straggling down to frame her face. Very pretty, pleasant face, full lips. A dark green, um, Edwardian? maybe style dress, that was very sharp. Matching parasol thingy. Sunday go-to-meeting clothes. Hers and Rory's.
Damn. Well, Rory's taste in women was as good as his taste in horseflesh. Great Great Granddad done all right for himself. Still Small started whistling 'I'm my own grandpa' in the back of his mind. Stop that.
"Xander," Bethany said, giving him a wide smile. "And Cordelia – it's been awhile."
Cordelia nodded back, smiling. "It has."
Xander swept off his own hat. "Aunt Bethany. You look good."
All they needed was Mom and Dad, as played by Dana Delaney and Fred Ward, and they'd have the full set. Gotta catch 'em all.
"Well, hell, you two," Rory said. "Set those things in back, and hop on." He looked to the wagon. "Scoot over, Richard. Make room for your uncle and soon-to-be aunt there, boy."
Huh. Richard? Great uh, great uncle Richard? Too many greats? Grandpa Robert's older brother? Older hell – the dark haired kid looked to be about twelve, maybe.
"Well, mine, anyway," Cordelia was saying. "Xander's going to need his. He's entering the big Shoot-off."
"I am?" Xander blinked.
"You so are, Goof Boy."
"He is, now," Rory's grin got even wider.
"She's bossy," Xander said, his tone conspiratorial.
"Hell, son, they all are," Rory said. "You just now learning this?"
Huff. "I so am not!" Cordelia put her free hand on her hip, and glared at them, blowing loose hair out of her eyes.
"Hell, jump on anyway. We'll ride as far as Lee Fong's General, and then I'll walk with you up to the shooting grounds."
Rory pulled up the wagon in front of a classic looking Western General store with a sign up top front naming it "Lee Fong's General Emporium & Dry Goods – We have Everything!". Red paint, with white trim, and a real, three story barn like building, not a box warehouse style with a fake front facade. He didn't recognize the name from their Sunnydale, so Lee Fong must be long gone by then, or he'd never existed there.
Damn. He was gonna have to stop doing that. It could get them killed, maybe.
He'd better start taking this for real as long as they were here, and dealing with it on its own terms. 'Cause as fascinating as it was, he wanted to survive it to have unbelievable stories to tell Willow and Giles...
And if his worst fears were right and they were stuck? Then taking it for real might be the difference between making it or not...
Rory had kept up a running commentary, as had the kid when he could get a word in edgewise, both pointing out new stuff and things that had changed since he and Cordy had supposedly last been there.
"Whelp. All right," Rory set the brake, looped the reins around it, and jumped down, putting up his hands to help Cordelia step down from the second seat before going around to do the same for his wife. Xander was on his own, apparently. He grinned.
"Here we are," Rory said, taking a nice looking engraved Winchester '94 from the wagon rack. "Sorry about this, Beth, but you know how it is – guests take priority. Ricky – you help your mom with her shopping while I show your uncle and future aunt around and get 'em to the Shoot Off."
"Don't worry, Rory," Bethany said. "We'll be fine. Cordelia – it was good to see you again. You, too, Xander."
"Likewise," Cordelia said. "We'll see you again – Xander says we're staying out there?"
"Well, I should say I hope so!" Bethany agreed, smiling.
"Dad! But I want to see the shooting," Richard squalled.
"Ah! You help your mother with her shopping, now, hear?" Rory said. "You get done and everything's loaded, then you can come hunt us up for watching the rest of the shoot – not before."
Ricky looked rebellious, and Rory turned slightly to wink at Xander and Cordy from the eye the kid couldn't see. "Move it. Don't make me bust your butt, boy."
Heh. Rory, if he was anything like Xander's Rory, would cut his own arm off before hitting a kid. Ever. Did the trick though, and squashed the rebellion. Mostly. Bethany gave them a last smile and swept in, a sullen Ricky falling in behind.
"Good boy," Rory said, looking a bit sheepish, "But he can have a mouth on 'im. And stubborn? Whoo-ee."
"Yeah. Never a problem for your old man with you," Xander said, dead pan. "Or mine."
Rory grinned. "No one likes a smart ass, boy. Don't make me bust your ass neither." Cordelia laughed, and he winked at her. "But Xan may be right, at that. Hear tell I was a handful."
"No!" Cordelia said, in a tone of mock surprise, "Tell me it's not true."
"Sad to say," Rory said, laughing. "C'mon." Xander shouldered his rifle scabbard, having slung the long one by the carry strap, and followed along with Cordelia at his side.
The stage was just now pulling into the depot by the hotel, as they reached the saloon across the street. Xander stopped, saying, "Hold up a minute. Want to see who gets off."
"Paranoid, boy? Or just curious?" Rory asked.
"Heh. Both?" Xander gave him a lopsided grin.
"Well, can't really blame you, I reckon," Rory said, nodding.
There was a small crowd gathering as they watched. Apparently, in an era with no television, arrival of a stage coach – even from somewhere relatively close, like Ojai or Bakersfield – was an event. Xander saw someone who caught his eye, and nudged Cordelia with an elbow. She jumped slightly, swatted him, then followed his gaze and gaped.
Rory must have as well. Tilting his head toward the waiting people, he said, "Marshall Dude himself come to meet it."
Ok, so... "Dude" didn't quite look like Dean Martin's identical twin, but near enough that you wouldn't want to live on the difference, as he'd heard Rory put it once. Silver Marshall's star, faded once dark-blue denim shirt, black vest and hat, fading gray corduroy jeans, and old, well broken in black boots. Harness boots, not cockroach killers.
And a low worn Colt in a worn looking right hand holster on an equally well used black cartridge belt. Not quite a Hollywood rig, but still a tie down style that looked fast, with the belt angling to put the grip right at the sweet spot between the wrist and elbow.
He had a twelve gauge coach gun in the other hand, casually resting over the left shoulder, and the blue eyes looked wary and watchful. Cordelia nudged him this time, and Xander followed her gaze:
And across the street, same side, just coming out of the hotel front doors to watch the arrivals...
Mayor Smiling Dick hisself, Richard Wilkins the First. Flanked by... Jack freaking O'Toole and Kyle DuFours. Both wearing low slung, raked forward speed rigs with well worn pistol grips jutting from holsters. Son of a bitch.
'Well, damn,' Still Small said. 'Those two idiots were dangerous enough without guns.'
Kyle, not so much, the part of Xander that was still hyena said. But O'Toole didn't need a gun to be a deadly psychopath. And working for Mayor Dick. So not of the good.
The stage had a couple of horses tied by lead ropes to the back, trailing behind it as it stopped. One, a nice looking bay saddle blanket Appaloosa, slightly smaller than Xander's black, but still a substantial looking quarter horse style Nez Perce. The other a really sweet looking roan Tennessee Walker. Xander would have to thank his three plus summers of working the Sunnydale riding stables for his eye for horses one day.
"Well, hell. There's a sight I haven't seen in years," Rory said. "Not since I was your age and still riding the Badlands, Xan."
"Holy crap!" Cordelia grabbed Xander's bicep with both hands, likely to cut off circulation. He couldn't blame her. "It really is John Wayne," she said.
"Well, John Chance, anyway," Rory said, giving her a glance. "But then, a man like that's probably worn a few names not his own over the years... "
Big man. Real big. You didn't get the real impact on screen. A lined, weather beaten face that redefined craggy and lumpy. Fading red denim work shirt, and old red & white bandana. Well worn tan colored canvas jeans. Battered off white big Stetson. What modern makers called "The Duke Rig" worn low around the hips, with the classic 'yellow handle" Colt SAA stuck in the holster and worn slightly to the back. And a much nicer than film looking version of that big, oval looped lever action Model '92. No, a '94, and a bit fancier than the movie gun...
Holy Mother of Mithras. Man's biceps were as big around as Xander's freaking waist.
The guy getting out behind him looked tiny compared to Chance, but he was probably a few inches taller than Xander's five eleven and a half. Slender, not huge.
Wearing black jeans, a faded and dirty white shirt, black denim vest, a long mustard colored drover's coat, and a not Hollywood belt with a worn looking ivory gripped Remington Single Action Army in a Rio Grande style pouch holster. Seven and a half inch barrel, not a short gun. A dark gripped backup in an old style shoulder holster showed both to probably be Remington Model 1875s. And carrying a long barreled Winchester model '73.
And, redefining the phrase 'deadly good looks'. Dark complected, blue eyes, and...
'Well, fuck me,' Still Small said. 'If we was gay, I'd fuck him. Best keep Cordy on a leash. Better yet, hogtied.'
Heh. She'd kill us both. No matter how hot the idea of a tied up, naked Cordy might be.
"And Dewell McKay, damn. Beginning to feel like the South Dakota Badlands 'round here," Rory said. "C'mon. I'll introduce y'all to some old friends of mine."
Well, fuck. He hadn't even begun to introduce Cordy to the Desperado movies yet.