BEFORE:

Someone was playing a guitar.

Standing just outside the entrance of a foreign saloon, casting his gaze over the worn, wooden, batwing doors, Adam could not decipher the source of the sound. The interior of the room was dark, the corners too shadowy to make anything out. The bar, however, was strangely lit, encompassed in a muted halo that ran the distance between the ceiling and the floor. The shelving on the wall was empty; there were no glasses to be seen, but there was a barkeep standing faithfully at his post. The man did not look at Adam as he lingered outside, and he did not pay any attention to him as he finally entered and approached.

"Howdy." Adam nodded.

The man said nothing in return as a glass suddenly appeared in front of him on the bar top. He picked it up, pulled a worn rag off his shoulder, and began to wipe the watermarks off the glass. Still, he did not look at Adam. He did not utter so much as a word.

Adam did not know what to think about the man or the bar. He did not recognize this place; he had not been here before, and he did not know how he had come to be here now. It felt as though one minute he had been somewhere else entirely and now he was here. He had no recollection of what happened in-between, how he had ended up here or why. Still, he was not uneasy about this mysterious turn of events—although he suspected he should have been.

There was a coolness to this place, a tranquility too. The strumming of the guitar continued, increasing in volume as the tune changed to something painfully familiar, an easy melody that he instantly recognized. He had never played this song himself, the memory of the person who had was still a little too afflicting and biting to allow such a thing, but he thought of it sometimes. The aromatic tune filled his thoughts and circled his mind in the oddest of moments, making him think of the person who had once played it, how that man had lived, and how he had died.

The story of Ed Payson was a tragic one. Though he was a man who had made mistakes, when it came to his actions which resulted in the death of Will Cass's son, in the eyes of the law, he had done nothing wrong. He had only pulled his gun a little quicker than the boy he was up against. It was the townsfolk of Virginia City who had been intent on torturing him for the past. It was Will Cass who could not let go of what Ed had done to his son, and it was Billy Buckley who had to push and push when Cass's daughter, Sally, decided she was fonder of Ed than she was of him.

With the exception of Sally and Adam, no one had taken the time to talk to Ed or look at him. To hear the things they heard, or see the things they did. The town already had their opinion, and nothing was going to change it. Even Pa had called Ed a killer, and challenged the basis of his son's friendship with the man, accusing him of getting caught up in the middle of something he should have had the wherewithal to step away from.

The saddest part of the whole damn deal was that when Billy Buckley eventually killed Ed Payson nobody really cared. With all the things the townsfolk had once declared should have happened to Ed for taking the life of Will Cass's son in a dueling of guns, they did not echo those same declarations when Billy took Ed's life the same way. No, Billy was untouchable, because he was one of them, because he did what Will Cass and a handful of others wished they had found the courage to do. Pa did not say much about it after, but Adam remembered thinking his father looked relieved. With Ed gone there was nothing left to worry about, his son was no longer spending time with an assumed murder and therefore would not be caught in the middle of anything.

Adam looked around the darkened room, searching for the source of the music. There was no one to be seen. No man. No guitar. But the sound continued as a voice began to sing: when a man takes a gun in his hand, he becomes…*

Adam recognized the song, the lyric, the voice. It was Ed Payson. A chill ran up his spine as he looked back at a barkeep that refused to look at him.

...Whether wrong, whether right, he knows that he must fight… *

"Where am I?" Adam asked the barkeep, an eerie weighted coldness seeping into his chest. Ed Payson could not be singing anything. Ed Payson was dead.

The barkeep did not answer.

...And he draws like a man in a dream, face him down if you dare with a curse or a prayer… *

The barkeep placed the empty glass on the bar top, and Adam watched in horror as it seemed to fill itself, translucent brown liquid rising from the bottom to nearly the top rim.

The barkeep nodded at the glass. "Whisky," he said. "Your favorite. The good, expensive kind that your father sends back East for every year to give to you on your birthday. A special occasion calls for a special drink, don't you think?"

Adam stared at the whisky, his eyes widening as an overwhelming sense of wrongness began to take hold of him. "What…?" he stopped, his voice cracking with strain. Looking at the barkeep, he cleared his throat and began again. "What's the occasion?"

"For the drink?"

Adam nodded.

"Don't you remember?"

Adam shook his head. He did not. "Is this a dream?" he asked. Oh, God, he thought, please, let this be a dream. Let me wake up and find myself far away from this place.

"Do you think it's a dream?"

...When a man takes a gun in his hand…*

Adam did not answer. He cast his gaze upon the room, this time searching for a sign of Ed, or his guitar. Again, there was nothing to be found. The room was empty, but Ed's song continued.

...Whether wrong, whether right, soon will die, everyone by the gun…*

"I knew that man," Adam said. "The man who's playing this song."

"He knew you too," the barkeep said.

"Is that why I'm here, because of Ed?"

"No, you're here because of you."

"What is this place?"

"Don't you know?"

Shaking his head, Adam had his suspicions, not a single one of which he would dare voice. His current circumstances were not good—that much was clear. If this was not a dream then it was something worse. A place where Ed could still strum and sing, where glasses filled themselves. The barkeep had no way of knowing whisky was his favorite spirit. No reason to know the details about the yearly bottle Ben Cartwright gifted his oldest son. The room surrounding him was so dark and… cold. Had it always been cold, or was he just now realizing it was?

His jacket was heavy and wet. Glancing down, he found his shirt was soaked in blood and in his chest was a gaping wound. "No," he whispered. It just could not be. He didn't want it to be.

The music filling the air suddenly ceased, and an unnatural silence took its place.

"A wound like that is enough to kill a man." It was the man standing across the bar top that spoke, but he no longer sounded the same. His voice had become quiet and familiar. "Trust me, I know."

Brows furrowing, Adam looked up and found Ed Payson had taken the barkeep's place.

"Ed?"

Ed smiled. "Hey, old friend."

"What's going on?"

"I think you know. You don't want to, but I think you do."

Adam looked at the wound on his chest, gingerly inspecting the area with his fingertips. The actions had little effect on his body. He felt no pain as he poked and prodded, each finger pressing a little harder than the one before. He felt nothing, other than the cold of the room, and the weight of his stomach as it turned with dread.

When he pulled his hands back, they were covered in blood. "Am I dead?" he asked, looking at Ed once more.

"Not quite."

"Then why am I here?"

Crossing his arms, Ed placed them on the bar top, leaned over, and held Adam's gaze with his own. "You know, I've been thinking," he said affably.

"About what?"

"Oh, all sorts of things. You see that wound in your chest, I've got one just like it, but I don't need to tell you that, because you were there when it happened. You were there when Billy Buckley drew against me and I let him win. People around town, they liked to think that Billy was just the quicker gun, but you, Sally, and me and even Billy know the truth: it's easy to beat a man that won't fight against you. Sometimes the only way to really win is not to fight at all."

Ed smiled.

"You know, I think that my name was written on one of Billy Buckley's bullets the day I decided to return to Virginia City. I don't think anything or anyone could have stopped what happened. Not Billy. Not Sally, Will Cass, or even you. I think there are certain events in this life that set others into motion. Once the first thing takes place you can't stop the second, or the third. You can't control what comes next. We think we can, though, and that's why sometimes we try to hide some truths and try to change others. There are just some things that can't be fixed or changed. You're a lot like me, Adam; of course, you're a lot different too."

"Why are you saying this, Ed? Why am I here? Why are you here?"

"You were nice to me. Do you remember? I rode back into that town without a friend in the world. You didn't know me. You had no reason to stand by or help me, but you did. You stood in opposition of the whole town, your father included, if I remember right. You fought for me, and in the end, you buried me. You helped me; you were my friend when I really needed one, and so I'm here to return the favor."

"I thought I was dying," Adam said. "How can you help me if I'm dead?"

"Because you're not dead, not yet, at least, which is why I've come to you like this. There's only so many ways the dead can speak to the living, the easiest time is when they're caught in the strange in-between . Right now, your body is earthbound, but your mind can be taken elsewhere, that's why I brought you here."

"To help me," Adam repeated.

"Something like."

"With what?"

"The future, the past, and this time in-between. This mess you're in, it's only going to go one of two ways. That wound in your chest, it's not so different from the one that killed me. You're either going to pull through or you aren't. If you do live then there are some things you need to understand. There ain't no point in chasing after ghosts of the past, do you hear me? If there was something about Ohio you really needed to know then your pa would have told you. There's no purpose in going gunning for a man just because he shot you first. Sometimes you have to take survival as a win and move on with your life."

"You're telling me not to look for Will, even now that I know what he's done?"

"No, I'm begging you not to follow him down the road he's chosen. That man is pure trouble, you chase after him then you aren't going to end up anywhere good. There are different ways of hurting yourself, Adam. Sometimes the pain you feel is because somebody wronged you, and sometimes it's because you were the one that wronged them. Trust me, I know. You listen to me when I tell you the pain of the second one is worse. That's why I let Billy beat me. If surviving that gunfight meant having to live with another man's blood on my hands then I knew the only way to really win was to lose. You thought that I'd already won, because I had Sally and my property. The problem was, no matter what I was going to lose those things. You would have tried to hold me back forever, and Billy would have pushed me forever, and throughout it all the people in town would never have changed their opinion about me. There are just some things in life you can't change, friend. Even though you want to. You're gonna want to go after Will, when you really learn the truth of who he is and what he did."

"Weston told me he's a murderer," Adam said.

"That ain't the half of it," Ed said seriously.

"What's the rest?"

Ed shook his head. "Nope. You won't be hearing that from me."

"Then how will I find out?"

"Go back. Not backwards," Ed qualified. "Back. Back to San Francisco to your gal and your kids, and the future you have waiting for you. You're gonna be a fine father, Adam." He smiled. "In fact, you already are."

"You're talking about Peggy."

"I'm talking about everything, remember? The future, the past, and this time in-between. Will is the past, friend. The future is with your gals." Ed nodded at the glass. "Now, I want you to drink that, then I want you to walk out of this place, take a step outside, and open your eyes. I want you to wake up; I want you to live; and I want you to remember something when you do. My name was written on a bullet the moment I walked back into Virginia City. You ever find yourself thinking that maybe you oughta go back there, then you might find there'll be a bullet with your name on it too. When something bad happens, when somebody dies by someone else's hand, people must blame someone, and usually it's the man who's still standing in front of them. Truth doesn't matter when you find yourself caught up in a story. The people in that town didn't care what really happened between me and Will Cass's boy. They had their story, their truth about me, and now they have theirs about you too."

"Because of what Laura wrote in her diary," Adam said.

"And because of what your cousin did to her."

"The details of which you won't share."

"It's not my story to tell. I'm not the only one who knows it, though. You just have to find yourself in the right time and place so you can hear it. Go back to San Francisco," Ed urged seriously. "Trust me when I say you don't want to waste any more time than you already have. Leave the past behind you, take firm hold of the future you found. That's what you tried to tell me, remember? Just before Billy and I stared each other down. You said I had a good life, that I could keep it if I could just find the courage to walk away from the fight. But I just couldn't do it and that's why I died. Now, it's your time to walk away from the fight, Adam. It isn't going to feel right to do so, I know, but it'll be for the best, and it'll keep you safe and with the people you love."

Looking at the drink on the bar, Adam did not know what to say. When he looked up again, he found Ed had disappeared; the barkeep had not returned to take his place and the halo that had lit the bar was beginning to flicker and fade, like the dying embers of a campfire that would soon be snuffed out. He looked at the whisky again, the darkness of the room was expanding with each passing second; it wouldn't be long until it encased everything. There was not much time left to decide. To truly think about what he wanted or why. So, he decided not to think at all, rather to trust the judgement of someone else.

Drinking the whisky in a swift gulp, he abandoned the glass on the bar top, and walked toward the batwing doors. Pushing them back, he stepped out of the building and was enveloped in a blackness much darker than any he had ever known. Inhaling a deep breath, he held it, closed his eyes, and then opened them again. Nothing happened the first time he did it, or the second, or even the third. But by the fourth time, he felt the world around him begin to change. He realized he was no longer standing, rather lying down.

The ground felt hard beneath him, but he was no longer cold. No, his body felt a little too hot instead. Beads of sweat clung to his skin, dripping slovenly to be collected by the material of his clothes or drip off him completely. He was still wearing his pants, but his boots, coat, and shirt had been removed. A blanket had been laid beneath him and another had been pulled over to protect him from the cold. Through eyes clouded with fever he looked upon where he was. He could not move so much as his head without his chest screaming in protest, awaking sharp, spear-like, waves of agony, the intensity of which were powerful enough to bring tears to his eyes.

God, he was in bad shape. He had been shot before, and he had felt pain, but never like this. For a moment, he felt a rush of panic and then confusion as his surroundings began to become a little more clear. He was in the company of someone, because someone had undressed him. Someone had laid him down and covered him. And someone had built the crackling fire that lit his immediate surroundings, allowing him to look at the face of the person who was watching him now.

A freckled-face little boy with fiery red hair stood a few paces away, his blue eyes appraising him thoughtfully. He didn't look to be a day older than nine, or maybe he was just small for his age.

"Hi," the boy said.

Struggling to swallow, Adam's mouth and throat felt too dry to speak. It didn't matter, he thought. The fever ravaging his body and the pain radiating from his chest left him beyond words anyway.

"I knew you'd live," the boy said, his eyes gleaming with youthful enthusiasm. "My pa, he had his doubts, but I told him I was sure you'd pull through." He nodded solemnly, as though to reinforce his words. "A hero ain't never supposed to die. Right, Marshal? There ain't nobody in the world that can kill off a man like you."

Adam wanted to ask the boy who he was, and what he was talking about, but he couldn't find the will or the energy. It had taken everything he had to wake up, and now that he had his body was begging him to close his eyes, sleep, and return to a place where he knew no pain. His eyes became nomadic, almost absently darting lazily back and forth, allowing him to glean a fuller picture than the one he currently had. There was a campfire; its light allowed him to see the boy, and if he looked a little more to his left, he was able to see something else. There was a covered wagon sitting no more than a stone's throw away, the marquee painted on the side seeming to declare his current perceptions no more than another dream.

"Rainmaker," he tried to whisper, giving a title to the boy who had saved him before the pain became too much and he fell unconscious once more.

TBC

Note: Sentences marked with * are not mine. They are the lyrics to the first song Robert Culp (Ed Payson) sings in Broken Ballad. Also, thanks for the reviews. Y'all are GREAT! : )