Time for a Change
By Les Bonser
This is a work of non-commercial fan fiction. The characters used in this story remain the trademarked property of their respective owners. No trademark infringement is intended and no profits are made by the author for writing or distribution of this work.
No permission is given to anyone other than the author to archive this on any website. No permission is given to anyone other than the author to repost this on any newsgroup.
Chapter 9
James Bond woke up. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he'd been unconscious.
He sat up. His head felt worse than a headache; it was like someone had opened his skull, taken his brain out, smashed it against a rock, and put it back in his head.
He took a couple deep breathes and his head began to clear. He looked around. He was sitting in a wide open field, scrub brush and tall wild grasses. The sun was beating down on him. It was a hot day. He stood and tested his legs. Bond felt a little wobbly, but otherwise fine.
Bond brushed off his clothes and did a quick assessment. He put his hand into his jacket. The electronic organizer and his cellular phone were still in the right pocket. His wallet and passport were in the left pocket. Under his arm, he felt the PPK. He pulled it out and checked it. It was exactly as it had been when he'd holstered it. There was a full magazine and one in the chamber--8 shots. He reholstered the weapon and felt beneath the holster. The three spare magazines where there--21 rounds of armor piercing .32 caliber ammo.
He mentally ran through the inventory of his other equipment. Sown into the inside of his leather belt, there were a number of gold coins and small gold bars: emergency money for those odd times when an agent might get caught behind unfriendly borders. Gold was just the sort of thing for bribing security guards and double-agents. Unlike currency, it could be spent anywhere. And unlike electronic funds, it was practically untraceable.
He had a survival knife built into the belt's buckle, as well as one in the sole of his right shoe. The heels of both shoes could be removed. There was a small quantity of plastic explosive in the right one and a small timer and detonator in the left heel. The lining of his silk tie was made of a gauzy material that could be used as a fire starter or a bandage. The tie itself could be used as a tourniquet or garrote.
The Rolex on his left wrist had a SIS beacon built into it. In an pinch, Bond had used the watch itself as a set of "brass knuckles."
All in all, he felt fully equipped to handle almost any emergency.
Next order of business was to figure out where he was. The last thing Bond remembered was chasing the costumed cat burglar with the vigilante. The tourists, the big man and his girlfriend or wife, had somehow managed to nap the burglar. Bond was in the process of trying to arrest the burglar when his entire world had turned upside down...and he awoke to find himself here. Wherever that was.
He looked around. He couldn't make out any obvious landmarks. Just endless prairie. He remembered his survival training and his extensive travels. He thought this could be somewhere in the Midwest United States, or possibly the steppes of Russia, maybe even the campos of Brazil or the pampas of Argentina. Basically, he could be anywhere in the world.
Bond thought about the advice Major Boothroyd, the SIS Armourer from "Q" Branch, gave him: "Always have an escape plan."
"Hard to have an escape plan if you don't bloody know where you are," Bond muttered to himself.
How he got here was another question.
Bond remembered the electronic organizer Major Boothroyd had given him. It had a GPS receiver built into it. He quickly dug the device from his jacket pocket and turned it on. He went to the appointment calendar and found the specific date that triggered the GPS function. He traced the stylus on the screen, recreating the symbol the Major had shown him. He had to do it three times before it worked. "Bloody technology," he muttered.
The damn thing's broke, Bond thought. The satellite icon just flashed on and off. Bond couldn't remember exactly what that meant. He tried pressing the question mark icon. He scrolled through the built-in help text to determine that that flashing satellite icon meant that the device couldn't acquire the GPS signal.
How was that possible? Bond wondered. There were twenty four GPS satellites orbiting the earth. At least 12 of them were over any given hemisphere at once. The device only needed to get a signal from three of them to determine his position. The organizer was acting like it couldn't find *any* of the satellites.
He touched the stylus to the Options menu. He scanned through the available commands. Maybe it's just not configured right, Bond thought. Like that time with the word processor when it wouldn't spell check properly. The software had been configured for American English by default, not the proper Queen's English he'd wanted.
One of the options was Signal Source. He noticed that there was two options: GPS or Glonass. Ah, Bond thought, so good of Q to give me options. GPS, or Global Positioning System was the satellite navigation system developed by the Americans. Glonass, or GLObal NAvigation Satellite System, was the system developed by the Soviets before the fall of the Iron Curtain. The system was currently maintained, sort of, by the Russian Federation Ministry of Defense. The Glonass system was less reliable, but when it worked, it actually sometimes gave more accurate readings. Bond toggled the option to Glonass.
Still nothing. The bloody device wasn't reading either systems' signals.
In frustration, Bond put the device away. He scanned the horizon again. This time, he thought he could see a dust cloud. The sun was high in the sky, roughly noon local time, so Bond could tell from his shadow which direction was which. His shadow, small as it was, would be pointing to the north. That, of course, was assuming that he was in the northern hemisphere. He looked around again. He was willing, for the moment at least, to make that assumption.
That meant the dust cloud was to the north. Maybe it's a vehicle on a road, he thought.
He started walking toward the dust cloud.
It took Bond several hours to reach a simple dirt road. By the time he reached it, whatever had caused the dust cloud had passed. Bond could see tracks in the dust, but couldn't tell what sort of vehicle made the tracks. The wind was blowing slightly and the fine dust of the road covered the details of the tracks.
The road had to lead somewhere. He started walking along the road. Bond periodically stopped and watched carefully from both directions. Soon, another dust cloud appeared. He stood and watched the cloud for several minutes. It appeared to be coming toward him.
Not knowing what exactly to expect, he remained cautious.
As the dust cloud got closer, it resolved into a horse-drawn stage coach. Bond had seen such things in the motion pictures, but didn't realize anyone in the world still used them. He wondered if he'd somehow been drugged and dropped off in Pennsylvania Dutch country. For what reason, he still couldn't fathom. But he knew the Amish still used horse-drawn wagons and shunned any modern conveniences.
Or maybe he was on a private ranch. Some megalomaniac had an Old American West fetish. A bit far-fetched, he thought, but certainly not outside the realm of possibility. Particularly considering some of the people he'd dealt with in the past.
As the stagecoach got near him, it began to slow. The driver obviously thought he needed help. Bond shielded his eyes and nose with his hands as the large wooden-framed coach and the four horses finally came to a halt amidst a cloud of thick dust.
"You lose your horse, mister?" the coach driver looked like he hadn't bathed in months. The driver was an old man, Bond took him to be at least sixty or maybe even seventy. Or, maybe he was only fifty, but had a hard life. The driver spit a wad of tobacco on the dusty ground beside the coach. Bond stepped back to avoid it.
Bond had spent the majority of his adult life pretending to be something he wasn't. To gain entry into various countries, he'd had a litany of false identities and cover stories to mask who and what he really was. He'd learned long ago that the best lie to tell someone was the one they came up with themselves. If this guy assumed Bond had a horse and had lost it--thus ending up stranded out here--then that was the lie that would work best. "Yes," Bond replied. He was a practiced liar.
A woman stuck her head from the coach. She was an attractive older woman, with red hair. "Driver, why are we stopped?" the woman asked.
The driver leaned over and yelled down to his passenger, "This here fella done lost his horse. The stage line's got strict rules, Miss Russell. I gotta stop and see if he needs a ride."
"Well, mister," the woman directed herself to Bond. "You need a ride or not?"
"Yes, quite," Bond told her.
"Well, then get yourself in here so we can get going. I've got to get back to Dodge before dark."
Bond stepped forward and began to climb into the coach. "How far is 'Dodge'?"
The driver spit again and then said, "Only being about another couple hours or so. Cost you six bits to ride that far."
"Six bits?" Bond questioned.
"You're a limey, ain't ya. I could tell by your accent and fancy clothes."
Bond nodded.
"Well, six bits is 75 cents, American. Iffin' you ain't got American money, you can settle up with the stage office in Dodge City. I'll be telling Marshall Dillon to make suren' you pay up."
"Thank you, kind sir," Bond replied. If these people were play acting, he thought, they certainly were getting into the parts. He finished mounting the coach and slide into the passenger compartment. The coach jumped forward almost before Bond had a chance to seat himself. He could hear the driver overhead, cracking the reins and yelling to encourage the horses.
Inside the coach were two women. The redhead how'd stuck her head out and a younger woman. Both were dressed in long petticoats and full dresses over the petticoats. Bond's first impression was that they must be so very uncomfortable in that many clothes.
"I'm Kitty Russell," the redhead said. "And you are?"
"Bond, James Bond."
"Pleased to meetcha' Mr. Bond. This is Sylvia, one of my girls."
Bond smiled at the two women and nodded. "Your 'girls'?" Bond asked.
"I own the Long Branch saloon in Dodge City, Mr. Bond. Sylvia works for me," Kitty said.
"Are you really a foreigner?" Sylvia asked. Her voice was low and she tried to hide her face by ducking it slightly to one side. Bond couldn't tell whether she was genuinely shy or just trying to be coy. He bet she was just acting. He'd seen this type of woman too many times before.
"Yes," Bond admitted, "I'm from Great Britain."
"Great Britain?" Sylvia asked, "Where's that?"
"That's another name for England, dear," Kitty told her. "Isn't it, Mr. Bond?"
"Yes, it is, Mrs. Russell," Bond replied.
"Miss Russell," Kitty corrected.
"*Miss* Russell," Bond agreed.
About twenty minutes later, the three passengers were jolted when the stage made a quick stop. "What now?" Kitty exclaimed. "I'm never gonna get to Dodge!"
Sylvia choked on the dust that entered the open windows of the stage. Bond shielded his nose with his hand. He leaned out the window to see if he could see what was happening through the dust cloud. As the dust began to settle he saw three horsemen blocking the road.
He heard the driver yelling, "I ain't got no strong box. Ain't hauling nothing but passengers." A old-fashioned stagecoach robbery? he thought. The hairs on Bond's neck rose; however improbable, this was happening for real.
Bond motioned for the woman to remain seated and reached into his jacket and slide out the PPK. He flicked off the safety and readied to leave the coach.
Miss Kitty whispered to him, "If you're going try fighting them, you're going need more than that little pepperbox. Sit down and don't do anything that will get us killed."
Bond ignored the woman. She was simply scared. He hoped she didn't do anything stupid and had the sense to just sit quiet.
Now the dust was settled and Bond could see the three men on horses. Two of them were in front of the coach, blocking the roadway. Another was off to one side; thankfully, the side the door was on.
"Driver," he yelled. "What's going on?"
One of the horsemen answered, "You, in the stage, this is a holdup. Come out of there."
"Since they asked so nice," Bond said, and opened the door of the stage. He kept the PPK in his hand, but the small gun was easily hidden by his large hand. He jumped down and then put his free hand up to assist the two ladies. They reluctantly began to climb down. Climbing out of the stage was not an easy task considering the dresses they wore.
After several minutes, the three were all out of the stage. Bond closed the stage door and escorted the ladies a few steps away from the coach.
The three horsemen were dressed in dirty shirts. They looked about as clean as the stage driver. They had bandanas tied around their necks and pulled up to cover the lower half of their faces. All held revolvers pointed at the driver. Colt .44 caliber single actions, by the look of the weapons, Bond thought. They might consider the Englishman a dandy because he was wearing a relatively clean suit, but they failed to reckon with what his true vocation was.
"I'm only goin' ask you one more time," the first bandit said to the driver, "Throw down the strongbox or you're dead." The horseman had a dark grey hat, no doubt originally white, but soiled from long years on the trail.
"I'm tellin' ya, I ain't got no strongbox," the old man
"And I'm tellin' you, that's the wrong answer," the lead bandit replied. He raised the gun a tad and shot the driver.
The women both screamed. Bond used their scream and the confusion as his cover. He turned and carefully picked off the third horseman, the one closest to the woman and himself. The .32 caliber armor-piercing bullet from the PPK hit the man right between the eyes. He was dead before he realized Bond had shot. The bandit slumped in his saddle.
Almost without thinking, Bond spun and in quick succession put a bullet into the other two horseman. The lead bandit was hit in the neck and the remaining bandit was likewise hit in the head. Both fell from their mounts. The lead bandit was still alive and he tried to stand. Bond moved quickly around the women and in front of the couch. The lead bandit was half crouched over in pain, but he was lifting his six-gun to shoot Bond when Bond put another bullet into him. This time, the shot hit true and the bandit fell face forward. The second shot hit him square in the forehead. The force of the impact knocked his hat off and as he fell forward, the gapping exit wound in the back of his skull was readily apparent. Bond quietly picked up the bandit's hat and covered the dead man's head with it to spare the women the sight.
The horse from the first bandit Bond killed spooked from the smell of fresh blood. The horse reared slightly, and its dead rider slide almost silently out of the saddle.
Bond then climbed onto the stage and looked at the driver. The old man had taken a slug in the shoulder. He was slumped against the seat, but still alive. Bond turned to tell Miss Russell he needed something to dress the old man's wounds, but she was already climbing onto the stage.
"He's still alive, isn't he?" she asked.
"Yes," Bond said. "Hit in the shoulder. But I think he'll live."
Bond moved aside as Kitty Russell pushed herself into the drivers seat. "You know how to drive one of these?" she asked.
"Uh, no," Bond said. He knew he probably could handle the coach if he had to, but he'd never done it before.
"Then get outta my way," the redhead said. "We've got to get to Dodge. Doc Adams can patch this guy up." She tore part of her petticoat off and packed the old man's wound with the cloth.
When she finished with the old man, she turned and looked down. "Sylvia, you get back in the stage," she said. "Now!" she added when the younger woman hesitated.
Kitty Russell looked Bond square in the eyes. "I've only know one other man that could shoot like that. And he's the Federal marshall in Dodge City," she warned.
Bond returned her look, but didn't say anything. He had the sudden feeling that this was all real. Somehow he really was back in the old American west and he'd just been forced to kill three men. He locked the safety on the PPK and holstered the weapon. He then broke eye contact with Miss Russell and climbed into the stage after Sylvia.
A moment later, the stage began to move forward. To her credit, Kitty Russell handled the stage better than the driver.
That's one hell of a woman, Bond thought.
The stage pulled into Dodge City, Kansas scarcely two hours later. Instead of stopping the stage coach in front of the livery, Kitty stopped it in front of the Marshall's office. Bond knew it was the Marshall's office because the sign on the front of the building said so: "US Marshall's Office" and in smaller print underneath: "Dodge City, Kansas."
Bond prepared to disembark from the stage when he saw two men come out of the office. One was tall, at least 6 foot 4; the other much shorter. The tall man was clean shaven and dressed in relatively clean clothes, over his clothes he wore a leather vest to which was pinned a US Marshall's star. The shorter man could have been the driver's younger brother. Dirty clothes, four or five days growth of beard and a squirrelly squint to his eyes. But he wore a star too, no doubt the marshall's deputy.
"Kitty," the Marshall said, "What in tarnation happened?"
"We were bushwacked, Matt," Kitty told the marshall.
The tall marshall stepped up to assist the woman down. The shorter man opened the stage door and began helping Sylvia out.
"How's the driver?" Marshall Matt Dillon asked Kitty.
"He's alive."
"Festus, go get Doc Adams," Dillon ordered the shorter man.
Deputy Festus Hagan doffed his dusty hat to Sylvia. "We'll do, Matthew. Right away," Festus said, and then headed off down the street at a hurry.
Marshall Dillon climbed into the driver's seat of the stage. "Newly!" he yelled, and another man came out of the office. This one was younger than Festus and a lot cleaner, Bond noted.
Bond stepped down from the stage and closed the door behind him. The marshall and his other deputy carefully lowered the driver to the ground. The marshall then jumped down from the stage and turned to Kitty. Newly O'Brien, Dillon's other deputy sheriff, checked the driver's wounds as he eased the man to the boardwalk outside the Marshall's office.
"What happened, Kitty?"
"We were bushwacked," Kitty explained. "Three horsemen. I think it was the Vega gang. They looked Mexican to me," she said.
"The Vega's are getting bold, Marshall," Newly said.
"Well, they won't be getting any bolder," Kitty said. "They're dead."
Marshall Dillon merely nodded. Death was a day to day occurrence on frontier, especially for outlaws. "Any of you hurt?" he asked, looked over Bond and Sylvia.
"No," Kitty said. "We might have been killed if it wasn't for Mr. Bond here."
Bond stepped forward at the mention of his name. "You're Bond?" the Marshall asked.
"Yes."
Dillon eyed the dandy. He isn't even wearing a gun belt, Dillon thought. Dillon looked at Kitty. He could tell from the look in her eye that there was more to this than anyone was letting on. He was about to suggest that they move inside when he heard Festus.
"Move it, move it," the deputy was saying to the small crowd that had gathered. "Let Doc through. Go on, git." He waved his hands to move the crowd away. An elderly man was following Festus.
Bond immediately took the man to be a doctor. First off, he was carrying an old fashioned black bag. Secondly, he had a look of grave concern on his face as he rushed through the crowd and past Bond, Dillon, Kitty and Sylvia. Doc Adams knelt down beside Newly and began to look at the stage driver's wounds.
"Let's go in your office, Matt," Kitty said.
Dillon motioned for her to go ahead and did likewise to Bond. The three of them went into the Marshall's office and Dillon closed the door behind them. Bond noticed that the Marshall limped slightly.
The office was in a brick building; one of the few brick buildings Bond had seen in Dodge City. The majority of the buildings seemed to be wood constructions. The building that housed the Marshall's office was one large room. In the front was single desk, a cast-iron stove with a tin coffee pot on it, and a few rifles hung from a rack. Wanted posters hung on the wall behind the desk. To one side and behind the desk small room created by a partition. It contained a cot. This allowed the deputy on duty to sleep or rest if necessary. Opposite the desk, across on open space of about 10 feet or so, was a small table and a couple chairs. Right now, there was a chess board set up on the table. A set of red and black checkers were laid out on the board.
The rest of the building was filled with the jail proper. There were two large cast iron cages. Each was large enough for three men. Four if they were small or cramped. A cot sat inside each cage, as did a chamber pot. Currently, the both cages were empty.
Dillon moved to stand behind the desk. He tucked his thumbs into his gun belt and threw his shoulders back. Bond was impressed with the physical presence of the man.
Bond thought back to the incident at Sotheby's. He thought about the costumed vigilante, Batman, and the stranger on the street that actually caught the cat burglar. Bond was no small man himself, but he keep running into these American giants.
"So what all happened, Kitty?"
"As I said, I think it was the Vega gang. They stopped the stage about 30 miles back. They asked for the strong box, but the driver told them he didn't have one. And they shot him."
"What happened to the Vega's?" Dillon asked.
"Mr. Bond here is what happened to them," Kitty said. "He shoots as good as you do, Matt. Took the three of them down faster than I could follow. And with nothing more than a little pepperbox. He's either a lawman or a gunslinger."
"Which is it?" Dillon demanded.
Bond thought quickly. If this really was the later half of the nineteenth century, Queen Victoria was still on the thorn. "Actually, I'm an special agent in the Service of the Queen of England and all the dominions." He tried to make it sound a little more fancy than what it was, or would have been at this time. MI6 and its successor organization hadn't been formed until the Second World War. But the story was basically true. Bond hoped he conformed to their impression of what an English lawman should be.
Dillon nodded.
Bond was silently grateful that Dillon hadn't asked for any proof. He had his plastic laminated SIS identification in his wallet, but he didn't think they'd accept that when they saw the dates on it.
"If you're a lawman, where's your gunbelt, Mr. Bond?" he asked, still puzzled.
Dillon had a puzzled look on his face. Kitty suggested, "He's English, Matt. I read somewhere that the lawmen in England don't carry guns like they do here in Kansas."
Dillon nodded. "I've heard the same thing, Kitty. But you said he shot the Vega gang." Dillon looked hard at Bond, "You got a gun hidden up your sleeve or something?"
Bond opened his jacket and showed Dillon the shoulder harness and the butt of the PPK.
Dillon motioned with his hand for Bond to unholster the weapon and hand it to him. "Slowly," he said.
Bond held the jacket open with his left hand and slowly unholstered the PPK with his right. He held it purposely by two fingers on the grip as he handed it to the Marshall.
Dillon looked it over carefully. If Bond really was in the old American west, the Marshall would have never seen anything like the PPK. The autoloading pistol hadn't been invented yet. Most men still used revolvers with percussion caps and lead and dry powder, Bond knew. Only a few revolvers existed that even had self-contained cartridges. And definitely nothing like the Teflon-coated, armor-piercing rounds that Bond routinely carried in the PPK.
Bond was surprised when Dillon handed it back to him. Bond returned the PPK to its holster.
Dillon continued to stare at Bond, trying to absorb Kitty's story. "We've got a very strict 'no gun' policy here in Dodge City, Mr. Bond. But since you're a lawman, I'll let you keep that little gun of yours," Dillon said. "But if you start any trouble, I'll be after you. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," Bond said. Miss Russell had called the gun a 'pepperbox'; had they confused the slick little gun from the future for a multi-shot Derringer? Bond wondered. Whatever the marshall thought, it was obviously that the little gun wasn't as deadly as the large six-guns hanging from Marshall Dillon's hips.
"The Texas herds are coming soon. Dodge City will be overrun by drunken cowboys looking to spend their earnings. I don't have time to baby sit any foreign dandies," Dillon said.
"Exactly what brings you to Dodge City, Mr. Bond?" Kitty beat Dillon to the question.
Bond tried his suavest smile on the woman. "Actually, I wasn't headed to Dodge City," Bond said. That was, after all, the truth. "I seem to have gotten lost. This prairie all looks the same. But I lost my horse and seem to be stranded here for a while." He didn't elaborate on exactly how he lost the "horse."
Dillon nodded again.
Apparently lost horses are quite common here, Bond thought.
"You have money?" Dillon asked. "If so, you can buy a new horse at the livery. Newly's a blacksmith there, he'll help you pick out a good one.
Even in the old west, law enforcement officers were worried about indigents, Bond thought. He had a number of credit cards, both personal and company issued, as well about 400 pounds in assorted Bank of England notes and about 300 dollars in American money, likewise assorted notes. All twentieth century issue, however. He thought for a split second. The gold coins, he remembered. The emergency stash sown into his belt. He didn't remember if the coins had dates on them or not. They were Swiss issued gold bullion. Surely he could redeem them for local currency at the assay office or bank.
"I think I can make due," Bond said. "I do need to find a bank, however."
"I can show you where the bank is," Kitty said. "It's on the way to the Long Branch. And when you're done at the bank, you come by my saloon and I'm buying you a drink on the house for saving Sylvia and I out there."
"That's very nice of you," Bond said.
Dillon sat down and dug through the stack of wanted notices on his desk. "If you really did kill the Vega gang, there'll be a reward. Here it is, the stage company put up $200 for anyone that brought the gang to justice."
"How's he get the money, Matt?" Kitty asked. "I'll vouch for him."
"I'll send Festus out with the undertaker to find the bodies. As soon as they're back here in Dodge, I'll arrange it with the stage office."
A bounty, Bond thought. That solved his money problem. He could just collect the bounty in current issue bills or coins. In this time period, $200 was almost a fortune. He could live comfortably until he figured out a way to get home. If that was possible.