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 19
Dodge City, Kansas
James Bond had been in Dodge City almost two months now. He'd pretty much given up any idea of returning to his rightful time and place. He was tired of racking his brain for a solution. For all he knew, time travel was impossible. Obviously, it wasn't. But he had no idea of how to reverse his journey, or of anyone in this age that did.
During the cattle drives, Dodge become a wild town. Dillon had asked him to work as a deputy during the cattle season. With nothing better to do, Dillon agreed.
Texas cattlemen drove their herds north to the rail lines. At that time, the rail only extended into Kansas and not south into Texas. So, each year, hundreds of cowboys would herd thousands of head of cattle along the Chisholm trail into towns like Abilene and Wichita. Eventually, the townspeople in each town would become fed up with the rowdy cowboys, the rail would be extended further west, and the trailhead would move to the next town west.
From about 1875 till only ten short years later, the trail ended in Dodge City.
One day near the end of the 1882 season, Deputy Bond was Marshall Dillon's office updating the marshall on the day's events when a tall stranger came into the office. A stranger to Bond, at least, because it soon become evident that the stranger and Dillon were old friends.
"Brisco, you old son of a gun," Dillon said, rising from his chair.
"Matt Dillon, you ol' snake in the grass," the stranger said. "How the hell are ya?"
"Can't complain," Dillon said. "What brings you to Dodge?"
"Trailin' the Bly gang. Lost 'em in Pueblo. Thought they might head east and try to mix in with the cowboys headed back south."
Dillon nodded. "James," he said, "This here is the best lawman you'll ever met, Marshall Brisco County."
Bond shook the man's hand. Marshall County was tall, with just the hint of gray in his temples and showing through his thick moustache. The man's grip was firm, but not overpowering. This was obviously a man self-assured and not having to assert himself unnecessarily.
"So how's Brisco Jr.?" Dillon asked.
"He's back east, going to school. Wants to be a lawyer."
Dillon nodded. "Good for him."
"Too bad he doesn't want to be a lawman like his old pop," County said.
"Well, Brisco, you have to admit, it doesn't make for much of a home life, now does it? Chasing after men all over the country. You ought to find yourself a quiet little town and settle down as the town marshal."
"Like you did, you mean?"
Dillon chuckled, "Yeah, like I did."
"So?"
"So, have I seen Bly or any of his gang?" Dillon asked.
"Yep."
Dillon shook his head. "Nope. Been a busy season. Lot's of cowboys through here. And there's still a few herds due to arrive. My guess is if they were going to head south, they'd hook up with the trail south of here. Why come into Dodge and risk being seen?"
County nodded. He'd obviously thought the same thing. "Just had to check. And it's always good to see an old friend."
"Staying long?"
"Probably bed down here tonight. Sleep in a real bed for a change," County said. "Then hit the trail again tomorrow morning."
"Go to Emma's Boarding House," Dillon said. "Tell her you're an old friend of mine. Maybe we can get together tonight for supper and talk old times."
"I'd like that," County said.
The two men shook hands again and County left.
"Old friend?" Bond asked.
"Served in the war together," Dillon said. The way he said it, it told Bond it was a touchy subject. "Now, tell me more about that fight you broke up."
"Wasn't much, just drunken cowboys, you know the story. Arguing over some salon gal."
Dillon nodded. During trail season, that amounted to about 80% of what he and his deputies did: break up fights between drunken cowboys.
Most of the cowboys were young men, 15 to 25 at the oldest. The cowboys were paid off at the end of the trail. Often times, it was their first time away from home, the first time with a big wad of pay in their pocket. They drank, gambled, caroused with the saloon girls, and then drank some more. And, inevitably, they would fight. Sometimes over a saloon girl, sometimes over a real or imagined insult on the trail, or a cheat at the tables. Sometimes they fought just for the fun of it.
Bond grabbed a cup of coffee. A pot was always warm on the stove. It wasn't the sort of coffee he remembered his housekeeper Mae making, but then it was strong and kept you awake. He sat down for a few minutes to look through the latest bunch of wanted posters that had come in with the latest mail.
A few minutes later, an old man came into the marshall's office.
"Can I help you, old timer?" Dillon asked.
"I'ma looking for this hear pole cat," the old man said. He pulled a wanted poster out from inside his shirt and unfolded it.
Bond watched the old man carefully. There was something about the old man that just made the hairs on his neck stand up. The old guy wasn't what he seemed.
"Butch Cavandish," Dillon read. "Nope, haven't seen him. This guy's a wanted man in just about every state and territory from here to California. You should be careful if you go looking for him, old man."
"Oh, I will," the old man said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out something. He tossed it on Dillon's desk. It was a silver star and a bullet. The star was a Texas Ranger star and the bullet was bright silver in color, not dull gray.
Dillon eyed the two items carefully. He picked up the bullet and hefted it. "This is silver," he said.
"Yep," the old man said. "You's ever hear the tale about six Texas Rangers that was ambushed by Cavandish's gang about ten years ago?"
"Every lawman west of the Mississippi has heard that story," Dillon said. "You trying to tell me that you're the lone ranger that survived that ambush?"
"Yep, sonny, that I am."
"Why the disguise?"
"I usually wear a mask, but I didn't want to startle any of your townfolk," the old man said. "Sometimes, it's just easier this way. No one gives an old man any second guess."
Dillon nodded. "I'll have my deputies be on the lookout for Cavandish or his gang."
The door to the marshall's office opened again. "Busy today," Bond commented, slipping his coffee.
The newcomer was medium height and wore a bolero jacket and tight slacks, hardly the type of clothes most men in Dodge wore. Six-guns hung from holsters on both hips. "Marshall?" he asked.
"I'm Marshall Dillon."
"West, James West," the man introduced himself. He opened his jacket and showed his own star. "I'm with the United States Secret Service. I'm just passing through and thought I should check in with the local marshall."
"What brings you to Dodge City, Mr. West?" Dillon asked.
"Headed to Denver to escort a shipment of gold bullion to the San Francisco Mint. We had to lay on supplies, so we'll only be here a day or two."
"We?"
"My partner, Artemis Gordon, is with me."
"Where are you staying while you're in Dodge?" Dillon asked.
"We have our own private train," West said. "It's parked on the siding just west of town."
"You's all still travelin' in that fancy train?" the old man asked.
"Do I know you, old timer?" West asked. "You don't look familiar and I'm usually very good with faces."
The old man stood up straight. He gained nearly a foot in height by doing so. His voice changed, becoming deeper and stronger, when he spoke again. "I wasn't wearing this face the last time we met, James."
"Ranger?" West exclaimed, "Is that you?"
The old man shook his head.
"I thought that white stallion out front looked familiar. Wait until I tell Artie. He'll be tickled pink. You know, that disguise you taught him the last time we ran into each other is still his favorite."
"Well, it's better than that awful getup he was wearing," the Ranger said.
West laughed. "Yeah, Artie never did make a very attractive woman."
Bond and Dillon looked at each other, totally lost from the other two men's conversation.
Later that evening, Dillon and Bond walked over to the Dodge House restaurant for dinner. They swung by Emma's Boarding House and got Marshal County to join them.
"You think it's okay to leave the town unguarded while we eat and socialize?" County asked.
"Festus can handle things," Dillon said. "And Newly's just up the street at the livery." Deputy O'Brien worked part time as a blacksmith.
The three men walked into the Dodge House. They were surprised to see the old man and West there. Two other men were with them. One was a slightly older man, dressed almost as natty as Jim West. The other was an Indian. West waved them over.
"Marshall Dillon, Marshall County, Deputy, why don't you join us?" West said.
"Don't mind if we do," Dillon said. He and his two companions sat down.
"This must be the most lawmen this town has ever seen," Gordon said.
"Artie, mind your manners. Marshall Dillon, this is my partner, Artemis Gordon," West introduced his friend. "And the silent one over there," he indicated the Indian opposite him, "Is Tonto, the Ranger's partner."
Dillon tipped his hat at the men, as did County and Bond. "This is an old friend of mine, Brisco County, and one of my deputies, James Bond."
The six men were half way through their meal when Sam, the bartender from the Long Branch, came running in. "Marshall!"
"What is it?" Dillon demanded, instantly on his feet.
"Miss Kitty sent me. There's a bunch of men over at the Long Branch. They're saying they're here to call you out."
"Who are they, Sam?"
"Don't know, never seen 'um before. They just said there're here to kill Marshall Dillon for killing their brother."
That doesn't help, Dillon thought. The unfortunate matter of fact was that he'd killed quite a few men in his career. And any one of them could have had brothers that would some day come looking for revenge.
"How many are there?" Bond said.
"About six or seven, I ain't sure. Only four came in the Long Branch, but when I ran over here, I saw a couple more outside. They're waiting in case you don't show."
Dillon put his hat on and started for the door.
"Matt, wait," County said. "You're almost as good a shot as I am, but you can't face six or seven men by yourself."
"He's right, Marshal," Bond said.
"I'm going with you," County said.
"As am I," Bond said.
The other four men all stood. The old man turned away from the others for a moment and pulled off his fake beard and adjusted his hat. When he turned back to face them, he was wearing a close fitting mask over his eyes. "We're all standing with you, Marshall," the Lone Ranger said.
Tonto spoke his first words of the evening, "Kemosabe say you a good lawman, Marshall. We join you."
West already had his hands on his gun handles and Gordon was checking his own pistols. "We go as one," West said.
"Agreed," County said.
"Sam, go tell Festus and fetch Newly," Dillon told Sam.
"Well do, Marshall." The bartender was almost out of breath, but he ran out of the restaurant without a second thought.
Dillon looked at each man in return. He knew they were all seasoned lawmen, some of them were almost legends on the frontier. He didn't try to talk them out of it; he knew they knew what they were committing to.
He turned and the seven of them walked out of the restaurant as if one.
Dillon and his group of fellow lawmen never did learn the names of the men that called them out. As they moved as a group toward the Long Branch, the four men in the saloon came out and were joined by four more from the street. The eight men lined up shoulder to shoulder across the breadth of the main street.
Dillon and his followers likewise strung themselves out until they likewise stood shoulder to shoulder.
"I'm Marshall Dillon."
"You killed our brother," one of the men yelled back.
"I've killed a lot of men," Dillon said. "But only the ones that deserved it."
"Our brother didn't deserve to die like a sick dog, shot in the back by some cowardly lawman."
"I've never shot a man in the back," Dillon said. "You've got the wrong lawman."
"Maybe. But you and you lawman buddies will do," the man yelled back.
The two groups of men stood staring at each other for a couple of seconds. No one could remember rightly who fired the first shot, but the whole thing was over in just seconds.
When the smoke cleared, the eight men were all laying on the ground dead, or dying.
Dillon and his group were all still standing. They holstered their weapons.
"Matthew," Festus said, running up. The deputy had the habit of squinting hard with one eye and bugging out the other. He gave Dillon and the rest of the lawmen a hard look with his good eye and then surveyed the dead men laying on the street. He didn't need an explanation of what happened. He'd seen similar scenes more times then he cared to remember.
Many gunslingers had heard about Marshall Dillon's speed and prowess with a six-shooter. Some had come to Dodge to try their hand against the Marshall. And, so far, none had succeeded in besting Dillon.
Just then, James Bond felt something wet on his stomach. He reached up and felt blood coming from his chest and fell forward onto the ground.
"Mr. Bond," West said, rushing forward to try and catch the deputy.
"Festus, go get Doc Adams."
"Sure 'nuff, Matthew," Festus said.
"And the undertaker for these other men," Dillon yelled after Festus. Dillon bent down to see how badly Bond was hit.
Doctor Bashir and Chief O'Brien found themselves in a small town in the dead of night. They both had their tricorders out. Within a few minutes of scanning, they both had a weak signal.
"This doesn't look right," O'Brien said. "It shows a small quantity of matter with a quantum frequency that's not native here."
"I agree," Bashir said.
"Which way?"
"I read this way," Bashir said, pointing off into the night.
The two men headed off in the direction Bashir indicated. They eventually came to a cast iron fence.
"Uh, I don't like this," Bashir said.
"Why?"
"This looks like a cemetery to me." He ran a few calculations through the tricorder. A moment later, "Yep, the reading we're getting is just about the mass of an adult skeleton."
"Don't say that," O'Brien pleaded.
"Well, let's confirm it. Maybe something of Bond's just got buried. His clothes maybe."
They walked around the block and found the gate. The sign over the gate read "Dodge City Cemetery." The two pushed on the gate and it swung open. They went in. Like most any other cemetery, stone memorials rested on the ground, raising above the burial spots. Triangulating with the tricorder, the two soon found themselves standing in front of a headstone labeled simply "James Bond, Deputy." The space on the headstone for a birth year was blank. The year of his death was stated as 1882.
"1882?" O'Brien said.
"Obviously, we've arrived after that date," Bashir said. He scanned the remains buried in the grave below them. "There's a skeleton here alright. Human, possibly male. Based on the type of burial back then, and the current condition of the remains, I'd say he died probably 30 to 40 years ago."
"How can we be sure it's Bond?"
"The bones do show a quantum frequency that is not the same as everything else. The grave stone, the fence over there, the trees, everything else reads different. If it's not Bond, then someone else came here from another universe too."
"Well, I guess that's that," O'Brien said. He started to press the recall button.
"No, stop!" Bashir said.
"What? There's nothing more we can do here. You're not thinking of digging him up, are you?"
"No!" Bashir said. "But we should stay around for a while. At least until morning. Find out for sure exactly where and when we are. Then we'll have a better idea of when to come back."
"Come back? You mean go further back in time to before he died?"
"Yes."
"But he's already dead, Julian," O'Brien said. "Won't going back before he died change the normal course of this universe? Isn't that against the Prime Directive?"
"But he's not native to this universe to begin with. Him just being here violated the Prime Directive. If we go back, find him alive, and return him to his own universe, we'll actually be returning this universe to it's rightful course."
"I hate temporal mechanics," O'Brien moaned. "Next time, remind me to send Data in my place." He looked around. "So, where to we wait?"
Bashir looked around. "It's a warm night, Miles. There's grass here. I say we just sit down and wait right here."
"Here? But it's a grave site," O'Brien protested.
"Okay, okay. We'll wait outside the gate," Bashir suggested.
"That's better."
The morning came slowly. Both Bashir and O'Brien had nodded off as they rested against the cemetery fence. Bashir had programmed his tricorder to monitor the amount of light and to beep when it reached dawn levels.
The two men started awake as the tricorder resting between them began beeping.
They wandered around the small town. They guessed that they were in this universe's Dodge City, Kansas, some time in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, but they didn't know what year for sure. They hoped to find a newspaper, or some other indication.
The streets were quiet at this early hour. In the distance, a train whistle could be heard. For the two amateur historical recreationists, it was almost like a field trip. They both were taking lots of tricorder recordings to be used later to add critical detail to a holodeck program.
They watched in fascination as a horse-drawn milk wagon slowly worked its way up the street. The driver of the wagon stopped every few houses and he'd get off and carry the full glass milk bottles to the front door and return to his wagon with empty bottles. It was something both men had read about in history books, and seen in holodeck recreations of classic motion pictures. But it was entirely a different experience to see it happening right in front of your eyes. Even the best holodeck recreations couldn't prove the little details; the smell of the horse, the delicate clinking sound of the bottles as they were set down on the sidewalks, the sounds of the birds in the trees overhead.
Gradually, there was more traffic on the small street. Men riding horses, horses pulling wagons and smaller coaches, men and woman walking along the street. Most of the passersby looked wearily at the two Starfleet officers. After all, their tight uniforms looked like sleepwear to the people of this era.
"Julian, let's just find what we're looking for and get out of here," O'Brien suggested. "I can feel that cellular deterioration occurring. Every breath I take makes it worse."
Bashir ran his tricorder over both himself and the Chief. "Miles, you're fine," the doctor said, with his most practiced "doctor's voice." "There's very little deterioration in this universe. At least that I can detect."
"What do you mean 'that you can detect'?"
Bashir sighed. "We still don't know that much about what causes the deterioration. It's possible that we can't detect it as well while we're actually here. It might only show up when we return home."
O'Brien's scowl just got deeper.
The two walked up the street and took a side street deeper into the center of the town. They were looking for a newspaper office. It was still apparently too early for the majority of the businesses to be open. The two men continued to walk.
On one of the side streets, they saw a solitary man leading his horse. The man wore a white wide-brimmed Stetson. He appeared to be talking to himself.
O'Brien tugged on Bashir's arm, leading him away from the man. Bashir pulled away. "Miles, he may be psychotic. I'm a doctor."
"It would also be against the Prime Directive, Julian."
They overhead the man as he got closer. "I'm tellin' ya, Comet, I've been a bounty hunter almost twenty years now, and this guy is the hardest to find. I'm sure if Lord Bowler were here, he'd have found the guy by now."
"See, Julian," O'Brien whispered, "He's nuts. Talking to his horse about nonsense."
"Excuse me, sir," Bashir said. "Sir?"
The man leading the horse stopped up short and looked at the two strangers in the black pajamas. For a moment, he wondered if they were in one of the Chinese gangs like those he'd encountered in California. But they were white men. And the one that had addressed him had a vaguely English accent. Some sort of limey. "Brisco County, Jr. at your service," he said, doffing his hat.
"Mr. County, I'm a little lost," Julian said, moving closer to the man. Under his hand, Bashir held the tricorder, scanning the man for obvious physiological or psychological diseases. "Perhaps you can help me. Are you familiar with this part of the country?"
"Well, a little," County said. "Now my dear departed Daddy. He knew this part of the plains like the back of his hand. But that was a whole lotta years ago."
"Yes, right. Is this Dodge City, Kansas?"
"Yeah," County said, eyeing the two.
Bashir turned to O'Brien, obviously acting. "See, Miles, I told you. It is Dodge City." He turned back to the man with the horse. "We arrived last night. In the dark, you know. Couldn't see very well."
"What day is today?"
"April 5th," County said.
"And the year?"
"19 and ten," County said. "You don't know what year it is? Maybe you need to see a doctor."
"No thanks," Bashir said. "Actually, I'm a physician myself."
"Oh, yeah?" County said. "Hey, can you look at my arm?"
"What's wrong with it?" Bashir asked innocently.
"It hurts when I do this," County said, raising his arm.
"Then don't do that," Bashir told him innocently.
O'Brien snickered. Julian shot him a dirty look.
"Okay, thanks," County said. "Come on, Comet." And he lead his horse on down the street.
After County was out of hearing range, Bashir turned to O'Brien. "What's so funny?"
"That's an old, old joke."
"What is?"
"'Doctor, it hurts when I do this--so don't do that!'" O'Brien quoted. "I told you the guy was crazy."
"Nope. I scanned him. He's fine. Just a little unconventional, I'd say. Let's go home."
They looked around. No one else was in sight, expect County and he was looking the other way. O'Brien pressed the recall button. A moment later, the two Starfleet officers dematerialized.