Chapter 3

Monday, September 7th

8:39 A. M.

Doc activated his walkie-talkie. "How fast are we going, Marty?"

Marty checked the speedometer. "About 25," he reported. Way too slow, he added mentally.

"All right. I'm throwing in the Presto-Logs." One by one, Doc picked them up and tossed them in. "Now, do you see that new pressure gauge?"

"Yeah, Doc, we both do."

"That will tell us the boiler pressure, and tell us how close we are to the danger zone of 2000 degrees. Clara, while Marty's watching the speedometer, I want you to keep an eye on that. I'd better warn you, each explosion will be accompanied by a sudden burst of acceleration. So hang on!"

"Can do, Emmett," Clara said. "How are you back there?"

Doc tooted the whistle in response. "I'd kind of like to take the train back with us!" he laughed.

In the back

Buford's new steed, as used to these types of excursions as his old one, galloped after the train like a horse possessed. Buford checked his gun, then urged the horse on even harder. In the cab, he could just make out Brown's flowing white hair. For a moment, Buford had to wonder why he was stealing a locomotive. Then he shoved the thought out of his mind and concentrated on catching up.

The horse pulled even for a few seconds, sweat and foam streaming from its flanks. In a practiced move, Buford jumped off the saddle and onto the wood car's ladder.

Then the world exploded.

Monday, September 7th

8:41 A. M.

Clara barely had time to say, "The green log is about to go off," when she was pressed violently back into her seat. The countryside on either side became a bright blur as they rocketed forward. "Golly!" she gasped.

"Whoa!" Marty yelled. He seemed just as shocked as her. "Man, I didn't expect that."

Doc, back on the train, didn't seem too perturbed. "What's our speed now?" he asked, fairly calmly.

"35 and counting!" Marty said, adrenaline pumping. "Jesus, those things really work!"

Clara normally would have frowned on his swearing, but she thought it appropriate for the circumstances. "I know," she said, a touch breathlessly. "I hope being in a regular car isn't like this." Marty tried to give her a reassuring look.

"Okay, I'm coming aboard, Marty," Doc reported. He tossed his engineer's cap to the floor and very carefully climbed outside the cab. Keeping a tight hold on the steam feed line on the side of the train, he began inching forward.

On the back of the train, Buford tried desperately to figure out what had just happened. The trains he knew didn't abruptly speed up like this. But that little jolt of speed had forced him to cling for dear life to the ladder.

The moment seemed to have passed, though. He climbed up the ladder and onto the wood. There was that fool smithy, climbing along the outside of the train. And now Buford could see a weird-looking carriage being pushed along by the locomotive. Buford shook his head in bafflement. Ever since that blacksmith had arrived in January, weird things had been happening.

Time to put an end to 'em, he decided, pulling his gun and aiming. Everything would end with a bullet between the shoulder blades.

With no warning, the train burst forward again! The gun dropped from Buford's hand as he was thrown back onto the wood. Yellow smoke flew around him, making him cough. "Dammit!" he yelled.

On the locomotive, Doc barely had time to grab a second hand-hold as Clara yelled, "Look out, Emmett! We're almost into the yellow!" Great Scott! he thought as the train leaped forward. Maybe I made those logs a little too strong. It would explain why my forge blew up once.

"Doc?" "Emmett?" Marty and Clara's voices sounded pensive.

"I'm okay," he yelled into his handset. "I'll get there." He didn't bother to add what he was thinking -- I hope!

As he continued inching along to the cowcatcher, he suddenly thought he heard something. A voice of some sort. Someone calling his name. But that's ridiculous, Doc thought. Nobody else could possibly be--

BANG!

Monday, September 7th

8:45 A. M.

Clara and Marty started when they heard the noise. "That sounded like a gunshot," Clara murmured.

"Do you think something might be wrong with the boiler?" Marty asked fearfully. "Doc did mention the darn thing could explode."

"Yes, but -- we're nowhere near 2000 yet. It's got to be something else."

Marty leaned over Clara and looked back at the train. He gasped in horror. "Holy shit! It's Buford Tannen!"

"Oh, wonderful!" Clara snapped.

Back on the train, Doc had looked back as soon as the bullet had clipped his shoulder. Buford Tannen was grinning at him, dropping his small derringer and extracting his knife from his boot. "You should have paid me that 80 dollars," he said evilly.

Doc grabbed his walkie-talkie, ignoring the pain in his arm. "Buford Tannen's on the train!"

"We know, Doc!" Marty yelled back. "Hurry up!"

"No, Marty, we have to stop! We have to get Buford off!"

"WHY??"

"Because if he doesn't continue the Tannen line, we'll have a major paradox! If Biff doesn't exist, a major factor in getting your parents together will be eliminated, thus probably eliminating you!"

"Oh, perfect! I don't want to owe my existence to a Tannen!"

"'Fraid you have to. What's our speed?"

"Four -- Doc, the windmill!"

Doc stared as the structure, their fail-safe point, sped by. Marty sounded frantic. "Doc, you'll never make it, we're at 50 miles per hour! You gotta get in the car!"

Doc looked back at Buford, who was climbing down on to the engine. "Er -- this may seem a odd question, but do you have kids?"

Buford blinked. Nobody had asked him that before, especially not someone he was going to kill. "I've got a boy and a girl, courtesy of that Luann filly at the saloon." His grin returned. "I bet my boy will love to hear how his pa killed a no-good cheating blacksmith on a speeding train."

That was all the encouragement Doc needed. He quickly resumed his flight toward the DeLorean, Buford following.

A minute later, Clara grabbed Marty's arm. "Marty, look! We're almost at 2000 degrees!"

Marty looked. Sure enough, the needle was just brushing the red. He snatched up his walkie-talkie. "Doc! THE RED LOG'S ABOUT TO BLOW!"

And did it ever! The smoke-stack exploded as the third and most powerful Presto-Log ignited. Flames poured from the mouth of the boiler, rivets burst from the sides. Red smoke and flame made everything around look hazy. There was no stopping this train now.

Clara shrieked as the DeLorean did a wheelie, kicking up to 75 miles per hour. "Couldn't we have done this any other way?!"

"It'll be over soon," Marty panted as the car went back down. "Where the hell is Doc?" he added, taking another glance back.

He felt his heart stop beating. Both Doc and Buford had been thrown by the blast. Both were now clinging tightly to the metal steam line, feet only inches above the ground. Doc was swinging his feet wildly, trying to regain his footing on the ledge. Buford, not one to stop a killing for such a minor inconvenience, was slowly but surely making his way along the line, knife in his teeth.

Clara saw it too, and began to cry. "He's never going to make it! Marty, don't you have anything that can help him? Future technology?"

A light bulb turned on in Marty's head. "Yes!" He grabbed his hoverboard from between them, where it had slid. "Rope, rope, I need some rope," he muttered, searching in the back.

A loud rip distracted him. Clara was tearing the hem out of her dress. "I doubt this is the style in 1985 anyway," she quipped, handing him the fabric.

"I promise I'll buy you a new dress," Marty said thankfully, taking it.

Monday, September 7th

8:50 A. M.

Doc gave up trying to get back on the ledge. He knew he was destined for one of three fates. He could lose his grip and fall to the tracks. Buford could succeed in his endeavor and stab him. Or, he could go over the ravine with the train. No matter what now, he was going to die.

Buford smiled at him, removing his knife from his teeth with care. "Prepare to meet your maker, blacksmith," he growled, almost within stabbing reach.

What a way to go, Doc thought, closing his eyes.

Then he opened them again. Marty was yelling at him, saying something about slipping. Wondering if he was trying to say goodbye, Doc turned to look at him, inching a bit away from Buford in the process.

His heart leapt. Marty was holding the hoverboard out! If he released it at the right time, there was a chance he could float to safety. Marty and Clara would be transported to the future, Buford would go into the ravine and he. . . . He would be stuck forever in 1885, without his best friend or beloved Clara. Maybe I'd rather plunge into the ravine.

Speaking of which, he saw a sign coming up fast, warning that it was unsafe to proceed. "Marty! Clara! Look out!"

The pair spotted the sign just in time and pulled back into the car. The sign shattered as the DeLorean ran through it, showering wood everywhere. Buford nearly lost his grip, distracting him from killing Doc.

Marty and Clara leaned out again. "We're at 80, Doc! Ready?" Marty roared.

Doc nodded, feeling melancholy. There was no chance of getting in the DeLorean now. Marty released the hoverboard. Borne by the wind, it zipped backward. Doc concentrated and stuck out his foot. The pink strap caught.

Doc looked over at Buford, who was watching the proceedings with a frown. "So long, Charley," he quoted, releasing the line.

Marty had once tried to teach Doc to skateboard, after hearing him describe the physics of the activity. Doc had never really mastered it, but he could keep his balance pretty well. That skill was coming in very handy as the board was tugged forward.

Wait a millisecond. Forward? But that isn't right! According to basic physics, both the board and myself should be moving backward still, due to the force of the wind. So why am I --

Great Scott.

Tied around the pink strap was a length of material from the bottom of Clara's dress. Marty and Clara were using it as a tow line, pulling him, with all their might, into the car. How ingenious! If only they'll get me there in time.

He spared a glance back for Buford. The gunslinger was staring at him, mouth agape with shock. Doc waved at him cheerily and started kicking over to the DeLorean.

At the last second, 85 miles per hour, they prevailed. Doc tumbled into the car. Clara grabbed him and kissed him extremely hard before he could do anything. "Emmett, I was so frightened for you. . . ."

"You okay, Doc?" Marty asked as Doc settled himself onto Clara's lap and closed the door.

"I liked the landing," Doc grinned, making Clara blush. He quickly noted the speed. "Prepare yourselves for temporal displacement."

Marty stuck his hat on his head and tightly gripped the steering wheel. Clara held onto her seat with one hand and Doc with the other. Everyone held their breath as the car hit 88.

Back on the locomotive, Buford watched numbly as, right before it hit the "End of Track" sign, the strange carriage in front of the train disappeared in a brilliant flash of light. Fire trails appeared on the rails, extending impossibly out into the air over Shonash Ravine.

End of Track? Shonash Ravine?

Buford had only the time and presence of mind for one final word -- "SHIT."