Corps.
Now, at the age of twenty-five. Neilson’s skill had already saved his life and the lives of fellow agents on several occasions during missions to the past. Life as a temporal agent was hazardous in the extreme and the mortality rate was very high. but for Neilson, as for most other temporal agents, the adventure was well worth the risk. It was a chance to literally see history in the making. And, at the same time, to preserve it from disruption. Added to that, one of Neilson’s great joys on becoming a temporal agent was the opportunity to augment his collection.
It was, of course, illegal to bring anything back from the past. but General Forrester had a tendency to wink at the practice and look the other way. Forrester, himself, possessed perhaps the most priceless collection of artifacts in the entire world, many of them presented to him by the people under his command as they returned from missions to the past. It was considered a singular honor to obtain something worthy of being included in the Old Man’s collection, which he kept housed in a room behind a hidden panel in his quarters at TAC-HQ. Among his prized collection were the sword of El Cid, a. 45 Colt semiautomatic that had once belonged to General Patton, the mask of Zorro, the helm of Genghis Khan, and the original manuscript of 20.000 Leagues Under the Sea-the actual original, not the one which the author had painstakingly copied by hand and submitted to the publisher. This one, unknown to history, had been specially inscribed by the author himself-“To my very dear friend, Moses Forrester. who allowed me to glimpse the wonders of the future. With undying gratitude. Jules Verne.”
Scott Neilson’s own collection was nothing compared to that. He had inherited the collection of his father, which he kept stored in a vault, yet he delighted in adding to it at a cost to him that was a mere fraction of what his father had paid for the pieces he acquired. And the weapons Scott obtained in Minus Time were in spanking new condition.
The first thing he had done on his arrival in Benson was to outfit himself with a brand-new Colt Single Action Army in. 45 caliber, nickel-plated, with a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel and gutta-percha grips. He paid a total of thirty dollars. In his own time, even in condition that was less than pristine, the pistol would be worth several thousand times that sum, even after it had been fired. Unfired, it would have been nearly priceless. However, on this assignment, Neilson knew that he could easily find himself in a situation where he would have to fire the piece, so he had purchased several boxes of cartridges and gone outside the town limits, to fire his new weapon and see how close the bullets struck to point of aim. The pistol’s sights were fixed and not adjustable, meaning that there was only a front sight blade on the end of the barrel and a groove along the top, but it shot close enough to point of aim to satisfy him. Within twenty-five rounds, he was capable of hip-shooting it with unerring accuracy.
He had also purchased a Winchester carbine and a floral-carved holster for his Colt, made by the Lawrence Company, along with a money belt that was looped for cartridges. Other supplies, such as a horse and saddle, he could either purchase or rent in Tombstone. He had arrived already suitably attired for the time period in black, pinstripe trousers; high-heeled boots: a dark green calico shirt, a black cloth vest with a silk back; a black frock coat and a black, flat- crowned Stetson. His light blond hair was long, down to his shoulders, and he was clean-shaven, largely because he’d never been able to grow a decent beard or moustache. With the antiagathic drugs used in the 27th century, he would retain his youthful appearance long past the normal human lifespan and in this time period, at the age of twenty-five, he looked no more than seventeen.
It was common practice for temporal agents to go unshaven and not to get their hair cut unless it was demanded by a mission, in case long hair or a beard proved a requirement for an assignment in the past. If necessary, wigs could be woven into their own hair, and beards cosmetically applied in such a manner that they could only be removed with special solvents. However, such procedures were uncomfortable and. if possible, agents liked to rely on their own hair. This unofficially sanctioned practice was initially frowned upon by many senior officers in the regular Corps. Shaggy hair and stubble looked decidedly unmilitary in the 27th century, but Forester had made it clear that any officer harassing the people under his command would have to contend with him, personally. That quickly brought an end to questions regarding hirsute temporal agents.
Before he left the 27th century, Neilson had gone in for mission programming, which entailed a computer download via the biochip implanted in his cerebral cortex. The program data was designed to give him all the knowledge he would need to function in this time sector, but for Neilson, most of it was redundant. This time sector, in particular, had long held a fascination for him. One of the most famous incidents in the history of the frontier would soon occur right here in Tombstone. And events which would lead up to it had already begun by the time Neilson arrived.
His assignment would probably be brief. He figured it would take a day or two, perhaps a week, at most, if he could not immediately locate the Observers or ascertain what happened to them. At any rate, he would no longer be in Tombstone by the time October 26th rolled around, which was a bitter disappointment to him. He would not have the opportunity to witness the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. However, while he was in Tombstone, there was a good chance that he would see some of the participants and the thought filled him with an almost childish excitement.
He had a job to do and he could not afford to waste any time in doing it, but he fervently hoped that he’d be able to go back to the 27th century and tell his friends that he shook hands with Wyatt Earp.
The Oriental Saloon was a place that Wyatt harp was known to frequent. He had a financial interest in the saloon and did a lot of gambling here. As Neilson walked in through the doors, he could barely restrain a gleeful grin. It was all just as he’d imagined it would be. A raucous place, with a high ceiling and an ornate, mirrored bar valued at over one hundred thousand dollars. There were, of course, no stools in front of the bar. One stood. There were tables to sit down at and, at many of these, men were playing cards. The room was filled with smoke and the smells of sweat and kerosene. An upright piano was being played in on corner. He looked around the room and received not a few curious glances in return. He walked over to the bar.
The bartender, in a white shirt, vest, and bow tie, with short, neatly combed dark hair. a handlebar moustache and large, striking eyes, came over and wiped down the bar in front of him.
“Howdy, stranger.” he said. “What’ll it be?”
Neilson immediately recognized him from old photographs he’d seen in countless books on western history. It was none other than Buckskin Frank Leslie, the famous scout and buffalo hunter, a man who often entertained himself by shooting flies off the ceiling and the occasional cigar out of someone’s mouth. A good friend of Wyatt Earp’s.
“Whiskey.” Neilson said.
“Comin, right up.” Leslie replied, setting a glass in front of him. “New in town?” he asked, as he poured.
“Yep.” said Neilson, paying for his drink.
Leslie was sizing him up. “Where you hail from, son?”
“Montana.” he replied, taking a drink. He knew that a lot of these characters had drifted all over the west, from Dodge City to San Francisco, but the Montana Territory was still fairly Wild and sparsely populated. There wasn’t much happening in Montana yet except for cattle ranching and farming in the western part of the territory, along the Bitterroot. And Indian trouble. Especially Indian trouble.
“Is that right?” said Leslie, with some surprise. “Montana Territory, eh? Where ole George Custer met his Maker?”
“Yep.”
“Ever meet ’im?”
“Nope. Heard all about him. though.”
He was one hell of a man.” said Leslie.
One hell of a stupid man, if you ask me.” said Neilson.
Leslie raised his eyebrows. “How old are you, son”
“Old enough.” said Neilson.
Leslie grinned as he wiped out a glass, amused by the arrogance of youth. “What brings you to Tombstone?”
Neilson shrugged. “Heard some bends of mine might be here. prospectin’.”
“That right? What are their names? Could be I know ’em.”
“Ben Summers, Josh Billings and Joe McEnery.”
Leslie’s grin faded. “Hell. I know ’em, all right Or knew ’em. I should say I’m right sorry to tell you, son, they’re dead All three of ’em.”
Neilson put down his glass and stared at him. It was what he’d feared. Only how did they die?
