Written in Time (49 page)

Clarence dismounted to help David. David’s father carefully thumbed down the ‘97’s hammer to full rest, then drew it back a quarter inch, just shy of contacting the firing pin, then sat with the shotgun across his saddle, taking the gun belt that was handed up to him. David’s father, inspecting the gun belt, the revolver and knife in turn, declared, “All modern stuff, as I supposed. The holster and gun belt are reproductions from Rod Kibler Saddlery, the revolver is a Cimarron Arms gun made in Italy—an Uberti—and the knife is a Cold Steel Bowie. At least Lakewood Industries has good taste in equipment. This is all top quality.”
 

David took the rifle from the saddle scabbard of the horse nearest him. “Navy Arms,” David announced. It was also from the 1990s, although it was a beautiful duplicate of an 1892 Winchester.
 

“Same with all the rest of the weapons,” Clarence volunteered.
 

“The boots are from Tony Lama,” David added.
 

“All right,” David’s father told them. “Let’s lead their horses, use them if need be, and get out of the neighborhood before anybody comes looking for us.”
 

“One thing, Dad.”
 

“What, son?”
 

“Who’s ‘Marietta’?”
 

“It’s Murrieta, Joaquin Murrieta. Famous mid-nineteenth century bandit in California. Some people believe that Murietta was—at least in part—the inspiration for Johnston McCulley when he created Zorro—or will create him in a few years, depending on perspective. I didn’t figure those Lakewood Industries guys would know what I was talking about anyway.” His face seamed with a smile as he added, “Vamanos, amigos! Before more gringos vienen, hey! Andale, muchachos!” And he started his horse back toward the meadow, already stripping off his duster.
 

Clarence observed, “He just does those goofy-assed accents to annoy me.”
 

“No,” David responded honestly. “I don’t think he does it to annoy you. He just thinks he does neat accents and he doesn’t care if they annoy you! Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
 

Clarence only grunted as he mounted up.
 

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
 

Sitting around the kitchen table, eating venison stew and perusing the captured documents from the mochillas by lamplight, Jack felt frustrated. He could make out some words, get the general sense of the papers—letters of introduction, maps, contracts—but could not truly read them. The men whom they had intercepted along the stagecoach road had been bound for Germany and France. Perhaps the reason that none of them had spoken a word was because they did not speak very much English. In any case, the documents were in German and French, and Jack read neither German nor French.
 

Clarence had summed up the situation succinctly. “Shit!”
 

Jack agreed completely. Rather than ruining the delicious venison stew and fresh bread Ellen had made with Lizzie and Peggy’s help, Jack tried to get what he could from the documents and eat at the same time. “They’re offering ‘heavier than air flying machines’ and ‘fusils des guerre’ which are ‘automatique’ and instruction in their use. That much I get from the French set. The photographs make it pretty clear. F-16 fighters and M-16 rifles.” He laughed, took a swallow of Glen Livet Scots whiskey. He was grateful that this magnificent liquor had already been invented. “Whoever reads this stuff in the capitals of the world is going to think there’s some special significance to the number sixteen in the future a hundred years from now. We’re extremely blessed, family. If these guys had brought battery-operated video or DVD players with them and let the prospective customers actually see the planes and the rifles in action, it would have been an instant ‘Where do I sign?’ and things would move along much faster. This gives us a little time.”
 

“Are they actually going to send their men to Paris and Berlin and London, Daddy?” Lizzie asked. “Traveling by ship to Europe will take forever, practically.”
 

“I don’t think they will, sweetheart. Again, as you imply, time is a factor, and especially critical for them, if they realize that we know what they’re planning. No. I think they’ll hit the embassies in Washington with their proposals. If they get a favorable response, the Lakewood guys will wire to somewhere near here and order up video or DVD on what they’re selling, samples of some of the smaller stuff. Secret meetings can be arranged here in the United States with the ministers of war for the various powers, demonstrations set up in some desolate area— again, the smaller stuff. They’d probably pick a site here in Nevada. They might even send an F-16 through or a helicopter gunship, send them through the time-transfer point, get them out into the desert and hope nobody spots them.
 

“Once they get a deal in place,” Jack went on, using a piece of the fresh-baked bread—it was still slightly warm— to sop the remaining gravy from the stew, “then they can risk being spotted. That would allow them to set up a small airbase somewhere near this time-transfer point in order to facilitate transportation needs until they have a new time-transfer base established in their host country.”
 

“They’d probably destroy the base that they have here,” David suggested. “Destroy it in our time and in the future, so that we couldn’t reach them from here.”
 

Jack agreed. “You’re right, son. And they’d have achieved what they want: ruling the world from behind whatever seat of power becomes Lakewood Industries’ partner in altering history.”
 

It was extremely late, and Jack was exhausted from the day’s events. Chasing bad guys and pretending to rob them was a younger man’s game, especially when the horsebacking was factored in. “Tomorrow,” he announced, “I should have an answer to my telegram concerning Governor Roosevelt’s intended campaign stops. Then we can make plans.” He had sent out several wires—the governor’s office in New York state, the White House, the New York Telegraph newspaper—not knowing which, if any, of the telegrams would be answered. “Tomorrow,” he said again.
 

There was a knock at the front door. “I thought I heard a horse coming up,” Ellen noted, standing. Lizzie, her arm no longer in a sling, came to stand beside her.
 

Jack glanced toward her as he stood up. He’d slept late and awakened hungry, eating breakfast a rarity for him. The sun through the kitchen windows was bright.
 

Jack’s right hand rested on the butt of his special Colt, on the table beside his plate. David went to the door, Clarence watching him. David looked out the window. “It’s Bobby Lorkin,” David announced. When the Naile family had first come to Atlas and its environs, Bobby Lorkin had been a teenaged delivery boy, running errands for everyone and anyone, a well-spoken young fellow who seemed pleasantly ambitious. In the intervening four years, he’d taken over management of the telegraph office and acquired part interest in the livery stable.
 

When David opened the door, Bobby—the once skinny kid—pretty much filled the opening, broad shouldered and tall, curly reddish blonde hair falling across his forehead as he removed his hat.
 

Automatically, Jack glanced toward Lizzie. In the vernacular of the day, Bobby was obviously “sweet” on Lizzie and Lizzie, who blushed as she saw him, reciprocated. It was not as if they dated, but when they saw each other, they talked, smiled, looked nervous.
 

Bobby said, “Mr. and Miz Naile, Miss Lizzie,—” There was a little pause that was impossible to miss as Bobby Lorkin looked at Lizzie and Lizzie looked at Bobby. “Miz Jones. David. Clarence.”
 

It was convenient, Jack thought absently, that there weren’t too many more people in the Naile family, or otherwise Bobby would have talked himself hoarse.
 

Ellen introduced Alan. “This is our relative from Chicago, Bobby.”
 

Alan stood up—a little feebly still—and extended his hand as David ushered Bobby inside. “I’m Alan Naile, from the Chicago branch of the family. I had kind of an accident and came here to recuperate.”
 

“Dry air—lots o’ folks from back East take real well to dry air. Right happy to make acquaintance with ya, sir.”
 

“Just call me Alan, please.”
 

“Alan. Happy t’ know ya.” Bobby finished crossing the room. “Got ya a telegram, Mr. Naile.”
 

“That was nice of you to bring it out personally, Bobby,” Jack said, taking the telegram.
 

Ellen volunteered, “Lizzie. Why don’t you see if Bobby would like a plate of bacon and eggs and some nice homemade bread?”
 

Jack Naile smiled as he opened the telegram. Lizzie and Bobby might make an interesting couple, he mused. His mind instantly left that train of thought, however, as he focused on the contents of the telegraph envelope. Governor Theodore Roosevelt would be making a campaign stop in Denver, Colorado. That was better than having to go back East to link up with him. But the campaign stop was in two days.
 

Ideal rail connections with an express train were the only hope to reach Denver in so short a time frame.
 

Jack Naile exhaled heavily and looked at Alan. “I seem to recall, Alan, that you mentioned something about having a Ferrari back in Chicago.”
 

“Jack—” Ellen started.
 

Jack knew his wife was thinking he’d slipped up. Jack looked at Ellen and smiled. He went on, saying to Alan, “It was one of those Ferraris that’s like a surrey, wasn’t it?
 

Kind of sporty and fast—with a properly matched team, of course.”
 

Alan smiled and winked and said, “Yes, kind of like a surrey. Why do you ask?”
 

“Know anything about surries and wagons and such, besides driving them?”
 

“It’s a hobby of mine—working on surries.”
 

“You could use some exercise. That old Suburban buckboard of ours in the barn? I’d admire having you and David and Clarence take a look at it. I’m thinking of taking it out for a little ride later today.”
 

“Can I help, sir?” Bobby asked politely. “Since I got me part ownership in the livery stable, I’ve learned quite a bit about wagons.”
 

“Mighty generous of you, Bobby. I’ll bring it to town some time, and you can have a proper look at it then.”
 

The Suburban, if the treacherously bumpy and potholed topography didn’t kill it, would be the only chance to make a connection that would get him to Denver in the time available.
 

It would be up to David and Clarence to keep watch over the time-transfer base. Alan might be able to help Lizzie defend the house—like any Naile, he’d learned to shoot as soon as he was old enough to hold a firearm properly—but was not strong enough to travel. In addition to his bruises and the groin-muscle problem, Peggy had determined that Alan suffered from dehydration, and the frequent beatings he had endured had brought about some possible kidney and liver damage—bruising, again—that would, Peggy opined, mend itself, however slowly.
 

Jack was going to Colorado to find Theodore Roosevelt, and Ellen was going with him.
 

The Suburban was fully readied. Alan’s expertise with automobiles, developed from his hobby interest with sports cars, proved useful, as David and Clarence had installed one of the new batteries, administered the proper fluids to the engine block, bled the brakes and otherwise fitted the Suburban for travel. It wouldn’t have to go far, only to Reno—far enough on roads that were so ill-suited to automobile use.
 

If memory served, Ellen had remarked, she recalled reading somewhere that, in 1900, there were approximately eight thousand automobiles in the United States. The overwhelming majority of these, of course, were in and around the major cities, predominantly in the East.
 

The train schedule that David and Clarence had brought back as a souvenir of their trip to San Francisco had proven helpful. If Jack and his wife could reach Reno in time to intercept and board the Overland Limited—scheduled to leave at four minutes after six that evening—they would arrive in Denver, via Ogden, Utah, and Cheyenne, Wyoming, at nine in the morning two days later, only thirty-eight hours and fifty-six minutes after departure.
 

“What time is Teddy Roosevelt’s speech going to be, Jack?”
 

They were packing the last of their things. “Around four in the afternoon, which’ll give us a few hours to get cleaned up and changed.”
 

“I can hardly wait to see what a toilet looks like on a train. I remember when I was commuting from downtown Chicago back to that apartment we had when we first got married. The toilets on trains weren’t so hot in 1969, either.”
 

“Just keep your knees together a lot and think about deserts where there’s no water for miles around.”
 

Ellen, closing her bag, said, “One more potty stop before we leave; this may be the last modern flush toilet I’ll see for a very long time.”
 

In the letter that a dying Jack Naile had written in the previous time loop to his future self, the letter found in a niche behind a loose brick in the fireplace of the otherwise burned-out ranch house, he’d warned his future self. The warning was that he—Jack—was not as good at staying alive as he thought he was and that he would need an edge, the little Seecamp .32, anachronistic as it was in 1900.
 

David and Clarence were off watching the time-transfer base built by Lakewood Industries. Lizzie and Peggy and Alan were in the house. Only Jack and his wife were in the barn, where the gassed and ready Suburban waited—only Jack and Ellen and a man whose face Jack recognized from a wanted poster. “You’re Steve Fowler, Jess Fowler’s kid brother, the holdup man and killer.”