TW12 The Six-Gun Solution NEW (11 page)

Jennifer knew that what the Master did was not magic. It was science, which seemed like a sort of magic, since she didn't fully understand it. There was no need for her to understand. If there was a need for her to know or understand anything, the Master would give her that knowledge. He would also, if she performed her duties for him well, give her a child one day, and a man to live with, someone like herself, to act as father to that child. It would not be the same as having a child of her own, but it was the closest she would ever come to it and she had always dreamed of having that chance, that honor. Only now, she dreamed of something else. She had not thought she could feel love, but she had discovered that she could. Perhaps, if that was possible, there might be a way for her to have a child, as well.

She stepped through the door to the back room, where crates of supplies were kept, and continued on to a small closet at the very back. She unbolted the wooden door and opened it. Inside, assembled on the floor, were the softly glowing border circuits of a chronoplate. She took a deep breath, bit her lower lip, and stepped into the circle.

The weakness and dizziness struck her as soon as she stepped out into the room, a room that was thousands of miles away from Tombstone, and hundreds of years away, as well. She felt ill. Someone took her arm and steadied her.

“Come on," he said, "the Master's waiting."

She was conducted through a door and into an elegant living room in the penthouse of a luxury apartment building. Through the sliding glass doors at the back, leading out to the terrace, she could see the sun setting on 23rd-century London.

She knew it was the 23rd century, but she would not have guessed it from the furnishings. Nikolai Drakov was, at heart, a 19th-century man and he always liked surrounding himself with the trappings of that time. The wall-to-wall carpeting had been taken up when he moved into the apartment, the floors redone in handsome parquet and covered with expensive Persian rugs. The furnishings were all Victorian, from the sofa to the sideboard with its gasogene, and the reading chairs with their lace antimacassars. The apartment was lavishly decorated with sculptures and oil paintings and weapons of various sorts. from medieval broadswords to Zulu spears and shields to Kukri knives and pearl-inlaid jezail muskets. Not displayed, but available close by, were more sophisticated weapons.

Drakov stood by the bay window, staring out at the skyline of the city. He was dressed in wool slacks and a brocade smoking jacket. Jennifer could never quite get over how big he was, how powerful his arms looked. He heard her come in and spoke without turning around.

"This used to be a beautiful city," he said. "A city with character. Now look what they've done to it. I often recall the words of King Charles, spoken when he was still Prince of Wales. Referring to the Second World War, he said that you had to give one thing to the Luftwaffe. When they bombed London, they didn't replace the buildings with anything more offensive than rubble. The British themselves did that." He turned around. "Well, what have you managed to learn'?"

"His name is Scott Neilson," she said.

Drakov smiled. "Ah, He is the one, then."

"There can be no mistake?" asked Jennifer. "Perhaps his having the same name is only a coincidence."

"In temporal physics, Jennifer, there is no such thing as a coincidence. Every event proceeds from cause and effect. If Neilson is here, then the others cannot be far behind. You have managed to establish a relationship with him?"

"Yes," she said, softly.

Drakov smiled. "Good. I had every confidence in you. Neilson is a professional, so you will have to be careful, but he is still very young, which means that he is emotionally vulnerable. I want you to play on those vulnerabilities. You've slept with him?"

She looked down at the floor. "Yes," she said, in a very low voice.

"Good. Very good. From now on, you will sleep with no one else. You will continue to work in the saloon, but you will no longer dispense sexual favors for money. If anyone questions you about that, and they undoubtedly will, you will tell them that it's because you have met someone very special. The implication will be that you're in love, and that the man you are in love with is Neilson. That you have given up prostitution for him will be certain to have an effect upon him. It will make him trust you."

Jennifer would have no trouble following those instructions. She had always hated allowing men to use her and, after what happened with Scott, the thought of going back to those rough and smelly cowboys was unbearable.

"Be careful not to crowd him," Drakov continued. "I want you to do nothing that could arouse his suspicion, but I do want you to report to me concerning everything he does and whom he sees. Especially anyone newly arrived in town. I'll have him watched, so I don't want you following him. But when you're with him, pay close attention to everything he says. If he asks you about Stone and Bailey, as he most assuredly will, play on his suspicions. You have already made a good beginning. Emphasize that both men have not been in Tombstone long and little is known about them, only be subtle. In particular, direct his attention at Ben Stone. You've been with Stone. Tell Neilson that there was something about him that seemed foreign somehow, something more than a little frightening, though you couldn't put your finger on it. Tell him he was cruel."

"He was," said Jennifer. She shuddered. "The things he made me do. . . ."

"Tell him that," Drakov said. "The way you just told me. With that little shiver of disgust. It's perfect. Neilson will ask what sort of things. Any man would. Only you will refuse to go into any details. You will beg him not to press you on the subject. It's painful and humiliating. Neilson's imagination will supply the rest.”

“Master forgive me, but is there no chance that you could be mistaken about him?"

Drakov stared at her and frowned. "Mistaken?"

"It's . . . it's just that he seems so nice . . . so kind . . . so gentle. . . . It seems, so hard to think of him as an enemy."

"Ah. I see," said Drakov. "Do not allow his manner to deceive you, Jennifer. Naturally, he will not seem as coarse and rough as the men that you have grown accustomed to. He comes from another time. He is much more hygienic, more educated, more refined. That is only to be expected. His attitudes toward women are much different from those of the men you'll find in Tombstone. But take care not to let that influence you. Do not underestimate him. You have already seen that he is an accomplished killer. Think about that and not his gentle manner. If he were to discover what you really are, he would kill you without the slightest hesitation. Remember that."

Jennifer felt a chill run through her. "I . . . I will remember."

Drakov nodded. "Good. You have done well. Now go."

Jennifer turned and left the room. She was escorted back to the chronoplate and she stepped into its field. The border circuits flashed and she disappeared, to another place and time.

George Spangenberg's gun shop wasn't much to look at, merely a small store with wood-plank floors and walls, a few wooden chairs, a cracker barrel and three glass-topped display cabinets, but to Scott, it was like entering a wonderland.

The racks behind the counters displayed Winchester rifles, carbines and shotguns, and even a few Sharps buffalo rifles chambered in .50 caliber.

The holster rigs gave off the pleasant smell of brand-new leather. Some were made in the Territorial style, covering the entire gun except for the grips, so that the weapon sat very low in the holster. It was not a rig designed for a fast draw, but it provided greater security for the weapon. Others were cut slightly lower, such as the Main and Winchester holsters designed for percussion revolvers and the slim, open-bottomed holsters for metallic cartridge pistols. There were doubled-looped, Texan-style holsters, with wide leather skirts, some in plain, smooth leather, others border-stamped with decorations or carved with floral designs. The belts were looped for cartridges, some made in smooth leather, others in roughout, some plain and others carved, some sewn as money belts, so that coins could be slipped into them through an opening behind the buckle. There were leather carbine scabbards for carrying a rifle on a saddle, military-style flap holsters and leather pouches, handsome silver buckles and even Civil War belts with the letters "C.S.A." on the buckles. Union buckles with the letters "U.S." on them were conspicuously absent. But the guns in the display cases were what really caught Scott's attention. There was a profusion of Colt Single Action Armys, chambered in .45 and .44-40 calibers, most with the longer, seven-and-a-half-inch barrels, blued with color case-hardened finish and oil-stained walnut grips. There were a few Colts that would become known to future-era collectors as "U.S. Marshalls," those made under government contract and stamped on their wood grips with the date of manufacture and the government inspector's cartouche, as well as with the letters "U.S." on the left side of the frame. There were Colt and Remington derringers and pocket pistols, percussion pistols that had been converted to fire metallic cartridges, Smith & Wesson top-break revolvers, sidehammers, Colt Navys and Remington revolvers and even a couple of cased Walker Colts.

These monsters, with nine-inch barrels and a weight of four pounds and nine ounces, chambered in .44 caliber, were the largest production handguns Colt had ever made, named in honor of Captain Samuel Hamilton Walker, the Texas Ranger who had helped design them. When fired, they sounded like a howitzer going off. There were only about a thousand of them made. They were the rarest of all Colt pistols and Scott burned to have them for his collection.

"Help you, sir?"

The man who'd spoken was a small, trim, slightly bookish-looking individual who looked to be in his late forties. He had a receding hairline and wore little, round, wire-rimmed glasses and a leather apron over a white shirt and dark wool trousers.

"You'd be Mr. Spangenberg?" said Scott.

"No, sir. Mr. Spangenberg is out. I'm his assistant, Zeke Bailey. Is there something I can show you?"

"Oh, you're the gunsmith, then."

"Yes, sir."

"I was admiring these Walkers," Scott said. "Always wanted to get me a couple."

"I'm afraid those aren't for sale, sir. They are only for display purposes."

"I could make you a good offer."

"No. I'm sorry, sir, they're not for sale, as I said. They're my personal property. They belonged to my father. I couldn't possibly sell them. However, if you're interested in percussion pistols. I could show you some very fine Colt Navys that we have, just like Wild Bill Hickok's."

"No, I don't think so." Scott said. He would have liked to have them, but he reminded himself that he wasn't here shopping for his collection. "I think I need something a bit more practical."

"Well, then, you can't go wrong with one of these." said Bailey, opening up a display case, teaching in and taking out a Colt Single Action Army .45 with a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel, blued with a color case-hardened frame and walnut grips.

“I think I'd like a shorter barrel." Scott said.

"Ah," said Bailey, replacing the revolver in the case. "Something like this, perhaps?"

He took out a Colt with a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel, blued and color case-hardened, with dark walnut grips. It was also a .45.

Scott took it from him and examined it. He pulled back the hammer to half cock and slowly rotated the cylinder, holding the gun close to his ear and listening to the lockwork.

"I see you know your guns," said Bailey. "You're the Montana Kid, aren't you? I've heard about you. Heard you shot three men in the Alhambra the very first day you came to town."

"It was two men, in the Oriental," Scott said," and it was self-defense."

"Oh, I have no doubt that it was," Bailey said, hastily. "I merely wished to say that it's a privilege to have a shootist such as yourself in our store. In fact, I think we could even arrange a discount. I'll let you have that piece right there for twenty-five dollars and I'll throw in two boxes of cartridges."

"Sounds like a good deal to me," said Scott.

"Hear you use the crossdraw." Bailey said. "I have an unusual rig here that just might strike your fancy."

He turned around and took down a peculiar looking holster rig from a coat tree that was festooned with them.

"Fella came in about six months ago and ordered it made up special. Heard about that holster vest John Wesley Hardin used to wear and wanted a two-gun shoulder rig made up. Man was a greenhorn. You could tell straight off, but his money was just as good as anybody else's. When he picked it up, he put it on and stuck two brand-new Colts in it. Had them made up special too, ordered straight from the factory in Hanford. Had more money than sense, if you ask me. Right fancy lookin' things. Think I got 'em here somewhere."

He continued talking as he rummaged through one of the wood cabinets behind the counter. Scott picked the rig up and examined it, then took off his coat to try it on.

"Anyway," Bailey continued. Still looking through the cabinet, "he puts on that there rig, sticks his fancy Colts in it, and goes straight down to the Oriental. God only knows what the damn fool had in mind. And who does he run into but Doc Holliday. Didn't know who Doc was, though. Like I said, a real greenhorn. Anyways, Doc sees the guns beneath his open coat and asks him if he knows that there's an ordinance against going armed in Tombstone. And the greenhorn opens up his coat to show off those fancy gun' of his and says to Doc, so help me. 'Mister, I'd feel plumb naked without my shootin' irons.' Well, Doc just stares at him with his mouth open for a second and then commences laughin'. Pretty soon, the whole damn place is laughin' too and everybody's repeatin' what the greenhorn said. 'Mister. I'd feel plumb naked without my shootin' irons.' The greenhorn gets real hot under the collar and says to Doc. 'Mister, I don't take too kindly to been' sported with.' Well, this only makes Doc start laughin' even harder. He just about split his sides. Ah, here they are. . .”