TW12 The Six-Gun Solution NEW (12 page)

Bailey straightened up, holding a wood gun case in his hands. He set it down on the counter.

"So the greenhorn says to Doc, real mad now, 'Mister, you stop that laughin’ right now or I'll drill you so full of holes you'll look like a fountain every time you take a drink.' Well. as you might imagine, that only made things worse. Doc was laughin' so hard, he had tears cumin' from his eyes. He's leanin' up against the bar and slappin' it with his hand and the whole place is in an uproar. So the greenhorn, God help him, goes to jerk his pistols. Only as he tries to cock and draw them both at the same time, the butts knock into each other and the guns go off, both of 'em. One bullet goes into the floor, the other one goes right into the greenhorn's foot. He screams and falls down, grabbin' his foot, and Doc falls down too, 'cause he's laughin' so hard he starts himself to coughin'. They had to get a couple of the boys to carry the greenhorn to Doc Warren's to get his foot fixed up and as soon as he was able to get up and about, he took the next stage out of town. Don't think he stopped till he got clear back to New York City. Sold me back the rig and fancy guns before he left. I paid maybe one-tenth what they were worth. Don't know what you'd think of them. They're right fine guns, but you might find them a bit gaudy. . .”

He opened up the case and Scott almost gasped

The silk-lined case held a matched pair of Colt Single Action Army .45s with four-and-three-quarter-inch barrels. They were silver-plated and profusely engraved, with scrollwork even on the barrels and the hammers. The grips were finely engraved pearl. They were the most beautiful guns Scott had ever seen. Not so much weapons as works of art.

"Good Lord," he said.

"Yeah, like I said, they're a bit gaudy," Bailey said, "but I could make you a good deal on 'em. Figure seventy-five dollars, for the whole kit and kaboodle. Guns and holster rig. I'll even throw in a couple boxes of cartridges."

Seventy-five dollars! Scott held his breath. The holster rig would have some curious collector value, but the guns would be almost priceless. He could retire from the service a rich man from what he could get from a collector for just one of them.

"Well, I don't know." he said, picking up one of the guns and examining it critically. "They certainly are a little on the showy side, aren't they?"

"Well, anybody else might get a little ribbing with a rig like that." said Bailey, "but I figure a serious shootist like yourself could carry them off without much trouble. And they'd be something that could add to your reputation, you know, like Bill Hickok and his brace of Navys. Tell you what. I'll let you have the whole thing for sixty dollars and it's a steal at that."

"All right," said Scott, barely able to hide his excitement.

"Hear tell you're a good hand with a knife, as well." said Bailey. "Don't know as you'd be interested, but if you'd step over to this display case over here. I've got a few that I made up. Be anxious to see what you might think of 'em."

Scott walked over to the other ease and once again, he caught his breath.

The case held a number of Green River-style knives, popular among Buckskinners, as well as several large Bowies with staghorn grips, all extremely well-crafted specimens, but the blade that caught his eye was one forged of Damascus steel. It was a seven-inch stiletto with a rib running down the length of the entire blade, giving it strength. It had a narrow wood handle, flaring slightly at the middle and tapering at the ends and toward the guard. It was completely useless for skinning or any other task but one. Killing. Except for being forged of Damascus rather than stainless steel, it was an exact copy of the famed Fairburn-Sykes commando knife used in World War II.

He was suddenly aware that Zeke Bailey was watching him carefully from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.

"What do you think?" he asked.

“That one in the middle,” Scott said. "I've never seen a knife like that before."

Bailey took it out of the display case and handed it over to him. "Don't know that I have either," he said, in a neutral tone. He shrugged. "The idea just sorta came to me one day. George, he took one look at it and said he couldn't see what use a knife like that would be. Said it would make a lousy skinner and thought it might break likely as not, but I made it pretty strong."

"I don't guess you'd use a knife like this for skinning." said Scott, feeling the perfect balance of the blade.

"Though it might make a nice boot knife for a gambler." Bailey said," or somebody who might want a knife like that for serious business."

"It looks serious, all right," said Scott.

"It's balanced so as you can throw it," Bailey said, he pointed to a wood target mounted on the wall across the room. “Go ahead. Give it a try."

Scott grabbed the knife by the blade, holding it not by its point, but so that his hand was along the side of it, fingers on the central rib. He threw it in a smooth, practiced motion. The knife struck the target dead center.

"Guess you are a good hand with a knife at that," said Bailey.

Scott went over to the target and pulled the knife out "How much do you want for this?" he asked.

"Well, it's a one-of-a-kind," said Bailey. "Twenty dollars."

"That's a lot of money for a knife," said Scott.

"It's a lot of knife. And I've got a leather sheath goes with it.”

“All right." said Scott "I'll take it. What do you call a knife like this?"

"I figured I'd call it a Bailey fighting knife." He shrugged. "Rezin Bowie made a knife up for his brother Jim and now everybody knows it as a Bowie knife. Maybe someday everyone will know that kind of knife as a Bailey. You never know."

"You never know," said Scott. "There might be a fair chance of that."

Bailey showed no reaction to his use of the word "fair." as in Fairburn.

Scott paid for his purchases.

"Gunsmithing, knifemaking—you're a talented man, Mr. Bailey."

"Just tryin' to make a livin'," Bailey said. "And call me Zeke.”

"Where you from, Zeke?"

"Oh, here and there, I've traveled some. Grew up back East, on a horse farm in Pennsylvania. Ever been there?"

"Can't say as I have," Scott replied. "Never been back East. You been in Tombstone long?"

"Not too long." Bailey replied. "But I kind of like it here. Lots of opportunities for a man in a boomtown like this. What brings you to Tombstone?"

"I came to look up some friends of mine," said Scott, "but all three of them were killed out at their claim."

"Heard about it." Bailey said, nodding. "Damn shame."

"Yeah."

"You lookin' to find who did it?"

"You have any ideas?"

"Could've been anyone, I guess. Maybe somebody only passin' through."

"Maybe," Scott said, "but somehow. I don't think so. I have a feeling that whoever killed them is still around." He casually inspected some of the guns in the display cases. "I figured I'd stick around a bit and see what I can turn up. Might be somebody knows something. Sure do have
a nice
selection here. Zeke. Say, isn't that one of those new Colt bisley target models?"

"A Bisley?” Bailey said, with a frown. "No, that can't be. They didn't make those until . . “ His voice trailed off.

"Until 1894," said Scott, softly. "That's thirteen years from now."

Bailey swallowed hard.

At that moment, the door to the shop opened and the proprietor. George Spangenberg, entered. "See we got us a customer, Zeke," he said. "Say, aren't you the Montana Kid?"

"That's right," said Scott, not taking his eyes off Zeke Bailey, who was suddenly perspiring. "I just told Zeke here I was admiring your selection. He sold me some nice guns." He held up the knife. "Bought one of his knives, too."

"Is that right?" said Spangenberg, with mild surprise. "Heck, and I told him we'd never sell that thing. No damn good for skinning. I told him. Not much you can do with a knife like that 'cept stick it in somebody."

"Be a pretty good knife for that, though," Scott said. He smiled at Zeke.

"You might even say it's ahead of its time." He touched the brim of his hat. "Be seein' you, gents."

"Stop in anytime, Kid." said Spangenberg.

Scott paused by the door. "I'll do that. Nice talkin' to you, Zeke. We'll have to do it again real soon."

"Seemed like a nice fella," Spangenberg said, after Scott had left. "Heard he shot four men over at the . . . say, Zeke, you fellin' all right'? You look white as a sheet."

"Okay. people, we've got a problem. According to 'history, there was never anyone known as the Montana Kid in this temporal scenario. So who the fuck is he?” Tim O'Fallon looked around at the men stated at the table in the ranch house. He was young, slim, and good looking, with dark hair and a neat moustache. His eyes were large and expressive. His features were not entirely his own. They had been altered with cosmetic surgery to match the features of the man whose place he'd taken, a man who now lay buried in an unmarked grave in the Chiricahau Mountains a few miles outside of Galeyville.

"Could be just another young gun out trying to make a rep for himself." said one of the other men. "Somebody only passing through, someone who never achieved any real notoriety.”

"I don't buy it," said O'Fallon. "Word is he's greased lightning with a gun. They say he's even faster than Wyatt Earp. It's hard to believe someone like that could have been a complete historical nonentity. What's more, both the Nugget and the Epitaph reported that shooting in the Oriental, when he killed Carter and Demming. And according to our research, neither paper ever made any mention of anyone known as the Montana Kid. So we're looking at a temporal anomaly. The question is, exactly what kind of an anomaly does he represent? It's possible that he could be the result of a disruption of some sort that occurred earlier in the timestream. Or he could be T.I.A. Or even S.O.G."

"He's been asking around about those three miners who were killed," one of the others said. "Word is they were friends of his."

"Friends? Or fellow agents?"

“You think those three might have been Observers?"

"It's possible. Or they could have been advance scouts for the S.O.G. Which makes their deaths much more significant. If they were Observers, then was the S.O.G. responsible? If so, then how did they manage to penetrate their cover when we couldn't? And if they were S.O.G., then who the hell killed them?"

"Maybe it was Temporal Intelligence," one of the other Network men said.

"Again, it's possible. But that means they would have had to discover their presence here somehow. If that's the case, then what tipped them off that we missed? And if the T.I.A. sanctioned those three men, then why is the Kid here asking questions?"

"Maybe the Kid is S.O.G."

"You think maybe Bailey killed them?” another man asked.

"I find that hard to believe," O'Fallon said. "Bailey's afraid of his own shadow. I can't believe he would have done anything like that without consulting me. He simply hasn't got it in him. We've got too many unanswered questions. I don't like that."

"You think we should put off the stage job?"

O'Fallon thought a moment. "No. No, I don't think so. There's a good shipment of bullion going out and I don't intend to miss it. Besides, it might help force the issue. All we've got to go on for the moment is the Kid. How he responds to the robbery might tell us something. "

"I still think we should waste him, just to be on the safe side. Demming's dying for a crack at him. He almost got him the other day at the hotel If it wasn't for Doc Holliday—"

"From what I hear," said one of the others, "even if Holliday hadn't been there, the Kid might still have taken out both Demming and Mclaury."

"So send Curly Bill along next time. He's been asking if the Kid's really as fast as people say. And Slim Carter was a friend of his. He's been wanting a chance to go into town and check the Kid out for himself.”

"No, let's wait until after the stage job." said O'Fallon. “For now, the word to all the cowboys is to keep away from the Montana Kid. I don't want to do anything about the Kid until we know more about him Meanwhile, get word to Bailey that—“

There was a loud knocking at the door.

"Paul, go see who it is," O’Fallon said.

A moment later. Paul came back in. "It's Bailey," he said. “He just drove up in his rig. He insists on seeing you. Curly Bill's outside with him."

"Damn it," said O'Fallon. "I told him never to come here. All right, bring him in."

Paul went back out and returned with a very worried-looking Zeke Bailey.

"What the hell's the matter with you. Bailey?" said O’Fallon . "I told you I didn't want you coming here."

"I'm blown," said Bailey.

O’Fallon frowned. "
What
?"

"It's the Kid," said Bailey. "He knows. Christ, I need a drink.”

"Paul, get Zeke a whiskey." said O’Fallon. "Okay, now slow down and let's have it."

"He came in today and bought some guns," said Bailey. “I sold him a shoulder rig. And then I showed him the knives, like you said. He wanted to know about the Fairburn-Sykes right away, but I wasn't sure about him. He just seemed curious. I didn't see any recognition there and I was watching him carefully." Paul handed him a drink and he gulped it down. "Thanks. I needed that."

“Go on." said O’Fallon

"I told him to go ahead and try it out. He threw the thing and hit the target dead center. He decided to take the knife, even though it was the most expensive one in the case. But I just couldn't be sure about him. He asked some questions, like how long I'd been in Tombstone, where I came from, that sort of thing. And then he tricked me up.”

"What do you mean?"

"He was just sort of talking, and he was looking at some of the guns in the display cases. He stopped at this one case and seemed to be looking at one of the guns. Asked if it was one of the new Colt Bisley target models. It took me off guard and I just blurted out that it couldn't be, because Colt didn't make the Bisleys until. . . and then I caught myself and he was standing there, staring at me, and he said ‘. . . until 1894. That's thirteen years from now.' And just then Spangenberg came back in and the Kid left. But he said we'd have to talk again real soon. I told Spangenberg I was feeling sick and came right over to tell you.”