The Six Gun Solution

4

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 amp; 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..

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 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.-

“You idiot,” said O’Fallon. “He probably followed you right here.”

“No, I was real careful. I made sure…

“You made sure,” O’Fallon said, with disgust. “You never would have spotted him. He’s probably sitting out there somewhere right now.”

“I had to come,” protested Bailey. “Look, you told me that if something like this ever happened, you’d get me out. I’ve done everything you said. O’Fallon. I’ve exposed this guy for you. “

“Exposed him?” said O’Fallon, wryly. “What you’ve done was to expose us, you fool. You probably led him straight to us. Paul, I want security doubled right away.”

“Got it,” Paul said, as he turned to leave the room.

“No, wait… O’Fallon said. “All he knows is that Bailey came straight here. He still doesn’t know who he came to see. If he’s out there watching and he sees increased security, that will only give away the operation. Let’s keep him guessing. At this point, all he knows about for sure is Bailey.”

“You said you’d help me, O’Fallon.” Bailey said. “You promised!”

“You’ve put me in an awkward situation, Zeke.”

“All right, at least give me back my warp disc!” Bailey pleaded. “I can’t take the chance of staying around. He knows about me now I’ve got to get out of here!”

“Yes.” said O’Fallon. “I can’t afford allowing you to be interrogated. You simply know too much.”

Bailey paled “Oh, Jesus Christ… you… you’re not going to kill me?”

“You haven’t given me a great deal of choice. Zeke,” O’Fallon replied.

Bailey swallowed hard. “O’Fallon, please… you don’t have to do this. You don’t know for sure that I was followed. But if I was, and he doesn’t see me leaving here, he’ll know. He’ll know for sure!”

“Yes, I’m afraid you have a point.” O’Fallon said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “So what do you suggest I do, Zeke?”

“Give me back my warp disc,” Bailey said. “I’ve got Underground contacts in other time periods who can help me. I’ll never say anything about you or your operation. I swear to God. If I did, they’d cut me off, you know that. They wouldn’t want to risk exposure.”

“Yes, that’s true enough.” O’Fallon said.

“I’ll leave here and start driving back toward town.” said Bailey. “There’s still plenty of daylight, I’ll see the Kid coming if he’s out there. If he gets anywhere near me, I’ll just clock out. He’ll never know where I went. Otherwise, I’ll wait till I get back to my place and clock out from there.”

O’Fallon thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know.” he said. “It’s risky.”

“I won’t let him take me, I swear to God I won’t.”

For a long moment, O’Fallon didn’t speak.

“O’Fallon… “ Bailey said, his voice barely above a whisper. “ Please…”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Zeke,” said O’Fallon. “I’11 send Paul with you. I’ll give him the warp disc I took from you. Perhaps we can turn this situation to our advantage.”

“I’ll do anything you say,” said Bailey.

“Go back to your place, Zeke.” O’Fallon said. “Paul will ride along. I don’t think the Kid will try anything if you’re not alone. He won’t be certain of the situation. If he’s out there somewhere, and I’m betting that he is, he’ll follow you to your place, hoping to catch you alone. Paul will escort you that far, then he’ll continue on to town. In the meantime, we’ll clock some of the boys ahead to your place and see if we can’t arrange a nice reception for the Montana Kid, whoever the hell he is. If we’re lucky, we might even take him alive.”

“What about me?” asked Bailey.

“After you’ve done your part, you’ll be free to go.” O’Fallon said. “Frankly. I couldn’t care less what happens to you.”

Bailey looked enormously relieved, do whatever you say, O’Fallon.”

O’Fallon nodded. “All right,” he said. “Paul, you go with Zeke. Steve, Randy, Allan, you’ll pick up your ordnance and clock over to Bailey’s place. At least now we know for sure the Kid is from the future. Let’s see if we can find out which future.”

As the men started to leave, O’Fallon said, “Steve…”

The man named Steve hesitated, waiting till the others had left.

“When Bailey gets back to his place,” said O’Fallon softly. “kill him.”

Scott watched from the ridge as Bailey’s rig drove out through the gateposts of the ranch. He saw that Bailey was not alone. There was another man with him in the rig, his saddled horse tied to the back and following along. They took the road heading back toward town.

This wasn’t what he’d hoped. He had hoped to catch Bailey coming out alone. The fact that he was not alone alerted him. Bailey had gone straight from Tombstone to the Clanton ranch. Interesting, thought Scott. Very, very interesting. It looked as if someone among the rustlers was not who he appeared to be. Maybe them were several of them. Only who? The Clantons themselves? The McLaurys? Ringo’? Brocius? One or more of their hired hands’? It could be any of them. He had no way of knowing. Not unless he could get Bailey alone to question him.

He had read Bailey exactly right. He had gone straight to whomever he was working with. Only who were they? The Special Operations Group? The Underground?

The Network’? The smart thing to do, he thought, would be to wait until Priest.

Cross and Delaney showed up. Only he wasn’t sure when they would be clocking in.

Perhaps they were already in Tombstone. But meanwhile, he was alone out here and he hated to take a chance on Bailey running, perhaps clocking out to some other time period. He had blown his cover purposely, setting himself out as bait, but if he could question Bailey, he could improve his chances of survival by learning where the attack might come from. The man with Bailey could be one of them. Or he might simply be one of the cowboys. There was no way of knowing. And when you don’t have enough information. Scott told himself, the best thing to do is to do nothing.

He was sorely tempted to follow them, but he realized that could be exactly what they were expecting him to do. They could be trying to draw him into a trap. Whoever they were, he was at a disadvantage. They might try to catch him on the road or lead him into an ambush. It was possible they were unaware that he had followed Zeke, if that was really his name, but he was not about to take that chance. Better to gamble on the opposition being smart, not stupid. He had already discovered two valuable pieces of information-that Zeke Bailey was not what he appeared to be, and that whoever he was working with was involved somehow with the Clanton ranch.

The Network, he thought. It had to be. The whole setup had all the earmarks of a Network operation. He knew the Clantons were involved in rustling. They were part of a large outlaw faction that included the McLaury brothers, Johnny Ringo, and Curly Bill Brocius. Most of them were ranchers, people who had been here before the silver boom, and with the proximity of the Mexican border, rustling had grown commonplace. Men from both sides of the border frequently conducted rustling raids for horses and cattle. The rustled stock could then be cheaply sold to other ranchers in the area, to augment their herds and to be consumed in Tombstone. Consequently, rustlers frequently found a warm welcome at most of the ranches in the area and they often went out of their way to ingratiate themselves with local ranchers, who were, after all, their market. Many people in Tombstone and its environs did not really consider the rustlers outlaws. But that was slowly changing.

As Tombstone grew, it was inevitable that certain of its citizens would come to view the rustlers as a disruptive element. The community was polarized. There were those to whom the rustlers were their friends, hard-working cowboys just trying to make a living. And there were others to whom they represented a potential threat. Especially as it was just one short step from stealing stock to robbing stages, with their cargo of silver bullion.

It was a perfect setup for the Network. Not one of their large-scale operations, obviously, but nevertheless one that afforded the opportunity for easy profit with a minimum of risk. How hard would it have been for them to infiltrate the rustlers and nudge them toward robbing stages? Or perhaps keep them out of it entirely and simply use their rustling operations as a cover for robberies of silver bullion? Either way, it would be relatively simple. A small operation, with no overhead to speak of, that would produce untraceable assets that could readily be liquidated. The Special Operations Group would not be interested in anything like that.

If there was a confluence point somewhere in this temporal sector, then it would be all the more reason for the S.O.G. to maintain a very low profile. They would set up a base of operations, carefully concealed, from which they could patrol the confluence point and stage hit-and-run operations in other temporal sectors. It would make sense that they would want to keep their involvement with the locals at a minimum. On the other hand, if it was the Network, then it would make sense for them to station someone like Zeke Bailey in town, keeping an eye on all new arrivals. That would explain the seemingly careless act of having a Fairburn-Sykes commando knife on display in the store. Most people in this time period would react to it the way George Spangenberg had. A knife that simply wasn’t very useful for anything except maybe “sticking” people. Anyone with any sense would choose a skinner or a Bowie. To people in this time sector, a knife like that would simply not appeal. But if anyone showed a marked curiosity about it. it could signal a warning.

What bothered him was Bailey. A Network man, it seemed to him, would have been too professional to have made that slip about the Bisleys. Bailey was a bundle of nerves. He simply did not fit the profile of a Network agent. But then, maybe he wasn’t. At least, not part of the inner group. The Network was not above recruiting outsiders, often using criminals from the 27th century in their varied operations. They had contacts in the Temporal Underground, as well. Bailey could be a deserter from the future who was working for them. And, as such, he would be easily expendable.

The question was, what would they do now that they knew he’d broken Bailey’s cover and revealed his own? Would they move against him or would they rush to shut down their operation in this sector and clear out? Much as he wanted to nail them. Scott had to recognize that the preservation of temporal continuity came first. If he alarmed the Network into shutting down and moving out, it would, in effect, have accomplished the primary goal of his mission. It would eliminate a potentially disruptive influence in this temporal sector. Taking the Network people into custody would be highly desirable, of course, but his first priority had to be safeguarding temporal continuity.

What would Forrester want him to do? The Old Man would not want him to take any unnecessary risks. He’d want him to wait until the others had arrived and convey what he had learned to Colonel Priest, who would take command of the mission. Much as he wanted to make a try for Bailey. Scott knew that the smart thing to do, for now, would be to wait.

“Play it safe. Neilson.” he said to himself, out loud. “Keep a rein on it and play it safe.”

He released the horse he’d rented and slapped it hard on the rump, sending it running down toward the road. It would make its way back to the corral in town. He’d clock back, to avoid any risk of being ambushed on the road, and simply say the horse had shied at a snake or something and had thrown him just outside of town. Then he’d wait and see who came for him. Would it be Wyatt Earp, unpersuaded by Doc Holliday and intent on seeing him on the next stage out of town? Would it be Demming, intent on avenging his brother’s death? Or would it be the Network?

He grimaced, wryly. This was playing it safe?