The Empire Page 17

  A bolt of terror fired through Kyle. He heard Grandma Annie’s voice in his head.

  You’d best get home to your wife.

  Padma was in mortal danger. Kyle had left her unprotected, hundreds of miles away.

  I must abandon the wagon train, he thought. I must ride back and rescue Padma—now!

  He realized the thought of waging war against the United States Army was completely insane. He would convince Padma or, if necessary, deliver her out of harm’s way against her will. Either way, they weren’t sticking around for the extermination.

  Kyle dropped the newspaper. Mr. Richards looked up from his parcels.

  Instinctively, the Special Forces operator scanned his surroundings for weapons—anything that might be useful to protect his wife.

  Kyle noticed the rifles on the wall behind the display case. One in particular caught his attention.

  “May I have a look at that rifle?” he asked. “The one with the scope.”

  Mr. Richards took down the rifle and handed it to Kyle. The repeating rifle was the only one with a scope—a rare find in 1890. Unlike compact modern scopes, this one was long and narrow, running nearly the entire length of the rifle barrel.

  “This is a…” Mr. Richards began.

  “… a Marlin 1881 with a Slotterbek scope,” Kyle finished. “It fires 45-70 government cartridges.”

  “Of course, you would know your weapons, Colonel,” said the shopkeeper.

  Kyle admired the beautiful specimen, with its polished wood and engraved silver receiver. He checked the rifle to ensure it was not loaded, then aimed it at the storefront window, spying on Pete through the scope crosshairs.

  “I just received it a few days ago,” said the shopkeeper. “Fellow used it for buffalo hunting. All the buffalo are gone though, so he gave up his rifle. Shame.”

  Kyle knew he was holding one of the most powerful rifles in the world in the year 1890, provided it had the right ammunition. With the proper ammo, and in the hands of a skilled marksman, the Marlin 1881 was one of the world’s best sniper’s rifles in that time, capable of hitting a target at over 1,000 yards. However, 45-70 government cartridges were as uncommon as the scoped rifle he was holding.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have 45-70 cartridges, would you?” asked Kyle.

  “Indeed I would,” beamed the shopkeeper. “The gun’s former owner sold me 10 boxes of ammunition along with this fine rifle.”

  “I’ll take them all,” said Kyle.

  Kyle looked at his watch, anxious to be on his way. As Mr. Richards finished wrapping up Padma’s robe and brushes, Kyle noticed the shopkeeper’s red book sitting on the display case next to the cash register. He picked it up. The illustration on the book’s cover was of a knight in armor riding a flying dragon. The book was titled A Yankee at the Court of King Arthur—one of the early titles of Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. The book had been published a year earlier. Kyle smiled as he realized that he was living in the same time as Mark Twain. He thought about the irony of holding an original of one of the first time-travel books.

  “Do you read Twain?” asked Mr. Richards.

  “I do,” replied Kyle.

  “I just received this book. I am thoroughly enjoying it,” the shopkeeper said.

  Kyle began to set the book down, then hesitated. He thought about the Connecticut Yankee, Hank Morgan, who used his knowledge of nineteenth-century technology to defeat a medieval army that vastly outnumbered his own.

  Mr. Richards saw a thought flash across Kyle’s face as he held the book. He assumed Kyle coveted the book. A troubled look momentarily crossed the shopkeeper’s own face as he pondered whether to offer up the unfinished book to his new best customer.

  “Colonel, I’m happy for you to have the book, gratis, to thank you for your patronage,” offered Mr. Richards.

  Kyle snapped out of his thoughts. “That is very generous of you, Mr. Richards, but I’ve already read it.”

  Kyle set the book on the counter. Mr. Richards smiled, relieved.

  “Mr. Richards, do you have paper and a pencil?” asked Kyle.

  “Coming right up!”

  Kyle hastily scribbled on the paper, then bolted for the door. Hoover, busy sniffing a sack of coffee beans, snapped up his head and ran after him.

  “Colonel!” the shopkeeper called after Kyle.

  “I’ll be right back!” Kyle shouted over his shoulder as he flew out the door crashing into two women walking the boardwalk.

  “Colonel!” the ladies exclaimed.

  “I am so very sorry, ladies,” Kyle said as he turned to run toward Pete. Hoover charged out the door and between the two women.

  “I declare!” exclaimed one of the women.

  “Pete!” Kyle yelled down the street. Pete came running.

  “Yessir, Colonel,” said Pete, out of breath.

  “I need you to go to the Homestake Mine and buy as much of this as you can get your hands on,” said Kyle.

  Pete read the note, then raised one leg, slapping his knee with his hand.

  “Dang, Colonel! You struck gold! I knew it!”

  “I can’t talk about it,” said Kyle. “Hurry!”

  Pete gave a high-pitched cackle as he scrambled away.

  Deadwood, SD

  September 16, 1890

  14:45 hours

  Timeline 003

  Pegasus, tied to a hitching post at the head of the wagon train, munched on an apple Kyle had given him. The big draft horses hitched to the lead wagon nickered covetously as they watched the mustang eat his apple.

  Kyle glanced at his watch. Pete saw that his client was anxious to get the wagon train underway.

  “Thirty minutes, Colonel,” Pete said, “and we’ll be ready to roll.”

  Kyle had aborted his knee-jerk plan to abandon the wagon train and ride Pegasus solo back to Standing Rock. He surmised that the express return in advance of the wagons might buy him a day, though he would risk a fortune in merchandise left in the hands of the complete strangers driving the wagons. When they eventually realized they were driving into Lakota territory, the chances were excellent that, without Kyle’s motivation, they would never arrive.

  Kyle deduced it would take time for the massive army stationed at Fort Yates, North Dakota, to move on Sitting Bull’s village. It would easily take dithering lawmakers in Washington a week or more to issue orders. From the point General Miles received his marching orders, it would take days to formulate a battle plan, muster troops, and make the 40-mile trek to Sitting Bull’s village. Even if scouting parties arrived in advance of the army, Kyle knew Takoda and the tribe would protect their messiah with their lives.

  Kyle eyed the last two wagons in the train. The materials Pete had procured from the Homestake Mine offered the faint glimmer of a defense against the coming storm. Though the odds of a successful outcome were very long, it was the only hope Kyle had to make good on his promise to Padma to protect the Lakota people.

  Pete had made arrangements for the wagon train to rendezvous with a cattle drive outside of Sturgis, 14 miles to the east. From there, they would continue east. Despite Pete’s persistent questioning, Kyle would not disclose the destination, only that the crew should plan for a week on the trail.

  Kyle was frustrated. The wagon train was already 30 minutes behind schedule.

  “Colonel, this wagon train ain’t gonna move any faster than it’s movin’,” said Pete. “You go on in to the Gem and get yourself a drink. We’ll be ready by the time you’re done.”

  Kyle glanced at the infamous Gem Variety Theater, a few doors down from the lead wagon. The Gem of 1890 was a sprawling entertainment palace compared with its original mining camp ancestor. The original Gem burned in the fire that had consumed most of t
he town in 1879. The new Gem was a large two-story building with a long upstairs balcony from which patrons could watch Main Street parades.

  The notion of downing a drink in one of the Old West’s most famous saloons tempted Kyle. He conceded that there was nothing he could do to make the wagon train move sooner. He had 30 minutes to kill.

  “All right,” said Kyle, resigned.

  Kyle pushed through the swinging bar doors. The saloon smelled of sweat, whiskey, and noxiously sweet perfume.

  To Kyle’s right, several men stood at a long wooden bar. Two of the men were chatting with women, haggling over the price of a trip to one of the upstairs bedrooms. Men huddled around three round tables, playing poker. To his left, at the far end of the large room, was a vacant stage. A pianist churned “Little Annie Rooney” out of an upright piano.

  The sights, sounds, and smells exhilarated Kyle’s senses. He sidled up to the bar.

  “What’ll ya’ have?” asked the bartender.

  “Whiskey,” replied Kyle, slapping a silver dollar on the counter.

  The bartender uncorked a bottle and poured a shot glass, leaving the bottle on the bar before walking away.

  One of the women at the bar eyed the silver dollar and abruptly ended her conversation to join Kyle.

  “Howdy, stranger,” the woman said with a grand smile. “You wouldn’t be Colonel Mason, would you?”

  Kyle estimated the woman to be in her late twenties. She was an attractive redhead with porcelain skin, blue eyes, and dimples that bookended full smiling lips. Her long hair was pulled up into a Gibson Girl pompadour, capped by a bun on top of her head. She wore a threadbare cranberry and black striped dress with an ample neckline that generously displayed her cleavage. A corset tightly constricted her waist, until her shape was liberated to flow into full hips.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” replied Kyle, returning the young woman’s smile.

  “My name’s Margaret. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Colonel. How long will you be in town?” she asked.

  Kyle glanced at his watch. “Twenty-seven minutes.”

  Margaret looked at Kyle incredulously and laughed.

  “Sakes alive! I’ve never before heard anyone speak about the time with such…exactitude.”

  Kyle smiled in return. “I’m anxious to get home…counting the minutes. Meanwhile, may I buy you a drink?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” said Margaret, motioning to the bartender for a second glass. Kyle poured Margaret’s drink.

  “What shall we drink to, Colonel?” asked Margaret, holding up her shot glass.

  “To seizing the day,” Kyle replied.

  “To seizing the day,” Margaret echoed with a delicious smile as they clinked their glasses.

  The final manic bars of “Little Annie Rooney” ricocheted off the saloon walls as the song drew to a close. The three-quarter strains of “Clementine” began to pour from the piano. The pianist hammered the song at a hectically cheerful tempo, crowding out its sadness.

  “Would you like to dance with me, Colonel?” asked Margaret.

  “Call me Kyle.”

  “Would you like to dance with me, Kyle?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Kyle said.

  She called out to the pianist, “Slow it down, Billy!”

  The pianist nodded. He was a young man with curly brown hair and a striped vest over a white band-collared shirt. The tempo of “Clementine” slowed, transforming its mood from coerced happiness into nostalgia.

  Margaret took Kyle’s hand and guided him to the vacant floor between the bar and the poker tables. Kyle took Margaret’s waist and hand as she placed her other hand on his shoulder. She felt the powerful body beneath his soft cotton shirt. She looked up into the handsome man’s face, smiling as Kyle led her into the waltz. Margaret began to laugh as they swirled around the floor.

  Conversations in the bar died down as men and working girls paused to watch the only couple on the floor. Something about the moment touched the spectators—the attractive couple, the dance, the song longing for a time that was gone and would never return. Perhaps it was something different about Margaret that captivated them. Though they thought they knew her well, they had never seen this particular shade of smile on her face before.

  “You are a very good dancer, Kyle!” Margaret said.

  “I have a feeling you tell everyone they’re a good dancer,” said Kyle.

  “I do,” she conceded. “Though sometimes I mean it.”

  “Where do you come from, Margaret?” asked Kyle, detecting the trace of an accent.

  “Massachusetts.”

  “You’re a long way from home,” Kyle observed.

  “Yes, I am, Kyle,” she said, adding a sad edge to her smile.

  “What brought you to Deadwood?”

  “A newspaper advertisement,” said Margaret. “For actresses for the Gem Variety Saloon. That and a one-way ticket was what got most of the girls out here. When we arrived, we found out that it wasn’t our acting skills that the establishment was interested in.”

  “I am so sorry, Kyle. I don’t know why I told you that,” she said. “I’m spoiling the ball.”

  “I’m glad you told me.”

  Kyle looked into Margaret’s eyes. It suddenly dawned on him that Margaret was dead. She had been dead for at least half a century.

  Margaret saw the thought flash across Kyle’s face.

  “What are you thinking, Kyle?” she asked.

  Kyle shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  She looked into his eyes. Her expression turned serious. “I just might believe anything you tell me, Kyle.”

  “Clementine” slowly wound to a close. Kyle and Margaret remained in their waltz embrace, looking into each other’s eyes. Margaret reached up to kiss Kyle on the cheek. She whispered into his ear, “Would you like to come upstairs with me, Kyle?”

  “I would love to, Margaret, but I’m married.”

  Margaret looked at Kyle with disbelief, then tossed her head back and laughed.

  “Kyle, can I tell you a secret?”

  “Yes.”

  She reached up to whisper into his ear again, “You would not be the first married man I’d ever been with.”

  Kyle laughed.

  “Anyway, I only have 17 minutes,” he said.

  “Most of my clients don’t take half that long,” she riposted.

  Margaret glanced up. Kyle saw her smile turn to worry. He turned to look. On the upstairs balcony, a man with a mustache and combed-over, greasy black hair glared at the couple with menacing eyes. Kyle knew it was the Gem’s infamous owner, Al Sweringen.

  “Kyle, it would be better for me if you came upstairs,” Margaret said, fearful of what Sweringen might do if she failed to turn an expensive trick.

  Kyle didn’t take his eyes off Sweringen. “I think it would be better for you if you came with me instead.”

  Kyle turned back to Margaret. Her jaw dropped in stunned surprise. Minutes earlier, her best case scenario was sex for money with a more-handsome-than-usual client. The possibility of freedom was beyond her imagination.

  Margaret’s expression turned to confusion and hurt as she permitted a rogue hope to escape that Kyle might actually be serious. She had crushed those dreams long ago.

  “Kyle, it would be cruel to play a trick on me,” she said, trying to stuff her feelings back where they belonged.

  “I’m dead serious,” Kyle said, looking Margaret in the eye.

  “Mr. Sweringen…he has a terrible temper,” Margaret said.

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “I just met you,” said Margaret.

  “Right.”

  Margaret stared at Kyle in
disbelief. She was given an impossible choice —whether to remain in the hell she knew versus taking a gamble with her life, placing it in the hands of a complete stranger. She had nothing to guide her decision but the look in the stranger’s eye.

  “All right,” said Margaret, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

  Kyle took Margaret by the arm and headed for the door. She darted to the bar to grab her handbag then rejoined Kyle.

  “Just where the fuck do you think you’re going?” asked Sweringen.

  “To a better life,” Margaret tossed over her shoulder.

  Kyle could feel Margaret shaking. Before they reached the swinging doors, a large man stepped in front of them. He had long, greasy brown hair and an unkempt beard. Suspenders held up brown pants, into which a blue and white striped shirt was tucked. He wore a Colt revolver on his thigh.

  “This life is as good as it gets for you, Margaret,” said Sweringen’s lieutenant, Dan Doherty.

  “Step aside,” ordered Kyle.

  “Fuck you!” shouted Doherty, reaching for his Colt.

  In the blink of an eye, Kyle punched the hollow of Doherty’s neck, crushing his windpipe. Doherty clutched his throat, gagging. He fell to the floor. His eyes bulged with terror as he struggled to breath.

  A man in a black western hat appeared outside the swinging saloon doors. He pulled his revolver before Kyle could react.

  “Get down!” the man shouted.

  Kyle pushed Margaret to the floor as the man fired over the top of the saloon doors, hitting the bartender in the chest. The bartender dropped a shotgun as the force of the blast knocked him against the wall, shattering glasses stacked neatly on shelves.

  The stranger pushed through the saloon doors, holding his pistol and carefully eying Sweringen and the others in the saloon. He glanced at the upstairs balcony to ensure he wouldn’t be bushwhacked by one of Sweringen’s men. The stranger had a dark brown mustache that spilled over his upper lip. Bushy eyebrows hung over dark eyes. He wore a charcoal-colored frock coat over a black and silver striped vest, a white band-collared shirt, and black pants.