Bill checked his pocket watch, Five o’clock. He did a quick calculation and thought, we’ll pull into independence at eight o’clock, and I’ll rent a horse and be in Coffeeville by nine o’clock. The gang holds the banks up at 9:30. Boy, this going to be tight. Sure hope that there are no more delays.

  It was eight-twenty when Bill stepped onto the Independence station platform. Looking down towards the ticket booth he saw that beside himself, the only other passengers to get off the train was the ponytailed man and the curly haired woman.

  Bill got to the Ticketmaster’s window first and had to rap on the wooden bars to get him off the couch he was napping on. The elderly man slowly woke up and then slowly came to the window and said, “Sonny, don’t ya be thinkin’ that I’m sleepin’ on the job, I get breaks every four hours and I just close my eyes to relax them. Now,” he said as he picked up a roll of train tickets, “where are ya headin’?

  “I’m not going on a train, sir, I just wondered if there is a stable in town where I might rent a horse?”

  The man nodded as the ponytailed man stood behind Bill, “Yep! Jac Mac’s Stable is two streets down east. Can’t miss it, the place is painted red. Lots of people say it’s an eyesore, but I say . . .”

  “Thank you, sir,” Bill answered as he picked up his valise and asked as he showed him his ticket, “May I leave my valise here with you? I’ll pick it up on my trip back home.” The man took his valise and Bill stepped briskly away. One street from the stable he heard footsteps behind him and Bill turned to see the two from the train walking in the same direction that he was. Once at the stable he was relieved to see the door open and entered the cavernous structure. He laughed to himself, as the ticket clerk was right: everything inside and out was painted red.

  “Got a real good deal on the paint, partner.”

  Bill turned to see a big man in coveralls standing there. He had a huge black beard and mustache that seemed to dance when he spoke.

  “Townspeople think I’m mad painting everything red, but like I said, a big shipment of paint was left at the train station one day and nobody claimed it. After two weeks I offered the mayor to remove it if I could keep it. Well, he said yes so I took it back to the stable and after opening each can, realized that I suddenly owned two dozen cans of red paint. So rather than just leave it in the stable where everyone tripped over it, I decided to paint all that I could.”

  “Great story, friend. I need to rent a horse and heard this was the place to do that.”

  The man shrugged and said, “Usually is, but at the moment all my riding horses are out. But, I can rent you a horse and wagon. She’s a good horse just doesn’t like being ridden. Three dollars for the wagon and four for the horse plus another ten to make sure you bring them back and when you do, I’ll give you the ten back. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Bill said as he handed him the money and said, “Hate to be pushy but I’m in a hurry to get to Coffeeville.”

  “Come on over here and I’ll hitch her up for you in a jiffy.”

  Bill had the feeling that the other two were behind him and a glance over his shoulder told him he was right. They stood together waiting for the owner to finish up with him. The owner walked the horse and red wagon back to Bill and said, “You’re lucky, my friend. This is the last horse and wagon I have. My wife took one and so did the blacksmith.” He looked at Bill and added; “You will return her by sundown. Right?”

  Bill nodded, “Yes. Will you point the way to Coffeeville for me?”

  “Out the doors and go left on Main Street. Follow the road for about nine or ten miles and there you are.”

  “Excuse me,” said the woman behind them, “Did you say this was the last horse and wagon?”

  “Yep! Last one. Why? Were you two looking to rent one too?”

  “Yes! We must get to Coffeeville as fast as possible.”

  “Well,” the owner said as he tilted his head towards Bill, “This gent is going to Coffeeville and maybe . . . “

  Bill interjected, “The man is right I am going there and will gladly take you both along.”

  She turned to the man with her and he simply nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said to Bill, “We will gladly ride with you.”

  Bill climbed up and sat on the single wooden seat as the girl put her baggage on the floor of the flatbed wagon and then climbed up next to him. The time traveler watched as the elderly man seemed to step up and slide next to her in one easy motion. Boy, Bill thought looking at him, he’s going to roast dressed in that long black coat and hat.

  “I’m Bill Scott,” he said as he maneuvered the wagon out of the opened doors to Main Street.

  “Phoebe Anne Mosey, but most call me Phoebe and this here’s Mel. Thanks for allowing us to ride along with you, Bill.”

  Bill kept one eye on the road and the other on his pocket watch. He wasn’t the best at driving a horse and wagon and it showed every time they went into a rut. Finally, at nine-twenty the town of Coffeeville could be seen as they went over a hill. It was at nine twenty-three that a group of cowboys rode past them going in the same direction. The two men leading the group had thick black beards and long hair. Bill felt, rather than saw, Phoebe turn momentarily to Mel. He tried to get the horse to go faster.

  Once at the edge of town Bill said to the two passengers, “Listen, I’m going to stop the wagon near City Hall and walk to my meeting. If you need the wagon, take it but please park it near City Hall when you are finished. Okay?”

  Phoebe smiled and said, “We promise. Thank you so very much for the ride.”

  Bill stopped by City Hall and hopped off as Phoebe took the reins. He turned down Main Street as he took out his pocket watch and thought, Nine twenty-eight, now where the heck is . . . he stopped and saw the two banks. Okay, there are the two banks and . . . suddenly the group of men who passed them on the road came from an alleyway and three entered one bank while the other two went into the second bank. Bill knew that some citizens had already spotted the robbers and that Matt’s great grandfather would be walking towards where the fight would take place. He looked around as a shotgun blast shattered the bank’s window. The citizen’s of Coffeeville were all taking cover as they fired through the windows of both banks.

  Bill ducked as a stray bullet struck the street before him. Damn! I’m late! I should have been here hours ago and had Matt’s ancestor safely sidetracked. Suddenly he spotted his target, Matt’s great grandfather, James Worthington. He was next to a store with an open door and was creeping into the safety of the store.

  Bill started to run from door to door to get to him before the stick of dynamite rolled into the store he was in. A bullet struck the door’s lock, which broke off and hit Bill’s foot. He fell and tried to creep to the door when he spotted the miner hiding behind the horses’ water trough. Bill stood and was about to run towards him when an oil lamp hanging from the roof of the building he was near fell and exploded in a crescendo of flying glass and flames, forcing him back. He suddenly realized that the last shot came from behind him and turning he saw Phoebe standing on the wagon close to two streets away. He went to move forward when another bullet struck the heel of his boot sending him flying backwards and flat onto the wooden floor.

  Suddenly the miner raised his arm with the lit stick of dynamite. Bill knew it was too late for him to get to his friend’s ancestor. The miner swung his arm and as it hit the horse rail he lost his grip on the stick of dynamite and it sailed towards the open doorway of the store. Unable to do anything, Bill watched as another shot sounded from behind. The red stick was in mid-air when the sparkling fuse was suddenly separated from the dynamite in mid-air and fell harmlessly inside the store. Matt’s family line was secure. As fast as it started the gunfight was over and the robbers were all down.

  Bill stood and picked up his boot heel and hobbled back to the wagon. Phoebe was standing next to the carriage cleaning a long highly polished rifle as Mel held the horse steady.

  Bill asked as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, “Was this the reason that you two had to be in Coffeeville?”

  “Yes.”

  Bill turned to Mel who had answered. “So, you do speak?”

  “Yes, when I feel the need to.”

  Phoebe kept cleaning her rifle as she said, “Sorry about the oil lamp and your boot heel. I had to as you were getting in the way of my shot.”

  “You are a fantastic shot, Phoebe. Tell me did you miss the dynamite stick and hit the fuse by mistake or were you aiming at the fuse?”

  She grinned, “I aimed at the fuse.”

  “I do believe that we should leave town as the townspeople are looking at all strangers,” said Mel as he once again slid up and onto the seat in one fluid motion. Bill helped Phoebe up and sat next to her as Mel deftly turned the wagon around and headed out of town.

  “Tell me, “ asked Bill . . . “

  Mel looked straight ahead and answered the unasked question: “When we are in Independence and having a glass of wine all of your questions will be answered.”

  The ride back was smooth as silk as Mel seemed to have mastered the art of riding around the rocks and ruts of the road. Two hours later the three of them sat in a booth in The Golden Nugget, a bar in Independence. As it was just eleven fifteen, they were all alone.

  Bill raised his glass in a toast, “To Phoebe and her rifle.”

  She blushed as Mel said, “Here’s to ‘Little Miss Sure Shot.’”

  Bill’s eyebrows arched as he thought for a moment and then said, “’Little Miss Sure Shot?’ That was the nickname they gave Annie Oakley and she is a sharp shooter too. What’s the connection and how did you know about the dynamite?”

  She grinned and said to Mel, “May I answer that?”

  At his nod she said, “I am Annie Oakley. And after hearing Mel’s story I had to help him out.”

  “My friend,” Mel said to Bill, “What you are about to hear could be a challenge for you to comprehend.”

  “Try me.”

  Mel looked into Bill’s eyes and said, “I come from a time and place far from here. A place where one of the many names I am called is Merlin.”

  Bill sat back shocked and said in a low voice, “Please, continue.”

  “A long time ago before I mastered the powers I was given, I was trapped in a cave where rocks had fallen on my leg. I couldn’t get up or lift them and after five days I was resigned to my fate. I closed my eyes and suddenly felt someone wiping the dirt and sweat from my face. I opened my eyes and saw a young boy of seventeen who fed me some bread and wine. He then rolled the rocks off my leg and bathed it. I couldn’t walk and he came every day for a week until I was able to hobble along on a tree branch he cut for me. That young boy’s name was Matthew Worthington. I swore to him that I would forever watch over him and his family for as long as I was on this earth. And I have. Although many times the challenge is so great, I ask them if they are ready to leave this earth. But I have never failed them.”

  “So why did you bring Annie along?”

  “My powers are limited and many times I ask a prominent person for their help. This time I had the option of getting here earlier and having Mister Worthington take another path, but realizing that I might not get here soon enough, I brought an associate along. This time it was Annie Oakley. I knew that she could help me from a distance and as it turned out, we did need her.”

  “So,” asked Bill nervously, “you know about me?”

  “Yes. And the work you and Matt Worthington do for a future group. I also have a small group of my own to help me with my promises and Annie is but one of them.”

  Bill shook his head, “And you must travel as I do? Take the local transportation rather than just appear where you are needed?”

  “Yes. And at times the traveling is quite trying and I find that having another to help doubles the chance of completing the mission.”

  “So,” asked Bill with a shrug, “what happens next?”

  “Miss Oakley has a show in two weeks in New Orleans so I must escort her to there and then return to my time.”

  “So, we can travel together until New Orleans?”

  “Correct. And from there I can take a steamship home to England and between the three of us there will be hours of story telling.”

  DATELINE: OCTOBER 17, 1892 PLACE: TAXICAB, NEW YORK CITY

  Bill was trying to write a message inside of the cab as it barreled along Broadway in the pouring rain. The roof had a small leak that dripped first on Bill’s hand then on his knee followed by another on his hat. It was the sway of the cab that decided where the next drop would fall. He moved the hairbrush to the corner of the cab and wrote: HI MATT. BACK IN NEW YORK ON MY WAY TO PATTY DIAMOND’S BAR AND SHOULD BE THERE BY 3 PM OCT. 17, 1892. JOIN ME FOR A COUPLE OF BEERS?

  Within minutes, the answer came back: GREETINGS, SIR AND WELCOME HOME. I SHALL CHANGE AND MEET YOU IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. MATT.

  The cab pulled up and the driver quickly jumped down and opened the door with one hand while holding a big black umbrella above Bill’s head.

  “$1.50, sir.”

  Bill slapped a five-dollar bill into the young man’s hand and said, “Thanks for the ride and the umbrella. Listen, you should check out a small leak from the roof.”

  The driver glanced inside the cab’s interior and nodded as he said, “I shall, sir, I shall. Thank you so very much.”

  Bill opened the door to his favorite watering hole and thought as he took a high stool on the short end of the long mahogany bar, Boy oh boy, this has become my home-away-from-home. In here, I can be anybody I wish to be and anyone will accept it. Probably because they are also completely different than they seem. The bartender was a slim young man in his mid thirties. He walked down the bar and with a smile asked, “What can I get you, sir?”

  “Ballantine, please. Is Paddy off today?”

  “No, sir, he’s downstairs taking inventory. Do you want to see him?”

  “No, not if he’s busy.” Bill put his hand out, “Bill Scott.”

  The bartender shook his hand and responded, “Dave Cullen, pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “Bill is fine, Dave.” The barman walked to the center of the bar where the brass pump handles were located and selecting Ballantine, poured a large mug for Bill, walked back and placed it before him.

  Bill hefted the glass and took a long drink. “Dave, this is good!”

  “Just tapped that keg, Bill.”

  Bill grinned as the whiskers on the stuffed moose-head at the end of the bar waved back and forth in the drafts.

  There was a sudden flash of lighting and for a moment the entire bar was pure white rather than the off-yellow light provided by the hissing gas lamps. A loud clap of thunder quickly followed.

  Matt walked in shaking water off a large black umbrella. The two men shook hands as Matt took the high stool next to Bill.

  Dave came down the bar, “Good day, sir.”

  Bill did the honors, “Matt this is Dave Cullen and Dave this is Matt Worthington.” The two men shook hands and Matt pointed to Bill’s drink, “Ballantine, I imagine?”

  “Yep! Same?”

  Matt nodded and shortly he and Bill were clicking glasses. “Welcome home, sir. I hope all went as hoped?”

  “Matt, do I have a story to tell you.”

  “Is it about an ancestor of mine rescuing Merlin The Magician?”

  Bill looked shocked, “So you knew about Merlin?”

  “Yes, but never believed it to be true until we met on the street back in 1954. It seems that he is indebted to my family and whenever one of us is in trouble, he seems to appear and help us out.”

  “Well, he did a grand job on your ancestor back in 1892. He also stopped me from getting shot.”

  Matt hefted his glass, “Here’s to Merlin and the 1800 Club.” He took a long pull of his beer and said, “Oh, sir, by the way, a hologram appeared outside the door. I took it in and placed it on your coffee table.”

  Bill now lifted his glass, “Here’s to the next mission . . . and I do hope it’s local.”

  The 1800 Club

  The end is usually very apparent in a story, be it a book or movie. However in this case, although it is the end page-wise, it continues on in the 1800 Club. You see, The 1800 Club does exist in New York City, although, under a different name and address. I, Bill Scott, also exist as President and owner of the club, and the people I wrote of, all exist. Some of their names have been changed, as they do have a life outside of the club and they and the club must be protected.

  By now you are thinking, “This is a put-on, there is no club that can travel in time.” But, I ask you to look around. Isn’t history the same as you read it in your history books? Believe me, the club is working to keep it so. You the reader may ask, “Why is he admitting this?” To that I answer, “Why not?” Sometimes the best place to hide something is right out in plain sight. So, while admitting the club exists, the secret is as safe as saying it doesn’t exist.

  I intended to continue this narrative and tell you about some of the other missions the club has worked on, however, I have to interrupt this book at this point because I’ve just been alerted that there is a problem going on right now with another historic event. I do intend to document it, and others as they occur, in the next book, ‘Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club: Book X.’

  B.S.

  Note from Robert P. McAuley

  After each adventure in time, President Bill Scott dictates to me what occurred so I can write them down for posterity. He told me that, at this moment, there are more stories on hand and, as time goes on, who knows how many more there will be after that?

  We both hope you find the time to read them in Book X.

  Regards, Robert P. McAuley

  Please Feel Free To Critique This Book

  Other books by Robert P. McAuley

  Sky Ship

  Romance in a Ghost Town

  Vampire’s Bloodline