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.”