Time Travel Adventures Of The 1800 Club, BOOK I Page 22

who just doesn’t have it.”

  Masterson had the look of a man deep in thought. “This does sound different from any dime novel I’ve read. It’s like looking into many a man’s soul. It’ll be like telling them, you can either stay here in the West, or be on your way. It’s going to be a rude awakening for many. It’s like the Roman Empire making gladiators. All can swing a sword, but just a few rose to the top and fame.”

  “Right, Will, its true journalism. No sugarcoating the cowboy with his six-shooter. He may be one in ten, twenty or fifty.”

  “Okay, Bill. I’ll work with you on this. What do you want me to do?”

  “There’s a second part to this, Will. I’d like to take an average man with poor shooting ability, teach him to shoot well, and then write about how his life changes. I’d like you to pick this man.”

  Masterson pulled his chair closer to Bill’s. “Pheww! That’s a tough one. That’d be like fingering a man who’s not up to snuff, so to speak. It’s sort of insulting him, telling him that we know he’s not as good as his neighbor.” He got up and walked to the coffee pot sitting on a potbelly stove. “Want some coffee? It’s just warm, got a low flame on, so we don’t melt the place.”

  Bill joined him and took a mug from the rack. Masterson poured two cups and swished the rest in the pot. “Chester, want the last cup? Still warm.”

  The elderly, gray haired man got up and walked slowly to the two men. He looked at Bill, pulled on his long, gray mustache and said with a smile, “Will’s a wily guy. He knows whoever finishes the last cup has to make a new pot.”

  Masterson smiled. “You’re in luck this mornin’, Chester. I feel the need for some real coffee today, not the kind you make. I’ll be making a fresh pot.”

  “Damn civil of you, Will, damn civil,” he said as he poured the last cup. Chester walked back to his desk and spoke over his shoulder, “To a real reporter, the story is everything, Will. Remember that. To get the story is the thrill. To nail down what no one else has, that’s the thing. The gentleman has a good idea. He needs an average gun handler and came to you.” He sat at his desk and looked at both men over his coffee mug. “I’d be the average gunslinger, but I’m over the hill. What this story needs is an average man with gumption. A man who would back up his thoughts even if he can’t shoot worth a lick. Will, I hate to say it, but you’re that man. I saw you take that big stick we keep to fix the print jams and whack a man on the head ’cause he cussed in front of some women folk. Didn’t bother you that he wore a six-gun. You’d be perfect for this story. Might even get ya’ a job in some big city paper.”

  Masterson shook his head, “Sorry, Chester, I’m the worst shot for miles around.”

  Here we go, thought Bill as he addressed Masterson, “This could be the answer, Will. If you are as bad a shot as you say, you’ll be perfect. And look at all the pluses. We don’t have to insult a towns person. Nobody would have to know you were taking lessons. And you’d get to be a better shot, too. You’re in a win-win situation. What do you say?”

  Will smiled. “A win-win situation? That’s a good one. Never heard it said that way before. Would it be you giving me lessons?”

  “No, not me, uh . . . my cousin,” he said with crossed fingers, ”I’ll be back in town in about two weeks and then we can start. Okay with you?”

  “Just so we have it straight, no one is going to know about this, right?”

  “Right. Just us. That’s a promise.”

  Chester cleared his throat. “Boy, does this ever mean the end of me making fresh pots o’ coffee. Hallelujah!”

  Bill and Masterson smiled.

  DATELINE: 2011, PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK

  Bill was back in the club in New York City. Man, I love time travel, he thought, but as the saying goes ‘there’s no place like home.’ As he removed his boots, Matt set down a pot of coffee and the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that Bill had asked for as soon as he arrived.

  “Pleasant trip, sir?”

  “Very. I think I found the source of the deviation in the time stream. Has Miss Emma Walters been in attendance during my absence?”

  “She was here the evening before last.”

  “Was it a large gathering?”

  “Sixteen members, sir. Tonight’s list shows thirty-seven reservations. As you know sir, a Friday brings in most of the members.”

  “Matt, I’m going to take a long hot shower and go to bed until 6 pm. I intend to be in attendance tonight.”

  Matt nodded and left with Bill’s Western clothes. His face showed that he was aware of their aroma.

  At the dinner that evening, Bill sat at the head of the banquet table. He had on a light gray, three-piece suit with a dark blue cravat at the neck of his starched white shirt. He wore white spats with his highly polished, black button-up shoes and had a dark blue silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. He felt refreshed and sharp. The diners were seated at a long table.

  The day’s newspaper headlines shouted about the poor workmanship of the Union’s rifles. The table conversation was mostly about the lathes being used by the Northern factories versus the European types.

  Jerome Thompson, who had money in a large firearms factory in New Jersey, claimed that the Europeans were paying large sums to spread rumors of their products being superior to the North’s. Nathan Hersey denied this loudly in his Cockney accent.

  All was fine in The 1800 Club, thought Bill.

  Seated at the middle of the table was Emma Walters. Bill nodded as he caught her eye. She returned his nod with a smile.

  After dinner, Bill broke away from a group of members discussing cotton prices and its production, which they thought would be key to the rebuilding of the South after the war.

  Seeing Emma Walters alone on the balcony, Bill grabbed two brandy snifters and made his way toward her.

  “Beautiful evening isn’t it, Miss Walters,” he said as he offered her the brandy glass.

  Taking it, she smiled. “Yes, it is. Have you been away on business, President Scott?” They touched glasses.

  “Yes, I have. And I’ll be going on another trip soon.” Bill liked the way the moon highlighted her blonde hair. “On our last conversation, Miss Walters, you promised me a demonstration of your gun handling. Does that invitation still stand?”

  “It does. When would like to see a demonstration, President Scott?”

  “Tomorrow is Saturday. Are you available on such short notice?”

  “I’ll make an exception for you, sir. Here at the club?”

  “That would be perfect. What time is good for you? If it’s around eight pm, I’ll have dinner set for us.”

  “Eight it is sir.”

  A group of people came out onto the balcony and joined them. This time the conversation revolved around the hot-air ballooning going on in France. Bill noticed that Emma slipped away before the last person left.

  The next evening, at eight o’clock sharp, Bill’s intercom buzzed. He reached over and punched the button. “Yes, Matt?”

  “Miss Emma Walters to see you, sir.”

  “Thanks, Matt. Please bring her up.”

  Two minutes later there was a tap at his door. Bill opened it and saw Matt with Emma. “Good evening, Miss Walters,” Bill said. “So nice of you to join me for dinner.”

  “Nice of you to invite me, President Scott,” Emma replied.

  Matt closed the door and left them alone in the apartment. Bill noticed that she was dressed in close-fitting cowhide pants and jacket while he was dressed in period clothing. She had a traveling bag with her. He went to a small bar by the window. “Drink?” he asked.

  She put the bag down by the bar, “Yes, a white wine, please.”

  He poured a white and red wine and handed her the white. He raised his and said, “To a good evening.”

  They touched glasses and she nodded. “Yes, to a good evening.”

  Each took a sip, and Bill looked at the bag she had brought. “Your equipment?”


  She nodded. “Yes, two Colt 1844 revolvers and their belt and holsters.”

  “The making of an interesting evening, Miss Walters.”

  Bill guided her to her seat at the small dinner setting. The table was located in his favorite spot: a bay window that allowed a view of New York City down to the Statue of Liberty and beyond. The fine-linen covered table was set for two, with china, cut glass and silverware from the period in which the club was set, with a tall candle set in a silver candleholder in the center.

  Emma exclaimed, “President Scott, this is overwhelming! The table and chairs, the settings, all from the 1800s, am I correct?”

  Bill nodded, “Yes, the table and chairs are 1863, and the settings and cutlery are 1864. Do you approve?”

  “Yes, I do. Very much, sir.”

  “Miss Walters, may I call you Emma?”

  She answered with a nod, “Yes, you may.”

  “In that case, I’m Bill. Please be seated.”

  Matt entered and served them crab bisque soup. The dinner consisted of trout, small potatoes and green beans with a white sauce. They finished and Emma smiled. “Trout, potatoes, green beans. Wow, all my favorites. Did you just guess?” she asked.

  “I try never to have to guess, Emma. I simply checked your past dinner requests. I hope you like strawberry ice cream for dessert.”

  “Again, my favorite. You did your research well, Pres. . . . I mean, Bill.”

  “Not as well as I should have, Emma. I totally missed the entry in your membership application that stated you were a quick-draw champion. I can’t wait to see your handguns, and