The Time-Traveling Outlaw

Copyright © 2016 Macy Babineaux. All Rights Reserved.

Sally Macintosh was riding in her wagon back from town, heading home to the ranch where she lived alone when she saw the strange flash of light near the road up ahead.

“What was that?” she said to Maisy, the old Palomino pulling her wagon. “Was that lightning, old girl?”

Sure didn’t look like it. There wasn’t a cloud in the Texas sky today, and lightning usually didn’t start from the ground and work its way up into the sky. It also usually wasn’t an odd pinkish-blue.

She kept her eye on the spot where she’d seen the flash, but she had plenty else on her mind without worrying about otherworldly lights. The wagon was loaded with badly-needed supplies, which she almost hadn’t been able to get.  

  Just an hour ago, she had handed the list of things she need to Gus Popper, owner of the only general store in Lockdale, and begun to take the money from her coin purse. But Gus had scratched his head, hemmed and hawed, and eventually said:

“I’m sorry, Miss Macintosh, I can’t sell you these items.”

“
Miss
Macintosh?” she had said. “Gus, you’ve known me all my life. Call me Sally, please. And why can’t you fill my order?”

His wife Harriet had been sweeping the back, watching the exchange with narrowed eyes.

Gus’s rheumy eyes had been filled with tears. “I’m so sorry,” he had said. “But I reckon you know why.”

And she did. It was Sturgess. Camden Sturgess. It wasn’t bad enough he had murdered her husband William. She couldn’t prove that, but she knew it. So did everyone in the county. He had his greedy tentacles in everybody’s business, and he wanted the land that she and William had planned to turn into a home.

Sturgess had offered them pennies on the dollar, and William had refused. Now he was dead. Sally refused to sell as well, and now Sturgess was doing everything in his power to make her life a living hell, including strong-arming poor old Gus Popper into not selling her the things she needed. She couldn’t blame Gus. Sturgess would probably burn the store to the ground if Gus didn’t play along. He was that kind of a man, though he would never do the dirty work himself. He had other men for that.

“That’s all right, Gus,” she had said. “I understand.” Though she didn’t, not really. How could men like Sturgess could be so greedy and cruel? Why did they have to make the world that much worse to live in?

Sally had folded up her list and walked past the vinegar smell of the pickle barrel, the bolts of rough wool, and the stack of salt taffy rolled up in wax paper by the door. She’d intended to buy herself a piece of that taffy, to give herself a little treat. But she reckoned Gus wouldn’t even sell her a single piece.

She had walked out of Popper’s General store, tears standing out in her eyes. She had stroked Maisy’s neck and whispered in her ear.

“What are we gonna do, girl? I don’t know if we can make it like this.”

And then, just over Maisy’s mane, she had seen someone standing there, holding a broom. It was Harriet Popper. 

“Honey, you go on and give me that list,” she had said, her voice flat and hard. 

Sally had stepped around her horse and fished the paper out of her bag, handing it to the short, grizzled woman. Harriet had squinted at the words on the paper, nodded, and grunted. 

“I’m gonna get you all of this,” she had said. “Every last bit, and at a discount to boot. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some fancy-pants bully run this town. Pull your wagon round back and I’ll start putting this together.”

So she had gotten the feed and the seed and the cloth and thread, and everything else on the list, loading it up while Gus Popper stood by the counter wringing his hands.

Now Sally Macintosh was only about a mile from her house, watching a helix of white smoke rise up from where she had seen the strange flash of light earlier. The air smelled of ozone, that scent that tingled in your nose just before a storm, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

And despite the smoke, she didn’t see a fire, either. What she did see walking toward her was a man.

The first thing she noticed was that he was naked. He was tall, ruggedly-built, with dark hair cut close and thick stubble, nearly a beard. He had dark hair on his bare muscular chest. His shoulders and arms were thick with muscle as well. He looked like a boxer or a brawler. And she couldn’t help letting her eyes wander down below, where his generous manhood swayed as he walked. 

She snapped her eyes back up to his face, to his icy blue eyes. But those eyes looked confused, disoriented. And he was walking like a drunken man, his bare feet staggering forward in the hot dirt.

She pulled up on the reins, making Maisy come to a stop fifteen yards or so from the man.

“Are you hurt?” she said to him, raising her voice. She didn’t know what, if anything, this man had to do with the strange light and the smoke. But the most sensible explanation for him standing in front of her without any clothes was that he had been robbed. Bandits were all too common in the area. That’s why she kept a sawed-off shotgun under the blanket in the seat next to her. She thought briefly about picking it up and training it on him, just in case he was dangerous. But it was soon plain enough to see that he wasn’t a harm to anybody. If anything, someone else had done harm to him. So she left the gun where it was.

“I said, are you hurt?” she called out again. This time, his confused eyes drifted up to meet hers, focusing on her for the first time. For her part, she couldn’t help stealing glances down below. He seemed utterly oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t wearing any clothes. Maybe he’d been clocked on the head.

“When is this?” he said.

What kind of a question was that? Oh, the poor handsome devil had almost certainly been shaken up when he’d been accosted. 

“Pardon?” she said.

“What year is this?”

He must have been in truly bad shape to not know the year. She slid the shotgun from under the blanket and moved it down to her feet, careful to keep it out of sight. Then she tossed the blanket, simple and brown, to the ground at his feet. 

“I’m sorry about your clothes, Mister,” she said. “You can use that to cover yourself up.” Though the thought of hiding his body made her feel just a little sad.

It seemed to take him a second to understand her words, though she thought she was speaking plainly enough. He looked down at the blanket as though he’d never seen one before, but eventually he picked it up and wrapped it around his waist, tying it in place like a makeshift kilt.

“It’s May fourth,” she said. “1861.”

His dazed eyes grew wide. “It worked," he said. "They really did it.”

“Mister, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m sorry you got robbed,” Sally said. “But I hope you’ll understand if a young woman doesn’t offer a strange man a ride. Besides, I’m headed that way.” She pointed down the road. “I suggest you head the other way, into Lockdale and have Doctor Gleeson take a look at you. He’s a fine doctor.”

He looked up at her, as if really seeing her for the first time. His eyes narrowed. “Natalie?” he said. “It can’t be.”

Poor man, she thought. She reconsidered turning the wagon around and taking him back into town herself. That’s what the Good Book said you were supposed to do, right? She wanted to help. But then, one didn’t survive out here very long putting too much trust in others. What if this were all a ruse? He looked strong, and she didn’t want to have to keep her gun steadied on him the whole way back into town.

“Sorry, Mister,” she said. “You got me confused with somebody else. My name is Sally Macintosh. I’d give you a ride back into town, but I need to get back to—”

They heard it both at the same time, the sound of hoofbeats on the road, coming from the direction she’d just advised him to head, from town.

She looked over her shoulder and saw them, three men on horseback, riding side by side. Maybe this was some kind of trap after all. Maybe this stranger was a Sturgess man. She bent down and curled a hand around the shotgun.

“Friends of yours?” she asked.

But the man standing there with her homespun blanket wrapped around his waist didn’t look like he knew them. He looked like he’d never seen men on horseback.

“No,” he said. “No, I mean, I’m not from around here.”

Whoever they were, Sally didn’t like the look of them as they closed the distance. No way she was going to outrun them in the wagon, so she just waited for them to approach. She curled her fingers around the stock of her gun, still keeping it hidden below the seat.

They pulled up behind her wagon, the horse’s hooves stirring up a cloud of dust as they came to a stop. They wore jeans and long-sleeved chambray shirts, like cattlemen, but all three had revolvers slung on their hips. The one in front was older, a scraggly blond-gray beard on his face and eyes bloodshot from whiskey. The others were younger, a skinny one with dark hair and buck teeth, and a hard-looking Mexican with dark brown skin. That last also had a huge Bowie knife slung across his chest in a leather sheath.

The one in front tipped his hat. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said with mock courtesy. Then, noticing the man standing near the front of the wagon, he tipped his hat again. “And to you, sir. Out for a stroll in your bedsheets?”

The stranger didn’t answer, just standing there half naked in the hot sun. He looked up at Sally, seeing her hand clutching the gun, and gave his head one small shake back and forth. Don’t make a move, that little headshake said. And Sally thought he was likely right. A scattergun might take out one and maybe even wound another before they could pull on her, but she’d just end up dead, like William. And for what?

The leader of the trio turned his attention back to Sally. He peeked over the lip of the wagon. “What we got here?” he asked.

“Supplies,” Sally said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Ooh,” the leader laughed. “This one’s got a bit o’ sass, don’t she boys? Now look here. We’ve been informed that these here supplies were…what was the term, boys?” The other two said nothing, sitting on their horses like coiled snakes. “Sold under false pretenses? Was that it? In any case, I’m afraid we’re just gonna have to take them back.”

“Like hell you will,” Sally said, starting to raise the gun, but she saw motion out of the corner of her eye.

“Maybe I can help you,” the stranger said, walking toward the back of the wagon. Sally noticed his stride looked steadier now.

“Just hold it right there, Mister,” the leader said, but the stranger took another few steps to stand right in front of them before stopping. “Who the hell are you anyway? And what makes you think this is any of your business?”

“Because I recognize what’s going on here,” he said. “And I see what kind of men you are.”

“Oh?” the leader said. “And what kind of men are we?” He seemed genuinely curious to find out. His companions just sat on either side of him like stone figures.

“Callow, for starters,” the stranger said. “And servile.”

The older blonde man turned his grin into a frown. His eyes narrowed. “Seems like just now I done misplaced my dictionary, fella. I don’t know what them words mean. But either way, I reckon I had just about enough of your lip.” The man slid down from his horse, keeping his hand poised near his gun, and stepped up close to the stranger. “I’m gonna give you one last chance to step aside, Mister,” he said. “And them I’m gonna—”

The stranger’s hand struck out like a snake, the knife-edge of his hand striking the other man’s throat. The leader brought his hands up to his neck, gasping for air, his face turning red. In one swift motion, the stranger spun him around so that his body was a shield between him and the other two and drew the pistol from its holster.

The other two had their guns drawn, but no clear shot. Their leader was clawing his throat for air. The stranger had him by the collar.

“Drop your guns,” the stranger said. 

“There ain’t a chance in hell,” the skinny one said, his pistol aimed right at the stranger.

Sally stood up in the wagon, hefting the shotgun up to her shoulder. “Do as he says,” she said, cocking both barrels.

The skinny one grinned humorlessly, tossing his gun to the dirt. The Mexican tossed his aside as well, but as soon as he did, he slid off his horse and drew his knife, moving like a cat. 

The blade was huge, looking almost like a small sword in his grip. Sally aimed at him, but he was moving too fast, and the back of the wagon obscured a good shot.

The stranger moved his gun to try to get a shot too, but the Mexican was faster. He rolled forward, and as he came up, he swiped the blade, slashing the back of the stranger’s hand. He dropped the gun. He loosened his grip on the older man as well, who took the opportunity to break free and run from the road.

That left the stranger squared off against the Mexican, who crouched low, brandishing the bloody knife. The gash on the stranger’s hand looked nasty, but he didn’t seem to notice.  Meanwhile, the skinny henchman sat atop his horse, watching everything.