oom: dodge city, kansas
When the door opened out to Dodge City and the porch in front of the hotel he was on his way into, the first thing he noticed was the distinct lack of snow on the ground outside. There's no ice, and the streets are dry earth, not mud torn up by countless hooves and wagon wheels. The heavy coat on his shoulders was instantly too warm for the blazing sun that baked the Kansas soil, and he'd been standing in the doorway long enough for someone to have to nudge him slightly to get him to step aside.
But it was snowing the day I left...
He moved, and took an awkward step out of the way, eyes a little wide and brow knit in confusion. There was a bench in front of the hotel and he eased himself onto it, and tried to ignore the shake in his hands and the way his knees felt like a bit of rubber.
The end of February...
He leaned forward and looked to his left, along the boardwalk that ran the length of Front Street. There were men and women alike, dressed in light summer clothes, one man drunk who'd had too much was sitting on the steps in front of a saloon, reddened face only growing more ruddy and burnt in the sun. A horse flicked his tail angrily at a fly on his rump, and a glance to the right proved the same scene. Not a drop of rain or a hint of ice and snow anywhere.
This isn't right.
While sitting there, he wondered just what the goddamn hell was happening, and none of the options are really making sense until he realized that there were two things, no, three things, that he needed to do; get rid of his coat, check on Nova, and find out just what the date was.
It was easy enough to accomplish the first two, peeling out of his coat and repacking his bag, then making his way quickly to the stables around the back of the hotel. In his mind, he should have been trudging through thick, slushy snow and ice that soaked his boots, but all there was on the ground was dust and a thin layer of dried grass along the edges of the beaten track back to the barn.
Nova was fine, well fed and cared for, and it was a relief to see that the horse still remembered who he was. Doc resisted the urge to ask the man who was at the desk of the livery the date, not wanting to seem a fool, and instead he just informed him that he would be back in the evening to pay the cost of board and feed.
(Part of him was worried about what that number might be.)
The third task, finding the date, was accomplished by walking down the boardwalk until he found the office of the local newspaper. The Dodge City Times had been around since 1876, and since 1878 had been managed solely by Nicholas B. Kaine.
It was easy to walk in and drop a coin on the counter, and he took the newspaper outside to read, giving the date a glance only once he'd found himself a wall in the shade to lean against.
25 June, 1881
He spent the next hour reading the newspaper and watching the townsfolk stroll by, making mental notes of familiar faces and not-so-familiar ones alike. After he read the paper, he folded it and tucked it into his bag before heading for a small cafe down the boardwalk to see about lunch.
Lunch, as it would happen, was roasted chicken with summer vegetables and fresh bread, a glass of beer to wash it down. He ate alone at a table with clear sightlines to the doors and large plate glass window in the front. The wheels kept spinning in his head as he chewed his food.
It's the end of June. Billy escaped from Lincoln, killed Bell and Ollinger in April, the headed for Fort Sumner...if he says Chavez made if there, maybe I could try and meet him...find a door...
The sound of cutlery clinking quiet against china brought his attention out to the present once again.
Even if he rode hellbent and pushed Nova to the breaking point, he wouldn't make it to the territory until mid-July. The heat would slow him down, and he'd never push that horse hard enough to threaten his life.
(Not when that horse saved his.)
He studied the vegetables on a plate a moment longer, poked them with his fork.
It had to happen.
If the landlord trusted him enough to let him out after moving time (probably so he couldn't mess anything else up, come to think about it) then he owed it to the landlord and the bar not to turn around and ride straight back into New Mexico.
A few hours later he found himself back at the livery and was somewhat disappointed to find that while time had passed, he'd rung up quite the bill in stable fees and feed cost. He counted out four dollars in coins and then added another dollar for a tip - if the man had been taking care of the horse for three months, he deserved it.
"You plannin' on heading out tonight?"
Doc shook his head. "Gotta figure out where I'm headed, first."
As dusk fell over the plains, he found himself in a saloon drinking whiskey at the bar, well polished oak gleaming in the lamplight, a raucous noise coming from the far side of the room. There was a group of men playing cards around a table, and they were all redfaced and liquored up, laughing at the dirty jokes the the bald one of their crew kept spouting off.
The bartender was a young kid with sharp eyes and a narrow face, which suited him alright. He was a friendly sort; his name was Joseph, an ex-drover who had gotten his fill of bringing longhorns up from Texas a few seasons ago and had settled here in Dodge City last summer.
"You like drivin' cattle?"
"It was all right. Dusty work, and a right pain when they'd go on and stampede, he replied, as he poured Doc another shot of whiskey. "But it was easy enough."
He paused while Doc downed the liquor.
"Why d'ya ask, you lookin' for somethin' to do?"
"Someplace to go."
"Well," Joe replied. "Texas is hotter than some'a those callgirls up the block at Lady Isabella's, this time of year. Unless you git yourself near the water. Hear Galveston's alright."
At the mention of the whorehouse up the way, Doc glanced for the door, out of a need to check who had just walked in, and also to move his eyes away from the bartender's gaze.
Then he looked back. "That so?"
"'Bout the weather or about Lady Isabella's?" Joseph poured another shot into Doc's empty glass.
There was a moment of quiet, which got broken up by another loud outburst from the cards table, and Doc turned his attention to the group, his fingers still curled around his drink. The men just laughed - they weren't looking for a fight, not tonight - and he didn't have a desire to start one.
He turned his attention back to the bartender.
"Tell me about Galveston."