*
*
CHAPTER 8

The white flash dissipated though the world remained bright through Wynne's closed eyelids. A wide yawn rolled over her that she responded to by scratching her sleep-tingling chin, cheeks and brow. As she reached up for the last part of the small journey over her facial features, her fingers bumped into her cowboy hat that had been pulled down low to cover her eyes.

She couldn't be bothered to crack open her eyelids just yet, but the unusual circumstances prompted her to sharpen her other senses.

Heat. Thirst. A rolling gait. Creaking leather bridles and harnesses. Strong scents of large animals and desert dust. The weirdest taste in her mouth. A dull ache down the other end. Someone snoring not too far from her. A horse whinnying.

Reaching down, her hands touched a saddlehorn which would explain the fact that her rear end ached. The neurons in her tired, overworked mind began chatting to each other over their garden fences to create enough thought processes required to deal with the odd set of parameters.

The heat that bore down upon her neck as well as the characteristic scents of scorched sand and rocks that were present in any desert landscape indicated that it was daytime and that she was outside. How she had ended up there, and where 'there' even was were questions her neurons had yet to verbalize.

A saddlehorn would indicate a saddle. A saddle, the creaking leather, the whinnying and the strong scents surrounding her would obviously indicate that she was rather close to a horse.

The storage spaces in her mind that kept her minor niggles, medium-sized issues and major phobias - listed in ascending order of severity - cried out that something had to be seriously amiss if she was that close to a large animal. Another part offered the suggestion that everything she sensed from her surroundings simply had to be false information put there by a handful of H.E. Fenwyck Extra Strong beers.

"But I ain't hadda drop all week… whaddahell is this?" she croaked as it dawned on her that the rolling gait she experienced didn't come from the fit she had just gone through, but from a warm being of the equine kind situated immediately between her knees and below her aching behind.

She cracked open a single eyelid at first just to see what on Earth was going on around her; her other eye was flung wide open when she realized she was astride a tall, black stallion.

Gasping, she dropped the reins, grabbed hold of the saddlehorn with both hands and proceeded to hold on for dear life as the rocking and rolling continued. "Whoa… whoa… whoa!  Whoa!  Whe'da'hell da brake be?  Pop them chutes, I wanna get off!  Whoa!  Hossey, simmah down, would ya?  Stop, fer cryin' out loud!  Gotta… gotta get off… gotta… gotta get off-a this he' big-ass thing," she said in a croak that bordered on the screechy.

The sight of the reins hanging loose over the horse's black mane made a few more neurons suggest that she not only grabbed them but gave them a gentle tug to let the horse know she would like it to stop. Clenching her buttocks - out of fear of falling off - she leaned forward to reach the leather reins. Once she held them in her gloved hands, she pulled them back toward her and let out a soothing "Whoa… whoa, Diabloh," that prompted the stallion to whinny and come to a halt.

One-point-four seconds later, a comical expression fell over her face as she looked down at the reins. "Howindahell did I know how ta do that?  Mercy Sakes, I sure ain't nevah ridden no dang hoss befo'… an' howindahell did I know da hoss' name an' all?  Lawrdie, this he' deal be plenty weird… okeh, I wus out on Main Street… at night… an' it wus dang chilly… an' I had just done watched that there mooh-vie… an'… som'tin. An' som'tin else. So howindahell did I end up he'?"

A loud whinny was the only reply she got. The black stallion shook its head as if it was trying to tell its rider Something Very Important; the connection had yet to be established so all that came through the line of communication was a load of static.

Diablo decided to show rather than tell, so it moved around in a lazy circle to bring their pack mule and its strange cargo into the rider's field of view.

"Hooooooooooooooly shittt!  Whodahell-izzat?  Whaddindahell be goin' on he'?!" Wynne cried at the top of her lungs as she clapped eyes on the mule and the sleeping person sitting astride it.

The mid-twenty-something man sat in such an unnatural position atop the mule that it was a miracle he hadn't fallen off. The reason was revealed at once when he jerked awake as a result of Wynne's resounding exclamation: a pair of metal handcuffs kept his hands tied to the mule's leather harness.

"Wha'?  We there already?  No, we ain't!" he said and tried to hold up his hands to scratch or rub his face. Unshaven and with long, greasy hair, the young man's complexion was brownish and leathery like he had spent every hour of his life under the sun. Sweat, dust and general grime tainted his tattered, grungy outfit. Although he wore a gunbelt around his hips, the holster was empty. A regular cowboy hat sat crooked on his head to protect it from the murderous sun.

The young man began hacking and coughing; a glob of something extraordinarily disgusting was soon spat out onto the desert floor. "Hey…" he said as he tried to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, "can't a fella get something to drink here?  I'm so damn thirsty I could suck a donkey dry."

Wynne continued to grimace at the disgusting glob that glistened in the sun down among the sand; it made her squirm so hard in the saddle that the black stallion misinterpreted her actions and began moving around. "Naw!  Naw!  Whoa, hossey!  Not that there walkin' around again, ya hear?  Whoa, fer cryin' out loud!"

When the stallion came to a rest, Wynne let out a sigh of relief and began to look for the proverbial exit. "Okeh… okeh… this be weird!  Way-da-hell weird… I need-a… I need-a get off-a this he' thing befo' som'tin mo' weird done happens. Okeh, I done seen it offen enuff in them Westuhrns. One leg… then the othah leg… okeh. Dontcha be goin' nowhere, now, ya hear?"

She fumbled incessantly to get her right boot out of the stirrup so she could swing her leg over the side of the black stallion. Just when she thought she had mastered the discipline, the inevitable happened: the horse moved ahead which left her battling the forces of gravity with one leg up, one leg down and her rear-end stuck somewhere in the middle.

A wild "Ooooooooh!" escaped her as she went into a split that put a severe strain on the unfamiliar britches she wore. Hopping around on one boot, her other leg had snagged on the saddle which made it even more difficult to get off the stallion in one piece - she was only spared getting intimately acquainted with the desert floor by grabbing onto the saddle until the horse had settled down once more. "Dang… I'mma-gonn' walk da rest o' da way!  Lawrdie, if only I hadda dang-blasted clue where I be or where I be goin' or whaddindahell this he' thing is, anyhows!"

The tired, thirsty, sweaty bandit stared at his captor with eyes that were dull and bloodshot. A few seconds later, Wynne's clumsy acrobatics made him let out an echoing laugh that was as loud as it was mocking.

"Yuh, yuh, yuh… laff it up, fella. Y'all had yer fun now!  Y'all bettah pipe down or I'mma-gonn' go all John Jetson on yer sorry bee-hind… an' lemme tell ya som'tin, y'all don't want that, nosirree!" Wynne said once she had liberated herself from the stirrup, the saddle, the reins and all the other things that were attached to the huge, scary black stallion. "Whut's yer name, son?  An' whaddahell y'all doin' chained ta that there mew-le?"

"Go to hell, Ranger," the young man said; his rotten teeth came into view as he spoke. Another hacking, rattling cough produced another glob of greenish phlegm that he spat onto the desert floor.

Wynne bared her own perfect teeth in disgust at the man's crude behavior. She gave the black stallion a wide berth as she moved around it en route to the mule and the man sitting atop it.

A heavy weight slapping onto her right hip as she walked made her look down: a clean and fully operational Colt Peacemaker sat ready in a low-hanging holster. A second, smaller revolver - perhaps belonging to the prisoner - had been shoved under her waist-belt so it would be out of anyone's reach. A glance at the stallion she had just dismounted revealed a rolled-up sleeping blanket attached to the back of the saddle; the stock of a Winchester rifle poked out. Leather saddlebags had been put across the horse's wide hind quarters.

"Haw… wotcha call me?  Rangah?  Naw, this only be a costume, son… or mebbe it ain't?" Wynne said and looked at her unfamiliar work gloves, cowboy boots and dark-brown britches she wore. Further up, a sturdy, pale-brown jacket completed the ensemble. The fabric bore a passing resemblance to denim but had an unusual texture - as she took off her glove to rub the fabric between her thumb and index finger, it felt more like a variation of canvas.

Something told her to unbutton the jacket. Underneath it, she wore a double-breasted shirt in a shade of dark-brown that matched the britches rather than the jacket. She let out a grunted "Haw!" as she clapped eyes on the shiny Texas Ranger badge that adorned the shirt.

Her eyes grew wider as she looked up at the bandit who appeared to grow grimier for each passing second. She dug her hand into her rear pocket to retrieve her telephone to get help from either Mandy or the paramedics up north in Barton City - or the Delta Force for that matter - but only found a yellowed piece of paper that had been folded up several times.

Grunting again, she unfolded the page in the hope it would provide a few clues. It did, but not in the fashion she had hoped: it was a Wanted-poster issued on June 19th, 1889, by the Sheriff of Goldsboro, NV. It seemed that William 'Billy Jack' O'Neill was Wanted Dead Or Alive for horse theft, cattle rustling and stealing clothes and food as well as performing swindles, burglaries and other, more general activities befitting someone on the shady fringes of society. The reward amounted to $500 regardless of O'Neill's standing among the living or the deceased at the time of the hand-over.

"Joo'ne of eighteen-eighty-nine… haw," she mumbled to herself. "Somebodda really put a lotta effort inta creatin' this he' postah. Why, it looks jus' like… well… how them real things done looked back then, I reckon. I deffa-nete-ly gotta congratulate that there artist- aw!  Mebbe it wus that there nice lady Nancy Noo-yen!  Haw, bet it wus. Yuh."

She took another glance at the Wanted-poster before she eyed the tired bandit who was about to fall asleep judging by his neutral expression and drooping eyelids. Although the duplicated poster only carried a sketch of the outlaw rather than a photograph, there was no denying the resemblance was so great it had to be the same man.

Just as Wynne opened her mouth to inquire about the young man's identity, he broke out in loud, unrestrained snoring. The relaxed stance brought along by the sleep made him slide sideways off the mule.

The fact that his hands were cuffed to the harness meant he ended up in a grotesque pose: his legs thumped onto the desert floor but the upper body and the outstretched arms were stuck at the halfway point. Jerking awake, he let out a howl of pain and surprise.

As the sudden shift in how the weight was distributed yanked the harness crooked, the mule got spooked and began to jerk around. Braying, the frightened animal bucked, shook, shimmied and tore around in circles to get the dead weight off its back.

The young man let out wild cries of pain as his wrists and arms were nearly torn off; the shrieks only added to the mule's panic.

"Aw!  Lawwwwwr-die!  Settle down!  Settle down, there, ya dang-blasted mew-le!" Wynne cried as she ran ahead to grab the rope that had been attached to the opposite side of the harness to where the bandit had ended up. The second she grabbed it, she came to the conclusion that it had been the wrong approach in more ways than one - the mule suddenly jerked to its left and thumped into her with the force and mass of a runaway boulder.

Over the course of the next few seconds, Wynne found herself pondering several odd facts: not only did the sky seem to be below her feet all of a sudden, but the desert floor had somehow made its way up top. Air whooshing past her ears was also a phenomenon she hadn't counted on experiencing on that particular day, but it was nevertheless a thing that happened. And finally, that she found herself face to face with a selection of fascinating desert bugs was rather strange given the fact she had just been standing up.

Wynne's dust-flying, knee-thumping landing wasn't perfect, but at least she wasn't in danger of being trampled by the mule or the black stallion. While the dust settled and the bugs scattered to all corners of the desert following the rude home invasion, she attempted to unravel the human ball of yarn she had become.

It took her a short minute to figure out which limb went where, but she eventually straightened everything out and rolled onto her back. The stark blue sky and the glowing ball of fire known as the sun were above her once more, so it couldn't be all bad. She let out a long, pained croak as she sat up, whipped off a glove and brushed the sand out of her hair and eyes.

The stampeding mule had settled down although its human cargo continued to hang off its side. The young man moaned and groaned in pain. He tried to stand up next to the animal, but even the faintest attempt of getting on his feet made the beast of burden shuffle around - in turn, that only added to the pain that shot up from his abused limbs.

Perhaps worse for all concerned, the rough treatment he had received during the wild bucking had made his britches slip down and pool around his ankles; his hairy cheeks were just as tanned and leathery as the rest of him.

"Lawrdie, that there sight there sure ain't fit fer no sensitive soul… haw. Good thing I ain't too squeamish or nuttin'," Wynne mumbled as she clambered to her feet. As she dusted herself off, she patted all her pockets to find either a key for the cuffs or something to pry them open with.

Another "Haw!" was let out when she did in fact find a metal key that looked as if it belonged to the set of handcuffs. Her feet took control and sent her over to the bandit in a stride not unlike those often used by Mandy Jalinski. "C'mon, son, I'mma-gonn' unlock them cuffs o' yers now so y'all can pull them britches back up. Y'all can do a runnah if ya done feel like it, but I woudden recommend it, yuh?  There ain't nowhere fer y'all ta run, anyhows. Okeh?"

The young man groaned and broke out in a frantic nodding. "What- whatever ya say, Ranger. Just get me the hell out of these things!"

"Yuh, yuh, I sure be workin' on it, son," Wynne said as she inserted the key into the lock. It took a little effort, but the manacles soon loosened which allowed the bandit to pull his arms out of the restraints.

Wynne narrowed her eyes and assumed a steely glare; she had seen enough Westerns to know this was the type of setup the dastardly henchmen or minor-league outlaws would exploit to grab his gun from her belt, so she took a long step back to remain out of reach.

After the young man had pulled up his britches and tucked everything away that required tucking, she grabbed hold of the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants to shove him up onto the mule once more.

Taking another step back, Wynne slammed her hands onto her hips and let out a contented grunt. Not two seconds later, her eyes grew wide as the nature of the task she had just completed had finished being parsed by her mind. "Wha… howdahell did I do that?  I… I jus'… did… Lawrdie, this he' deal be mighty weird alreddy an' it sure ain't be gettin' less weird, neithah!"

She strode back to the black stallion and swung herself up in the saddle with no hassle or trouble at all. A mask of grim, steely determination fell over her face as she heeled the stallion to make it move over to the mule. The rope attached to the harness was soon in her gloved hand and used to guide the beast of burden across the desert floor.

Ten paces into her journey, she blinked several times and stared in a wide-eyed stupor at the fact she was once again astride the huge, scary horse. "Lawwwwwwr-die… this he' iz one o' them there Twilight Zone episodes, ain't it?  Gawd-almighty… or reality teevee… an' I hate reality teevee!  Hey, lissen he', Mista producer fellah!  Y'all gotta lissen ta me!  Anyboddah?  I wanna get back hoah-me!  Yuh?  Now, if ya don't mind. Okeh?"

"Who the hell are ya talkin' to, Ranger?" the young bandit said in a croaking voice.

Wynne turned around in the saddle to shoot a puzzled glance at the young, grimy fellow. "I ain't too sure, son… somebodda. Anybodda. Wotcha name, anyhows?"

"Billy Jack."

"Yuh, okeh… one piece o' the puzzle solved. Only ten thousand ta go. Lawrdie, I ain't nevah gonn' figger out whaddahell this is."

The stallion let out a loud whinny and shook its head at its rider's odd and unusual behavior; it continued straight ahead at a slow, regular pace that left Wynne wearing a frown of frustration.

-*-*-*-

Half an hour later, Wynne caught her first glimpse of wooden buildings appearing in the middle distance. The shimmering waves of heat that rose from the desert floor between her and the settlement made it impossible to gauge the exact distance, but she would soon find out as she - or more to the point, the horse - aimed straight at it.

"Hey, Billy Jack… izzat where we be goin'?" she said and pointed at the shimmering buildings.

The bandit yawned several times; his face had turned even sweatier and grimier as the hands of time had moved forward. "What the hell ya askin' me for?  Are we lost or somethin'?  Ain't you Rangers supposed ta be expert trackers?"

Wynne let out a mumbled, "Yuh, well… this he' Rangah ain't evah done no trackin' othah than findin' mah way ovah ta da refri-gy-rators at Moira's…"

"I couldn't hear wotcha said…"

"Nuttin'. Wussen fer yer ears, anyhows."

They rode on. The baking-hot rays of the sun that pounded down upon them made her and the black stallion sweat profusely. A grim expression was etched onto her face at the unfortunate smells that insisted on entering her nostrils - she couldn't even complain too much as a large percentage of the poor air was produced by herself. "Dang, not even mah EvahFresh Spring Flowahs deodorant wus able ta fight this… haw, an' that there teevee commer-shual done boasted it could. Buncha cheatahs."

The heat forced her to take off her jacket and put it across the back of the saddle. After rummaging around a little in the saddlebags on the stallion's hind quarters, she found a couple of sticks of salty jerky and a half-empty canteen that contained stale, lukewarm water - neither item seemed too inviting in the searing ambient temperatures, so she abstained from sampling them.

---

Another twenty minutes later, they reached the outskirts of town. Wynne eyed a wooden sign that had been thrust into the ground next to the wagon trail they had moved onto a few hundred yards back. She tugged at the black stallion's reins to make it come to a halt; her eyes grew wider and wider as she read the sign that said: Welcome To Goldsboro, NV!  Where Magical Things Happen!

"Whadda… hell… this is Goldsborah?  Holy shittt, this really is Goldsborah!  Whaddinda-wohhhhhhhhhh-rld… that there slogan there… Lawrdie, dat be da new slogan them folks in da Town Council done came up with not three years ago!  That ain't right… howdahell is dat even possible?" she said in a long line of mumbled croaking.

She whipped off her hat to give her scalp a thorough scratching - the scratching soon turned into a proper clawing that made sand, dust and beads of sweat fly in all directions. "Naw. Naw, I ain't gonn' learn nuttin' sittin' he' fiddlin' mah thumbs… an' mah bee-hind be achin' som'tin fierce, too. C'mon, Diabloh… an' Billy Jack. Les'go inta town."

Spurring the black stallion, she pulled on the rope that was still attached to the mule's harness. The beasts soon set off toward the southern outskirts of Goldsboro, Nevada.

---

Moving onto Main Street, Wynne's eyes grew so wide they could hardly fit in her head. The familiar street was a fifty-foot-wide sandy trail that featured so many deep ruts from wagons that any pedestrian crossing it would need trekking boots and other types of mountain-climbing equipment to get from A to B without risking fracturing an ankle. She spotted at least a dozen single riders moving north or south on the street; a further dozen horses pulled wagons or carriages of all types.

The first houses she and the bandit met at the southern outskirts of town were nothing but ramshackle huts with poorly fitting roofs and windows, but as soon as they entered the town itself, the huts were replaced by sturdy two-structure buildings made of wood or - in rare cases - of bricks. The largest of the brick buildings was home to the bank and the Goldsboro Chamber Of Commerce.

"I don't bah-lieve it…" Wynne exclaimed as she clapped eyes on the row of copperplated letters that had been attached to the bricks above an opulent entrance. "Da Chambah o' Commerce!  Holy shittt, Goldsborah must be one o' them there boom towns!  I wondah waddahell done happened he' ta make it-"

She cut herself off midstream when her line of sight fell on a familiar face. The lady in question held a broom that she used to sweep the covered sidewalk outside an eatery; the impressive cloud of dust kicked up by the woman's actions offered a hint as to her efficiency.

"Lawwwwwr-die!  That be ol' Moira!  Why, it sure is!" Wynne said and stood up on the stirrups. A moment later, a puzzled frown fell over her face. She sat down once more and rubbed her brow. "But howdahell izzat possible?  That there Wanted postah there done said eighteen-eighty-nine or some such… Lawrdie, that be… uh… uh… uh… one-hundred and thirty-some-odd dang-blasted years befo' yesturhday!  Mebbe I done died an' went ta Westurhn heaven or… or… or som'tin."

"Who the hell cares!" Billy Jack said in a groan. "Will ya just dump me at the sheriff's office so my ears can get a rest from yer insane ramblin'!"

Wynne turned in the saddle to shoot the bandit a sour look; then she connected his words to the odd reality that surrounded her. "Haw!  Yessir, the sheriff's office!  Why, if Moira be he', then mah sweet, li'l darlin' Mandy jus' might be he' as well… yessirree!  C'mon, les' mosey on ovah ta them there de-per-ties!  Giddyap, hossey!  An' giddyap, mew-le!"

---

A further two minutes went by before Wynne and her prisoner came to a halt at a small, wooden hut that a sign bolted onto the reinforced door identified as the sheriff's office. Gulping down a nervous lump, she let go of the reins and prepared herself to swing her leg over the edge of the saddle.

Everything went well for the first part of the backward swing, but then her boot snagged on her jacket that she had put across the rolled-up sleeping blanket behind the saddle. She let out a croaking "Awwwwwwwwww-shittt!" as she once more found herself in the most un-ladylike of all poses: one leg all the way down, one leg all the way up, and the rest stuck somewhere in the middle.

The grimy Billy Jack let out another mocking laugh at his captor's inability to dismount. "Ranger, I'd find another line of work if I wus you… maybe as a bartender or some such. It would suit ya better!"

"Yuh-yuh-yuh… shaddup," Wynne said as she wiggled her stuck boot out of the offending sleeping blanket so she could get out of the embarrassing situation. "I'mma-gonn' letcha know when I be needin'… ugh… when I be… ugh!  When I be needin' yer advice, son!  Dag-nabbit, them dang hosses!  Stand still, fer cryin' out loud!  Ugh!"

The boot eventually found its own way out of the jacket and the blanket. Groaning, she moved her leg down and promptly straightened her gunbelt and the rest of her outfit that had been knocked askew by the involuntary stunt. She glanced at the well-dressed pedestrians walking past the sheriff's office to see what they thought of it, but few could be bothered to look back at her.

Her Texas Ranger badge glinted in the sunlight as she strode over to William 'Billy Jack' O'Neill and the mule he sat on. She had barely arrived at the animal's flank when a rider steered his horse over to the side of Main Street and dismounted in a neatly executed jump.

As the large horse crowded Wynne, she let out a gasp and shied back to get away from the scary thing. Unfortunately, the mule went the other way at the exact same time which left her trapped between the warm bodies. The far too intimate encounter only lasted for a handful of seconds, but the horrified grimace that was etched onto her face proved that even one second would have been too long.

"Man, Ranger," Billy Jack said, "you really is in the wrong line o' work… I ain't never seen nobody who got so dang scared just 'cos his hoss done got up close an' personal."

Wynne let out a snort. "Yuh, well, I didden 'membah askin' fer yer opinion… an' watch ya mouth there, fella… I sure ain't no him or nuttin'."

The prisoner narrowed his eyes at the Ranger's comment; then he let out a puzzled grunt. "Whatevah ya say, Ranger. Ya musta bumped yer noggin when the mule done sent ya flying out in the desert."

"Naw. Bumped mah hump but good, but I didden bump mah noggin, nosirree. It wus jus' 'bout the only thing I didden bump," Wynne said and moved the last bit of the way to stand next to the mule. "Anyhows, can ya get down bah yaself, or do I need-a give ya hand or som'tin?"

"Seein' how you dismount, I better take care o' my own business," Billy Jack said and swung his leg over the mule's furry back with no problem whatsoever - a second later, his boots were planted in Main Street's sandy surface.

Letting out a dark grunt at the unfairness of life, Wynne promptly shoved her hands into her rear pockets - it was an instinctual reaction whenever she was annoyed about something.

She soon realized the gesture left her two revolvers unattended, so she moved her hands back up just in case Billy Jack tried to go for one of them after all. As she did so, another folded-up piece of paper similar to the yellowed Wanted-poster came along for the ride and fluttered onto the sandy ground by her boots. "Haw… whazzat?" she said before she reached down to retrieve it.

Unfolding the note - that turned out to be another Wanted-poster - she let out a startled cry that was quickly followed by a: "Whaddahell?  J.D. Burdette is wanted fer… fer… holy shit!  Fer a buncha things!  An' none offem good!"

Billy Jack shook his head. "If y'all goin' after Burdette next, ya might as well bend over and kiss yer ass goodbye, Ranger. That hombre ain't nobody to mess with. He gonna make a sieve outta ya. I guarantee it."

"Yuh, well," Wynne said as she re-folded the Wanted-posted and stuck it down her rear pocket, "I done spoke ta ol' J.D. a buncha times. He ain't done plugged me yet. He still a gunsmith?"

"How in da hell should I know?  I ain't never met him an' I ain't never wanna. Mista, you loco fer even askin'."

"Haw!  An' there y'all go with dat dere 'Mista' again!" Wynne said as she grabbed hold of Billy Jack's arm and began to pull him toward the reinforced door at the sheriff's office. "I tole ya ta watch ya mouth 'bout it. That there be a touchy topic in mah family, yuh?  So shaddup."

The look on Billy Jack's face was indescribable as he studied the Ranger's features and physical attributes. He blinked several times before he broke out in a shrug. "Yeah. Whatever ya say, Ranger. Whatever ya say."

"Much obliged. Okeh, he' we go," Wynne said and grabbed hold of the door handle. She only realized it was locked when she thumped her nose and brow into the sturdy logs that had been used to build it. The sudden stop made her cowboy hat drop down to cover her eyes which in turn made her lose a step and fumble around on the covered sidewalk.

"Owwwwwch!  Mah noah-fe… Ah done wrecked mah noah-fe… sombitch!" she cried as she reached up to tweak her abused member back into position and to shove the hat back so she could see where she was going. "Dad-gummit, why'dahell do I always bump mah nose… sonova-"

The rest of the expletive got stuck in her throat when she looked up and came to the unfortunate conclusion that someone aimed a double-barreled shotgun directly at her face; the weapon had been shoved through a gun slit in the door. "Hoooooooly shittt!  Mercy Sakes, son!  Dontcha be pointin' that there scatterguh-n at me, nosirree!  That there fella right there be da bad guy, not me!  Haw, fer cryin' out loud!  Quick Draw, zat y'all on da othah side o' that there do'ah?"

'Identify yourself!' a male voice said through the thick wood.

"I be, uh… uh… Texas Rangah Winston Donnah-hew outta Shallah Pond, Texas," Wynne said loudly so her voice would carry through the door - a moment later, her eyes once again grew to a comical width. "Wha'… whut I jus' call mahself?  Winston?  Whodahell is Winston?  I be Wy- Wyn- Wy- Winston… whut?!  Lawrdie!  Wy- Wyn- Wy- Winston!  Haw, this ain't good… this ain't good, nosirree!  I musta bumped mah noggin aftah all…"

By now, Billy Jack O'Neill inched sideways to get away from the stark-raving insane Ranger. His eyes darted from the fellow who had brought him there and over to the shotgun that continued to poke through the gun slit. "Ahoy in there!  I be William O'Neill!  Billy Jack O'Neill!  I come to turn myself in so I ain't be needin' ta spend another minute with that plum loco Ranger there!"

The shotgun was eventually withdrawn; several locks and metallic sliders were manipulated on the inside of the reinforced door. As it opened, a familiar scent filtered through the crack and out into the open.

Wynne let out a whoop at the strong, foul-smelling smoke that wafted past her nostrils. "Why, that can't be nobodda but mah ol' friend De-per-ty Barry!  An' y'all still be smokin', I smell!  Lawrdie, lemme in… I need-a see Sheriff Mandy on da dang-blasted dubbel, I be tellin' ya!"

The door opened fully to reveal a young deputy wearing traditional Western garb: coarse work boots meant for walking rather than riding, and dark-brown pants that featured straight-cut legs. Upstairs, he wore a pale-brown, tunic-style shirt that covered a white, O-neck Grandpa undershirt. The deputy continued to wield the double-barreled shotgun while also wearing a gunbelt that carried a revolver that seemed to be smaller than the regular Peacemaker.

His wild hair, amber complexion and sickly-yellow eyes proved it was indeed none other than Barry Simms - the final proof came in the shape of the home-rolled cigarette stuck into the corner of his mouth. He eyed the prisoner and the Ranger warily before he stepped aside to give the visitors room to enter the office. "Sheriff," he said to someone inside, "y'all need-a see this…"

Wynne broke out in a grin as she heard Barry's dialect that seemed thicker than she remembered. "Howdy, Barry!  Lawrdie, it sure be good ta see ya. This he' deal been plenty weird until now, lemme tell ya, but it slowly be turnin' inta one o' them there haaah-school reunions, haw?  Not that I evah done went ta haaah-school or nuttin', but anyhows."

Barry shook his head in a study of utter and boundless confusion. "Ranger, I reckon y'all got me con-few-sed with someone else. I ain't nevah seen y'all befo'."

Wynne furrowed her brow at the puzzling comment, but soon had so much to look at inside the office that she forgot all about it. Though the building itself was different, the interior looked much the same as always save for a subtle change here and there: the map of Goldsboro and the surrounding territory that was pinned onto the wall behind the sheriff's desk was simply an earlier version of the familiar one, but it was joined by several rows of Wanted posters that offered handsome rewards for a slew of unsavory characters whose nicknames and aliases were Killer, Butch, Warts, Lazy Boy, Wild Hog, Preacher, The Nevada Kid and the like.

A pot-bellied stove stood in place of the small table with the coffee machine - the silvery tin pot that simmered on top of the hot stove proved that some things would never change. The watch desk just inside the door was home to a telegraph receiving station rather than the ancient Bakelite telephone, but the incident report sheet was still there as was a saucer filled to the brim with ash, cigarette butts and spent matchsticks.

One difference came in the shape of the two  holding cells that had been set up at the back of the office instead of in the adjacent building. The sturdy bars looked as if they could withstand the attentions of a raging bull, but they remained untested as only a single person was present in the slammer, and that individual was flat on his back on a cot.

Wynne came to a hard stop three paces into the sheriff's office. When she clapped eyes on the white-haired, white-bearded person behind the desk, she let out a disappointed grunt - the sheriff wasn't Mandy but… "Rogah Kennedy?  Lawwwwwwr-die, I mean… wheredahell mah darlin' Mandy be, then?  I nevah done reckoned that… she… wussen… whaddinda-wohhhhhh-rld?!"

While Barry took care of Billy Jack O'Neill by leading him down to the cells, Roger Kennedy rose from the chair behind the sheriff's desk and put out his hand. "Ranger Donohue. I'm honored that a man of such repute knows my name," he said in a gravelly voice. His watery eyes and the scent of liquor that hung around him were hints that his habit was a difficult one to beat no matter what era he was in.

Wynne scrunched up her face in annoyance at the repeated case of mistaken identity. She cast a glum look at the hand. It would be rude not to shake it, so she took off her glove to perform the traditional greeting. "Howdy, Sheriff."

At the same time, Barry Simms returned from having locked O'Neill into the holding cell. The Deputy Sheriff lit a new cigarette with the dying members of the old one before he looked up to eye the situation - a wooden chair was soon carried over to the desk. "Here ya go, Mista," he said as he used his sleeve to wipe a few grains of ash off the seat.

Wynne shot him a dark glare before she grabbed the chair and sat down. "Why, much obliged, De-per-ty… but I reckon y'all need some o' them there speck-takkels. I sure ain't no Mista or Sir or nobodda else o' them there menfolk. I be Wy- Wyn- Wy- whaddahell?  I can't say mah own, dang-blasted name!  I be… I be… I be… haw, Cap'n Winston Donnah-hew o' da Texas Rangahs outtah Shallah Pond… naw, I ain't!  I be Wy- Wy- awwwwww!  Sombitch!"

Sheriff Kennedy narrowed his eyes as he took in the raving Ranger. He scratched his neck a couple of times before he pulled out a drawer and found an unlabeled bottle filled with a dark-golden liquid. "Y'all need to drink something, Ranger. I reckon you've spent too much time in the sun today."

"Yuh… yuh, I sure could use a Dubbel-Zerah right 'bout now… haw, that ain't no lie," Wynne croaked; she rubbed her face that didn't seem any different to normal.

Kennedy let out an amused grunt. "Never heard of it. I guess it must be a Texan specialty. How about a shot of triple-distilled 'shine instead?  I got some rum in it ta give it that special taste an' amber look. Barry, get us a couple of glasses."

"Yes, Sheriff," Barry said and shuffled over to a wall-mounted cabinet not too far from the pot-bellied stove. He soon returned with a pair of shot glasses that had seen better days: both were chipped.

Leaning over the desk, Roger poured the dark-golden liquid into Wynne's glass. He took a long hit off the bottle before he filled his own glass and put the potent liquor back into the drawer. "Well… to yer health," he said and held up the small shot glass - then he poured it down in its entirety. After wiping his lips on the back of his hand, he let out an "Ahhh. Smooth and lovely," as he leaned back on the wooden chair.

Wynne sniffed the rum-infused moonshine before she took a probing sip. As expected, it was strong enough to strip paint off any surface. She narrowed her eyes and glanced at Roger Kennedy who didn't seem the worse for wear. Shrugging, she knocked back the dark-golden liquid in a single gulp.

The first two seconds posed no problems for her, but then her throat, gullet and stomach sent out distress calls on all hailing frequencies. She jerked around a little as the paint-stripping solvent tried to carve its name into her innards, but the initial fierceness was soon reduced to a throbbing ache. "Lawrdie… yuh, this be smooth, awright… smooth as barbed wire. This wus mo' of a knock-me-down than a pick-me-up, but I be much obliged fer da drink, Sheriff. Yuh," she croaked as she put the empty glass bottoms-up on the wooden desk to show that she'd had her fair share of moonshine for one sitting.

Roger nodded a couple of times before he reached into the drawer once more. After pouring himself a new shot, he took a long swig from the bottle just to make sure it was still the same product as before. "One for the road?" he said, holding it up.

"Nuh-uh!  I done had mah share o' turpentine taday," Wynne said in a voice that still hadn't returned to her normal register.

Shrugging, Roger took another hit straight out of the bottle. The cork was soon squeezed down the neck before everything went into the drawer - then he knocked back the contents of the shot glass like it was milk. "I'm glad to meet such a legendary Ranger. Yessir, we could sure use some assistance here in Goldsboro," he said after wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

"Y'all be havin' bandit trubbel?"

"You could say that," Roger said and made a sweeping gesture at the gallery of Wanted posters behind him. "Bein' the biggest town in the area draws 'em to us like flies on cowflop. Only one in four supply trains actually reach the merchants without havin' been held-up and raided by J.D. Burdette and his gang of stick-em-up artists."

Wynne let out a "Haw!" and reached into her rear pocket to find a copy of Burdette's Wanted poster. Unfolding it, she took in the details and the drawing which wasn't a bad likeness. "Yuh… he sure be a nasty fella, awright. I done hadda li'l ta do with 'im ovah them years. Ain't no angel."

"That he ain't. Hmmm!  I didn't know he had business as far southeast as Texas, but I guess there ain't no stoppin' bandits."

"Naw. Who he runnin' with, Sheriff?" Wynne said and refolded the poster.

"The worst riff-raff y'all can dig up here in Central Nevada. Evan Chaff, Thomas Kincaid, Dan 'The Ferret' Murphy, Anthony Reed… you name 'em, we got 'em."

Wynne's eyes grew wider and wider as Roger Kennedy went through the list of names - except for Kincaid who had come later, they had all been Deputy Sheriffs when she had first arrived in Goldsboro. None of them were among anyone's favorite characters. "Lawrdie!  Yuh, I know 'em all… buncha low-down skunks each an' every one of 'em. Tom 'Thumb' Kincaid… why that rotten sombitch keeps poppin' up no mattah where I go…"

"And it ain't helped none by the fact that Burdette is under Mista Rains' wings-"

A croaked "Buhhhh!" escaped Wynne as she heard the name. Her face scrunched up until it was only half its regular size; similarly, her eyes narrowed down into blue slits. After a few moments, her lips were pulled back in a feral sneer to complete the picture of sublime annoyance. "Artie Rains…" she said in a growl.

"-owns about half the town and all of the crooks, highwaymen and cattle rustlers," Sheriff Kennedy continued without ever noticing that he had lost his audience along the way. "And we can't touch him. Not with a force of two… an old man and Barry Simms. No offense, Barry."

Several rattling coughs burst out of the young deputy who sat at the watch desk; he waved his hand in dismissal. "None taken, Sheriff," he said in a croak before he returned to his tin mug of coffee and lurid dime novel to underscore the fact he would be useless in a fight against Rains' henchmen. A moment later, he lit the next cigarette with the embers of the old one.

Though an angry sheen continued to taint Wynne's eyes, the rest of her face eventually popped back into the shape it had been in for most of her adulthood. She shuffled around on the hard chair for several long moments before she settled down once more. "Yuh. Okeh. Artie Rains. Figgahs. Say, Sheriff, there gotta be someone he' in town who be willin' ta go up against them desperadahs?  I saw ol' Moira when I done rode inta town…"

"Missus MacKay has suffered enough already, Cap'n Donohue. We buried her husband not two months ago," Roger said; a moment later, the bad memories caused him to open the drawer and put the bottle of rum-flavored moonshine on the desk.

"Haw… Moira wus married?  An' he done got hisself killed by them dang-blasted skunks?"

Roger nodded somberly before he slammed another shot. "Knifed in the back. Too bad, too. Ol' Wyatt was a good man."

"Wyatt?  Lawrdie, Moira done married Wyatt Elliott?!  An' ol' Wyatt be up at Boot Hill now?!"

" 'Fraid so, Ranger."

"Buncha sombitches!  Okeh, enuff is enuff!  I be volunteerin' ta clean up this he' town!" Wynne said and bolted upright.

Before Roger could reply, someone knocked on the reinforced door. Barry got up at once and peeked through the gun slit. "It's Mizz Beatrice bringin' ou'ah early suppah," he said with a broad grin.

Wynne did a double-take at the news, and her astonishment only grew stronger when Barry ushered Beatrice Reilly inside. The young woman wore black ankle boots, a tan dress fit for a proper lady, and even a bonnet in a matching color. She carried a tray laden with a pair of plates that each held a steaming-hot pork sausage, a large pile of sweet peas and an even larger glob of proper, home-made mashed potatoes. Dark-brown gravy featuring fried onion rings had been poured over all the items to round off the meal.

"Ah!" Roger Kennedy said as he made room on his desk for one of the plates. "What a delightful smell, Miss Reilly. Yessirree… that'll do us good, I reckon."

After Beatrice had put the plates on the two desks, she turned to Wynne and went into a proper curtsey before she put out her hand. "Good afternoon, Mister. I'm Beatrice Reilly. What brings you to our fair Goldsboro?"

Wynne's cheek and lips were subjected to a solid chewing at the bizarre fact that everyone addressed her as Mister or Sir. There was nothing about Beatrice's demeanor that suggested she did it out of spite or simply just to annoy - the young lady was fully convinced that she spoke to a man. "Haw… Billy Jack O'Neill done brought me he', Mizz Beatrice," Wynne said as she shook hands with the woman she would later call Deputy Quick Draw. "But, yuh… mah name is Wy- Wy- Wy- Haw, fer cryin' out loud!  Wy- Winston Donnah-hew. Cap'n Winston Donnah-hew o' the Texas Rangahs… the office in Shallah Pond. Yuh."

"I see," Beatrice said as she cast a curious glance at the sheriff; Kennedy offered a one-shoulder shrug in return as if he said that the Ranger was all right, just a little eccentric. "I'm pleased to meet such a high-ranking Texas Ranger. We rarely see the likes of you out here in the middle of nowhere, Sir."

"Yuh… ain't no wondah, really," Wynne said in a mumble.

Beatrice nodded although it was obvious by her puzzled expression that she couldn't quite grasp the odd Ranger. Shrugging it off, she turned to the old, white-bearded gentleman behind the big desk. "Sheriff Kennedy, have a pleasant evening. I'll be by at eight or so to fetch the plates."

Turning to face Barry, a shy smile graced her features as she went into a deep curtsey. "And goodbye for now, Deputy Simms. We'll see each other later."

"We sure will, Mizz Beatrice!" Barry said with a grin; it never left him as he ushered the young woman out of the sheriff's office and secured the reinforced door with all the sturdy locks and chains.

Wynne couldn't help but grin at the exchange. "How 'bout dat… De-per-ty Barry an' Quick Draw Bea. Ain't dat som'tin?" she mumbled as she sat down once more.

Her brow gained a few furrows as she pondered her next move - the number-one item on her agenda was to find Mandy. Number two was to find an outhouse, but that was a different story altogether. "Lissen, Sheriff… I need some profes-shunnal courtesy he'. I know it prolly gonn' be a long shot, but do y'all know a woman who goes bah the name o' Mandy Jalinski or-"

Roger Kennedy had grabbed a fountain pen to carry on with his daily amount of paperwork, but he leaned back on his chair to look at his illustrious visitor. "Sure. She's working over at Missus MacKay's."

"Haw?!  Mandy be workin' fer Moira?"

Over at the watch desk, Barry looked up from his dime novel to let out a derisive snicker. "Lady wearin' pants… ain't no good evah come outta that!  What she done, Cap'n Donohue?  Naw, lemme guess!  Pretendin' ta be a man is against some law ovah Texas way?  I knew that there Manly character wus up ta no good."

Wynne spun around in the chair and pinned Barry Simms to the spot with a dark, fiery glare that made him jerk up in surprise. "That sure be one helluva nasty speech impediment y'all got there, De-per-ty. Her name iz Man-dee. Ain't Man-lee. Man-dee. Do I need-a spell it out for y'all?"

"Ah, no… 'beg pardon, Cap'n Donohue," Barry said in a squeaky voice. "Jus' tryin' ta be funny iz all."

"Quit it, it ain't workin'!"

"Yessir…"

Grumbling, Wynne turned back to face the sheriff. "An' I ain't no Sir," she said in a mumble. She cleared her throat, got to her feet and put out her hand. "Well, Sheriff Kennedy, I be much obliged fer yer assistance an' all. I'mma-gonn' mosey on ovah ta Moira's fer a li'l chat with Mizz Mandy. Uh… befo' I do that, tho', I'mma-gonn' hafta ask where da public outhouse be?  It been a durn-long while since I done hadda whizz."

Roger got up as well to shake Wynne's hand. Once that had been accomplished, they moved over to the reinforced door. "The closest one in this end of town is over by the bank… but those crooks 'll charge you a nickel for a whizz."

"Lawrdie… an' I be, uh… fresh outtah coins," Wynne said and scratched her neck.

"You're welcome to use our urinals out back, Cap'n."

"Uh… yuh. Okeh. Public urinals. That gonn' be a li'l diffi- haw, I'mma-gonn' figger it out. Much obliged. Bah-bah fer now, Sheriff. De-per-ty Barry," Wynne said and tipped her hat.

---

Back on the sandy Main Street, Wynne went over to the black stallion and the pack mule to check up on them. Although hot from the long trip through the desert, the steeds seemed to be in fine fettle for now; however, she had watched enough Westerns to know they needed water and feed just as much as she needed beers and grub.

She moved into the middle of the street and cast a long glance further north. "Them folks he' 'r bound ta have one o' them there livery stables or some such somewhe'… shoot, can't see nuttin'."

'Hey!  You can't stand there!  Get off the street!' someone shouted behind her; the voice held a strong Mexican accent.

"Haw?" Wynne said and turned around; a two-seater luxury buggy pulled by a single horse bore down on her. The buggy was accompanied by a lone rider sitting proudly atop a shiny-black steed. "Lawrdie, I wus jaywalkin' he', wussen I?  Much obliged fer not runnin' me ov- haw!  Diegoh!  An' Rodolfoh!  An'… an'… Dolores?!"

Wynne stepped aside at once to create plenty of room for the buggy and the rider - she rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn't seeing things. Her three friends wore exquisite clothes that marked them out as being among Goldsboro's upper segment: Diego Benitez, who rode the proud steed, wore a genuine Caballero outfit complete with shiny boots, decorated britches, a white tunic, a red scarf tied around his waist and a short jacket that carried the same swirling, silvery patterns as his pants. His black, wide-brimmed hat seemed to be a down-scaled sombrero used for traveling.

Rodolfo Gonzalez had the buggy's reins in his hands to control the single horse up front. He wore a Caballero outfit similar to Diego's except that the decorative elements were far less flashy. Dolores de la Vega sat next to him looking a dream in a stark-white dress that featured plenty of frills and lace. Her wrist-length gloves were made of the same material while her long, raven-black hair was protected by a chic pillbox hat held in white - an image of a blood-red rose had been sewn onto the side of the hat to add a splash of color. To round off the ensemble, she held a frilly umbrella so her medium-brown complexion would be shielded from the scorching sun.

Wynne whipped off her hat and waved it high in the air. "Boo-enos tar-deeees, Senorita de la Vega!  Why, y'all look a-may-zin'!  An' howdy, Rodolfoh!  Diegoh, ol' buddy!" she cried as the buggy moved past her.

Dolores and Wynne briefly locked eyes as the buggy drove past; it was clear by the hugely puzzled look in the lady's mahogany-brown orbs that she had no idea whatsoever who the tall, bearded, leathery lawman was, or even how the fellow knew her. She let out a quick "Buenas tardes, Señor," before it was too late.

The grin that had formed on Wynne's face fell into a frown as she took another step to the side to get out of the way of the cloud of sand and dust kicked up by the buggy's wheels. "There must be som'tin wrong with that there eyesight o' them folks here… dang, even ol' Dolores done called me Sir or Mista or Señor!  I mean, whaddindahell?" she said in a mumble before she plonked her hat back onto her locks.

Shuffling back to the huge stallion, Wynne put her hands on the saddle. "Ridin' or walkin'… ridin' or walkin'… ridin' or walkin'… haw, gettin' up on the darn thing wussen so bad… I'mma-gonn' try a li'l mo' ridin', yessirree," she mumbled to herself as she put her boot into the stirrup.

The horse whinnied and shook its head; its large body shifted left and right just as Wynne tried to get enough upward momentum to hop into the saddle. The stallion's gestures made her reconsider her actions at once. Grabbing the reins and the rope that was still attached to the mule's harness, she pulled the steeds north on Main Street to find the fabled livery stables so she could get on with her program - and find the much-needed outhouse.

*
*
CHAPTER 9

Returning from the livery stables and a badly needed trip to the public outhouse up in the northern, poorer end of town, Wynne was ready to search for Mandy. She had taken the Winchester rifle and her jacket from the rolled-up bundle behind the saddle so the valuable items wouldn't tempt weak souls.

Looking the part wearing the jacket, holding the rifle and carrying her Peacemaker and a long hunting blade on her hips, she strode south on the wooden covered sidewalk nodding a string of Howdys to the Goldsborians she met.

A chuckle escaped her at the thought of the attendant at the outhouse. The old coot, whose long beard was large enough to hide a family of bobcats, had looked like a true rural bumpkin wearing bib dungarees, a sweat-stained undershirt and a Johnny Reb campaign hat old enough to have seen action in the US Civil War.

The looks were deceiving, however, as he was a shrewd entrepreneur who had informed her that the charge would depend on the level of her need. The more business she needed to make, the pricier it would be to use the facilities - but if she was able to suffer through the immense stench inside the wooden structure without retching, it would be a freebie no matter what she did while on the bucket.

'Yuh, well, Mista,' Wynne had said, 'I done shoveled bull dung fer a livin' down at one of them there cattle ranches south o' town, so I'mma-gonn' take on that there challenge o' yers. Agreed?'

Although the smell had in fact been overwhelming, she had succeeded in getting her job done without losing her lunch in the process - much to the attendant's annoyance.

Wynne let out another chuckle as she reached Mrs. MacKay's Eatery, Saloon & Gambling Parlor as the marquee above the swinging double-doors read. A quick glance up and down Main Street proved that no bandits were on the prowl, or at least none that she could see. Satisfied that everything was as quiet as Goldsboro could ever be, she entered the establishment that would one, distant day become her favorite haunt.

The building itself wasn't the same as it would be in the future so everything was smaller and thus more intimate, but some things hadn't changed: the square tables used for eating still carried the familiar checkered tablecloths, and there were still salt and pepper shakers on them. The toothpicks were gone, but the small earthenware jars containing hot sauces were present.

Her ears were introduced to warm, melodious tones that were produced by an energetic fellow pounding the keys on an upright piano in the corner of the main room. A small dais had been built next to the piano for whenever a singer or poet would visit Goldsboro.

The gambling section of Moira's saloon - placed to the left of the entrance - consisted of tables for playing poker, craps, and blackjack as well as one meant for the newish casino game known as faro. A fully-equipped roulette table had been crammed into the corner behind the smaller ones. None saw any action as Wynne cast an interested glance at them, but the afternoon was still young.

The refrigerators weren't there for obvious reasons, but the beer-on-tap business was in full swing up at the saloon-section of the eatery. As a newfangled design feature, a row of bar stools had been placed in front of a long, wooden counter to serve the ubiquitous barflies; only one of them saw any use.

Several spittoons had been placed where they would be needed the most, and a brass boot-rail at the lower end of the wooden counter gave the cowboys somewhere to put their feet now they didn't have their stirrups to fiddle with.

Just like in all of Wynne's favorite Western movies, an enormous mirror had been attached to the wall opposite the counter so those standing or sitting there could keep track of everything going on behind them.

"Yuh… beer… naw. First mah darlin' Mandy, then beer," Wynne mumbled as she cast a thorough gaze at the people inside the eatery. She let out a grunt of surprise as she got a better look at Moira MacKay. The woman - who had been Wynne's boss and had become her business associate in her own timeline - was clearly still a grieving widow whose listless eyes and waxen skin proved she had yet to recover after losing her husband. "Those sombitch outlaws… knifin' a good man like Wyatt Elliott… why, somebodda oughttah teach 'em a thing or two," Wynne said in an angry growl.

Her eyes resumed their trek of the patrons. Most were strangers to her, but one or two did seem familiar. One pair in particular made her break out in a wide grin: Brenda and Vaughn Travers. Brenda's dress was in a subdued, utilitarian style, but the lady wearing it made it elegant.

The mustachioed Vaughn wore a three-piece suit that was just as subdued as his wife's outfit. Chiefly pale-gray, the only things that broke its monochrome nature were his white shirt, black necktie and black shoes - and even then, the combination was hardly an explosion in color. Round spectacles were perched high on his nose to provide him with an air of wisdom and importance, but it helped little as he still looked like a parish clerk or an assistant book-stacker in a children's library.

Wynne's smile faded as she realized Mandy wasn't there. Grunting, she strode up to the bar counter to take care of the beer-part of her visit. The young fellow swinging the beer mugs was none other than Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane, but before she could greet him in her inimitable manner, the reflection that was cast back at her from the large mirror gave her the worst shock she had ever experienced.

Her heart performed a manic Mexican hat dance as the gruesome truth sunk in. From one moment to the next, she noticed that the shocking sight had caused her to stop breathing - she drew such a deep breath to get everything kickstarted that it left precious little oxygen for the other people at the bar.

She was a guy. A bearded guy. A leathery, bearded guy. A leathery, bearded guy whose face was home to so many deep furrows they could be used for storing a week's worth of trail rations. Her hands were even worse. The skin was coarse and gnarly, and the veins stood out like a gross special effect from a cheap grade-Z horror flick.

"Lawwwwwwwwwwwwwwr-die… I reckon I jus' figgah'd out why everybodda done call me Mista… good shit almighty… am I really gonn' hafta live out mah life lookin' like this?!  The hell I am!  Somebodda make it stop!" she croaked before she glanced down at her hands to get a closer look at the gnarly horrors.

A "Wha'?!" escaped her as she saw none of the things reflected in the mirror. Apart from the inevitable callused spots on her thumbs that had come from cracking open thousands of cans of beer over the years, her hands and fingers were as clean, smooth and slender as always.

A split second later, she patted every last inch of her face to search for the deep furrows and the salt-and-pepper shrubbery present on her reflection. A deep sigh of gratitude escaped her when she came to the glorious revelation that her skin was smooth and without growth of any kind - save for the teeny-tiny dark hairs that encroached on her upper lip from time to time, but they were taboo so they didn't count.

Her voice returned as the last system to come back online following the core-rattling shock, and she used it in true style by saying: "Howdy, A.J. I be Cap'n Wy- Wy- Wyn- Wy- shoot. I be Cap'n Winston Donnah-hew o' them there Texas Rangahs outtah Shallah Pond," in a croaky, shaky voice.

She needed to clear her throat several times before she could go on: "Lissen, I need-a beer som'tin fierce, but I kinda-sorta lost mah coin purse somewhe' between he' an' Lawrd knows where-da-hell I wus earlier. Would it be possible fer y'all ta open a tab an' put a mugful o' draft on it?"

A.J. Lane just stood there with his mouth all agape.

"Guess not," Wynne said and scratched her neck. "Shoot. Mebbe I can earn a few bits by sweepin' da sidewalk or polishin' somebodda's boots or som'tin-"

"How do you know my name, Sir?  Am… am… am I in trouble?" A.J. said in a shaky voice. As always, his own beard had a hard time getting started and was nothing more than fuzz and random tufts of more solid hair.

He wore high-waisted britches that featured wide suspenders; further up, a striped shirt over an O-necked undershirt completed the ensemble. The shirtsleeves had been rolled up to his elbows so they wouldn't get dunked in various fluids, but it hadn't stopped the left one from getting wet.

"Naw, naw, son… ya'll ain't in no trubbel or nuttin'. Y'all be Anthony Joseph Lane, aintcha?"

"Yessir…"

Grinning, Wynne reached across the counter to slap her friend's shoulder - the impact shoved him a foot to the side. "Yuh, I done reckoned y'all wus. So… how 'bout openin' a tab so I can chug down one o' them there drafts?"

"Oh!  Oh, we never charge lawmen… the beer's on the house, Ranger." Still in a state of shock, the young man known as 'Slow Lane' moved over to the beer tap and poured a large draft into a glass mug that he put on the counter.

The golden liquid was murky and its head seemed thicker than usual, but not only did it have the right smell, it was the first one Wynne had had for more than a week. She couldn't help but break out in a smug grimace as she picked it up and took a huge swig.

One-point-two seconds later, her cheeks ballooned and her eyes bulged out on stalks. She would cause a flooding of Biblical proportions if she opened her mouth, so she forced herself to gulp down the entire swig before she let out a croak. "Lawwwwwwr-die, A.J… whaddahell did y'all do ta that there innocent beer, son?!  Dontcha know beers 'r meant ta be served chilled?  That there beer there ain't even lukewarm, it be proper ol' warm, that!  Didya mistook it fer somebodda's soup or som'tin?  I reckon y'all musta 'cos… dang!  I woudden serve that ta mah mew-le!"

"But… but…"

"Naw, ain't no buttin'-nuttin', son… that there beer there is undrinkable," Wynne said and pushed the glass mug away.

A.J. Lane looked as if he was about to burst into tears, but he was spared the embarrassment when a short, buff figure entered the eatery through a back door.

A pair of hard, green eyes made a quick tour of the establishment until they landed on the tall Texas Ranger. "What's going on here?  Who's shouting?"

Wynne nearly swallowed her tongue at the sight. The five-foot-six model of female buffness who had entered the saloon had a dusty-blond mop-top and a pair of emerald-green eyes that were set symmetrically in a face that appeared soft yet held an air of toughness.

Unlike Wynne's own Mandy, this one appeared to be in her mid-thirties; her lips and jawline were strong and revealed plenty of backbone. She wore workboots, sturdy britches held up by narrow suspenders, and a checkered shirt that'd had its sleeves cut off at the elbows. Curiously, the buff gal smoked a corncob pipe of the type later made famous by Popeye The Sailor.

The short but powerfully built woman put her hands on her hips and glared at the Texas Ranger. "Since you're the only one here, I take it you were responsible for the racket. If you have a problem, feel free to tell me all about it," she said in a voice that was as tough as her exterior.

Wynne shook her head several times. She had a hard time keeping a cheesy grin off her face - a couple of floors down from her lips, her heart tried its damnedest to drill its way through her rib cage as it thundered along at maximum speed. "Naw… naw, I ain't got no trubbel or nuttin' 'cept that there beer was warm an' disgustin'. I be Cap'n Wy- Wy- aw, shoot. Winston Donnah-hew o' them Texas Rangahs. Howdy," she said and held out a trembling hand.

The buff woman cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. The corncob pipe was given a severe puff before she said: "That's a weird name for a gal. Howdy, I'm Mandy Jalin-"

"Whoa… whoa!  Whoooh-hoooooooh!" Wynne squeaked while a grin broad enough to rival St. Louis' famous Gateway To The West arch spread all over her features. "Y'all be seein' me!  Y'all be seein' da real me!  Oh, Lawrdie, that… that… that be one helluva load off!  Yeeeee-hawwwww!"

The further Wynne spoke, the higher her voice reached in pitch and volume. As she arrived at the climactic whoop, she whipped off her cowboy hat and flung it into the air. It bounced off the ceiling, hit the wall and nearly went into a pot of chicken broth, but she didn't care. "Mandy!  Darlin'!  It's me!  Wynne!" she cried and put out her arms in an invitation for a hug.

Mandy took a long step back to avoid drowning in the tidal wave of weirdness that spewed from the strange woman. Her face gained an even harder edge as she crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't know what in Tarnation you're talking about, woman. I've never met you before. I've never seen you before… hell, I've never even heard of you before. And I've certainly never heard of a female Texas Ranger. No. There's something fishy here-"

"Haw!  That sure ain't no lie!"

"I'm not done speaking!"

"Yes, Ma'am…"

"It's a pretty safe bet that impersonating a lawman in general and an officer of the famed Texas Rangers in particular comes with a severe punishment. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if it's a hanging offense!  What happened to the real Captain Donohue?  And why did you assume his identity?"

Wynne licked her lips as she stared wide-eyed at the irate Mandy - that aspect of their reunion hadn't exactly gone to plan. "Would it help if I done said I ain't got no clue?  I wus somewhe' else… an' then I wus he'. Jus' like that." She turned to look at her mirrored self who was still a leathery, bearded guy - most likely the original Winston Donohue.

"Hogwash," Mandy said in a sharp tone. The pipe was given an extra-hard puff which sent a column of pale-gray smoke into the air.

"Yuh… I woudden bah-lieve it mahself if somebodda done tole me, but them facts jus' happen ta be da truth o' da mattah. Aw!" - Wynne suddenly noticed Mandy was unable to see the mirror from her spot next to the bar counter - "Please mosey on ovah he', Mizz Mandy. I got som'tin ta show y'all that… that… shoot, may or may not be there at all, but… anyhows. Please…"

Mandy let out a sigh but eventually lowered her arms and strode over to the taller woman's spot by the counter. When she got there, a pair of hands were put on her shoulders to turn her toward the mirror.

A moment later, she needed to yank her pipe out of her mouth as her jaw slipped down to mid-chest. She whipped her head around to take in the sight of the woman next to her; then she whipped her head back to the mirror to take in the sight of the bearded man reflected there. "What- the- hell- is- this?  What kind of medicine show tomfoolery is this?!" she said, poking an index finger into Wynne's chest.

"I ain't got a clue, darlin'!  Iz what I done tried tellin' ya!  That fella ovah yondah is Winston Donnah-hew… an' this gal right he' is Wynne Donnah-hew," Wynne said as she compared her mirror image with what she could see of herself looking down her front. "There be som'tin majahly creepy goin' on he' in Goldsborah!  Ag'in!  An' I be stuck in da dang-blasted middle offit!  Ag'in!  Fer cryin' out loud, I be a guy in da mirror but a gal in da flesh… howdahell's that possible?"

Mandy could only shake her head; Wynne did one better and grabbed the warm beer that she chugged down in nothing flat. Most of the white head had been transferred to her nose, lips and chin by the time she was done, but that mattered little in the overall scheme of things - everything was soon wiped off on her sleeve.

"I think…" Mandy said before she fell quiet. She stuck her pipe between her lips and took several deep puffs before she put a hand on Wynne's elbow to pull her away from the odd reflection. "I think we need to talk, Captain. C'mon, let's sit over here… away from that magic mirror."

"Yuh, I hear ya, darl- I mean, Mizz Mandy," Wynne said and followed hot on the heels of the buff gal.

-*-*-*-

Just shy of fifteen minutes later, A.J. Lane put another glass of warm beer on the table Mandy and Wynne had chosen to sit at. The young man grimaced as he pulled back. "Here you go, Mista. It's still warm, but-"

"Aw, that be fine, son. Dontcha worry 'bout nuttin'," Wynne said in the most authoritative voice she could muster. "I wish I could tip ya, but like I done said befo', I lost mah coin purse somewhe' out in that there desurht between Goldsborah an'… someplace else. Yuh?"

A.J. broke out in a nervous smile before he hurriedly withdrew to the counter to serve the other patrons - as the hands of time moved ahead, the saloon, eatery and gambling sections slowly filled up.

Mandy let out a grunt as her eyes took in the sight of the woman sitting opposite her. "He still sees you as a man," she said and took a long puff of her pipe.

"Yuh. This ain't jus' weird, this be creepy as hell. Billy Jack O'Neill… Sheriff Kennedy… ol' Barry… Dolores an' them folks out yondah… an' A.J. Y'all be da only one who don't. I ain't sure what ta make o' that, frankly." The beer beckoned, so she took a long swig of the murky liquid despite its undesirable temperature.

The corncob pipe was puffed on a few more times before Mandy leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. "Anyway, like I said, San Cristobal was a dead end for me so I upped stakes and joined a wagon train headed East. I have some family in Topeka. Well, the trail boss had to make a detour to Goldsboro because of some medical emergency or other. I liked what I saw and decided to stay. This was five years ago. Had I known the town would go to hell, I would have continued onto Kansas."

"Mmmm!" Wynne said before she took another long swig of the beer. "Mah story ain't all that different. I done left mah birth town o' Shallah Pond, Texas, an' made mah way north-nor'-west until I done arrived in a li'l town in da middle o' nowhere. I liked it so I done stayed."

"Yeah?  Where was that?"

Wynne let out a dark grunt; she needed to take a long swig of the warm beer to have something to counter the outburst that was sure to follow. "Aw, a li'l ol' place called Goldsborah, Nevada. I done lived he' ten years now. Haw, mo' than that, come ta think offit-"

A huge cloud of smoke spewed out of Mandy's mouth; several glowing pieces of tobacco escaped the pipe's bowl as she accidentally blew into the reed. Her eyes narrowed down into emerald-green slits. "I'm not calling you a liar, Wynne, but your story doesn't hold water. Josiah Goldsboro didn't found the town until 'eighty-one. There wasn't much here until 'eighty-three. That's only six years ago. But you say you've lived here for more than ten?"

"Yuh, I alreddy know all them facts. Tabitha Hayward done tole me offen enuff. She bein' the curatah-person fer that there town museum an' all."

Mandy stared at the visitor for several, age-long seconds before she said: "We don't have a town museum. I'm sorry, Ranger, but you must be talking about a different Goldsboro. I know for a fact there's one down south in Arizona… and I think there may also be one over in North Carolina. I'll bet you another beer that you mean the one in Arizona."

"Naw, I reckon I be tawkin' 'bout this he' Goldsborah. I knew A.J. Lane by name, didden I?  I knew y'all, didden I?  I knew De-per-ty Barry Simms an' Sheriff Kennedy. An' I knew Beatrice Reilly who done works fer Moira MacKay… I used ta work fer Moira."

"The hell you did… Moira and her husband came after I did. Look, this is getting-"

"An' look at them fine folks sittin' ovah yondah," Wynne continued as she turned around to point at her future neighbors from the trailer park. "The lady is Brendah Travahs an' the gentleman in da suit is her hubby Vaughn. Yuh?"

Stunned into an uneasy silence, Mandy settled for filling her pipe. She dug into her pocket to find her tobacco pouch and a book of matches. Pale-gray smoke soon rose from the cheap but effective corncob pipe; her skeptical eyes returned to Wynne's face before long.

"An' only a short while aftah I done got he'… uh, this time," Wynne continued, "I done ran inta Diegoh Benitez, Rodolfoh Gonzalez an' Rodolfoh's sweetheart Dolores de la Vega. Yuh?  Betcha know them names. Mebbe y'all even know them folks tho' they be hailin' from down south an' all. Lawrdie, they sure wus dappah-lookin' like never befo', I be tellin' ya-"

Mandy suddenly leaned forward. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of Wynne's sleeve to give the arm inside it a strong squeeze. "What in Tarnation are you?  Some kind of ghost?"

"Naw. I can't be 'cos I feel y'all holdin' me. I ain't got no clue whut I be… none. Lawrdie, what I reckon I be is a visitor from anothah time or som'tin."

"Pardon me for being blunt, but that is the most cockamamie old wives' tale-"

"Yuh-huh!  Dang-straight, Mizz Mandy. I ain't pullin' yer leg or nuttin'… I reckon I be from da future," Wynne said in a quiet voice so the entire saloon wouldn't hear. "I know that gonn' sound like theee most ree-dee-culous thing y'all done heard or seen, but-"

"Well, we did have Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny parading through Main Street just last week," Mandy said in a deadpan.

Wynne let out a tired chuckle. "Yuh?  Take durn care o' wotcha jokin' 'bout… this is Goldsborah, aftah all. Ain't nuttin' too weird fer Goldsborah. Anyhows, all I know is that las'night… which wus Decembah… I wus sittin' on Main Street feelin' the shittiest I ever done felt since I wus a teenagah. I done blacked out, yuh?  An' no mo' than two seconds latah, I wus in da middle o' that there dang-blasted desuhrt in Joo-ne or Joo-ly or whutevah month this be-"

"August…"

"Aw-gust, yuh, okeh… anyhows, I wus sittin' on a gigantoh black stallion an' pullin' Billy Jack O'Neill along fer da ride on a mew-le. Yes, Ma'am. True story. Cross mah heart, hope ta choke on a peanit." Nodding to herself, Wynne chugged down the rest of the warm beer and pushed the glass mug away.

Mandy moved her chair back so she had room to cross her legs. She rubbed her chin and brow while she kept puffing on the pipe and staring at the woman sitting opposite her. An uneasy silence spread among them; one that was soon offset by the growing ruckus that came from the supper guests, the patrons at the bar and the gamblers who had meandered over to the various playing tables to put down their hard-earned dollars.

Elsewhere in the saloon, the piano-pounder upped his tempo on the upright instrument. Some of the patrons soon began singing along to the familiar tunes which added even more life to the proceedings.

"Mizz Mandy," Wynne said and leaned closer so she didn't have to shout, "when y'all done said the town gone all ta hell lately, I reckon y'all meant ol' Artie Rains, yuh?  Sheriff Kennedy done tole me Rains wus controllin' half the town or some such. He an' his low-down skunks."

"Exactly. You know Rains as well?"

"Yuh. We sure ain't ol' buddies no mattah whut time we face off in, that be a dog-gone fact. Rains an' J.D. Burdette be a nasty cuppel-a varmints. But I be glad ta see that Moira's place be goin' so well an' all. Warm an' cozy like always. This he' gonn' be mah favorite haunt an' all."

"Well, for now. Moira and I are engaged in open warfare with Rains and his cronies. They've threatened us often enough," Mandy said and took several deep puffs of the pipe. "Rains is part-owner of Derrike Iverson's saloon-"

"Haw!  Why'dahell ain't I surprised ta hear ol' Derrike be he' as well? Lawrdie…"

"You know him?"

"I know 'im. Dang, I know 'im too well. Used ta hang out in his, uh… saloon, until he done gave me a lifetime ban fer… haw… som'tin I ain't even sure whut wus. Aw, ol' Derrike ain't nevah needed no reason fer doin' nuttin'. He jus' done it."

Mandy let out a chuckle before she continued: "Rains, Burdette and Iverson use the saloon as their headquarters. It's a real hotbed of crime. Every outlaw, bandit and bushwhacker in the entire state swing by there sooner or later. We don't have the railroad by here yet, so every last item we need has to be brought into town on wagons or by mule trains… they're so easy to raid that even an inbred halfwit could do it without risking his neck."

"Shoot. But can't ol' Sheriff Kennedy call fer assistance from them there nebborin' towns or som'tin?"

"What neighboring towns?  Goldsboro is the only one within a fifty mile radius. Jarrod City is the closest and that's a three-day ride at best. Four if they don't want to put too much strain on their steeds. You ought to know that, Ranger."

Grimacing, Wynne glanced left and right before she leaned even closer to the buff Mandy. "I ain't no Ranger, remember?  An' ta tell y'all the truth, I be scared witless of them large animals. Anythin' largah than a dawg an' mah undies curl inta a wad."

"Okay… it must be a real pain to get anywhere, then."

"Naw. We jus' get in ou'ah cars an' drive. Jarrod City is 'bout a forty-five minnit drive away from Goldsborah," Wynne said - she broke out in a grin at the expression of utter disbelief that had been etched onto Mandy's face. "Lawrdie, that there grimacin' y'all jus' pulled tells me y'all got a hard time bah-lievin' that. Well, all ya need-a do is ta wait for them nineteen-hundreds ta roll around. Plenty o' amazin' things gonn' happen when they do, lemme tell ya."

"I'll keep that in mind," Mandy said and let out a chuckle. She fell quiet for a few seconds as she looked at the rest of the patrons in the saloon; a few puffs of her pipe followed. "I've tried to sweet-talk some of the men in town into establishing a citizens' militia or a vigilante squad. Nobody has the backbone to go up against Rains, Burdette and their gang. The outlaws grow stronger, the righteous grow weaker and the men in high places just wash their hands. Sooner or later, there won't be anything left for us decent folks. We need to fight back while we still have something to fight for."

Wynne nodded. "Well, Mizz Mandy, I sure ain't shyin' back from offerin' mah help. Mah six-guh-n an' mah 'Chestah be reddy ta-"

"Thank you, Ranger… but we need to do this ourselves. We can't rely on outside help to solve a local problem. You can't stay here forever. The moment you leave, the remaining outlaws will regroup and fight back, I guarantee it. If we're to reclaim Goldsboro, we need to be the driving force," Mandy said and thumped an index finger onto the table top as she finished the sentence.

"Yuh. I hear ya. I jus' be sayin' I got yer back if da shoot hits da fan while I be in town an' all. Yuh?"

Mandy furrowed her brow as she tried to parse the odd language. She hadn't managed it yet when a loud cheer from the craps table proved that someone had won big throwing the dice. Moments later, a small-scale kerfuffle broke out that required the bouncer's attention.

Bolting to her feet, Mandy stomped over to the loud, obnoxious patron who felt a strong need to celebrate his $20 winnings by rubbing it in everyone else's nose. "Congratulations, Sir," she said in a voice that was held in a stern but not harsh tone. "May I suggest you keep a lid on it so those yet to win-"

The bearded, somewhat overweight gambler - who wore a white Western suit, a white Stetson and a pair of dress boots that had never seen a corral, a plowed field, or indeed any kind of animal droppings - looked at Mandy with a disdainful glare in his eyes. "Be quiet, woman. I'll let you know when you can speak-"

The gambler never made it further before Mandy grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him over to the swinging doors. Once there, she gave him a mighty kick up the rear that sent him tumbling out of the establishment, across the wooden sidewalk and onto the sandy street. She remained at the swinging doors for a few moments to make sure the fellow wouldn't turn stupid and try to retaliate.

Wynne had followed Mandy part of the way over to the doors, and she broke out in a wide grin as the tough, buff gal returned while dusting off her hands. "Lawwwwwwwwr-die!  Yuh, some things sure ain't nevah gonn' change no mattah when, where, whut or how. Dad-gummit, that wus awesome, Mizz Mandy."

"Thank you. Just doing what I can with what I got," Mandy said with her back turned to the swinging doors.

"Haw, that sure ain't no lie!"

The words had barely left Wynne's lips when time slowed down to a crawl. The gambler that Mandy had just thrown out jumped back inside holding a small but lethal pistol in his hand. In a single, fluid motion, Wynne shoved Mandy aside, whipped her Peacemaker out of its holster and cocked the hammer. "Smarten up, fellah!  Drop that there pea-shootah or I'mma-gonn' intra-dooce ya ta Mista Samuel Colt!" she roared at the top of her lungs in a voice that sounded more like a man's than her own.

It soon became obvious the gambler had no intention of letting go of either the notion of getting payback for the humiliation, or the means he had chosen to use. Undaunted, the man held up the small handgun and aimed it at Mandy who had been pushed up against several of the other gamblers by Wynne's shove.

Wynne narrowed her eyes. The gambler did not back down, so she let her index finger do the talking. The blast from the Colt .45 made dust trickle down from the rafters while the slug screamed through the air; it made a clattering impact on the side of the small pistol which ripped it from the gambler's hand.

As the vengeful man let out a howl and clutched his hand that hadn't even been nicked by the Texas Ranger's expert marksmanship, Wynne stared at the smoking Colt with wide, utterly disbelieving eyes. "How in da wohhhhhhhhhhh-rld did I do that?!  Wus it even me?  Lawwwwwr-die… it prolly wussen…" she said in a mumble - and her voice had returned to its regular, fairer register.

Not wanting to give the gambler a second chance, she stepped forward and fell into the deepest and most authoritarian voice she could muster. "I be Cap'n Winston Donnah-hew o' da Texas Rangahs… an' y'all is under arrest fer the attempted murdah o' one Mandy Jalinski. I suggest y'all put them paws way up an' come quietly… but o' course, if ya prefer a fight, I be your man, yes indee-dee."

The gambler shook his head several times; he continued to clutch his hand though he hadn't even chipped a fingernail. A moment later, he put his arms in the air while he let out the breath he had been holding.

More commotion by the swinging doors proved to be Sheriff Kennedy who hurried into the saloon with a huffing and puffing Barry a few paces in the rear. "All right… who be shootin'?  Ranger?"

"A-yup, Sheriff. I hadda disarm this he' gentleman," Wynne said as she twirled her Colt and stuck it into the holster. "He was fixin' ta pin a red rose on Mizz Mandy's back. That ain't gonn' happen when I be around, nosirree."

Roger Kennedy nodded and let out a dark grunt. "I see. Deputy Simms, throw the fool behind bars while I sort out the mess here."

"Yes… Sheriff…" Barry said in a croak; his flushed face and shallow panting proved he had reached the outer limits of his capabilities simply by running across Main Street.

As the sheriff moved around the saloon to gather the details needed to deal with the matter, Wynne and Mandy moved back to the table they had sat at before the incident. "I'm grateful for your help, Ranger. Thank you," Mandy said as she sat down. "How can I repay the favor?"

"Aw, that there li'l ac-shun don't warrant nuttin' in return," Wynne said as she pulled out her own chair and sat at the table. "Haw, on second thoughts… mebbe y'all could get A.J. ta whip up some suppah?  Nuttin' smart, jus' some grub or som'tin. I ain't eaten since… haw… yestuhrdy?  Whenevah that wus."

"That's a can-do, Ranger. Spicy beans and beef pie?  And another glass of beer?"

"Aw… yuh, okeh. I wus hopin' y'all hadda a cheeseburgah an' fries, but I guess I'mma-gonn' hafta wait, oh, a buncha decades fer that," Wynne said as she took off her cowboy hat to have room to scratch her hair. "Yuh, much obliged, Mizz Mandy. Spicy pie an' beans an' beah sure sounds fine an' fillin'."

-*-*-*-

The hands of time had moved from late afternoon, past early evening and into proper evening. Spirits were still high in Mrs. MacKay's Eatery, Saloon & Gambling Parlor, but the rest of the gamblers and assorted patrons and barflies had kept a far lower profile after seeing the formidable Texas Ranger in action earlier.

The Ranger in question, or rather the woman everyone saw as Winston Donohue, sat at a table trying to keep her mind off the weirdness by playing Klondike solitaire. Her legendary poor luck reared its ugly head once more as hand after hand went nowhere. Sighing, she eyed the empty beer glass and plateful of crumbs that had been pushed to the side so she had room for the cards. The serving of spicy beans and beef pie had been fine but less plentiful than she had imagined - she hadn't wanted to outstay her welcome or overstretch her credit so she had chosen not to ask for a second helping.

Now and then, she looked up to cast an eye at the people nearest her, but there was no need for further action as everyone behaved themselves. The next game soon came to the same dead end as the fifteen that had gone before it. Sighing, she tapped the deck into order and put it away.

The highly energetic, key-pounding piano player continued to entertain the crowd by playing all the hits. A young lady with a round figure and a full head of corkscrew curls stood on the dais next to the upright piano belting out the lyrics that went with the music. Her costume consisted of a pink, frilly dress and an umbrella in a matching color that she twirled along to the lyrics - though unschooled, her unbridled enthusiasm covered her occasional mistakes. As a result, she had the audience in raptures.

Wynne had no one to talk to as Mandy was busy waiting tables and keeping the peace. It caused a certain boredom to sneak up on her, best illustrated by the distant look in her eyes and the occasional yawn that she couldn't be bothered to hide.

She had no money so she couldn't join any of the games in progress, but even if she'd had some of the period-correct currency in her pocket, gambling had never been her thing - her legendary rotten luck would make sure she would lose her shirt on the third throw of the dice, or hand of cards, or spin of the roulette wheel.

Worse, her lack of funding meant she couldn't rent a room for the night in Goldsboro's sole hotel or one of the two boarding houses. All she had to look forward to was a fraught night sleeping on a hay bale in the livery stables next to the black stallion and the mule. How the proprietor would react when she told him she couldn't pay for the feed he had given the steeds was another story entirely.

A poker player winning the pot in a round of Five Card Draw caused a little commotion to erupt at one of the round tables, but Mandy was there at once to put a lid on everything before it could escalate into another kerfuffle.

Wynne kept an eye on the event just in case, but Mandy's presence smoothed the ruffled feathers and everything was soon back to normal. A sigh escaped her. "Shoot, I miss mah bayu-ta-ful li'l dawggies. I wondah whut Blackie an' Goldie be doin' right now… haw, in a hundred-an'-thirty years," she mumbled to herself as she propped her head up on her arm.

"They prolly be playin' wi'da Hellbeast Freddie. Mebbe Goldie be pesterin' mah real Mandy fer some dawggie treats an' watah. Dag-nabbit, if I done brought 'em with me ta town fer that there Westuhrn parade, mebbe they wouldda been he' now… but all them thousands o' feet woudda been so dang-blasted dain-ge-russ for their paws an' tails an' all… naw. That woudda been cruel. Lawrdie."

A rumbling sound akin to a large group of riders suddenly overpowered the piano and even the young lady's enthusiastic singing. Wynne sat up straight; the rolling thunder blew away the cobwebs that had threatened to fall over her mind.

Not three seconds later, a young man wearing typical ranch-hand clothing barged into Moira's Saloon. "The bandits are coming!  Lord, show us mercy!" he cried at the top of his lungs before he spun around and went into hiding by the swinging doors.

An emphatic "Sombitch!" burst out of Wynne as she jumped to her feet and drew her Colt. A grim expression fell over her features as she stomped over to the double-doors to see for herself.

She had barely made it there before a group of at least twelve riders entered town from the south and raced up Main Street. Hooting and hollering, the men fired their revolvers into the air and at anything worth destroying. Sounds of glass shattering all along the street soon accompanied the violent men wherever they went; their horses whinnying and rearing up as the intensity continued to mount.

Two of the bandits soon found juicy targets in the shape of the large panes of glass at Moira's Saloon, so they yanked their steeds around to get closer. A pot shot by the first bandit took care of one of the panes that shattered into a thousand shards, but the other - far more drunk - ruffian missed his target by ten feet much to his riding buddy's amusement.

As the drunken bandit came around for a second bite of the cherry, Texas Ranger Winston Donohue stepped out onto the covered sidewalk with his Colt aimed high. A measured squeezing of the trigger later, the bandit's horse ran off on its own in a wild panic.

The other bandits all came to hard stops at the surprising development. Some let out choice words at the Ranger, but the words were only followed by the odd pot shot at the saloon - none came close to do any damage other than breaking off a few chips of wood here and there. Several of the horses whinnied and shied back as the scent of blood reached their nostrils.

Winston Donohue stood firm on the sidewalk with the smoking Colt ready for further action if need be. The Ranger was soon joined by Mandy; the latter loading a double-barreled shotgun and slamming it shut with a meaty Clunk!

"You stinkin' desperados!" Mandy roared as she held the shotgun to her shoulder. "Get the hell outta here or we'll kill you all!"

Mexican curse words were shouted somewhere among the bandits, but like before, the profanity didn't lead to an attack. The stand-off came to an end when half of the riders spurred their horses and continued further north on Main Street. Soon, more hooting, hollering and random gunfire could be heard all the way up the street past the other saloons, the boarding houses and the various stores.

The other half of the bandits loitered at Moira's for a moment longer before they rode off in the direction they had come from: south. Plumes of sand and dust were kicked up by the many hooves, but gravity eventually took over and the dust settled down into a coarse layer on the flat surfaces.

With the dangers over for the time being, the reinforced door to the sheriff's office opened to reveal Sheriff Kennedy and Deputy Simms. The men hurried across Main Street with their revolvers drawn; a risk-free endeavor as the only bandit left was the one the Ranger had picked off.

On the opposite side of the street, Wynne needed to take a sudden step to the side to regain her equilibrium; she had to shake her head several times to get back on an even keel. The weight in her hand made her look down at the Peacemaker. Her brow gained several furrows as she tried to recall what had just happened - most of it was a blank, so she soon gave up the unequal battle with her tired, confused mind.

Instead, she holstered the Colt and stepped off the covered sidewalk. A croaking "Lawrdie…" escaped her as she clapped eyes on the poorly dressed ruffian who was face-down in the sand in a growing pool of blood.

Roger Kennedy soon reached the dead body and turned it over with his boot. A single gunshot wound at the center of the chest had taken care of business. The bandit's complexion and rural tunic proved he was of Mexican descent.

The elderly lawman grunted as he knelt next to the body. He rummaged through a few of the bandit's pockets without finding anything save for a couple of dollar bills that he folded up and took for himself. The dead man's revolver and ten-inch trail knife were soon confiscated so they couldn't be used against anyone. "I saw your handiwork, Ranger. Impressive. Remaining cool under fire has always been one of your hallmarks," he said as he clambered back on his feet.

"Yuh… I s'pose," Wynne said and scratched her neck. She broke out in a smile when she felt Mandy's supportive hand on her elbow, but the smile soon turned concerned. "Them othah outlaws ain't gonn' take this on da chin. They gonn' be back perdy dog-gone soon."

"We'll be ready for them," the sheriff said, but the words had barely left his mouth before Mandy let out a growl and stomped ahead.

"Come again, Sheriff?" she said in a hard voice. "I could have sworn you said 'we' will be ready for them…?  Pardon me for being so blunt, but I didn't see you or Deputy Simms out here while the lead flew. If it hadn't been for Captain Donohue's assertiveness, there's no telling how much the bandits would have destroyed. So don't tell me that 'we' will be ready for them!"

Roger put his hands on his hips and shot the shorter, but far more fiery, woman an annoyed glare. "Miss Mandy, had those bandits tried anything, I can assure you I would have intervened. And another thing… only fools believe the shield of righteousness can protect them from hot lead. You're no fool, so stop acting like one."

"Meaning?"

The sheriff pointed at the double-barreled shotgun. "Joinin' the fight with that scattergun. Don't you understand that'll only draw their fire?  One of the basic rules in any armed combat is to take out the biggest guns first."

"Armed combat, my eye," Mandy said and let out a snort. "That joe there is a petty thug. So were all his chums. I'll wave my scattergun around any damn way I please, thankyouverymuch."

Wynne had to conceal a chuckle at Mandy's typical display of backbone, but before she had time to comment on the most recent developments, a new group of riders entered Goldsboro from the south.

Most of the men wore tan dusters and large hats; everyone wielded a rifle. The ubiquitous Winchester 73 had the strength in number, but there were a few large-bore Sharps and Henrys as well. The men were split into two groups of five that each rode alongside a black, two-axled luxury carriage that was pulled by a pair of bay mares.

The arrival of the squad of ten heavily armed men sent Barry Simms and most of the civilians scurrying back to their homes or into the saloons, but Mandy, Sheriff Kennedy and the Texas Ranger remained where they were. Wynne's eyes narrowed down into slits as she clapped eyes on the passenger who sat wide and mighty on the two-in-hand's plush back seat.

Ever the showman, the larger-than-life Arthur 'Artie' Rains wore a Boss Of The Plains hat and a pale-gray Western suit - the hat was white belying his status as the most villainous man in MacLean County and possibly all of Nevada.

Although Rains was less fat in this particular iteration of Goldsboro, his weight was still on the wrong side of 260 lbs. Clean-shaven and well-dressed for a change, he could do nothing about his fleshy face, triple-chins and beady, angry eyes that nobody would want to look into for any length of time.

A huge stogie had been squeezed between his fat lips, but it appeared he had some difficulty lighting it as he continuously held a lit match under its tip. When he noticed Sheriff Kennedy and the tall stranger standing by the dead body, he took his cane and tapped the driver on the shoulder to make him pull to a halt.

The lack of success regarding the stogie was revealed to be caused by forgetting to clip the end that went into his mouth. No clipper was present so he borrowed a trail knife from one of his men to deal with the small setback. Crisis over, he struck another match, lit up and leaned back on the plush seat to cast an eye on the scene.

While a couple of the men gathered up the dead bandit and threw him over the hind quarters of one of their horses - with no interference by Sheriff Kennedy - Wynne clenched her fists and stuck them into her rear pockets.

The long-forgotten Wanted poster she kept there made a return to the forefront of her mind, and she retrieved it to look at the details. Scrutinizing the ten armed men, it only took her a few seconds to recognize J.D. Burdette - he was the one who had lent Rains his trail knife.

Burdette wore a long duster and a wide-brimmed hat like the rest of the crew, but he stood out among them through his well-groomed facial hair and sharp eyes. A stronger air of danger exuded from him compared to even the other men he rode with, and he remained at Artie Rains' side while the others took care of the grisly task.

"Mizz Mandy," Wynne said out of the corner of her mouth, "is Jay Daniel Burdette Rains' right-hand fella?  His numbah one honcho?"

"Yeah," Mandy said in a quiet tone. She shifted the double-barreled shotgun around to have a better grip in case push came to shove. A grunt escaped her when she noticed the classic Wanted-poster in the Ranger's hand. She only had time to read the largest type, but it had been enough.

"Dang'it. I done figgah'd as much. Sure ain't gonn' make it any easiah ta slap them cuffs on 'im. Naw, this ain't the time or place fer that kinda ac-shun," Wynne said and re-folded the poster - it was soon back in her rear pocket.

"What did he do?"

"Murdah somebodda."

"Damnation, they're all murderers."

"Yuh. But he done murdah'd somebodda impahrtant. Or so that there postah says, anyhows. I ain't got a clue. I wussen there at the time… ol' Winston prolly wus, but he ain't tawkin' ta me right now."

Mandy let out a disbelieving laugh as she looked at the woman next to her. "I've seen some weird things in my life… a two-headed donkey in Sacramento… a Mermaid in San Francisco Bay… a ghost in San Cristobal… but I'm telling you, this beats everything."

"Yuh, sure ain't no lie… this is the weird ta beat all weirds."

Their conversation was interrupted in the rudest of fashions when Artie Rains pretended to notice Mandy for the first time since arriving. "Ah!  Miss Mandy. How fortunate that we meet here. I wish to have a word with you. Please come closer," the fat man said in a distinguished voice that couldn't be phonier.

Wynne let out a "Lawrdie…" at the news that Rains could act even worse than the character she knew. When Mandy stepped off the covered sidewalk and stomped over to the luxury carriage, Wynne followed at a respectful distance.

"Miss Mandy," Artie continued in the same, overly pompous tone of voice, "I cannot understand why you insist on refusing my gracious offer. Is this really a comfortable life for an attractive lady such as yourself?  Three thousand dollars in your pocket would give you so much financial security that you could move elsewhere and live a happier, safer life. Why, I'm sure you could even find a husband who'd provide for you in your spinster years. Let down your guard and accept my offer."

"The hell I will!" Mandy said in a low, dangerous growl. "You can't buy me like you bought so many others. No. I'll stay and fight until we've cleared this town of varmints-"

"You might die."

Mandy's expression turned even grimmer. "A lotta folks might die, Rains."

At that point of the conversation, J.D. Burdette just happened to steer his horse so close to Mandy that she was bumped by its flank. The enforcer grinned at the unfortunate accident and soon steered his horse away to avoid further contact.

Wynne stepped forward to grab hold of J.D.'s reins. She sent him the darkest glare she could muster; it seemed to work as the grin was wiped off the enforcer's face.

Tension mounted exponentially as a pregnant silence fell between the two main combatants. Artie Rains broke it first by grunting and letting out a "Very well. Have a pleasant evening, Miss Mandy," as he tipped his Boss Of The Plains. "And don't forget a torch if you venture out tonight. Ominous clouds are moving in… yes, the night will be cold and dark. Like the grave."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Grunting, Rains used his cane to tap his driver's shoulder once more. As the luxury carriage set off, he noticed Wynne for the first time. A puzzled look flashed across his face before he tipped his hat and let out a cheery and even somewhat friendly "Good evening, Ranger."

The unwanted news that they were visited by not just a strange lawman but a Texas Ranger made J.D. Burdette let out an even louder grunt than his boss. He turned around in the saddle to stare daggers at the tall, bearded Ranger as the group of heavily armed men rode past him - J.D.'s expression revealed that he failed to understand how Rains could speak so calmly to someone who might blow their entire business model wide open.

As the luxury carriage rumbled along the sandy Main Street, Wynne slowly took off her cowboy hat to have room to rub her brow. "Ol' Artie sure wus dif'rent from da one I know," she said in a quiet voice so only Mandy would be able to hear it. "Mah Artie iz mo' abrasive than a piece o' sandpapah, but this he' fellah wus slickah than a Vegas sideshow presentah with all them haaah-falutin' words o' his… an' he wus wearin' a fancy-ass suit, too!  Jus' blows mah mind. An' Lawrd knows I ain't got too much mind ta blow in da first place…"

Mandy cast a brief glance at the woman next to her before she turned around to look at the carriage driving toward Derrike Iverson's saloon further up Main Street. "Let's go inside… I need a whisky. And we need to talk."

"Suits me fine 'cos I need a beer!  An' it don't even mattah none if it be warm or nuttin'…" Wynne said and plonked her hat back onto her dark locks.

-*-*-*-

The beer was indeed at room temperature, but just like Wynne had predicted, it didn't matter a bit as the murky liquid was chugged down in world record pace. "Lawrdie, this he' deal be theeee weirdest I evah done been involved in. An' that says so dang much 'bout mah life it jus' ain't funny, nosirree…" she said as she put the empty glass on the counter.

A.J. Lane continued to stare at the fearsome Texas Ranger, and especially at the beer that dripped off the man's enormous full beard in several, yellowish rivers. "Ah… Mista… ya might wanna wipe your beard… you have beer all over," he said and pointed at the mess.

Chuckling at the insanity of it all, Wynne looked at her male reflection in the large mirror. Winston's beard was indeed dripping wet, so she reached up to give it a strong rub 'n squeeze that took care of the worst of it. "Much obliged, young fella," Wynne said in a deep register to continue acting out the charade. "This he' ol' beard done seen plenty o' gunk ovah them years, lemme tell ya. Why, I 'membah one time back hoah-me in Shallah Pond where-"

Before the ball of yarn could be spun into a grand tapestry, Mandy stepped in to put an end to the tall tale. "Ranger. We need to talk," she said after placing a hand on the lawman's elbow.

Wynne turned around and broke out in a wide grin. "Lead the way, Mizz Mandy. I'mma-gonn' follow wherevah y'all be goin'."

---

The key-pounding piano player had resumed playing all the latest hits to take the patrons' minds off the troubles and the people boarding up the smashed pane of glass. His hearty, and occasionally heavy-handed, approach didn't lend itself well to a more poetic tune, but he tried to the best of his abilities - the romantic song he played made the young songbird next to him warble the lyrics rather than belt them out like she had done earlier in the evening. Her special style made the song quite maudlin, but it seemed the heavy dose of sentimentality hit home with the audience.

The gambling tables saw much less business following the bandit raid. It seemed the gamblers had wanted to protect their humble winnings in case the outlaws were to return in a foul mood. The faro table was empty as was the roulette, but a pair of players sat at one of the poker tables engaged in a friendly contest using matches for stakes.

None of that mattered to Mandy and Wynne who shared a table in the farthest corner of Moira's saloon in an attempt to gain some privacy. "I don't claim to understand a word of this crazy business with you and… well… the male you," Mandy said, "but maybe you were sent here to deal with our bandit problems. I'm anything but a true believer, but I know many have been praying for a helping hand."

"Haw, I ain't got no clue why I be he' or who done sent me he' or nuttin'. Or how long I'mma-gonn' stay… mebbe it gonn' be forevah. I sure don't hope so 'cos that would mean I woudden evah get ta see mah dawggies again. Or the othah you again."

Mandy locked eyes with Wynne. As emerald-green met ice-blue, it was obvious to both that some kind of spiritual bond existed between them even if everything else had changed. "Tell me… how are we connected in your time?"

"We be married. Yuh. We ain't signed ou'ah names on that there dotted line or nuttin', but we really, honestly been married fer a buncha years now. An' y'all an' me be one helluva team, lemme tell ya."

Mandy's brow was given a strong rubbing as she digested the news. Several long seconds went by before she cocked her head as if something had just struck her. "Pardon me for asking, but… in that other time, are you a guy or a-"

"Aw-hell no!  I be jus' like y'all see me now!  Lawrdie, I need anothah beer jus' hearin' that… naw, I be a gal through an' through. The one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew, yes Ma'am."

A croaking chuckle of relief escaped Mandy's throat. Her cheeks were exposed to a long and thorough chewing as she took in every inch she could see of the woman sitting opposite her. Her eyes started at Wynne's firm jaw and made their way over to the enticing lips. The elegant ears and the prominent cheekbones were next until the brief tour ended at the sparkling blue orbs that seemed to hold a great deal of depth despite her rural appearance and speech patterns.

"An' get this," Wynne continued, "in mah time, y'all be da Sheriff. Artie Rains used ta hold that posi-shun until he disgraced hisself an' wus kicked from da job bah da Town Council. Ain't dat jus' too dang-blasted weird?  Haw, whut ain't weird 'bout this he' mess?  Or any mess he' in Goldsborah…"

Mandy nodded. A somber expression fell over her face that fit the maudlin tones created by the piano player and the songbird. "It's definitely weird and, yep, it's definitely a mess. Two things weigh on my mind right now. One, if we don't rebel against Rains and his henchmen soon, there won't be anything left to salvage. We'll lose the town to the riff-raff."

"Yuh… well, like I done tole ya befo', y'all can count on me, mah Colt an' mah 'Chestah ta have yer backs. I ain't gonn' chicken out o' this he' deal, no Ma'am."

"Good," Mandy said as a brief smile played on her lips. "And two… if we do win back the town, you… Wynne… might leave and I'll be stuck with Winston."

"Haw!  Yuh, I didden think o' that… dag-nabbit, that be one o' them there Conan-drums, ain't it?  Lawrdie… aw, an' y'all alreddy exist in the othah time so even if y'all went with me or whutevah's gonn' happen, there'd be two Mizz Mandys!  Mercy Sakes, that would be askin' fer all kinds o' trubbel!"

Mandy could do nothing but shrug and shake her head. "Maybe I'll be someone else… or maybe Burdette will take me out of the equation before we get to that point."

"Haw… that ain't nuttin' ta be crackin' no jokes 'bout, Mizz Mandy!" Wynne said and reached out to grab hold of Mandy's callused hands. "Les'hope it ain't gonn' come ta that. Naw, I be gettin' mighty tired an' all. I bettah mosey on up ta that there livery stable-"

"The livery stable?  To do what?"

"Ta sleep!  I be hopin' that there proprietah gonn' accept mah offah o' muckin' out them stalls in da morn' in exchange fer a hay bale or som'tin…"

"Why don't you try Mrs. Peabody's boarding house-"

"Missus Peaboddah?!  Lawwwwwwwwwwr-die, Missus Bizzyboddah be he' as well?!  Naw!  Naw, I sure ain't gonn' ask Missus Bizzyboddah 'bout anythin' anytime soon… I be bettah off sleepin' with them hosses, anyhows."

Mandy leaned her head back to let out a loud laugh. "Well, all right. We have a few blankets and things you might need out back. Feel free to take some… just remember where you found them."

"Yuh, will do. Much obliged, Mizz Mandy," Wynne said and got up from the chair.

She tipped her hat at the tough gal before she left the table to go into the room she presumed was the storage facility. Fully equipped with a pillow, a pair of thick blankets and a one-gallon tin bucket that would double as a chamber pot, she strode out of Mrs. MacKay's Eatery, Saloon & Gambling Parlor en route to the livery stables at the northern end of Main Street.

*
*
CHAPTER 10

The rooster seemed to crow later in 1889 than it would in Wynne's own time, but it didn't matter as she had been up for the past hour mucking out the bays.

The livery stables was a large, wooden building with a high inner ceiling and a hayloft a floor up from the ground. Down below, seven bays offered quality berths for any equine, be it donkeys, mules, calm workhorses or high-strung thoroughbreds. Clean hay and fresh water would be distributed two or three times a day, and Goldsboro's finest blacksmith would come by on a daily basis after lunch to see if any of the steeds or beasts of burden required new shoes or harnesses.

The proprietor had accepted Wynne's offer of shoveling dung in exchange for a sleeping spot upstairs among the fresh hay, but her sleep had been a fitful one as she had woken up each and every time the rickety building had creaked and groaned - and it had done so often as the wood contracted after being exposed to the rays of the murderous sun all day.

The occasional bodily activities of the horses and mules below made the environment upstairs inhospitable for human life, but perhaps not for the countless cheepy-chirping rodents she'd had to share the hayloft with. A few had come close during her sleepless moments to sniff the intruder, but she had beaten them off with the hilt of her Colt.

Wynne put the manure fork back into its rack before she wiped a bucketful's worth of sweat off her brow and bare arms. She reeked of this, that and a whole lot of other things, but there was nothing she could do about it at that moment in time.

Goldsboro did in fact have a public bathing facility, owned and operated by the only hotel in town, but stripping down to her bare essentials in front of a bunch of strangers wasn't at the top of her wish list. Even beyond that, the bath was split into sections for men and women, but she had no idea which of the two would be most appropriate to use given the strange circumstances - the proprietor of the livery stables saw her as Winston rather than Wynne like everybody else in town save for Mandy Jalinski, but her legendary rotten luck would inevitably strike at the wrong moment and cause someone to become so scandalized the world would come to an end.

After she had rolled down her shirtsleeves, donned her gunbelt and put on her short jacket, she went over to inspect the black stallion and the pack mule she had arrived with. Her number one phobia came back full force as the large, tall stallion nearly crowded her again, but she clenched her teeth and simply hurried through the motions to get it over with.

---

Main Street was far busier than what she was used to seeing, especially at that time of the day. She let out a deep, long sigh and put down the items she had borrowed from the saloon so she could stand akimbo.

The poor sleep had left her with an all-too familiar touch of light-headedness. She knew the condition could evolve into a dizzy spell if she moved too quickly, so she took it extra-carefully as she walked down the street to get back to Moira's Saloon.

Everyone she met along the way called her Sir or Mister when they greeted her, but one or two shot her curious glances when they walked past her - of course, chances were they responded to the strong smells that trailed her wherever she went.

Mrs. MacKay's Eatery, Saloon & Gambling Parlor had yet to open when she reached it, but she could hear someone sweeping the floorboards with a coarse broom. She peeked over the swinging doors to see if it was Mandy or Moira herself; when it turned out to be Mandy, Wynne said: "Knock, knock!  Howdy, Mizz Mandy… I done brought ya them blankets an' stuff I borrowed las'night. I alreddy rinsed that there pee-bucket an' all so y'all don't hafta."

"Howdy, Wynne… it is Wynne, right?  Or did you shave your beard off this morning to discombobulate me?" Mandy said with a wink. The new day saw the tough gal wear a new outfit: black ankle boots, dark-brown britches featuring a leather belt rather than suspenders, and finally a simple tan Grandpa-undershirt. A short-sleeved shirt had been put across the backrest of a chair for whenever her morning chores were done - the corncob pipe was nowhere to be seen, but perhaps it was too difficult to keep it going while sweeping the floors.

"Naw!  Ain't done no shavin' fer a while now," Wynne said as she entered the establishment. "Lissen, I wondah'd if I could mebbe get some breakfast or som'tin?  Jus' mebbe some bread an' coffee or som'tin?"

Mandy carried on sweeping the floor with the coarse broom, but she came to a halt to sniff the air that had made a distinct turn for the worse when the tall woman had entered the saloon - the penetrating smell made her crinkle her nose in disgust. "Yes and no. Yes, you can get breakfast here… but no, I won't serve you as much as a stale salt cracker until you've had a bath and scrubbed those clothes."

Wynne rubbed her brow. "Yuh, I know, but I didden wanna tempt fate in that there public bath o' yers. Ain't nobodda can tell how them folks gonn' react if I done drop mah britches an' they see som'tin they wussen expectin'. Or mebbe don't see som'tin they wus expectin'… if ya catch mah drift."

"I do," Mandy said with a big, ol' grin playing on her face, "Well, you could use my private tub. It's out back. All right, I know it's not large enough for you, but I guarantee that nobody will be able to see anything you don't want to show them."

"Lawrdie, y'all got a private bathtub?" Wynne said and shoved her cowboy hat back from her brow. "Haw!  Yes, Ma'am!  Much obliged!"

"You need to haul the buckets of water and heat it yourself, though. I'm too busy with the floor to offer my assistance. And it won't be long before I need to get the stove going."

Wynne waved her hand in dismissal. "Aw, that sure ain't gonn' be no problem, no Ma'am. When I be done scrubbin' mah bee-hind, I'mma-gonn' scrub them clothes too. I ain't got nuttin' but this he' set, so… uh… mebbe I could borrow a robe or some such while they dry up?"

"Of course, but if it fits me, chances are it won't fit you."

"Haw-"

"Tell you what," Mandy said as she leaned the broom against one of the tables. "I'll find some of the clothes that belonged to Moira's late husband… maybe they'll fit you better."

"Yuh, but only if your Wyatt wussen the same kinda skinny kitten he be in mah time. Lawrdie, there ain't no way I can get mah hips inta his pants." When Wynne realized what she had said, she broke out in a loud laugh that soon claimed Mandy as well.

"Good point. He was a slender man, all right. I didn't think of that. Well, it's going to be a scorcher today… your clothes will dry pretty fast if you let them hang somewhere."

"Yuh. I'mma-gonn' do that. Okeh. Yuh… well, see ya latah, alligatah!" Wynne said and waved her hat in the air - she was already on her way back to the double doors and thus missed the confused look on Mandy's face.

-*-*-*-

Most of an hour went by filled with plenty of scrubbing of skin and dunking of grungy clothes; the high ambient temperatures as well as the strong rays of the early-morning sun made swift work of drying the fabric, so Wynne was able to return to Moira's saloon fully dressed and bringing a far nicer, soapy scent with her.

By the time she entered the main room via the back door, the saloon and eatery already had a good number of customers who sat at the tables drinking coffee and eating bacon and eggs, freshly baked bread or variations of porridge like oatmeal, grits, pearl-sago and buckwheats.

Mandy and Moira were both busy serving the customers, so Wynne helped herself to some coffee and a healthy portion of oatmeal. Mandy was never allowed to have as much as a minute where she could come over to Wynne's table for a chat, so Wynne munched on the oatmeal and slurped the coffee all by her lonesome. The breakfast didn't last long, even with a second helping of coffee, and she was soon back on the covered sidewalk.

The role of Captain Winston Donohue of the Texas Rangers was one she could easily slip into, and she decided to take a leaf out of Sheriff Mandy's book by carrying out a foot patrol of Goldsboro's bustling streets to get up to date with what really went on beyond the obvious - and perhaps to discover a few clues that could explain the weird situation.

Armed to the teeth with her Colt Peacemaker on her right hip, an eight-inch survival knife in a sheath on her left hip and her Winchester on her back - she had spent some of her sleepless hours attaching a piece of string to the rifle to act as a carrier strap - she set off northbound on Main Street.

She went past Mrs. Peabody's boarding house before long; it looked more or less the same as it would in Wynne's own time save for having its original roof. Several dead-drunk cowboys and low-level bandits slept it off where they had fallen outside Derrike Iverson's notorious dive, but the similar establishments of The Gold Nugget Saloon, The Silver Spur Café and The Jade Dragon Gambling Parlor also had their fair share of barflies who had never made it
home from their all-night escapades.

The undertaker's parlor drew a crowd even at such an early hour. The reason for the commotion was the open casket featuring the bandit Winston Donohue had shot dead the night before. As was the norm, the corpse was presented to the public to act as a strong deterrent to those who were on the fringes of society. Gold coins had been placed on the dead bandit's eyes to make the grisly display even more grotesque. When the crowd of regular citizens noticed the tough, bearded Texas Ranger striding toward them, they broke out in applause to show their appreciation - Wynne accepted the applause but abstained from even glancing in the corpse's direction.

Hurrying away from the hideous spectacle, she soon found herself being heckled and whistled at from the next building down the street. A grunted "Haw?" escaped her as several cat calls were sent her way. Taking a step back so she could get the big picture, she pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow when it dawned on her that she had arrived at Madam Ruby's Sanctuary For Fallen Angels & Soiled Doves - or so the marquee said.

Unlike the popular image of such establishments, the ladies of the night didn't stand on a balcony a floor above the street, but sat in windows at ground level so the occasionally drunken customers wouldn't have to first navigate the stairs when they wanted to get on with their business.

Madam Ruby Diamond herself soon came out to stand in the doorway to see who her doves were whistling at. The owner of the establishment was in her mid-to-late thirties and thus a good decade older than most of her employees - save for Old Beulah who had been in the trade since before the war. Ruby's long dark hair was a wig, but there was nothing fake about her dips, planes and curves that were covered by a flimsy negligee.

She grinned at the Texas Ranger and swept some of her negligee aside to provide a tempting peek at prime, unblemished flesh. "Good morning, Mister. It's never too early for a lay. Ten dollars for a regular. Fifteen if you have special urges. Twenty-five if you'd like to play with me. See anyone you like?"

For once, Wynne was stumped for words. Instead of trying to speak - or squeak - she tipped her hat at the Madam and her doves and hurried away from the establishment. Predictably, the ladies let out plenty of good-natured jeering at the fleeing Ranger.

---

The rest of the trip up to the northern end of Goldsboro proved to be less challenging. When she reached the spot that would be the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop in her own time, she let out a chuckle at the sight of a lot filled with used buckboards, buggies, carriages, Conestoga-style heavy wagons and even old-fashioned prairie schooners similar to those used in the Oklahoma Land Rush and other places when the West was young.

The northern outskirts of town saw less activity than the southern did so there was little point in hanging around there for any length of time - and she had little interest in visiting the livery stables now that she had been scrubbed clean. She was about to begin her return trip when a cloud of dust not too far into the desert caught her eye. Something told her to wait for the riders to arrive, so she leaned against a sign post to kill time.

An open wagon led by a two-in-hand and accompanied by a five-strong group of armed riders appeared before long. Two men of Mexican descent wearing wide-brimmed hats and clothes fit for physical labor shared the bench seat; the one on the right controlled the reins and the brake lever while the other held a rifle. The driver was in his early twenties while the man on the left appeared to be closer to thirty.

Both men cast concerned glances at the heavily armed lawman as the open wagon rumbled past the sign post welcoming everyone to Goldsboro. The driver pulled the reins to the right which made the horses change direction and head down the dirt trail that ran along the used-wagon lot. Dust continued to trickle off the vehicle after traveling for countless miles through the desert, and the fine particles were soon joined by coarser rocks and clumps of dirt kicked up by the large wheels.

As the rear of the open vehicle came into sight, it was revealed to be fully laden with many barrels, crates and eighty-pound sacks containing various foodstuffs. A young woman who shared a strong family resemblance with the youngest of the two men up front rested on the sacks. She wore a white, full-length cotton gown and a tan bandanna that covered her black hair like a bonnet.

Wynne found herself stumped for words all over again. The man with the rifle had been her friend - and future Senior Deputy Sheriff - Rodolfo Gonzalez whom she had last seen at the reins of the two-seater buggy that had brought Dolores de la Vega to Goldsboro the day before.

As the armed escort rode past her soon after, she stepped away from the sign post to keep an eye on the open wagon as it rumbled along the dirt trail. Mandy's words about Rains' bandits raiding the wagon trains bringing supplies to town came to her; the cargo vehicle had obviously been part of a cross-state convoy at some point. "An' Rodolfoh's a shotgun ridah… Lawrdie," she mumbled to herself as she scratched her neck.

Down by a cluster of huts and small buildings in the middle distance, several children and young adults of Mexican and African-American descent ran out to greet Rodolfo and the two others as they arrived with the heavy load. The open wagon soon came to a halt; the woman in the back jumped up and lowered the tail gate to allow access to the sacks.

Wynne glanced down Main Street to see if anything needed her urgent attention, but nothing in particular happened there. The prospects of talking to Rodolfo and getting to know the others had a stronger pull on her, so she set off striding along the trail to catch up with the open wagon.

---

The appearance of the tall, heavily armed and fearsomely bearded Texas Ranger sent the children running back to the huts. One or two of the young adults followed them there, but most remained at the wagon; some showed plenty of defiance. They had already offloaded a quarter of the sacks, but the work stopped dead as if someone had thrown a switch.

Wynne felt the tension mounting even at thirty paces' distance, so she whipped up her right hand to take off her hat and wave it at the people waiting for her - by doing it with the hand that would typically be used for the revolver at her side, she hoped her peaceful intentions would come across. The tension didn't seem to lessen, so she added a cheery "Howdy, y'all!  Uh… 'ola!" when she got closer.

Up on the bench, Rodolfo put away the rifle and got to his feet. Though his wide-brimmed hat already provided plenty of shadow, he had to shield his eyes from the sun's strong rays to see better. When that only offered the visual facts but none of the reasons for the visit, he jumped off the wagon and exchanged a few words with one of the helpers; the young man nodded and ran off out of sight.

The sun was too strong to walk around bare-headed, so Wynne wiped her brow on her sleeve and plonked her cowboy hat back onto her dark locks. Just as she reached the open wagon, the young man who had run off returned with several beefy men as well as a few elders. Tension mounted once more as she eyed the men's faces that all held a mix of concern and anger.

She furrowed her brow at the sight of the ramshackle huts that seemed to have been placed at random. Here and there, sturdier buildings had been made of logs and untreated planks, or in the case of the house that carried a sign that read SCHOOL, of adobe.

Though the people didn't adhere to the most common negative stereotypes by wearing tattered rags and looking malnourished, there was no doubt it was a far less affluent area of town compared to elsewhere - that Goldsboro would have what was generally referred to as a Darktown came as a chilling surprise to her.

Rodolfo's inherent suaveness and good looks spoke louder than the coarseness of his clothes. His hair was as slick as ever and he even sported a neat mustache that appeared to be greased. The main difference was the somber, concerned look in his eyes.

" 'Ola muchacho… como está?  Haw, that there be jus' 'bout the only Spanish I done know. Yuh. I sure ain't no lang-witch expert or nuttin'. I done picked up them phrases bah watchin' that there awesome Mexican rasslin' on Channel Fifty-seven. Aw, but that don't mattah none now. I reckon I'mma-gonn' speak 'Merican from now on, yuh?  Howdy, Rodolfoh. I be Cap'n Wy- Wy- Wyn- Wy- aw, shoot… Winston Donnah-hew o' them Texas Rangahs outtah Shallah Pond. Y'all be Rodolfoh Gonzalez, aintcha?" Wynne said and put out her hand for the traditional greeting.

"I am, yessir. Do we know each other, Ranger?" Rodolfo said in a voice that held a stronger Mexican accent than his future self. He stared at the outstretched hand as if he was afraid the Ranger would slap a set of cuffs on it the second they touched each other, but he eventually shook the hand of the person he believed to be Winston Donohue.

"Naw, we don't know each othah. Well, we do an' we don't, but that there be one helluva long story, yuh?  Uh… but naw, I done saw ya yesturhday with the charmin' Lady Dolores an' ol' Diegoh an' I kinda-sorta asked around iz all."

The even deeper shadow of concern that fell over Rodolfo's face proved he didn't believe a word of what he had just been told. His eyes narrowed as he studied the Ranger closely. "Colonel Benitez and I both work for Don Alejandro, Sir. I'm a driver. Sometimes, we take Señorita de la Vega to town. But I don't understand-"

"Aw, that be good an' all. I reckon y'all mebbe a li'l worried or con-few-sed 'bout me showin' up he', but I ain't he' for nuttin' nasty. I reckon y'all an' them heavily armed fellas ovah yondah wus part of a supply convoy or some such?"

"That's right, Sir."

"Didya meet any trubbel?"

"No sir. It was a clean haul."

"Haw, that be good, yessirree," Wynne said with a grin. "Anyhows, I be he' ta tawk ta all y'all 'bout Mizz Mandy's no-shun o' startin' a citizen's militia or one o' them there vigilante squads. Yuh?  I be guessin' y'all done heard o' that?"

Rodolfo quickly looked at the elders who all shook their heads in defiance. "Yessir, we've heard of it… but nobody ever asked us directly."

"I be doin' that now. Lawrdie, y'all got someplace a li'l coolah we can use fer da meetin' an' all?"

Rodolfo narrowed his eyes even further as he took in the sight of the coarse, bearded, rough-looking Ranger and the weaponry the man packed. He cast another quick glance at the elders and some of the younger men before he turned back to Winston Donohue. "Yessir. We could use the school hut."

"Haw, now why didden I think o' that?" Wynne said and wiped her damp brow on the back of her hand. "Mebbe y'all oughttah get that there flour an' stuff outtah the sun first, tho'. Woudden want it ta go bad or nuttin'. Yuh?"

"Yessir…"

"Y'all need-a hand or som'tin?"

"Thank you, Sir," Rodolfo said and waved the men back to the open wagon, "but we have it covered."

"Okeh-dokeh. Don't lemme stop y'all," Wynne said with a grin. Stepping aside to let the men through, she observed their quick and efficient work with great interest.

-*-*-*-

Once the flour and the other foodstuffs had been carried to a storage cabin, everyone convened outside the school hut. Wynne let out a chuckle as she met the schoolmarm: it was none other than Tabitha Hayward.

The future curator of the Goldsboro Town Museum wore a straw hat and a basic but stylish yellow dress. A pair of round spectacles sat high on her nose; her dark-brown eyes shone with equal measures of interest and concern as she studied the Texas Ranger. "Welcome to our school, Sir. Come, let's get out of the heat," she said as she opened the door and held it open for their visitor.

"Why, much obliged, Mizz Tabitha," Wynne said and stepped inside. Noticing the worried noise uttered by the schoolmarm when she had been referred to by name, Wynne decided that trying to explain the bizarre nature of the matter would just muddy the waters even further.

The ground plan of the school hut was twenty by twenty-five feet; twelve sets of chairs and single-person tables were lined up in orderly rows so they all faced a larger desk. The wall behind the teacher's position saw a blackboard where Tabitha had written every letter of the alphabet in an elegant hand.

Taking off her cowboy hat and stuffing it under her arm, Wynne smiled at the young men and the elders who had followed her inside. The smile didn't seem to have the same effect as usual - no doubt a result of the grizzled beard - so she assumed a neutral expression instead. Rodolfo stood at the back of the room with his arms crossed over his chest.

Once everyone who wanted to be there had shown up, Wynne put her hands in the air to quell the din. "Okeh. Much obliged fer the atten-shun. Jus' so everybodda undahstands whut this iz an' whut it ain't, mah name is Cap'n Winston Donnah-hew o' da Texas Rangahs, outta Shallah Pond. I done brought Billy Jack O'Neill ta Goldsborah yesturhday an' got tole bah Mizz Mandy an' others that all y'all have a perdy big varmint problem. Yuh?"

A few mumbled murmurs rolled around the group of spectators. At the back, Rodolfo moved down his arms and put them on his hips. "That's right, Ranger. What's it to you?"

"Aw, nuttin' but the feud that me an' ol' nasty-ass Artie Rains done had fer a-cuppel-a years now," Wynne said with a grin - it earned her several macho-like laughs in return. "Yuh. I nevah done figgah'd ta bump inta him he', but there he be. An' his li'l friend, Mista Burdette, too. J.D. an' I ain't chummy, neithah, lemme tell ya. An' learnin' them folks bein' downright mean skunks all ovah again done gave me a no-shun o' mebbe teachin' 'em a lesson they ain't gonn' be fergettin' in a hurry."

Although Tabitha's mood seemed to lighten at the news, Rodolfo continued to look more than a little skeptical. "Ranger, most people in Goldsboro wouldn't give these particular townsfolk the time of day before," he said in a sour tone as he made a sweeping gesture at the men who lived in Darktown.

"Yuh, I reckon that be the case…"

Rodolfo broke out in a grim nod. "Here's what I'm thinking. The citizens' militia is falling apart before it got started because nobody among the white folks is willing to risk their necks… so you come to the colored part of town. You're planning to make these people your cannon fodder. And then you'll get all the glory."

The comment sent an angry murmur rippling through the men gathered in the school hut. Everyone glared at Wynne who could only chew on her lips.

"Naw!  Naw, Rodolfoh, that sure ain't whut this be 'about. Nosirree! Ain't nobodda be lookin' ta steal nobodda's glory, an' I guarantee all y'all that me an' Mizz Mandy gonn' be da first through them swingin' doors ovah yondah at Derrike's saloon," Wynne said and pointed in the general direction of Main Street.

When the murmurs died down, she continued: "What we be lookin' fer is strength in numbahs. Yuh, it sure ain't no lie that them lead-butted folks he' in Goldsborah ain't too willin' ta fight, but da fight be comin' no mattah what they want. If we be two, three or five, Rains an' them outlaws gonn' win the battle, yuh?  Then everythin's prolly gonn' get worse fer all y'all. But if we be twenty, twenty-five, thirty or some such numbah, them varmints ain't gonn' be laughin' much, iz they?"

Tabitha had been sitting on one of the tables watching the proceedings, but she stood up to say: "That may be true, Ranger. You may be able to kill Rains, Burdette and enough of their men to win the battle, but where would that leave us?  I'll tell you… it would leave us no better off than we are now."

Several cries of 'Damn right!' came from the men.

Tabitha nodded but held up her hand in a plea for calm so she could go on. "Goldsboro would become a safer place for you and your kind, but the pecking order would persist. To put it bluntly, the colored folk and the dirt poor among the white would still be treated as shit under the fine folks' shoes."

When further cries of support rose from the men, Wynne chewed on her lips again. She opened her mouth to counter the claims, but soon realized that every part of Tabitha's statement had been true. "I reckon y'all be right 'bout that, Mizz Tabitha," she said and let out a sigh.

The murmurs started again, but before it could evolve into something more, commotion at the door made everyone pipe down and look at the person who had just entered the school hut.

Diego Benitez wore his Caballero uniform with pride; despite just riding from the De la Vega ranch ten miles south of Goldsboro, not a speck of dust or sand had dared to go anywhere near the black fabric. "Why the hell is the wagon still here?  Rodolfo, what's the meaning of this?" he said in a harsh voice as he glared at Don Alejandro's driver.

Wynne stepped forward and put out her hand. "Howdy, Señor Diegoh. Cap'n Winston Donohue o' them Rangahs outtah Shallah Pond, Texas. I be da cause fer the delay. Rodolfoh ain't got nuttin' ta do with it. We been havin' a li'l conversa-shun 'bout that there citizens' militia or vigilante squad them folks he' in Goldsborah been tryin' ta establish."

Diego glared at the outstretched hand before he whipped off his glove to shake it. "Pleased to meet you, Ranger. I'm Colonel Diego Benitez, formerly of the Third Mexican Cavalry Battalion and presently chief of security for Don Alejandro de la Vega. How do you know my name?"

"Aw, I done asked around…"

"I see. Well, I hope your conversation has reached a conclusion. We need to get the wagon over to the next paying customers."

"Yuh, we be done. All done," Wynne said and turned to Tabitha and the group of men. "Lady an' gentlemen, much obliged fer y'all takin' yer time ta lissen ta mah ideah. If some o' y'all change yer mind 'bout this he' deal, me an' Mizz Mandy can be found in Moira's Saloon. Yuh?  Goodbah fer now."

The murmuring grew in volume as Wynne left the school hut, but when nobody followed her out of the door, she realized it would most likely be a lost cause.

A few seconds later, Rodolfo jogged past her and jumped up onto the open wagon; the driver soon had the two-in-hand turned around so it could rumble the other way along the dirt trail that would take it to Main Street. Diego and the armed escort followed it closely so Rains' men wouldn't be tempted by the valuables it hauled.

Wynne walked on until she reached the no man's land between the ramshackle huts of Darktown and the sturdier buildings closer to Main Street. Grunting, she turned around to cast a somber glance at the misery she had just come away from. Nobody had left the huts to see her off, so she broke out in a shrug and carried on about her business.

---

The return trip to Moira's proved less adventurous than the first leg had been. Wynne took to the other side of the street as she moved south to see the stores there and to get a feel for the general mood of the town. One noticeable thing was the high number of saloons compared to her own time. In addition to Moira's and Derrike's establishments, she checked out the Gold Nugget, the Jade Dragon Gambling Parlor and the Silver Spur - the latter was a chic Café that didn't serve hot food but plenty of coffee, imported tea and freshly-baked, sugary pastries.

Everywhere she went, the patrons fell quiet as the fierce-looking, bearded Texas Ranger entered the stores to give them a once-over. Wynne only knew a few of the people, but she did meet Eamonn O'Sullivan, the 59-year old disability pensioner who would later live over in the new part of Goldsboro with his future wife Esther.

Wynne offered Eamonn a quick Howdy, but the harried look in his eyes and the fact that he and the man he spoke to feigned utter innocence hinted at certain shady activities going on - it wasn't her intention to bring misfortune to anyone, so she simply tipped her cowboy hat and moved on.

Derrike's infamous dive continued to have several dead-drunk barflies sleeping in front of the door. The log building housing the saloon wasn't the same as in Wynne's time, but its condition was just as poor, if not worse, as the thatched roof sagged and the untreated logs used for the walls were frayed and insufficiently fastened.

She came to a halt and nudged a particularly drunk specimen with her boot just to see whether or not the man was even alive. A pool of vomit had been spewed onto the covered sidewalk next to him, but the disgusting fact hadn't made him let go of the bottle of liquor he clutched to him like a baby.

While she stood there, the door opened to reveal another barfly. The vile concoction of sweat, urine and stale beer that not only hovered around the man but flowed out of the saloon itself was enough to make her put her long legs to good use and hurry away from the smelly horrors.

Her next encounter proved that even in 1889, Goldsboro was a place where extremes thrived. Not fifty yards down Main Street from Derrike's saloon and the human flotsam on the covered sidewalk, a traditional overland coach led by a two-in-hand pulled over to the curb.

The driver soon jumped off and let out a group of eight traveling missionaries from none other than the Virgin Tower religious organization. It took Wynne five minutes and just as many utterances of "I really need-a be on mah way now, son," before she could escape the pack of Bible-quoting bloodhounds.

---

Back at Moira's, Wynne furrowed her brow at the sight of Diego Benitez' stallion being tied to the rail by the covered sidewalk. She peeked over the swinging doors to see what went on inside before she entered. While A.J. 'Slow' Lane and Moira were busy serving customers, Mandy and Diego sat at one of the tables engaged in what seemed to be a serious conversation.

Wynne gave Main Street a thorough check to see if anything required her input; although busy, the street was free of bandits or outlaws of any kind which enabled her to move the swinging doors aside and step into Moira's saloon.

"Howdy, Colonel Benitez," she said as she took off her cowboy hat to wipe her brow. Mandy and Diego offered her a nod; Mandy pulled out the chair next to her, but Wynne had something on the top of her agenda that needed to be addressed first: a warm, but certainly refreshing, beer.

---

Thus equipped, she sat down at the table and took a long swig. Winston's beard got in the way as always, but since she was a good distance away from the large mirror behind the bar, she had no way of seeing how bad the drippage was. Grunting, she tried to wipe her chin in the hope it would be enough - the skeptical look on Diego's face proved it hadn't been, but since there was little she could do about it, she let it go.

"Captain Donohue," Mandy said to maintain the odd charade, "I believe you've already met Colonel Diego Benitez."

"Yuh, we done spoke not too long ago. Nice meetin' ya again, Colonel," Wynne said and put out her hand. She spotted the glistening drops of beer at the last moment and made sure to wipe off her palm on her britches.

The skeptical look on Diego's face only grew deeper, but he still shook her hand. "Captain Winston Donohue of Shallow Pond, Texas. Correct?"

"Why, it sure is!"

"I spoke in detail to Rodolfo at our next stop," Diego said in a cultivated voice that held a stronger accent than it would in the future. "He told me about your notion of assembling a citizens' militia. I am afraid it will be a waste of time. The people of Goldsboro are not prepared to put their lives on the line. Miss Mandy has already discovered that in her earlier attempts."

"Yuh, I kinda done one o' them there miscalcula-shuns. I reckoned them folks livin' up there would be on ou'ah side, but I didden figger on them things Mizz Tabitha done said 'bout fightin' fer somebodda who see an' treat 'em like trash," Wynne said and put her hands on her hips. "I shoulda, tho', 'cos they sure been true since ferevah. An' always will be, fer that mattah."

Mandy furrowed her brow at Wynne's statement; storing it for later, she said: "But the Colonel has an idea."

"Yuh?"

"Yes," Diego said. "In the past, many of Don Alejandro's supply trains were raided by the gang of outlaws. Many drivers were killed and the cargo stolen, but after I established a small cavalry unit to escort the wagons, no raids have been attempted. The bandits simply do not dare to challenge my men as they are all heavily armed and prepared to take any fight to the bloody end."

Mandy nodded. "Unfortunately, the strong presence of the Colonel's men has made the outlaws raid the unescorted wagon trains instead…"

"Yuh, that be that ol' logic at work right there, yes Ma'am."

"The tragedy here," Diego continued, "is that Sheriff Kennedy and that poor joke of a man Simms cannot or will not do anything to cut the snake's head off. But cut off it must be. Captain, my men are ready to help you fight the outlaws, but only if we can carry it through to the conclusion that Arthur Rains and J.D. Burdette are permanently removed."

"Captain Donohue," Mandy said and put her hand on Wynne's sleeve for effect, "the plan is sound. The sooner we rid Goldsboro of Rains and his henchmen, the better. I think we should accept the Colonel's help and get this over with now. Before Rains and Burdette can bolster their strength by gathering even more outlaws."

Wynne sucked on her teeth for a while before she leaned forward to retrieve the yellowed Wanted-poster from her rear pocket. Unfolding it, she looked at the details for Jay Daniel Burdette who was Wanted Dead Or Alive for horse theft, multiple murders, attempted murders, severe bodily assault and abductions as well as dozens of armed robberies of banks, trains and stagecoaches. The reward amounted to $6000 if Burdette was captured alive, or $2000 for his corpse or similar solid proof of his demise.

"Yuh…" she eventually said as she put the Wanted-poster on the table and tapped it with a crooked index finger. "I reckon I wus sent ta Goldsborah ta deal with this he' fella an' his boss once an' fer all. Rains an' me got bad blood between us, yuh?  Burdette as well, fer that mattah, tho' less so. Shoot, it done feels like anothah lifetime, but… Lawrdie, I ain't too sure what be real or not no mo'."

The comments made Diego Benitez furrow his brow and shoot a puzzled glance at the two people sitting opposite him. When neither of them spoke, he slid the Wanted-poster across the table to look at the likeness and read the details. "Captain, do you have one for Arthur Rains as well?"

"Naw. I only done had two. One fer Billy Jack O'Neill an' this he' fer ol' J.D. But lissen, Colonel… I done hadda thought, yuh?  We gonn' have anothah li'l trubbel he'. Where 'r ya men stay-shunned?  Down south at the de la Vega ranch?"

"Yes. Why?" Diego said and cocked his head.

"Well, if they be down there an' them bandits be up he', then we an' Mizz Mandy ain't gonn' be able ta do much. An' if yer cavalry unit be he', then I guaran-dang-blasted-tee ya that them bandits gonn' be seekin' out one o' yer convoys 'cos they be knowin' that all y'all ain't gonn' be there protectin' 'em. Yuh?  Now that, folks, is one o' them there big ol' Conan-drums."

Nodding to herself at her brilliant display of common sense, Wynne leaned back and took a long swig of the warm beer.

Diego and Mandy briefly shared a glance in the hope the other could explain the odd term, but they both broke out in similar shrugs. "Damnation," Diego said. "You are right, Captain. I have sixteen men. A suitable number for either assignment, yes, but not enough to split between the two. Can you perhaps summon more Rangers?"

"Mebbe… if them there telegraph lines ain't been cut. Worse, they all be so far away from Goldsborah it gonn' take 'em weeks or mo' ta get he'. An' them Rangahs ain't no vigilantes, neithah. They… I mean, we need them there offi-shual papahs ta be in ordah or we ain't gonn' be bargin' in nowhere. An' that gonn' take even longah, yuh?  Naw, callin' fer them Rangahs ain't gonn' be no solu-shun."  Grunting, Wynne took another swig from the glass of beer.

Now it was Mandy's turn to lean back on her chair. She rubbed her chin several times as she looked at her companions; her narrowed eyes proved she was close to providing the clue they needed. "Gentlemen, I think we're missing the most obvious point here. Colonel, you and your men are almost never in town during the evenings, so you're probably not aware of the insane amount of drinking that always takes place at Derrike's saloon once the sun sets."

"Well, I had a general idea, Miss Mandy," Diego said, "but it is certainly interesting to have it confirmed. I would not be surprised if the outlaws become so drunk they can be rounded up and brought to justice with a minimum of risk."

Wynne broke in with a: "Yessirree!  So if y'all done brought all them cavalry boys o' yers he' at mebbe midnight?  Yuh, midnight, then we oughttah be able ta grab them desperadahs in one foul swoop. Yuh?"

The expression on Diego's face proved he had lost the plot somewhere along Wynne's statement; he looked to Mandy for an explanation.

"One fell swoop, Captain. Get them all at once," Mandy said.

Wynne scratched her neck. "Yuh… one foul swoop. Whut I done tole y'all," she said with a puzzled look that matched Diego's. "Aw, anyhows. Colonel, can ya have yer boys he' fer midnight tanight?"

"We'll be here, Captain Donohue. You can count on us," Diego said and got up from the chair. Breaking out in a steely grin, he put out his hand for the traditional greeting.

After the Colonel had left, Mandy turned to Wynne. "One foul swoop… heh. You still have some beer on your chin. Lean forward, I'll deal with it," she said with a wink before she took a napkin to take care of business.

Wynne stilled Mandy's motions by placing a calming hand on top of that belonging to the tough gal. "Much obliged, Mizz Mandy, but y'all might as well wait anothah cuppel-a seconds 'cos I'mma-gonn' bend mah arm first."

She chugged down the rest of the warm beer; it left white suds all over her lips and chin. "Okeh, now y'all can wipe mah face," she said with a grin.

-*-*-*-

Tension mounted as the hands of time moved ahead. Upon the fall of darkness, one of the night watchmen employed by the Goldsboro Town Council walked from house to house igniting the all-night torches that had been put up in various spots along Main Street.

Music continued to be played in Moira's saloon, but the energetic piano player performed his lively set for a mostly inattentive audience. The delightful young songbird had been told to stay at home in case of even worse trouble than usual, so the crisp tones from the upright piano were unaccompanied for once.

Similarly, the gambling tables were all devoid of activity as Moira had sent the croupiers home for the evening. Mandy had a full deck of cards spread out on the green felt on one of the poker tables, but it was obvious by her grim expression she was merely going through the motions and couldn't keep her mind on the King's Ransom solitaire game. A column of gray smoke rose from her corncob pipe that she puffed on at regular intervals.

A.J. Lane served a couple of the regulars over at the bar counter, but there were far fewer of them than on an average evening - it seemed that word of an impending showdown had made the rounds even though only a small handful of people had been present when the decision had been made. During the downtime, he scribbled a letter to his mother chronicling his life on the wild Nevadan frontier; it was a fairly faithful account though he did leave out certain colorful details that the elder Lane just wouldn't understand.

Few residents had dared venture onto Main Street. Those who'd had business in Goldsboro during the daylight hours but lived elsewhere hurried home on horseback or in their buggies; Brenda and Vaughn Travers were part of the latter group. As they raced past Moira's, Vaughn slapped the reins and clucked his tongue while his wife kept his top hat safe by clutching it to her bosom.

Wynne leaned against the jamb at the swinging doors. With her boots, coarse britches, short jacket, heavy weaponry, gloves and cowboy hat, she certainly looked the part - she had even played the part, not just in her imagination after the countless Westerns she had watched over the years, but in Cowpokes vs The Undead Vampyre Ghoul where that exact setup had been one of the additional scenes she had filmed on the sound stage.

Just like Mandy had said, Derrike's Saloon further up Main Street was a hotbed for crime and a hot spot for drunken rowdiness. The occasional gunshot was fired into the air as yet another intoxicated cowpuncher, desperado or ranch hand felt a need to get some fresh cordite into his lungs out on the street. The door to Derrike's place stood wide open more often than not, and off-key music, even more off-key singing and a general sense of wild abandon carried all the way down south to Wynne's position at the far classier Moira's Saloon.

The large, bright full moon slowly crept up the great firmament far above Goldsboro. Once the luminous disc had cleared the roofs, ghostly rays were cast onto the street below creating deep shadows that were perfect for either nefarious or romantic purposes.

In the heavens, the moon joined the myriad of stars that were already up there. With very little light pollution save for the flickering torches, the Milky Way stood out so bright it did in fact resemble a river of milk flowing out of a cornucopia.

A few nocturnal animals had come out to play, and Wynne didn't even need to strain her hearing to recognize the chirping of bats as they flew between the roofs of some of the houses. The familiar noises sent chills down her spine as she recalled the horrific vampire beast that had appeared during the filming of her Western down south at Silver Creek; it had been one of their worst ever opponents, but they had defeated it through bravery, determination and a couple of well-placed sticks of dynamite.

Tension briefly turned to comedy when a drunken cowboy staggered past Moira's saloon closely followed by a missionary from the Virgin Tower organization. The poor cowpoke tried his level best to get rid of the persistent fellow, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. The missionary finally gave up chasing the lost soul when he saw the Texas Ranger leaning against the jamb - however, he never made it beyond Hello before Wynne let out a growled: "Get lost, son. Da shit's gonn' be hittin' da fan befo' long."

As the missionary hurried away at such fleetfootedness that he needed to clamp down on his hat to stop it from flying off, another pair of gentlemen crossed Main Street en route to Moira's saloon.

Wynne narrowed her eyes; she knew she wouldn't be able to tell Sheriff Kennedy and Deputy Simms to get lost. Moving away from the jamb, she held open one of the swinging doors. "Mizz Mandy, y'all got a moment?  I reckon we got trubbel comin'."

Mandy let the game of solitaire be and strode over to the door. She still wore the same outfit as earlier in the day, and her black ankle boots, dark-brown britches, wide leather belt and short-sleeved shirt - that covered a simple Grandpa-style undershirt - came together to create a powerful presence. Her corncob pipe was going well witnessed by the fact that a gray column of smoke rose from the bowl. She took out the pipe as Roger Kennedy and Barry Simms stepped up on the covered sidewalk. "Good evening, Sheriff. Deputy," she said with a nod.

"Good evening, Miss Mandy. Captain Donohue," Kennedy said and matched the nodding with one of his own - a brief smile played on Barry's lips, but it didn't last long.

"Howdy, Sheriff," Wynne said. "Howdy Barry. Lookin' fine tanight. Still smokin', I see?"

Barry Simms scrunched up his face at the little jibe. As always, his clothes - a checkered shirt, a leather vest and a pair of rugged britches - were covered in ash and his complexion was on the wrong side of healthy. The home-rolled cigarette in his mouth sent out the same kind of foul-smelling smoke it always did; a fact he made sure to exploit by sending a big cloud in Wynne's direction.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, Sheriff?" Mandy said and stuck the pipe between her teeth; then she crossed her arms over her chest in a classic pose.

"I have a bone to pick with you. And you, Ranger. Let's talk about it inside," Roger Kennedy said as he moved past the statue-like Mandy and went through the swinging doors. Barry broke out in a small-scale coughing fit but soon hurried after the sheriff.

Wynne and Mandy shared a brief look before they entered the establishment. They had barely made it into the saloon when Kennedy let out a gruff "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?  Both of you!"

The sheriff's harsh tones made the piano player stop pounding the keys. Turning around, he eyed the confrontation for a few moments before he closed the lid protecting the keyboard and slipped over to the counter for a glass of beer.

Mandy matched the gruffness in the sheriff's voice when she spoke: "We're doing what you should have done years ago, Sheriff!  With a little good fortune and the right support at the right time, we may reclaim Goldsboro from the riff-raff-"

"Or you might end up at the undertaker's next to that bandit ya killed last night!  Damnation, woman, ya oughttah leave the crusadin' to the law in this town!"

Several large puffs of smoke were released from the corncob pipe as if it tried to emulate one of the steam locomotives running on the West Gainsboro - North Greenville - Collinstown - Barton City line.

"That's what we've done for years now, and look how far that got us!" Mandy said and shook her head vehemently. "No, Sheriff. It goes down tonight. With the help of Captain Donohue and Colonel Benitez' cavalry unit, we're going to hit Rains and his cronies hard."

The Sheriff fell quiet; Barry's cigarette was put through even more energetic puffing than usual to keep up with the fast-moving conversation. Wynne just sucked on her teeth and chewed on her cheek while she observed the residents of Goldsboro duking it out in a verbal fashion.

"Miss Jalinski," Kennedy said in a low, dangerous voice, "you do not understand the implications of your actions. I guarantee that bringing a paramilitary unit into the fight won't be the great savior you're expecting them to be!  Hell, they have the potential to become worse than the outlaws are now!  If you defeat Rains tonight, there'll be a power vacuum that'll be filled by those who have the most might… and guess who that is. Yes, Colonel Benitez and de la Vega's private army."

"Sheriff," Wynne said, "that's all well an' good, but y'all be fergettin' one thing he'. Diegoh's a man of hon'ah. Someone who got mo' integrity than so many othah folks we could tawk about."

"And how the hell would you know, Ranger?  You've been here for a day and a half!"

"Uh… yuh. I done asked around. Everybodda said the same 'bout the Colonel," Wynne said and scratched her neck to cover her slight misstep.

Another pregnant pause filled the gap between the four people. Mandy used it to let out more smoke signals, slam her hands onto her hips and assume a fierce expression; Barry coughed a little. Wynne scratched her neck again, and the Sheriff just looked peeved.

"All right," Sheriff Kennedy suddenly said to break the stalemate, "this is official. I advise you… hell, I'm telling you to forget all about this nonsense!  Justice will catch up with these bandits sooner or later. Your cause will not be helped by employing a grizzled Texas Ranger and a private army of well-paid mercenaries. And that's my final word!"

Mandy shot a dark, angry glare at the two men. She whipped her pipe out of her mouth to gain an appropriate amount of venom in her voice: "If that's your final word, Sheriff, you might as well have saved your breath. Captain Donohue and I are going into Derrike's saloon to deal with them once and for all. With Colonel Benitez' unit behind us and with Captain Donohue's warrant for Burdette's arrest, we can't fail. We won't fail!"

The silence grew deafening all over again. Barry puffed like rarely before until the inevitable happened: a slice of tobacco broke free of the cigarette and went down the wrong pipe. Not a second later, a deep shade of crimson exploded all over his face as a world-class coughing fit racked his body.

Sheriff Kennedy rolled his eyes at his clumsy deputy, but Wynne shuffled over to her coughing friend and began thumping a clenched fist onto his back - the sounds uttered by Barry alternated between rattling, hacking coughs and pained groans. The coughing eventually died down, but only after Wynne had beat him black and blue.

"There ya go, son!  Good as new," Wynne said with a broad grin as she swept down Barry's collar and made sure his hat was on straight. The grin turned to laughter when she happened to look at Barry's eyes that rolled around like they weren't attached to anything inside.

The sound of many hooves striking the sandy ground caught Mandy's attention. After hurrying over to the swinging doors, she cracked one of them ajar to peek outside. A group of heavily armed riders approached from the south. They appeared rough at first glance as if they belonged to the town's outlaws, but then she recognized Diego Benitez riding at the head of the group - the cause for their rough looks was that he and his unit wore regular clothes so they could blend into the background until needed. "The Colonel's here!" she said excitedly before she stepped out onto the covered sidewalk.

Sheriff Kennedy cursed under his breath. He shot Wynne a dark glare before he stomped out of the saloon to join Mandy on the sidewalk. Barry followed him with stumbling steps.

That left Wynne all alone in the saloon. Putting her hands on her hips with a growing sense of unease, she eyed the sheriff walking away. "Lawwwr-die…" she mumbled to herself. "Why do I get the no-shun all offa sudden that ol' Rogah Kennedy might be flappin' his gums inta them wrong ears?  But whaddahell can I do 'bout it?  Haw…"

Exiting the saloon, Wynne let out a grunt when she saw Roger and Barry walking across the sandy street to get back to the sheriff's office. The two men had a brief conversation on the sidewalk before Barry went inside and Roger moved north - perhaps toward Derrike Iverson's place.

Though Diego Benitez and his men had already begun to dismount, Wynne needed to get the other thing sorted out before she could greet their reinforcements. "Mizz Mandy, I'mma-gonn' be back in a li'l while. Okeh?  Howdy, Colonel. Make yerself at home," she said and crossed over Main Street before any of her companions had time to reply.

---

Wynne kept to the shadows so the veteran lawman wouldn't spot her too soon - that his skills and experience would eventually lead to her discovery was beyond doubt, but it needed to be as late as possible so she could sniff out where he was going.

Sneaking along the covered sidewalk, she kept Roger Kennedy in sight some thirty yards ahead of her. There weren't too many places he could go as scuttlebutt had alerted most of the regular storeowners of the potential drama. Of Goldsboro's saloons, only Derrike's, Moira's, the Jade Dragon and the Silver Spur remained open for business, and all but Derrike's had so few customers they might as well not have bothered.

The Sheriff suddenly came to a halt. Wynne dove into the deepest shadow she could find but kept her eyes fixed onto her target. It seemed it had been a false alarm for the Sheriff as he soon continued north on Main Street. Only four buildings remained between him and Derrike Iverson's saloon.

Wynne made a slow three-count before she moved out of the shadows to resume trailing the lawman. The duo continued like that past two of the four buildings before the sheriff set off in a run; turning right almost at once, he disappeared into the mouth of an alley.

A muffled cry of "Sombitch!" escaped Wynne as she took off after the fleeing sheriff. When she reached the corner of the alley, she pressed herself against the untreated planks of the General Store. "Haw, this be it, Wynne Donnah-hew," she mumbled to herself. "Y'all done saw enuff Westurhns ta know that there Sheriff-fella there gonn' be waitin' fer y'all with that there six-guh-n o' his reddy ta fire… dad-gummit!  An' whe' da hell 'r we, anyhows… okeh… yuh, betcha ten bucks that there alley iz connected ta da back door o' Derrike's. Yuh, that be a sucka bet, awright. Okeh. Now whut?"

She cast a glance south on Main Street to see if Mandy of any of Diego's men had followed her, but everything seemed quiet. Music and loud, drunken, off-key singing continued to waft down the street from Derrike's saloon - she was even close enough to catch a whiff of the characteristic foul odors that would always be associated with that establishment.

"Sombitch… okeh. I done saw this in a mooh-vie once… mebbe it gonn' work in real life… or whutevah-the-hell this is."  Digging into a pocket, she found a semi-clean handkerchief that she tied to the Winchester to act as a white flag.

She reached the rifle around the corner so it would be in plain sight. Several deep breaths followed before she shouted: "Kennedy!  I be comin' out!  We gotta tawk, so no pullin' that there triggah. Awright?"

'All right!  But no tricks!' the Sheriff shouted back from somewhere deep into the alley.

"Haw, I wus 'boudda say that ta y'all," Wynne mumbled as she stepped around the corner and walked along the uneven ground. Neither the alley nor the houses lining it existed in her time, but her presumption that it was connected to the rear side of Derrike's saloon proved to be correct when she caught up with the sheriff - he had taken cover behind a few barrels at the corner of a second, narrower alley that turned back north.

"That's far enough, Ranger," the Sheriff said as he came out of hiding. "Drop that rifle and your hogleg so we can talk."

Wynne grunted as she swung the Winchester onto her back. "I'mma-gonn' do that the moment y'all put down that there smoke wagon o' yers. No?  Okeh, so les'cut this bull-dung an' have a grown-up conversa-shun. I reckon y'all be goin' ovah ta Artie Rains ta rat us out."

"The hell I am!"

"How much he done paid fer yer services, Rogah?"

"He didn't pay a Goddamned dime!  I'm not dirty!  I'm the law here!  Don't you understand?  I represent the law…"

Wynne nodded in understanding. "Yuh, until somebodda done says y'all ain't da law no mo'. I know how them things work 'cos I done saw it… haw, in some othah life. Okeh, I believe y'all when ya say y'all ain't been bought an' paid fer."

"Thank you."

"Haw, it be way too soon ta be thankin' me," Wynne said and approached the Sheriff. "Tell ya whut… I reckon somebodda got a squeeze on ya instead. Yuh?  Mebbe Rains. Mebbe Burdette. Mebbe that there Town Council an' Mary-Lou Skinnah or whoevah-da-hell them folks be this time around. But somebodda. An' I bet it be a perdy dog-gone big ol' squeeze for y'all ta leave them desperadahs alone fer this long. Yuh?"

A stony silence and a defiant, but perhaps a shade guilty, glare in the Sheriff's eyes seemed to confirm the theory.

"Yuh, I done reckoned it hadda be som'tin like that. Whut izzit, Rogah?  Dames?  Gamblin'?  Booze?  Got da wrong gal knocked up when y'all wus loaded?  All o' the above?"

"That ain't none of your damn beeswax, Ranger," Kennedy said in a mumble.

"Naw, it ain't. But whut is mah beeswax is y'all yappin' 'bout us ta Rains or Burdette or whoevah. We can't allow that. From whut I been told, this town has gone ta hell lately. Now, Mizz Mandy an' the Colonel… an' me, yuh… got the powah needed ta sweep them varmints outta he'. We gonn' use that powah. An' y'all ain't gonn' be preventin' us from doin' that by informin' the scum first. 'R we on da same page he', Sheriff Kennedy?"

Another stony silence broke out between the two bone-tough officers of the law. Nearly twenty seconds went by before Roger Kennedy nodded in defeat. "All right. I won't interfere. But I'm tellin' you one thing, Ranger… you better see this through to the bitter end. You can't stop halfway there. Either you lay waste to the entire crew, or none at all. It'll be a bloody affair. Don't think for a second it won't."

"I hear ya, Sheriff. We be reddy. C'mon, lemme get ya som'tin back at Moira's. One o' them warm beers, perhaps?" Wynne said and held out her hand in an invitation for a handshake.

Roger looked at the hand for a brief moment but ultimately ignored it. "I won't shake your hand and I won't drink with you, either, Ranger. I'll be at the office." With that, he stomped off.

Wynne let out an annoyed grunt. After untying the handkerchief from the Winchester, she strode back to Moira's saloon to meet Diego Benitez and draw up their battle plans.

Continued

Bard's Page

Back to the Academy