Through The Years Reposting

I am reposting this story as I've found that an important piece of it was not included in the original posting.

This story sort of falls into the "What If" genre. I'm at a loss as to where or what genre I should list the story. It could fit in Romance, Non erotic, or Science Fiction. There is a romance involved and some Sci Fi but the crux of the story isn't about either one; I chose Non erotic. According to the description of that category, this is a fictional story without a focus on sex. I hope you'll look past the category.

As usual constructive comments, emails, and critiques are most welcome and appreciated.

Thank you for reading this tale and I hope you enjoy the story as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

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"This town ain't big enough for the both of us, you varmint," one man yelled. "Ride out or go for your gun."

"I'm tired of your loud mouth," the second man's voice replied. "Reach you sidewinder."

At the electronic beep, both men drew and fired their pistols. The onlookers couldn't tell who was fastest but they could plainly see who was the most accurate. Tyler Gibson's shot hit dead center in the target down range. His opponent's shot missed the mark, hitting the ground several feet in front of the target. A chronograph measured the speed of the draw by determining which bullet passed through its field first but the most important thing was the accuracy.

The witnesses to the contest cheered and Tyler and his friend, Charley Jones, shook hands.

They were the final contestants in the three gun section of the cowboy action shooting contest. Each man wore clothes that told the world they were cowboys. Tyler and Charley competed with rifle, shotgun, and single action pistol through the four rounds of eliminations to face off in the championship. Tyler had won the rifle portion, Charley had won the shotgun portion so they had been tied going into the pistol fast draw and shoot portion of the competition.

"Thought I'd get you for sure this time," Charley said.

"You don't practice enough to beat me," Tyler answered.

Charley shrugged, "Maybe so, I've got a wife and family to take care of but you need to get a life Tyler. All you do is write those stories of yours; if you're not writing, you're riding horses, and if you're not doing either of those you're playing cowboy at one of these action shooting contests, and pretending to be a gun slinger."

"Marshal; I'm always a marshal, trying to make the old west safe for decent folk," Tyler said and then laughed. "Besides these reenactments of the shooting styles and weapons of the middle to late 19^th century and the horseback riding help with the research for my work."

"Work? Work? What work? You don't get any money from your stories. Hell you give them away by just posting them on a few sites on line and free sites at that. It's like you were still a kid. No wonder you don't have a social life," Charley continued his criticism. "Who do you think you are, Wyatt Earp?" Charley laughed at his own wit. "Why don't you get a job like the rest of the adults? At least you'd meet people who live in the 21^st century."

"You know why I don't work. I invested in a college friend's idea and we got lucky. I was a 30 percent share holder in the company and when he sold out my share set me up for life."

Charley playfully punched Tyler on the arm. "I can't understand how you can spend so much time on the computer writing your western stories. Hell, I've seen you so absorbed in your writing that you wouldn't know if a bomb went off right next to you. You could at least try to publish them and get paid."

Tyler did sometimes get so involved in the plot or the action scenes or developing his characters that he sort of zoned out. He'd be writing and glance at a clock and realize how late it was. Okay, I'll just finish this scene he'd say to himself and keep writing. When he next looked at the clock, three sometimes four hours, had gone by. I can't help it, Tyler thought. When the story is flowing it's hard to stop just because I'm hungry or because I need to sleep.

Charley was correct about Tyler's stories too. Tyler wrote stories, mostly westerns, and after editing and proof reading them he posted them on three different web sites. He didn't receive anything but the enjoyment of the writing for his efforts; although Tyler did like reading the comments readers made about his work. Family members and friends who read his work all urged him to at least try to get them published in magazines and many suggested he publish a book.

Tyler would smile and thank them for the compliments and for their suggestions but as he told several of his fans, "If I were to write for pay, it becomes a job instead of a hobby. I'd have schedules to keep and have to write at someone else's direction."

"Tell you what Charley," Tyler responded to his friend. "I'll meet you at the pizza joint Saturday evening at 7. Bring your wife, Missy, and I'll pop for the pizza and beer. Now please get off my case until Saturday."

Before Tyler could leave, several young women asked for his autograph. At 30 years old and 6' his slender strong looking body made him a stereotype of the handsome young cowboy. Tyler's blue eyes and a full head of dark, almost black, hair covered by a white Stetson completed the picture.

Charley Jones didn't look like the image most people had when they thought of an old west cowboy. He was only 5'6; instead of slim he was round at 200 pounds, and he had more scalp than he did hair. But Charley was Tyler's best friend. If need be he would fight for and with Tyler against all comers.

Tyler went home to his large house in New Braunfels, Texas. The building had been in his family for more than a hundred years. Originally it had been a two room cabin but each subsequent owner had enlarged the building by making additions. Tyler's contribution had been an unattached garage and a large deck on the back of the house. His home was now a rambling 4000 square foot ranch style building. Much too large for just me, Tyler thought. But, my ancestors would haunt me forever if I sold it. Besides it's paid for and my only costs are my normal living expenses.

All during the pizza and beer Saturday evening, Tyler had a story line bouncing around in his head. More than once Charley or Missy would say something like "Earth to Tyler, come in please". Each time he would give them an embarrassed smile and apologize. After desert and more conversation Tyler paid the check and everyone left for home.

Once back in his home office, in front of his computer, he started to put his ideas into a Word document. The story was going to be about the adventures and life of a young Texas Ranger. First he wrote a short outline touching on all the important parts he'd thought of. Then he began to write the story, fleshing out the characters and filling in between the points in the outline. Tyler glanced at the time shown on the bottom of the monitor and was surprised to see he'd been typing for almost three hours.

I'll just finish this last scene, he thought. It'll be a perfect spot for a story break and to start the next chapter. Around 3 AM, Tyler fell asleep in his chair in front of the computer. Shortly, his computer also went into its sleep mode; man and computer were dead to the world.

At 4:30 AM a sort of shimmering light wave flowed through the office. Tyler grunted as the light passed over him; he seemed to fade out of and back into focus but he didn't really wake up. Eventually the early morning sun shining through the window and into his eyes did wake him.

Tyler sat up straight in his chair and stretched. Guess I fell asleep, he said to himself. He looked at his monitor screen to see the time. "Where the hell is my computer?" Tyler said out loud.

All at once the room he was in sort of jumped out at him. In place of the monitor there was a journal with a pencil lying next to it. In place of his hand carved oak desk there was a sturdy table. He was sitting on a straight back wooden chair instead of the ergonomic spring loaded office chair that he normally used.

The room itself was smaller than his office and instead of the big picture window facing his desk there was a small normal size one with wavy glass panes. Tyler stood and noticed that the floor was made of wide wooden planks instead of the bamboo flooring of his office. The planks were obviously hand hewed and there were a few spaces between some of them where they didn't exactly meet.

Tyler became dizzy and grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. Where am I, what is this place? He questioned in his mind. Walking slowly to the window he looked out on a view that was entirely different than the one he was familiar with.

His home was on a carefully landscaped three acres, sitting on a small rise with natural country side surrounding it. Tyler went to the cabin's door, threw it opened, and stepped outside. As far as he could see, there were rolling hills that were dotted with junipers trees, cedars and scrub oaks. At the foot of the rise below the cabin two separate springs flowed into a pool at the base of a rock butte.

Tyler's mind was spinning. If I didn't know better I'd say this cabin is how my house began, he thought. It looks like some of those old pictures I have. He walked around the cabin and saw a small barn with a corral attached to it. In the corral was a big black horse that whinnied at him. There were two other buildings nearby.

"Where the hell am I?" Tyler shouted at the surrounding hills.

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Tyler stood staring at the country side for several minutes. Off in the distance he saw a road that ran through the upper end of the valley in front of the cabin that disappeared as it wound around a high rock bluff. "If this is my place that's The River Road and the Guadalupe River is just on the other side of that hill," he said. "And New Braunfels is that direction," he said pointing just to the left of the rock bluff. "But if this is my house, it's not in the present time; this is the way the place looked over a hundred years ago.

Turning back to the cabin he decided he'd better look around inside to see if he could get a clue as to what was going on. The room that he'd woken up in was a combination living and dining room with a kitchen against the far wall; there was one other room off to the side. The kitchen had a large table made out of split oak logs and a well used old fashion wood fired cook stove; there was a pot of warm coffee sitting over one of the covers.

Over the front door, supported by wooden pegs driven into the wall was a rifle. Tyler took it down and saw it was a Winchester 73 Carbine, chambered in .44-40.

"Well that makes the year at least 1873," Tyler said and then smiled for the first time since he woke up in this strange place. "Guess I've picked up the habit of talking to myself. Anyway, I have one just like it back at my place." He worked the lever action just enough to see that the rifle was loaded. On the stock, near the cheek rest, was a long gouge in the wood.

"This is my rifle," he said in surprise. "Great Grandpa Torrey fell down one winter when he was hunting turkeys. The rifle hit a rock and marked the stock. Grandma told that story several times and each time he would laugh at how mad his Grandpa Torrey was that he put that blemish on his rifle. It's been in the family for a long time. I got it from my Dad, who got it from his dad, all the way back to Grandpa Torrey."

Laughing as he put the Winchester back on its pegs he said, "Several times I thought about having the stock refinished but then I'd think about Dad's story and decided to leave the Winchester the way I inherited it. It made me feel closer to my family."

Tyler walked into the second room. Against the wall on the left was a large bed. There was a corn shuck mattress supported by ropes running between the side rails. The wall directly opposite the door had a window that looked out across a valley on the north side of the rise. Beneath the window was a heavy five drawer dresser. Sitting on the dresser was a framed, old style photograph.

"That's Grandpa and Grandma Torrey. I've got the same picture in my den. Hell, maybe this is the same picture." Tyler thought for a few seconds. "They were, I mean are, my great, great, great grandparents on my mother's side. Grandpa is the one that settled this place." Tyler took the picture over to the window so he could see it better. "Dad always said Grandpa and I could have been brothers. Sometimes Mom would bring out the old family albums and show me pictures of the family all the way back to Grandpa Torrey and point out the resemblance."

Tyler set the picture back and pulled open the dresser draws. In the top dresser draw he found a gun belt, a holster and a Colt Frontier Single Action pistol chambered in the same .44-40 as the Winchester. The wear marks on the holster and gun showed they were working tools and not just for show.

In the other drawers he found a few pairs of whip cord work pants, two pair of denim overalls, and three shirts. The clothes looked to be his size or close to it. Under the work pants he found a leather drawstring bag that held 30 Double Eagle gold coins. There was a wardrobe in the corner that held a Sunday go to meeting coat, two shirts with button on collars, and a fancy pair of almost new boots. There was also an almost brand new Stetson; dark brown in color and almost identical to the one Tyler wore in his contests. He tried the hat on and found it was a good fit.

"Think I'll ride over past that bluff and see if I'm where I think I am." Tyler thought about changing clothes but he was still wearing his action shooting costume and sporting the borrowed Stetson he would fit right in with the west in the 1870's. He did however take a couple of the Double Eagles with him. "If I'm where I think I am money from the 21^st century probably won't be accepted here. That $600 in Double Eagles is more than a year's wages if I am in the 1870's, so I should be okay for a while."

He went to the corral and saddled the big black horse. On the underside of one of the stirrups, the name Midnight had been burned into the leather. "Guess your name is Midnight," Tyler said to the big horse as he saddled him. The horse nodded his head up and down as if to agree.

The saddle fit him well and after walking Midnight around the corral to get it settled, Tyler put the animal into a trot and in less than 10 minutes he rounded the bluff. From the crest of the rise he could see that the road was well traveled and led southeast just a bubble off due south.

"Might as well see if New Braunfels is over there. It used to be about ten miles to town, should take about two hours riding easy to get there on horseback." He put Midnight onto the road and let the horse have its head. The big black shook his head and picked up the pace; soon they were running at a ground eating lope. "In my truck it's a 15 minuet drive."

As Tyler rode he thought about the things he'd seen and discovered. "If I really am back in the 1870's, I've got no idea how I got here or why. If I'm not back in the 1870's, I still have no idea where I am. First thing to do is to make sure it's New Braunfels I'm riding to. Next I need to nail down the date." His stomach growled and he added, "Maybe I'd better get something to eat too."

Tyler topped a rise and below him was a town. Most of the buildings were one story and lined a wide street. At the end of what he thought of as Main Street, there was the only two story building in town. He slowed his horse to a walk as he came to the outskirts. There was a fairly large sign beside the road. It read:

New Braunfels Texas

Established 1854

Mind Your Manners

Dooley Thomas: Town Marshal

He let out a whoop which almost spooked the Midnight. One mystery had been solved; Tyler knew where he was. Now it was a matter of figuring out exactly "when" he was.

Tyler had read the history of New Braunfels growing up. Marshal Dooley Thomas was a legend in that part of Texas. Thomas was a no nonsense type of lawman and he followed his own creed. The one overriding rule he had was "Do no harm".

If you robbed a store or stole horses and cattle you were doing someone harm and you would answer to Dooley Thomas for it. If you got drunk and shot up the saloon or got into a fight, you were doing harm and you would answer to Dooley Thomas. Thomas said many times that his rule covered all the laws that were written down.

Must be Sunday morning, Tyler thought as he rode down Main Street. Looks like most of the stores are closed. The only places open are "Rosita's Café" and the "Rock Bottom Saloon".

He saw several people standing in front of the church at the end of Main Street. There were men gathered in small groups talking. The women were busy setting up what looked to be a pot luck type midday meal. Covered plates, pots and baskets were being set out on tables in the shade of the nearby large oak trees

Tyler watched a 'herd' of children running and playing around the buggies, buckboards, and farm wagons. Every now and then one of the women would call out to the children and for a few seconds they would settle down. As soon as the woman turned her back the children continued playing. In my time the vehicles would be cars and trucks, he thought.

"Wonder if the saloon has anything to do with the 'Rock Bottom Brewery' back home," he asked aloud. "Food first and then maybe a beer. A saloon should be a good place to gather some information."

They were a few people in Rosita's café. A cowhand or two, two old men, and a man sitting at a table against the back wall. He had a pistol in a tied down holster on his right hip and what looked like a double barrel 10 gauge coach gun on the table next to his food. The man also wore a star pinned to his vest.

"That's got to be Dooley Thomas," Tyler muttered.

Marshal Thomas watched as Tyler sat at a table next to one of the front windows. The Marshal's eyes showed an interest in the new arrival.

Tyler didn't want to stare so he watched the Marshal out of the corner of his eye. He saw Thomas talking to the two older men sitting near the Marshal.

A middle aged woman brought coffee to Tyler. "Coffee?" At Tyler's nod she poured him a cup. "What would you like stranger? Got flapjacks and a ham steak on special this mornin."

"That sounds good ma'am." When the waitress walked away Marshal Thomas stood, said goodbye to the two old men, picked up the scatter gun and walked over to Tyler's table.

"Howdy. I'm Marshal Dooley Thomas. Mind if I sit down?"

Tyler shook his head and motioned to a chair. He'd watched Thomas walk toward him and was surprised that he wasn't a bigger man. According to the stories and the legend, Thomas was a ferocious fighter and had never been bested.

Thomas was 5'9 with a stocky, strong looking body. If he'd been a woman his walk would have been called graceful. As it was he looked like a big cat, coiled and ready to attack. Dooley's face and hands were tanned and weathered. It's his eyes that tell the story, Tyler thought as the Marshal sat down. Those eyes belong to a man that has faced every threat that came his way and lived to tell about it. Wouldn't like to go up against him, even in one of our action shooting contests, Tyler finished his thought.

"What's your name stranger?"

"Oh, sorry Marshal. I'm Tyler Gibson."

"You gonna be in town long or are you just passing through?" Marshal Thomas smiled as he asked the questions. "Don't mean to be prying into your business Mr. Gibson but I like to know who's coming and going my town."

"Not a problem Marshal."

"Excuse me," Thomas said. "I don't understand."