Cowboy Out of Time

By J.L. Salter

Dumped in my lap a few minutes before five o’clock on Friday...

The deputy dropped off a confused wanderer at our social services office. We aren’t equipped to handle a tall, rustic cowboy who looks like he just stepped out of a movie Western, dust included. But the deputy’s gone and the cowboy is suddenly my responsibility. Or is it the other way around? Hunt Weston announces he’s come here to protect me! From what or whom, he doesn’t know. But he’s come a long way... in both distance and time. Yeah, this Weston character claims that when he went to sleep last night, it was 1885. That’s a hundred years ago.

No ID, no proof of his claims — unless you count the authentic vintage clothing and that original Colt Peacemaker strapped to his hip. Other than his gun and a rugged Bowie knife, this cowboy’s only possessions are 32 silver dollars... all minted before 1885. And the only documentation he possesses is a torn half of a playing card where someone has scribbled my name, this town and county, and the date October 6 — two days from now.

Weston can’t explain anything... he doesn’t understand it himself. But here he is, sent by a mysterious stranger to protect me, Elvira Rose Roamer.

Why?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dingbat Publishing
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005057404

Book preview

COWBOY OUT OF TIME

Copyright © 2019 Jeffrey L. SALTER

Originally published 2019 by Clean Reads

Second edition published 2022

by Dingbat Publishing, Humble, Texas

Cover Art Designed by J. Gunnar Grey

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

eBooks cannot be sold, shared, uploaded to Torrent sites, or given away because that’s an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this e-book can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are entirely the produce of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual locations, events, or organizations is coincidental.

Dedication

To my big brother, Charles A. Salter — a fine author in his own right... widely published in nonfiction and fiction.

Also the primary beta reader upon whose feedback and advice I continually rely.

He is my biggest fan and supporter, who encourages, inspires, and comforts me.

And I selected this title to dedicate to him, since he was also my first cowboy partner when we’d strap on our toy sixguns back in the middle 1950s.

Chapter One

October 4, 1985, Friday afternoon

When my boss headed into my small office at five minutes before five, I knew I’d be stuck with another emergency client. In all the cognitive portions of my twenty-seven years, emergencies seemingly always waited until the final few minutes of Friday’s shift to emerge.

I know you’re going to freak, said Leesa, clutching her designer briefcase and an armful of folders, but I’m heading to that mandatory meeting with the county manager, and you’re the only one left.

What is it this time? I asked, with no effort to disguise my annoyance. In the small town of Manetton, our mostly mis-named — and relatively new — Office of Social Services got stuck handling nearly everything that didn’t fit neatly into some other department’s purview. If this is another lost kitten or a dispute between somebody’s miserly twin aunts, I’m going to scream.

Save your screams ’til you’ve heard this story, Rose. It’s a lulu. I just got off the phone with our sheriff. And he was called by some bigwig.

Don’t leave me hanging. What’s the huge crisis issue that can’t wait ’til Monday morning? Another situation with an inconsiderate creep blowing grass clippings onto his neighbor’s lawn?

The deputy will explain everything.

Sure.

Oh, real quick — is that battered wife situated okay?

I tapped one of the folders on my cluttered desk. She got a bed at the Bethany Shelter on Wednesday... and seems to be adjusting. Temporary only, of course. And Mrs. Syste definitely needs something longer term.

Okay, we’ll work on that Monday. I’m late already. Bye.

Leesa zoomed out the front door before I could remember any appropriate curse words. Deputy? Less than a third of our services involved law enforcement in any capacity. However, I didn’t have long to ponder why one of the sheriff’s finest would be briefing me.

Is this the right office, Mizz Roamer? asked Deputy D. Judd, holding his Mountie campaign hat as he entered. The lady said...

Yes, Deputy, come on in, I said, trying to lower both my volume and the heat of my tone. Judd and I knew each other, but only in passing — not close, but amiable. He was short and wiry with thick, bushy hair on his knuckles, wrists, and forearms. I was just on my way out... but I have a minute. What’s your, um, problem?

He entered and discreetly closed the door behind him. Well, it’s this stranger outside.

Stranger?

He seems kind of lost...

Don’t the city police usually handle vagrants?

Not so much a vagrant, as somebody who’s a little confused.

How confused? I unconsciously eyed the wall clock above the door and didn’t wait for his reply. Deputy, I’m sure there are a dozen other agencies more suited to handling confused strangers in town. Now please explain why you brought him here.

Maybe you should just meet him. He’s waiting right outside.

Not until you tell me why you didn’t take him directly to a men’s shelter or even keep him overnight in an open cell and give him a hot meal. We handle other placements mostly... you know, battered housewives, children taken from homes where they weren’t safe, maybe even runaway teens, though I don’t remember any since I’ve been here. That was three years... since I’d moved here after my divorce in Tennessee.

Mizz Roamer, I’ve already checked the shelters... and every other place that we could think of.

How about the county hospital? I asked hopefully.

They looked him over, but only as a courtesy to the sheriff. This guy doesn’t have any insurance.

So what did the medical staff say?

Somebody at the E.R. took his vitals and checked for concussion signs.

And...?

"Good to go, evidently. Like the guy himself said, no call for doctoring."

Interesting phrasing. What’s your opinion of his condition?

Looks healthy as a horse... except maybe a little hungry. Judd motioned toward the waiting room. Why don’t you just take a look?

Deputy, level with me. Whatever this stranger’s problem may be, is our part-time Baldwin County Social Services office really the best solution y’all could come up with? It wasn’t truly part time, but since our entire staff consisted of me, my boss, and a clerk-receptionist, it certainly lacked the feel of a full-time operation.

We don’t know what his problem is, and we’ve had the entire department working on it. Including our on-call minister. Fact of the matter, the guy himself doesn’t seem to understand the problem. But we can’t leave him wandering around town, with no transportation... looking like a lost kid, and asking people odd questions.

How old of a lost kid is this stranger?

Maybe you’ll be more successful at getting that out of him. But he’s definitely a full-grown man. We only got as far as his birth year before we gave up.

Gave up? I stood. You’ve got to be kidding me. Law enforcement picks up a stranger in town and can’t even run his ID?

Judd sighed heavily. He doesn’t have any identification... none whatsoever.

Look, an adult vagrant in a normal healthy condition with no known criminal record is not a crisis for Social Services to deal with on a Friday evening. If a shelter won’t take him in, then get him a hot meal at the downtown diner and charge it to me. Then send him packing. Isn’t that what cops do with vagrants? Drive them to the county line and tell them to keep going?

Only in the movies, Mizz Roamer.

I plopped back down into my uncomfortable clerical chair. So you’re determined to saddle me with this problem?

Saddle is an interesting word choice.

What do you mean?

Well, if you’d just meet this guy...

I was still struggling with why the sheriff’s department was handling what seemed like a city matter. Look, I think I need to talk with your supervisor. What’s the number for your watch commander?

Don’t waste your time. He’ll just tell you exactly what I’m saying.

Then I’ll call his boss. Who’s over him?

He sighed heavily. Supposedly some wealthy couple from Mobile is involved somehow and they called in a favor with the mayor. It was the mayor’s office who contacted the sheriff, who called the watch commander.

And bypassed the city police?

Judd just shrugged his heavy shoulders again.

I wondered who from Mobile would involve our mayor... and why. And then they sent you.

Right. And I don’t like it any more than you do.

Okay, Deputy, what would you do if you were in my shoes?

For one thing, I’d go ahead and meet this guy... then see if you can make any sense out of his, um, unusual story.

What’s so unusual about his story? Guys lose their jobs, wreck their trucks, pawn their shotguns, leave their wives — there’s a thousand reasons for men to be wandering the roads from town to town.

But he came here on purpose... or so he says.

Now we’re finally getting somewhere. I pointed my finger at the wall clock for emphasis. What was his intent or goal in trudging here on foot from wherever?

Won’t you just meet with him, please?

Not until you give me some reasonable explanation as to how his circumstances match anything we have to offer here.

I can’t really comment on that part.

What do you mean? I thought that’s why you brought him here.

Not exactly. This guy’s carrying a card...

So somebody referred him to our office?

Not that kind of card. This is a playing card... well, half of a card. You know, from a poker deck.

Already mentally exhausted from our conversation so far, I just nodded. But when the deputy didn’t continue explaining, I said, And...?

Well, the card has your name on it.

Chapter Two

My name? You’re kidding. Look, Deputy, if this is somebody’s convoluted idea of an elaborate practical joke, I’m off the clock and I am not amused.

No joke, Mizz Roamer. Judd groaned as he turned, cracked open the door, and waved in the stranger. And I’m pretty much worn out trying to explain something I don’t even understand myself. I was instructed to bring him to you, so here he is.

Don’t...

Howdy, ma’am, said a warm, deep voice with a bit of a different drawl than we usually hear in south Alabama. I’m sorry to intrude, but this is the place they reckoned I’d find you. A worn black hat in his hands, the rest of him was covered in a combination of faded cotton shirt, frayed wool vest, and rough-weave canvas trousers. Plus he carried enough dust to fill a broom pan. Tall boots, in plain black leather, nearly reached his knees. Around his slender hips was a thick leather belt supporting a massive Bowie knife in its leather sheath and an unadorned leather holster holding an enormous revolver.

Um, excuse us just a moment, please, I said as politely as I could muster when my nerves were screaming this looks like a hold-up. I closed my office door before the armed cowboy could enter. What’s wrong with you, Deputy? I hissed. That guy has a gun.

You’re right, and it’s loaded, too.

I sputtered a bit before any cogent words came out. How can you let a lunatic loose on the defenseless streets of Manetton with a loaded gun?

He’s committed no crime — not that we know of, anyhow. And it’s perfectly legal for any law-abiding citizen to carry a firearm...

Loaded? Out in the open?

Yeah. Alabama is an open-carry state, one of nearly forty that allows it in some form, and one of nearly twenty that allows open carry with basically no restrictions.

"This isn’t the lone prairie, Deputy. That gun is right out of a Western movie. And, by the way, so is your character out there."

His revolver is a Colt .45 Peacemaker. And it’s a beauty. It’s held up amazingly well for its age.

How old is it? Not that I care.

They were made in that configuration from 1873 through the late 1930s — the sheriff looked it up. So it could be over a hundred years old.

I squinted my eyes so I could concentrate... but it didn’t help. What are you saying, Deputy?

His revolver’s in better condition than my duty weapon, which I’ve had for fifteen years.

As the waiting stranger knocked gently but firmly on my door, I waved my hands at Judd. Never mind the gun. What about that cowboy?

He’s all yours. My instructions were to deliver him to you.

Why me? And don’t give me that idiocy about my name on his card. Any town in south Alabama has a dozen females named Rose... and the larger cities likely have hundreds.

"That piece of his card specified this town in this county."

Still, there could be a dozen...

Judd shook his head. But not when the rest of Rose’s name is so distinctive.

Maybe you better just show me this alleged torn card so I can read it for myself.

He won’t let go of it. We had to practically fight him to even read it. He gripped that card tighter than he held on to his handgun.

Oh, good grief. So what’s this supposedly distinctive name on his precious card?

Elvira Rose, said the deputy as he placed his Mountie hat and centered it on his head. And the sheriff said that’s you.

I nodded. It is. Though nobody called me Elvira. Elvira Rose — a name I’d always considered a cruel joke — came down from my great-great-grandmother in central Alabama. Only a few family members knew that full name and even they’d been warned to call me Rose... period.

Okay, Mizz Roamer. I’ve done my part. That cowboy, as you call him, is all yours.

Wait...

But the deputy had already opened my door, eased past the stranger (after patting his dusty shoulder), and disappeared quickly through the outer door — no doubt relieved to be free of his convoluted assignment.

Likely fearing my office door would again close on him, the stranger stepped in and stood to one side. I won’t keep you, ma’am, if you’re of a mind to leave, but I’d be obliged if you’d spare me a few minutes to explain myself.

I gulped, unable to take my eyes off his loaded antique revolver. Okay. Let’s start with your name.

Hunter Weston, ma’am. But folks just call me Hunt. Then he paused as if either part of that name might somehow register with me.

It didn’t.

This door’s a mite on the thin side, and I heard most of your confabulation with that deputy yonder. I understand you’re likely perplexed — and, truth be told, I am, too. In fact, once I finally got here, I was more than a tad amazed at where I ended up.

The deputy said your card specifically indicated Manetton and Baldwin County.

Well, to be sure, ma’am. And when I get to this next part, you might ruther to be seated.

No, thanks, Mister Weston. I’ll stand.

Hunt... but as you’re inclined. The folks that brought me here from where I woke up this morning left a note that explained at least their part in what’s happened. Mister and Missus Random — real good friends with the mayor hereabouts... or so they claimed. The deputy gave it to me this afternoon after they’d gone on to Mobile.

That explained the external pressure placed on the mayor. Where’d you come from?

"That’s a long story of its own accord. For the time being,