Another Time

By Lane Cohen

Time travel was the fodder of fiction until Dr. Andrew Case and his gifted physics student, Samoset Brown, found a way to activate the prop from the 1960 movie The Time Machine. They landed in 1881 Prescott, Arizona, where they adopted the personas of Jackson Coffin and Bodie Moffit, characters from a popular pulp-western paperback series. Having adapted to the Old-West lifestyle and clean air, Jackson became a famous gunslinger, and Moffit took the job of sheriff, and like their protegees, they cleared out the bad guys and brought peace to the citizens... until Lefty Branson and his gun-hands showed up to take over the town. Rather than jump in their time machine and flee, they decided to take a stand, for the good of the people, a move that would change the history of the West.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TWB Press
• Release date: Apr 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781959768401

Lane Cohen

Over the years, Lane has published numerous short stories. His most recent is Best’s Laid Plans, in which The Beatles original drummer, Pete Best, travels back in time to prevent being fired by The Beatles and replaced by Ringo. Bests’ Laid Plans appeared in Electric Spec magazine. Other works: Anthem, a road-trip comedy in which a man is challenged to sing the national anthem at all 30 major-league baseball parks within 60 days; Below Par, where a young man goes from non-golfer to a touring pro within nine months; and Under the Rim, Beneath the Goalposts, and Into the Dirt, a non-fiction narrative compilation of the incredibly stupid off-the-field antics of basketball, football, and baseball players. Lane is a lawyer and lives in Parker, Colorado with his wife, Barbara, three horses: BLT, Gus, and Dallas, his dog Ollie, and Cady, his fascinating barn cat.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cincinnati, Ohio - Present Day

Andy Case guided his old Toyota RAV4 along a quiet Amberly Village street. He hadn’t thought about it this evening before he turned the key to start the battered SUV, but he had not driven a car for almost two years. After a minute behind the wheel, he hardly gave it a second thought; it was easy to get back into driving, like riding a bicycle.

A few headlights from oncoming cars flashed by as he drove up Section Road toward Elbrook Avenue. If he didn’t turn onto Elbrook and kept driving straight, he would wind up at French Park, an old high school hangout he had visited recently with the aid of his machine. In fact, his colleague, Samoset Brown, and Brown’s dog, Leo, had discovered the energy source they used to power their miraculous device at French Park. Funny how the currents of the river of time kept rushing in one direction, bringing him back to the same familiar places.

He turned left onto Elbrook. The mostly one-story brick houses built in the early 60s were lit with occasional porch or driveway lights. This was one of the least pretentious neighborhoods in Amberly; the relatively modest houses were set on quarter-acre lots on both sides of the street. Case drove slowly to the middle of the block, eased his SUV around until he faced the other direction, and stopped at the curb. He gazed at the ranch house on a small rise to his right. Scattered fall leaves dotted the grass that spread from the house to the street. He had not visited here for many years, but the house and grounds were just as he remembered. He smiled; when he was growing up, he looked forward to his family’s visits here.

He stepped out and walked the flat concrete path that led to the front door. As he got closer, he noticed a figure standing inside the doorway. The storm door swung open before he had made it all the way up the few porch steps.

Dr. Silverman.

Andy. The man in the doorway smiled. "Just call me Abe now, or Doc, as your father used to call me."

They shook hands.

Andy Case chuckled. I could never get used to that, calling you Abe. You were my doctor from the time I was small, and all through junior high. It would be weird to call you Abe. Doc isn’t so bad.

Come on in. Silverman moved to one side.

Case stepped into the foyer and glanced around. It had been twelve or thirteen years since he’d visited the doctor and his wife Ruth. The house was still neat and perfectly in order, even though Ruth had been gone for at least ten years. He followed Silverman to the kitchen.

Pull up a chair, my young friend.

Case took off his mottled canvas barn coat and draped it over the back of a cream-colored metal chair with light green vinyl padding. He shook his head as he sat down. "Young friend? Since I’m in my 40s, Doctor...uh, Doc, I don’t think of myself as being very young anymore."

Everything is relative, Andy. To me, hopefully turning seventy-five next month, someone in his 40s is impossibly young.

Case studied the retired pediatrician: clean-shaven, medium height, trim physique, long gray hair that covered his ears and the back of his collar. A trace of yellow colored the whites of his sparkling blue eyes.

Drink?

Sure.

Your father favored bourbon. Alfred and I cozied up to a glass of Maker’s Mark while watching football on many a winter afternoon, here or over at your place.

I heard you two yell and scream about the Bengals.

Silverman took a long breath and let it out. I miss your dad, Andy. I truly do. Good friends might be the most precious commodity on God’s green Earth. So, Maker’s alright?

Absolutely.

Silverman stepped to a cabinet from which he pulled out a dark brown bottle with dripping red wax on the neck.

One cube?

Yes.

The doctor prepared the drinks and set them on the table. He eased onto a chair and took one of the glasses. To old friends, Andy.

Case took the other glass and clinked it against the doctor’s glass. They both took a sip of the amber liquid.

Silverman winced. Wow, that’s good.

I’ve also grown quite fond of it, Doc..

I’m glad you called. Seems forever since we’ve seen each other. I was surprised, Andy, to hear you and Pamela broke up years ago. You seemed the perfect couple.

That surprised many people.

Well, I was sorry to hear about it.

Case waited a moment. To tell you the truth, Pamela and I found our way back together recently.

Really?

Really.

That’s good news. He lifted his glass. Congratulations.

Thanks. They sipped to his toast. What’ve you been doing since you retired?

Silverman took another sip of bourbon. Lately, I’ve been doing some writing.

About what?

The relationships with women I’ve had in my life. He chuckled as if he’d just told an inside joke. I thought back to high school, forward through college, med school, and after I was married.

Case squinted at him. After?

I had two affairs during those thirty-five years.

Case stared at him. Okay...

I’m not proud of it, but the truth is the truth.

Case noticed a photo on the wall behind the doctor, an image of Doc Silverman and Ruth, their arms around each other and smiling at the camera. They wore cowboy hats, had blue bandanas around their necks, and stood beside two horses, gripping their reins.

Doc turned his head to follow Case’s gaze. Ah. The dude ranch in Arizona. Ruth was a terrible rider but loved being around horses and living the simple cowboy life. However, that ranch was far from simple. We had gourmet meals, luxury cabins, local entertainment around a bonfire every night.

Sounds like fun. He took a breath. You said you were writing about women?

"I was thinking of all the women from my past. And for reasons I don’t quite know, I started writing down all I could remember about them, what they looked like, what we did together, how I felt about them. I started to think if I didn’t remember those times, those women, our relationships might as well not have happened at all. They wouldn’t exist without my memories."

Sounds like you’re writing a memoir.

The doctor took another sip of bourbon. His fingers trembled as he held the glass and studied Andy across the table. I wasn’t much of a reader when I was a kid. Didn’t do great in English class. My father gave me a novel to read when I was about twelve or thirteen. He thought it might spark my interest in reading.

What book?

The Hound of the Baskervilles.

Sherlock Holmes.

I think my dad picked it because the cover was dark and mysterious, but it enlightened me to the concept of careful observation and deductive reasoning, which helped me in later life.

Case nodded. Deductive reasoning is often applied to diagnostic principles.

And this brings me to wonder why, after all these years you called.

Sorry about not keeping in touch, but after my dad passed away, I got busy, and was distracted.

Doc glanced at the photo of him and Ruth standing by their horses. Losing a loved one does change things. I was angry. Empty.

I’m so sorry. Did they, uh, ever catch her killer?

The doctor sniffled. Unsolved to this day. We were downtown, going to dinner for our anniversary.

Case remembered the news reports of the drive-by shooting in Mt. Adams, someone in a dark sedan, firing out the open window at three men on the street. Two people were hit. Ruth Silverman was one of them.

I haven’t slept well since then, Andy. And when I’m awake, you know what I think about almost every day?

Case shook his head.

During this time of my life, I should be with Ruth, on a beach, touring the capitals of Europe, sitting at home quietly enjoying our time together. But instead, my head pounds with revenge. If her murderer is ever captured, I’ll take my pistol down to the jail, find a way to get in, and blow his head off. Nice and calm. And then, justice will be done. Sometimes justice is as justice does.

I wouldn’t blame you.

The doctor cleared his throat. As I started to say, about Holmes, I learned about his powers of observation.

Case sipped bourbon.

For instance, I notice your face is tan, despite being late October and the dismal weather here. Your tan stops near the top of your forehead, and your hair has no streaks caused by sunlight, which means you have been wearing a hat while in a sunny climate, somewhere. The backs of your hands are also tan, and when we shook hands, I felt your calluses from hard manual labor. That scar on your cheek is new, within the past year, I’d say, and the wound should have been stitched, but obviously was not. He paused to examine the booze in his glass, then: Your shirt has no buttons on the cuffs, and your mottled coat reeks of horses. Give you a cowboy hat and you’d look like that Jackson Coffin character on the covers of those old paperback westerns your dad and I collected. We sat around, retold the stories, and laughed about them.

He loved those cheesy old westerns.

I think we read all thirty of them.

Your conclusions?

Doc glanced off in the distance, then came back and locked eyes with Case. "Last I knew, you were a professor of advanced physics at UC. You and your dad were obsessed with time travel theories and tinkered with that movie prop time machine stored in his garage. Is there any way you got the damn thing working?"

Case stared at the old pediatrician. "Seems you have learned a lot from Sherlock Holmes."

Why are you here, Andy, out of the blue, looking like you do from wherever you came from?

I need an antibiotic...for a six-month-old girl.

A six-month-old? Must be serious.

Yes.

Then I should have a look at her—

She’s not here.

Where is she?

Arizona.

Doc considered. That’s a long way from Ohio, Andy. I’m sure they have antibiotics in Arizona.

Case swallowed. But not in 1884.

What is important about the model is the idea that the past, present and future are all equally real.

-Dr. Kristie Miller

Chapter 2

Case set his glass on the table. It was understandable that Doc had nothing to say. He stepped beside Doc and gazed at the framed photos on the kitchen wall. I have pictures like this at home.

Doc stood. I remember, in your front hall.

Mostly family members. He thought about it. You never had kids?

Ruth had a hysterectomy when she was young, cervical problems. We talked about adopting but never pulled the trigger on that one. Now tell me about 1884.

Case turned to him. No matter how I try to say it, Doc, it’s going to be hard to believe.

The doctor shrugged. You’re a time traveler.

Case stared at him. Maybe not so hard.

And you’ve settled somewhere in Arizona, sun and horses, for the last year or so.

Case stepped back to the table and sat. He folded his arms on the tabletop and watched Doc Silverman ease back down onto his chair. "From the trembling in your fingers, Doc, and the slight yellow in your eyes, I suspect when you told me you were doing okay, you were holding back a few things. And the fact you’re spending time memorializing old romantic relationships also speaks silent volumes to me."

Doc took a breath. Looks like I’m not the only one to learn from Mr. Holmes.

What’s going on?

I suspect I have the beginnings of liver failure. He took another sip of Maker’s Mark.

Maybe the bourbon isn’t the best idea right now.

I’ve never been that much into alcohol. One drink, now and then, and on an occasional Sunday while watching football with your father. What’s going on with me likely has nothing to do with any of that. It’s rather a natural consequence of aging. Now, enough about me. I’m eager to hear about your recent exploits.

Case took a breath and stared down at the light maple grain of the kitchen table. One of my students, Samoset Brown and I developed a method of time travel. And more because we thought the idea would be cool than for any other reason, we adapted the technology to the 1960 movie prop that my zaidie Victor helped design.

Every time your dad had me over to your house, we would wander into his garage with a glass of wine and gaze at that contraption from the film. He kept it more polished and cleaner than any car I ever owned. He was proud of it.

My mother thought it took up space she could have used for something else.

Isn’t it considered one of the iconic movie props of all time?

That’s what they say.

What did you do with it?

Case nodded. Samoset had strong Native American lineage. His mother was full-blooded Algonquin. We had different ideas how to use the machine. He wanted to travel to the past and change the terrible fate of the indigenous population, including his ancestors’.

Doc considered. What could you two have done?

We traveled to 1492 San Salvador and prevented Columbus from coming ashore. If we had not done that, Columbus’s landing would eventually lead to the invasion of the Americas by Europeans.

Who’s Columbus?

Oh. Right. I forgot.

Forgot what?

"Never mind. Different timestream. And it turned out to be a lesson for us that while the river of time dislikes changes along its regular pathway, some changes along tributaries are somehow possible."

Am I supposed to understand that?

No.

Then you must have done something else with the machine.

Case met his gaze. You mentioned affairs.

I did.

I had one as well. It lasted almost five years.

He squinted at Case. That’s a long time to be scurrying around, lying, finding places to be together without being discovered.

"Quite selfishly, and foolishly I might add, I used the machine to go back in time and try to fix things between us, so she, so France Rae Lord, Francie, wouldn’t leave me, so then we could hopefully find a way to be together."

Doc shook his head. It didn’t work out.

No.

Affairs rarely do. And the lasting memories of them, the damage they may have caused, sting for years after.

Anyway, Doc, Samoset and I eventually found our way to 1881 Prescott, Arizona.

Why Prescott?

That’s where Jackson Coffin was from. And Bodie Moffit.

"Right. Right. Jackson’s nephew, the sheriff in Prescott."

Doc, I know this next part might be the hardest for you to accept, but not only is Bodie Moffit my student and colleague Samoset Brown, but, due to the tributaries and ripples in the river of time, as it turns out, Jackson Coffin is...me.

You?

I’m the legend behind those cheesy westerns.

What do you mean?

Just what I said.

Doc’s eyes widened as he stood. Wait here. He strode from the room and returned less than a minute later, holding a small paperback book in one hand. Your father and I read all the Jackson Coffin novels. Are you saying some of the stories were based on real events?

Exactly.

And the cowboy on this cover, hell, looks like you.

I know.

But Andy—

Let me see the book.

Doc handed it to him. "This story was one of our favorites: Gunfight on Montezuma. It has one of Jackson Coffin’s most famous shoot-outs."

Case gazed at the cover, admiring his likeness. What happens in the book?

Moffit, who was just as fast as his famous uncle, maybe even a little faster, had a draw-down with Amos Graham, the head of the nasty Graham clan. It was at the end of April in the Palace Saloon. Lottie Graham, Amos’s wife, was standing too close, and got hit in the face with a couple shell fragments. Amos wouldn’t accept that he was the one who started the gunfight, or that his wife getting hit was certainly not Bodie’s intention. On May 1, Amos gathered most of the Graham ranch-hands, and some of the Tewksburys, as well, even though the two clans had their own long-standing differences. On a cold snowy morning, the whole bunch of them rode into town. Bodie Moffit came out of the sheriff’s office and faced them alone. But then his deputy, Jesse Musgrave, Jackson Coffin, and a lady gunslinger named P.J. Case... Doc stopped, and his eyes widened. "Case? P.J. Case? No way."

Case nodded. Yep. Pamela.

Your ex-wife?

Afraid so.

She traveled back to Prescott with you?

She did.

She somehow became a gunslinger?

And quick on the draw.

But she’s so kind and gentle. I remember how she would pat the back of my hand and smile at me. Sometimes I considered her close enough to be my own daughter.

"Doc, all that doesn’t matter. What does matter is the account of that gunfight now shows up in a Jackson Coffin novel. That sequence of events is confoundingly significant."

Doc sat beside Case. How?

When my dad collected those novels, and I read most of them, as well, this one you just gave me was not one of the books in that collection.

I don’t understand.

"The May 1, 1883 gunfight only happened after I traveled back to Prescott for a second time, to a nearly parallel timestream, and that was when Pamela was with me. The gunfight did happen, almost exactly as you just explained, but in the original account, before Pamela and I traveled back and changed the history of this timestream, the one you and I are living in now, Bodie Moffit, my supposed nephew, was killed. Neither Jackson Coffin nor P.J. Case were there, or even existed then. Nevertheless, Pamela and I went back to our own natural timestream, this timestream you and I are in now, to ensure that Bodie Moffit, Samoset Brown, did not die in a hail of gunfire on May 1, 1883."

Doc nodded. I’d like to say I understand.

It’s a difficult concept.

"Andy, if this is all true, how in holy hell did you become one of the west’s most feared gunslingers, in any timestream or parallel universe? I mean, of all the people least likely to face down outlaws in a dusty Arizona street, you might be near the top of that list."

Long story, Doc.

He nodded. Okay, but first things first. Show me this machine of yours and tell me about the 6-month-old little girl.

We all have our time machines, don’t we? Those that take us back are memories...And those that carry us forward are dreams.

-H.G. Wells

Chapter 3

Prescott, Arizona - February 17, 1884

It was unusually bitter cold, and Andy Case figured it was the near-freezing temperature that kept most of his regulars from coming into the Mercantile this morning. It rarely got colder than 29 or 30 degrees in Prescott, but when it did, any slight breeze of dry air felt like shards of ice scraping against bare skin. He had arrived early, stoked the pot-bellied stove, and started the coffee. Mercantile customers favored a hot cup while going about their shopping, or just to sip from a thick ceramic mug while they gabbed with each other inside the store, out of the cold.

Case had purchased a half-interest in Burgess Mercantile from Frank Higgins about a year ago, and immediately enjoyed the peaceful nature of being a shopkeeper. It was quite a change from his former unofficial job, a nightly shift at the Palace saloon as a glorified bouncer with a six-shooter, his Mare’s Leg relic, and his unexpectedly effective Nigerian fighting staff. But after his confrontation with Hank Riley from Newton, Kansas, Bloody Jim Riley’s brother, and after the showdown with an angry, drunken mob on May 1, last year, even the Grahams and Tewksburys steered clear of any further face-offs with Jackson Coffin. For the past few months, he even left his gun-rig at home since things had quieted so much. He kept his Mare’s Leg rifle under the front counter, and his Nigerian staff was always tucked into the side of his belt. Case knew well enough about unexpected confrontations in this frontier town, and his other weapons were hidden insurance, if the need came to pass.

Some afternoons, Pamela came down and helped at the shop. She was still sleeping today when he stepped outside to the barn, saddled Arion and rode the short distance to town. He supposed, by this time, Pamela was already atop Annawan, her Paint gelding, and was headed to a trail near Granite Creek. Many things surprised him about Pamela’s reaction to living in modern society on one day, and then suddenly being whisked through time to the 1880s of the American West. But most surprising to him was her instant love of horses. Unless terrible weather prevented it, nothing would interrupt Pamela’s walk and morning communion with Annawan who she treated as a close member of her family.

Case also knew when Pamela returned to their small ranch down the road from the Burgess place that Samoset Brown and his family rented, she would pull her Colt and shoot at cans and other targets propped against straw bales stacked along their back fence. She had practiced so much over the past year that by now she was a better shot than even he was and was probably also faster to the draw. Stories had her involved in twelve or thirteen gunfights over the years, and while that wasn’t true, her reputation as an able gun-hand was well-founded.

The front door opened. Morning, Jackson, a man said as he stepped inside and pushed the door closed.

Morning, Frank.

Frank Higgins was middle-aged and stout. His smudged overcoat strained the buttons in front. Cold enough the wolves stay inside.

Don’t expect to see many folks this morning, weather being this way.

Higgins shrugged off his coat and set it atop a side table behind the front counter. Ellis Bennett said he’d be by for feed for his chickens and such. He might be our only customer ‘til afternoon if the sun shows its face. But you never know who might come a-walking through our door.

Case poured coffee into a mug and held it out to Higgins. Here you go.

Thank you kindly. He squinted out the front window. Looks like your nephew’s come to visit. Kinda early for him to be in town.

Case stepped around the counter. The front door pulled open and Samoset Brown, now Bodie Moffit, stepped inside.

Sheriff, Higgins said.

Brown shook off the cold and tried to catch his breath. Frank. Jackson, can we have a word?

Case gazed at Brown for a moment, and then started toward the door at the back of the shop that led to a wooden porch outside the building. Brown followed. The door