“So, how’s your steak?”
“Great. Really liked it. How do they grill meat that thick?”
“It’s an art form here. Americans love steaks.”
“And I like it here. This place is cool.”
Sasha and I were sitting in a restaurant called the Roadhouse in Sumner, New Mexico. Sasha had been working as a truck driver for six months, somehow having obtained a commercial license and a quiet under-the-table job. Officially he couldn’t work yet—no permit. He started taking me along as a co-driver, though he still didn’t let me hold the wheel for long. We hauled freight coast to coast. Today we’d ended up in Sumner, checked into a motel, and came out to eat. Three months in, I’d more or less settled into this life. Our English was solid—military school drilled it into us.
I genuinely liked the restaurant. Packed with people, everyone talking, a steady hum of voices, music in the background, nobody drunk—people just came to have dinner. The crowd looked ordinary, and Sasha and I blended in fine: both unshaven, in baseball caps and jeans. The walls were covered with funny junk—old photos of the town, license plates, rusted signs, bicycles, even airplane propellers. Above our table hung a large photo of a cowboy holding a Winchester and a Colt, captioned “1880.”
A cowboy. An old photograph.
I carried a camera everywhere; America was still a strange planet to me. I snapped a few shots of the place.
“Enjoying it here?”
A waiter breezed past, smiling like the sun. People were friendly here.
“Yeah. Great food, great atmosphere,” I said honestly. “Who’s the cowboy over our table?”
“That’s Billy the Kid. Famous outlaw. Careful with your flash—this is kind of a weird place.”
“Weird how?”
“Don’t know. Better shoot without flash.”
He darted off.
“Sasha, what was that about? Why no flash?”
“Who knows. Ignore it.”
I decided to photograph the poster. But without flash it would be useless. One shot. That’s all. What kind of rule was that anyway? I focused and pressed the shutter.
The flash punched my eyes. I lost my balance and felt myself falling—falling into something. Darkness swallowed me. After a few seconds of strange weightless flight I slammed down onto a flat surface. My ears rang. I couldn’t see.
What the hell?
I felt around carefully. Rough wooden planks. Had I fallen on the restaurant floor? Then why was it pitch black?
“Hey, Tony, get up. Enough sleeping. We need to decide what to do.”
Was that… for me? English. With an accent. I understood every word. Who was talking?
I pushed myself up and sat. I was in some kind of house. Really dark. Sitting on the floor. This wasn’t the Roadhouse. How did I get here?
A dim light burned at a table a few steps away. Around it sat several people. I could only see silhouettes—backs, hat brims. Strange hats.
“Hey, Charlie… Frank… Jim… get up. We’ve got to decide something.”
I stood—and found myself wearing bizarre clothes: huge leather pants on a wide belt, and on my hip… a holster? Yes. With a massive revolver inside. I’d never seen one like it. A Colt?
“Mr. Maxwell, Miss Julia… everybody’s awake. We need to decide. They won’t let us out of here peacefully.”
The same voice. I walked closer. There were ten people, maybe more. Someone rose from a chair; I saw a face under thick mustaches. Beside him sat a woman—or a girl. Her face felt oddly familiar, even though she wore the same strange clothes as everyone else.
“Alright, gentlemen. There are too many of them. And soldiers from Fort Stanton on top. We can’t win this fight. We have to get out. Then we’ll come back and settle the score. Billy—what do you say?”
Billy?
Where was I?
A young man stood up from another chair—short, with a sly half-smile. And I recognized him in a jolt. It was the cowboy from the poster.
I’d fallen into 1880?
Nonsense. A dream. I was dreaming.
“Sir,” the young man said, “we should split into groups and jump out through different windows. Horses are tied outside. If we reach them, we’ll ride out.”
“Billy the Kid, you may be the best of the Regulators, but I don’t like your plan,” another man cut in. “We should surrender. Maybe we can talk our way out later.”
“Charlie, we won’t talk our way out. They’ll hang me for sure. They’ll pin five, six murders on me. Dolan and Murphy won’t forgive us. This way we’ve got a chance.”
Silence fell. Then the mustached man broke it.
“Three groups. Billy, you’re with me and Julia. Tony—you too. The rest of you pick your own way. When you’re ready, tell me. I’ll give the signal. We go through that window.” He gestured to Billy and me.
Well. Sure. A dream, right? Nothing bad could happen to me.
“Daddy… they’ll kill us…” the girl pressed her face into the mustached man’s chest.
A shout rang from outside:
“Hey, Andy Maxwell! Come out with your whole gang! We won’t hurt you if you give yourself up to justice!”
The mustached man sneered and growled under his breath:
“Justice? You bought all your justice, to hell with you. Governor bought, prosecutor bought… meat contracts only for you, you bastards. This whole county hates you and you don’t care. But we’ll be back. We’ll break this system… reconstruct it. Yeah. There’ll be reconstruction. Everything will be fair.”
Around us, the company split into three groups, each pressed to a window.
I stood beside Andy, Julia, and Billy. A dream. A dream.
“We’re ready,” came ragged voices.
“Good,” the mustached man muttered. “Billy—count it off.”
“Yes, sir. On three! Out and fire like hell. Horses are around the corner. One… two… three!”
Glass shattered. Gunfire, yelling. Billy leapt out, firing a Winchester into the dark. The mustached man and Julia went after him. Then me—grabbing the Colt and shooting toward the voices outside. Shots answered. Bullets hissed past my head. War again?
We ran blind through the night, stumbling over rocks after Billy. The mustached man suddenly grunted, staggered, and fell hard.
“Daddy!” Julia screamed and dropped to him. I knelt, felt for a pulse.
Nothing.
“Tony! What is it?”
She was speaking to me. That voice… I knew it. I’d heard it before. In another life.
“Julia, we can’t help him now. But we can still save ourselves. Come on! Horses are around the corner—we’ll slip away!”
“Miss Julia, Tony’s right! Move!” Billy yelled.
I grabbed her hand and we ran. The attackers’ shouts were close now. Bullets kept slicing the air beside us.
There were the horses—several tied up, and a couple Regulators from other windows already mounting. Chaos. Snorting. Hooves. I untied the nearest horse and reached for Julia. She used my hand to swing into the saddle—then turned suddenly and kissed me full on the mouth, crushing me to her with her free arm.
Oh. Yulka.
You’re alive?
What kind of dream was this?
She broke away, vaulted onto the horse. I untied another and flew into the saddle too—since when could I ride?
“Tony! Miss Julia! Follow me!” Billy was already mounted, spurring his horse. It reared—and a man lunged out of the dark, grabbed Julia’s leg, raised his Colt—
A shot cracked. The man clutched his chest and dropped.
Billy slung the Winchester back, and the three of us disappeared into the night.
Igor Metalski
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