It was winter in Uruguay so he had an excuse to keep his coat on, despite Alfonso’s frequent suggestions that he make himself comfortable. He was never going to let Alfonso see his harness, although he could tell the man was reading him and that he had guessed at half of it. He took his baths standing naked in Sensei’s room with a washcloth. That was the only use he made of Puni, the fat little Indian hooker, who did seem to be taken with his very pale skin and intrigued with his extensive body art.

He took micro naps with his back to the wall, hat over his eyes and his face to the door while the party pushed on quietly. Sensei was not exactly a partier. Essentially the party consisted of marathon sessions of some geek card game called Bridge between Sensei, Radcliffe and Benson, while the girls drank on him and did chores, appearing to light the occasional cigar and administer the odd massage. Randy tested and poured the wine himself, and stuck mostly to his scotch. The food was good: steak, roast beef, steak, and roast beef, with some very nice white bread. This was cattle country—or so he was made to understand by the two cattle barons that made this their home-away-from-the-senora.

He was glad that Sensei was enjoying himself and did nothing to raise the alarm that they might be being considered for foul play. Because, judging by the way Sensei played cards, he did not have the gift of masking his thoughts and feelings. The man could be read. The only person who had ever been able to read Randy was that super-bitch Tina that his meat-headed brother was ‘married’ to.

He had just traded shots of scotch with Arnesto and Hornito for two fine cigars, and had signaled to Puni for coffee, when it hit him like a wave of doubt; the fact that he was in an alien environment of which he had seen almost nothing.

Here you sit, among strangers, whores, the clueless and the devil himself and you have seen not more than this building and the street and adjacent pier. In another day you will be off across a stretch of unknown grassland to some supposed fishing village to get a lift across the bay.

Relax and let everybody enjoy their second day in Shack-heap South of Nowhere. That’s right, good girl. Yes, and spike that coffee good. If you were White and I wasn’t hung like a hamster we might be getting it together tonight. Thank you and I hope this smile isn’t crooked.

Despite his forced reservations he almost patted her on her wide rump when she turned to shuffle away.

It is a good thing we are not staying.

Arnesto and Hornito had their own girls that they had exclusive rights to. He drank and broke bread with them and spoke of the distant war and that war back in The States that he was seemingly a veteran of. When they pressed for stories he would just reel off tales of Nathan Bedford Forest, Quantrill and the James Gang in the third person, just letting them assume he had been there. These men were definitely men of action and packed long daggers across their lower backs [just like he had his bowie knife slung] with short cutting knives just behind their wide belt buckles.

When he accompanied them outside to see the fine little horses that they were so proud of, he noticed that they rode with U.S. Army surplus sabers and single-shot center-fire carbines of Italian make in scabbards harnessed to their saddles in a makeshift fashion, as if this was the first generation of these fellows to come up with the idea. These cattle bosses did not ride alone, they each rode with two men who stayed outside around a fire behind the stable attached to the cantina—which was essentially a half-frozen mud-pit—drinking cheap wine that was sent out to them. These men had the same knives and daggers. Lassos were looped over their saddle pummels and, most curiously, they rode with long staves, poles they apparently used as cattle-prods.

He did not speak to these men, merely made eye-contact and nodded. On this second afternoon, after Arnesto and his men rode off, Hornito turned to him. “Americano, I understand that you journey down to the sea tomorrow noon. I will be in town tomorrow morning to see my Sweet Sanguinea, and will be glad to ride with you down to the sea. The Army is gone, and there is no law on the land. As your friend, I would be honored to provide an escort for you and your boss.”

He tipped his hat and extended his hand to Boss Hornito. “I would be honored Boss Hornito, as will be Boss Jan.”

The man’s hand was cold, hard and creased like old worn leather. He was perhaps thirty years old and looked as old as Randy. As they parted they tipped hats and he watched them walk their little horses out of the yard.

That night, after his prayers were said, even as Sensei enjoyed that sweet young mostly-White Spanish beauty on the other side of the door, and Radcliffe and Benson humped the diseased sailors’ whores down the hall, he began his nightly drills. He did not sleep before Sensei’s door. He really did not know the man that well. But he trusted him implicitly, and besides, he was the only father figure he had had since Dad had died—Dad had tried you know.

Sensei had become his reason for living. The time-travel was a great escape, and the mission was fascinating. But just now, he was a member of a two-person gang, and he came from a world where the gang came first.

He had always practiced quick-drawing with his firearms. That would be his edge, that and his calm. He was a long-arm man, not a great pistol shooter. But he was calm and had faster hands than anyone he knew except for his freakish little brother. It had taken him much longer to research and customize his period firearms than he had anticipated, with the result that he came into the past without much practice drawing or firing the weapons. He had sighted them in and emptied them each a couple of times in the firing range beneath the base back in Laurel Maryland in the 21st Century. But since hitting this version of the planet he had not fired them once—although he checked his loads and cleaned the pieces every night. On board the Hammond he had spent six hours every night drawing and pointing his weapons at imaginary enemies in the dark, and he had done so last night, and would do so this night.

He stood in the dark drawing his side-pocket derringers together, then a derringer in his left while he unlimbered the Navy .36 with his right. He practiced drawing a .45 in the left with the Navy .36 in the right.

He began juggling with the .45s. After the many hours of drills on the Hammond his duster was well worn and properly creased for unlimbering the big revolvers tied down to his thighs in their heavy well-oiled leather holsters, like the coat, prematurely aged by his constant practice.

Someone walks this way, down the back hall.

He ceased his juggling and drawing and listened intently. He heard her there, wool slippers brushing the unfinished hardwood floor of the hall as she came to him. It was Puni. She came nearly to his chest as she stood in front of him in the darkness. Her voice came in a soft whisper, “Boss, I am not beautiful I know. But why can I not be of comfort to you? Do you not lay with me because I am sullied by others, because I am fat and gap-toothed, or because I am of this land, born of the First People?”

Damn, must a whore always stand between you and serenity?

He whispered, and was shocked at how raspy it sounded in the dark, “I am the son of a whore Puni. You are a good woman and I will miss you, but no one can comfort me. Go back to bed and bring me coffee just before daybreak.”

Her voice stiffened but was still soft, “Yes Boss. You are a good man and I will miss you. The coffee will be strong like you prefer. Good night Lonely Hunter.”