RATING: PG for some language.. not too bad.
CATEGORY: Challenge - OW or ah.. ATF...no OW!
MAJOR CHARACTERS: Ezra and the gang... both gangs.
DISCLAIMERS: This is fanfiction. No profit involved. This story is based on the television series "The Magnificent Seven". No infringement upon the copyrights held by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, The Mirisch Corp. or any others involved with that production is intended.
NOTE: May 2002 Magnificent 7 Challenge, offered by Michelle Naylor:  "Do you believe in the supernatural, the unusual, the out of the ordinary things that can not be explained? What would the boys do when faced with such a situation? Write a story where one or more of the boys are caught up with forces beyond their control. My one stipulation is that there most be some otherwordly figure, (ghost, alien, angel, etc...) there to help them along. Note: This should not be a horror story!"  Okay, so it's really an OW story ... mostly, but what's ATF Ezra doing here? ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:  Kristen created the name of Chaucer's horse, and Hat’s off to Mog for creating this universe.
FEEDBACK: Yes please! comments and suggestions are greatly appreciated.
SPOILERS: None
DATE: May 16, 2002, housekeeping done on Sept 10, 2006

Bolt out of the Blue
By NotTasha...who gets struck by things too

Part 1:

Agent Standish yawned into his hand and waited.  Somewhere, in the little grove of trees, the team’s profiler was searching for his golf ball.  Buck Wilmington was yelling encouragement, which wasn’t doing anything of the sort. Agent Dunne poked around the edges of the deep grass with his club, as if there was hope of finding the little ball anywhere near the fairway.  From time to time, Agent Sanchez would utter another curse, but he doggedly continued his way through the rough.

Ezra closed his eyes.  He’d spent the last three months undercover, wending his way into the good graces of a malicious killer.   It had been bone-tiring work to suck up to a man who’d he just as soon strangle.   The bust had finally gone down yesterday afternoon without incident.  Mr. Hargrove was behind bars, waiting his trail.  Their evidence was airtight.  Hargrove would spend the rest of his life in prison.   No one could have been more relieved than one ATF undercover agent named Ezra Standish.  He was particularly ready to leave that particular case behind him.

There were times when he contemplated his choice of profession.  Why did he insist on constantly placing himself in situations that disgusted him?  Why did he insinuate himself into places he’d rather avoid?  Why did he spend so much time learning professions, pastimes, and pursuits that had nothing to do with his preferences? Why did he live among the worst examples of human beings on the planet?  Why did he always have to play a part, become someone else?

Because I am good at it, Ezra reminded himself.  Very good.

But right now, he was very tired.  If he’d had his way, Agent Standish would have spent his day asleep.  Unfortunately the other members of his team wouldn’t have it.  No, they complained that they hadn’t seen him in months and thought the fresh air of the fairway would do him good.  Well, it probably did.  He had been cooped up in Hargrove’s offices for too long, a near-prisoner at his computer system.  Ezra’s eyes still ached from the long hours of data processing (and data theft).  Yes, he needed a little fresh air…tomorrow.  Today, should have been spent abed.

“Found it!”  Sanchez shouted joyfully and took a couple of hacks at the newly recovered ball.  After more curses, it finally flew a scant few yards, landing not far from Ezra’s feet.  Standish glanced at it, with eyebrows raised.  The profiler reached him and smiled congenially.  Sanchez paused a moment before he stated, “Ezra, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

“Nonsense,” Ezra said and yawned again.  “I’m full of vim and vigor.”

“Yeah, for an eighty-year-old man,” Buck countered, twirling his club like a baton.

Ezra nodded contemplatively. “Yes, but a rather spry octogenarian.”

JD shrugged.  “Why don’t we go in then?  We aren’t getting anywhere fast with this game.”

“Yeah, we can pay a visit to the 19th Green,” Buck added.

“Buck,” JD put in.  “I though there were only 18 holes?”

“Mr. Wilmington is speaking of the bar and I couldn’t agree more,” Ezra drawled.  “Gentlemen, let’s adjourn and recommence our discussion at the clubhouse, augmented with suitable libations.”

“Damn, Ezra,” Buck chuckled.  “Why do you always have to say a dozen words when two or three will do.  Let’s get hammered!”

“I got your clubs for ya, Ez,” JD said, as he shouldered first his bag, and then Ezra’s.

“Thank you, Mr. Dunne.  Don’t strain yourself, “ Ezra commented and started toward the clubhouse.  He was grateful for the young agent’s helpful nature.  The idea of dragging that comparatively light bag all the way back to the club house sounded like a Herculean endeavor at that moment.

Ezra gazed up at the sky as he moved, noting how clear and mild the day had become.  Earlier, when the three had arrived to pick him up, there had been a threat of rain.  But now, it looked as if it would be a lovely day.

He continued taking long strides, eager to reach the main building, ready to unwind with his friends.  He certainly needed that.  He realized that he was outpacing them when he heard Wilmington’s voice from behind him say, “Well, he ain’t so feeble if he’s movin’ so fast!”

Ezra turned to say something to them when it hit him… like a bolt out of the blue.

Part 2:

Where the day had been blue and mild, suddenly, it was dark.  It was very very dark.  He fought his way out of it, back to consciousness.

“Ezra?”  he heard the voice softly call, breaking through the blackness.  “Hey, Ez?”  Was that Nathan?

He tried to lift one arm, feeling stiff and sore.  Little electric bursts seem to course through him at the small movement.

“I think he’s gonna be okay,” Nathan spoke, his voice sounding muddy.

Damn it, Ezra thought, I feel like hell.  He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids seemed pasted shut.  He turned his head slowly, feeling muscles pulling. Where did Nathan come from?  Wasn’t he supposed to be spending the day with Rain?

“Damn, he scared the hell out of us,” Buck uttered not far from him.

“Nearly thought we lost him,” Josiah’s baritone seemed to vibrate though his aching bones.

He was hurt and in a bed.  For a moment, his heart raced as he figured his only likely location, (considering his present unpleasant condition) would be stuck in some hospital.  Lord, he hated hospitals. But that didn’t seem right.  Where were the blips and beeps, the rattle of gurneys, the groans and moans of fellow patients, The irritating PA system that never shut up?  He listened carefully, but the room seemed remarkably quiet.  Maybe they’d shut the door?  Why hadn’t they thought of that before?

“He gonna be wakin’ up soon?”  Ah, there was Mr. Larabee. They must have called in all the troops. Larabee was supposed to be at some sort of a meeting today.  Well, if Mr. Larabee and Nathan were here…

“He’ll wake,” that was Vin, sounding more Texan than usual.  “He just ain’t gonna do it b’fore he really wants to.”  Hmm, he really should speak to Mr. Tanner about his language skills.

Ezra inhaled through his nose, expecting the unbearable tang of disinfectants that always went with hospitals, but instead, he registered only a woody, earthy, horsy smell.  Were they at Larabee’s Ranch?  Why the hell would they be there?  The blanket under his hand was too soft for hospital issue… a quilt?  It MUST be the ranch.  Why the hell would they have taken him there if he’d been hurt? -- and he definitely felt strange.  It was a disconnected feeling, as if his body wasn’t quite his own.

It made no sense.   He needed sense.   It was high time he figured out exactly where he was.

Standish opened his eyes, finding them capable of performing the task, and blinked them to focus.  The room was kindly dim -- no florescent lights.  There seemed to be no electric lights at all, only the daylight streaming in the window.  Thank God!  He squinted, not recognizing anything in the room – this wasn’t the ranch.  No, not even Larabee’s residence was this… unsophisticated.  Rough wood and cloth covered most surfaces.  Bottles gleamed on a shelf.

“Ezra?” Nathan called softly, drawing his attention from the furnishings.

“Mr. Jackson,” Ezra responded thickly and gazed at the medic. There was something strange about the way Nathan was dressed.  Ezra couldn’t quite put a finger on it but he looked rather… rustic.  He was dressed all in browns, from his trousers, to his shirt.  Was he planning to do some yard-work?  The clothes were rather ragged for the somewhat-fashion-conscious Nathan Jackson.

“How ya feelin’, Ezra?” the medic asked sincerely.

“Like I got run over by a semi carrying half a double-wide,” Ezra murmured.  “And then tagged by the one that followed.”

“What?”  JD called nearby.  Ezra turned to face Dunne and was stunned to silence for a moment, looking at what the young agent was wearing.  “Ez?  You okay?”

“Mr. Dunne, what is that on your head?”  Ezra asked, perplexed.

Wilmington guffawed, drawing Ezra’s attention to him.  Lord!  Buck looked like someone’s poor imitation of a broncobuster.  And a mustache?  When?  How?  Buck was literally hooting with glee as JD snatched the hat off his head.  Dunne looked thoroughly annoyed.  JD’s hair… good God!  Why hadn’t I noticed that horrible need for a haircut when I got back from the Hargrove case? Wait, I would have noticed that!  I must have been unconscious for… a long time.  A coma?

“Ezra?”  His attention turned to Larabee.  Ezra couldn’t help himself when his eyes lit upon their leader; he laughed.  Larabee looked like… some sort of a gunslinger from a spaghetti western, dressed in black from head to toe, a mean-looking cowboy hat perched on his head, an ill-made, unlit cigarillo crammed in his mouth.

“Mr. Larabee,” Ezra drawled, shoving his elbows under himself and leveraging himself up.  “Are you trying to impersonate Mr. Eastwood by any chance?”

“Who’s that, Ezra?”  Josiah’s voice boomed in the small room.   Hell, Sanchez was wearing some sort of a serape!   This whole room had a western air to it.  That’s it.  They must be participating a western show. How long have I been out of it? How the hell did I get here?  What have they been doing with me while I was in a coma?  Touting me about to all their little get-togethers and masquerades?

Maybe he’d been stuck in a fugue state from which he’d finally emerged.  Maybe he’d just lost a portion of his memory.  Yes, that made more sense.  By the looks of Buck’s mustache and JD’s hair…it must have been months since that golf game.  What had he been doing since them?  Why did he just lose so much of his memory?  What was Dunne doing with that hat?  He had a vague memory of a flash of light…

“Ezra?”  Josiah asked, his voice concerned.  “Did you hear me?  Who’s Mr. Eastwood?”

Ezra grimaced, wondering why his mind was wandering so. Ezra murmured.  "CLINT Eastwood…of  ‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly’ fame --  ‘A Fist Full of Dollars’…’A Few Dollars More’, ‘Unforgiven’?”  Now why would Sanchez ask that?  Hell, every other weekend he was forced to watch one of those films.  “And let’s not forget he whole ‘Dirty Harry’ series and the rabid orangutan in ‘Every Which Way but Loose’ and it’s moronic sequel, but those really didn’t follow the western theme, did they?”  The look on incomprehension on Josiah’s face stopped Ezra from saying any more.

His eyes finally fell upon Vin, who was standing quietly in the corner.  My God!  What was he wearing?  Buckskins?  Filthy, stained buckskins… and that rifle so casually grasped in his hands?  What’s he expecting --  a commando raid?  His hair was down to his shoulders!  Perhaps it was a wig.  Maybe that was the explanation.  They’re all dressed up in funny costumes with wigs and false mustaches.  He’d tripped on his way off the green.  Hit his head.  Josiah and the others simply dragged him along to some odd Western Party.  Okay, he could accept that explanation better than losing a good chunk of his recent memory.  Vin watched him contemplatively, probably waiting for the joke to take affect.

“Very funny,” Ezra said with a chuckle.  “Yes, this is all hilarious, gentlemen.  Now, if you would remove that preposterous paraphernalia, perhaps we could leave this re-creation and return to our normal lives.”  He slung his feet out from under the blankets and sat up fully.

Vertigo caught him and for a moment he wavered as the room spun like a tilt-o-whirl.  He felt the tight grip of Nathan at one side and Buck at the other, keeping him from collapsing.  “Now, hoss,” Buck said quietly.  “You better take it easy for a while.  I think that lightning might ‘ave knocked you down a rung or two.”

“Lightning?”  Ezra asked as the world righted itself, as the ride slowed and came to a stop -- that flash of light!

“You got hit!”  JD cried.  “We were just walkin’ on back toward town when it just … BANG!”

“There wasn’t a cloud in the sky…” Ezra trailed off.

“I suppose it was the exact definition of a bolt out of the blue,” Josiah said quietly.  “It struck and you went down.”

“You were flat on your back when we got up to you!”  JD added.

Josiah continued in his somber voice, “Couldn’t wake you, so we carried you here to Nathan’s.”

“Nathan’s?”  Ezra repeated, looking around.  “Nathan’s what?”  This certainly didn’t look like Jackson’s tasteful apartment.

“His clinic…” JD supplied helpfully.

Ezra scowled.  This didn’t look anything like any clinic he’d ever seen.

“Is he gonna snap out of this?” Larabee asked, looking as if he wanted to spit nails.

Nathan shrugged.  “Damn if I know what happened.  I ain’t never heard of anyone livin’ after bein’ struck by lightnin’.”  What the hell happened to Nathan’s grammar?  They were all talking like uneducated hayseeds.

“Figger he’s plenty tough,” Vin stated.  “Scart that lightnin’ off b’fore it actually touched ‘im.”  Did Vin just say ‘figger’ and ‘scart’?

This was all just too bewildering.  Ezra closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands.  “Please,” he said, “can we call an end to this charade?  You’ve made whatever point you were tryin’ to make and I am in no mood to continue.”

“Ezra, what the hell are you talkin’ about?” Wilmington interjected.

“All this!”   Ezra gestured blindly with one hand, supporting his head with the other.  “Whatever it is you’re tryin’ to do to me, whatever joke you’re attempting to perpetrate, let’s call it an unmitigated success and end it.”

He heard a rustle and when he looked up, Larabee was crouched in front of him.  The stubble on Chris’ chin made it obvious that days had passed since he’s last seen their illustrious leader.  That was no false beard growing in.  “Ezra,” Larabee said quietly, laying a hand on his knee.  “Are you all right?”

Something very odd had happened.  The piercing gaze of Mr. Larabee told him that this was no joke.  Ezra just couldn’t figure it all out just yet.  Time to regroup -- to figure out what was going on -- to play a part until he knew what to do.

“I’m a bit bewildered,” Ezra responded.  “But otherwise, unharmed.”  He looked around the room suspiciously.  “Everything is just a little strange right now.”

“Lie down.  Rest,” Larabee commanded.  “Things will straighten out.”

“Don’t argue with ‘im,” Jackson put in.

“Ya had a pretty busy day, Ez,” Wilmington added.

“Damn!  Lightning!”  JD shouted.  “BAM!  Knocked him right off his feet.”  He shook his head in disbelief, letting his long hair fly.  “I ain’t never seen the like of it!”

“And hopefully, never will again,” Josiah added.

“Go to sleep, Ezra,” Larabee commanded and waited until Standish had his legs once again under the covers and his head on the pillow.  The men filed out of the room, leaving Jackson behind.  Tanner was the last to go.  The sniper stood in the doorway for a moment, gazing back at the undercover agent with a stark blue gaze, and then he closed the door behind him.

Part 3:

“Do you know what’s wrong with him, Doc?”

“I don’t know, JD.  I ain’t never heard anything like this.  There’s nothin’ in my books about lightning.  I sent a telegram off this mornin’ to Doc Meer.  See if he knows anythin’ about this sort of thing.  Maybe he can catch tomorrow’s stage and come ‘round to see ‘im.  ‘Course that’ll take another two days.”  There was a deep sigh.  “Don’t know if it would be worth the effort though.  He’s not burned or anythin’.  Maybe he just lost his memory… or part of it.  Didn’t seem to know where he was.”

“Seemed to know us though.  He was acting kinda crazy.  Did you understand some of the stuff he was talkin’ about?”

“No,” was the sober response.  “That strike might have hurt his brain or something.  We’ll have to keep an eye on him…” Nathan’s voice trailed off.  Ezra was certain that the medic was looking at him.  “Been sleepin’ since you’all left.  Hopefully he’ll be feelin’ better when he wakes up.”

“Yeah…” The computer expert’s voice stopped for a moment, becoming softer.  “Scared the crap out of me when it happened.  We all thought it killed ‘im.  You should have seen Josiah…”

“He’ll be okay.  He just needs a little rest.  You’d better go.  Don’t want to wake him none.”

“Okay.  Let us know if you need anyone to watch for a while.”  And Dunne left the room.  Soon, the only sound to be heard was the sound of pages being slowly turned.  From time to time Ezra could hear the muffled sound of what seemed to be horse-drawn carriages.  There was the rattle of wheels, the jangle of harnesses, the whiney of horses.  Otherwise, all was still.  The calm was rather… pleasant.

Something had happened.  Something awfully strange had happened on that golf course.  Everything around him seemed to have sprung right from the 1800’s!  He was in the Wild West!  Not only that, his entire team was here with him.

It’s a dream… he decided  -- an awfully strange dream.  He couldn’t recall having a dream like this before -- so vivid -- so beguiling.   It was as if his team had been transported back in time…  No.  That’s not right.  It was if his team had always lived in this time period and HE had been transported back.  They all knew him… all expected him to act a certain way.  Well, he was the best undercover agent in the business.  He could handle this mission… act the part of a 19th century man… a wild west desperado…a cowboy… a ranch hand?  What the hell was he?  The others certainly looked like a motley group.  Where did he fit in among them?

Perhaps we’re a gang of outlaws?  Maybe we’re all part of a law enforcement organization.  What is the Old West version of an ATF unit? Maybe we’re a posse!  He couldn’t suppress a small chuckle at that thought.

“Ezra?”  he heard Nathan’s soft voice.

“Mr. Jackson,” Ezra returned with a yawn as he rolled onto his side.

“Feelin’ any better?”

“Very much so.”  He opened his eyes and gazed back at the medic.

Jackson looked concerned.  “Do you find any of this…odd?”  He waved vaguely at the room.  “Do you know where you are?’’

Ezra smiled.  “Nathan, this is your clinic.  I know full well where I am.”

The medic smiled broadly.  “That’s good to hear!”  He moved quickly across the room.  “Think you can sit up okay?”

“I’m feeling 100% improved,” Ezra responded as he sat up.  The room didn’t tilt at all.  “I may even consider standing.”

Nathan looked at him critically.  “Well, let’s see if you can handle that.  Take it easy though.  Don’t go too fast.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Jackson.  It’s good to know that some things never change.”  Ezra pushed himself to his feet and found he could keep his balance relatively easily.    He kept one hand on the headboard for a moment as he surveyed the room from a new angle.  He was wearing, he discovered with some degree of embarrassment… a nightgown.  No, he amended…it was a nightshirt.    Yes, that made all the difference.  He ran his hand over the material, rubbing it carefully.  At least it was better than those paper gowns from the hospital.

Nathan still hovered nearby.  “You doin’ okay?”

“Why, yes.  Surprisingly.”

“Why don’t you take a walk around.  Josiah brought some clean clothes up for you.  If you can keep on your feet, I’ll letcha have ‘em.”

“Ah, very good.”  Ezra sauntered slowly around the room, taking a moment to gaze at the books on Nathan’s shelves, reading such titles as “Dr. Chases Remedy’s and Recipes.” “Surgery” (Surgery? How could a book be simply called ‘Surgery’?) and “Herbs and their Uses.”  The bottles on his shelf had such alarming labels as “Fever Few”, “Gunpowder”, “Leeches” and “Laudanum”… wasn’t opium in that?  He kept his face mild as he watched the leeches squirm in their watery home.  Ah, he thought, it’s only a dream.

The tools sitting on the counter further made him shudder.  They seemed more likely for woodworking or car-repair than for use on human beings.  Was that a pair of pliers?  a SAW?  He kept moving.

A mirror graced one wall and Ezra stopped by it to ensure that he was … indeed … himself.  He wasn’t disappointed.  The image reflected back at him looked like the Ezra P. Standish he had always known and admired.  Yes, that familiar face gazed back at him with the same green eyes.  His hairstyle was different -- but handsomely cut.  Unlike the others of his team, he found himself with only a 5 o’clock shadow.  His sideburns were a little too long.  He rubbed at one, not sure if he disliked the look or not.

All in all, he looked good.  He smiled, self-satisfied at his image.  It was hard to mess with perfection.  Something flashed in his mouth and he did his best not to seem surprised to find one of his premolars graced with gold.  He smiled broader to get the full effect and liked what he saw.

Behind him, he could see Nathan’s reflection watching him carefully.  “Ah,” Ezra stated.  “It would be hard to find another image like that, wouldn’t it?  Pure excellence.”  Jackson shook his head and chuckled.

With a measured pace, Standish moved toward the window and pulled back the curtain.  Outside, the little rustic room extended into a little rustic town.  Horses lined the street, people walked about in period dress.  He could read signs that touted: “Saloon”, “Saloon”, “Saloon”, “Room for Rent”, “Bathhouse”, “Dry Goods” “Undertaker” and “Saloon”.

He stood for a long time, watching the little scene outside.  This wasn’t a re-creation.  No, this was too… dirty… too lived in… to be a mere weekend pleasure.  He gripped the window frame tightly as he watched life move on outside the window, oblivious to his gaze.

Determinedly, he raised his gaze and looked out at the sky above, searching for contrails, for smog, for jet planes, for TV antennas, satellite dishes.  He searched the people for digital watches, cell phones, rubber soled shoes… for anything that might tell him that this was all just a façade.  But there was nothing to detract from the western scene.  For all the world, this looked as if he’d been dropped into the 1870’s.

It’s a dream, Ezra told himself.  It’s all a dream.  It has to be.

“Ezra,” Nathan called.  “You doin’ okay?”

Ezra licked his lips before he could answer, “Splendidly.”

“Turn around, I need to get a look at you b’fore I let you go.”

What, no MRI?  No CAT Scan?  What about the endless blood-work and the hospitalization overnight for observation?  He turned toward the medic.  Jackson strode across the room and looked at him with a penetrating gaze.

“Figure you look okay,” Nathan said after a moment’s observation.  “You might as well get dressed and head out.  I want you to stay close to home for a while though.  Can’t have you fallin’ off your horse or nothin’.”

“Exactly,” Ezra agreed.  Nathan pointed toward a pile of clothing sitting on the edge of the desk.  For a moment, Ezra was reluctant, afraid that the clothing would be of the same ilk as the garments he’d seen on the others.  Good Lord, what if they were to dress him in buckskins like Tanner?

He smiled when he drew closer and his hand touched the fine material of a beautiful blue jacket.  Beneath it, a silk shirt, a lovely brocade vest and a well-made pair of pinstriped trousers and suspenders.

Eager at the idea of putting on such intriguing garments, Ezra carried them back to the bed.  Nathan watched as Ezra lifted the silk shirt, examining it for one glorious moment.  “Glad to see you actin’ more like yourself,” Jackson said before he returned to his desk and his book to offer Ezra some privacy.

Ah, it was a lovely shirt.  It fit perfectly!  The buttons were made of shell!  The stitching was beautiful!  Ezra paused before he buttoned the shirt up, frowning as he noticed a scar along his side.  Now, he thought.  That was never there before.  But… the familiar scar on his abdomen was gone.  Carefully, quickly he did an assessment of himself, looking for known scars and finding them gone, replaced with new ones in different areas.

It was all so disconcerting… so strange.  It was as if he had taken over the body of a man who was just like him… with his name… who talked just like him… who had friends just as he had in the 21st Century.  But this man had lived a different life, faced different woes, fought different battles.

Lord, he thought as he picked up the exquisite vest.  Speaking of woes…did this Ezra have a Maude, too?  He shook his head, reminding himself that this was only a dream.  There wasn’t another ‘Ezra’ -- only this odd and disconcerting fantasy.

Once he was adequately dressed, Nathan pointed him to his hat, his boots… and his guns.  A wry smile crossed Ezra’s lips at the sight.  The weapons were just as fine as the clothing.  Lord, this Ezra arms himself as well as I do.

Part 4:

Ezra absently ran his hand along the edge of his jacket’s lapel as he sauntered along the wooden walkway, enjoying the feel of the exquisite blue fabric.  He must look like a peacock in this otherwise dull-colored town.

He was, if his clothing was any indication, some sort of a gambler.  It made Ezra smile just to think of it. He’d always considered himself to be a bit of a gamester, and here he was… living that life.  And looking good, too.

He’d tipped his low-crown black Stetson to the ladies as he passed and not one of them cringed or scowled at him.  Women’s lib definitely hadn’t hit yet.  He held doors open for them, and they blushed so charmingly.  It was a thoroughly enchanting little hallucination.

“See he let you loose,” Vin said, standing in the doorway of a saloon that seemed to have no other name other than “Saloon”.

“Yes, he decided that I might as well be let at my leisure, since I am apparently fit.”  Ezra couldn’t help grinning at the buffalo-hunter version of Tanner. Now, Agent Tanner was always a bit on the ‘wild and woolly’ side, but this was taking things to an extreme.

The undercover agent continued,  “I’ve been admonished to stay off my horse and remain in town for the next few days.”

“Probably a good idea,” Vin commented.  Ezra had to agree.  As strange as this all seemed, he needed some time to get his bearings.  Vin nodded to the interior of the ‘Saloon’ saloon.  “Thirsty.”

“Considerably.”

“Thought so.” Tanner led the way into the dim place and toward a table where Larabee and Dunne were already seated.

JD sprung to his feet and closed the distance to Ezra.  “You feelin’ better now, Ezra?”

“Yes, Mr. Dunne.  Much improved.  Thank you for asking.”  Standish pulled the nearest chair from the table and sat down with a sigh.  Vin looked at him curiously and took his seat.

“I’ve taken you off patrol for the next few days,” Chris stated bluntly.  “You’ll make it up next week.”

“Ah, yes.  Patrol.  Of course.”  Ezra’s attention was on the interior of the tavern.   A long bar took up one wall, and simple wood tables dotted the floor. Smokey-looking kerosene lamps hung from the ceiling.  Some of the chairs looked as if they’d been broken more than once and crudely pieced back together.  The shelves behind the bar were filled with brown bottles -- simple brown bottles without labels.  Somehow he expected earthen jugs with “XXX” stenciled on them.  And the whole place smelled.  He hadn’t quite gotten used to that.  It had an unwashed odor to it, a smell of men and animals, wood and whiskey.  It smelled a bit like Larabee’s ranch after Chris and Buck and the others had been working at it all day -- and partying all night.

Funny, but the place reminded him somewhat of their ‘Saloon’ back in Denver.  The two establishments didn’t resemble each other in particular, but there was a familiar and comfortable feeling to both.

Cowpokes and a few floozies filled the room.  Standish was a little startled when he glimpsed Inez Recilios behind the bar -- but at the same time, it didn’t surprise him.  Who knows… maybe Judge Travis was here too, along with Mary and Billy.  Maybe even Mrs. Potter roamed these streets.

It was all so amazing.  Everywhere he looked, he saw something new (or rather something old) and intriguing.  He certainly could dream vividly.  Inez brought them each a beer and Ezra was pleasantly surprised at the rich taste of the brew. This definitely wasn’t Coors Light or a Pabst.  Ah, there was something to be said about microbrews!  The temperature was warmer than his usual preference.

Chris and JD were going on about recent activities around town, including their frustration at being unable to find out who murdered two local men, Cates and Partridge.  Ezra commented with them, catching the thread of the conversation and following along well enough to keep up.  Vin stayed mostly silent, interjecting a word or two at times.  It didn’t take Ezra long to comprehend that they were all peacekeepers in this town.  It didn’t surprise him one bit.

Josiah, Nathan and Buck showed up and the conversation continued.  The seven of them sat around the table as night fell, drinking beers and talking.  It was a totally enjoyable evening, Ezra thought.  He could pick up enough of the conversation to play his part and nobody seemed to suspect anything.

And then the name Hargrove suddenly came up.  Ezra paused and asked, “What do you know about him?”

“Not much more than you, I’d guess,” JD said with a shrug.  “He’s got that big ranch to the north.  Comes into town every couple of weeks with his guys.”

If there’s a Hargrove in this era, Ezra thought, he more than likely has the same disposition as the one from mine.  “Don’t turn your back on him,” Ezra commented.  “He’s a dangerous man.”  When the other three men looked at him curiously, he continued,  “The murders of Cates and Partridge…I would think that maybe Mr. Hargrove had something to do with them.”

“Why would you say that?” Buck asked sharply.

“You got a feelin’ about him?”  JD inquired.

“Yes, a feeling.  And not a good one.”  Ezra responded.

“One should always listen to their feelings,” Josiah put in.

“Well,” Buck said with a grin, “There’s some feelin’s that are more difficult to ignore than others.”  His eyes fastened on one of the saloon’s floozies.  “If you’ll excuse me.”  And the ladies’ man was on his feet and gone.  The others could only shake their heads and chuckle.

Ezra gazed at the men at the table and felt totally at ease, completely happy. Yes, he felt as if he could live this life – a sometimes-lawman in a dusty western town.  It set well with him.  He glanced at his colorful jacket and realized that it was perfect for him.

He could have sat at the table with these men all night, but, finally, after a long evening and many beers, he began feeling one of the effects of drinking so much.  “Now if you excuse me, I need to visit the restroom.”

JD glanced toward the stairs.  “Gonna go rest in your room?”

Damn, damn, damn!  Ezra cursed himself, realizing his error.  He smiled, glad that JD’s gaze had at least directed him in the proper direction of his room.  He’d need to know that later. “Yes,” he said, hoping that JD’s assumption covered his flub.  “After I make a short stop at the….” He trailed off, not know the proper terminology for toilet in this century.  A ‘bathroom’ would probably send him to the bathhouse (not a bad idea -- Lord, there’d be no shower, would there?).  Should it be ‘pit toilet’, ‘privy’ ‘john’, ‘outhouse’, ‘latrine’, ‘lavatory’, ‘crapper’?  Was it even proper to speak of such things?  Lord, he had a lot to learn.

“Well, see ya later,” JD said, apparently not caring that he didn’t finish the sentence.  Nathan and Josiah were in their own little conversation and hadn’t heard him at all.

Chris wasn’t listening either.  He seemed to be mulling over something -- probably thinking about Hargrove and his connection to the murders of Cates and Partridge.  Vin glanced at him and then toward the back door of the saloon before placing his attention on his drink.

Ezra decided to take that glance as a clue and exited the rear door of the saloon, finding a tiny building some distance away from the others.  With a slow and apprehensive tread, he went to find out, first hand, one of the less agreeable aspects of living in the Old West.

“It’s all a dream,” he muttered as he steeled himself.  “Courage, Ezra.  Courage.”

Part 5:

It hadn’t taken long to find his room.  JD had unconsciously directed him here when he'd glanced this way when asked about the 'restroom'.  There’d been a key in his pocket and he quietly tried it in the rooms above the saloon.  Once he’d been able to unlock one of the doors, it was obvious he’d found the right place.  The room was small and neat.  It contained a little closet filled with jackets of equally fine manufacture as the one he was wearing -- and just as colorful.

He slept well – remarkably well.  The feather bed was something he’d have to consider for his townhouse. The night was quiet.   

He awoke slowly, marveling over that incredible dream, expecting to see his familiar bedroom and the glow of his digital clock.  Instead, he found that same little western-town room and that wonderful feather bed that he’d found the night before.  How very strange, he thought as he sat up.  Shouldn’t this dream be over now?

The shaving stand and straightedge razor alarmed him.  He stood beside the small mirror for a moment, feeling the stubble on his face and eyeing the sharp blade.  Perhaps he could just go out without shaving this morning.  Yet, that wouldn’t be right, would it?  No, he was clean-shaven yesterday.  The prominent position of this stand told him that it was often used.

“Well, appearances are everything,” he muttered to himself.  “And besides… this is just a dream.  No damage will be done.” He’d need some warm water.  Now, how to get it.  He recalled his experience of the previous day in the outhouse and realized there was no running water here… let alone hot water.  

He pulled open his door, to consider how he’d go about locating that commodity and found, to his surprise, a little kettle wrapped in a towel at his doorstep.  “Well, I guess I think of everything,” he said as he brought the kettle into his room.  “I even order hot water every morning for my shave.  How like me.”  Now, there was no excuse.

In spite of himself, his hand seemed quite comfortable on the handle of that deadly blade and he managed to complete the shave without cutting off his head or even nicking his skin.  He’d received straight-edge shaves at the barber, so he knew the procedure – but he never thought he’d be able to replicate the operation so well.  He was pleased with the final effect, running his hand along his smooth cheek and considering adding a straightedge to his list of  ‘must gets’ once he woke up from this dream.

Now, to dress.  He turned to the closet.  The clothing was all well-made, but some of it was dustier than he cared for -- some could use a good dry cleaning.  But, in spite of living in a time without such amenities, most of the clothing looked remarkably well cared for.  He chose a dark green blazer, and located the matching vest.

He figured out how the derringer rig worked (it had been carried in his pocket since yesterday -- he didn’t want to fumble with it under Nathan’s observation), and suited up for the day.  Once he finished, he studied himself in the mirror, liking what he saw.  I should wear color more often, he decided as he settled his hat.  After cocking his head at the image he decided he should wear more hats, too.

He felt decidedly comfortable in this garb.  Everything fit him so well, even the clever derringer rig and shoulder harness.  His gun belt hung ever so precariously around his hips, yet still seemed perfectly matched to his shape.  Amazing.  He was almost more suited to play the part of a riverboat gambler turned lawman than an undercover agent for the ATF.

Part 6:

“Ezra,” Vin greeted as the undercover agent emerged from the saloon.

“Mr. Tanner,” Ezra returned the salutation, touching the brim of his stunning black hat.  Tanner was leaning against one of the roof supports, looking like the pure definition of ‘idle’.  “And what is on the schedule for today?”

“Me and JD’s gonna ride out to Nettie’s place in a bit.”

“Nettie Wells?”  Ezra kept the surprise from his voice.  Was there a Casey here, too?

“Yup.”  But Vin made no immediate move to leave.  Apparently things moved much slower in this dream-world.  Ezra stood beside the sniper, completely comfortable with watching the movements of costumed performers in the street.  Amazing, Standish thought, how detailed my imagination can be.

After a minute or two of silence, Tanner asked, “You doin’ better today?”

Why were they always asking about my well-being?  Ezra wondered and then realized that it was only because they were worried about him… all of them.  “I think I have my place in the universe figured out again, Mr. Tanner.”  Tanner nodded, but Ezra couldn’t be certain if he truly accepted this response.

The thudding of feet on wood planks drew his attention and soon Mr. Dunne was flying toward them.  Ezra knew, that even in a pre-2000 world, JD Dunne could not move slowly.  The kid had more energy than all of them put together.

“Hey, Vin.  Hey, Ez,” Dunne greeted as he pulled on his jacket.  “Let’s go, huh?”

Vin and Ezra exchanged a grin, seeing that JD had shaved today and his hair looked a little neater than it had yesterday.   Ah yes, even here in the 1870’s, JD has his Casey.  The two crossed the street and Ezra followed to see what other surprises would be revealed.

He entered the barn-like ‘Livery’ across the street.  Ezra paused for a moment as they met the dimness, letting his eyes adjust.  Inside, dozens of horses dozed in their stalls.  This world certainly needed a lot of ‘horse-power’ to keep moving.

The two men immediately moved down the far right aisle to the stalls near the end.  Dear Lord, Ezra thought as his eyes rested on the mounts.  Even the horses had been replicated here!  There was that big black that Chris preferred at his ranch, the blazed black for Vin, the little bay for JD, Buck’s gray, Nathan’s long limbed bay and Josiah’s giant sorrel -- and finally, the beautiful chestnut in the corner stall that was looking at him with wide eyes.

“Chaucer?”  Ezra said quietly as he moved closer. The horse snorted at him and shook his head.  As Vin and JD entered the stalls of their horses and got them ready for their ride, Ezra reached out a hand to his favorite mount.  “Chaucer, it’s me,”

The chestnut snuffled at his hand, but Chaucer's eyes never left his face.  The horse seemed to peer through him, unsure and uneasy.  He snorted again and drew its head away from his hand.  The horse stamped and shuffled uneasily.

“Chaucer off his feed?” Vin asked as he looked over his shoulder at them, as the chestnut backed further into his stall.

Ezra felt the deep disappointment of seeing the fearful look in Chaucer’s eye. When the chestnut showed up at Larabee’s ranch, Ezra had immediately fallen for it.  The others always claimed that Chaucer was difficult to manage, but somehow the two of them just clicked.  He’d never raised his hand against the animal, never even raised his voice – and the horse trusted him implicitly.  Whenever he rode Chaucer, he always felt…good.   Seeing the horse back away from him and eye him anxiously, nearly broke his heart.

In this world, everything seemed to mirror the real world of his 21st Century existence.  Why did this one important thing have to be different?

He knows…Ezra thought.  Somehow Chaucer knows that I’m not right, that I’m not his man.  But this is all a dream, isn’t it?

Vin and JD had finished their preparations by that time and led their horses from their stalls.  “See ya later, Ezra,” JD called as he brought his Toby into the sunlight.  “Try not to get hit by no lightning today.”

Vin paused before leaving, watching the very unusual behavior of the chestnut, and the sullen look on Ezra’s face.

Part 7:

Ezra walked along the boardwalk, wondering how he should go about finding some breakfast.  As he came to the hotel, he heard a conversation in progress.  The brusque words put him on edge.  When he recognized one of the voices, he felt all of his senses sharpened.  He stopped and opened the door.  The conversation within came to an abrupt halt at his entrance.

He easily recognized Mr. Hargrove, in spite of his new wardrobe.  The corporate executive had turned into a rancher, but there was no mistaking his soulless eyes.

A timid-looking young man stood behind the desk.  It took a moment, but Ezra realized that he was one of the baristas at his favorite Starbucks. Gone was Finn’s weedy-looking ‘soul patch’, replaced by a weedy-looking mustache.  Damn, they’re everywhere, he thought.  

One of Mr. Hargrove’s familiar goons stood beside the desk, trapping Finn in.  No one else was at the hotel's lobby.

“Mr. Hargrove,” Ezra said with a nod.

“Standish,” Hargrove barked back, looking annoyed.  “We were just having a little discussion.  That’s all.  Me and Kenny were just talking to Finn, isn’t that right, Finn?”

The young man threw Ezra an anxious look, and Standish knew something had to be done to get his man out of here.  Ezra had seen first hand what happened to those that crossed Hargrove and it appeared that Finn hadn’t earned any points recently with the man.

“Finn, I would like to order a cup of coffee, please,” Ezra requested pleasantly, nodding to the coffee pot that waited on the wood stove.  "If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

Finn happily tried to stand and complete the order as Mr. Hargrove asked, "Wouldn't it be easier to try the restaurant?"

"I prefer the brew they serve at this locale," Standish responded smoothly.  "It's not as if you can get the same coffee at every corner."

“Not now,” Hargrove growled.  “We’re discussing something.”  Kenny pressed closer.

“Please, I must insist,” Ezra continued.  “It will only take a moment, I’m sure.”

Hargrove, apparently realizing that he was dealing with the local law, motioned to his man and Kenny withdrew an inch or so.  Finn scurried away to the front desk.  With any luck, Hargrove would be diverted away from the young man for the time being.  Of course, Mr. Hargrove would not give up easily.  Poor Finn -- he wouldn’t last long if Hargrove had something against him.  The barista’s hand shook as he picked a kettle from the wood stove.

“Excuse me, how long has that pot been sitting there?”  Ezra inquired.

“Just an hour or so, Mr. Standish,” Finn replied in a reedy voice.

Ezra grimaced.  Not only was the coffee perked, but it was burnt.  “Please, I must insist on fresh coffee.”

The transformed Starbucker nodded.  “Yes, sir.  Right away, sir!”

Hargrove started when Finn headed toward the back door.  “Hold on!  Where you goin’?”  he demanded.

“To dump it…” Finn responded, his eyes wide.

Hargrove nodded sharply to Kenny and the two of them started to follow the young man to the rear exit. Hargrove’s hand crept to his gun belt.

“Please,” Ezra called.  “Wouldn’t you rather wait within?  I’m sure that there’s plenty of interest for us to discuss.”  Would he be caught in a shootout now?  Ezra prepared himself to go for that low-slung gun at his hip.

Hargrove turned to comment just as Buck slammed the door open.  “Hey, Ez,” Wilmington called cheerfully.  "Whatcha doing here?"

The violent sound was enough to set off Hargrove.  He yanked the gun from his holster and aimed it at the smiling cowboy in the doorway.  The smile didn’t last long.

Damn it!  Ezra’s mind screamed as he launched himself at Hargrove.  Don’t you DARE shoot Mr. Wilmington!  He  slammed a shoulder into the man and they tumbled on the wood flooring, slamming into the desk and the walls of the narrow space.   Gunfire suddenly erupted -- damn that sounded loud.

Look out, Buck!  Get out of the line of fire!  Lord!  What would happen to me if I were shot in this barbaric age?  As he grappled with Hargrove he reeled at the memory of those devices in Nathan’s clinic.

Ezra caught a glimpse of Kenny grappling with Buck in front of the door, effectively blocking it.  A spilled coffeepot lay near the side door and hopefully Finn had run for his life.  But that wasn’t Ezra's concern at the moment.  As he fought with the rancher/corporate executive, he remembered the sharp and crude tools in Nathan’s clinic and wanted to keep as far from them as possible.

Distracted with this thought, Ezra allowed Hargrove to get the better of him, tossing him onto his back.  Ezra landed with a painful ‘whump’ and before he could react, Hargrove slammed his knees into the southerner’s chest.  Ezra gasped as the oxygen was forced from his lungs.  For a second, he was stunned.  Hargrove pulled a long knife from his belt.  Bruised and out of breath, Ezra prepared to defend himself as best he could.  Hargrove grinned, clenching that knife, but the cold sound of a gun being cocked stopped him from using it.

“Drop it,” he heard Chris demand.  When did he arrive?  Hargrove looked for Kenny, but found his man was cowering just outside the front door, covered by Wilmington.  Faces peeped from the hallway as hotel patrons came to check out what had happened.

"Drop it!" Chris repeated the demand, and the killer tossed down the knife with an unhappy grunt.  God, he was heavy!  Ezra struggled to draw in oxygen.

“And get off him,” Chris added.  "Now!"

Part 8:

“How’d you know about Hargrove?” Vin asked as he sat alongside Ezra on the boardwalk that evening.

“I saw him for what he was,” Ezra responded as he touched his chest where Hargrove had kneeled on him.  He was still rather sore from the battle, bruised here and there, but thankfully not requiring any of Nathan’s pre-20th century skills.

“Figure you ain’t been quite yourself lately,” Vin stated.

“Being struck by lightning will do that to a man,” Ezra said lightly.  He would give his gold tooth for an ice pack and some Motrin at that moment, but he was currently indulging in another form of pain relief, Kentucky Bourbon, and it was doing a fine job of taking the edge of his aches.

He had to admit, it was an extremely pleasant way to spend an evening.  The sky was just beginning to dim as the sun sank beneath the horizon.  Reds, pinks and purples colored everything.  Night fires were being set up in the street.  People sauntered past on the boardwalk, completely at ease with the fact that two men were sharing a bottle of hard liquor on a public sidewalk.

Men on horseback road passed, a carriage, a wagon, a coach.  People stopped and talked to them, congenially, genuinely.  Everything moved slower here.  Everything seemed calmer.  Ezra felt so at ease.  It was almost as if he truly belonged in this dream-world and not his real-life in the 21st century.

It was comfortable.  Buck, Josiah, JD, Nathan, everyone…seemed so concerned about him.  Chris had stopped by earlier, to see if he was okay.  He supposed they were all rather disturbed by the whole ‘lightning’ event, but it was nice to know that they…cared. This really was a very nice dream all in all and he was rather dreading seeing it come to an end.

“You sat in the wrong seat,” Vin stated quietly.

“What?”

“Yesterday.  In the saloon.  You usually sit in the won that gives you a view of the front and keeps you in sight of the bar.”

Ezra turned to Vin and met his probing eyes.  It was strange, but thinking back to that moment, it did feel strange to sit in that chair… wrong.  “I haven’t been myself,” Ezra admitted.

“Yeah,” Vin replied, furrowing his brow.  “Seems that way.”

Vin turned and looked down the street, seeming to be bothered about something.

Part 9:

“What did you do?”

“Ah, nothing.”

“Did you push a button?”

“I … .ah… I might have.”

“Xlixor!” the multi-tentacled being bellowed.  “I told you to stay away from the multi-dimensional-phase-alteration-unit!”

“It was just one button,” The equally tentacled, but somewhat purpler thing responded. “I checked the thingy, Biquitmiquist, and the other thingy.  Everything’s fine.”  Xlixor undulated indignantly.

Biquitmiquist furrowed three of his upper brows and two of his lower, then blubbered over to the monitor.  After a moment of study, he rotated an eyestalk toward the underling.  “Xlixor!  You miplipit!  You’ve transposed the consciousness of two humanoids!”

“Humanoids?” Xlixor curled his nasal cavities in disgust.  “It can’t be.  I didn’t see any do-dads or deelies on the screen.   The blinky thing didn’t go off.”

“Look!” Biquitmiquist gestured emphatically, knocking a few gewgaws and gimcracks from the knick-knack shelves of the cerulean-blue interplanetary craft.

Xlixor further curled his nasal cavities, nearly exposing all his sinuses.  “Oh fudge!”  He ruffled his ruffle and added,  “They were kinda alike, those two.  Anyway, it was only a second ago.”

“You know, days might have passed on that planet.”

Xlixor belched miserably.  “It was an easy mistake.”

“If Commander Frick finds out….”

“You wouldn’t tell him!” Xlixor glowed pink.

Biquitmiquist shook his lobes and sighed.  “Not unless I want to be punished with you.  I don’t want to get stuck cleaning out the duck pens again.”

Automatically the two saluted, raising tentacles and eyestalks as they murmured, “Long Life the Ducks!  We pledge our lives to the All Powerful Ducks.”

“Do you know how to fix it?” Xlixor asked quietly after the customary salute.

“Just push the orange button.  It should send them back to exact moment all of this started.  No harm done.”

Xlixor’s favorite sucker hovered over the orange button for a moment.  “Will those two remember any of what happened?”

Biquitmiquist shrugged all twelve of his tentacles at once.   “Who gives a shit.  Let’s get the ship out of here before Frick finds out.”

Part 10:

Ezra found himself on his back.  Josiah, Buck and JD were all hovering over him, calling his name, looking anxious…looking terrified.  When had this happened?  He stared up at the clear blue sky.

“I’m okay,” he managed to say.  “I’m okay.”

“Thank the Lord,” Josiah said as Ezra struggled to sit up, aided by the men around him.

“Damn it, Ezra.  It looked like that lightning hit you!”  Buck explained.

“Again?”  Ezra said with a cringe.

“You been hit by lightning before?”  JD asked, his voice a little higher than usual.

“It seems to have become a habit,” Ezra rubbed his head as he looked around.  The scene was pastoral and green.  Little flags fluttered on poles -- a golf course.  He blinked and looked at his friends again.  Gone were the cowboy outfits, the bowler hat, the serape, the overgrown hair and unclipped mustaches.  He smiled broadly -- he was back.

“Thank God,” he breathed out.

Part 11:

“And BLAMO!  Out of nowhere, he got hit by lightning!”  Agent Dunne waved his hands about frantically at Larabee.

“Like the proverbial bolt out of the blue,” Josiah added as Nathan poked at Standish.

“We better get you to a hospital, Ezra,” the medic muttered.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Ezra responded, pulling away.  “Please, what I really need right now is a moment to myself.”

“You sure you’re okay, Ez?”  Vin asked, concern in his voice.

The undercover agent straightened his shirt, missing the silk garment.  “Fine.  I just had a strange…dream while I was out.”

“You were unconscious?”  Nathan asked incredulously.

“No, he wasn’t,” JD insisted.

“He was awake when we got to him,” Josiah added.

Ezra furrowed his brow.  “Really?  I seemed to be away for days,” and remembering the Wizard of Oz, he stopped himself from mentioning that they were all included in the fantasy.  “But as you can see, I’m perfectly fine and in one piece.  Honestly, I’d just like to sit at my desk for a little while and collect myself.”

Buck patted him on the back and Josiah wandered off, saying hollowly to Chris, “I thought he was dead…”

JD added, “BA-ROOM!  BANGO!  It knocked him off his feet!”

“He should really go to a hospital and let them check him out,” Nathan said quietly, knowing his advice wouldn’t be heeded.

“FedEx came for you, Ez,” Vin commented before heading to his own desk.

Ezra sighed as he looked around the familiar office.  Phones rang, beepers chirped, computers pinged.  It seemed altogether too loud after that calming dream.  All this seemed… unreal when compared to that simple world he’d hallucinated.

He made his way to his desk and sat down.  Everything was neat and in its place, except for the Federal Express packet that sat in the middle of the desk.  He poked at it experimentally before he opened it. Inside, there was an envelope, addressed with black ink in a familiar handwriting.

He opened the envelope and pulled out the folded pages.  He paused a moment before unfolding the letter, unsure why he felt so anxious.  Finally, he opened the page and read:

~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn’t a dream.

I began with the same thought, but have come to believe that there’s no way in HELL that I could have dreamed up any of the things I saw.  It is beyond my comprehension.

I have spent several weeks, since my return, contemplating everything that happened to me and have come to the conclusion that I must have switched places… somehow… with another Ezra P. Standish, 130 years in the future.  Don’t ask me how.  Perhaps a cosmic being found it entertaining to see our struggles. Perhaps the Fates crossed their lines.  Perhaps our Lord God thought it interesting to test us in these new situations to make us better human beings.  Perhaps it was all just a big mistake.

Honestly, none of that matters.  All I know is that I was exposed to an incredible future that beguiles me to this day.    I have thought of you a great deal and feel that you must have been thrust into my world as I was thrust into yours.  Certainly you think it was a dream?  You must have looked into our nation’s history at some point and had some passing familiarity with your past (my beloved present).   You, very easily, can consider it was all a dream.  I know different. I saw things that can’t be imagined, not even by Mr. Verne or Wells.

You can never talk to me, as I have long departed this earth (I made no attempt to discover anything about my life and death in the ancient annals of your history, so I know not when this will happen), but I can communicate to you in the future.  I have entrusted this letter to a young lawyer named Brannockburn, who has just opened a small office in the town of Denver.  His establishment will flourish and exist to your day, in the far off and unfathomable 21st Century.  I saw the stately Brannockburn building not far from your ‘headquarters’.  This letter is to be ‘Fed-Exed’ to you on the date of our transposition, an hour or so after the incident (as I understand the usual delivery time for your office).  If I am wrong about all this, it will matter not.  I’m long dead.  This miscalculation, this folly, will matter to no one and this letter will become a curiosity to Mr. Brannockburn’s heirs.  It will give them something to laugh about.

If I am right, then I mean to impart two things to you.

1) It wasn’t a dream
2) You work with some of the finest human beings to walk this planet, in any era.

They were always understanding of my difficulties adjusting to your place and time.  If they, indeed, for some reason, remember anything that happened during our transposition (the gentlemen in my time remember nothing), I hope I did a fine enough job of playing your part and they were left with the impression that I had my brain zapped (your JD's terminology) by lightning and was just a little shaky on my legs.  My inconsistencies were forgiven and they were always helpful to me.  I have been known to be a bit of a chameleon in my time, capable of fitting in with almost any crowd so I believe I did a more-than-fair job in the charade.  Your Mr. Tanner, I’m afraid, might suspect something.

I must say, I enjoyed the experience.  I hope you had an equally acceptable sojourn in my lifetime.

Take good care of yourself, Ezra.  You live in dangerous times.  Be ever watchful.  You work a dangerous profession.  Take care of your friends, they are precious.

With affection to myself (in any era), Ezra P. Standish

p.s. Thank you for the ‘tip’ regarding Mr. Hargrove.  We have discovered that his demeanor is as nasty in my time as it is in yours.  He now sits in jail, awaiting his trial.

p.p.s.  I loved the Armani suits, but you really should consider something with a little color.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ezra sat for a long time at his desk, staring at the letter in his hand.  Finally, he became aware of Vin softly calling his name.

“Ez?” Vin said quietly when Ezra finally looked up.  “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“A ghost?  Perhaps that’s a good word for it,” Ezra said as he folded the letter.  They were all ghosts now, weren’t they?  All of the people he had seen and spoken to, all long gone, in another time, in another place.  The thought filled him with a sudden sadness.  They were gone.

But it had happened.  All of it.  It wasn’t a dream at all.

“You gonna be okay, Ez?”  Vin’s voice stayed low.

‘The finest human beings to walk this planet, in any era.’  Yes, Ezra…you’re right.  They are -- yours and mine.

“Yes.” Ezra smiled, and patted the letter happily, glad that the other Ezra had let him know for certain.  Grateful for the wisdom of his other self.   “I’ll be just fine.”

THE END 

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