The Time Snatcher

A Time Patrolman's first step in any excursion to the past is to learn the language and the history so well that he can pass as a native. For three days, Brek Halliday lay in the padded tank of a hypnorobot while information was poured into him.

Then he was given his clothes. They consisted of a pair of high-heeled boots made of treated animal skin, a pair of tight trousers woven of blue-dyed vegetable fiber, a shirt of similar material, and a broad-brimmed hat. Other clothing and equipment went into a pack, and a money-belt around Brek's waist carried gold coins that not even an expert could have told from the originals.

The thing that Brek liked best was the fact that he would be allowed to carry weapons openly. Some civilizations of the past didn't permit a citizen to carry guns, but where Brek was going, a man with a pair of six-guns at his hips wouldn't look odd at all.

Brek had ridden a horse three times--once in the Battle of Agincourt, once at Chickamaugua, and once during a trip from Rome to Ravenna in the Sixth Century. His fourth horse was saddled a little differently, but he found it easy to handle. He trotted it onto the platform and signalled the operator. There was a brief hum as the chronokinetic projector warmed up. Then there was a sudden surge of power.

Brek's surroundings seemed to vanish into greyness.

Moments later, light swirled around him....

Plata City, New Mexico, was enjoying a warm, lazy summer day. No one paid much attention to the stranger who came into town on a very ordinary-looking cayuse, pulled up before the Casa Loma Saloon, and dismounted. He hitched his horse to the rail, looked up and down the street casually, and then strode into the saloon.

"What'll it be, mister?" asked the fat, mustachioed bartender.

"Whiskey," Brek said. "And a little cold beer to follow it. That road from El Paso is hot."

The barman filled the order. "El Paso, eh? That's a right smart ride. Been on the road long?"

"'Bout a week. I don't believe in rushin' nothin'."

"Hey, barkeep!" yelled someone down at the far end. The bartender went, and Brek downed his whiskey. He sipped the beer reflectively, thinking long and hard.

Jon Sagginer had been convicted once for illegal use of a time machine, and had been sentenced to ten years on Luna. Somehow, he'd managed to escape and, by bluff and daring, actually get control of a Time Patrol Chronokinetic Projector long enough to use it and kidnap the operator, Dori Clayton.

It was bad enough to use the machine, Brek thought darkly, but to take Dori--

Brek clenched his fists. For kidnapping Dori, Sagginer would take his punishment from Brek, not the law.

The first thing to do was find him. Reading the power flow of a Chronokinetic Projector could only give an approximate location. Sagginer had landed within fifty miles of this spot, and at some time within the past five years--but where was he now?

And, Brek asked himself--did he still have Dori with him? Five years is a long time.

In the course of a year or two, Sagginer could be a long way from Plata City, but Brek had a hunch that this was his goal. He didn't know he could be traced, and he wasn't prepared for travel.

But--

Suddenly, a finger tapped his shoulder and he whirled in surprise. He saw a man wearing a big silver star prominently on his vest.

"Stranger, you'll have to shuck them irons. City ordinance says a man can't carry pistols inside the city limits."

"I notice I ain't the only one with a full gunbelt," Brek said slowly.

The man's eyes narrowed. "Them happens to be John Sager's men, mister, and they all happen to be deputies." His pistol came out suddenly. "I'm orderin' you to take 'em off."

Brek shrugged and unbuckled the belt.

"I ain't lookin' for an argument," he said, handing the gunbelt to the sheriff. But as the sheriff reached for the belt, Brek lashed out with one hand, slapping the other's weapon aside. It skittered across the floor as Brek jerked one of his own guns from the belt and sent the sheriff reeling backward with a blow in the chest.

Several of the other armed men started to reach for their hips, but Brek's icy voice stopped them short. "First man to touch a gun gets lead!"

The sheriff's face grew red. "You've got trouble, stranger."

"Maybe. But them guns is mine."

"You're trying to buck the law," said the sheriff.

Brek grinned. "It's a damn fool law that needs so many men to enforce it. If you was the only one packin' irons, I might be persuaded to gie 'em to the barkeep here. But as long as everybody is carryin' full holsters, I reckon I don't want to be out of style. I'd look too conspicuous."