After many days, he opened his eyes, and was thirsty. For the first time in years, his chest didn't hurt. "Could you pour me a little whiskey?"

The nurse looked horrified, but she poured a finger of whiskey into a large tumbler. She stopped, looking at him.

He smiled, and waved her on. She poured another three ounces into the glass and passed it to him.

He took the glass and gazed at the amber contents for a moment, then slowly downed the lot of it. It burned pleasantly, with a bit more kick than was usual. But then it had been some days since he had had any.

He handed her the glass and said, "This is funny."

She didn't know if he was talking to her or to himself.

He laid back into the pillows and closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, the room had changed. The curtains weren't dingy and the bed didn't smell poorly. Antiseptic, rather. He frowned. The room had most definitely changed—he had been moved. He must really have been out, because he had no recollection of being removed from the old bed, no memory of much of anything since he had come to Glenwood.

He sat up and looked around. The room was very plain, with white walls and no decoration. There was a window to his left, pale yellow curtains drawn but not keeping the sunshine out. There was a glass and pitcher on the table beside his bed. He inspected the pitcher and the smell was odd. He knew it though, from his childhood in Georgia. Orange. The juice was from oranges.

He poured himself a glass and sat on the edge of the bed, thinking. He thought he might like some whiskey, but he didn't have a yearning for it. It just might be nice. Looking down, he saw he was dressed in some kind of pyjamas, not his old ones, and not any kind of material he was familiar with.

He drank the orange juice and stood up. He felt wonderful. He took a deep breath, and was disoriented when the wracking cough didn't happen. He took several more breaths and waited. Nothing.

He frowned again, but apart from not knowing where he was, he felt better than he had for years. He went to the door, and found it unlocked. He opened it, and peeking out, he saw a hallway, upstairs and open on the far side. It overlooked a massive sitting room below, and though largely undecorated, the house seemed to be a manor of the style he had grown up with.

He went back into the room and checked the closet. He found some trousers and a shirt that fit him nicely, but no shoes. Or weapons. He dressed. The shirt was nice, silk, he suspected, but there wasn't a tie. The trousers had no suspenders, but there was some sort of mechanism in the waist for adjusting the tightness. It took him a moment to get the hang of it. The floor was carpeted, but he still felt naked without boots, or at least slippers.

He took his juice and began exploring the house. The hallway led to a stair, which took him down into the sitting room. It was comfortably, though again, plainly furnished. There was a single bookshelf, on which rested three or four dozen books. Next to the shelf was a table, on which rested an empty picture frame, and a flat board of with letters randomly arranged on it. A game, perhaps?

He left the sitting room, following the main hall toward what looked like a foyer. There were light jackets hanging, canes and parasols. In a small closet he found several types of footwear, boots and…others. He took a cane with a silver handle in the shape of a raven's head.

He grabbed some boots that looked likely and put them on. Better. And more comfortable than anything his feet had ever felt. He opened the main door and saw a respectable veranda, beyond it, fields of— What?

"Hemp."

He spun to his right, instinctively reaching for his shoulder holster, then grinned foolishly at the woman reclining casually on the settee on the porch.

"You looked like you were wondering about the crop."

He bowed deeply. "I was indeed, ma'am. Do I have the pleasure of meeting the mistress of this estate?"

She smiled faintly, distractedly. "You do. My name is Margaret Ambleside. Though 'Madge' will do, Doctor."

He looked her over. She was tall, he suspected, and dressed like a man, in a cotton work shirt and trousers. She went barefoot. She was comely, if not beautiful, and briefly he thought of Kate. "Well, then, as I suspect you know who I am, and since you are likely responsible for my transport to this lovely abode, I find myself quite at your service."

"Indeed." She turned back to looking out over the fields. "Hemp has become the largest, most lucrative crop since the turn of the century. It is the cornerstone of my wealth."

He looked out over the fields. Turn of the century? He knew hemp was grown for rope, but how it could be responsible for 'wealth' was quite beyond him. Where was he? And who the hell was she?

"'He was the most skillful gambler, and the nerviest, fastest, deadliest man with a six-gun I ever saw.' Do you know who said that, Doctor?"

He coughed politely and sat in a nearby chair, "Begging your pardon, ma'am, I'd be more interested in who they were talking about."

She laughed softly, and seemed to turn her attention to him fully for the first time. "Wyatt Earp said those words about you, Doctor. At your funeral, I suspect, though I don't know for sure."

"Wyatt always liked the sound of his own voice, seldom as he used it. So, I'm dead then, am I? Well, it's been a long time coming. And since I doubt a man of my past could be in heaven, I must say hell is a might prettier than I suspected it would be." He knew now that he must be in a sanatorium, and speaking to a fellow patient. Of the touched kind, he thought wryly.

She laughed again, "No, you are not dead, my dear Doctor, though you might find that easier to believe than what I have to tell you. Come, walk with me."

Seeing little choice, he followed her into the yard, and around the estate. The house was huge, a true plantation home, and as they walked, she gave him the history of the place.

"This is the first hemp plantation that was legally established in the United States since the 1970 act which effectively banned hemp production. The government of the time didn't distinguish hemp from the drug called marihuana, you see."

He nodded, and listened to her tale. Though most of the people he had associated with could hardly be called 'rational', this was the first time in his recollection that he had actually spoken with a truly crazy person.

"Incidentally, we are in Hawaii, a set of islands in the Pacific which became the 50th state of the Union in 1959. This, as I said, was the first experimental farm, and established in 1999. Hemp is legal again now, and its production has largely saved the ongoing destruction of the world's rain forests and reduced environmental pollution more substantially then any other single factor of the 21st century. My grandfather bought this farm, and managed to control a fifth of the world's hemp in 15 years."

They rounded the house, finally. The back yard was well manicured and picnic tables were scattered about. A large gazebo stood in the centre of the yard, and she led them toward it. As they climbed the steps into the gazebo, he said, "Quite a tale, Miss Madge. What year is it now?"

"2212."

"Ah."

They stood in silence, and he could see the ocean in the distance. He couldn't hear it, but he caught a whiff of the sea air. "I do not mean to offend you, Miss Madge, but I don't actually believe you. You must know that."

She turned and smiled, "Of course, Doctor. It is not important that you believe me, anyway. Only that you get better."

"Well, to that, Miss, I do feel as right as rain." He frowned. "As a point of fact, I can say I haven't felt this fine in years."

"I shouldn't wonder. For one thing you don't have TB any more, and for another, you haven't had a drink in over 300 years."

He started to chuckle at the last, then realized what she was saying. "What do you mean by 'TB'?"

"Tuberculosis, Doctor. It's gone. You're cured."

He grabbed her by the shoulders, leaning into her face in rage, "You lie! It can't be cured, and you lie to a dying man!"

She didn't react to his rage, or his handling her, with anything more than a raised eyebrow, and, "I'm not lying, Doctor. You know I'm not."

He released her, ashamed of laying hands on a woman. He turned away, and looked at the ocean. "Go. I've had enough words with a crazy woman."

She looked at his back for a moment, then walked away. In the yard, she called back, "Dinner's at six."

There were no other people around—that was the problem. If this was a sanatorium, where were the doctors? And he felt better. Healthy. He couldn't deny that. Maybe he was still sweating out a fever in Glenwood, delirious. Yes, that was it. He was delirious, and making up this ridiculous fantasy, because when it came right down to it, he was afraid to die. As much as people believed him fearless, reckless, even insane, he was afraid of death, and faced it every day, had since he learned he was dying some 14 years ago.

Or was it, what? Three hundred and some years? He chuckled, his rage gone. He walked along a path he had discovered that meandered its way toward the water. He suspected it would be quite a hike, but he didn't really have any pressing items on his agenda.

Nine times he had been close to death, nine times he had cheated the old ghoul. Four near-hangings and five gunfights with bad odds. He'd had his nine lives and then some. He was living on borrowed time as it was. He wasn't sure what the doctors in Atlanta had meant by 'a few months' that they granted his life if he moved west, but he was reasonably sure it wasn't supposed to be 14 years.

The woman knew Wyatt, or knew of him, at least. That thing she had said, it had sounded like something Wyatt would say… He shook his head. If this was his fantasy, every detail like that would make sense. But his imagination was taking on political details that he wasn't interested in, and more importantly, knew nothing about.

His thoughts were interrupted as he crested a small hill and found a graveyard.

"Now here's a fine thing."

He strolled through the graveyard, looking at the stones, reading the names. A chill overcame him.

William H. 'Billy the Kid' Bonney — 1881
John Wesley Hardin — 1877
Jesse James — 1882
Harry 'The Sundance Kid' Longabaugh — 1908
John King Fisher — 1884
Ben Thompson — 1884

He knew some of the names. Others were unfamiliar, or worse, after his time. There were more stones, but he felt sick. Not in his chest, but his stomach. He left the graveyard, and continued to the beach.

"Did you enjoy your stroll, Doctor?"

"Very much, Miss Madge, thank you. I found the sea air particularly invigorating. May I inquire as to the nature of that wonderful aroma?"

"That would be dinner, Doctor. We'll be having sea bass, with assorted good things. Hungry?"

"Ravenous."

She led him into a dining room off the main room, where there was table beautifully laid out, dinner in covered chafing dishes, and two bottles of wine open and breathing. She nodded to his place, "Please, sit."

He did and she poured them wine. She started dishing a serving out for herself while he waited. She finished and emptied her glass of wine. Then she looked at him and grinned. "If you're expecting to be waited upon, you'll have a long wait. Things are a bit different these days."

"Hardly surprising, miss. I suspect that things are more than a bit different. May I?" He picked up the bottle, refilling her glass as she nodded. "I am not indifferent to speculations about the future. I see the change about me, and I have read some of the flights of fantasy, such as those by Mr. Verne."

He took a long drink, then refilled his own glass. "I believe that I have solved this little mystery, you see. This is a delirium, and I am very near death in my little room in Glenwood Springs. My mind is taking me to places far removed from the reality of my situation."

She nodded, "You are very near death, but you aren't delirious. I have taken you from the past, and I have administered the cure—" She paused, noticing his glare, then amended, "Let us say for the moment that you are near death, and leave it at that."

He nodded. "Good, then. And am I to suppose that, after dinner, we are to adjourn to the bedroom for some of the more…carnal…pleasures?"

She spluttered into her wine. "Absolutely not!" she said, wiping her chin.

"You don't wish to sleep with some of the most famous gunmen before they, ah, pass on?"

"No!" She was blushing furiously.

"Ah, well, then, my apologies."

They ate for a while in an uncomfortable silence. Then, she said, "After your death, another man wrote some 'speculations about the future' as you said. His name was H.G. Wells, and one of his novels was called The Time Machine, published in 1895, in fact."

"I just missed it."

She frowned. "Yes, well, the story was about a man who could travel in time, into the future. Time travel is a reality, now, though it is strictly regulated by the government, and used only for research purposes."

"Am I a subject of your study?"

"In a manner of speaking. I am a criminal however, and certainly not licensed for time travel."

"And you steal historical figures?"

She nodded. "And pieces."

"But you are obviously incredibly wealthy. Why have you followed a criminal path?"

"Why else?" she shrugged. "Boredom, the things money can't buy, because I'm used to getting my way…"

He grinned then. "I understand completely, Miss."

She grinned back, despite herself. "I thought you might."

After dinner she took him into another room, a gallery of sorts, where her artifact collection was. She showed him a wealth of historical treasures from all periods of the past, but the bulk of the collection focused on the American West. She had an impressive collection of shooters. He paused over one of the display cases. "That's Wyatt's badge."

She nodded.

"May I touch it?"

"Of course." She opened the case and handed him the badge.

It was in good condition, better, in fact than the last time he'd seen it. Inexplicably, he could feel the weight of the years that lay between him and his friend as he held it. He gasped.

"Come." She put the badge away, then led him back into the main sitting room.

She sat him in a chair in front of the picture frame and letter game he had seen earlier. "On," she said.

Suddenly, the picture frame filled with light.

"Search—input: John Henry 'Doc' Holliday. End input."

The screen flashed, and a disembodied voice said, "12,469 hits." A list of writing appeared on the screen, and he gasped as he saw his name, often followed by the dates of his life.

"Narrow search—input: association with Wyatt Earp, 1886. End input."

"142 hits."

"Match One," she commanded.

The device read off the article, listing the events of Wyatt's and Doc's lives in that year. Text flashed on the screen, and pictures. Doc's head spun.

She explained how to use the tool, which she called a 'computer.' "You can ask it anything, it's very intuitive. If there is anything it doesn't understand through your drawl," she laughed, "you can type it in with the keyboard."

She indicated what he had thought to be a game. He nodded.

"Have you ever seen a typewriter?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"That's curious, then," she said. "What a strange way for you to arrange the letters in your delusion."

He had to agree.

She yawned. "We're connected with every other household, government office, library, and university in the world. My system has access to all but the most classified information. Knock yourself out—I'm going to bed."

He was still in front of the computer when she came down in the morning. He had adapted to the tool quickly: a large holographic image was being projected into the centre of the room, showing the illustrated timeline of the colonization of the solar system, and the major existing trade routes.

"Well?"

He was wild around the eyes. "This is the most elaborate fantasy I have ever had. I wonder if they gave me laudanum?"

She laughed. "I'll start breakfast."

He came into the kitchen as she was retrieving bacon and eggs from stasis. "What do you want with me?"

She didn't look at him. "I'm going to kill you."

He nodded. "Why?"

"Because there are better shooters than me—Annie Oakley, for one—but there are no better gunfighters. And I'm going to prove it."

"I see."

"And you're dead anyway, so I'm giving you a little gift, a glimpse at what your world will become."

"I won't draw on a woman."

She turned around then, grinning wryly. "That's what the rest said, too. Look into my eyes."

He did.

"If you don't draw, I will kill you anyway."

He believed her. "Well, then, ma'am, I'm your huckleberry."

They didn't say anything during breakfast, but afterward he went to the gallery, to her guns, and picked two Colt army revolvers. And a knife. He holstered one Colt at his shoulder, and came back to the kitchen.

"Miss Madge, where's the ammunition?"

As he fired at a picnic table he had stood on end for a target, he mused. Last night on the computer, he had seen what the world had become, and his decision that he was delusional had begun to fall apart. There was just too much information for a delusion, even the delusion of a man of his imagination. He had watched the progress of the United States, in films taken by the Temporal Historical Agency. He was starting to believe that he was actually in the future. And that he was cured of tuberculosis.

But now, he was going to have a gunfight, with a woman. A crazy woman, but not crazy in the way he thought. What if he lost?

Much of Doc's success in the past was due, he suspected, to the fact that he was living on borrowed time. If he died in a gunfight, so much the better. He never wanted to die sick in bed, with his boots off. Fate had a sick sense of humour, if that was his doom. No matter how tricky the situation, no matter how drunk he had been, he had always made it through, only to die in ignoble sickness, deserted by friend and lover.

But he wasn't sick anymore. His hand shook as he lined up his next shot. He had a chance of a life here, a real life, not under any sentence of death. Would he die in a gunfight three hundred years after his death, now that he didn't want to?

He thought of Kate, and Wyatt. What would they think of this world? Wyatt would just laugh at his amazement—the Marshall was an eminently practical man, and doubtless would go about getting them jobs. But Kate would be entranced. Maybe they could build a life, a real life in this place. The woman Madge had some device, some means of travel, obviously. Maybe he could find it, if his luck hadn't finally run out.

Even cats only got nine lives. Was he luckier than a cat? He resolved to land on his feet this time. He steadied his hand and fired.

The shot went wide.

"Miss Madge, are you ready?"

She nodded as she strapped a Smith & Wesson Schofield to her hip. "Are you?"

"I am. Do you have a firing range, or some other theatre where you'd like to stage this production?"

"You don't have to be snide, Doctor. You were dying, after all."

"Yes, ma'am, but I am not now, and that is bitter medicine. Do you think me a coward, Miss Madge?"

"No, Doctor, I don't. In fact, I regret this. I have come to like you in the past couple of days. But I have to know."

He shook his head, "I hate to disappoint you, ma'am, but you can't know now for sure."

"What do you mean?" She was distressed.

"I was always under a sentence of death, condemned by the foremost men of medicine of my time. My ability to survive was dependent on my lack of concern about death. I was living on borrowed time, and I was deeply in debt. I am no longer dying, and as such, I cannot fight with the reckless abandon of my youth."

She frowned, but didn't say anything.

"So, even if you beat me, you won't have beat me at my best, and you will have not answered your self-imposed test satisfactorily."

They stared at each other, there in the parlour. The showdown had begun.

You could hear a pin drop in this quiet, Doc thought.

She glared at him, then said, "You're a bastard."

He nodded. "I was not born with that distinction, but many people have speculated that I may have earned it. Shall we be friends now?" He turned away from her and started for the door. "Perhaps we could have a drink, and watch the hemp grow."

"No," she said as he walked. "If that's the way you want it, then so be it." She went to the desk and spoke to the computer. "Security system, on. In the event of gunfire, kill Doc Holliday."

As the implication of her words sunk in, he heard the familiar click from behind him. He was going to die, regardless.

He turned, rage moving his hand despite his brain's screaming warning. "Bitch," he snarled, firing.

Before she could squeeze, his shot hit her in the hip, and her shot went through the window. His second took her in the chest, the S&W skittering across the floor.

He had his second gun out—he had no idea what the security measures might be in this house and time, but he was prepared. When nothing happened, he calmed himself, and went to her side.

She was alive.

"Be still," he said. "Where are your medical supplies?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Miss Madge, I must insist that you do not let your pride kill you." He paused. "There is no security system, is there?"

She grinned. "Yes, there is, but it needs a password."

He frowned, not understanding, but he gathered that she didn't give it a password. "Will you let me help you?"

"I'm not hurt." To prove this, she sat up. "Apart from a couple of good bruises, that is. And my pride."

"I see." Through the tear in her shirt, he caught a metallic glint. "What now?"

"I thought I could beat you, but I wasn't willing to die to prove it. With you, or the others—what if I won, but you wounded me, or even killed me? It would be a hollow victory, then." She paused. "You were always my favourite, Doc. Let's go have a drink and watch the hemp grow."

He grinned down at her. Perhaps he had made it to heaven after all. "Lead the way, Miss Madge. Lead the way."