The boots on the boardwalk made only soft thumps beneath a heavy layer of fresh snow. Swirling flakes, driven by an icy wind, drifted through fingers of lantern light spilling from open windows and from the posts lining the muddy street.

One boot dragged, leaving a dark streak across the planks. His breathing was uneven, laced with agony, each breath bursting out in clouds of steam like a chugging locomotive wrapped in furs. Drops of crimson blood fell into the pristine snow, marking a grim trail behind him.

The main street of Idaho Springs was a jumble of hastily constructed clapboard buildings and canvas tents. Towards the end and next to the assay office was the Silver Dollar, piano playing a ragtime tune spilling out onto the street. It was to this saloon that Thomas Anderson pushed his weary body.

His whole body hurt, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and sleep. He had taken two bullets that morning. It was not much of a mystery who had pulled the trigger. When he came to, his Colt Navy was gone. There had been an argument earlier that week over who truly owned it. The original owner was dead, buried at Gettysburg; now it was his. If it had just been stolen, Thomas might have let it go, but he was ambushed, and hard-earned gold was stolen.

Thomas paused and leaned against a lamp post, the dried, peeling bark scratching and flaking against his heavy coat. Blood pattered from his fingertips, dark drops striking the snow below. His shoulder was bleeding again, the bandages needing replacement. That could wait until Sarah wrapped them properly. It was impossible one-handed.

He stood there for a long moment, rebuilding his strength. His right hand tightened on the old Griswald & Gunnison, the worn grip familiar even though the Navy had replaced it long ago. The brass frame was warped, and the accuracy was terrible. Thomas would have to get close enough that he could not miss.
He shuffled forward again, and at last he pushed open the door to the saloon with a burst of winter winds and snow spilling into the noisy, warm building. The chatter of patrons fell silent; the piano paused mid-tune.

There, at a card table, sat the man Thomas sought.

“Bill Younger, you Yankee bushwhacking son of a bitch!”

One could have heard a pin drop as miners and gamblers parted from a horse-faced man with a ratty black beard and a battered Union forage cap, the tarnished brass buckle glinting dully in the lamplight.

“Watch your words, Reb, you’re likely to get shot,” Younger growled in his Pennsylvania accent.

“No, Bill, I’m here to kill you.”

Thomas raised his right hand, exposing the barrel of the Griswold from the sleeve of his oversized coat. He fired five times into Younger, working the action as fast as he could one-handed, his thumb drawing back the hammer through every cloud of smoke.

A Colt Navy, partially drawn from Younger’s waistband, thumped onto the floor and slid under the card table. Bill slumped forward onto the felt with a death rattle and a chaotic clatter of chips, coins, and cards.
Thomas cleared his throat and shuffled across the saloon as shocked faces stared back at him. He dug through Younger’s pockets and pulled free a leather pouch, the sum total of the gold taken from that damned creek. A pitiful few hundred dollars. Eight months of backbreaking work. He bent, snatched the Navy from the sawdust floor, and returned it to its holster.

Thomas shuffled to the door and stepped back out into the gale. Behind him, as the shock wore off, someone shouted for the deputy. He had to get away now. Deputy Sheriff Thaddius Hancock’s shack sat near the hot springs, and at this hour, he was likely in bed. That bought Thomas a little time. If he were caught, frontier justice from the law would be just as swift as his.

At the assay office, he turned into an alley and leaned against the rough-cut lumber wall as he trudged through the deepening snow. He let the darkness swallow him, the flakes collecting on his shoulders. The work was done. Was it justice? No. Justice meant getting the sheriff. But why involve a middleman? Nobody liked ambushers in these parts.

Regaining his strength, he pushed forward, keeping to the dark behind the buildings. At the edge of town, he crossed Clear Creek at a rickety bridge of rough logs lashed together that bowed under his weight, snow falling into the chatter of icy water below.

At the end of a row of huts, soft candlelight glowed from the cracks around the door and through the drawn shutters. It was to this shack he pushed forward, knees threatening to give out at any moment. Every ounce of his being begged him to lie down in the snow and sleep. Let the blizzard cover him up and then all his troubles would cease.

But he fought forward.

At last, he fell into the door, his right shoulder pressing against the weathered planks, and pushed the latch. He tumbled inside onto the hard-packed earth floor with a grunt of pain and heavy breathing. Heat from the fire washed over him, and the scents of stew and coffee simmered in their pots near the fire.

“Thomas!” A swirl of skirts fell around him as soft hands rolled him over. “What happened?”

He groaned in pain. “I got shot,” he grumbled.

“Henry!” Sarah shouted. “Get the doctor!”

Thomas grabbed her hand. “No! I murdered Younger; we have to go. Get Miller. He’ll know what to do. It’s just in the shoulder. One came out, the other is lodged somewhere. Patch me up.”

“Thomas, it’s snowing. Where would we go?”

“Golden. Mr. Holland will take us in until I heal up.”

If I survive, he thought. I probably won’t make it through the canyon.”

Sarah pulled open his coat, her breath catching at the sight of the stained grey frock coat, now saturated with fresh blood and stiff with dried stains. She helped him sit up, unbuttoned the coat and matching waistcoat, and peeled him out of them to a series of low grunts from Thomas.

Down to his shirt, she ripped it open with a small knife. She hissed softly and used the soiled remains of the fabric to wipe away the worst of the blood. From the cleaner strips she tore free, she wound tight bandages around his shoulder, cinching them until it hurt. Her delicate fingers tied the ends into neat knots with the finality of a battlefield surgeon.

A computerized chime filled the shack.

“Commander Kyle to Ensign Talon.”

The man named Thomas sighed. “Computer, freeze program.”

Everything stopped.

Sarah knelt mid-motion, her hands poised against his shoulder. The fire hung frozen in place, its light robbed of warmth and movement. The room lost all sense of life in an instant. Everything that had made it a living, breathing place was gone.

Standing without a sign of injury, Ensign Anthony Talon stepped, bent, and rummaged through the discarded layers of his costume until he found his combadge. He frowned and hesitated before tapping it.

“Go ahead, Commander.”

“Ensign, do you plan on joining us for this away mission?”

Anthony felt his heart pounding, heat rising in his cheeks and ears. “Yes, ma’am.”

“It doesn’t seem like it. We’re waiting on you, Ensign.”

“On my way, Commander. Talon out.” He closed the channel with another tap. “Computer, save progress and end program.”

He swore under his breath and headed for the exit, peeling away the bloody bandages as he walked. Just before the cabin dissolved, he glanced back, regret etched across his face. For a fleeting moment, Idaho Springs had been real. He had been Thomas Anderson, and the return to the real world was jarring. He hated it.

As the Old West faded into the holodeck grid, Anthony stepped through the parting doors looking like a dead man walking. Figuratively, he was one too. Kyle was going to kill him for being late.