The suddenness of it all is what shocked Doc the most. He hadn't been expecting it, that was certain. Though, Doc later chastised himself, he shouldn't have expected anything less considering he had been sitting in a large mass of stainless steal, floating twenty odd feet in the sky in the middle of the most disagreeable thunderstorm in the history of Hill Valley! But these thoughts were the furthest from the scientist's mind as he felt the lightning strike the DeLorean. He faintly registered the flux capacitor activate as he grabbed hold of the steering wheel and battled arduously to regain control of the car. He felt the DeLorean pitch backward and do a complete 360 degree cycle, lifting Doc off his seat for a brief moment.

Then, suddenly, the car was sailing toward the flat ground below, nose-first. Doc immediately reached for the hover control and yanked on it, hard. But the DeLorean didn't obey the command, instead continuing its deadly descent toward the earth below. The only thing he could do now was brace himself for the impact. In the split-second left, Doc threw himself over the passenger's side seat of the DeLorean and waited.

The front end of the car struck first. Doc was jolted forward with that contact. Then the nose lifted off the ground and the DeLorean continued to sail forward. Thank goodness the hover circuits had a fail-safe device that prevented the mechanism from going completely dead. The car hovered just a few feet off the ground, barreling across the terrain. Doc stayed put, waiting for the ride to end. When it did, and the DeLorean finally came to a rest, clouds of dust billowing up around the vehicle, Doc slowly sat up and took an inventory of himself.

Nope, he wasn't hurt in the least. Not even a bruise. Luck was with him! Doc flipped off the hover circuits and the car's wheels folded in and the vehicle dropped none too comfortably to the ground. That was quite an experience! Doc suddenly felt like laughing out loud! For that long, brief moment, Doc was certain he was going to meet a pretty horrible fate. They said that life was supposed to flash before your eyes, but the only thing Doc had seen was a bright, blue light.

As he sat in his seat, musing over his unexpected journey and the circumstantial events that had allowed him to survive, the scientist suddenly heard a loud blast. Boom! Doc sat up straight, pricking up his ears. Then another sound came, same as the first. Boom! Squinting through the car's windshield at the murky world beyond, Doc struggled to make sense of the noise. Boom! What was that?

Then, in a grand flash of blue light, Doc received his answer.

The firework exploded in the sky, dazzling everything around it, lighting the interior of the DeLorean for a brief moment, then flowing down the inky sky like a stream of water until it faded into nothing. Fireworks? Doc didn't remember any sort of celebration in Hill Valley on this date in 1955.

Confused, the scientist pushed open the driver's side door and stepped out. He stood erect, gazing perplexedly at the fireworks as they exploded in numerous dazzling colors. Whatever the celebration was for, Doc didn't much care. He was more concerned with the DeLorean. He was certain there would be some terrible damage to the time machine. He certainly hoped it wasn't too extensive! He hated to think that, because of his wrecklessness, he and Marty would forever be trapped in 1955! It was darker outside than he remembered it being, and the sky was completely clear, bar the dozens of soft twinkling stars, which appeared more beautiful than the scientist ever recalled them looking in his lifetime. Could the storm have passed in such a brief moment? Doc hardly considered these oddities. As a scientist, he had to set priorities. And right now that was the amount of damage the time machine had sustained.

He leaned over to examine the car. That was when one of many peculiarities first registered in the scientist's mind. The DeLorean was covered with thick ice, cold steam wafting from the car's exterior. Doc immediately understood what that indicated. The car had punctured the temporal barrier!

"Great Scott!" Doc mumbled to himself. He immediately began to view the landscape around him. There was broad land all about, trees dotting the earth here and there and becoming more collective further down.

"Marty!" Doc whispered loudly. He didn't know why he was whispering, but in the quiet night, with only the crickets and the sparklers making noise, it seemed out of place not to. "Marty!" he whisper-shouted again.

The teenager was nowhere to be found. Then it was true! He had traversed time! Doc immediately ducked into the DeLorean and grabbed his walkie-talkie which still rested on the passenger's seat. Holding the device to his mouth, he called: "Marty? Marty, are you there?" There was no reply. "Marty!" Doc begged again. No answer.

Doc couldn't understand it. When the hell was he? And then, realizing that there was such a simple way to discover the answer to such a stupid question, Doc cocked his head and stared at the LED display. Through emerald neon radiance, Doc read the date indicated on the middle panel, "PRESENT TIME", to himself.

"January 1, 1885, 12:07 AM." Doc was insanely confused for a long moment. That just couldn't be right! He had never set such a destination date! It completely bewildered him. It just wasn't possible that he could be in 1885! In fact, the only logical conclusion would be that the lightning bolt had damaged the display and, therefore, he was not in 1885, but still in 1955. After all, if anything, he should have ended up back at the morning of November 12, considering that that date had still been typed into the "DESTINATION TIME" panel.

But if he had returned to the morning of November 12, then his and Marty's past self should have arrived at the same time that he had. Doc pulled himself out of the DeLorean and again surveyed the landscape. The night was as still and silent as before, bar the luminescent dance of pyrotechnics in the sky. In fact, the entire area looked different to him. There was no Lyon's Estates billboard, no paved road. Just flat land. Wherever he was, whenever he was, he had to get out of there.

Instantly Doc dropped into the car and inserted a destination date. According to the display, he had departed 1955 at 9:45 PM. Doc set the destination for one minute after and hit the singular "ENTER" key. But the destination time didn't change. Far from only slightly perturbed (as if he didn't have enough problems!) Doc carefully re-entered the date (just in case he had hit one button too many) and pushed the "ENTER" button again. Still the destination time remained the same.

Doc's head drooped back and brushed the back of his seat, his mouth hung open and a noise like that of a rusty chainsaw escaped his mouth. It was just what he needed: To have the time circuit control microchip kink out, ultimately stranding him in 1885, if that was indeed where he currently was. That's not to say that Doc was giving up, far from it. After all, he had always gone on record to say that if you put your mind to it, anything can be accomplished! And he was far from defeated.

Doc slid out of the DeLorean and went around to the front of the car. There had been less damage than he had thought. The grill and front end of the undercarriage were bent up a bit, but aside from that, the car was completely unharmed. Something, at least, to be thankful for. Doc unlatched the trunk and set it open. He had a few items inside, including a red toolbox, stored there just for emergencies such as this.

Pulling it out of the car, Doc sat the large case on the ground and, kneeling down, opened it. It looked more like a small cabinet than a toolbox, with doors that swung open, revealing many tiny shelves. Now another problem was occurring to him. As he sifted through the tools, he realized that, for the life of him, he couldn't discern a screw from a driver. Neglecting to keep a flashlight in the trunk, and with only the random flash of light from the fireworks overhead, Doc knew that he wouldn't be able to accomplish much that night.

However, Emmett Brown was a stubborn man and refused to call it quits even when defeat was all but inevitable. Rather then wait the night out, Doc found a screwdriver, laid himself down over the DeLorean's seat, legs sticking out the driver's side door, and began to unscrew the LED's display case.

Despite the chilly temperature imploring him to tuck his feet into the car and close the door and the lack of light demanding that he shut his eyes and go to sleep, Doc got the case removed (not without losing a screw or two on the car's floor, however) and began to analyze, through squinted eyes, the many wires and cords that were now set free from entrapment.

Moving some of the wires aside to get a plainer view of the more delicate circuity deep inside, Doc was presented with a sharp zap! of electricity, causing the scientist to recoil and stick the tip of his finger into his mouth in an attempt to ease the burning sting.

"I'm liable to electrocute myself to death if I keep up with this tenacity," Doc mumbled to himself.

Again glancing at the present time and seeing that it was after 12:30, Doc decided it would be best to call it a night. The fireworks, by this time, had ceased and, impatient as he was to get home, he had to remind himself that he still had all the time in the world. It was better to do the job right, than fumble around in the dark and potentially ruin any chance he'd have of repairing the time machine.

Doc sat up straight and pulled the driver's side door closed. Reclining back, he rested his eyes. He was tired, but anxious as well. When the two battled, as they often did in Doctor Emmett Brown's mind whenever he tried desperately to find that distant oasis known as sleep, anxiety seemed to always win out, keeping him up longer than he cared to be.

But eventually, as it always did, anxiety finally tuckered itself out and went limp, allowing tired to take over and lull Doc to sleep.

 Bright, burning sunlight aroused a rather grumpy Emmett Brown. He turned onto his side, covering his eyes with his broad hand to deflect the light, and tried to fall back to sleep. It was no use. Once Doc was awoken he could never return to slumber easily. It was for the best anyhow. Now that morning was here, he would have a more manageable time getting the DeLorean in working order. Doc sat up straight, clenching his mouth shut to stifle a yawn, and glanced at the "PRESENT TIME" display. January 1, 1885 6:57 AM. Well, that was as much proof as Doc needed. The fact that the present time indicated was in coordination with the earth's natural clock, coupled with the firework celebration he had witnessed last night (most likely, Doc reasoned, to bring in the New Year) Doc had been convinced that, in all likelihood, he was indeed in 1885; which would add to his troubles if he couldn't repair the time machine with the tools he had at his disposal. He really hoped that it was just a simple short circuit.

Pushing open the driver's door, Doc slid his legs out of the DeLorean and bent over in his seat to again sift through the toolbox that still sat opened a few feet away. He plucked out a pair of tweezers, then ducked back into the car. Laying across the seats, Doc gently pulled on the mounted interior of the display, sliding it out from its exterior casing.

Once it was removed, Doc climbed out of the car and, setting the foundation of wires and circuits on the driver's seat, went around to the trunk, propped it open, pulled out a sheet, and laid it out on the ground before the driver's side door of the DeLorean. Moving the red toolbox aside, Doc gently picked up the board of wires and set it on top of the sheet on the ground where there was plenty of natural light.

Doc then reached into the toolbox and found a magnifying glass. Getting on his knees, the scientist hunched over the board and, holding the lens up to his eye, carefully moved the tweezers down through the circuits. From the looks of it, the wires hadn't been damaged. Parting them aside, Doc rooted down deeper, attempting to get to what he hoped wasn't the source of the problem. Finding the object he was searching for, Doc carefully clamped the tweezers around it and slowly and gently tugged it out of its slot. When it was finally freed from the circuit board, Doc held the microchip up to his eyes and stared at it through the magnifying lens.

"Damn!" he cursed to himself. It was indeed charred, burnt, and all but destroyed. That lightning bolt sure did a number on it! Completely overloaded the time circuits! Could've been worse, though, Doc reminded himself. The bolt could have blown out the entire LED display. He was lucky that the problem had stayed localized.

Setting the chip aside on the sheet, Doc continued his examination of the board. After a tedious hour, Doc came to the conclusion that the only thing that had been damaged was the microchip. Damned incredible how one of the most essential parts of the time machine - and the most essential of the LED display - had been the only thing damaged.

Doc climbed to his feet, stretched his back, and stomped his feet, which had fallen asleep, on the ground. He then bent over, picked up the circuit board, and carried it back over to the DeLorean and slid it back into its proper place under the dashboard. Then Doc about-faced and crouched back down to pick up the microchip in his fingers and held it up to his eyes to examine it.

Irreparable, Doc thought dismally. Even in his time it would be impossible. It was much too small for him to make such delicate repairs, even if it could somehow be fixed. He'd have to build a new time circuit control device, albeit on a much larger scale. That was, if the current era had the proper tools and equipment. Transistors were out of the question. Those wouldn't be invented until December of 1947. He supposed he'd have to fall back on its predecessor, the vacuum tube. Even those were in their infancy. Doc's face soured as he realized he'd probably have to build the bulbs from scratch. Was that even possible? If it could be done, it wasn't going to be easy.

1885, Doc thought to himself as he slid the microchip into his breast pocket. Let's see: That should be about the time that horse-riding, spittoon-spitting, and gun-slinging were all popular (if any of the old cowboy movies he had seen as a kid were any indication). The old west.

Doc certainly wasn't dressed appropriately for a trip into 1885 Hill Valley. But then again, he hardly had any choice. At least, Doc mused as he folded up the sheet and stuffed it back into the trunk, he had somewhat of a masquerade to keep his future garb hidden. As if to prove the statement to himself, Doc ducked back into the DeLorean, grabbed his peacoat and the hat he had purchased in 1955, and donned both. Examining the stretched image of himself that was reflected in the glistening silver frame of the DeLorean, Doc decided that it would have to do.

He then went back around to the DeLorean's trunk and pulled out his briefcase of "Emergency Cash" he had purchased while visiting the year 2015. Pulling out every bill from the most recent year, 1879 it turned out, Doc shut the case and the trunk up and went back around to the driver's side door. After shutting up the DeLorean and finding some loose branches and twigs from the scattered Stone Pine trees nearby and decorating the time machine with them in a hollow attempt to camouflage it should any observer happen by, Doc began the two mile trek to the town of 1885 Hill Valley.

 By the time Doc had reached the town square, he was beginning to wonder if he hadn't made a wrong turn somewhere. Though, he reflected, he hadn't made any turns. It was a straight, unmarked path directly into Hill Valley, one he knew well considering he had come from the sight of Marty's future homestead.

But when he reached the town, he discovered that nothing seemed familiar to him. What he had thought would be the universal idiosyncrasy of the town he found noticeably missing. The courthouse clock tower was not anywhere to be seen. It caused a strange feeling of apprehension to churn in Doc's stomach. Hill Valley just wasn't Hill Valley without the clock tower. As far back as he could remember it had always been there. And ever since that day in 1955 when the structure had been the only means of getting Marty back to the future, Doc had always felt a certain bond to it.

The first building he came across in the burgeoning town was the "Livery & Feed Stable". As he came around to the main drag of the town, Doc also took notice of the "Palace Saloon & Hotel" next door. The town was creeping along nice and slowly since being founded in 1850. Slowly more than nicely, Doc thought with a slight grimace as he surveyed the town and the many under construction facilities and other structures that lined the street. At least, he thought wryly, I showed up now instead of a hundred years before. Then what would I do? Drive to the nearest Spanish Mission? He'd certainly been fortunate in those regards.

But the seasoned scientist was only concerned with finding one building at the moment. He certainly didn't expect to find a Radio Shack on any street corners, but he did need to see exactly what sort of materials were available to him. Doc located the place he believed would be the most likely equivalent to a modern electronic shop, the "General Mercantile", and headed for the entrance. He received a few stares from some of the very few natives that were going down the street, either because he was a new face, or because of his unusual attire, perhaps some of both, but Doc was used to such impertinence from his own time and hardly gave them any consideration.

Doc stepped into the building and began to look around, examining the few shelves that lined the structure. No, this wasn't going to do at all. The only shop in town and this was all they had to offer? Aisles of spices, bags of flours and sugar, rices, and tea leaves; Then there was a section of fabrics, and another for some other miscellaneous odds and ends. They didn't have anything Doc needed!

Doc put his hand to his head and closed his eyes. He murmured to himself, cursing his luck for having landing in such a barbaric time. His mumbling earned him an odd look from the counterman.

"Excuse me, sir," the man said. Doc snapped out of his thoughts and turned to look at the man. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Not unless you have any semiconductors or transistors," Doc grumbled.

"Ah, I could check with our supplier," the counterman offered.

Doc waved his hand at the man. "Don't bother. Do you have any type of material for ... construction."

"You mean like wood?" the man asked.

"I mean like metal," Doc corrected. "Steel, iron ..."

"Aw, I don't know 'bout that," the counterman scratched his chin reflectively. "The blacksmith usually gets all of'n that sorta stuff."

"The blacksmith," Doc repeated, then turned to leave. "Maybe I should have a talk with this smith."

"Won't do much good!" the counterman called after him.

Doc turned to look over his shoulder. "What won't?"

"Talkin' to the blacksmith," the counterman replied plainly.

"And why is that?" Doc asked, coming up to the counter.

"Well," the man shrugged, "there ain't much chance a corpse'll talk back, that's all."

"A corpse?" Doc gasped.

"That's right," the man said, reaching down behind the counter. He returned with a rag, and began to wipe it against the tabletop, though he didn't appear to be doing much cleaning. "That party got pretty wild las' night. Both the marshal and the town smith were murdered! Deputy Smith hauled three guys to the pokey. Too bad they let the real firebrand off'n the hook. Him an' his gang got clean away 'fore the law e'en knew what was goin' on. The mayor's callin' a meetin' to talk about it. 'Twas the first blood shed we had in the town since last June. 'Course, that was the last time we heard from Mad Dog, too."

"Mad Dog?" Doc repeated.

"Sure you know Mad Dog?" the man said. "He's the toughest desperado in these parts. Act'lly, him and his gang's 'bout the only scofflaws in these 'ere parts. He's killed every marshal we've elected in the last two years and ain't nobody's been able to touch 'im. If things keep up the way they do, Hill Valley'll be a ghost town 'fore you know it. We may have a police force, but damned if the law still don't get broked. This town's nearly twenty years old an' we still got felons rovin' the streets opposite our younguns and wives."

Doc absorbed the man's words, then abruptly turned to leave, waving the back of his hand at the man. "Thanks."

Doc stepped back out onto the dusty road and, huffing out a long breath, stuffed his hands in his coat's pockets and craned his neck to look up at the blue, dreary sky. It was just his luck that he had shown up on the day that the blacksmith had been murdered. It would definitely complicate things and especially force Doc to spend more time in this era than he preferred to.

He had to find some way to get his hands on the material he would need to replace the time circuit control microchip. He wasn't sure the blacksmith would have everything (or anything, for that matter) that he needed, but there was no harm in inquiring about certain materials. And if the blacksmith was the only way to get the material and there was no longer a blacksmith, he'd have to locate another source who knew how and where the smith got his goods. The mayor, Doc decided, would probably be his best bet. As the highest authority in the town he'd have to have some sort of knowledge of where the smith got his commodities.

Taking in another breath, Doc made his way across the road and began searching for any indication of where the mayor would be located. After making several passes up and down the main drag and finding nothing, Doc decided to take a break when the unpleasant noise of his stomach demanding nourishment echoed from within. He hadn't eaten a morsel of food since he'd returned to the future to undo a tragic happening in Marty McFly's future family's life. Doc quickly did the math: Great Scott! He hadn't eaten in nearly twenty-four hours! With all the excitement going on, Doc had pushed any thoughts of hunger aside to focus on more important matters. Now that things were a bit more peaceful, Doc realized just how famished he was.

Now that the appetence for a hot meal had managed to worm its way into Doc's mind, he could no longer ignore its requisition. He made his way toward the saloon he had seen when he had first entered town: the hot spot, Doc pulled from a memory file on old Westerns, for all the roughest, toughest, sharpest, keenest, gun-twirling, rip-roaring hombres of any small town.

Stepping up to the bar's threshold, Doc pushed open the swinging doors and stepped in, lips extruded, doing his best imitation of the Duke's classic swagger. Here the scientist turned cliched cowboy paused, hiked up his pants, and had a look around at the group of burly, foul mouthed cow folks he was sure to find.

The place, Doc found, was deader than a funeral. Deader than the corpse even! Three men sat around one of the round wooden tables that dotted the building. A new game of poker had just commenced and one of the cowpokes was dealing out the cards, flapping them down in front of each player lackadaisically. At the further end of the tavern was the barkeep, a short man with straightly combed gray hair and an apron tied around his waist, hunched over the long wooden table bar, watching the game of cards.

This was a saloon? Why, if this was the roughest and toughest of the bunch of native Hill Valleyians, Doc was beginning to wonder if his beloved Westerns hadn't been unequivocally inaccurate.

Doc was too depressed to move for a long moment. Finally, the bartender stood erect, put his hands to his hips, and glared at Emmett. "You here to gawk or guzzle?" the man demanded.

Doc finally turned his gaze from the card players, unable to hide the disappointment that still clung to his features. "Do you have anything to eat?" he managed to inquire.

"Whaddaya want?" the barkeep asked.

Doc strode up to the bar. He had to be considerate of what he ordered. This wasn't, after all, a Burger King, and he shouldn't expect a charbroiled beef patty sandwhiched between two slices of bread with his choice of toppings to be on the menu. "Uhh ... Chicken?" It was more a question than a request.

"Chicken," the man repeated. Then he turned to look to the back of the saloon. "Joey! Get a chicken in the oven!" He returned his gaze back to Doc. "That all?"

Doc frowned, not exactly sure.

"Anything to drink?" the man supplied.

"Just water."

"Water?" the bartender guffawed. The same response came from the card players who had overheard Doc's request. "You want water you better dunk your head in the horse trough out there." The card players laughed boisterously at that one, too! "In here we serve whiskey!"

The bartender reached under the table and pulled out a liquor bottle. He plopped down a small glass, uncorked the bottle, and tipped it to pour the liquor. Doc reached his hand out and pushed the bottle away before a drop of liquid could spill out.

"I don't drink," the scientist stated firmly.

"Don't drink?" the bartender asked, unable to hide a rather amused look. "I ain't never met a man who don't drink. 'Cept ol' Seamus, but he's hardly a man hi'self!"

That crack got the card players bellowing with laughter again. "A man's fortitude is based on his drink of choice 'round here," the barkeep continued. "You know what water says about a man?" Doc didn't answer. "Says he's gutless. Now I don't know if you're staying or jus' passing through, but if you plan on making a reputation for yerself in Hill Valley, I suggest you drink a man's drink."

The bartender moved to pour the whiskey again and again Doc stopped him. "No thanks. I don't drink."

The bartender half-smiled. The quaint old-timer sure stuck to his guns. There was a certain amount of respectability in that, even if he was drinking a dame's drink. "Tell ya' what," the barkeep said, returning the liquor bottle under the counter. "How 'bout some Moxie? No alcohol."

Doc thought about it, his eyes rolling to the top of his head, then nodded slowly. The bartender, smiling pleasantly, reached under the bar and pulled out a long, round clear bottle. He uncorked the jug and poured the liquid into the glass that sat on the table, then handed it to Doc. "There you are," the man said. "Uhhh ... What'd you say your name was?"

"I didn't," Doc said simply, accepting the drink. It probably wasn't the best idea to give his name, should it somehow end up in the history books. The bartender gave Doc a disapproving glare. Feeling a bit guilty about his impudent reply, Doc spoke up again: "Emmett. Emmett Brown." He extended his hand.

"Good to know you, Emmett," the bartender accepted the handshake. "The name's Chester. You plan on staying in town awhile?"

"No," Doc said. "I'm hoping I won't be long at all. It's just ... my mode of transportation broke down."

"You picked the dangest of days and the dangest of towns to do it in," Chester chuckled. "Our blacksmith just got knocked off last night." The smiled abruptly left his face. "Nice feller, he was. Shame."

"I know," Doc heaved a heavy sigh. "I was hoping to talk to the mayor to see if I can't get the materials I need to fix my ... wagon," Doc ad-libbed. "Maybe you can point me in the right direction?"

"Well, we're havin' a town meetin' this afternoon. The mayor'll be there for certain. Between you, me, an' the bar flies," Chester said, leaning closer to Doc and putting his hand to the side of his face. "The townsfolk here are gettin' mighty upset. When a brawl like that happens and the murderer gets away, it starts to unnerve some folk. Hill Valley was s'posed to be a place to raise a family. After what happened las' night, a buncha folks nearly packed up right there an' then an' high-tailed it out. The mayor had to convince most of 'em to stay at least for the town meetin' today. But I tell you, if things keep up this way, Hill Valley won't make it into the twentieth century."

Doc couldn't help but smile. "I think it has a pretty good chance," he said smugly.

"I wouldn't be too sure," the bartender sighed. "It's a nice little town we got set up here, but not much in the way of law, 'specially when Mad Dog comes lookin' for trouble. So whadaya want to see the mayor for? Hubert can handle the finances and businesses of this town all right, but he ain't no smith!"

"I was hoping to locate of the materials I'll need to fix my wagon," Doc said without a beat. "The sooner I get it fixed, the sooner I can get home."

"Yer gonna fix the wagon yerself?" the bartender asked doubtfully.

"Well, uhh, yes," Doc answered, not quite certain why that would be so odd. "That was my intention ..."

"Well, it's just at your age ..." Chester shrugged. "I'd have trouble myself. You know anything about that sort of work?"

"Yes," Doc answered immediately. "I was a smith in my prime." It would seem less ambiguous if Chester thought he had the experience in making such repairs. In this day and age, men Doc's age were usually pushing up daisies. Now he realized how unusual it would appear to the people of this time for him to actually be doing such laboring work. But thanks to the Rejuvenation Clinic, he certainly didn't look his age. He could pass for much younger and that would hopefully convince any skeptics that he could perform such a task.

"I see," Chester nodded, accepting Doc's canard. "Still, I don't know that you should do the work yerself. You may have been capable of it in your prime ..."

"I'm perfectly capable," Doc interrupted, feeling the need to defend himself. He wasn't some feeble old dotard, after all. He was as healthy as he had been thirty years ago! His hoary hair might disclose his true age, but on the inside, 65 was a good many years away!

Chester didn't look convinced. "Maybe I could rustle up some of the more stalwart men to help you."

"I'm stalwart enough," Doc expressed firmly. "And if you don't mind me saying so, Chester, just because I'm a bit older doesn't mean I'm not perfectly capable. In fact, I'm probably more capable than any of the men around here! I could probably out-smith the whole lot of them!" Doc boasted, pulling his jacket flaps out and looking rather cocky.

"You don't say?" Chester grinned. "Maybe, then, I can convince you to stay in Hill Valley."

Doc's eyes bugged at the suggestion. "Huh? Well ... uhhh ..." Doc stumbled clumsily over his words.

"Like I said, it's a nice town," Chester continued. "Don't mind that stuff about the lawlessness. Hubert's sure to get that all taken care of. An' we need an able blacksmith. If yer lookin' for a town to settle in, Hill Valley's gotta be one of the best! An' there's another thing good about it!" Chester waited for Doc to ask what that was, but the scientist continued to stare at the bartender with wide eyes, his mouth agape and silent. "It's here!" Chester concluded.

Doc sat still for a long moment. He had to get that idea out of Chester's head immediately! "I'm flattered by the offer, Chester, I am, but I can't. It's a fine town all right, one I'd be proud to call my home. But as I said, I'm just passing through."

"Passin' through to where?"

"Actually ..." Doc hesitated. "Actually, I'm going to meet a friend."

Chester gazed at Doc for a period. Finally he let his face drop, masked with disappointment, and nodded slowly. "I didn't mean to be pushy, Emmett. It's jus' a good blacksmith's hard to come by, that's all. It jus' seemed like the perfect fit, you passin' through on the same day that our smith was killt. Almost like destiny."

"Destiny," Doc repeated to himself. He wasn't too firm a believer in that concept. The future, as he had proven time and time again, was never written. Destiny was always in flux. "Sometimes things happen for a reason and sometimes they just happen," Doc said.

"I s'pose," Chester nodded gloomily.

Drawing his gaze down to the table, Doc lifted his glass and took a sip of his shot and almost instantly spewed the drink right back into the glass. He managed to swallow the liquid in his mouth, not without a rather sour expression coming to his face, however.

"Got character don't it?" Chester grinned upon noticing Emmett's reaction to the concoction.

Doc nodded soberly, taking a look into his still full glass.

"It's an acquired taste," Chester added. "But once you get a few drinks down yer gullet, you'll be comin' back for more."

"Doubtful," Doc replied, but took a another small sip anyway. Indeed, he was parched enough that any drink would do, even one as bitter and medicine-tasting as this Moxie.

Some minutes later, as Doc sat gingerly sipping his drink, the scientist was presented his brunch: a whole roasted chicken on a hot tin plate. Doc swallowed. That certainly was a lot of bird. He frowned down at the chicken. "All of this?" Doc asked, glancing back up at Chester.

"Well, you ordered a chicken, didn't ya'?" Chester demanded.

Doc nodded, displeasure evident in his expression. "I suppose I did ..."

He was hungry, but not that hungry! Doc picked up his knife and fork.

"When yer done," Chester said, leaning over the bar, "I can take you over to the town meetin'. It's gonna be startin' soon. You can speak to the mayor when it's all over."

"Thank you," Doc grunted through clenched teeth as he went to work at carving up the bird.

 By the time Doc had finished his considerable feast and Chester had expelled his regular card playing customers from the bar, locked the Saloon up, and led Emmett to the arranged location, the town meeting had gotten underway. The parley was being held pretty near, as far as Doc could figure, to the future location of the clock tower and the people were huddled across a long outstretch of dirt that reached beyond the town and disappeared behind the horizon. The mayor stood before the town's inhabitants, a few lawmen on his either side, the townspeople standing in a cluster just before him. He was a short portly fellow and he wore a long black coat and a tall hat atop his head. He had a cheerful countenance which made it seem like no matter what happened, a grin would never leave his face.

"All right now, everyone," the mayor, Hubert, Chester had said his name was, said as quietly as his booming voice would allow. The crowd didn't obey, instead the townsfolk continuing with their incessant babble. "Hush up now!" Hubert demanded.

The crowd's buzzing died to silence. Once everyone had quieted, the mayor, grabbing the flaps of his jacket and holding them out, began. "All right now, everyone. All right. Now I s'pose you all know why we're havin' this town meetin'."

"Damned right we do!" a voice from the crowd piped up.

The mayor's expression didn't sour for a moment. He continued to smile pleasantly, as if he hadn't heard the comment at all. "Two men were killt last night and I must offer my condolences to their friends and families first and foremost. We regret that something like that had to happen to start off the town's new year. But that's in the past and we have to look to the future!"

"What future?" came another voice from the crowd. "This whole town'll get slaughtered by lawless murderers and savage Injuns before we ever even get the chance to celebrate another new year!"

A few voices echoed that perspective. The mayor, still smiling, turned to look toward the voice, though he wasn't quite certain who had spoken. "You know somethin'? You're right. You're absolutely right! Those rumors that've been goin' around 'bout Hill Valley becoming a ghost town, bein' abandoned and deserted, are bound to come true! But only if we let it! We've got a mighty fine town here! One that could grow and prosper for years after we're gone! I've grown quite fond of it m'self and I know all of you have, too! And as far as I'm concerned, I ain't lettin' Hill Valley become a ghost town, not if I've got somethin' to say about it!"

There were a few cheers, but most of the audience remained unconvinced.

"'Twon't matter if you got something to say!" another voice shouted from the crowd. "Long as people're allowed to run around and massacre our children and women without any repercussions this town ain't gonna prosper an inch!"

The people again voiced their agreement boisterously.

"You're right!" the mayor cried. "You're all right again! Lawlessness will not be tolerated! Unfortunately, our only marshal was murdered las' night! Now I ain't gonna go settin' up any meetings for the different electoral parties to hunt out their candidates. Hell, we had a fine time tryin' to find jus' one man willing to marshal this town back in June, let alone two! No, sir, unless there are any objections from either parties, I've got a different solution. This time I'm gettin' a real marshal! I sent out some wires this mornin' to San Francisco and I've got us a man lined up who's ready to move on into Hill Valley who'll be deservin' of bein' this town's marshal! Someone who'll enforce the law and enforce it damned well!"

"An' who is this feller?" a voice came from the crowd. "This - this man who's so deservin'?"

"I'm sure you ain't heard of him," the mayor said quietly. "But you can trust me," he added quickly. "He's the man for the job!"

"You know 'im?" the voice of the last questioner rose up again.

Hubert hesitated. "Sure do! He's perfect for the job, I guarantee!"

The crowd was less than convinced. A soft prattle of dialogue flowed through the assembly.

The mayor scrunched his brow. He had to convince his folk to give Hill Valley another chance! "You've got my solemn oath! Understand?" he bellowed to the crowd. "By the end of this week, the streets of Hill Valley'll be as safe to walk as the streets of Philadelphia!"

A soft murmur of disbelief scoured through the crowd once more.

"Give me until this time tomorrow!" the mayor begged! "Tomorrow," here he paused and pulled a pocket watch from his coat and eyed it, "at exactly 10:24 AM! If'n I don't have you convinced by then, well, then you can all high-tail it out of here an' I won't give so much as a complaint or a murmur!"

The gathering again began to babble incoherently back and forth. After a long while, a man who was appointed the town's spokesperson waded through the crowd and approached the mayor. The tall, muscular cowpoke, dressed all in black, extended his hand toward the mayor. "All right, Hubert. We'll stay put for now. But you'd better be prayin' that the man you got lined up ain't no yeller-belly."

"Don't you worry about that, Jim," the mayor shook the man's hand firmly. "This new feller is gonna clean this town up an' make it damned respectable! You'll know it from the first time you lay eyes on him!"

"We'll judge that, Hubert," Jim said, frowning. "Jus' show us the dude an' we'll decide for ourselves. An' if he ain't everything you say he is, tomorrow, at e'zactly 10:24, halfa this town'll be packed up and long-gone. An' the other'n half, I'm sure, won't stick around for much longer."

Jim turned away and just like that the meeting was over. The town returned to its normal ways, most people, it seemed, unhitching their horses to head home. Chester stayed by Doc's side and both watched, while the people disappeared from the square, as the mayor pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped at his damp forehead, the police wishing him luck as they, too, returned to the streets.

As he pocketed the rag and moved to begin his undertaking, the mayor paused in front of the two men. He looked to Chester, shook his head gloomily and said: "I've got my work cut out, Chester."

"I know it, Hubert," Chester nodded. "Is this feller you got lined up for marshal really as great as you say he is?"

"Can't say," Hubert replied. "Haven't met 'im yet."

Chester lowered his head sorrowfully. "You're takin' an awfully big risk, Hubert, layin' all your cards on such a risky wager."

"I know it," the mayor sighed. "But I don't have much choice. 'Twasn't easy convincin' San Fran's deputy an' his family to up and leave their home on such short notice. You can expect that a lot a' bargainin' had to be done. I s'pose it's about time I started takin' some sort of risk, though. Look where playin' it safe has gotten me, after all!"

Chester couldn't argue. In a situation like this, when things had taken such an unexpected (well, it would have been foolish to think that something like this wouldn't happen again, and Hubert, Chester was sure, probably wasn't as surprised or disturbed as he made himself to be) turn over night, there were few options to select from.

"Hubert," Chester changed the subject. "I'd like you to meet Emmett. He came to town this mornin'."

"Oh?" Hubert said, glancing at Doc as if this was the first time he had noticed him. "Do you plan on settin' up camp here, Emmett?"

"I'm just passing through, actually," Doc replied.

He could see the hurt expression on the mayor's face. He opened his mouth to reassure him, but Hubert held up his hand to silence him: "It don't surprise me ... uhhh, Emmett, you said, right?"

"Yes," Doc nodded.

"Well, Emmett, af'er a meeting like that, I'm surprised you're not already on the firs' train outta here. What can I do you for?"

"I have some inquiries about where your smith gets his materials," Doc said.

"His materials, huh?" Hubert turned his gaze to the sky and strained his mind. "Must come on the train e'ry now an' then. Comes on the San Francisco line jus' about every week I believe."

"Do you think it would be possible for me to purchase some of these supplies?" Doc asked. "My, uh, wagon broke down and I need to make some repairs."

"He was a blacksmith in his years of prime," Chester added before Hubert could query on that.

"I see," Hubert nodded. "Well, I s'pose you'd have to do the work yerself, considerin' our blacksmith's ten feet under as of las' night. Tell ya' what, Emmett. You can take up residence in the ol' blacksmith's place an' have all the access to any materials you need or want. All I ask in return is that you do odd jobs for the town until you leave. Sort of a substitute smith until we can find a more permanent solution."

"Ah, I couldn't do that," Doc immediately shook his head.

"Now don't you worry a whit," the mayor interjected. "We'll be doin' each other a favor. Scratch mine, I'll scratch yours."

"I'd much rather pay," Doc objected again.

"Nonsense! Besides, we could use an able blacksmith! It's a rather funny coincidence, I s'pose, you showin' up here, needin' a favor from us and us needin' a favor from you."

"Coincidence out of duplicity," Doc muttered under his breath.

The mayor either didn't hear him or didn't heed the comment. "Now, Emmett, I'm not gonna have this any other way. I ain't gonna take yer money. It's this or nothin'. The faster you get yer wagon fixed up, the faster you can get out of this two-bit town an' move onto somethin' more engagin'. Now, I'm a busy man, Emmett. I've gotta get a tel sent to San Francisco so I can get my man out here by the mornin'! Give me a yes or a no and I'll give you a stop or a go."

Doc considered his options for a brief moment. "All right," he reluctantly consented. "Agreed."

"Good!" the mayor took Doc's hand and shook it vehemently. "All right! Chester'll stall a couple a' horses in the smith shop for ya' this afternoon. You can hitch them up to yer wagon and tow it on into town! That all right with you?" he turned to the barkeep.

"Fine," Chester nodded.

"An' while you're at it, why don't you spread the word that Emmett's gonna be our temporary smith for the next couple a' days?"

"Sure, Hubert," Chester agreed.

Then, giving each man a parting tip of the hat, the mayor turned and walked away. As he departed, he spun back around, pulled his hat off his head, and held it high in the air. "You tell them folks that this town ain't dead yet! Wounded mortally, maybe, but it ain't kicked off yet!"

Then the mayor about-faced once more and headed toward the train station at the south end of the town. Once he had disappeared, Chester slapped Doc on the back, hard.

"Welcome to Hill Valley, Emmett," the bartender was grinning from ear to ear. "Yer gonna love it here!"

Then he turned away from Doc and strode back toward the bar. Emmett remained where he was, standing alone in the middle of Hill Valley's town square, for a long, long moment. Lowering his head, he put his hand to his forehead and released a deep, aggravated sigh.

What, just what was he getting himself into?

 Doc gazed around the fully furnished smith shop. He stood in the main room, which was divided into two parts: the front half housed two horse stalls where it seemed that most of the shoeing was to be done, and in the back of the smith shop there was a room that had been sequestered off as sort of a living residence. Adjacent to the main room, on the right side of the building, was the work area, complete with mounted anvil, brick forge, and a variety of smithing instruments. The old blacksmith had certainly left enough accessories behind for the next smith to live off of, whoever that was supposed to be. The scientist only hoped that he wasn't changing history too much. If he was fortunate, he would only be there for a few days. Hopefully, upon his departure, history would find a way to get itself back on course. Doc had often theorized in the past about a "self-preservation mechanism" in the time-traveling cosmos, something that not only tried to keep history from being altered too badly, but also (and more importantly) made certain a paradox would not occur.

One reason, perhaps, Doc thought, why a time traveler's memories weren't updated like his physical characteristics were. It was this trivial incongruity that had allowed Doc and Marty to discover that their 1985 had been turned upside down. In some peculiar way, Doc was certain there was a method to the madness.

But now was not the time for theories. The smith shop was his home for the next few days, for better or worse. Since he wouldn't be able to retrieve the time machine and tow it back to the shop until night arrived, for obvious reasons, Doc decided he would investigate what tools the leading artisan of the day possessed and try to conceive a way to use these outmoded implements to construct a working replacement part for the damaged microchip.

Doc began by going to the smaller room to make an inventory of the smith's tools and stock. Nothing, it seemed, went beyond a slab of iron, a sledge hammer, and an anvil. Unless Doc planned on crafting the replacement for the time circuit microchip out of iron, the scientist was going to be there for a very long time.

Standing in the middle of the working area, Doc strained his mind. There just had to be some way he could manufacture a workable proxy for the microchip! Doc shook his head. It just wasn't conceivable! Not in this day, not with these tools! But he had to try! If not for his sake, for history's! And if not for history's, then for Marty's!

Great Scott! He had all but forgotten about the kid. There he was trapped in 1955 without any way to return home! Just like last time. Doc had loused up again! He owed it to Marty. He had to get out of 1885! He had no other option.

So, instead of accepting the failure that was all but imminent, Doc found some blank rolled up papers, spread them over a cleared table pushed up against the far wall of the work area, and began drawing out the plans for a replacement part to the burnt microchip. He would design it as if he had the necessary instruments to construct the device, then break down his work into simpler degrees of construction that would correlate with the current era's available equipment.

Tiny as his chances of success seemed now, Doc was certain he could find a way. If his theories about time travel were correct, he was certain that the timeline would do its best to get history back on its original course and get him out of the past and back to his indigenous time! It was a long shot, but right now that was all Doc had.

 He worked through the day and was granted not a single interruption. It had worried Doc for a good length of the afternoon that someone would ask him to perform some chore common to blacksmiths, but quite uncommon to him. Perhaps word hadn't spread yet of his arrival, or maybe most people were too concerned with packing their bags to abandon Hill Valley. In any event, he welcomed the solitude.

Doc stood and stretched his back when that thought entered his mind. He wouldn't mind sticking around, just to see how things turned out. Oh, he knew Hill Valley would get along fine. It had to! But just because he knew the story's conclusion didn't mean he didn't want to know how it came about. Another more rational part of his mind, however, reminded him that it would be best if he wasn't there to witness it, or any future past events.

Which brought Doc to another thought. He had figured out some rough estimates of what he'd need to make a suitable replacement part for the burnt microchip. A lot of that required flash bulbs of which he could not conceive any type of substitute for. His only hope was the DeLorean and the items that laid within. Because they came from the future, Doc might be able to use some of the parts, say from the walkie-talkie or the stuff in his tool chest, as workable equivalents.

A tiny voice in the back of his head, though, kept telling him that he was wasting his time, that most of the parts and pieces required to build the replacement circuit board he hadn't stored in his tool chest and certainly would not be found in his walkie-talkie!
But there had to be a way to resolve this galling problem, and until he got the DeLorean to the smith shop for closer inspection, he wasn't going to find it.

Turning off his thoughts, Doc went to the back of the building and looked out the window. Night had come and stretched itself across the Hill Valley sky. The time had passed more quickly than he had thought it would. That was a good thing, at least for today. Doc left the window and went to the two horse stalls near the smithery's entrance. There in each pen stood the two horses that Chester had brought in earlier in the day, just as the mayor had promised.

The scientist had never ridden a horse before, but he supposed now was a fine time to learn. He pulled open each stall and then went back to the forging room to pick out two bridles from a cluster of horse paraphernalia that Chester had pointed out to him when he had dropped off the sorrels. He went to work on getting a harnass fitted around the nearest steed's head, going about it the same way he had seen done on many a Western, and then led the first horse out by the reins attached. The steed resisted at first, but then allowed Doc to take it out of its stall after a couple minutes of coaxing.

The second colt put up more of a fight. Try as he might, Doc couldn't get the bridle wrapped around the horse's nose, the steed batting its head back and forth as Doc tried to get the sorrel to settle. The old horse was as stubborn as a mule.

"Come on now, fella," Doc said, rubbing the tip of the horse's nose with the palm of his hand. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just need you to do me a little favor."

Doc again tried to slip on the bridle, but the horse refused to obey, lifting its front legs off the ground and kicking at the sky, whinnying in defiance. Doc stepped back and sighed. "Stubborn as Galileo."

Doc dropped the bridle to the ground and closed the stall shut, conceding to the fact that he'd never get the horse out, not with his limited expertise in equine affairs.

"You'll have to do yourself," Doc said, leading the first horse out of the smith shop and onto the deserted dusty road outside.

The scientist examined the sorrel as he would a machine he had just built and was about to perform a primary test on. He had to make certain everything was in order. "Now how do you get onto one of these things?" Doc mumbled, rubbing the horse's side gently.

Doc suddenly snapped his fingers, realizing he'd forgotten a most important item. He returned to the smith shop and came up with a saddle and a girth, found in the same collection of horse supplies from where he had located the bridles. He returned to the horse outside, which hadn't moved an inch and, after a few minutes of struggle, managed to strap the rig to the steed.

Then, slipping the toe of his shoe into the foot hold, Doc lifted himself up and landed uncomfortably onto the hard seat. After bending over and getting a hold of the reins once more, Doc straightened his back and sat up straight and tall. Now he was cowboy! He slapped the horse's reins lightly and was mildly surprised when the steed obeyed and trotted forward at an even pace.

He felt as though he had just walked into one of his favorite movies of the past. It was a shame he wouldn't be able to enjoy the rest of his stay in the old west like he was now. Truly, even if he was forced to remain there for the rest of his days, Doc could find some relish in it.

 In less than fifteen minutes Doc had returned to the future sight of Lyon Estates. The DeLorean time machine sat just where he had left it, alone on the flat prairie, its exterior reflecting the soft glow of the full moon. Doc pulled on the reins and the horse slowed to a stop. It was good thing that he had watched all of those western movies while growing up, otherwise he may never have known how to control the beast.

Doc climbed off of the horse and went to the DeLorean. He quickly removed all of the branches he had covered the car with, then pulled open the driver's side door and sat down inside. He fumbled in his pocket for the car key, found it, then started the engine. The car hummed to life. With only one horse Doc was going to have to drive the car into town. He was sure the citizens of Hill Valley had never seen or heard a machine such as an automobile; the closest thing would have been a locomotive. But the car didn't make so much noise, being a sports vehicle, and he hoped to get it into the sleeping town without attracting any attention.

He climbed back out of the car and went to the anterior trunk and found a piece of rope. Then he went to the horse and took the animal by the reins and led it to the back of the DeLorean. There he tied the rope to the back bumper and the other end he fastened securely to the horse's saddle so as to lead the steed into town.

With all that completed, Doc returned to the car and climbed inside. He put the car into gear and lightly put pressure on the gas pedal and the time machine idled forward at a slow pace. Doc didn't dare accelerate, lest he be heard or noticed. It took him even longer to get into town at this speed than it had to get to the DeLorean's resting sight with the horse, nearly a half hour. But Doc made it back to the smith shop without anyone paying him any mind and managed to get the time machine inside without any trouble.

After cutting the car's engine, he climbed out of the vehicle and closed the double doors of the smith shop up tight, then unhitched the horse from the car and returned it to its stall. Finally things were beginning to get on track. It had been a long day, and that was reason enough for Doc to rest until morning. There was still much to do, but not in the condition he was in.

He went to the trunk of the DeLorean and removed the sheet he had used earlier in the morning and used this to cover the time machine, should anyone wander in unannounced.

Doc ran everything through his mind one last time on an imaginary checklist. Yes, it seemed he had done everything he needed for now.

With that, the scientist went to the back of the smith shop and, without changing clothes or even slipping off his shoes, dropped into the large double bed that was parked up against the left wall of the room. There were plenty worries to keep him up, but the aged scientist hardly had the energy to consider them. Instead, he rolled over in the bed, put his arm over his head as if to ward off any approaching musings of the future, and fell asleep in moments.

Doc was aroused by a knock on the door of the smith shop. At first he refused to open his eyes and rolled back into bed. But the knocking persisted and soon the scientist could no longer ignore the incessant pounding. He drew himself from the mattress and, for the first time since he had come to cognizance, realized he wasn't at home in his garage. He was in 1885. If only it had been a dream!

But it wasn't. And he had a door to answer. Doc stumbled across the main room where the DeLorean was parked and ambled to the entrance. He opened the nearest of the broad doors a crack and poked his rather limp head out. It seemed to hang from his neck as if he couldn't will himself to turn his gaze upward.

"Yes?" Doc said upon seeing the person who had beckoned him from slumber.

"Good morning," the man said politely. He was short and rather dumpy. He poked out his stomach and held his thumbs under his suspenders. He had a short mustache and bright green eyes. A round Montana Peak cap sat atop his head and he wore a drab outfit. He looked much too perky for being up so early in the morn. "Emmett Brown?" the man extended his hand.

Doc hesitated a moment, then raised his arm and shook the man's hand. "Yes."

"Edward Fletcher," the man introduced himself. "I heard you were goin' to be the town's blacksmith for the nex' few days."

"That's right," Doc nodded. "Nice to meet you."

The man, Edward Fletcher, dropped his hands into his pockets and looked at Emmett expectantly.

Doc nodded once to the man as a parting and pulled himself back into the shop, sliding the door shut. He knew people were more hospitable in the past, but did they really have to wake him up at all hours of the morning just to say hello? It may have been for the best, though. After all, he needed to get as much work done on the time machine as possible, if there was any work that could be done.

Doc's reflection was interrupted by another intrusive rap at the door. Slightly miffed, Doc exhaled heavily and turned around and marched back to the door, muttering to himself. He opened it a crack and again poked his head through, again met by the same face.

"Don't mean to be a bother," Edward said, "but I talked to Frank on Wednesday 'bout getting my scythe altered to fit the new snead that I bought the other day."

"Frank?" Doc asked, massaging his brain with the tips of his fingers.

"The blacksmith afore you," Edward said. "I was supposed to have it by the week's end, but then that business at the New Year's celebration the night afore las' happened. I don't mean no disrespect to Frank or nothin', but I truly need that scythe to take care of my crops for the weekend. It wouldn't be inside there anywhere, would it?"

Doc looked back into the shop and toward the room where the blacksmithing materials were kept and scanned the area. It was cluttered with junk, all sorts of tools and pieces of black metal scattered across the floor and resting atop the squared brick forge and work/dinner table. Doc turned to look at Edward again. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

"No mind," Fletcher assured the scientist. "I can find it for you. I'm sure you don't know your way 'round the shop well enough yet."

Edward pushed on the door and Doc pushed back, resisting. He glanced back at the DeLorean, covered by the threadbare sheet, and then back at Fletcher. "I'm sure I can find it myself."

Fletcher restrained his effort to enter the shop and rested his arms at his sides. "I don't mean to be a pest, but I really need that scythe for tomorrow."

"Then come back tomorrow," Doc snapped. He quickly changed his curt tone to one more pleasant. "It will be ready then. I promise."

Edward slowly complied. "All right, Emmett. If I have your word, I'll hold you to it."

Doc nodded once in agreement and they shook hands once again. "Good to meet you, Emmett. I'm sure you'll do a fine job of blacksmithing during your stay in Hill Valley. Hopefully, Hubert'll get this mess straightened out so this little town can grow up right and people won't be ashamed or fearful of living here."

Doc nodded slightly one more time, then watched the man return to the street, mount his horse, and ride off. Doc stood up into the shop and closed the door, reclining back against it. Another chore on top of fixing the time machine, and one that need be completed by the day's end. Perhaps for an experienced blacksmith it wasn't so difficult a task, but Doc really didn't know the first thing about his pseudo-occupation, and he didn't think he'd find a "Guide to Blacksmithing User Manual" at the local General Mercantile.

Well, he supposed the best way to learn to do something was to actually do it. If he got the scythe out of the way, that would free up his time to concentrate on the DeLorean for the day's remainder.

The scientist went to the blacksmith room and started sorting through the pile of junk the old smith, Frank his name was, had left behind.

He got a feeling of uneasiness as he went through the deceased man's belongings. Clothes lay in crumpled mounds on the floor, month-old newspapers and magazines were scattered about, and all the many tools the man had used in his profession rested in a few odd places, most scattered about the forge. The man had just touched those tools two days ago. And now he never would again.

And now it was Doc's job to touch them. He finally found the snead and scythe blade, both resting in a corner of the room. As he carried the items over to the forge, the scientist wondered about the fragility of life. It wasn't long. If he hadn't gotten the rejuvenation overhaul in the future, he would be coming ever more closer to his final time. Now he felt as if he had been given a second chance. As if he could relive the last thirty years all over again!

Crouching, Doc found two bags resting near the base of the forge, one filled with coals and the other with kindling wood and scraps. The first thing to do, the scientist supposed, was to get the fire started. He began by dumping some of the coals into the forge's pit. He supposed there was a reason for the kindling bag, so he dumped a nice bit of that in too. He didn't have any matches on him, so he went to the cupboards lining one of the walls and searched until he found a shelf full of boxes containing the long wooden sticks. He selected a box, then returned to the forge.

Life was fleeting. This had become quite clear to the scientist in the last few years and especially in the last day or so when, if it hadn't been for an antewarning from his best friend thirty years earlier, Doc would have been shot to death by mad (in both senses of the word) terrorists. That's why he had worked so unremittingly on the time machine in the last few years since he had purchased the DeLorean. Not only to avoid a rather bothersome paradox, but to cheat death. To cheat God! To see a world he wasn't supposed to see! To live when he wasn't supposed to live!

But it had come at a high price.

Doc struck a match on the side of the box and set the kindling scraps ablaze. The fire spread and Doc stared at the pit for a full three minutes, hands on his hips, waiting for the coals to swelter. Growing ever more annoyed at the length of time he had been waiting without espying any results, he glanced sidelong and noticed for the first time a set of bellows sitting against the far wall. He cursed his ignorance, realizing that this apparatus was essential for bringing the coals up to torridity.

Doc quickly stepped up to the wall, grabbed a hold of the large bellows, and returned to the back of the forge where there was an aperture for him to fit the nozzle of the bellows into. This he did, and it slid in perfectly. Hunching over the device, Doc spread open the boards and pushed them back together, forcing air through an interior pipe and up into the pit of coals. He kept at it, stepping away every few minutes to examine the coals' progress. After a long while at work, Doc finally managed to get the fire blazing, crimsoning the formerly ebon coals.

"Now that's a forge fire," Doc commented haughtily, gazing down at the burning embers, bright red sparks jumping up and around the pit and forge's chimney.

He surveyed the smith's forge for a moment longer, then picked up the sheathe blade and dropped it into the heart of the fire. Things were running quite smoothly now. In fact, the scientist was just beginning to wonder why he had ever worried as much as he had. No, he wasn't a blacksmith in any fashion, but he was certainly clever enough to figure out how to start a twentieth century oven!

He returned to the back of the forge to pump some more air to brighten the coals and heat the metal. He got on his knees and slowly brought in, then out the boards of the bellows, his mind wandering back to his musings of time travel. It was dangerous. He hadn't realized it at the time (selfish as he had been, he had only considered the benefits it would reap for himself, not once caring a lick for the rest of humanity), but altering the time barrier for personal benefit was a questionable hobby. It wasn't until after his jaunt to the future when what he had convinced himself to be a flawless plan had gone terribly awry that Doc had realized the true hazards of time travel. Thankfully, things had turned out all right, but that incident had convinced him that he must be more careful in the future (or the past, for that matter).

And then It happened. His carelessness had allowed his world to be turned upside down and inside out, thanks to a book from the early twenty-first century and the loathsome Biff Tannen. That was the final nail in the coffin. If the other near-paradoxical predicaments he had found himself in hadn't persuaded him to put an end to time travel, witnessing the brunt end of a depraved society created by the exploitation of his invention was more than enough. Thank goodness he and Marty had been fortunate enough to get the almanac from Biff and set their reality back on its normal (or as near-normal as possible with having an extra set of Doc and Marty mucking around in 1955) course. If it wasn't for that damned lightning bolt, Doc would be back home right now, disassembling the sordid piece of junk into a million and one pieces!

Instead, he sat at the rear of a forge, pumping air through a set of bellows in order to heat a piece of iron so that, when he was done, he would have the time to get the machine repaired just so he could take it back to 1985 and gut the blasted thing! Doc was pumping the great bellows feverishly just thinking about the irony of it all! Instead of destroying the abomination, here he was struggling to fix it!
Doc released an exasperated sigh and stood. His arms ached and he needed a break. He peered around to the front of the forge and smiled smugly as he noticed that the iron piece was now blushing to its core.

Well, the scientist thought as he massaged his throbbing biceps, that wasn't so difficult.

Doc supposed the thing was hot enough now to be shaped. He found a set of straight lipped tongs and used the device to pick the metal sheathe out of the fire. He carried it over to the mounted anvil and set it down on top. He'd probably have to work pretty fast so the metal didn't cool down before he could shape it.

Doc left the anvil to pick out a hammer from the vast selection sitting near the forge. He grabbed the plainest one which had a hammerhead made of iron, one end flat and the other shaped like a wedge, the handle made of hickory wood, and, after grabbing the snead he was to fit the blade to, returned to the anvil, and took a seat on a stool nearby.

He held the top of the snead up to the tang of the blade. How exactly was he supposed to adjust the thing anyway? From what he could see, the tang was a bit too wide. Perhaps a few hammer blows would get the thing fitted properly.

Setting the snead aside, Doc picked up the tongs he had set near the base of the anvil stand and clamped them around the scythe to steady it. Laying the metal on its flat side, he raised the four pound hammer with one hand and dropped the head down onto the tang of the blade. Pink! Doc grinned. That wasn't so difficult. He gave it another jab, and then another. He gave it two more strikes sequentially before he set the hammer down to rest his arm. It didn't take very long before the hammer blows took their toll, especially on someone of Doc's age and physicality. But, Doc figured that the marks he had made would be enough. He compared it once again to the scythe's handle.

His face fell as he realized he hadn't made as much progress as he had thought. The tang was still too wide, although a bit flatter than before. Maybe this time he should rotate the blade so it stood vertically while hammering to even out his molding. It seemed logical enough, so Doc turned the scythe so the blade pointed up (keeping his distance from the keen end), and raised the hammer to begin again.

Doc brought the hammer down. This time, though, the blow wasn't as accurate. He struck a good potion of the scythe's base, sending the thing sprawling from the tong's not so sturdy grip where it landed in a pile of shavings that the scientist had carelessly let fall out of the bag and to the floor while he was preparing the forge's fire. Doc's mouth fell open with horror, a sharp wail of shock escaping his throat as he saw the scraps set ablaze by the heat of the metal.

The scientist was up and to his feet in an instant, dropping the tongs and hammer to the ground in a dual clatter of metal. He searched the room with his eyes wildly for something he could use to extinguish the blaze. He wasn't sure if they had fire extinguishes in this era or how popular they were (thank heavens they were around in his day, or he'd have burned down his mansion ten times over before that fateful day in '62). Finally, he espied a wooden tub filled with water a few feet from the forge. Rushing over to the location, he heaved the tub up, hauled it over to the impromptu bonfire, and, drawing the cask back with a great sweep of his arms, thrust the liquid from its enclosure. The water was launched from the crown of the tub and gushed over the flames, squelching the perky blaze and turning the scraps into a mushy, smoldering clot.

Doc quickly stamped out the still smoking pulp, then breathed a sigh of relief. If he wasn't more careful he was liable to burn the whole building down before the day was done! And that would certainly adversely affect history, something he positively did not want to do considering the complications he had already lived through. The scientist returned to the anvil and picked up the tongs he had dropped, then returned to the scythe to pick the metal piece up and carried it back over to the steel block. He rested it atop the anvil and examined it. It would have to be heated again after it dried, Doc decided, then he'd have to give it another go.

As Doc went about the process of cleaning up the mess he had made, he heard a knock at the front doors. Replacing the water tub where he had found it, Doc went to answer the beckoning, wiping his moist palms on his button-up shirt.

Emmett slid open the door and poked his head out. "Chester."

"Mornin', Emmett," the barkeep greeted Doc warmly, a bright smile on his face. "Hard at work, I take it."

"Well, I'm certainly working hard," Doc commented. "Though that doesn't exactly speak for the quality of the work itself."

"Yer not havin' trouble, are ya'?" Chester asked.

"No, no," Doc promptly fibbed. "Just a bit rusty, that's all. It's been a while."

"Ah," Chester nodded, understanding. "Well, it looks like you could use a break. The train from San Francisco just pulled in. Hubert managed to rustle up a man fer the job las' night, though it took a promise of a good salary to make up his mind to move on short notice. Hubert wants me to hustle up the town to meet the new sheriff. I know you ain't stayin' in Hill Valley long, but I figered the fresh air'd do you some good. Everyone needs a break every now and then, after all."

"I suppose," Doc answered slowly, glancing back at the covered time machine, "a short break wouldn't do much harm. And I could use some breakfast."

"You didn't eat breakfast yet?" Chester queried, incredulous.

"Well, I didn't get around to it," Doc replied. He wasn't even certain how to get around to it. Refrigerators didn't even exist yet in this time! He supposed the meat would probably be sold in the meat market he had glimpsed yesterday as he was scouring the town. He wondered if they sold packaged eggs and made a point of it in his mind to search the mercantile and find out. He would stock up on a few food items, unless the old blacksmith had enough for about a week's worth stored in the pantries already.

Now that it was brought to his attention, Doc suddenly realized how much he ached for a good breakfast. After years of devouring whoppers and sodas (being the most convenient, if not the healthiest meal available to him in 1985) every morning, Emmett was certain that his unheralded jaunt to the less commercially-plagued old west would be a wonderful opportunity (or excuse) to finally beget himself a proper meal. Now he was actually looking forward to it! There was some appeal, Doc admitted grudgingly, to this disparate world. And if he had come here on his own accord, Emmett might just be enjoying himself instead of brooding over the possible paradoxes he might be evoking and the lives (the most important being his young companion's) he might be ruining.

"Well, see that you do," Chester instructed. "No sense fagging yerself to debility jus' 'cause you didn't want to break to put some grub down yer gullet."

"You bet," Doc assured him.

"All right," Chester smiled, satisfied. "The meetin'll start in about fifteen minutes at the same place as before, jus' outside the Telegraph. The mayor looks awfully confidant, I tell you. This new sheriff must be a pretty fine sharpshooter to get Hubert as cocksure as I seen him, considering how low his spirits was yesterday."

"Let's hope so," Doc said, trying to hide the self-satisfied grin that threatened to tuck at the sides of his mouth knowing just how long the town would prosper.

Chester took the comment for sincerity. "Thanks for the blessings, Emmett. I'll see you out there. I'm gonna grab my colt from the field out back, all right?"

Doc's expression became blank and questioning, but he didn't dare to further the speculation of his inexperience by vocalizing his confusion. "All right," he nodded.

The little man turned to leave, then suddenly stopped and turned back around to add: "Oh, an' if yer done with 'em, you should bring those two horses back out to the pasture and give the horses their feed." He motioned to the two horses that Doc had left stalled in the shop since the following afternoon. "I'm sure you've seen the run-in shelters and stalls out back?"

"Oh, yes," Doc answered. Indeed he did recall seeing the pen when looking out the back window, although he hadn't considered that there were stalls or shelters of any kind adjacent to it. He supposed that the label "livery" painted on the front of the building was no jest.

"The hay trough's just above," Chester pointed to the loft above the doorway.

"Okay," Doc waved a thanks.

The little man left then and the scientist watched him disappear around back, then shut the door and turned to look at the DeLorean. It was going to take him longer than he had hoped to fix the time machine (if it could be fixed at all, a nagging voice in the scientist's head interjected), especially when taking into account all the inevitable interruptions that were bound to develop while posing as the provisional blacksmith of an inchoate town.

For the first time since his arrival, though, Doc decided to let his troubles lie for a while. They'd still be there when he came back, after all, set to be picked up and juggled all over again. So, after doing as Chester suggested and leading the two horses (the second with a great amount of effort) out to the pen and using a pitch fork to collect and deliver the breakfast to the group of steeds that he found roaming the pasture, Doc checked the blacksmith's pantries and decided that a short stop at the mercantile after the town meeting might be a good idea. Then, putting on his coat and hat, he left the shop (after making certain that, beyond obtrusively tearing off the sheet, the DeLorean could not be recognized as anything other than an odd covered mass) and his worries behind.

 The meeting was just beginning as Doc arrived, his peacoat wrapped tightly around his form hiding his day-old clothes of the future. The mayor stood before the populace of Hill Valley, his hands raised above his head, attempting to hush the murmur of voices that rose and fell through the crowd like the cries of eager chimps. Beside him stood a tall man, garbed all in black, with a full head of flossy blond hair flowing down his back and a thick handlebar mustache styled neatly beneath his round nose. He had a gruff expression, his face stone as he viewed his audience, arms folded over his chest, expecting nothing less than the reverence he had due. This, Doc inferred, must be Hill Valley's new marshal.

He certainly looked the part of a lawman, the scientist decided, if that was any indication. His face showed no emotion presently and his firm charcoal eyes seemed to almost be willing someone to commit a crime, just so he could draw his weapon and make an example of the malefactor. There was an air about this man that conveyed unmitigated authority, and he exhibited it well.

"All right now everyone, hush up!" Hubert called. "Just hush up now! I know you all have your doubts, but once I introduce you to our new sheriff, I'm sure you'll all have your bags unpacked by this evenin'!"

"All right, Hubert," Jim took a step forward, again assigning himself the position of the town's spokesman. The crowd let him pass, parting aside as he made his way to the front of the gathering. "We promised to give you a chance to sell us. So go ahead! Sell us!"

"Okay, Jim," Hubert agreed. "Lawrence," he turned to the stolid man by his side, "why don't you take the floor?"

The man nodded once, nearly imperceptibly, then sauntered in front of the mayor, his arms still crossed over his chest, and surveyed the assembly. "I suppose," he began slowly, "y'all are smart enough to know that a man's word don't mean much. So I can promise you that as long as I'm around you'll never have to worry about gettin' shot at or burgled, but 'twon't mean much. You know it as well as I do that a man's word is only as good as his actions. Never did like a man who was all talk. I mean to back up my words."

"I hear what yer sayin'," Jim spoke for the assemblage, "but I don't see you backin' up nothin'!"

A light murmur of agreement creeped through he crowd. Lawrence smiled, the first expression he had cast, and it was anything but merry. "I suppose you fancy yourself a pretty good shot judging by that colt in your gun belt."

Jim glanced down at the gun that hung by his waistline. "One'a the best!" he confirmed

Lawrence tossed aside a flap of his jacket, that awful smile suddenly gone, to reveal his own firearm strapped around his waist. "All right, then. Draw."

Jim's eyes bugged. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me!" Lawrence snarled. "Draw your weapon!"

Jim glanced over his shoulder at the crowd. In less than an instant, just like out of a scene from one of Doc's favorite old Westerns, the whole town had receded to give the two duelers their space. Doc hesitated a moment, not sure what to make of the current situation, then an arm reached out and pulled him away from the area. "We'd better stay clear of this, Emmett," Chester said.

Jim was appalled by this sudden betrayal of his people who had hitherto been revering him as if he were royalty. He turned to look at Lawrence again, the lawman's hand now hovering just centimeters from the handle of his gun.

"Go ahead!" Lawrence beckoned again. "Draw!"

Jim swallowed hard. He couldn't back down now, not with the whole town watching him. He'd be branded a cravenly coward until the end of time! And it wasn't as if he was some stupid child. He knew how to handle his piece! He was one of the fastest gunmen in all of Hill Valley! And he had a reputation to uphold! Without pondering another thought, Jim went for his gun. As he yanked it out of its holster and brought it forward to cock the pistol and fire, he suddenly felt a great force drive the gun from his hand. It was propelled backward and bounced to the ground a few feet behind him. When Jim turned his gaze back to the man who stood before him, his jaw fallen, he saw that Lawrence already had his gun drawn, a little stream of smoke wafting from the tip of the pistol. He ambled slowly up to Jim and maneuvered the point of his gun so it was pointed directly between the man's eyes and cocked the arm.

"Next time you try somethin' like that, you'll be dead before you ever hit the ground," Lawrence said calmly. Then he turned to survey the citizens of Hill Valley, huddled to one side, too perturbed to breathe nary a word. "An' that goes for all of you, too." Then the man drew the gun away from Jim's head, twirled it around on his finger and holstered the firearm once more. "Now," that wicked smile once again flashed across his face as he turned to look at Jim again, "is that action enough for ya?"

Jim nodded fiercely without speaking a word.

"Good," Lawrence said, lightly slapping the side of his face. "And how about the rest of you?" he turned to the crowd.

The assembly didn't respond at first, dead silence heavy upon the stupefied town. Then, slowly, they all began to nod their heads, smiles suddenly coming to their faces. Suddenly, the entire town was surrounding the new marshal, shaking his hand and slapping him on his back, welcoming him to Hill Valley. The mayor breathed a great sigh of relief, then moved forward through the crowd toward Lawrence.

"All right now, folks, all right!" Hubert cried, quieting the crowd once more. "So what do you all say? Will you give Hill Valley another shot? ... If you'll excuse my turn of phrase."

Jim once again took the liberty of answering for the town and stepped in front of the mayor. "All right, Hubert. As long as Mister ...."

"Strickland," Lawrence supplied. "Marshal Lawrence Strickland."

"Well, as long Marshal Strickland keeps the peace this town'll stay populated," Jim said. "You've got a heavy order to fill, Marshal. Hope you can handle it."

"I've handled worse," the marshal confirmed.

"All right now, everyone," Hubert waved his hands, trying to part the crowd from the newly designated marshal. "We're gonna be holdin' the official election next Monday, unless we get any new candidates for our man to run against!" Hubert chuckled at the statement, knowing quite well the probability of such an occurrence. "For the record, the man's Republican!"

A few chuckles rose through the crowd.

"Come on, Lawrence," Hubert pulled the lawman aside. "We've gotta get you set up at the hotel until the nex' train back to San Francisco comes through."

Chester took the cue, quickly hustling after the men to open the Palace Saloon and Hotel again. The crowd lingered for a few moments more, then slowly began to disperse. Emmett stayed where he was, reflecting on all he had just witnessed. The man's name was Strickland. Doc recognized it of course. Lawrence Strickland must have been the descendant of the Mr. Strickland of his present, Hill Valley High School's disciplinarian of the fifties through the eighties. Why didn't it surprise him that Strickland's forefather was so adept at brandishing a firearm (and didn't hesitate to do so at the same time)?

"Aye, Maggie, I know it as well as you," a voice, heavily accented, suddenly slipped into Doc's consciousness, breaking his temporary musings. Doc turned his attention to the voice and noticed a couple standing close together, speaking quietly behind him. The man was a bit on the skimpy side with a head full of thick red hair. He had his arm draped over the shoulders of his wife who was currently impregnated, the third trimester, Doc gathered from the proportions of her stomach. She had long, curly auburn hair and a chipper face, though currently it displayed a long frown. "E'en if this new marshal could enforce the laws of this town, we'd still have reason to worry, what with Mad Dog takin' to our streets. But it's just not the right time to be leavin', what with your condition an' all."

"I'd wish you'd stop makin' me an excuse for all our worries, Seamus," the woman replied softly. "If'n you keep this up, that's all I'll end up bein' to you: a worry."

"I just care about you, that's all," Seamus answered. "It's not right for me to leave you alone or take you on a train across the state in your condition. It wouldn't set right, that's all."

Maggie didn't speak, but she wore a bitter expression. Seamus continued: "I know things haven't been goin' well with the farm lately, but I think we should stick it out in Hill Valley for a while, at least until the baby's born."

"Aye, Seamus, you know what's best for us," there was a hint of sarcasm in Maggie's voice, but it was mostly even and sincere. "Let's go home."

They turned to move toward the buckboard they had parked across the path and Doc got his first good luck at the man's face as they strolled toward him. He looked awfully familiar to Doc, though he couldn't quite understand how that could be. Doc mumbled a plain "Afternoon" as they passed, staring rather discourteously at the man, trying for the life of him to understand why his mind was buzzing with recognition.

Seamus paused before the scientist and viewed him inquisitively, moving the rim of his hat away from his eyes so it pointed toward the sun above. "Pardon my asking, sir," he said, "but you wouldn't mind me inquiring your name?"

"Uhhh ... No, not at all," Doc answered. There was a long pause as both men waited for the other to say something more. Finally, Doc realized that the question was less a question and more a request. "Emmett Brown."

"Brown," Seamus repeated. "Aye, then you must be the new blacksmith. I didn't believe I'd seen you before today. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Me name's McFly." Here the Irishman extended his hand. "Seamus McFly."

Doc's face was immediately masked from every cleft to crevice with bewilderment. His arms hung limp at his sides as his dazed and glossy eyes widened. That's why the man looked so familiar! He was the spitting image of Marty! Great Scott! That was a problem in itself! Interacting with Marty's relative could very well disrupt the flow of time. What if his interaction caused a slow ripple of events to occur that somehow prevented Marty's birth!

"Nice to meet you," Doc finally muttered as he shook the man's hand loosely, his reaction implying anything but. "I have to go," the scientist suddenly blurted. Upon seeing the alarmed expressions that had at once come to the McFlys' faces, Doc explained softly: "I mean, I had better get back to the shop. I have some ... work that needs to be attended to."

"Aye," Seamus nodded once. "I understand. I'm sure we'll be seein' you again sometime. I heard you weren't stayin' long, but hardly a week goes by that we don't need some piece of iron mended. I'm sure I'll be seein' you b'fore you leave."

"I'm sure," Doc replied sourly.

"Good day, Mr. Brown," he turned away from the scientist and, putting his arm around his wife's waist, led her toward their wagon.

"What a queer fellow!" Doc heard his wife, Maggie, he believed Seamus had said, say in a much too high and piercing voice. "Very rude, the way he dismissed us, in my own opinion."

Seamus didn't reply, but gave a sidelong glance at Doc, who turned his gaze away from the husband and wife and pretended not to have heard Maggie's assessment of his character. Peering out of the corner of his eye, he saw the couple arrive at their buckboard and, without further pause, climbed aboard, Seamus mounting first and then helping Maggie up. Then, after a light tap of the reins, the horses proceeded forward and they disappeared toward the front of the town, pother trails of dirt billowing in the carriage's wake.

The reasons, it seemed, for Doc not delaying his stay in 1885 Hill Valley continued to amount with every ticking minute! He'd hate to be the inadvertent reason for having caused his best (only) friend never to be born. How many more lives would he ruin with his time machine before he finally got the damned thing destroyed?!

There was no reason to mull over it now, though. The most constructive thing to do would be to get the DeLorean repaired as soon as possible. Thoughts of paradoxes and ripple effects could wait for some other day. Best, Doc decided, to tackle one misfortune at a time.

With that thought, he moved forward then and began the walk down the side of the dirt street to the meat market he had taken note of when he had first arrived. It was near the front of the town, where the railroad station was located. He'd make himself a good meal to serve for his nourishment of the day and try again to mend the scythe blade. Smithing wasn't the simple task he had made it out to be in his mind. Even with his mechanical skills and knowledge, it was going to be a difficult trait to pick up in a few days time. But if he was going to construct a replacement part for the time circuit control microchip in 1885, it was probably a skill he was going to have to learn, sooner or later. What a coincidence that the one job he'd probably need in 1885 Hill Valley was the one job he'd been hired to do! It was almost enough to make him believe in fate. Almost, but not quite.

 After having purchased a slab of beef from the meat market and having traveled to the mercantile to obtain some dry goods consisting of bread, dried fruit, rice, and cans of tea leaves, and purchasing a set of clothes for his brief stay (he couldn't bring himself to recycle the deceased smith's wardrobe as his own - it just wasn't ethical), Doc returned to his smithery and, after depositing the items into appropriate shelves above the iron stove in the work area, went about the chore of preparing the beef to be roasted. Using some scraps, he lit the stove, put the meat into a pot of water, and slid it into the oven.

As he left that to simmer, Doc fished around in a cupboard above and retrieved a tea kettle and a metal spoon tea infuser. From a carafe found on the nearby counter, he poured some water into the tea kettle and set it atop the stove to boil. He remembered the way his mother had made tea when he was a child. Though there had been the advent of the tea bag by that time, Sarah Brown would never touch the things. "I'd stop drinking tea altogether if it came down to swallowing such swill," she'd declare.

Emmett beamed at the remembrance of his departed mother. She was a stubborn woman, (a trait, Emmett had come to conclude, that he had picked up himself after living so many years in her company) and she never stood for anything less than what she preferred. It helped that the man she had married owned a successful company that turned up more than enough profit to give her the benefits she felt she rightly deserved. It was true that canned tea leaves had nearly been forgotten by Emmett's time, but his father's wallet helped surface memories of old that no one seemed to care to remember. He was a good man, and what he hadn't been able to give to Emmett in fatherly support he had made up with in monetary compensation. It wasn't a suitable replacement, Doc now realized, but it had given him a privileged childhood with a doting mother. He could still remember joining her for her Sunday tea parties with the women from his church, pretending to sip tea from an empty cup, listening to the nonsensicle prattle of conversation exchanged between the hens, as his father called them, and for some odd reason, enjoying the whole thing immensely.

Back then he had been the perfect son, willing to do whatever his parents asked of him and ready to follow his father's footsteps. It wasn't until after their death when he was twelve that Emmett took off down a completely separate and rockier life's path: science. He often wondered if his parents would be proud of him. Most of his life had been a failure until a few days ago (if the advent of time travel could be called a success), and he had squandered his father's hard-earned fortune in trying to attain this splendor. Would they have rather seen him keep the family business, perhaps settle down with a woman and have children, so he could one day pass the enterprise down to his own son?

He was truly terrified to discover the answer. It was too late now, anyway. That was in the past. Upon this thought, Doc stopped what he was doing at the stove and stared sidelong at the time machine. No, he was wrong. The past was an illusion. For as long as time travel was reality, past, present, and future were all meaningless words. As long as that time machine existed, anyone's mistakes could be amended. It could, in a sense, be used to forge the perfect life.

Doc grunted with dissatisfaction. He didn't like that idea. If there was one thing about life that he had always been certain of, it had been that it wasn't perfect, and it could never be perfect, and that that was how it was meant to be. And he was still convinced that that was the case. Nothing on earth was perfect, and Doc meant to keep it that way.

The kettle hissed. He took it off the stove and, getting a can of tea leaves from the shelf to his right, he opened it, selected a few leaves and put them into the infuser spoon. Then, after finding a ceramic bowl, he put the spoon inside and, holding the handle firmly, poured the hot water from the kettle into the bowl and let the leaves soak for a few minutes. After that, he removed the spoon and poured himself a glass of hot tea. Then, checking on the beef one more time, he decided to try his hand at the forge once more. He took a long swig of the tea, ignoring the scalding sensation of the liquid as it scorched his tongue and the roof of his mouth, wiped his lips with the sleeve of his coat, and marched into the iron room to give another attempt at shaping metal.

 After one or two false starts, Doc finally managed to get the blade mended and attached to the wooden sneathe, having adjusted the tang to the proper size. He had finally realized that he needed to use a smaller hammer for this delicate operation, which made the mending much easier and much safer. After that, the process wasn't so difficult, though Doc supposed this was probably going to be one of the simpler tasks he'd receive during his stay. He cringed at the thought of having to fuse two pieces of iron together.

But that job was done for now, and just in time for him to sit down and eat his lunch/supper. It was a lonely meal, certainly, but he was used to the lack of companionship. He didn't finish it all and, suddenly realizing that refrigerators didn't exist in this era, Doc was forced to grudgingly dispose of the remains.

After that he went to work on the time machine again. He mapped out some more plans, trying each time to come up with something that didn't require parts or pieces that wouldn't exist for some years. After a few long hours of work and having not come a bit farther than when he had first arrived in this antiquated town, Doc settled into bed once more, this time finding the energy to strip off his much too worn clothes and toss them to the side. He would have preferred to stay up and keep at it, but his body objected for once.

It wasn't long after the moon had risen before Doc fell to sleep.

It was a long week. The smithing duties had piled up more and more from the last Friday. The majority of the chores consisted of the scientist shoeing horses. The others were usually the mending of certain iron pieces - chains, handles, latches, knives - all different sorts of odds. He had had his mass of problems during the first few days as was expected, but it seemed that each job got a little easier with each successful fruition. The aged scientist was a quick learner, and by this point he had all but become a real conventional smith.

Unfortunately, though he had been able to complete the duties required of him by the town, Doc wasn't at all any closer to repairing the time machine. His spare time was spent working on plans for the new time circuit control (along with mending the DeLorean's undercarriage). When he couldn't get any further with that, (without implementing devices that had yet to exist) he'd go to the forge and practice bending and shaping and cutting and fusing different pieces of iron, learning quite a few different tricks of the trade in the process. Smithing had become a way for him to vent his frustration and at the same time to imagine new possibilities or ideas for doctoring the DeLorean. Whenever he came up with a new concept, he'd drop his hammer and scamper to the nearby dinner table to jot down his thoughts on a piece of paper.

Doc, sitting before the smithing anvil, paused and set the hammer he now held aside and lifted an iron piece he had just been pounding up to his eyes to examine it. He turned it around and examined it from an alternate angle. Finally satisfied, Doc set the thing down and stood, deciding to break for lunch. He fried a few slices of ham and made a sandwich of them, toasting the bread using the stove's fire, and devoured it.

Now that a week had come and gone, Doc had come to the conclusion that, in order to build the replacement part for the time circuit control microchip, he was going to have to locate vacuum tubes, or manufacture some sort of antique replacements. But how could he do it? They couldn't be bought and he couldn't blast the glass himself with just his bellows! Doc exhaled heavily. It was impossible! How long could he keep this up, putting on a charade for himself that he may be able to do something so simple and yet so impractical?

Well, it was time to wise up. He stood from the dining table and left the iron room. He stopped in front of the covered DeLorean and glared at it, his arms folded across his chest. There was a way. There had to be! He could figure it out. But it wasn't going to get done in a few days. That dream was forgotten. But he still had a responsibility to Marty and he wasn't going to fail the kid. He had dragged Marty into this entire mess, from his unforeseen trip to 1955, to the entire eversion of their world, and he couldn't let his mistakes ruin the kid's life. No matter what the teenager's future was (Doc's face soured upon this recollection, but he didn't dwell long on the memory), Doc couldn't be the one to take it away from him. He had to fix the DeLorean. It wasn't an option - it was obligatory.

He viewed the time machine for a moment longer, then turned around and returned to the iron room to resume work.

There was a way - some way. If it could be found, he was going to find it, and if it could be done, he would do it. However long it took, days, weeks, months, years, and whatever the future brought, he'd find a way.

Doc pushed in the swinging doors to the saloon and, hunched over, shuffled across the floor to the bar. Chester watched him lean over the tabletop and put his head in his hands, massaging his cranium.

"Rough day, Emmett?"

Doc didn't respond immediately. He raised his head to look at Chester, a long frown pulling on his face. "Aren't they all?"

"The regular?" Chester asked. Doc nodded once and the barkeep poured him a glass of Moxie. "How's the wagon comin'?" Chester wore an amused grin. It was a familiar question. The barkeep often joked about the mysterious wagon that had supposedly broken down and stranded Emmett in Hill Valley that January 1st morning. He had brought it up to Emmett once, a few weeks after Doc had arrived, after it had become apparent that he wasn't going anywhere for some time. But the smith stuck to his story, and Chester attributed it to his reluctance to admit wrong.

"Not well," Doc answered honestly. "I've come to realize that it can't be repaired, Chester. I tried to get the necessary materials shipped here, but it seems no one's heard of them - the invention is rather new, but I keep hoping that, by some miracle, some repository will have what I need. I should've known better than to hold hope in something so illogical!"

"So what's that all mean, Emmett? You plan on stayin' here indefinitely?"

"I have to admit that I'm growing awfully fond of this place, but there's still business that I have to attend to," Doc replied. "I've thought about building a new mode of transit from scratch, but I think I'll need some sort of base. Such types of transport aren't exactly easy to construct. But I'm beginning to wonder if there isn't a different way. I've been thinking about it lately, I think it might be possible, if not probable."

"What's that?" Chester asked.

"Huh?" Doc's eyes darted to the bartender's face, as if he was only now noticing he was standing there and listening intently to the scientist's narrative. "Oh, nothing. It's nothing, really." Doc downed his glass of Moxie with one gulp and Chester poured him another shot.

"Well, you could always rent a buckboard from Mr. Statler," the barkeep suggested. "It'd be a hell of a lot easier than buildin' a whole new one!"

"Mr. Statler doesn't have the type of wagon I'm looking for, Chester," Doc said, again draining his glass. Chester poured him another shot.
"No, I think there's a better way."

Just then came a loud slam! of wood on wood and in stomped Lawrence Strickland, his face contracted and pinched.

"Lawrence!" Chester gazed over to the man. "You don't seem to be in the best of spirits. You need a drink?"

"Make it dry," Strickland said as he came to the bar.

"What's the matter?" the bartender asked as he poured the lawman's drink.

"Hubert's the matter!" Strickland returned with a rough cry. "There's no talkin' sense to him, that's all! He's afraid to spend a damn dime extra on anything! But how does he expect Hill Valley to grow if we don't spend some money! How we ever got a railroad built, I'll be damned if I know! I've told him 'im time after time that I can't keep acting as judge, jury, and executioner! That's not my job!"

"But you're the only one 'round here that's qualified for the job!" Chester returned. "We trust your judgement, Lawrence."

"I appreciate that, but I'm afraid that's not how it works. This is America, Chester. And in America we have juries and we have judges. I'm supposed to catch the criminals, not prosecute them! That's why we need a courthouse!"

"A courthouse?" Chester repeated.

"Damned right! A courthouse, plain and simple. So we can judge the accused properly according to our country's constitution!"

"That's liable to be mighty expensive, Lawrence. What'll it mean for taxes?" Chester inquired.

"Well, it'll mean an increase. There's no way around that. But it'll benefit us in the long run. Without a courthouse, we might as well open our doors to all the thieves and murderers of the world! I thought you people wanted to get this town straightened out! Well, without being convicted, I can't hardly hold nobody for too long! I've locked up some of the same thieves five or six times in the last month, an' they just keep comin' back!"

"I s'pose it would make our town a bit safer," Chester agreed slowly. "Hubert's not akin to it, eh?"

"Not in the least," Lawrence took a long drink from his glass. "He's too afraid of gettin' on any of the townsfolks' bad sides! Since he moved me in the whole town seems to be on his favor, an' he's afraid to let things go back to the way they were before. But he's got to take risks, otherwise this town'll stand still, frozen in time, while the rest of the world progresses!"

"Maybe I could talk to 'im," Chester suggested. "Maybe I could talk to some of the people and see if I can't get some backing."

"Well, that'd be much obliged, Chester," Lawrence finished his drink and plunked the glass down on the table. "You'll let me know where the people stand?"

"I will," Chester agreed.

Lawrence nodded, then turned away from the bar and headed back into the sunny afternoon.

"I know nobody likes taxes," Chester said to Doc, staring toward the bar's entrance, "but I think Lawrence is right about this one. Hill Valley needs a courthouse. Don't you think so, Emmett?"

Doc smiled weakly and finished his drink. "Couldn't hurt."

 The courthouse began construction before the end of the month, just as Doc had supposed it would. There was a town meeting (which Doc pointedly missed in trade for bending a few iron pieces - much to Chester's disappointment. "We're gonna need all the votes we can get, Emmett," the barkeep had said. But, just in case this wasn't the clock tower's destined time to be constructed, Doc didn't want to sway the count by even one vote) and the election to have the courthouse built was just narrowly passed. There were still critics of the endeavor - after all, there hadn't been a serious crime perpetrated in Hill Valley since that New Year's day so long ago, it seemed (though, the argument was that it more directly related to Mad Dog's absence from the town during the past months, and not necessarily to the appearance of Lawrence Strickland). But Marshal Strickland was right - the courthouse was necessary for a burgeoning town and would help Hill Valley grow immensely over the next few years following its construction (not to mention the structure was a requisition for the preservation of the space-time continuum some seventy years in the future).

The month passed rather quickly in Emmett's opinion (faster than he had ever expected the time to go when he first arrived). It was at this time that he had altogether given up on repairing the DeLorean. Four months of consideration and dissimulation to reach this point, all of which he had known - in the back of his mind, though he had ignored the logical voice that had continually told him what he had only now accepted to be inevitable - since having first plummeted into this time.

But there was still another option - another way he could escape and at the same time rescue Marty, who was stranded in 1955 (and until he took some action, would grow old in that era as a result of his imprudence). Doc had begun to formulate the plan sometime toward the beginning of April, and had continued to meditate over it for some time, considering just how to put it into action.

The idea, as far as he had devised, was to bury the DeLorean somewhere - seal it up nice and tight - where Marty could find it and unearth it in 1955. There were still a few problems with that plan. First, it required Marty stumbling upon the sight, which was highly improbable. Doc had been straining his mind to devise a way to send some message to the future, even going as far as to consider building a miniature flux capacitor with a message attached. Of course, if he could do all that, then his main problem of getting himself and the teenager back to 1985 would be solved. Aside from that rather gargantuous obstacle, there was still the inoperable DeLorean to worry about. If Marty did find the time machine by some stroke of luck, it would still be as disabled as it was now. Even if he left a note in the car for the kid instructing him on how build the replacement part using 1955 components, he highly doubted that he'd be able to repair the time machine. No, only the scientist himself would probably be able to accomplish such a task!

But he wasn't dismissing the idea entirely, at least not yet. He still had plenty of time to work out all the troubles and, even if it was too late to save himself by the time he did figure it out (no since in returning to 1985 if he was twenty or thirty years older than he should be - although, with the rejuvenation overhaul he had undergone, that might actually be a decent idea), he could still save Marty, which was his number one priority. Quite honestly, Doc was beginning to enjoy life in the old west. It wasn't exactly as he had imagined it, but it was more real than he had ever considered it to be. Having lived in a time where technology ruled almost everything, 1885 was a breath of fresh air. In fact, he hardly missed 1985 at all! Yes, he would no longer be able to work on his inventions (what was the point, though, when he had reached the pinnacle of his ambitions with the invention of his time machine). And, yes, he'd miss Marty and his faithful companion, Einstein, but that was the extent of it. Other than that, there was nothing for him in 1985, except for the gossip and rumor that was ceaselessly traded back and forth among the Hill Valley blatherskites revolving around the scientist's unusual antics. 1885 was a fresh start - he was respected here, both in his abilities and his opinions. He wasn't certain if it was because his eccentric traits didn't surface so much as they had in the present or if the people were generally more accepting - either way, Doc felt certain that (for the first time in his long life) he belonged. And he was, admittedly, not ready to give that up.

But if there was a way for Doc to escape the past and return to the present before too much time passed, then the scientist would feel obligated to take it. Every instant he spent in the past could alter the future - in what way he wasn't certain, but positive or negative, Doc didn't want to be accountable for the consequences.

So he continued to give it his consideration (not as much as he should have, though) and in the meanwhile, mapped out a replacement part that could be built with 1955 components, which Doc was certain would be necessary, somehow. As a side project, he took to racking his brain on how to develop another time machine in 1885, should his "Plan A" never come to fruition. It might be possible, with a trip to the more developed East, but it wouldn't be an overnight enterprise by any bounds. Mainly, though, this was just to entertain Doc's mind during those moments when he was through (or, in most cases, too jaded to continue) with his smithing for the day or was in no mood to contemplate "Plan A", of which seemed to scarcely (if at all) progress from his original impression thought up two months ago.

Ergo, by the time July 4th, 1885 rolled around, Doc was in much need of a restful holiday.

"Let's blow it again, let's blow it again!" a little boy, the son of Henry White, cried excitedly. He grabbed hold of the flap of Doc's coat and yanked on it repeatedly.

Doc chuckled. "All right, all right," he consented. He looked sidelong at the boy. "Hey, you wouldn't want to light the fuse this time by any chance?"

The boy looked puzzled for a moment, then his face lit up. "Yeah!" he exclaimed and rushed toward the two anvils which sat toppled over a few feet from the front of Doc's livery.

"Is that all right with you, Henry?" Doc looked to the boy's father who was only a few paces away, his wife at his side, both drinking from glasses of brew, monitoring the event along with the parents of the other children whose attention Doc had attracted.

"As long as you don't blow nothin' off'a him, Emmett," Henry replied, holding up his cup.

"Well, I'll try my best," Doc answered drolly, then turned and followed the boy to the anvil sight. "All right," he said, crouching down before the two iron blocks, "who's got the powder?"

An older boy, Sam Johnson's offspring, Doc noted, ran up behind Doc, his long and skinny arms holding out the big bag of black powder that Jim Harris has supplied for the occasion. "Right here, Mr. Brown!"

"Good kid," Doc said, taking the bag from him.

Emmett turned the nearest anvil so it sat on its surface, the hollow facing the sky. He poured the black powder into the cavity, then went to the other anvil which sat some feet away and carried it over to the location of the first. "Now," Doc said, setting the anvil down, "who's got the fuses?"

"I do!" a shorter kid with curly blond hair announced, holding out the hand which held the three-foot long cords.

"Well, go ahead. Stick it in, just like I did before," Doc said.

The boy obeyed, placing one of the ends of the fuse so that it touched the surface of the black powder that filled the anvil's hollow. "All right," Doc said, standing. "I think we're all set. I'm not forgetting anything, am I?"

The group of boys gathered around him vehemently nodded their heads. "I am?" Doc said with mock surprise. "What in the name of Sir Isaac H. Newton could it be?" He gazed about the landscape as if searching.

"The other anvil!" a small child shouted. "You - you have to put it on top of the other'n, Mr. Brown!"

Doc snapped his fingers instantly. "That's it!"

Emmett bent down and hoisted up the empty anvil. He then sat it on top of the other one, hollow end down, and adjusted it so that there were no gaps apparent and it seemed as if the two anvils were one large and odd instrument. "Now where did little Bucky White go?" Doc said, again scanning the area as if to search the crowd of children.

"Right here!" Bucky cried, scurrying forward. "You said you was going to let me light the fuse!"

"Not with that grammar, I'm not!" Doc proclaimed, kneeling down next to the boy. "'You said you were going to let me light the fuse.'"

"Nuh uh. You said I could, Mr. Brown. Remember?"

Doc grinned amusedly. "You're right, Bucky." He reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out a box of matches and held it out to the boy. "You sure you know how to use one of these things?"

"I've lighted my pa's pipe before," the boy said, reaching out for the box.

"Lit," Doc corrected.

"Yeah, that too," the boy grabbed a hold of the container and rushed up to the anvils. He took out a long match and prepared to strike it.

"All right, everyone," Doc shouted to the group of children, motioning with his hands for the crowd to disperse. "Prepare to evacuate! Go ahead, Bucky."

The boy struck the match. It didn't light the first time, nor the second, but he got it on the third. He lowered the head of the match slowly, so it touched the end of the fuse that protruded from the anvils. As the cord lit up and the spark began to surge across the line, the boy wagged his hand holding the match to put out the small flame.

Doc stood erect and grabbed Bucky's free hand. "Run for it!" he cried, and then led the boy away from the sight at a brisk pace. The other children followed, screaming hysterically, their hands up in the air, and escaped away from the anvil site as the fire burned its way across the fuse toward the apposition of the two anvils.

When it reached the bases of the blocks, everyone a good distance from the launch site now, there was a terrific explosion of orange flame and the top anvil was thrust into the air and up into the starry sky. The boys, their hands over their ears, cheered as the anvil shot up into the darkness, then plunged back to the ground and tumbled a few feet away from the one that had hitherto been filled with black powder.

"See that?" Doc cried excitedly. "That was a chemical reaction! When the flame from the fuse came into contact with the black powder, it caused an exothermic reaction - a pretty big one at that! The force from the reaction caused the top anvil to be propelled into the air, just like rocket to the moon!"

"I seen it!" Bucky exclaimed. "I seen it touch the moon, Mr. Brown!"

"No, Bucky. 'I saw it.'"

"But I seen it too!" the child asserted indignantly, folding his arms over his chest.

Doc ruffled the boy's hair, a wide smirk on his face. "That's right. I know you did, Bucky."

"Let's blow it again!" the boy implored.

"I think we have enough powder for one more firing," Doc decided, examining the nearly empty bag of powder he still held. "Who wants to light the fuse this time!"

Twenty-odd little hands shot up. "Me! Me! Pick me, Mr. Brown!" Bucky beseeched, prancing around before the blacksmith.

"Bucky," Doc scolded. "You already got to light the fuse."

"No I didn't!" Bucky returned. "I didn't got to light nothing!"

"'I didn't get to light anything.'"

"Yeah, you did, Mr. Brown! You lighted the firs' fuse, remember?"

Doc couldn't suppress the chortle that had forced its way up his throat and past his lips. "You're right, Bucky," the scientist said, kneeling down and hoisting the child up onto his shoulder. "But I think we should let someone else light the fuse this time. It's more democratic that way."

"But my pa's a Republican," the boy remarked.

"That so?" Doc said, dropping the boy down at the anvil site. "Even so, I think it's only fair to give someone else a turn. Who's next?"

The same amount of tiny hands went up, Bucky's not excluded. Doc picked a boy at random, filled the anvil with the rest of the powder, and had the child light the fuse. A few moments later, after the crowd of children had cleared from the sight, the anvil was again shot into the air with a brilliant explosion of flame and a medley of acclamations.

Viewing the children, their dazzled eyes wide with wonder, Doc beamed. There was no doubt now that, thus far, this Independence Day was unequalled in comparison to the many other uneventful holidays he had ever been present for - occasions he had spent alone and shunned from the community of his indigenous time - which made it all the more incredible, considering he was celebrating this holiday in the past.

 After the last firing, Doc shooed off the children to putter around somewhere else and went about the chore of cleaning up the area outside his shop. He carried the anvils back into the livery and locked the place up for the night, then returned to an empty road, the parents having taken their children away to the dance floor some feet away, set up in front of the clock tower scaffolding where the real celebration was just getting underway. He was greatly anticipating the fireworks show, which was certain to be the perfect ending to a perfect holiday.

It was upon this thought that a cannonade of hoof clops met the scientist's ears, and the agents by which they were produced appeared from the barren street beyond.

Four ragged men on horseback rode up the main drag and slowed to a stop in front of Emmett's shop. From the features he could observe of the lead man's shaded face, Doc saw that he wore a thin scruffy beard and had a face full of cracked lines, either from not having bathed it in some time or marred with excessive drink and eat, little sleep, and altogether unhealthy activities hardly unexpected of old west scofflaws (of which Doc had deduced from first sight the four slovens to be); perhaps both.

"You must be the new blacksmith," the leader said, a wicked grin on his face.

"Six months is hardly new," Doc replied, at once not regarding the man or his followers with cordiality of any sort; he was certain there was something to be associated with that awful grin.

Said grin seemed to grow longer and more wicked upon that retort. "Well, I ain't been here since the last smith took his passing. A real smarmy little dude. Had a real big mouth an' not the gall to match. Y'know the little lunkhead had the gumption to charge me fo' shoein' my bay 'ere? Well," he said, looking back and forth, connecting eyes with each of his three men, "I don't reckon he has the gumption to do anything now, huh?"

Doc stood stiff and reserved, his expression stone. He crossed his arms and waited for the man to continue, if he had anything more to say. He knew it would be in his favor to let the man have his word and leave; better not to provoke any trouble lest trouble be provoked.

"You got a name, smithy?" the ringleader demanded.

Doc hesitated; then, deciding it was best to give the name he had presented to everyone else in Hill Valley (and also best not to obstinately refuse to give his title to the reprobate), he answered. "Emmett Brown. And who, may I ask, do I have the honor of making acquaintance with at this late hour?" There was a touch of (not undeserved) sarcasm in his voice, but the ruffian hardly took note.

"That's real good," the man said, chuckling as he exchanged glances with his consorts. "Yer jokin', right?"

"Quite the contrary," the scientist replied. "I don't believe I've had the ... eminent honor of having met you or your slovenly companions before tonight."

At once Emmett regretted having made that remark, but the jest seemed to fall on deaf ears; it was rather apparent that Doc's vocabulary was more than a few notches above the vernacular of the average cowpoke, and quite a good many tiers above that of the individuals who currently stood before him.

"There ain't a livin' soul in these 'ere parts that ain't heard my name before, smithy," the man said, leaning over across the prow of his steed. "An' I aim to keep that tradition alive." Now he stood up straight and tall, his right hand reaching slowly toward his gunbelt and the pistol that was still concealed in its holster (Deputy Smith obviously having little success in convincing the men to relinquish their firearms at the town's entrance), so it was obvious what he was proposing.

"Hey, Buford," the voice of one of his men halted the bearded man's action for a moment. He glared at his cohort without speaking a word, his face scrunched and menacing. "We'd best not start any trouble with the law t'night. Not if we want t'cut off the Paradise Stage on its way to Carson City later."

"The law?!" the lead man demanded, then guffawed loudly and crudely. "Thar ain't no law in Hill Valley, last I checked." He reached for his gun again.

"They got a new marshal, Buford," the same man interjected. "He's ain't lily-livered like any a' th' 'nes afore, not from what I heard. He locked ol' Gridiron Grady up fer thirteen days on end just fer drawin' his gun at the local saloon durin' a card game."

"Gridiron Grady? He ain't no gunslinger!"

"Maybe not, but the new marshal's the only one in all a' Hill County who ever had the gall to lock 'im up," the man returned.

The leader, Buford, mulled over this for a moment. Finally, he returned his hand to the line of his reins and turned to look at Emmett, who stood tall and unmoving, his wide and wavering eyes the only indication of his complete horror over the situation that had just befallen him. "All right, smithy. I'll let ya' live fo' today. My horse needs a shoein' anyway. But the next time I come to town, I'll be expectin' you to know my name, understand?"

Doc didn't reply; how could he know his name if the derelict refused to reveal it!

As if sensing the scientist's misgiving, the bearded man commanded his men: "Tell 'im who I am, boys!"

"Tannen," one man spoke for the others. "Buford Tannen - fastest gun in the West!"

"Tannen?" Doc's eyes shot open even wider and looked as if though prepared to swallow his scalp.

"That's right, smithy," Buford smiled smugly. "You best take it to mind the nex' time I ask, or you'll be dead in two seconds flat! Now open up yer doors so I can get my bay fixed up."

Doc didn't at all appreciate Buford Tannen's (of whom he had come to the rash conclusion was a relative of the Biff Tannen of his present - and was also the murderer of the smith before him and the of the previous marshal, and, therefore, had been the reason for the majority of the lawlessness in Hill Valley) conceited demands. But without a weapon of his own to defend himself (there was a rifle left behind by the previous smith in the back of the shop which Doc had had the foresight (though not beneficial in this instance) to unload) Doc could hardly be anything but polite.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tannen," Doc said slowly, the words souring the taste in his mouth. "I'm afraid the shop's closed for the night, on account of the holiday."

"Well, open it up!" Buford demanded.

"If you come back in the morning ..."

"The mornin's too late, smithy!" Buford cried, rage gripping his every vein. "I need my bay shod tonight, understand?"

"If you'll just-"

Doc didn't receive the opportunity to finish his request. Buford suddenly had his pistol drawn and pointed at the scientist.

"I want those doors opened an' I want 'em opened now!"

Doc could feel the thumping of his heart between his ears. "All right," he finally consented. "I'll shoe the bay now."

Tannen holstered his weapon, satisfied. "Good. An' let that be a lesson, smithy. Don't ever cross me! Nex' time I won't hold to pull the trigger."

Doc turned and went to his shop and unlocked the wide double doors and set them open one at a time. Then he returned to Tannen and said: "I'll take your bay from here."

Buford spurred the horse forward at a slow gait in response. "I don't let my bay alone with anyone, smithy. Boys!" he called back to his men. "Keep watch an' make sure no one bothers the smith 'ere while he tends to my bay!"

The three obeyed, turning their steeds so they faced away from the shop and formed a short line to keep vigil.

Doc reluctantly turned back to the shop and followed after Buford, who had climbed off of his steed and led it inside the building. It was only after he passed through the shop's threshold and saw Tannen standing in the middle of the floor, surveying the room, his bay to his left side, that he remembered that the DeLorean, still in the location he had settled it six months ago and covered with the same dusty sheet, sat a few feet before the doorway in plain sight.

"Ya' sure got this place cluttered up wi' junk, don't 'a, smithy?" Buford said, his eyes wandering the room. "And what in the hell is that?"
He pointed with his left hand which held a small whip to the left wall where a mammoth machine sat. "Looks like some sort a' duded up horse stall."

"Hardly," Doc said simply. It was actually a hand-crafted ice making machine. It hadn't been easy to trail all the parts necessary for its construct, but once he had set his mind to build it, Emmett wouldn't be deterred. It was actually rather cumbersome to operate, but it solved the problem of having to throw away any leftovers he couldn't stomach after a meal and also served to satiate his thirst during the warmer days now that summer had arrived by chilling his drinks. "Lead your bay this way," the scientist said, and continued toward the iron room.

Buford didn't have the mind to comply. "An' what's this?" he said, turning to glare at the covered DeLorean. "You got some sort a' fancy forge under there?" He reached out his left hand to pull up the sheet from the time machine with the handle of his whip.

Doc moved to stop Buford, but thought better of it. Instead, he went to the scofflaw's bay and took up the horse's reins and led the steed toward the iron room.

Hearing the horse's footfalls, Buford's attention was drawn away from the time machine. He glared over at Doc as he guided the steed away. "If you need to have your bay shod immediately, Mr. Tannen, I may as well start," the scientist expressed, as if to answer the question Tannen's incensed expression seemed to demand.

Buford suddenly stood erect and lurched toward the scientist. With a brisk sweep of his hand, Tannen lashed at Doc's nearest hand and struck him severely with his switch.

"Nobody touches my bay!" he snarled.

Doc instantly recoiled and lifted his bruised hand up and nestled it against his chest, rubbing its throbbing surface. "I won't very well be able to shoe it if my hand can't function!" he shot through a momentary haze of rage.

"Touch my bay again an' you'll be gettin' more 'n just a scourging!"

Buford then led the horse toward the appropriate room and set it in a corner. Doc followed a moment later and, after lighting a lamp in the iron room, selected four shoes that looked to be the right size for Buford's steed from an assortment that he had formed earlier in the week.

Picking out some previously made nails, a hammer, some clippers, and a shoe puller, he dragged his stool over to the bay's location and sat down before the horse. He reached his hand out to take the horse's leg, but the handle of Buford's whip was extended and obstructed his path.

"How am I supposed to shoe it, if I can't touch it?" Doc demanded.

"That's your problem, smithy, not mine!"

Doc sighed with frustration. "Then you hold its leg steady."

Buford backed away from the horse, grinning devilishly. Doc looked at him, uncertain.

"Well, go ahead, smithy," Tannen said. "Shoe 'im if you can!"

Doc attempted just that. He reached out to grab the bay's leg. As he took a hold of it, the steed suddenly began to kick wildly and Doc was thrown back and off his stool. He landed uncomfortably on the dirt ground, face up.

"Got real vigor, don't he, smithy?" Buford chortled.

"All right," Doc said to himself as he stood and dusted himself off. "If that's how it has to be ..."

Doc went to a corner of the room and picked up a short twine of rope that was attached to a strap of leather that could be adjusted to form a ring of different sizes like a belt, then went back to the horse, crouched down before it, and reached out for its leg again.

"What're you doin'?" Buford demanded.

Doc didn't answer, instead grabbing the bay's foot and, with some effort, slipped the leather strap around its foot and secured it. Then he took the rope and tied it mid-way around the bay's tail, ran the line through the circle he had just tied and then ran it back down through the leather strap, and pulled with all his force. The bay's leg was lifted up and Doc tied the loose end of the rope snugly around the bay's tail so that the steed could not move its leg with the short line the scientist had provided.

Doc pulled up a stool and reached for the clippers. Buford watched this all, aghast. Suddenly, as if just now realizing what Emmett had done, he stomped forward and cried: "Get thing off 'a my bay, blacksmith!"

"No," Doc replied simply, taking hold of the horse's foot.

"No?! Nobody tells me 'no'!"

Buford drew his gun and pointed it at the sky. He fired a shot at the ceiling and it chipped the wood roof. "I said get that thing off 'a my bay!"

"If you want it shod then it'll have to stay!" Doc said, jumping up from his stool without thought. "Otherwise, you'll have to take your business elsewhere!"

Buford aimed the point of his pistol at Doc and cocked the gun.

"Hey, Buford," the voice of one of his men came from outside. "Everythin' all right in there? We heard a shot."

"It's fine!" Buford hollered to the door.

"You better hurry up," the same voice came. "The marshal's sure to show up 'ere any time, now."

Buford returned his gaze to Emmett, his jaw set unevenly, a trickle of drool sliding down chin. "All right, blacksmith," he said, holstering his gun. "Hurry up an' shoe."

Feeling a sense of triumph, Doc once again took a seat and began to clip away at the nails imbedded in the horse's foot. Then he used the shoe puller to remove the worn metal and went about the process of attaching one of the shoes to the horse's foot. When he was finished, he went to the next leg and went about the same process, pulling the foot up so the horse didn't kick, removing the shoe, and nailing on the new one, then moved onto the third leg.

As he was just sitting down to remove the fourth shoe, a figure suddenly appeared in the doorway and entered into the iron room, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

"What's going on here, Emmett?" Marshal Strickland demanded as he stepped out of the shadows and into the flat flickering light.
Buford came to attention and strolled arrogantly toward the lawman. "You must be the new marshal I done heard so much about."

Strickland turned his gaze to Tannen. "And who are you and what are you doin' in my town?"

Buford twitched with resentment. "The name's Buford Tannen, Marshal! An' if you was any good lawman you'd know that!"

Strickland turned away from Buford and looked to Doc. "I thought you closed the shop for the night, Emmett."

"Don't you turn yer eyes away from me, Marshal!" Buford cried, taking a long step toward him so that his face was just before Strickland's, close enough to count the lines under each's eyes. "Last man who did didn't get the chance to turn back!"

In response, the marshal simply stepped forward and went to Doc's side. "Emmett?"

"Just finishing up this last shoe," the scientist said through gritted teeth. He glanced up at Strickland. "It's no trouble."

"Certain?" the marshal asked. Doc nodded his agreement and, having all the assurance he needed, Strickland turned around to leave.

As he moved to the doorway, Buford reached out and grabbed a hold of his sleeve. Strickland looked to him. "Nex' time you show me that sort a' disrespect, Marshal, don't be expectin' to be around to show it again."

"Is that a threat, Tannen?" Strickland demanded, turning to face the man.

"A promise. That's all it is."

"I want you out of my town, Tannen. Now. Take your horse an' get out. An' I don't want to see you here again."

"It's a free country, ain't it, Marshal?" Buford demanded, charging toward his steed. He took a small blade from the inside of his boot and cut free the harness that was still strapped to the horse's leg and tail and tossed it aside. Then he took the bay's reins before Doc could finish driving in the last couple of nails and led it out of the iron room, straight past Marshal Strickland, and to the exit.

"It's the anniversary of it, in fact!" he called, climbing onto his horse. "And I mean to celebrate it!" He grinned at the two men as they stepped into the main room. "I hope to see ya' at the party. Both of ya'!"

Then he spurred his horse forward and out the shop, and his men followed just behind.

"You all right, Emmett? Mad Dog didn't cause you no trouble, did he?" Strickland asked.

"I'm all right, Marshal," Doc insisted. "Although I'd sure like to see that lowlife get what's coming to him."

"I aim to give it to him," Strickland replied. "Buford Tannen's been plaguing these parts much too long, as far as I'm concerned." Then, breaking away from his avowal, Strickland headed for the door, saying: "Now if you'll excuse me, Emmett, I have a party to supervise and I mean to make certain history don't repeat itself."

 Following that disagreeable encounter, Emmett thought he could use to unwind his stresses. The fireworks were just being unloaded from their crates behind the developing clock tower, and Doc decided to stop in at the Palace, which was humming with more business than Chester was suited to accommodate, before the 'works were set off to commemorate his country's independence.

He ambled through the doorway, pushing aside the swinging doors, and made his way to the bar. Chester's back was currently to him as the bartender crouched down to pick out a bottle. Then he popped back up and turned to see Doc.

"Emmett! You startled me! I didn't hear you come in!"

"That's not surprising!" Doc shouted, then, as if to prove his point, turned to look at the commotion behind him. The bar was filled with all sorts of characters, from bar flies to business men and harlots to mothers.

"It sure ain't business as usual 'round here tonight, that's certain!" Chester shouted in response. "I'd like to stay an' chat, Emmett, but I've got a big night ahead of me an' I don't mean to lose a cent I may have earned. You want the regular?"

Doc nodded and Chester quickly found a bottle of Moxie and poured him a drink. Then he left the bar to wait on another table, as it seemed his assistant, Joey, was off somewhere else currently. Doc took a drink and settled against the bar, trying to compel any thoughts (of whatever) out of his head.

Just then a man appeared at his side and stood before the bar, patiently waiting for the bartender to return. Doc gave him little mind as he took a drink, then proceeded to pour himself another shot from the still opened bottle that sat before him.

Chester came back around and, smiling cheerfully, said: "I'm glad to see ya', Seamus. Haven't talked to you in some time! How's the missis and youngun?"

Doc turned to look at Seamus McFly, a small frown etched in his face. Marty's relative was a nice enough fellow (in fact, his deliberate hospitality made it all the more exasperating), but Doc couldn't help becoming a little disheartened every time they met (which, by his count, had been more than twenty-four times so far); he just couldn't stop himself from imagining the implications his interactions with the farmer were having on his friend's existence. He wished that he had a picture of Marty (or any future McFly for that matter) in his wallet, so he could test his concerns and know for certain what effects he was having on the future. But since he didn't, and the only picture he had of the future came in a newspaper from 2015 (and another from 1983, though he didn't see any reason for making certain that he would still exist, being that his family had yet to come to America) there was no way to know for certain, that is, until he left the past behind.

"They're doin' fine," Seamus answered, beaming with pride. "Little Will's sure growin' up right fast, you know! Not e'en two months old yet and I swear he's near'y fifteen pounds!"

"You've got quite a healthy youth there, Seamus!" Chester nodded his agreement. "Where is the wife and boy?"

"They're out at the dance floor," Seamus answered. "I just stopped in to say hello, seein' as how I haven't had the time as of late to be comin' 'round."

"Anythin' to drink?"

"No, if that's all right wit' you."

"Hell, I've got enough customers to keep me busy as it is! Good to see ya', Seamus! Give my best to the wife and kid!" Chester called, moving to pour someone else who had appeared at the other end of the bar a drink.

"An' how're you doin', Emmett?" Seamus turned to look upon the scientist. "Is the smithing business still treatin' you kindly?"

"It is," Doc answered, throwing back another drink as if it were hard liquor. "And how's the farming life?"

"Well, we're managing, that's for sure," Seamus replied. "Although it wouldn't hurt to get a boom in business in the near future. The extra mouth to feed hasn't been all too helpful either, though I wouldn't give up little Bobby for all the money in the world!"

Doc was tempted for a moment to offer the Irishman a loan, but managed to bite his tongue. No matter how much he enjoyed the gentleman's company or how much Seamus needed the monetary gains, Emmett just couldn't credit him the money, lest it change history somehow. What if the Mcflys were destined to lose their farm? What if keeping it when they shouldn't caused them to have more money than they ought and, in turn, leave Hill Valley for better opportunities? Doc admonished himself for again journeying so far into hypotheticals and induced himself to return to reality.

"I'm sure everything will work out," was the best response Doc could muster.

"Aye, I hope so," Seamus nodded soberly.

"Well, look what we have here, boys!" a deep, vicious voice cut across the bar.

Doc turned to look over his shoulder and saw Buford Tannen, his men behind him, stroll into the bar, grinning widely. "I'm glad to see ya' here, smithy! I think we've got somethin' to settle. An' if'n that busybody marshal hadn't gotten in the way, it would've been settled already!"

Doc couldn't believe the audacity of this oaf! After all he had already put the scientist through and after Doc not having spoke an ill word to Marshal Strickland about his criminal actions, Buford Tannen was still looking to make trouble - in front of half the town, no less!

"What is it now, Tannen?" Doc demanded, standing up straight and turning to face him, tired of cordiality.

"You'd best change your tone, smithy," Buford commanded. "Or I'll have t' change it for ya'!"

"Now, Mr. Tannen, why would ya' go startin' up trouble like ya' did at the beginnin' o' the year?" Seamus suddenly broke into the exchange. "Mr. Brown here's not hurtin' anybody."

"Mind your own business, McFly!" Buford snapped, then turned his attention back to Doc. "I want to have a word with ya' outside, blacksmith!"

"Right here's fine," Doc returned obstinately.

Buford suddenly reached out and grabbed Doc's arm. "That ain't a request!"

Seamus lightly touched Buford's hand. "You don't want to start trouble here, Mr. Tannen, not wit' the new marshal that's taken up employment. You an' your men should just turn back and enjoy the party. No sense startin' trouble t'night."

"Boys!" Buford commanded. "Get this haybarber outta my sight!"

His men suddenly advanced upon Seamus and forcefully began to draw him away from the bar. Seamus slapped a hand away and said indignantly: "Aye, I can walk me-self out!"

The Irishman stamped off, Buford's men escorting him out of the Saloon anyway. Buford momentarily turned his attention away from Doc and, pointing the handle of his whip at the departing farmer, called after him: "An' I don't ever want t' see ya' in this bar again!"

Buford turned his gaze back to Emmett. "All right, blacksmith. If yer too gutless to face me outside, I suppose we'll just have to have our little talk right here. Barkeep!" he hollered across the room.

Chester hobbled up to the bar and, in a quivering voice, said: "Yes, sir, Mr. Tannen."

"Get me a bottle of your finest whiskey an' pour me two shots," Tannen commanded. "One for me, an' one for my blacksmith friend here."

Chester looked sidelong at Doc, but the scientist remained silent. He obeyed Tannen's request, pulling out a bottle of Kentucky Red Eye and two shot glasses, and poured two helpings as requested. Buford waved his hand at the bartender as a dismissal and Chester instantly disappeared back into the crowd. Then, picking up a shot glass in each hand, he extended one to Emmett.

"Take a drink, blacksmith. You an' me, we have some business to discuss."

Doc hesitated.

"Didn't you hear me? I said take a drink!"

"I don't drink," Doc finally replied.

"Don't drink?" Buford demanded. "What kinda man don't drink?!" Doc had no reply. "You know what I think? I think yer tryin' to show me a heapin' of disrespect! An' I don't take no disrespect from no one!"

"If you want to have discourse, I hardly see what drink has to do with it," Doc retorted.

"It's a matter of respect, smithy," Buford continued. "An' not takin' an offered drink is just as good as spittin' in my face!"

"I don't drink," Doc repeated.

Buford's lips noticeably twitched. Then, pushing the glass up to Doc's nose, he asserted: "You put this drink down yer gullet now, blacksmith, or else I'll be obliged to put a bullet down in its place!"

Doc lingered; then he lifted his hand and took the glass, Buford smiling pleasantly as he brought the drink from his hand. Then Doc set the glass on the bar table to his left and stated dryly: "As I said, I don't drink, matter of respect or not."

Buford pounded his fist on the bar top angrily, causing the glasses and bottles sitting on top to jump up and jitter. "I ain't gonna tell you again, smith! Put back that drink!"

Doc continued to stand rigid and defiant, his arms folded across his chest. He didn't speak. Outraged, Tannen suddenly reached for his gun belt and, twirling his firearm around his finger as he yanked it from its holster, spun it so the point was aimed outward and at Doc's throat. "Put back the drink, smith! Now!" To further his provocation, Buford cocked the pistol.

As quickly as that, everyone in the bar seemed to jolt up in their chairs and back away to the far wall, the music being played on the grand piano suddenly stopping. The commotion had halted so abruptly that Doc felt as though he were in a dream, and another part of him wished it really was true. His eyes rolled to look at Chester, who stood huddled with the rest, clenching a rag close to his chest, an inhale of breath caught in his mouth as he, with the others, waited for Buford to fire.

Doc returned his gaze back to Tannen's blood-shot and sallow eyes. Finding no sign of compassion buried within the recesses of his throbbing pupils, Doc swallowed hard and reached for his drink. As he brought it to his lips, he paused and said: "I think you should know, I'm not a very heavy drinker."

"One drink never hurt nobody," Buford replied, reaching for his own glass with his free hand. He drained it quickly and plunked it back down onto the table top. "Go ahead, smith. Drink!"

Sighing inwardly, Doc threw back his head and swallowed the shot.

Satisfied, Buford holstered his gun, smiling smugly. "Good. Now maybe we can get down to business."

Doc's blank expression stared back at him. His eyes were wide and glassy and there seemed to be no life in them. Buford scrutinized him curiously. The scientist's hand holding the shot glass suddenly went lax and the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered across the floor.

"What the hell?" Buford mumbled aloud.

Just then, Doc lurched forward and collapsed onto the hard floor with a loud thud! Buford's eyes snapped from the fallen blacksmith over to Chester, searching for an answer to a rather odd question.

"What the hell did you put in that drink, bartender?" Buford demanded, his hand already reaching for his gun's handle.

"Nothin', Mr. Tannen, I swear!" Chester answered honestly. "You saw me pour the drink yerself! I only just now opened it!"

"Then why's he out?" Buford inquired, returning his gaze to the lifeless smith.

"Well, Emmett never was much of drinker. I reckon he can't hold his liquor too good, that's all," the bartender ventured.

"Is that so?" Buford said, kneeling down next to Doc. He flipped him over onto his back and lightly slapped his face. Then he chuckled lightly and called through the doorway: "Boys! Get in here!"

His men entered a moment later and made their way to their leader's location. "What is it, boss?"

"Help me get this blacksmith on his feet. He's had a few too many drinks an' I reckon we should help 'im home."

"That sounds like a right good idea, boss," one of the men said, and the three crouched before the scientist and helped Buford to raise the immobile figure.

Then, allowing his lackeys to support the man's form, Buford stepped forward, commanding his men: "Take 'im out and set 'im on one of the horses."

They obeyed, dragging the scientist toward the doorway.

"What're you gonna do with him?" Chester asked timidly.

"Never mind!" Buford spat back. "Just forget we was ever here, understand? An' forget about the blacksmith, too. If I was you, I'd be lookin' fo' someone to take his place!"

Chester shrank back and made no further attempt to stop or halt Tannen and his men. The whole bar watched in hushed silence as they carried the scientist to the doorway and pushed away the swinging doors to take him to their horses. Just then, though, a figure bounded in, stopping the group from advancing any further.

"What's goin' on here?" Marshal Strickland demanded, rifle in hand. He looked beyond the three men toward Buford's direction. "You makin' trouble, Tannen?"

"None at all, Marshal," Buford returned. "We was just takin' the blacksmith back to his shop to rest, that's all. He had one drink too many."

"Put him down," the marshal commanded, already moving his shotgun into position in case the men refused. They looked to their leader who grudgingly nodded once for them to obey. They did, setting Emmett down next to the doorway, then dispersed to allow the marshal his space. "Chester," he said, turning to the barkeep. "See that Emmett gets home safely, will ya'?"

Chester nodded his agreement. Then Strickland turned his attention back to Buford Tannen. "As for you, Tannen, I want you outta my town!"

"It ain't yer say," Buford returned obdurately. "I ain't causin' no trouble. Ain't that right?" he said, scanning the crowd in the bar. There were no signs of objections or agreement.

"Not from what Seamus McFly said," Strickland shot back. "Now I aim to keep the peace in this town, an' if the only way to do that is to get you out of it, then I've got no objection to it!"

"It ain't yer say, Marshal," Buford repeated again.

"It is now," Strickland said. "You can either go peacefully, or I'll give you fifteen days for disorderly conduct."

"Disorderly conduct!" Buford cried, aghast.

"That's right. I want you out of my town, Tannen. An' I don't want to see you again."

Buford, fuming over the predicament, finally relented with a wail of fury. "All right, Marshal!" he said, grabbing the opened bottle of Red Eye from the bar table. "I'll leave tonight, but don't expect this to be the last time Hill Valley hears from Buford Tannen! As it is right now, I've got some business to attend to elsewheres, but I plan to be back. So don't get too comfortable while I'm gone. 'Cause there'll be comeuppance. Mark that, Marshal! There'll be dues to pay!" Then, stomping away, he threw his hands into the air and cried: "Let's go, boys!"

With that, Buford Tannen and his gang disappeared through the Saloon's threshold, climbed onto their steeds, and rode out of Hill Valley.
Once they were gone, Marshal Strickland turned to examine the crowd. "Everyone okay here? Tannen didn't hurt nobody, did he?"

There were no expressions of discomfort from the people and, satisfied, Strickland added: "All right then. The firework show should be startin' soon. Buford Tannen and his gang're gone, so you can rest easy. This is night of celebration, so go to it!"

With that, an uneasy chatter began to rise until the bar was full of banter and music once more. As he turned to leave, Strickland looked sidelong at Chester and said: "Will he be all right?"

"Just a little intoxicated, Marshal," Chester assured. "I'll see that he gets home all right."

"Okay," the marshal said and moved to the door. "An' don't hesitate to call me if there's any more trouble - especially if Buford Tannen shows up again!"

Chester nodded that he wouldn't and so Strickland left the bar to continue his supervision of the dance floor. Once he was gone, the bartender crouched before Emmett, picked him up by the shoulders, dragged him behind the counter, and propped him up against the wall.

"Joey!" he yawped, standing up.

His helper came at the call a few moments later. "Yeah, Chester?"

"Look after Emmett here an' make sure he's kept in good condition while I tend to the bar."

"You want I should make some wake-up juice?" Joey inquired.

"Nah, there's no worry," Chester declined. "I'm sure he'll come 'round shortly. After all, he only had one drink."

"One drink?!" Joey cried with surprise.

"Apparently there's a reason the man stays dry," Chester replied drolly. "Just look after him."

Joey did just that and Chester checked on him through the passing hours. Despite only having downed one drink, Doc didn't wake up until near the morning, and by then the holiday had passed and he had missed the brilliant fireworks' eruption in the sky that he had been looking forward to all evening.

 Before opening his eyes, the first thought that lingered in Doc's head was that he had one stiff as hell neck. He pulled himself up from the uncomfortable position he currently found himself in and gently massaged the tip of his spine. He opened his eyes, a rather dazed feeling spreading over him. Where he was, he couldn't tell for certain. He half crawled to the nearby bar table and pulled himself up. It was only after pausing there for a long moment, his head dipped down while he let the wooziness that had stormed his brain subside, that he looked up and recognized, after a moment's contemplation, where he was. The Palace Saloon. But what was he doing there?

He couldn't remember. Great Scott! What had happened the night before? If he didn't know any better, he'd swear he had taken a drink! But after having been warned of the adverse effects alcohol would have on the new artificial blood that had been run through his body in 2015, Doc would never have take in alcohol! There had been known incidents when people had come close to death after having gone through just one glass! Doc would never be that reckless!

But it certainly felt as though he'd had a drink. The scientist knew that feeling all too well from having spent some rather depressing holidays alone with only his fateful pet Copernicus - and later Einstein - for companionship. Holidays. Yes, yesterday was a holiday. The Fourth of July. The memories suddenly came rushing back and the vision of Buford Tannen burned in his mind. No wonder he felt so ill. That lowly bastard had forced Doc at gunpoint to down a shot of whiskey. What happened thenceforth was anybody's guess. He supposed he was lucky to be standing in that bar with the bright early morning sun extending its rays through the glass windows. Buford Tannen wasn't one to object to shooting someone in cold murder.

Doc stumbled forward and his hand slipped across the surface of the bar and knocked a shot glass to the floor, shattering it. The noise rang loudly in his ears, and Doc wished for the life of him that his damned hangover would quit already. If he had known one shot would do this much damage, he may have been obliged to allow Tannen to shoot him right there and then.

As he crossed before the bar and moved into the main area of the Saloon, he heard the sound of footsteps and turned his head to see Chester come down a set of stairs that led to the hotel rooms above, dressed in a set of none-too-fashionable undergarments.

"Emmett, yer up!" he cried, grabbing a coat that hung on a rack nearby and wrapping it around his form. "How are ya' feelin'?"

"None too good, Chester," Doc replied groggily. "You wouldn't happen to have any tylenol, would you?"

"Tile-what?" Chester asked.

"Never mind," Doc sighed, finding a seat at a round table and settling into it.

"How 'bout some nice hot tea instead?"

"Okay," Doc replied, rubbing his forehead.

Chester went off to make that and once it was done, he returned and sat a cup before the scientist. Doc sipped the brew slowly, deeply inhaling the warm fumes that rose from the liquid's surface.

"I didn't know you was so susceptible to drink, Emmett," Chester said, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table.

"Neither did I," Doc muttered.

Chester eyed the scientist curiously, but didn't investigate the comment any further. "You feelin' any better now, Emmett?"

"Not at all," he answered, taking another scalding sip.

"Well, I've got some news that might cheer you up."

Doc's eyes rolled up to look at the bartender, but he didn't speak. He didn't think there was much of anything Chester could say to alter his current foul mood.

"As it turns out, Emmett, Buford Tannen and his gang went out and robbed the Paradise Stage just outside of Plain Ridge late last night," Chester announced.

"And that's supposed to cheer me up?" Doc begged sarcastically.

"That ain't all," Chester continued. "As they made to ride off, Buford's horse threw a shoe. Accordin' to the authorities, it didn't get nailed on right properly. An' when the horse threw its shoe, Buford was thrown off, an' at the same time he accidently pulled the trigger on his gun and shot his horse dead." Chester smiled amusedly upon this thought. "His men took off, but Buford didn't make it too far without a steed and the Plain Ridge deputy found 'im and brought 'im in. Word is that he's gonna get a good few months of jail time, and I suppose he'll be gettin' enough of a sentence to make him think twice about his wrongdoin's." Here he leaned in closer to Doc. "Is it true that you was the one that shod Buford's horse, Emmett? That's the rumor that's goin' 'round."

Doc lifted his head and stared ahead blankly. A part of Doc lit up with glee upon hearing this tale of Buford's arrest. But another more scientific part of him was thoroughly discouraged by the news. None of these events, indeed, could have happened in the original timeline. Doc could only hope that it didn't change history too much. If this was indeed Biff Tannen's great grandfather, then any adverse actions could alter history to the point of a purgatory-sized paradox. He could only hope that Biff's grandfather was already born, and that this extra few months in prison wouldn't divaricate the timeline so perversely.

"Is it true, Emmett?" Chester again begged.

Coming back to the here and now, Doc turned his gaze to Chester and slowly nodded his head. "It is."

Chester suddenly let out a loud howl of laughter and slapped himself on the knee. "Well, if that don't beat all! Whooo! That'll teach ol' Mad Dog, sure enough! Emmett, you're certainly more devious than I ever took you to be, an' I mean that as a form of flattery! I can't wait to spread the word that Mad Dog Tannen got locked up on account of Hill Valley's own local blacksmith! Won't that be the be-all end-all?"

Doc shook his head hopelessly and dropped it down onto the table with a thunk. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"Don't worry, Emmett," Chester said, standing up. "Everythin'll be all right. Even if Mad Dog does come lookin' for revenge, you're as good as safe with Marshal Strickland lookin' out for ya'. Although, if I was you, I'd get some sorta protection. You have a weapon of some sort?"

"A rifle," Doc replied, his head still down. "It's not loaded, though."

"Well, I suggest you load it, Emmett. Buford Tannen's known to hold grudges. 'Bout the only way to protect yerself now is to pick him off before he gets you, an' with Tannen bein' the sharp shot that he is, you best be able to hit 'im from far off."

Doc didn't reply at once.

"Don't mean to upset you, Emmett, but I think you should hear it as straightforward as I can give it. You think that rifle'll be good protection?"

"Maybe," Doc said slowly. "If I made a few adjustments."

"Well, you do that," Chester said, and left the table.

As he passed Doc to climb upstairs, he paused and patted him on the shoulder. "The only shame in that story is the fact that a perfectly good horse got killt while a bastard like Tannen gets to live on. Take it easy, Emmett. Go home an' get some rest. I have a feelin' the whole town'll be lookin' to throw you a victory celebration by the end o' the day. It's bound to become an annual event: the day our blacksmith conned Buford Tannen! It's certain to be a day to celebrate for generations on end."

With that, Chester disappeared back upstairs to get dressed. Doc drew his head from the table and stared dejectedly at the wall across from him. If there was a self-preservation mechanism in the cosmos, Doc was beginning to wonder just how well it did its job.

By the day's end, Doc became certain that if it did indeed exist, it had the same universal loathing for Tannens that seemed to be apparent in every Hill Valleyian since the town's creation, and was willing to risk the space-time continuum just to see its lineage get his just deserts.

In those regards, Doc could hardly fault it, even if it did end up shattering the universe.

The talk didn't die down until weeks later, and even Marshal Strickland was obliged to congratulate Doc for his assistance in capturing Buford Tannen, though he would have ultimately preferred to be the lawman to bring him in. Doc, of course, was more humble than the town expected him to be; his intention was never to set up Buford Tannen - the irritable scofflaw had brought it all upon himself. But neither could the scientist refuse the adulation that the townspeople seemed intent on heaping upon him, despite his greatest efforts to downplay the incident as merely coincidence.

But once one month had passed, Buford Tannen was nearly forgotten from everyone's mind. And once two had gone by and, from all reports, Tannen was still in his cell at Plain Ridge, the town had at least stopped mentioning the incident, even if they hadn't altogether forgotten it - and Doc wasn't foolish enough to hope for anything more.

It was at this time that his plan to rescue Marty from 1955 and himself from 1885 finally started to take form. For a while he had been attempting to draft a blueprint for a steam-powered flux capacitor, but the intricacies of such a venture were bound to take more time than Doc was willing to give to something so dubious.

His new plan was not as delicate and seemed more expedient. He had taken his idea of burying the DeLorean and expanded upon it. The only way for Marty to locate the time machine was for Doc to somehow deliver a message to him in 1955. After much deliberation, Doc managed to formulate a possible solution: If he delivered a letter to the Western Union office a few miles out of town and asked that it be delivered to the exact location of Doc's departure in 1955, then Marty would have all the instruction he needed. Of course, this scheme relied heavily on forces beyond his control and the wills of others who were not even born yet, but it was the most manageable and feasible strategy to pursue. And if it didn't work, he'd know shortly thereafter.

Once Marty excavated the time machine in 1955, he should drive it straight back to 1885 to pick him up, thus answering Doc's question of whether or not his plan had succeeded. If he didn't show, then the scientist would perhaps have to formulate a different strategy; but his primary goal now was to get the DeLorean buried as quickly as possible. He had already found a location: an abandoned mining tunnel near Boot Hill Cemetery. It was deserted in 1883 due to an exhaustion of ores from the site and hasn't (and wouldn't, from Doc's memory) been used since. Doc was certain the mine was still standing in 1985 and that meant it would still be there in 1955. It was the perfect location.

He had had plans to start that weekend, but he had gotten a surge of business unusual even for a Saturday, and had to spend most of the day shoeing a group of soldiers' horses who had come to town the evening before and had stayed the night. He had taken a break late in the afternoon when Chester informed him of an impromptu meeting that had been called by the mayor. He quickly cleaned up the iron room and left the shop to join the assembly just outside the clock tower structure, which was coming along rather nicely now.

The attendance for the meeting was scarce, Chester apparently not able to rouse many townsfolk on such short notice. But the meeting wasn't of high importance, and Hubert hadn't been expecting a grand turn-out considering the circumstances.

Once everyone had shown who was anticipated to, Hubert started the meeting. "Okay, everyone!" he called to the sparse crowd. "I know this ain't exactly a typical town meeting - generally we'd have to have the town present for that! But this'll only take a few moments and I'm sure Chester'll spread the word."

The mayor looked to the bartender, who nodded his agreement, then continued. "Firstly, we've decided to have a town festival next week in commemoration of Hill Valley's twentieth anniversary as a city, and the new courthouse! It's comin' along right finely, but we'd like to get it done faster and we'd prefer to do it without raisin' any more taxes. So spread the word, Chester, an' let 'em know that all proceeds will be goin' to support the clock tower. It'll be Saturday night an' there'll be food an' entertainment - the whole lot! We figgered we could use to do some celebratin' seein' as how the Fourth of July party didn't go as smoothly as we had hoped - an' we have no reason to expect anything but fun and celebration this time! That's nex' Saturday! Be sure to let everyone know!"

The small crowd enjoyed that bit of good news, a slight cheerful prattle rising among the attendees.

"Now for the second order of business!" Hubert called to quiet the assembly. "We recently got a school house built away yonder and we're all set to start Hill Valley's first school year! We recently hired a schoolmarm from up East and she should be comin' in sometime nex' week. Now, I need a volunteer to go pick 'er up, as she's comin' unaccompanied. Do I have any volunteers?"

There were no voices of acceptance.

"Come on, folks! It won't be hardly any trouble! The train station's right there and the lady's cabin is only a few miles out of town!"

Again, there were no volunteers.

"Chester, can't you do it?" the mayor asked.

"I wish I could, Hubert, but I've got to tend to the bar, as you know, an' I'm already nervous as a jitter-bug leavin' Joey to attend alone for these few minutes," Chester responded.

"Anyone else? Isn't there anyone who could pick 'er up?"

"Without a given day?" someone from the crowd demanded. "I can't just set the whole week aside!"

The mayor could understand that. "What about you, Emmett?" he turned to the blacksmith. "You don't have a rigid schedule. Couldn't you pick 'er up?"

"Well ... ahh ..." Doc hedged. It wasn't that he felt it would be an inconvenience, just that Doc didn't like interfering with past events (as if he hadn't already done enough!).

"How 'bout it? Will ya' do it, Emmett? I'd be much obliged, you'd be certain," Hubert said. "You'd be doin' me a tremendous favor!"

"Well ... I suppose," Doc answered hesitantly.

"Good!" Hubert declared. "As soon as we get word by telegraph I'll let you know when she's due in. All right, folks! That's all! Meeting adjourned!"

With that, the mayor took off from the sight and the crowd began to disperse, Chester hustling to return to his bar.

Doc walked slowly back to his shop. He didn't suppose picking up the schoolmarm would be too much of an inconvenience (for him or the timeline). If he got up early the following morning, he could have the DeLorean buried by tomorrow afternoon. Then he could have the letter written by Monday. He also wanted to create a will so that when he was proclaimed deceased by 1885 Hill Valley there would be no doubts of Marty receiving Doc's message. After that, he'd have the whole week to settle his affairs in the past, which included picking up the teacher, before the date Doc had decided would be best on for Marty's arrival came.

He knew the fellow at the Western Union and, though he was a bit of a crank, Doc was certain that (with a little monetary persuasion) he could coax him to go along with the gag, even if he did think it ridiculous. Then he would just have to worry about the postman's predecessors continuing the tradition of holding the letter to be delivered come 1955.

Emmett returned to his shop and then set to work to finish his blacksmithing for the day. When he completed his chores, he let Chester know that the soldiers' horses were ready to be picked up and by the end of the day they had all come to reclaim their appropriate steeds. He also gave notice to the bartender that he'd be out for the majority of the following day running an "errand". Then, before he settled down to sleep that night, having set his cuckoo clock to wake him extra early, Doc gathered up all the tools he had collected over the past few weeks that would be necessary for the time machine's entombing and, along with a sewn canvas of animal skins to cover the time machine with to protect it from the cave's elements, and a sealed diagram he had finished some weeks ago detailing how to assemble the necessary replacement part for the time circuit control microchip with 1955 components, set them inside the DeLorean.

Then, deciding that everything was set for the next morning's excursion, the scientist put himself to bed early and fell into a peaceful slumber.

The piercing call of the cuckoo bird, sounding as it was thrust forward from its clock confinement set on the far wall of Doc's shop, awoke the scientist that morning. He arose slowly, his body not all at once complying with what his mind was commanding that he do at so early an hour in the morn. Finally, he rose from bed and began preparations for the long day that awaited him. Nourishment was the first procedure and, after surveying his simmering breakfast on the automated conveyer he had set up some months before, he made himself a breakfast plate and ate his meal. Next he got the hot water heater he had built going and made himself a bath. Once he had freshened up some and had groomed himself to the best of his slipshod abilities, he went to his closet to dress.

After he was suited in a set of old worn clothes complete with gloves and a ragged hat, he set a lantern inside the DeLorean and went to the smithery's front door and peered outside. It was still dark out and not a glimmer of light was shining from any of the neighboring windows. The town was fast asleep and wouldn't be up and bustling for a few hours. Rather than chance waking the citizens with the rumble of the DeLorean's engine, Doc decided to tow the car to the appropriate location using the standard form of transport of the era.

He had three horses he was most fond of: Archimedes, who was quite a reliable steed, and Galileo, who, despite his rather uneven temperament, had become very loyal to Doc over the passing months and was as close a friend as Einstein or Copernicus had ever been to him, mostly because the scientist had had to earn the sorrel's affections. The other was a horse that had not been one of the originals that the first blacksmith had quartered out in the pasture. Doc had adopted this one in March; after Joseph Statler had been kicked by the young colt and had nearly been paralyzed in his right leg, he had ordered the horse to be shot. When the news had come to Doc, he had intervened and purchased the foal, who turned out to be a very loyal and true animal - so much so that the scientist had taken the liberty of building the horse its own stall inside the shop opposite Archimedes and Galileo. But he'd need four horses for this task, and so he borrowed one of the town's people's horses from the run-in shelter outside, a thick and powerful steed that had become known for its superior abilities in hauling.

After leading them to the main room, he moored the four steeds to the front of the DeLorean and, after setting the shop's wide doors apart, climbed on top of the car and sat on the roof of the vehicle, feet planted on the hood. Taking up the horses' reins, he tapped them once and had the horses slowly draw the DeLorean out of the shop and down the town's main drag. He made it out of Hill Valley with no trouble and without giving any indication of his leaving, and, taking unused and non-existent paths to avoid being seen by any wanderers, he made his way slowly to the abandoned Delgado mine.

Once outside the lonely graveyard, Doc brought the horses to a stop and unhitched them from the car. Now that he was far from civilization, the need for animal transportation was no longer requisite. He led the horses away from the mine site and tied them to the base of an old oak tree so they wouldn't wander off. Then, pulling the worn sheet that still covered the DeLorean off of the car, he pulled open the driver's side gullwing door and climbed into the front seat and started the engine. It took a good few attempts to get the starter going after it had been sitting unused in Doc's shop for so many months, but finally it turned and he put his foot to the gas pedal and slowly pulled into the mouth of the mine. He had already chosen the precise location within the hollow: a small cave some ways down the shaft that the DeLorean would just be able to fit through. He drove the car along the path of railroad tracks that were laid on the ground, down through the dark and humid shaft, until he reached the cave in question. Here he maneuvered the car in such a way that he was able to accelerate up and over the small bank that separated the bottom of the hole from the ground and pulled into the hollow.

Once inside, Doc shut off the engine and climbed out of the car, pausing to gingerly place the key on the front dashboard and to collect two railroad ties he had fitted into the car and rest them on the ground. He bent back inside and picked out the lantern from the passenger's seat, lit it, and set in on the floor to give the cave some glow. He then went around to the DeLorean's trunk and found a jack, the only item he had left inside, and went to the back of the car.

Getting on his knees, Doc went to work at mounting the back of the car, cranking the jack so that the vehicle was lifted some inches off the ground. Once that was accomplished, he hauled up and dragged one of the railroad ties to the time machine's location and settled it beneath levitated back end of the vehicle. He lowered the base of the car again and removed the jack, leaving the time machine unevenly pitched, its hind side a few inches off the ground, separated by the railroad tie. He then went to the front to go about the same procedure, carefully raising the vehicle's nose off the ground and placing the other railroad tie beneath it, so that when the jack was removed, the car was evenly elevated off the ground and the tires no longer touched the cave's floor.

That done, Emmett took out a few boards and a wood tool box he had placed inside the DeLorean, set them aside, and bent back in to set the time circuit repair instructions on the front sea. He then brought out the canvas of animal skins and, closing up the time machine, draped the canvas over the DeLorean and adjusted it so that it was tightly wrapped around every corner of the vehicle, then went about prepping the time machine for storage. He picked up the lantern and, sitting it on the car's hood, began by draining all the fluids using a siphon he had brought along in the toolbox into a pan. Following that procedure, he went to a corner of the cave and dumped the excess liquid out of the saucer to dispose of it. Then he piled the pan and hose back into his toolbox and, wiping off his oil stained hands on the flaps of his ratty coat, stood and examined the time vehicle, wrapped in its animal hide shelter. He had done all that he could to preserve the time machine for the next seventy years. Now it was all in the hands of fate and time.

With one last look at his wonderful, horrible invention, Doc picked up the boards and tool box and lantern and stepped out of the cave. Here he went about covering the cavity with a few boulders he found inside the mine shaft. It was rigorous work, heaving up the boulders and finding places for them in the hole so that they filled the aperture as perfectly as possible, but in time he had succeeded and the hoe was hidden and blocked from all sight. Then, using a hammer from his tool box and a few nails, he began nailing the boards into the stone across the false wall he had created. After a multitude of boards had been attached to the surface of the wall, Doc took a knife from the tool box and slowly and evenly carved his initials into the foremost board: "ELB".

He stepped back then, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and examined his work. Then that was it. The DeLorean was sealed up and all that need be done was write and give his letter to the Western Union office to be delivered. Dropping the hammer and knife back into the tool box, Doc lifted the lantern and box and left the mine.
He stepped out into the late afternoon light. From his breast pocket he removed a watch and surveyed it. 3:31 PM. He had spent nearly twelve backbreaking hours preparing the time machine for its burial, but now that it was done and finished and his future was nearly set, Doc felt that much more confident that his plan would succeed. After taking a short break to rest his muscles and view the fresh landscape in peaceful serenity, Doc untied his horses from the tree and, after fitting the supplies into a saddle bag and securing it to Newton's saddle, climbed onto Galileo and spurred the steed ahead, leading the others abreast back to Hill Valley for a late lunch.

 After Doc had returned to his shop and brought the horses back out to the pasture, he made his lunch, then went about his blacksmithing duties for the day. Sundays were usually more tranquil, but with being gone the majority of the day, the jobs had piled up in his absence and, on his request, had been left in the iron room with notes explaining what needed to be done.

That labor withered away the rest of the day before he was even half-finished with the jobs that had been delivered to him. When night came, Doc gave up his toiling and put himself to bed. He would finish the rest of his chores in the morning, write the letter to Marty, then his own will which would include explicit instructions to deliver his message to Marty in seventy years. It was the best way to confirm its impartment to the future and to insure its delivery without actually being there. In the first reality - before Marty came to get him - the will and its request would turn up upon his natural death; in the second reality - the one where Marty would arrive in the renovated time machine to summon Doc back to the present - it would turn up after his disappearance, thereby preventing any possible paradoxes from happening.

It was all well-regulated, and now all Doc had to do was write the letter, fill out the will, and wait for his ride to appear. It couldn't be any simpler, and Doc expected that he'd be in 1985 by the end of the week.

He had spent eight months away and he supposed it was about time to get back.

Following his breakfast, Doc set to work on finishing the efforts he had begun the following evening. He finished within a few hours, though there were more assignments that had come to him in that time. But he didn't see how a break could hurt, and so, finding a few sheets of paper, decided now was as good as time as any to write his letter to Marty.

He began first, by drawing up a map of the Delgado Mine on a large sheet of paper. This would make the excavation much easier for Marty and his past self and make finding the DeLorean almost impossible not to accomplish. Once he was done with that, and was certain that he had sketched all the details necessary (and probably a dozen more that weren't), he pushed aside the map and went to work at the letter.

He sat at his desk, tapping the base of his pen rhythmically against the wood. How exactly should he start this? He supposed the usual formal introduction would suffice. Dipping the tip of the pen into the nearby inkstand, Doc scribbled across the head of the paper placed before him: Dear Marty.

What next? Where to begin exactly? How to so sum up everything that had happened to him over the past eight months? He may as well start from the beginning.

If you have received this letter, he wrote, then I suppose my plans have been carried out to the fullest extent that I had wished them to. Was that simple enough for the kid to understand? Was any more detail needed? No, probably not, Doc decided, and proceeded with his writing. First, let me assure you that I am alive and well and have been living in the year 1885 these past 8 months. The lightning bolt that hit the DeLorean caused a gigawatt overload that shorted out both the time circuits and the flying circuits and subsequently activated the flux capacitor. That was explanation enough for how he got there. Now to explain how he had made out during his stay, as he was certain Marty would be interested.

I set myself up as a blacksmith as a front while I attempted to repair the damage to the time machine. Unfortunately, this proved impossible because suitable replacement parts will not be available until 1947.

Now for the main purpose of the letter: Therefore, I have buried the DeLorean in the abandoned Delgado mine, adjacent to the old Boot Hill Cemetery as shown on the enclosed map. Hopefully it should remain undisturbed and preserved there until you uncover it in 1955.

Inside, you should find repair instructions. My 1955 counterpart should have no problem repairing it.

Doc paused and dipped his pen into the inkstand once more, then continued.

Once the time machine is repaired, set the destination time for September 6, 1885, 1:00 AM. It was some time away, nearly a week, but it was best to give himself some time to settle his affairs in 1885 before he left. That was the night of the upcoming courthouse fund celebration, and Doc supposed it would be the easiest for him to slip out then. I'll be waiting for you at the location of your future home. From there, we will return to 1985 and once home I will destroy the time machine. I will look forward to our meeting and hope to see you there at the appointed time.

Then he signed: Your friend, "Doc" Emmett L. Brown, August 31, 1885.

He set his pen aside and picked up and surveyed his letter. So that was it. All he had to do now was fill out and sign his will and his future would be set. Doc set aside the letter and stood, deciding to make himself an early lunch.

After he had eaten, Doc made out his will, assigning Chester the executor as he was certain the bartender would do his best to have his wishes fulfilled, however odd they may be, and went to the Palace Saloon and found a couple men to act as witnesses as he signed his will. They signed as well and so the document was legalized. Then he went to the bar and told Chester the news and explained where the document could be found upon his death.

"What made you all of a sudden write out yer will, Emmett? You expectin' to die soon?" Chester inquired.

"No, nothing like that," Doc replied, fitting the papers into his inside coat pocket. "It's just a precautionary measure."

"I didn't suppose you had much of anything to pass on. Last I recall, most of everythin' you got was inherited to you from the former blacksmith, an' that ain't yer's to give away."

"There are a few items of value in that shop that belong to me, believe it or not," Doc answered somewhat grumpily. "I marked you as the executor. Can I be assured that you'll have everything done as specifically expressed?"

"To the best of my abilities, Emmett," Chester said. "You have somethin' you need doin' at yer death?"

"Something like that," Doc said evasively. "No matter how outlandish my requests may sound, just promise that you'll do whatever you can to see that they're carried out in the future."

Chester scrunched his face. "All right, Emmett. I'll do whatever it says. But it sounds mighty queer already, and I'm sorta tempted to know right off the spot what it is I'm to do."

"You'll know it all in time, Chester, don't worry about that."

"Well, you always were an odd one, Emmett. But I s'pose that's what makes you dif'rent from everyone else. It'll be a shame, I reckon, when ya' do go. Folks like you is hard to come by, an' I suppose there ain't been a man so unique as you since this town was founded, an' I don't suppose there'll be another 'un in the nex' hundred years."

Doc smiled. It wasn't usual that he was given a compliment, although he supposed it was less usual back in 1985. "I'm hoping that's not the case," he said, then turned and went to the door.

 With the will taken care of, Doc returned to his shop and put the document in a safe place, where Chester had been told he could find it. Then he resumed his blacksmithing duties and so spent the rest of the day in that way. The following day Doc would deliver his letter to the Western Union office and hope he could convince old Charles Marley to hold onto the message for seventy years. Hopefully, upon his death, the request in his will would prompt the delivery, if Doc himself could not.

So, after he had laid his hammer to rest, he went to bed that night knowing that, as long as the Time Gods were of a pleasant disposition, before the week's end his episode in 1885 would come to a close and another chapter in his life would be ended.

Emmett worked a good a portion of the morning away before he set aside his smithing tools to take a break some time before lunch. He had decided to deliver the letter as early as possible, to make certain that his transport to the future would indeed make an appearance on the designated day.

Thus, he went to the pasture to collect Galileo and, with the letter and map of the mine folded and fitted into his front breast pocket, went to the saloon to let Chester know where he was going and what time he expected to be back, should anyone enquire of his absence, and rode north toward the Western Union office the next town over.

Once there, he hitched Galileo to a post outside and entered the building, feigning a jovial smile as he approached the front desk and the sour face of the man behind it. Old man Marley was younger than Doc, but physically he looked much older and would have even before Doc had gotten his life-span extended. He had one son and, if the gossip around town was accurate, his wife had died some three years ago, causing the postal man no end of grief.

"Hello, Charles," Doc said as he leaned across the table.

"Brown," Marley said flatly, imperceptibly nodding his head, arms folded over his chest. "You have a letter?"

Doc nodded. "A special one at that. I have careful instructions that go with it."

"What instructions?"

"This is going to sound rather odd, Charles," Doc said, taking the folded paper from his pocket. "Do you have a case I could put this in? Something to preserve it?"

"You want an envelope," Marley suggested.

"No," Doc returned. "See, the odd thing about this letter is that I need you to deliver it in seventy years."

"Seventy years?" Marley demanded. "What kind of farce are you runnin' here, Brown?"

"It's no farce, Charles. I'm quite serious about it. I need to have this letter delivered on November 12, 1955, at precisely 9:46 in the evening. Here," he said, taking a slip from his pocket. "Here are the instructions."

Marley snatched the paper from Doc's hand and examined it. "'This letter is to be delivered to a young man named Marty McFly, age 17, five feet, four inches in height with sandy brown hair approximately two miles north of the town of Hill Valley, Fountain Road, outside the housing complex Lyon Estates under construction, on November 12, 1955, at exactly 9:46 PM.'

"What is this?" Marley demanded, waving the paper in his hand. "1955? Fountain Road? What in the Sam Hill are you doin'?"

"Please, Charles," Doc implored. "See that those who come after you will have that letter delivered."
"In 1955?"

Doc nodded.

"An' you suppose someone'll be there to pick it up?"

"I know they will."

Marley examined the instructions again. "I don't know how I could hold on to a letter for seventy years, not unless there was some sorta incentive."

Doc understood. He reached into his coat and withdrew a money clip from his pocket. He selected a few bills. "How's five sound?"

"I'm gonna need more incentive than that, Brown," Marley instructed.

"Ten?"

"Double it and I'll see that it gets deliver, e'en if I have to rise outta my own grave and put it out myself."

Doc sighed, but picked out the bills and handed them to Marley. "Twenty it is."

Marley greedily snatched the dollars and examined them. Then he turned his face to Emmett and said: "This must be really important to you, huh, Brown?"

"It is," Doc answered. "Do you have a folder I could store the letter in?"

"Oh, sure, sure," Marley said, the closest thing to a smile the postal worker had ever let spread out his lips appearing on his face. He disappeared into a back room to search out a folder.

As Doc was waiting, he heard the sound of hoof clops outside the shop. The sound stopped and a moment later in bounded two men, and more surprisingly, two men Doc recognized.

"We're glad we found ya', Emmett," Chester said breathlessly as he bustled through the doorway.

"Aye," Seamus chimed from just behind the bartender. "We were afraid we'd miss ya'."

"Miss me? What --"

"Emmett, Mad Dog's out," Chester said before the question could be asked.

"Mad Dog Tannen?" Doc's jaw fell low. The scientist shook his head slowly. "No. I thought he was incarcerated."

"Was bein' the key word, Mister Brown," Seamus rejoined. "I just heard it through the grapevine. Maggie and me was housing some passerby's for the extra income, and up pops Tannen's name. Said they just passed through Plain Ridge the night befo'e an' Mad Dog was cut free. Said his old band showed up an' the day befo'e the mayor had lowered his bail."

"We think there's some extortion afoot, Emmett," Chester added. "Don't make sense that Tannen's gang'd all of a sudden jump on their steeds and make tracks back to Hill County without some sorta incentive; las' I heard they'd settled down in the little town of Eagle Pass, Texas. Somethin's rotten 'bout the whole thing, Emmett, that I'm sure of. An' Hubert don't doubt that Mayor Conway would strike up a deal with ol' Mad Dog, either. He's had worse hombre's grease his palm before. Emmett, you gotta get outta town!"

Doc suddenly turned around and took hold of the letter he had placed on the tabletop and began re-reading it to himself. He lowered the paper from his face. "I can't."

"What are ya' talkin' about?" Seamus demanded.

"Ya' hafta, Emmett," Chester asserted. "There ain't no two ways about it. You gotta catch the nex' train outta here! If Mad Dog's out of jail, shot is that Hill Valley'll be one'a the first places he goes to. Everyone says he still as ornery as a bullwhipped mule about how he got caught an' he blames the whole thin' on you. You understand, Emmett. If there weren't no personal conflicts betwixt you two before, there is now, and Buford's lookin' to settle 'em. Ya' gotta go, an' ya' gotta go now, least as long as Marshal Strickland's outta town. He's due back by the end a' the week, but Hubert's sendin' a wire to Haysville recommenin' he come back sooner, e'en if it means missin' ol' Stinky Lomax's hangin' Even so, it'll be a couple a' days I'm sure. You need to take yer leave as soon as possible, Emmett!"

Doc viewed Chester, his worried and urgent features pleading with him. He turned to look at Seamus, whose eyes, too, were begging him to be reasonable. But he couldn't go. Not if he wanted to meet Marty. Not if he wanted to get back to the future.

He could change the letter. Change it to have Marty meet him tomorrow. That would solve everything.

"All right," Doc spoke. "I'll leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Chester demanded. "No, Emmett, ya' gotta leave today, now! Mad Dog Tannen could get back in town any day now! Ya' can't be here when he shows up!"

"I can take care of myself, Chester," Doc answered boldly. "I don't have any intentions of letting a bully like Buford Tannen boss me around. I'll leave tomorrow and if I don't ever come back, you'll make certain that the requests of my will are seen to."

"Now why wouldn't you be comin' back, Mr. Brown?" Seamus asked, his voice low.

Doc looked to Marty's ancestor. "It's just a precautionary measure, Seamus. I have full intentions of coming back and of keeping in contact with Chester during my absence. But just in case, will you?" he turned his gaze back to the bartender.

"Of course I will, Emmett. But there's no need to reckon with that now. You'll be back, I know it."

"All right," Doc said, nodding his head once, decidedly. "You two go on ahead back to town. I'll be there shortly. If Tannen shows before I get back, be sure to give me fair warning."

"I think we'd feel better accompanyin' you back ourselves," Seamus said nobly.

"It's safer this way, Seamus," Doc replied. "If Tannen is there, I don't want to drag you two into my troubles. I'd prefer to face my fate alone."

"All right, Emmett," Chester conceded. "We'll give ya' a warnin' if Buford Tannen comes back to town. Jus' don't be long. The sooner you get back to Hill Valley, the sooner you can leave it."

Then, going to the post office's door, Chester waved his hand as a parting and Seamus tipped his hat to Doc and turned and followed the bartender outside. They mounted their horses and, after giving a final wave to the blacksmith, galloped away back to Hill Valley.

Doc stared at the descending figures of the men on their horses for a moment as they rode across the landscape and toward the horizon. Then he turned back to the table and viewed the letter. So he was going back to 1985. As the thought truly churned and began to grow in his mind, it became more nauseating. The only comfort in his life in the present was Marty's presence. The kid saved him from complete isolation and the town's ridicule. He turned and looked back out the opened doorway to the tract stretching away from him, which would be covered with black tar and dotted with an industry of factories that would pollute and cripple the currently radiant blue sky long before 1985 rolled around.

1985. What was left for him there? There was Marty, his only solace, and man's best friend, his pet, Einstein, who provided him company when his teenaged comrade had other activities to attend to - certainly the scientist didn't expect him to spend every free hour at his lab, nor did he want him to -- Marty deserved a better life than that, whatever his decisions in the future were. There was bound to be some point when their relationship would have to be rended apart and Marty was going to have to become his own teacher and Doc was going to have to stop teaching.

And when it did, Doc certainly would dread it and face it sorrowfully with a heart as heavy as a myriad of smithing anvils. He would be alone again, to hear the soft ticking of his clocks in his hollow garage, tick, ticking away, counting off the seconds of Doc's life as they slip, slipped away in doleful solitude, the only distraction the noisy and boisterous traffic on John F. Kennedy Drive or next door at the local Burger King, like the sound of ringing anvils, as the world celebrated every day its auspiciousness and Doc mourned his lack thereof.

But in 1885 there was something more. He didn't have the technology, a serious hinderance to a scientist of his time, and he didn't have the same inspirations, but he did have all new ones, and all new technology (no matter how dated it be) which made life in the old west surprisingly more challenging on a scientific level than any of his endeavors in 1985. Applying present day ideas to past devices and making them work was an amazing accomplishment, and a fulfilling one at that. Doc recalled how he had jumped up excitedly, whooping in his high tone of victory the first time his "refrigerator" had belched out a cube of ice. Months of labor for one small block of ice, and it had all seemed worth it. Why, he hadn't celebrated in such a manner since ... well, since the time machine's maiden voyage.

Marley returned then, a folder in his hands, and laid it down on the table. "There ya' are Brown. That'll be twenty cents."

Doc lowered his eyes to slits, but reluctantly dug into his pocket and found two dimes and slid them toward the postal man. "Do you have any paper, Charles?" Doc asked, his voice a bit flatter than before. "And a pen."

"This is a place for deliverin' letters, not writin' them."

"Do you?" Doc demanded.

"Le' me check," Marley said, his face still grim. He leaned down behind the counter and selected a few sheets of paper with the words
"Western Union" imprinted on the header of the slips. He also took an inkwell from a shelf in the table and placed it in from of Doc. "Five cents."

"Highway robbery is what it is," Doc murmured, reaching into his pocket.

"High what?" Marley demanded. "What nonsense you talkin', Brown?"

Doc simply slid him a nickel from his pocket and then, with a wave of his hand, said: "That'll be all for now, Marley. If you'll excuse me, I'd prefer to write the letter in private."

"I thought you already wrote it," Marley returned, agitated by Doc's sudden curtness.

"It was a draft," Doc answered shortly. "I'll call you when I'm ready. I won't be long."

Grumbling and complaining to himself about how he always got the queer ones in his office, Marley turned around and headed toward the back area of the post office to busy himself. Doc slouched over the table, pulled forward the papers Marley had given him, took up the pen, dipped it in the ink and then, examining his first letter, began to scribble across the blank page.

Dear Marty, he wrote, suddenly formulating a new introduction derived from his current mood. If my calculations are correct, you should receive this letter immediately after you saw the DeLorean struck by lightning. He turned and looked at his old letter, analyzing it for review. Then, dipping his pen, he continued: First let me assure you that I am alive and well. I have been living happily these past eight months in the year 1885.

The lightning bolt that hit the DeLorean caused a gigawatt overload that scrambled the time circuits, activated the flux capacitor, and sent me back to 1885. The overload shorted out the time circuits and destroyed the flying circuits. Unfortunately, the car will never fly again.

Doc paused, reviewing his new opening. It was fitting. It required no further explanation. He continued.

I set myself up as a blacksmith as a front while I attempted to repair the damage to the time circuits. Unfortunately, this proved impossible because suitable replacement parts will not be invented until 1947. However, Doc quickly scribbled after a brief pause, just in case the letter was revealing too much an air of bitterness and resentment for Doc having been trapped in a foreign time, I have gotten quite adept at shoeing horses and fixing wagons.

Therefore, Doc continued writing, I have buried the DeLorean in the abandoned Delgado mine, adjacent to the old Boot Hill Cemetery as shown on the enclosed map. Hopefully, it should remain undisturbed and preserved there until you uncover it in 1955.
Inside, you will find repair instructions. My 1955 counterpart should have no problem repairing it - here Doc paused and again dipped his pen into the ink well. Swallowing an iron hard lump in his throat, Doc pressed ahead - so you can drive it back to the future.

Doc sighed inwardly as he re-read that statement. He was tempted to crumble the paper up and begin anew, but thought better of it and continued. Once you have returned to 1985, destroy the time machine.

Doc laid the pen down and examined what he had written so far. Would this be his letter? If it was, his future would be set for certain. He'd never see Marty again, or his life in 1985. He would be stuck in 1885. He glanced toward the open door again. Stuck was the wrong word. Free was more adequate, or happy. Not peaceful or content or blitheful, but just plain, ordinary, simple happy. Yes, this was his letter. With that in mind, Doc continued writing, knowing that this would be the last communication he would have with his friend and his former life. His last link to anything 1985. Everything had to be cared for. This was it.

Do not, he wrote, I repeat, do not attempt to come back here and get me. I am perfectly happy living in the fresh air and wide-open space, and - he added, in case that wasn't enough convincing for the teenager, I fear that unnecessary time travel only risks further disruption of the space-time continuum.

Now to make certain his other loyal companion was taken care of as well as Marty was. And please take care of Einstein for me. As you recall, I left him in my lab in 1985. I know you will give him a good home. Remember to walk him twice a day and that he only likes canned dog food.

These are my wishes. Please respect them and follow them.

And now to conclude. Doc took in a breath of clean, natural air, thinking of just the way he should say goodbye. And so, Marty, I now say farewell and wish you Godspeed. You have been a good, kind, and loyal friend to me, and you've made a real difference in my life.

I will always treasure our relationship and think on you with fond memories, warm feelings, and a special place in my heart.

Doc examined the last few lines and, finding them a satisfactory parting, signed off, Your friend - and just as he went to sign his name, he stopped and added in time - and then scribbled out his signature - "Doc" Emmett L. Brown - and dated it - September 1, 1885.

And so it was written. And so was his future. Taking the folded map he had drawn of the Delgado mine from his pocket, he slid the new letter on top and, after fitting the letter into an envelope found under the front table, scribbled Marty's name on the front and found and lit a wax stick, let the melted wax drip onto the flap of the envelope, then took a wax seal from the counter and pressed it to the flap. Doc then slid the letter and map into the grossly over-priced folder he had just purchased and took the black string attached to it and wrapped it around the case and made a tight bow.

"Okay, Charles," Doc called.

Marley returned after a moment, just as Doc was fastening his instructions of how the letter should be delivered to the folder with a small pin. He held the folder out to Marley and said: "Seventy years, Charles Marley. You waggled a good twenty dollars out of me, so I expect you to keep your word."

Marley snatched the folder from Emmett's hand and turned away from him. "I'll keep it to the best of my abilities, Brown. But not much I can do once I hit the floor. It'll be up to my descendants to carry it through then, and I can't guarantee nothin' from them. Why in Sam Hill do you want this letter delivered in seventy years anyway?"

"It's just a little experiment I have planned," Doc replied. "Sort of like a time capsule."

"An' how do you know this fella -- this McFly person -- 'll be at this place then?"

"Call it intuition, Charles. It'll be an interesting test, to see if I'm right."

Marley snorted skeptically. "I doubt it. But it don't surprise me. People're always talkin' about some of the queer things you've been doin' in town. Firs' I heard about that odd wagon you was workin' on for months, then some big contraption that spit ice, an' all yer other little inventions in yer shop."

"You heard about all that?" Doc was almost delighted by the word of mouth.

"It's a small town, you know," Marley said, as if to defend the fact that he had taken any consideration to Emmett's doings. "If it was me, I'd rally to get the mayor to send ya' packin'. But folks in Hill Valley is queer. They seem to delight in lunacy."

"Is that so?" Doc smiled drolly.

"That's the way I see it. I s'pose you fit in right nicely down there. Me, myself, I wouldn't be caught dead walkin' down Hill Valley's drag. Too many damn buffoons walkin' about. It's a real circus."

"That's the difference between you and me, Charles," Doc said as he turned to leave the post office. He looked half-way back at Marley and grinned. "What you call a circus, I call home."

Then he walked out of the post office, mounted Galileo, and rode back to his town.

 Once back in town, Doc immediately went to the Palace Saloon. Now that he had made his decision to stay in 1885, he had also made another decision. As he pushed through the swinging doors, he saw Chester, slouching over the bar, turn his gaze to him at the sound of his entrance and smile widely.

"You're back!"

"Yes," Doc said as he went to the bar table. "No Tannen?"

"Not yet. No one has any idea of when he'll be showin' up at Hill Valley, but they're all expectin' it to be soon. You sure I can't convince ya' to leave sooner, Emmett? I'd hate for somethin' to happen to ya' because of yer damned cussedness."

"Actually, Chester, I've made a decision."

"You're leavin' tonight!" Chester declared triumphantly. "Good! I'll help ya' pack yer bags!" He went around the bar to meet Emmett on the other side. "If we can't get a train out tonight we'll go to Statler's and rent ya' a buckboard."

"No, Chester," Doc stopped the bartender before he could cross to the front door. "I'm not leaving."

"You're --" Chester couldn't find the breath to finish his sentence for a moment. "You're not leavin'? Emmett, what in Sam Hill are you talkin' about? Of course yer leavin'!"

"No," Doc answered plainly. "I'm not."

"But Mad Dog --"

"Chester, this is my home now," Doc interrupted. "This place, these people, this town, this epoch is my home! I'm not going to be forced out of it. I'm not going to let some scofflaw run me out."

"But Emmett! Jus' think about this for a second!"

"I am thinking, Chester. For the first time in my life, I've found a place that I can consider home. That's not just a name. It's a feeling, an attitude ... an impression in my mind and heart! To leave now, to abandon it when I've just found it ... it's just something that I can't do, Chester."

"An' what if it ends you up with a bullet hole? What then, Emmett? You think it'll be worth it then?"

Doc lowered his head, considering deeply. "I don't know, Chester," he finally said, turning his gaze back to meet the bartender's eyes.
"All I know is what feels right for me now. And right now, I feel that I can't leave. This is my home."

"Any place can be yer home, Emmett. Any place!"

"No," Doc shook his head vigorously. "You're wrong, Chester. Any place can be called home, but there are few that feel like it. After spending the majority of my life living in a place that was my home by name and name alone, I know that to find a place that is home, and not just a name for the place you reside, is a special thing. And now that I've found it, I can't abandon it. Whether it meets me with a bullet hole or a long, healthy life, it doesn't matter. This is my home, Chester. And whatever my fate, whatever happens, whatever the future brings, I'll be home. And happy."

Chester placed his hand on Doc's shoulder and shook his head lightly in submission. "Then I surely hope it's the latter, Emmett. I'd rather yer life in Hill Valley extend for some years into the future, than to end within the week."

"And if it does, it'll be a fine week. Of that you can be certain," Doc said, lightly patting the bartender on the back. "Now," he said, leading Chester back around to the back of the bar. "How about a drink?"

"The usual?" Chester asked as he dipped down behind the table.

Doc thought about if for a long, brief moment, then nodded his head. "There's nothing else like it."