“For All Time”

Table of Contents

Thursday

September 3, 1885

10:46 AM

He was happy. And not only for the cooked hen he had just eaten which, aside from satisfying his own oft-neglected appetite, proved to be one of his favorite meals over the last eight months. No, it was more than the food and the atmosphere and the people. It just felt right. He was accepted. He was appreciated. He was wanted. Never had Doctor Emmett L. Brown been so happy. Finally, he had a place to call home.

What it was about Hill Valley 1885 that made his heart glow the scientist wasn’t certain. Yes, he felt more comfortable in these less frantic times, and yes, he felt much more accepted than he had in 1985. But it was more than that. It was something his brain couldn’t understand and analyze and hypothesize. It was a feeling in his heart and, try as he may, it was an induction that his academia-intellect could not educe, and over the last few days, he had simply given up on finding a firm solution. Sometimes, Doc mused, there were questions that not even science had the answers to. Eight months ago he would have never admitted as much - indeed, he would have debated such a notion tooth and nail - but now that he had lived it, he was in no position to dispute it. It was a mystery, and he supposed that was life, and there was nothing anyone could do about it except to accept it as such.

As he cleaned off his plate from his late-morning brunch, Doc’s thoughts shifted to more present concerns. Two days ago he had learned from Chester, the bartender of the Palace Saloon next door and Doc’s closest companion in 1885, that Buford “Mad Dog” Tannen had weaseled his way out of incarceration and still held a grudge for an incident that any man with half a brain could see was of the derelict’s own doing. Unfortunately, Tannen’s brain-capacity was lucky to be used to half its potential, and Mad Dog was using Doc as the scapegoat for his woes. Word had it that Tannen was looking to get even, but thus far he had been unaccounted for since he was released from the Plain Ridge county prison on Tuesday. That worried Doc most of all.

Tannen was laying low, waiting. And to further compound things, Chester had gotten a message a few hours earlier that the train that Marshal Strickland was due to take back to Hill Valley had been delayed. The conductor had gotten food poisoning yesterday while the train was stopped in Green Bluff and wasn’t expected to get back on schedule until later that night, if that early. If he had thought that Tannen was capable of developing such a scheme Doc would have been very suspicious about the whole matter. As it was now, though, the inventor simply chalked it up to bad luck.

Still, Doc would feel much better about the situation if he knew Marshal Strickland was back in town. It seemed he was the only person aside from Doc who was man enough to stand up to Tannen, and the only one who could put the scare in him to put his iniquities to rest for a time. Until Marshal Strickland did get back from Haysville Doc had determined to stay put in his livery and stay quiet. Although he refused to let Tannen run him out of his town, Doc wasn’t dense enough to try to bring unwanted attention to himself or make himself an easy target should Tannen be waiting for just the right moment.

It was best to stay inconspicuous, at least until things became more calm and the town had its main police force back. With that thought, Doc stood and went to his anvil in the iron room to begin work once more. After all, horses didn’t stop needing shod because Doc’s life was in danger. Hopefully, if he was lucky, Marshal Strickland would make it back to Hill Valley by the day’s end and Buford Tannen would never step foot near Doc for the rest of his natural born life.

If only life was that predictable. Unfortunately, the mystery continued.

***

As Doc was working laboriously with his iron hammer over his ringing anvil, four dark figures were riding into Hill Valley. Buford Tannen halted his stead at the Palace Saloon and his three cohorts brought their horses to a stop as well.

“Let’s try the bar first,” Tannen drawled as he climbed off of his horse and led it to the nearby hitching post. “Let’s find out where that four-flushin’ smith’s hidin’ his yellow belly.”

His men followed his lead and went after their leader as he entered through the swinging doors of the saloon.

What conversation had been going on ceased once the barflies became aware that the man ambling up to the front table bar was Mad Dog Tannen. Suddenly the good-natured chatting went silent and all eyes were upon Tannen as he stood at the bar, his men at his side.

“Bartender,” Tannen said to Chester, who had inched to the back wall when he had seen who his next customer was, “I’m lookin’ for that no-good, cheatin’ blacksmith. You seen him around?”

Immediately Chester shook his head. “No, sir, Mr. Tannen, I have not.”

“Now, you wouldn’t lie to me, would ya’, barkeep?” Tannen demanded with a sneer. “My beef’s with the smith, not you. But if yer not upright with me, his and my grudge becomes yours and mine. Ya’ follow?”

Chester, finding his breath stuck in his throat, couldn’t respond all at once. Meanwhile, Chester’s bartending assistant, Joey, who had been listening from the kitchen and had heard just who his employer was speaking with, knew just what he was to do, having gone over how to handle this exact situation with Chester only two days prior.

Out the back entrance he went, stealthily, around to Doc’s neighboring livery shop and entered through the front door which was currently set open so that customer’s could make their presence known while Doc was noisily at work at his anvil. He went to the iron room set off to the right of the building and, cupping his hands around his mouth, shouted in a loud whisper:

“Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown, ya’ hear me?”

Doc paused in the middle of his work, holding his hammer high above his head, clenching tightly to its handle, and didn’t turn around at once. “Who’s there?” the scientist asked, half-expecting to look behind and find Mad Dog Tannen aiming a pistol at him.

“It’s Joey, Mr. Brown,” came the reply. “I have to talk to you.”

Doc gazed over his shoulder and, seeing that it was indeed Joey, dropped his hammer and joined the young man in the main room of the livery. Before he began, Joey went to the front door and pulled it shut. Then, biting at his bottom lip, he wringed his hands together as he tried to figure out just how to relay what was happening.

“What is it, Joey?” Doc asked, seeing the concern in the young man’s eyes.

“It’s Tannen,” the words finally came out of the young bartender’s mouth. “He’s back in town.”

“Tannen? Great Scott!” Doc immediately rushed to one side of the livery and picked up his modified Winchester rifle, which was now equipped with a telescope atop, designed specifically for Mad Dog’s return. “Where is he?” the scientist inquired of Joey.

“At the saloon. Chester’s holdin’ him for as long as he can, Mr. Brown, but he ain’t gonna lie ‘bout anything to Tannen and I don’t blame him,” Joey replied.

“Neither do I,” Doc said honestly. “This is my problem and Chester shouldn’t feel obligated to protect me.”

“I suspect he’ll be here any minute, Mr. Brown. You best be expectin’ him,” Joey said.

Doc raised his rifle and peered through the telescope on the top shaft out the side window of the livery and out to the bar. Through the saloon’s window he could see Tannen wagging his finger at Chester, bullying anyone who was smaller or meeker than him - just like a Tannen. It looked like Chester was finally caving in, as a wide grin appeared on Tannen’s face as Chester was speaking.

“You’d better get going, Joey,” Doc said as he lowered his rifle from his eye. “You don’t want to be around when Tannen shows.”

“Ya’ don’t have to tell me twice, Mr. Brown,” Joey said as he made to leave. He paused as he went to open the front door and said: “Just be careful, Mr. Brown. This town won’t be the same without ya’.”

“Don’t worry, Joey. I’ll be fine,” Doc assured him.

Chester’s assistant nodded and quickly leaked out of Doc’s livery. Doc picked up his rifle and returned his sight to the saloon and saw that Buford had now turned to leave and was heading out of the bar. Doc lowered his firearm and let out a deep breath. It was time to face his destiny. Resting the rifle on his shoulder, he slowly walked to the front door and, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped out onto Hill Valley’s main drag.

He spotted Buford and his men, but they hadn’t seen him yet as they were chattering with one another like school children as they sidled toward Doc’s smith shop. Quickly Doc cocked his gun and that sound seemed to consume Tannen’s attention as his eyes instantly snapped up to see Doc standing a few paces from his livery, rifle pointed in his direction, the flaps of his long trench coat fluttering lifelessly in the dead air. Tannen immediately reached for the pistol in his gun belt but paused when he heard Doc holler:

“It’ll shoot the fleas off a dog’s back at five hundred yards, Tannen, and I’ve got it pointed straight at your head!”

Buford glanced at his men who then, as if following some unsaid command, reached for their own pistols.

“Just try it, Tannen!” Doc commanded with a snarl. “Don’t think I’ll do you any favors!”

Buford stopped his men with a single hand gesture, then ambled a few paces closer to Doc.

“I heard you’re looking for me, Tannen,” Doc said, keeping his rifle aimed at Mad Dog who was still a fair distance away. “Well, you’ve got me. So what do you want?”

Tannen grinned wickedly. “You owe me money, blacksmith.”

Doc knew that this was certainly not about financial restitutions, but didn’t have the gumption to suggest otherwise. Instead, he kept his face stone and played along. “How do you figure?”

“My bay threw a shoe!” replied Tannen roughly. “An’ seein’ as you was the one who done the shoein’, I say that makes you responsible!”

Doc didn’t let up. The only thing a bully understood was contempt. “Well, since you never paid me for the job, I’d say that pretty much makes us even!”

“Wrong, smithy!” Buford returned angrily. “I was on my horse when it threw the shoe and I got throwed off! An’ that caused me to bust a full bottle of Kentucky Red Eye liquor! So the way I see it, you owe me five dollars for the whiskey and seventy-five dollars for the horse!”

Doc shook his head with annoyance. “Look, Tannen, if your horse threw a shoe, bring it back and I’ll reshoe it!”

“I told ya’ that horse is dead, blacksmith!” Tannen returned furiously.

“That’s your problem, Tannen!” Doc answered boldly.

“My bay’s dead because you don’t know how to fasten a shoe,” Buford shot at the scientist. “Well, eye for an eye, blacksmith.”

Doc quickly raised his rifle again and prepared to fire, knowing fully what Buford’s intentions were, but the cutthroat didn’t make a move. He simply smirked and slowly shook his head.

“This ain’t over, smithy,” Tannen said calmly. “Next time I’m around, you ain’t gonna know I’m comin’. If I were you, I’d be lookin’ behind me from now on. ‘Cause one day, when you least expect it, yer gonna get a bullet in yer back! Eye for an eye, smithy.”

Then he turned around and gestured to his men. “Let’s go, boys!”

With that, Tannen and his gang returned to their horses and rode out of Hill Valley. Doc released a wearied and relieved sigh once they were gone and it wasn’t long before Chester, who had no doubt watched the whole ordeal from the saloon, left the bar and hurried to his side.

“You all right, Emmett?” Chester asked as he hustled toward the overwrought scientist.

“Fine, Chester, just fine,” Doc muttered as he ran his hand through his white, stringy hair.

“Why didn’t ya’ just pay him?” Chester asked with concern. “I know it’s a good amount of greenback, Emmett, but surely eighty dollars ain’t worth yer own life!”

“Chester, if you think Tannen came back here to collect a ransom from me, I’m afraid you don’t know Mad Dog as well as you think,” Doc answered plainly. “Believe me, Tannen doesn’t need the money. He wants the retribution, and no amount of cash is going to make him change his mind.”

“I know it, Emmett,” Chester shook his head sadly. “Jus’, it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

“I wouldn’t give Tannen the satisfaction of watching me wallow before he shoots me down, anyhow, Chester,” Doc said matter-of-factly.

“I jus’ hope Marshal Strickland gets back soon. I knew this town wasn’t ready for him to take a vacation,” Chester said with a sigh.

“That makes two of us, Chester. How about a drink?” Doc asked.

“I sure could use one,” Chester said only half-jokingly as Doc laid his arm over the bartender’s shoulders and led him back toward the saloon.

* * *

Doc relaxed at the saloon awhile with a bottle of Moxie, then returned to his shop to return to his blacksmithing duties. Just as he one sitting down to get to work there came a holler from the front door. Doc stood and peeked out of the iron room into the main room to see that Hill Valley’s mayor, Hubert Dawson, had entered and was waving a paper at him.

“Hubert!” Doc cried with relief and he went to the mayor’s side.

“Sorry to interrupt yer work, Emmett,” the mayor apologized. “You remember las’ week when you volunteered to meet the new school teacher at the station after she came in?”

“Oh, yes,” Doc nodded, having completely forgotten about the favor he had promised. “Quite so.”

“Well, we just got word, she's comin’ in tomorrow. Here are the details for ya’,” Hubert said, handing the paper he held to Doc. “Thanks for all yer help, Emmett.”

“Sure thing, Hubert,” Doc said as he accepted the paper.

The mayor then turned to leave, but just as he was about to go out the door, he turned and called: “Oh, and by the way, her name’s Ms. Clayton. Clara Clayton.”

“Got it,” Doc said.

Hubert turned and returned to his buckboard outside and drove off. Doc sighed inwardly as he went over the description on the paper. He hadn’t been too happy about having to “volunteer” to pick the schoolmarm up at the town meeting on Saturday. He didn’t like doing extra-curricular activities, knowing full well that his actions would have repercussions on the future. That excluded, Doc still wasn’t much in the mood for doing favors. Personally, he just wanted to crawl into bed until his life in 1885 returned to normal.

But Doc wasn’t one to welsh on a promise, and so Doc made a mental note to be at the Hill Valley train station at 8:00 tomorrow morning when Ms. Clayton’s train was due in. He would drop her off at the cabin next to the schoolhouse a few miles out of town as the note said and be done with it. Certainly bringing a schoolteacher from the train station to her new home couldn’t change history. She was certain to get there one way or another anyhow.

With that, Doc folded the paper into his pants pocket and returned to the iron room. The day was already half over and Doc had hardly begun to get to work on his daily chores. There was time enough to worry about gunfights and schoolmistresses once the obligations he had to the town were completed. And, considering Doc currently wasn’t in any mood to put much regard into such annoyances anyhow, he was thankful to have the distraction.

* * *

The rest of the day passed without any further incidents. Mad Dog hadn’t been heard from again, Mayor Dawson was unaware that any encounter between Doc and Tannen had taken place (for the jovial gent’s own good - he didn’t have the time nor the fortitude to fret over outlaws such as Tannen and, thus far, hadn’t needed to since he brought in Marshal Strickland earlier in the year), and Doc, though it made it necessary for him to have a late supper, finished all of his day’s smithing work. The only cause for concern since Tannen’s re-emergence in Hill Valley was the fact that Marshal Strickland’s train had not yet come in and there was still no word from the telegraph office as to what the current situation in Green Bluff was.

It looked like Doc was in for another restless night. For the past two evenings Emmett had found sleeping even more of an ordeal than usual. But he supposed knowing that there was a murderous outlaw lurking about who was anxiously awaiting the chance to put a bullet into his back could have that effect. As Doc settled into bed this was (understandably) the most prominent thought dancing through his mind.

As he pulled his sheet up to his chin and laid back on the mattress, Doc told himself, as he had done for the past two nights, that the doors were locked and that he could depend on Chester or Joey, who took over the bartending duties late at night (Chester didn’t dare entrust the care of the bar to his assistant during waking hours when the Palace received its most “distinguished” customers), to be wary of Tannen’s arrival when (not “if,” the scientist reminded himself) he returned. His logic wasn’t much solace. Though he tried to push Tannen out of his mind, Doc couldn’t seem to stop distressing over the whole ordeal. He tossed and turned in bed, kicking at his sheet and becoming more and more annoyed as the night went on.

He slept eventually, though it didn’t seem like for more than an hour or two. But at least that was something and it would hopefully allow him to last the day. If he was lucky, Friday would be much more uneventful than the previous day. At most, he hoped to be greeted by Marshal Strickland upon his return from Haysville and to finish his week’s work without a hitch. Oh, and of course he had to pick up the schoolteacher in the morning. But, inconvenient as it was, he didn’t suppose it would impact his day much. He would simply greet her with a polite “How d’you do,” escort her to her new home, and drop her off with a gracious “Pleasure to meet you,” and then it would be back to life as normal. No Tannen, no favors. Just life as it had been.

He couldn’t hope for a more perfect day, all things considered. But with his luck, Doc sincerely doubted that the reality of tomorrow’s events would ever match his suppositions. Life, as the scientist had learned, seemed to have an agenda all to its own, and rarely did the results live up to the possibilities.

If only life was that perfect.

* * *

Friday

September 4, 1885

7:32 AM

Doc slept later into the morning than he was accustomed to and didn’t arouse enough energy to rise from bed until a half hour after his alarm went off at 7:00, whereupon he awoke to a cold plate of eggs, bacon, and toast, courtesy of his self-made breakfast conveyor. Doc ate the meal, as he had come to learn that food wasn’t as easily acquired nor as preservable as it would be one hundreds years from now, but opted to make himself a fresh cup of coffee. Though he was rather exhausted due to the lack of sleep he had gotten in the past three days, Doc made a concentrated effort to hurry himself so that he would be at the train station before the locomotive’s due arrival time.

After finishing his breakfast, Doc gathered Galileo and Archimedes and, after a brief visit to the Palace Saloon to check in with Chester to make sure all was well, was off to the train station at the town’s entrance. The train wasn’t due in for a few more minutes, so Doc stopped in at the Telegraph to see if there was any news on Marshal Strickland’s train.

“Actually,” the telegraph operator said as he sifted through a stack of scribbled papers, “I jus’ got a message less than a half hour ago. Ah, here she is,” he said, plucking the paper out of the batch. “Let’s see ... Says here that the number eleven train from Green Bluff is set due to leave within the hour. I wouldn’t be surprised to have it get here by noon at the latest.”

“Thank you,” Doc told the man, a wide smile creeping onto his face as he left the telegraph to await the 8:00 train’s arrival. That was certainly good news. Perhaps the day would go as smoothly as he hoped. Lord knew he needed a courtesy.

Within a few minutes locomotive 131 came chugging into the Hill Valley train station and came to a stop. Checking his pocket watch, Doc noted with pleasant surprise that the train was actually five minutes early. Yes, indeed, everything was going better than expected. These days were rare, but the scientist supposed he was due for a bit of good luck.

Doc waited patiently on the dock of the train station as a few people began to pile out of the passenger car. Stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, he turned to survey the railway men who were busy unloading some assorted lading. A few workers had just set down the bells that were to go in the upper corners of the courthouse, and Doc watched as they returned to the boxcar and, after a few moments, hauled out another of the clock tower’s accessories. Doc stepped forward to get a better view, his interest piqued, as the men were now unloading the clock that was to be set in the gable wall of the courthouse onto a wagon on the dock.

It was quite a transcendent moment for the scientist and he viewed the timepiece with awe, its hands frozen in time, just as they would be decades later. The party commemorating Hill Valley’s official declaration of city-hood twenty years ago was tomorrow, and Hubert had wanted to bring the clock in and activate it to kick off the festival. A symbolism of sorts, he had said, for the beginning of a new era in Hill Valley; a fresh start, Doc hoped, for his own life as well. Ever since he had envisioned the flux capacitor thirty years ago (or seventy years from now, depending on how you perceived it) Doc had been obsessed with time, and he saw the inauguration of the clock to be the perfect moment to re-discover himself and his life now that he had resolved to stay put in the Old West, as the stopping of it had once been on that stormy November 12th night.

Doc ceased his musings and glanced back and forth to see if the schoolteacher had yet left the passenger car. A slender woman wearing a heather-colored dress stood on the dock a few paces away, her back to him. At her sides she held her luggage as she stood before the train tracks and watched as the train, the railway men having finished unloading all of the cargo, prepared to chug off once more. Doc approached the woman slowly and, clearing his throat, he placed his hand on her shoulder and said:

“Excuse me --”

However, he wasn’t able to finish his expression as the woman, so startled by Doc’s utterance and touch, released a sharp: “Oh!” and suddenly spun around and unwittingly smacked the scientist on the top of his head with the telescope case she held, flattening his hat. Flustered and embarrassed by her actions, she suddenly dropped her luggage and, cupping her hands together on her chest, exclaimed: “I’m sorry ... sir! I-I didn’t see you ... I mean, I didn’t know you were there! Are you all right?”

A bit dizzy, Doc rubbed his head and left his eyes pointed at the ground, trying to regain his wits. “I’m fine,” Doc assured her after a moment as he lifted his hat from his head and reshaped it. “I have a hard head,” he quipped and, returning his hat to the top of his head, turned his eyes to hers.

Doc’s mouth hung open and he found that he had no words. She was breathtaking! She had thin, enchanting lips, a perky nose, and dainty, thoughtful brown eyes. Her curly auburn hair was tied in a bun under a straw bonnet, and the way she looked at him so sorrowfully made the scientist’s heart glow.

Neither of them spoke for some moments. Finally, the woman shook her head and said: “I must apologize, sir, for my frivolous behavior. I was just waiting for the gentleman the mayor had sent to pick me up, the town’s blacksmith. I’m afraid he may have found more important things to occupy his time with - typical,” she added, almost to herself. “I was just about to go into town to rent a buckboard when you startled me.”

“Then you must be Miss Clayton,” Doc said, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Clara. Did the mayor ask you to pick me up?”

“That’s right,” Doc answered. “I’m Emmett. Emmett Brown. I’m sorry I was late. On occasion I tend to fall into illusory trances and lose all sense of reality.”

“No need to apologize, Mr. Brown,” Clara told him. “I can certainly relate to losing sense of reality. I suppose the blacksmith couldn’t make it?”

Doc hesitated for a moment. “Not exactly,” he replied. “I am the town’s blacksmith.”

“Oh,” Clara said, surprised. “I hope I didn’t offend you, Mr. Brown. You didn’t seem like the blacksmith type.”

Doc frowned, somewhat upset to be judged so quickly based upon his personal appearance - he had gotten enough of that back in 1985. “I know I may be a few years older than most men in my profession, Miss Clayton, but my physical age has nothing to do with --”

“Oh no,” Clara interrupted, gently shaking her head. “I didn’t mean it that way, Mr. Brown. I just didn’t picture a man of your dignity to be doing menial labor. It doesn’t seem ... becoming of you.”

Doc considered her words for a moment and then decided that she meant no offense by them. “Well, Miss Clayton,” Doc replied as he bent down to pick up Clara’s fallen luggage, “there is more to me than bending iron. But out west you have to take advantage of what opportunities you’re given.” Lifting up her bags, Doc led Clara to the hitching post he had tied Galileo and Archimedes to. “Blacksmithing,” he continued as they walked, “was the opportunity I was given. But just because it happens to be my métier, it doesn’t mean that it’s my passion.” Here the scientist paused as he worked to secure Clara’s baggage to the back of Archimedes’ saddle.

“What is your passion then, if I may be so bold?” Clara asked, as she watched Doc strap her holdall to the horse.

Doc finished tying her bags to the steed’s saddle and looked up at Clara. He smiled then, seeing her serious, inquisitive face looking upon him and remembering just how beauteous she was. “I’m a scientist by design,” he answered.

“Science?” Clara asked eagerly. “What sort of science? Astronomy? ... Chemistry?”

“Actually, I’m a student of all sciences,” Doc replied. “There’s something about how mathematical equations and formulas, how the human mind can decipher the essence of life and translate it into letters and numbers so that it makes sense, that’s truly amazing to me. It’s almost as if our very existence is connected to its practice. There’s not a greater art form I can think of.”

Clara viewed Doc for a long moment before she breathed in and spoke: “Ever since I was a child I had always been fascinated with astronomy. It’s as if the stars and the planets were designed and constructed in such a way that when you look up at the night’s sky, you feel almost as if you’re a part of them and they’re a part of you. As if there was a grand design of some kind and you’re communicating with the heavens.”

The two stared at each other for a long moment and didn’t speak. Finally, Doc blinked and made a reply: “That seems to be everything,” he said as he glanced at the baggage he had strapped to Archimedes. “I’ll show you the way to the schoolhouse. Can you ride horseback, Miss Clayton? If not I can rent a buckboard from Mr. Statler.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t have you go to that trouble,” Clara told him. “I’m a very capable rider, believe it or not, Mr. Brown.”

“Emmett,” he corrected her. “And I have no doubt of your prowess, Miss Clayton.”

She gave Doc an appreciative smile as she crossed him and climbed aboard Galileo. Doc followed her example and seated himself on Archimedes’ back.

As Doc took the reins of the horse to spur it forward, Clara called over to him: “And you may call me Clara, Mr. Brown ... Emmett. All things being equal, after all.”

Doc smiled drolly back at her as Clara brought Galileo forward so that the two horses now strolled side by side as they crossed onto Hill Valley’s main drag. As they passed through downtown Hill Valley, Doc pointed out to Clara the more significant venues, such as the meat market, Mr. Statler’s horse trade and buckboard rental shop, the mercantile store, the doctor’s office, the Wells Fargo bank, and of course, his blacksmith shop.

“You’ve come at just the right time,” he added, motioning with his head up at the banner hanging between the doctor’s and undertaker’s shop.

“Dance, food, games - Saturday night,” she read. “I suppose there’s no better place to get acquainted with everyone than at a party.”

“Don’t worry,” Doc said when he noticed her anxious expression. “Most people in Hill Valley are quite amiable. Believe me, once you settle in you’ll never want to leave. I, myself, was just passing through - ohhh, it was about eight months ago. My buckboard broke down and the place grew on me so much that I decided to stay put. You couldn’t find a better place to call home.”

“Well, if the people are as gracious as you, I’m sure I’ll find it very welcoming,” she smiled affectionately at Doc. “It’s just so much to get used to. It’s nothing like the hurly-burly of Trenton. So much freer and livelier. That’s why I left New Jersey. Life was easier - I had everything I could have ever wanted - but it wasn’t simpler. It was ... noisy, complicated. Too much want for wealth and power. Too much need to be better than everyone else. I just needed a place that was more tranquil. More genuine.”

“I think you’ll find it quite pleasant,” Doc assured her as they left Hill Valley’s main district behind and headed west.

They chatted some as Doc rattled on about Hill Valley and its people. Neither were forthcoming when it came to inquiries of their past, Doc for temporal reasons, and the scientist didn’t think it appropriate to try to elicit knowledge of Clara’s history when he was so reluctant to divulge his. So they rode in content silence, with Doc breaking in every now and again to offer some new bit of information on Hill Valley, or Clara piping up to ask a new question, and within a half hour they had reached the schoolhouse and the lodge next door which Clara was to make her new home.

As they came to a stop in front of the picket fence surrounding the home, Doc climbed off of his horse, went to Clara’s side, and extended his hand to her: “Allow me,” he grinned coyly.

“Merci,” Clara smiled as she took Emmett’s hand and slipped off of Galileo’s back.

Doc then unfixed Clara’s bags from the back of Archimedes’ saddle and began to collect the luggage to carry over to the house.

“Let me help you with those,” Clara said, going to Emmett’s side.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Doc said as he struggled to pick up the luggage in his arms. “I’d be happy to get these for you.”

“I’ve had enough chivalry to last me a lifetime, Emmett,” Clara objected, taking a bag and her telescope case from Doc’s arms. “You don’t have to treat me like a glass trinket. I’m a very capable person.”

Doc watched as she walked away from him and, flipping open the fence door, went to the front door of the home. Doc hastened after her as she set open the door and peered into the fully furnished house. She went inside and Doc followed after her.

“You can set those down there, Emmett,” she told him, pointing to a space in front of the fireplace.

Doc obeyed her and then watched as she began to examine her new home.

“Clara,” Doc spoke after a moment. She turned to look at him. “I hope I didn’t offend you - I didn’t mean to insinuate that you weren’t as capable as I or anyone else. I was just being -”

“Gentlemanly,” Clara finished for him. “I realize that, Emmett. But all my life I’ve been placed in a lower tier and thought of as inferior because of my gender. That’s one stigma I wanted to leave behind in the east. Out here I have the chance for a new beginning. I want to be as important to this town as you or anyone else in it. And treated with the same dignity. Do you understand?”

“I do indeed,” Doc nodded after a moment. “I didn’t mean any disrespect, Clara. I just didn’t want you to think of me as being discourteous.”

Clara smiled warmly at him. “Well, thank you, Emmett. I shouldn’t have been so judgmental. It’s just, most men --”

“I’m not like most men, Clara,” Doc interrupted her. “Once you’ve known me long enough, I’m sure you’ll see that.”

“I hope to have that opportunity,” Clara replied roguishly.

Doc couldn’t help but smirk at the reply. “Well, I’d better get going now. Mayor Dawson will be along later today to bring you the horse you paid for and officially welcome you to Hill Valley.”

The schoolteacher nodded with understanding and with that, Doc turned and left Clara’s new home. As he went to open the fence door, Clara suddenly called from the lodge’s doorway: “Emmett, you are going to the festival tomorrow night, aren’t you?”

Doc spun around to look at Clara and answered: “Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Clara paused to consider her next question and, rubbing her lips together, asked: “Will you be ... accompanying anyone?”

Doc quickly shook his head. “No, no one. I’ll be alone.”

Clara smiled warmly upon hearing this and said: “Then I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow night at the festival.”

“I’ll be there,” Doc assured her. Then, after unfixing his eyes from Clara’s, he left the lodge and returned to Archimedes and Galileo.

As he patted the steed’s mane, he looked up through the corner of his eyes to the doorway where Clara stood watching him. Then, after a moment, she turned around and went inside, closing the door behind her.

“Let’s go, fellahs,” Doc said as he tied Galileo’s reins to Archimedes’ saddle. “I’ve got a lot of work to do before the party tomorrow night.”

As Doc climbed aboard Archimedes, Galileo whinnied lightly.

“I know it, Galileo,” Doc said as he tapped Archimedes’ reigns and sent the steed forward. “She sure is something. Intelligent, charming, self-sufficient, beautiful - it’s a rare breed, huh?”

Galileo neighed roughly and swayed his tail back and forth.

“And she seemed to like me too, don’t you think?” Doc asked as the schoolhouse and lodge faded into the distance. “I don’t blame her for having misgivings about me. After all, this is the 19th century ...”

Doc suddenly stopped his horse when he heard himself speak those words aloud. Great Scott! What was he thinking? He couldn’t even consider beginning a relationship with Clara, no matter how he felt. Friendships were one thing, but a romance was something else altogether! Any relationship he embarked upon could cause a serious alteration to the future, leaving the time continuum ripe for paradox. Still, he couldn’t just ignore his heart, could he?

It couldn’t be possible, anyhow, to fall in love at first sight, Doc told himself. Why, it was just his hormones, that was all. Nothing more. He would have felt that way about any pretty, single girl he had met who hadn’t turn him away. No, there was certainly no way it could be love, not after having just known her for less than an hour! Such a notion was ridiculous to the point of absurdity!

By tomorrow Emmett was certain that Clara Clayton would be the furthest thing from his mind. Even if she did seem to be the perfect woman, it wasn’t as if there weren’t others like her out there (not that Doc could start a relationship with any one of them, anyhow). And Doc was sure there were quite a few many flaws that he hadn’t notice when they first met. No, he had to get the notion of love out of his mind immediately! His opportunities for love had passed some years ago, somewhere between the devising of mind-reading devices and flux capacitors, and it was too late to excavate them.

Tomorrow night at the party he would just have to let Clara know that he didn’t have any time for love. There was no reason to lead her on. Besides, he wouldn’t want to interrupt some future relationship she was meant to have and erase some future lineage from history.

No, he would have to live it out alone. So was the destiny of a man who was living in the past. For all the happiness it brought him, it meant that he would have to stand still, frozen in time, while everyone else moved forward. That was his fate. And, as he led Archimedes forward back toward Hill Valley, Doc made it a point to never forget it.

* * *

After dropping in at the Palace Saloon to inform Chester of the marshal’s expected arrival that afternoon, Doc went straight home. Already he had lost more than an hour of work and he hoped to get something of substantiality completed before lunchtime. He went to work in the iron room, forging a couple of hasps and staples for Sam Johnson. As he sat at his anvil, hammering iteratively at the metal, Doc couldn’t seem to keep his mind from ruminating over Clara Clayton. He would try to muse over something else, like his current quandary involving Buford Tannen, but his thoughts continued to shift to Hill Valley’s newest citizen.

She was unlike any woman Doc had ever met before. In his younger days most of the girls who courted him were indolent, self-absorbed temptresses interested more in his family’s fortune than in himself. He had always been a sentiment when it came to matters of the heart, but years of unlove (coupled with the senseless passing of his parents at the tender age of twelve) led him to take a more reasonable outlook of life in the study of science. Having felt somewhat jaded by the lack of true love given to him after his parent’s death, matters of the heart seemed less important to him, and matters of the mind garnered full attention of his life’s passion.

It wasn’t until he met fourteen-year-old Marty McFly that he felt that love that so long ago had been lost to him. While he greatly cherished the teenager’s friendship and hoped to make certain that Marty was looked after and cared for the way he had wished he was growing up, Doc knew that his devotion to science could not waver, and continued toiling to complete his greatest invention. As time wore on and Marty grew up, Doc realized that, though their friendship was as strong as ever, the need for his presence in Marty’s life had dwindled since he had met his future wife and had begun to carve out his own destiny. The scientist had taught the kid all he needed to know and the time had come for him to face life’s challenges on his own. And it was time for Doc to move on as well. He wanted Marty to have the life that he could never have and didn’t want to be a hindrance to that. He had never planned to return from the future, but to retire there, tinkering with the new technology as the years passed him by until the evil of life had abandoned him. If it hadn’t been for the upheaval of Marty’s future family, Doc never would have returned.

Amazing how one’s destiny could change its course so abruptly - another of life’s ripple effects. Having already determined to leave his present life behind, it had made the decision to stay in 1885 all the more easier, knowing that, should he return to 1985, or even to 2015 (though he didn’t care as much for the tumult of the future as he had thought he would), he would never feel as comfortable as he did in the Old West. He felt calm and at peace and, most important of all, wanted. It was the perfect place to live out the rest of his life.

Except now, while pounding iron with his smithing hammer, he was not thinking of the recent threat to his life, but of a woman he had just met and had only known for a half hour’s time. It was just a phase, he was sure. He went through them every now and again when he became lonely and didn’t have anyone to confide in. It would pass, as it always did. Still, even as the cuckoo clock sounded signaling noon and Doc set aside his hammer and tongs and left his smithery to have lunch at the Saloon, the smiling face of Clara Clayton hung in his mind and seemed to grow ever more distinct with each passing second.

* * *

“What’ll it be, Emmett?” Chester asked as Doc approached the bar.

“I don’t plan on staying long, Chester. Just a bowl of potato soup,” the scientist answered as he lowered his head into his crossed arms.

“You’re workin’ too hard, Emmett,” Chester said as he poured the scientist a glass of Moxie.

“Lost an hour of work today,” Doc glanced up at the bartender. “Have to put in some more time if I’m gonna get back on schedule.”

“Like I said, ya’ work too hard,” Chester reiterated. “I’m doubt anyone’ll get in a twitter over it if their spicks or linchpins come a day late. ‘Sides, all the folks know you’re a man of the first water. They know you wouldn’t pull nothin’ on ‘em.”

“And I’d like to keep it that way,” Doc added as he took a sip from his glass.

Chester affably shook his head. Nope, there was no changing Emmett. He was as veritable as they came. After giving Joey Doc’s order, the bartender turned back to the disheveled blacksmith and asked: “So Emmett, what’d ya’ think of the new school teacher Hubert brought in from the Old States? Heard she’s a real odd stick - guess that’s why she’s a rangin’ spinster, eh?”

Doc scrunched his face at Chester. “Actually, she seemed like a perfect gentlewoman,” he replied huffily. “In fact, I’d assume she had her share of beaus, but none worthy of her affections.”

Chester furrowed his brow curiously. Then a wide smile spread across his face. “Why, Emmett! It seems to me that you’ve taken a likin’ to this petticoat.”

Placing his hands on his hips, Doc viewed the bartender quizzically. “Come now, Chester.”

“I can see it in yer eyes, Emmett!” Chester declared. “Yes sir, yer undoubtedly sweet on ‘er. So, how’d ya’ make out?”

“Chester, please,” Doc returned. “Why, I’m practically twice her age! Besides, I’m too old to be dealing with such poppycock.”

“Yer never too old for poppycock, Emmett,” the bartender answered with a wink. “What happened? Did she give ya’ the mitten?”

Doc glanced curiously at Chester, but quickly shook off his 19th century vernacular. “Believe me, Chester, there’s nothing between me and Clara. I won’t let there be,” he added to himself.

“I know ya’ better ‘an that, Emmett,” said Chester. “But if ya’ want to keep it clandestine I won’t make a fuss over it.”

“There’s nothing to keep secret,” Emmett returned with a huff. “Now let’s leave it at that.”

“Sure, Emmett, sure,” the bartender nodded, filling up Doc’s shot glass again.

As Doc lowered his head to take a drink, he suddenly heard a loud bang! as the saloon’s swinging doors were thrown open and a voice called to him: “I had a feeling I’d find you here!”

Doc turned around against the bar and watched as the figure slowly approached the front of the saloon and stepped in front of him.

Doc raised his head to stare solemnly into the man’s eyes. Then a smiled crept onto his face. “Marshal Strickland!”

“Emmett,” Marshal Lawrence Strickland said and thrust out his hand for Doc to shake.

Doc accepted the handshake as Marshal Strickland continued: “Glad to see you’re as well as ever. You all right?”

“Better than ever, Marshal,” Doc beamed. “And I can tell you, I’m glad to have you back.”

“We all are,” Chester piped in as he poured Marshal Strickland a shot of his usual whiskey. “That ol’ mudsill Mad Dog’s been kickin’ up a row since you been gone, Marshal. An’ I’d be willin’ to copper a bet that it ain’t no coincidence that he shows up jus’ a few days after you left town.”

Marshal Strickland snorted in reply. “I wouldn’t put it past the ol’ rip. Don’t worry, Emmett,” Strickland said, turning to the scientist. “I’ll make certain that Tannen pulls in his horns. There won’t be any lawlessness while I’m around. You just go about business as usual. I’ll see to it that the law’s upheld.”

“It’s good to have you back, Marshal,” Doc said sincerely.

Marshal Strickland nodded once and, after downing his shot and tossing a quarter onto the bar table, turned around and left the bar.

“Sure am glad to see Marshal Strickland back in town. ‘Bout time we got some normalcy back ‘round here, eh, Emmett?” Chester asked as he watched Marshal Strickland exit.

Doc turned back to the bar and, lifting up his drink, stared into his shot glass at the green liquid that swirled around inside and didn’t respond.

* * *

Saturday

September 5, 1885

12:47 PM

The town of Hill Valley was in a regular tizzy by lunchtime, led foremost by Mayor Dawson himself. The town’s commemorative festival was still eight hours away, but Hubert wanted everything to be perfect. Emmett stayed put in his blacksmith shop the whole morning. He didn’t want to get involved with the commotion the mayor was stirring trying to get the party arranged and he still had a few more tasks he wanted to complete before lunch.

Having seen Marshal Strickland the day before, Doc had instantly felt less anxious about the vow Mad Dog had issued on Thursday - which only cleared the path for his consciousness to focus on Clara Clayton moreso. Indeed, his daydreams had transferred to his night dreams and, try as he may, he could not get the schoolteacher extracted from his brain.

That would take care of itself though, the scientist told himself as he finished his latest smithing task and left the iron room to prepare his lunch, when he made it clear to Miss Clayton that he could not have any sort of a romantic relationship with her. Besides, what would a beautiful, interesting, intelligent woman like that want anything to do with him, anyway? He wasn’t exactly an adonis, after all. She probably hadn’t even given a second thought to him after they had parted ways. But it was best not to leave anything unresolved, and Doc wanted to make it crystal clear to his subconscious that Clara Clayton was a complete nonentity in his life.

After making himself a hamburger placed between two bread slices (a delicacy not yet known to the current era) and finishing his lunch, Doc decided to get some fresh air and see how the preparation for the festival was coming along.

He stepped outside of his smithery and surveyed the progress so far. Things looked to be coming along just fine. The dance floor was just about all set up and the musicians Hubert had hired were currently practicing some songs from the bandstand. A few men were currently working to set up some food and refreshment stands, while others were busy decorating the outdoor stage and the frame of the clock tower with chinese lanterns. Carnival booths were also set up around the town square and the various participants were busy preparing the activities for the partygoers. Mayor Dawson was some yards away, getting the courthouse’s new clockwork set up on a platform so that he would be able to release the pendulum and set the gears to the clock in motion at the appropriate time to kick off the celebration.

Doc slowly strolled past the festival arrangement and paused just before the clock and watched as the mayor was being coached by a workman on how to start the timepiece. After a few moments, Hubert happened to notice Emmett. He looked out to him and, raising his hands from his hips, called:

“Well, Emmett, don’t keep me in suspense! What d’ya’ think?”

Doc half-smiled. “I think it’ll be a celebration to be remembered for all time, Hubert!”

Hubert nodded once, hard, at the comment and a smug expression took over his face. “Damn right!”

With that, Doc turned away and continued down the side of Hill Valley’s main drag, looking up to the sky every now and then and taking in the fresh air. It was something he never tired of and was a common activity of his when he felt he needed a break from his drudgery. He paused just outside the Stetson hat store when he saw a familiar figure emerge from the dress maker. After thanking someone inside, Doc watched as Clara Clayton left the shop with a long box in arm and began walking toward the horse Mayor Dawson had supplied to her, tied to a hitching post a few paces away. It was at this time that she noticed Doc standing off to the side of the street and, smiling upon seeing him, she approached the scientist.

Doc’s expression remained flat as he watched Clara step up to him as he considered just what he was going to say. He hadn’t expected to see Clara until that night and hadn’t gotten all his thoughts together on how he was going to let her down.

“Emmett, I didn’t expect to see you until tonight,” Clara said pleasantly.

“I was just taking a stroll,” Doc replied. “It helps me gather my thoughts. What brings you into town, Miss Clayton?”

“Clara,” she corrected him. “I just thought I’d get a feel for everything, make acquaintance with some of the folks. I met someone you know ... Mr. McFly. He seemed like I nice fellow ... and I wanted to buy a new dress for the party,” she added, lifting up the box she held. “They say first impressions are lasting,” she explained quickly. “I wouldn’t want anyone to think down upon me because I wasn’t in full fig for such an important occasion.”

Doc nodded with understanding. “Clara, can I speak with you for a moment?”

“Of course, Emmett. What is it?”

“It’s about the festival tonight,” Doc began.

“Oh? You are still planning on attending, aren’t you?” she asked anxiously.

“Uhh, well, yes,” Doc replied.

Clara smiled and nodded with relieved satisfaction. “What is it you wanted to tell me?”

Doc took in a deep breath and prepared to lunge ahead. “Well, Clara, I ... I have to say ... I hope you ...”

“Yes, Emmett?”

“I hope you ... save a dance for me,” Doc finally said.

Clara smiled chipperly. “As many as you want. I’ll see you tonight, Emmett.”

Doc nodded in reply and watched as Clara left him and returned to the dress shop to untie her horse, climb aboard, and ride off, giving a short wave to Emmett as she disappeared from Hill Valley.

Doc shook his head with frustration. His mind kept telling him that he had to break it off, stop anything from developing before it was too late! But his heart wouldn’t let him. He just couldn’t tell Clara he didn’t want anything to do with her when he knew in his heart’s heart that it wasn’t the truth. But then, what was he going to do? He couldn’t pursue their relationship. It was unethical as a scientist and dangerous for the entire space-time continuum! Something would have to be done, and it would have to happen soon, for the sake of existence itself.

Doc stared out to the frozen clock a few yards away. Tonight was supposed to be a new beginning for him, a new start. The start of what, though, Doc was no longer certain. Whatever it was, he had to figure it out. Whichever prevailed, brain or heart, by God he had to do something!

And tonight was the night for it.

* * *

Buford Tannen sat at the edge of Solewood Pond, slowly sharpening his knife against a grit-stone, and stared into the dark water, watching the reflection of the setting sun upon the rippling lake. As he sat there, his head lowered in careful thought, one of his men came up behind him and asked: “So, what we doin’ tonight, boss?”

“We’re goin’ to a party,” Buford answered without looking up. “There’s a big celebration in that jerkwater town, Hill Valley.”

“Hot damn! A fandango! Wait ‘til I let the fellahs!” the man cheered.

“We ain’t goin’ there for no pleasure,” Buford snarled. “We got us business to take care of.”

“Business? But everyone’ll be there, Buford. If we so much as swindle a game of Faro they’ll send us right outta town,” his cohort replied. “You remember the las’ time we made trouble in Hill Valley.”

“I remember,” Buford grumbled through gritted teeth. “Don’t worry about the law. There’ll be too much commotion to keep an eye out for everyone, anyway. An’ last I heard Strickland’s train still ain’t come in yet. ‘Sides, there’s only one matter that we need to take care of before we high-tail it out of Hill Valley for good.”

“You still itchin’ to beef the blacksmith?” his man asked.

“He was as good as dead the firs’ time he crossed me,” Buford said with a sneer as he held his sharpened knife up and gazed at his reflection in the steel. “He jus’ got a couple mo’ months of livin’ than he ought. That chiseler’ll be a goner before nightfall. Mark that.”

“I’ll tell the boys,” his cohort said and then left Buford’s side to inform the other men of the night’s agenda.

Buford returned his eyes to the pond once more and watched the reflection of the sun dip beyond the horizon. Yep, that blacksmith was bound to meet his maker sooner or later - no one put down Buford Tannen and lived! That was a lesson the blacksmith was going to learn once and for all.

And tonight was the night for it.

* * *

Doc closed up his shop for the night and went to the Palace Saloon to wet his whistle before the big festival began.

As Chester poured him his shot of Moxie, he said to him: “So, Emmett, I hear that you’ll be escorting Miss Clayton at the dance tonight.”

“And where did you hear that from?” Doc inquired with agitation.

Chester huffed a chuckle. “You do work too hard, Emmett. You’d have to be locked up in that blacksmith shop all day to not hear the rumors that’re goin’ round.”

“What rumors?” Doc demanded.

“There ain’t no slander to worry about, Emmett,” Chester assured him. “Jus’ hearsay that you an’ Miss Clayton hit it off and are sweet on each other, that’s all.”

“And what exactly did this hearsay derive from?” Doc asked.

“Well, some of the townspeople saw you an’ Miss Clayton talkin’ outside the dress shop earlier today,” Chester explained. “An’ Mrs. Dawson happened to be there when Miss Clayton came by to pick up her dress, an’ they got to talkin’ …”

“Oh, Mrs. Dawson,” Doc said with understanding. The mayor’s wife was the town’s official rumormonger.

“Now, Emmett, there’s nothin’ to be ashamed about,” Chester told him. “Everyone thinks it’s about time you found a nice lady to settle down with, an’ Mayor Dawson knows about the troubles Miss Clayton’s had in the past an’ thinks you’d make a fine beau. From what Mrs. Dawson said, she’s mighty sweet on you. An’ from the way you was actin’ yesterday, I’d bet you feel the same way.”

“Clara is a wonderful woman,” Doc sighed longingly to himself. “Any man would be lucky to be with her. But it’s just not meant to be.”

“An’ why’s that?” Chester asked.

“It’s just … We’re from two different worlds,” Doc attempted to explain without being too expository. “Destiny’s already determined that we shouldn’t be together.”

“Seems to me,” said Chester thoughtfully, “the fact that you and her chanced to meet each other in such a fortuitous way that destiny determined just the opposite, don’t ya’ think?”

Doc finished off his drink of Moxie, gave Chester his pay, and left the bar. No, that’s something he’d rather not think about.

* * *

He stepped out of the Palace Saloon and began toward the town square. The festival would officially begin in ten minutes and Doc wanted to be there to witness the activation of the clock. As he made his way over to the location of the clock where a crowd was gathering around, he was stopped when a hand fell onto his shoulder. Doc spun around to face the figure.

“Marshal!” Doc exclaimed. “You startled me.”

“Sorry, Emmett,” Marshal Strickland apologized. “Jus’ wanted to let you know that you don’t have to worry ‘bout any trouble tonight like we had on the Fourth of July. There ain’t gonna be any firearms allowed tonight, and I’ll be at the town’s entrance to make certain of it. I won’t make the same mistake twice. Tonight’s a night for friends and family, and I won’t have there be any difficulties.”

As if to prove it, he pulled in the small figure that stood next to him and gave him a gentle squeeze.

“How you doing, kid?” Doc asked the marshal’s son.

“Right fine, Mr. Brown,” his son answered politely. “It’s the firs’ time my pa ever let me go patrolin’ with ‘im. I’m’a be a sheriff just like my pa when I get older.”

“I’m sure you’ll make a fine sheriff,” Doc said with a laugh, then turned back to Marshal Strickland. “Thanks for the assurance, Marshal.”

Marshal Strickland nodded once, then led his boy back to their horses. After helping his son climb aboard his horse, Strickland climbed onto his own steed and led his son back toward the main entrance of Hill Valley. Doc watched them fade into the distance, then hurried over to the clock.

After a few minutes, Mayor Dawson climbed onto the clock stage and was greeted with a round of applause. After waiting a few moments for the noise to die down, he went into his opening speech:

“Ladies and gentlemen! As mayor of Hill Valley, it gives me great pleasure to dedicate this clock to the people of Hill County! May it stand for all time!”

With that there was a great cheer from the crowd.

“Tell me when, gentlemen,” Hubert said to some men who were keeping track of the time. The clock’s hands were stuck on eight o’ clock and Hubert was to activate it at that exact time.

“Three,” the men called out.

“Two,” the crowd joined in. “One! Now!”

Mayor Dawson released the pendulum and the gears instantly starting moving. A small band standing before the clock instantly began playing “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” while the audience applauded with approval.

“Let the festivities begin!” Hubert cried, and with that a set of golden fireworks lit the sky.

Doc shook his head in fascinated disbelief. Never would he have thought that things would end up like this. Here he was, thirty years after having stopped the clock in order to send his friend back to the future, watching it be turned on for the first time.

As he stood watching the gears spin, Doc saw the flash of a box camera from the corner of his eye. Tonight was a momentous occasion, for him especially, and the scientist thought it fitting that he have a souvenir of the event. He approached the portrait photographer and spoke with him. After settling on a price and giving the man his pay, Doc stepped in front of the clock and waited as the man set up the view camera, pausing to stick his head under the curtain and position the camera, and then smiled awkwardly as the photographer set off the flash powder lamp and snapped the photograph.

Doc gave the man the address he could have the picture sent to once it was developed and then made his way to the front of the dance floor. He stood there for a while, watching the band play a bouncy number. After a while he turned away from the troupe and looked out to Hill Valley’s main street. From the shadows the scientist saw Clara Clayton, wearing a low-cut (low-cut for the nineteenth century anyway) white dress decorated with little purple flowers designs and a broach with a purple flower and her name attached to it pinned to her shoulder, emerge and come toward the dance floor. She wore her hair down with a coronal of flowers wrapped around a small bun on the back of her head. Doc couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was. But he had to forget all about that. He had made up his mind. He was to once and for all put an end to their relationship before it progressed any further. Noticing Emmett, Clara smiled and approached the steps of the dance floor.

“Good evening,” Doc said with a small bow.

“Evening,” Clara replied.

Doc took in a deep breath. It was time. “Clara, can I talk to you?”

“Of course, Emmett,” the schoolteacher responded.

Doc glanced around. Then, taking Clara’s hand, he led her down the steps. “This way.”

“Emmett, what is it?” Clara asked as he brought her around to the left side of the dance floor, past a food stand and just a few paces away from the bandstand. Doc stood just before the steps on that side of the floor and, placing his hands on her shoulders, moved Clara so she stood just before him.

He struggled for a long moment to speak.

“Emmett, what’s wrong?” Clara asked again as she studied his fretful expression. “Why are you acting so strangely?”

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Doc finally said. “And it’s not going to be easy.”

Clara didn’t respond, simply watching the scientist’s face intently.

Doc proceeded. “Clara, I can’t see you anymore.”

Clara blinked with surprise. Slowly she shook her head. “I-I don’t understand ... I thought ...”

“I’m sorry, Clara,” Doc interrupted., “but I can’t have a relationship with you.”

“I ... I thought you cared about me, Emmett,” Clara said after a long moment of silence.

“I can’t,” Doc stressed.

“Can’t what?” Clara demanded.

“I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

Clara swallowed hard. “Was it just an act, Emmett? Were you just ... pretending to care about me so you didn’t hurt my feelings?”

Doc lowered his head and didn’t speak. Why did she have to make this so difficult?

“Emmett,” Clara said, moving closer to him. “If you don’t care about me, then just say so. That’s all I need to hear, and I’ll leave you for all time.”

Doc looked up at her. All he needed to say was that he didn’t care about her. Doc opened his mouth, but found that he could not say the words. But he had to! He tried again, but still they caught in his throat. He just couldn’t lie to her.

“Emmett, I want to tell you something,” Clara then said.

Doc looked intently at her, but didn’t speak.

“This may seem rather silly, Emmett, but I thought since you had mentioned how you were somewhat of a daydreamer that you may ... understand.”

Again, Doc didn’t reply, his expression blank.

“It’s ... I have this dream, Emmett,” Clara said solemnly. “Almost every night I have it. I dream that I’m boarding a train, and when I get on I’m greeted by a loving husband and our beautiful children, and we’re all so gay and merry to be going on a wonderful trip together. Then the train begins to quake and we all huddle together and hold each other close, it’s so terrifying. Then, suddenly, the locomotive is shot into the sky, like the grand explosion of a volcano, and fires into the heavens where we are all to live together on the moon alone in peaceful solitude for all time. Only, I always wake up before we reach our destination, and I’m left to wonder if we’ll ever make it, and sometimes I think that I’ll never know the answer.”

Emmett stared at her for a long while, too astounded to speak.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” Clara finally said with a sigh. “Anyone I’ve ever told about it has always looked at me the way you’re looking at me right now, as if I’m a silly scatterbrain. I just hoped maybe you’d understand,” she added, crestfallen.

Doc stared at Clara, still unspeaking, trying to collect all his thoughts as he heard the band behind them start playing the song “Clementime.”

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Brown. I promise to never speak to you again,” Clara said with a depressed laugh and spun around to leave.

“Clara, wait,” Doc called to her. She obeyed, but didn’t turn around. Doc took a step forward and then paused, considering his next words. Why hadn’t he just let her go? He just couldn’t. Not when ... “I don’t think it’s silly at all,” he finally spoke.

Clara turned around and quickly studied Doc’s face to try to detect if he was mocking her. “You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings,” she said. “By now I’m certainly immune to that.”

“But I understand,” Doc replied. “I understand wanting to ... leave this world, abandon it, leave it all behind - To wanting a true love, a family. That’s exactly why I stayed here in Hill Valley! It’s the same reason I was determined to live at the center of the earth after my parents died - to escape the pain and the loneliness and to find a place where I was accepted and loved for the person I am. Believe me, Clara, I understand better than you realize.”

Clara stared deep into Emmett’s eyes and slightly shook her head. “Emmett, no one’s ever truly understood me before. It’s as if my whole life, I’ve always been alone, an outcast. Every man I’ve ever met always turned me away because of who I am, because they couldn’t accept me for what I am.”

“I know the feeling,” Doc said. “Clara, I’d never judge you like that, because I always hated being judged. When I look at you, at who you are, and look into your soul and see your true person, I can’t help see anything but beauty. And I don’t see how anyone could see any differently.”

Suddenly, Clara let out a sob and wrapped her arms around Doc’s waist and laid her head on his shoulder. Doc remained stiff for a moment, then slowly embraced her in return. After a long while, Clara looked up to him, her cheeks wet and her eyes teary, and asked: “Emmett, do you believe in destiny?”

Doc stared blankly at her. “I’m not sure.”

“What I mean is ... Do you think it was just an accident that you and I both ended up in Hill Valley?” she elaborated. “The only two people in the world who understand each other? Is it possible that it’s all just some grand serendipity?”

Doc simply stared at her in response, turning over thoughts of ripple effects and paradoxes in his mind, and trying to conclude if those endings came about by chance, or if they were forged by some unknown force, like a blacksmith at his ringing anvil, with a set design in mind.

Sometimes there were questions that not even science had the answers to.

“I don’t know about destiny,” Doc slowly replied. “I can’t tell you about God or about the hereafter or what our soul is. All I know is what’s in my heart.”

“And what is that, Emmett Brown?” Clara asked gently.

Gazing down at her enchanting face, he answered simply and honestly: “You.”

Suddenly, before Doc knew what was happening, they were kissing. For that brief moment it was as if there was no pain in the world and there was nothing but him and Clara, together, and the universe and time existed solely for them alone. He wrapped his arms around her and never wanted to let go. If it were possible he would have held that woman in his arms for all time.

As their lips finally parted and they stared into each other’s eyes, neither one knowing what to say and at the same time not feeling the need to say anything, Doc suddenly felt a jab in the small of his back. Then came a gruff voice, whispering in his ear: “I told ya’ to watch yer back, smithy!”

At that moment, the ethereal world Doc had found himself transported to instantly shattered and reality cruelly re-enveloped him.

This couldn’t be happening. His feud with Mad Dog Tannen was supposed to be a thing of the past. He was supposed to be safe, protected, free from harm. Buford Tannen was supposed to be removed from his life for all time.

“Excuse me,” Doc heard Clara say from what seemed like miles away. “I don’t know who you think you are, but we were speaking, if you don’t mind.”

“Get ‘er,” Tannen commanded with a flick of his head.

His three men obeyed and instantly advanced upon Clara, wrapping her arms behind her back and one of the men covering her mouth with his hand.

“Leave her out of this,” Doc commanded.

“Walk, blacksmith!” Tannen ordered. “Toward those elms over there.”

Doc resisted, fuming as he saw Clara struggling to break free of the men’s grip, her cries muffled through the hand covering her mouth.

“Now!” Buford barked. “Or yer old lady’ll get the bullet meant for you.”

Doc glanced sidelong at Clara, and then obeyed, marching forward, Tannen following just behind, the barrel of his gun still thrust into the scientist’s back. His men followed them, forcing Clara along as she desperately wiggled to get free.

“It’s a derringer, smithy,” Buford whispered into the scientist’s ear as they moved toward a small group of elm trees a few yards away. “Small but effective. The las’ time I used it, the fellah took two whole days to die. Bled to death inside, it was real painful. I guess that means that you’d be dead by about supper time Monday.”

Tannen stopped Doc as they came to the skirts of the throng of elms. Not a soul was present, all the townspeople gathered back at the festival in the town square.

“What do you want?” Doc demanded as he watched Mad Dog’s men bring Clara a few feet away from them and hold her there.

“You know what I want,” Tannen’s hot breath stung on the back of Doc’s neck.

“If it’s the eighty dollars ...” Doc began.

“It ain’t the money,” Tannen spat back. “You made a fool of me, smithy. I ended up in the hoosegow fer two months ‘cause of you. I’ve killt men fer lookin’ at me the wrong way, blacksmith! It was only a matter of time.”

Tannen cocked the pistol.

Doc swallowed hard, not certain what to do or say. His face was chalk-white and his every muscle tense. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. He wasn’t supposed to die like this. If this was fate, then the scientist was more certain than ever that God was an apparition and that life was as meaningless as a question with an answer unfounded in the laws of science.

“See ya’ in Hell, blacksmith,” he heard Tannen mutter.

He felt the shot in his back and everything seemed to become distorted and obscure. He tried to reach behind and touch the bullet-wound as if to prove to himself what had just happened, but found he was unable to do so and, suddenly becoming too weak to stand, he collapsed forward like a lumbering tree onto the ground where he laid, unmoving.

Tannen glanced behind him and saw that no one on the dance floor had heard the shot, it having been muffled in the blacksmith’s back. “Let’s go!” he ordered his men.

“What about her?” one of his henchman inquired, motioning with his head toward Clara who they still had secured.

“Let ‘er go,” Tannen said as he walked past the school teacher. He paused before her and, grinning wickedly, added: “You won’t tell no one, will ya’ sweetheart? You know what’ll happen if ya’ do.”

Being unable to respond as her mouth was still covered, Clara simply stared back at him with wide, timid eyes. Tannen gave her a look-over and then, satisfied that he had put the scare in her, stamped off toward Hill Valley’s main entrance. His men released Clara and hustled after him and all four disappeared into the night.

Clara stood where she was for a moment, her hands clasped to her chest, and she found she was unable to speak. Her eyes were filled with tears and she was trembling all over. She slowly walked toward Emmett and kneeled down next to him and lowered her head to his.

“Emmett?” she managed to whisper into his ear.

All that replied was Doc’s harsh, hurried breathing.

Clara lifted her head from Doc’s and attempted to call into the night: “Help!” but it came out as a mere squeak. She tried again, forcing her voice to rise and the words to come out. “Help! Help me, please!”

A few yards away, Seamus McFly and his wife, Maggie, carrying their four-month old son, William, had just approached the food stand outside the dance floor to purchase a dinner. His wife declined any as they had eaten before that departed for the party and so Seamus paid the vendor for his meal and lifted his fork to his mouth to take a bite of the meat. He paused just before he was about to chomp down and stared off into the distance.

“What’s the matter, Seamus?” his wife asked him.

“Do ya’ hear that, Maggie?” he asked her.

“Hear what?”

Maggie listened intently and then, through the clamor of light-hearted party chatter and slow, rumbling music she heard the same noise her husband had. “What is that?”

“It sounds like a cry of help,” Seamus deduced.

He dropped his dinner plate on the food stand and hustled toward the sound. Maggie hesitated, then followed, calling after him: “Seamus!”

He left the town square and paused to listen for the cry again. He heard it once more, and Seamus moved toward his right, having a better idea of where the plea was coming from now. He jogged toward the elm trees a few yards away and there he found, leaning over an undefined form, Hill Valley’s new schoolteacher, who he had just been acquainted with earlier that afternoon.

“Why, Miss Clayton!” Seamus exclaimed. “Whatever’s the matter?”

Clara snapped her eyes to the direction of the voice. Struggling to stand and finding her legs almost too weak to carry her, she whimpered: “Mr. McFly. Help. I-It’s Emmett.”

“Emmett?” Seamus asked as he helped Clara up. Then he noticed what the object Miss Clayton had been lying over was. His eyes went wide and he whispered to himself: “Oh my God in Heaven.”

Maggie appeared then with her child pressed to her bosom, and released a terrified gasp when she saw Doc’s still body on the ground.

“H-He’s been shot,” Clara explained through a blubber of tears.

“Maggie, go find Doctor Merchant,” Seamus instructed. “Tell him it’s an emergency!”

“Aye,” Maggie nodded, then sprinted back toward the festival.

She scrambled onto the dance floor and, stretching her neck to project her voice through the crowd, called: “Doctor Merchant! Doctor Merchant!”

She paused with every dancing couple she passed and inquired whether they knew where Doctor Merchant was. Soon, the dance floor was abuzz with the news of an “emergency” that required the doctor’s attention. The dancing stopped and it wasn’t long before the hired band ceased its playing. Finally, one man remembered seeing Doctor Merchant at the saloon, and Maggie hurried through the crowd and to the bar, leaving the confused party-goers to jabber amongst themselves about the undisclosed incident.

Maggie burst through the swinging doors and called into the bar: “Doctor Merchant? Doctor Merchant, are you in here? It’s an emergency!”

She gazed around the bar. She had garnered most of the patron’s attention, causing the piano music to stop. She called into the crowd: “Has anyone seen Doctor Merchant?”

“Mrs. McFly,” a deep voice came from behind.

Startled, Maggie spun around and saw that Doctor Merchant, a tall man with a thin, gray beard and a wise face, was now standing before her.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her.

“Doctor Merchant!” she exclaimed. “Come quickly! It’s Mr. Brown!”

Without hesitating, he followed Maggie out of the bar and through the crowd in the town square (with a few pedestrians following them to see what the commotion was), and to the elm copse where Seamus McFly was currently leaning down next to Emmett, trying to get him to speak or acknowledge his presence in some way.

“What happened to him?” Doctor Merchant asked as he took out his spectacles from his breast pocket and put them on.

“Doctor Merchant!” Seamus said with relief and stood up. “It’s Emmett Brown, Doctor. He’s been shot!”

“Shot!” the doctor exclaimed. “Where?”

“The bullet wound’s in his back, Doctor,” Seamus answered. “Will he be okay?”

“I don’t know,” he answered as he kneeled down next to Doc. “Emmett? Emmett, can you hear me?”

“It’s no good, Doctor. He’s not responding,” Seamus informed him. “But he is still breathing.”

“There’s no blood,” the doctor confirmed as he flipped away the flap of Doc’s jacket and untucked his shirt from his pants to get a better view of the wound. “Seamus,” he looked up to the Irishman. “I don’t have my tools on me, so we’ll have to take him back to my office. Get yer buckboard. It’s too reckless to try to carry him there, e’en if it is just a stone’s throw away. Hurry up now!”

“Aye,” Seamus obeyed, and hustled to get the buckboard he and Maggie had ridden into town on.

Clara stood watching it all happen through tear-stained eyes, finding it impossible to react in any other way. A crowd had gathered round them and was watching this whole ordeal with chagrin as they murmured amongst themselves.

“Give ‘im some room now, everyone!” the doctor called, and the crowd parted some.

Chester, who had followed the crowd to the elm trees when he heard Maggie say Emmett’s name in the bar, now made his way to the front of the gathering and saw Emmett lying on the ground with Doctor Merchant tending to him.

“Emmett ...” he whispered to himself as he watched the blacksmith struggling to breathe.

“They said he was shot,” he heard someone say behind him. “Right in the back. Damned shame.”

“Tannen!” Chester gasped, recalling just then the threat Mad Dog had issued two days before. There was no doubt in the bartender’s mind who the culprit was. Spinning around, Chester rushed back into the crowd, calling as loudly as his vocal cords would allow him for Marshal Strickland.

It wasn’t long before Seamus returned to the site by way of his buckboard, and he quickly climbed out and went to the doctor.

“All right, folks, give us a hand here!” called the doctor, and so a few men from the crowd gathered around Emmett.

“Lift ‘im up an’ rest ‘im in the buckboard,” instructed the doctor.

The men kneeled down and raised Emmett off of the ground.

“Easy now, easy!” cried Doctor Merchant. “Don’t move ‘im too much now! Nice an’ slow!”

The men obeyed and carefully carried Emmett to the buckboard and rested him inside.

Chester appeared from the crowd once more, this time with Marshal Strickland in tow. He pointed at the buckboard, and Strickland hurried over to the carriage.

“What’s goin’ on here?” demanded the marshal.

“Mr. Brown’s been shot,” answered the doctor quickly. “We’ve gotta get ‘im back to my office.”

“Did anyone see it?” demanded Marshal Strickland. “Did anyone see who shot him?”

“Miss Clayton,” said Seamus as he climbed into the front of the buckboard and Doctor Merchant climbed in the back with Emmett. “She was the only one present I believe, Marshal.”

With that, Seamus took up the reins to the horses and tapped them lightly, crying: “Gaddup!” and the buggy went forward slowly over the uneven ground toward Doctor Merchant’s office a few yards down the road.

The crowd was silent for a long while and it wasn’t until Deputy Smith arrived and ushered everyone back to the party that anyone dared move or speak.

Clara had been watching everything silently and felt it was all a dream. It felt all too surreal, and for the longest time she could not convince herself that everything that had just happened in those few moments was real. Bending down, she picked up Emmett’s hat, which had fallen to the ground, and wrung the brim in her hands. Then, as if a lantern was lit in her mind, reality struck like the sound of a tolling bell, each ring louder and more manifest than the last.

“Emmett,” she said breathlessly to herself, and at once moved forward toward the doctor’s office.

“Miss Clayton,” Marshal Strickland stepped in front of the schoolteacher and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Let go of me!” Clara cried, trying to break free. She had to be with Emmett!

“Miss Clayton, stop!” the marshal commanded, but she continued to resist. “Did you see the man who did this, Miss Clayton? Did you see the man who shot him?”

Clara stopped struggling for a moment and nodded once. “Yes, but I’d never seen him before, Marshal.”

“Did you hear his name?”

“No,” Clara said.

“Did he have a scruffy brown beard, a leathery face, sallowed teeth, dark eyes?” asked the marshal.

“Yes, that’s him,” Clara answered at once. “I’ll never forget that man’s face.”

“Tannen,” Marshal Strickland nodded with confirmation, then released his grasp of Clara.

Without hesitating, Clara dashed away down the road and left Marshal Strickland standing there, with only the deputy and Mrs. McFly and her son still remaining behind.

Without a word, Marshal Strickland raised his shotgun, cocked it, and stamped forward.

Deputy Smith darted ahead of him into his path and, grabbing the collar of his jacket, cried: “Marshal, you can’t!”

“It’s been a long time coming, Deputy, and I aim to see that Buford Tannen is put to rest before the day ends,” replied Marshal Strickland coldly.

“You can’t!” repeated the deputy. “That description fits half the men in this town!”

“Dammit, Smith, you know as well as I that only one man coulda’ done this!”

“Maybe so,” he answered, “but if I recall, you were the one who wanted a courthouse, you were the one who wanted to uphold the law. If you go offin’ a man before he’s found guilty it’ll be your badge. We have a court of law, dammit, Lawrence! Let’s use it!”

Marshal Strickland considered the deputy’s words for a long moment. Finally, releasing a long breath, he consented. “Gather the men,” he instructed. “I want Tannen brought in alive. But if he tries anything - if he so much as looks at anyone funny, nobody should hesitate to pull the trigger on their gun, understand?”

“Understood, Marshal,” said Deputy Smith, patting the marshal on the back. “How many men you want?”

“All of ‘em,” returned Strickland solemnly.

“All of ‘em?” repeated the deputy incredulously.

Strickland nodded in reply and turned away from his deputy to stare up at the dark night’s sky. “We’ve got a manhunt on our hands.”

* * *

Seamus and Doctor Merchant carried Emmett into the doctor’s office, Merchant lifting him up by his shoulders and Seamus carrying his feet. They laid him face-down on a broad operating table and Doctor Merchant quickly went to fetch his medical bag. He returned and, resting the bag on a table nearby, snapped it open and began to dig out some equipment.

“Seamus, hand me that lantern, will ya’?” asked the doctor.

The Irishman obeyed and, after lighting the lantern in question, carried it over to him. The doctor held it over the bag as he pulled out the instruments he wanted, then set it up on a hook above the table. The docotor put a stethoscope around his neck and, picking up a pair of scissors, went to Emmett and began cutting at his shirt to remove it from his body.

“You’d better go now, Seamus,” said the docotor without looking up. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

“Will he be all right, Doctor?” Seamus asked.

The doctor ripped away the clothes and grabbed a pair of tweezers from the table. Turning up the flame of the lantern, Doctor Merchant scrutinized the wound in Emmett’s back. “You’d better go,” he repeated.

Lowering his head, Seamus turned around and left the doctor’s office. He stepped onto the dirt road and, sticking his hands in his coat pockets, gazed dolefully up at the night’s sky.

“Mr. McFly!” Seamus glanced behind him and saw Clara Clayton sprinting toward him, holding up the skirts of her dress as she ran. She paused in front of him and, panting breathlessly, said: “How is he?”

Seamus shook his head. “I’m not certain, Miss Clayton.”

Clara studied Seamus’ face for a moment and, not being able to come to a conclusion of whether there was some inner meaning to his words, spun around and went the front door of the doctor’s office.

“You’d better not go in,” Seamus called after her. “I think the doctor wants to work on him alone.”

“I have to be with him, Mr. McFly,” Clara objected. “I need to be there for him.”

Without waiting for a response, Clara opened up the front door to the doctor’s office and stepped in. She stood in the threshold of the medical room and watched as the doctor leaned over Emmett’s form.

“Doctor, will he be okay?” asked Clara tentatively.

Doctor Merchant glanced up at her. “If you don’t mind, miss, I’d like some privacy to deal with my patient.”

“I won’t leave him,” Clara returned obstinately.

The doctor looked up at Clara and, seeing the devotion in her eyes, said: “You can wait in the living room. But it will be some time. A wound like this is very delicate business.”

Clara hesitated, not wanting to leave. Instead, she stood where she was, watching the doctor restlessly for a few moments with her hands cupped over her bosom.

“Miss,” said the doctor as he continued to examine the wound. “You have to wait in the living room. I’ll keep you informed on how he’s doing. There’s nothing you can do for him right now.”

Finally she relented with a deep sigh and turned to enter the living room through the door across from her. She paused before leaving and said: “Please, doctor, please save him. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him now.”

“I’ll do my best, miss,” the doctor answered.

With that, Clara retreated to the living room and Doctor Merchant continued his examination.

* * *

When he left the doctor’s office and entered the living room, Doctor Merchant found Clara kneeling before his coffee table, elbows resting on the surface, hands clasped together, resting her forehead against them, eyes closed as she prayed silently to herself. She heard him enter and immediately looked up at him. She didn’t speak, but just stared at him with glassy eyes, afraid of what the answer would be if she asked the question.

“Sit down, miss,” said the doctor as he walked up to her.

Clara slowly edged herself onto the couch and wrapped her arms around her waist. The doctor sat down next to her and, taking her hand, said: “There’s nothing I can do. I’m very sorry.”

Her stomach churned and wrenched and her chest constrained and she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. “Is he ...” she managed in a hoarse whisper.

“No,” the doctor told her. “But the wound’s too deep. He’s bleeding from the inside, but the bullet’s stopping it from flowing so fast. If I pull the bullet there won’t be anything to stop the bleeding. If I leave it in there, it will just prolong it.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Clara pleaded with him.

The doctor shook his head. “An operation on this type of wound would be murder. I can try, miss, if you would like, but it won’t do any good.”

“Isn’t there any hope?” she asked helplessly.

“In my professional opinion, no,” said the doctor. “But if there would be a miracle, any chance of survival, it would have to be if the blood would stop flowing. If the bullet struck him in a certain way where the blood may stop flowing on its own so that the bullet can be removed without causing any further blood loss, then he may survive. But the odds are one hundred to one. If he survives the night, there may be a chance. If he lives past Monday, then I dare say that he may make it. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up, ma’am. The odds are so slim.”

Clara slowly shook her head. “No, he must... I know it. If there was anything I’ve been more certain of in my life, it’s that we were meant to be together. It’s destiny.”

“I hope you’re right, miss,” said the doctor as he stood from the couch. “All we can do now is wait. You can stay here if you like. You can sleep on the couch. I’ll bring you a pillow and blanket.”

“Thank you,” said Clara. “Can I ... Can I see him?”

The doctor nodded. “Just be careful around him. I’ll be in to check on him from time to time.”

The doctor disappeared into another room then and Clara slowly stood. Quick, short breaths escaped her as she walked slowly to the medical room and, opening the door, peered inside. She went to the operating table and stood over Emmett’s form, listening to his labored breathing. Suddenly, her legs became weak and she collapsed onto her knees. Grabbing Emmett’s limp hand, she squeezed it tightly and whispered: “Please, God, don’t take him away from me.”

She sat there, at his side, holding his hand in hers all through the night until she fell asleep some hours later. Even while half-asleep, though, she held fast to his hand and would not leg it go.

* * *

Sunday

September 6, 1885

4:37 AM

She awoke early in the morning. Drowsily, she lifted her head and saw that Doctor Merchant was giving Emmett another examination. She watched him quietly. When he finished, and saw that Clara was now looking up at him, he shook his head solemnly at her, then went around the table and helped her to her feet.

“How about some breakfast?” he asked her.

“I don’t think I could eat a thing,” she answered as she held her arms across her chest.

The doctor nodded in understanding. “Maybe you should get some fresh air.”

Clara shook her head. “I won’t leave his side.”

“All right,” the doctor consented. “But keeping yourself bottled up in here won’t help him any.”

“It can’t hurt,” returned Clara sharply. And if there was some part of Emmett that was still conscious, Clara wanted him to know that she was there, waiting for him, and that she would never abandon him.

She stayed with him all through the morning, and sat in a chair a few feet away from the operating table, and found herself praying almost continuously. The doctor brought her a book to read, a copy of “Jane Eyre,” after 11:00 and reading it helped keep her mind off of her worries some, though hardly a paragraph was skimmed before she turned her eyes from the page to see if there was any change in Emmett’s condition.

At noon, the doctor told her that he was going to the Saloon for lunch and asked her to join him, but Clara once again declined. Though she still said she was not hungry, the doctor promised to bring her some food back, just in case she changed her mind.

Fifteen or so minutes later, as Clara was once again glancing up from her book to check on Emmett, she heard a soft knock on the door and it peeked open. In poked the head of Seamus McFly, and he asked: “Miss Clayton, may I come in?”

Clara nodded and Seamus entered into the room. He glanced at Emmett and saw that his condition had not improved, so he returned his gaze to Clara and didn’t have the fortitude to look back on the ailing blacksmith.

“The doctor thought I should tell you, as it might brighten your spirits some,” said Seamus. Clara didn’t speak, and so the Irishman continued. “Well, Chester got word early this mornin’ that Marshal Strickland hunted down Buford Tannen last night. He couldn’t reel in his party, and they made an escape through Coyote Pass, but make no mistake, they got Tannen and he’s been jailed with not bail. All they need is for you to come down and identify ‘im. You may have to take the stand at court, if’n you’re willin’.”

“I will be,” said Clara said after a period of silence. “Just as soon as Emmett’s better, I’ll do whatever I can to have that man hanged.”

Seamus’ mouth hung open in confusion for a moment before he finally snapped it shut. From what the doctor had told him, Emmett Brown was as good as dead. He looked back at Emmett’s still form, then back to Clara who was still looking up at him.

“Aye, when he’s better, Miss Clayton. Nobody expects you to leave him until he’s fully recovered. We all understand how much you care for him,” Seamus said graciously.

Clara viewed him skeptically, trying to determine if there was any sarcasm or pity in his voice, but quickly decided that it was better she not know. “Thank you,” she replied simply.

Seamus nodded once, then turned and left the room. Clara went on reading, tapping her finger nervously against the book cover, and all the story was a blur as hope for her optimism to hold true cluttered up her mind and distracted her to the very last word.

* * *

It went on like that for the rest of the day, Clara sitting a few feet from Emmett, reading from a pile of books Doctor Merchant had brought into her, and the doctor coming in every hour or so to check on his patient, always the same diagnosis. Clara didn’t eat supper, and by midnight the doctor had gone to sleep. Still she was at Emmett’s side, trying her best not to fall to sleep, because she wanted to be there when he awoke, wanted him to know that she never stopped believing, never stopped caring.

Sometime after 2:00 that morning, Clara found herself dozing. She awakened with a start when her ears caught the sound of groaning. Groggily she stood and suddenly realized that the noise was coming from Emmett. She stumbled over to the table and, kneeling by his side, listened. He groaned heavily and his eyes shot open, red and dry.

Clara gasped and almost fell backward. “Emmett?” she looked down at him. “Can you hear me?”

“Marty,” she heard him mutter. “Future ... time ... lost ...”

He groaned loudly again and then drifted back into unconsciousness.

“Emmett?” Clara spoke. “Emmett!” He didn’t respond.

She jolted up and quickly fled out of the room, calling for Doctor Merchant as she went to his bedroom and banged on the door.

After a few moments the doctor appeared, a robe about his form, and asked wearily: “What is it, Miss Clayton? Is Emmett ...”

“He spoke,” she returned. “He-he was talking ...”

He gazed at her skeptically, then went forward to the medical room, Clara following behind him. Hovering over Emmett’s form, the doctor parted the scientist’s eyelids and looked into his glassy eye. He moved one of his fingers back and forth before his eye to see if it would follow, but it remained still.

“He spoke!” Clara asserted. “I heard him! I think he may have been trying to tell me something, but it didn’t make any sense ...”

The doctor stood up straight and looked at Clara. “Don’t worry, Miss Clayton, this isn’t uncommon. He may very well drift in and out of consciousness until ... Well, in any event, you shouldn’t be worried. In fact, you should take it as a sign that he’s still fighting, that he hasn’t given up.”

“Do you know anyone named Marty?” she asked him. “Emmett said something about someone named Marty and the future.”

“Not to my recollection,” answered the doctor. “But tomorrow I’ll talk to Chester and see if he knows anyone in Hill Valley by that name and if he has any connection with Mr. Brown, if it pleases you.”

“Thank you,” said Clara graciously.

“If anything else should happen,” said the doctor, “be sure to let me know.”

“I will,” she assured him, and the doctor left and returned to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Clara went to her knees and looked fiercely at Emmett’s face. He was as still as before, as if he had never woken up. But he was awake! She had heard him. She couldn’t have just imagined it, and the doctor said it was common. But was he humoring her, or was it the truth? For a moment, she felt as if she was losing her sanity. Had he really woken up, or was it all a dream?

“Emmett,” she whispered, her lips so close to his face that her breath would have tickled the skin below his nose. “Emmett, please come back. I need you. I can’t live ...”

She burst into tears and lowered her head onto the table. Taking his hand, she squeezed it tightly and remained where she was, curled up on the floor, weeping, never letting go.

* * *

Monday

September 7, 1885

12:23 PM

“How is he, doctor?” Chester asked as Doctor Merchant came up to the bar.

“Fading in and out of consciousness,” replied the doctor gravely. “It’s only a matter of time now.”

“Did you tell her?” asked the bartender.

The doctor simply shook his head as Chester poured him a shot of whisky.

“Don’t you think she should know?”

“Believe me, Chester,” replied he, throwing back the drink, “if you had seen the look on that poor woman’s face, you wouldn’t have had the heart to tell her either. She really loves that man.”

“I could tell Emmett felt the same,” replied the bartender. “I’ve known him for a while, and never did he seem so smitten. The look in his eyes, you could just see it. Must’ve been love at first sight. Damn that Tannen!” he added furiously, pounding his fist on the bar table. “Emmett Brown was a fine man. He didn’t deserve to die. Not like this.”

“They never do,” said the doctor. “Tell me, Chester, do you know anyone named Marty? Anyone in Hill Valley go by that name?”

Chester rolled his eyes to the top of his head and considered it for a moment. “Nope. Can’t say that I do. Why do ya’ ask?”

“Miss Clayton. She said that Mr. Brown said something about a ‘Marty’ in his mumblings. She thought maybe it meant something, but most likely it was just gibberish. I promised her I’d inquire about it.”

“Can’t say that I know any Marty’s in Hill Valley,” Chester said. “An’ none that would be related to Emmett, anyhow.”

“I’ll let her know,” Doctor Merchant told him. “How ‘bout some lunch?”

“Sure,” answered the bartender, who signaled Joey to get the doctor’s steak ready. “Miss Clayton eat anything yet?” he asked, turning back to him.

“Not a morsel,” he sighed. “She just sits in that room all day by his side, waiting. She wants so badly for him to live, but I think in her heart she knows the truth.”

“But isn’t it at all possible ...”

“Anything’s possible, Chester. That’s why I haven’t pulled the bullet. Might as well give ‘im a fighting chance. But he won’t. Believe me. There’s a better chance of me bein’ shot by lighting right here, right now, than of that man surviving. An’ I won’t put stake in either of ‘em happening. I’ve seen it all too many times before. It won’t be long now.”

Chester nodded sadly, acceptingly. “Hopefully, this’ll be the last man Buford Tannen puts in his grave.”

“Cheers to that,” said the doctor, raising his glass and pouring back another drink.

* * *

When Doctor Marshal returned shortly after 1:00 he was immediately called into the medical room by Clara. He entered to see Emmett, resting on the table as before, desperately trying to move and being unable to do so, moaning lightly, sometimes rising to shouts, his eyes partly opened. Clara had placed a wet towel on his head and on the back of his neck in an attempt to ease his pain.

“He’s hurting,” Clara said as the doctor looked over him. “Isn’t there anything you can do? Anything to make the pain go away?”

The doctor stood up from Emmett’s form after a moment and shook his head at Clara. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, Miss Clayton. Mr. Brown’s condition is getting worse. I’m afraid he won’t make it through the night.”

Clara shook her head obstinately. “He can make it! I know it!”

“It’s getting worse,” the doctor returned firmly. “Miss Clayton, you can’t keep holding on to false hope. You have to understand the probability, understand that there’s so little chance of him surviving. If you don’t accept it, it will just be that much more damaging when reality hits.”

“And I suppose you want me to just give up hope? Stop believing? Well, I won’t, doctor. I won’t give up on him. He can make it. I know it! And I know in the highest reaches of Heaven that there’s a miracle, an answered prayer ... a hope. And I won’t give it up.”

“You don’t have to give up, Miss Clayton, but you must accept it. You must accept that he may and most likely will die.”

She whipped her head away from the doctor and turned her eyes to Emmett, who was still moaning softly to himself, and fought to hold back her tears. She managed a meager “I won’t” through her breathless whimpers and returned and kneeled next to Emmett’s side, pressing her hand to the wet cloth on his head.

The doctor viewed this scene for a few long moments before he finally relented. “I’ll be back in an hour to check on him. If anything else should change, let me know.”

Then he left Clara alone with her Emmett, and she sat at his side, stroking his hair and trying to do whatever she could to make him more comfortable.

The moaning grew louder toward the end of that hour, but by 3:00 had subsided altogether and his form had gone silent again, unconscious. Clara still stayed by his side, never leaving. She knew that he wasn’t going to die, that Emmett’s strength and God’s will would return him to her. She remained there for the rest of the day, holding his hand and whispering words of tenderness into his ear, and could feel her heart breaking with every passing moment.

* * *

The moaning rose again shortly after 6:00 that evening, not long after the doctor had made his last hourly checkup. Clara still kneeled by his side, and when she heard his laments once more began to lightly brush her hand across his face, hoping in some way to soothe his pain with her touch.

Some minutes of this continued until suddenly Emmett’s eyes snapped open once more and turned up to Clara’s face.

“… Clara,” Emmett’s dry and scratchy voice came, and it seemed a struggle for him to speak.

“Emmett? Emmett, can you hear me?” she asked, lowering her head down to his to look into his eyes.

“Clara …” he spoke again. “… I’m dying.”

“No,” she shook her head obstinately. “No, you can’t, Emmett! You have to fight, please! I need you, Emmett!”

Emmett gasped as if the breath was being taken out of him and for a moment Clara became frozen with fear that he had left her. But still he looked up at her and his mouth opened once more to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said lightly.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” she told him. “Please, Emmett, you can make it. I know it! Please!”

He looked as if he wanted to tell her more, but didn’t have the strength. “Promise me,” he managed in a shaky whisper. “Promise me, Clara, that you … love me. Truly … love me … for me … for the rest … of my … life.”

“Emmett,” she said passionately, taking his hand in hers and moving her face so close that her nose touched his. “I promise you that I will love you for all time.”

Emmett stared up at her and didn’t speak for a long while. Clara called to him, but he didn’t seem to hear. It wasn’t long before his eyes shut again and he fell back into unconsciousness. Clara held his hand in hers, never letting go, and stared at him intently, waiting for him to awake, and knowing in her heart that he would, because it was too perfect to have it end this way, and that God could never have meant for things to happen in such a manner. The way they had met and come into each other’s lives, that couldn’t be luck. It was destiny.

It was destiny.

* * *

Emmett Brown died that night at 6:44 PM, Clara Clayton at his side.

Sometimes it was amazing how life could be so insidiously cruel. One could ask the heavens a thousand times for what purpose such a callous outcome could serve and never receive an answer.

Destiny, Clara concluded, was the most inequitable of unanswered questions.

Part II

Tuesday

September 8, 1885

3:27 PM

Clara sat alone in her cabin in a seat across from the fireplace, running the brim of Emmett’s hat through her hands, her head lowered and weeping lightly to herself, as there was no one else to weep to, her stretched shadow cast from the light of the sun falling through the cabin’s front window her only companion.

When Emmett had passed the night before, Clara found it impossible to control her emotions, and for a long while she refused to believe it, even when she was led out of the room by Doctor Merchant and some officers, along with Marshal Strickland, had come to retrieve the body and bring it to the undertaker. It wasn’t until the marshal had offered his condolences to her that she seemed to finally understand, and reality came rushing at her like an exploding rocket come to blast away all her hopes.

After that she left the doctor’s office, running as fast as her legs could carry her out of Hill Valley (so disturbed was she that she had forgotten that she had ridden into town on the horse supplied by Mayor Dawson). She finally collapsed to the ground a couple miles from her cabin and there she remained, folded like a potato sack, whimpering to herself. That’s how Marshal Strickland found her a half hour later, and he rode her on his horse back to her cabin and made certain that she was secure for the night and promised to visit her the next day. Of course, she hardly slept, and when she did she dreamt that Emmett was still alive and that he had survived the shooting, just as she had prayed for the last two days. She would wake up in the midst of the dream and would begin to slowly realize that it was nothing but a fabrication of her subconscious, and soon she began to wish to never awake.

Sometime after noon she had willed herself out of bed and slunk to the living room where she found Emmett’s hat on the coffee table where the marshal had left it after taking it from her grasp the night before. She settled into the seat across from the fireplace and remained there the rest of the day, clinging to Emmett’s hat and wishing it were his hand she held so tightly to.

Marshal Strickland came to check on her, as promised, just before 3:30 that afternoon. He let himself in, as when he knocked Clara couldn’t find the strength to go to the door and open it for him. He approached the chair Clara was seated in and crouched before her.

“Miss Clayton,” he said softly. “I know you’re mourning. The whole town’s just in a regular melancholy over the whole thing. Are you going to be okay?”

After a moment of silence, Clara was finally able to collect herself. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she looked up, an uneven frown etched in her face. “I’m not sure, Marshal.”

Strickland nodded with sympathetic understanding. He had felt the same sense of hopelessness when his wife was killed when her coach had been held up a few years ago. At least, though, he had something to live for: his son. That made it easier for him, knowing that he had to go on, for his child’s sake. It’s also what sent him into the occupation of upholding the law. “I know it hurts now, Miss Clayton, but I’m certain you’ll make it. Do you have anyone from the Old States you might want to come down and visit you, brighten your spirits, keep you company? Some family?”

Clara shook her head roughly. No, now certainly wasn’t the time to see them again, not at a time like this. They wouldn’t understand. They never had.

“All right,” said Marshal Strickland. “Just know that I’m here for you, Miss Clayton, if you need me. We understand how much you cared for Emmett. We just want to make this as easy for you as possible.”

Clara nodded slightly with appreciation.

“Did you eat anything yet?” he asked her.

Clara shook her head.

“Come now, Miss Clayton, you must eat!” Marshal Strickland said with exasperation. “It’s been nearly three days!”

“I can’t,” she said wearily.

Marshal Strickland sighed heavily. “We’re beginning to worry, Miss Clayton. Promise me you’ll eat something. Anything. Some dried fruit, a bowl of soup. Something!”

“I’ll try,” she said feebly after a few moments.

Knowing that he wouldn’t get any more from her, he left it at that.

“Emmett’s wake will be held on Thursday,” he told her. “We thought, seein’ as how no one knows anything about any sort of relatives Emmett had, an’ you was probably the closest thing he had to family, that you might want to come into town tomorrow and dedicate the tombstone for him. We figured you’d be the best person to do it.”

Clara thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“An’ I’ll take care of all the funeral arrangements, if that’s all right by you,” he added.

Clara nodded that it was.

“An’ maybe you’d wanna stop by my office before that so that you can identify the shooter. We do want to get him arraigned and get his sentencing done as soon as possible.”

“Yes,” she answered swiftly. “So would I.”

Marshal Strickland stood. “I brought your horse back in from Hill Valley. Come on into town tomorrow afternoon. The undertaker’ll be expecting you.”

“Thank you,” she said politely.

Marshal Strickland turned to leave, but paused as he went to step out the door and looked back at Clara. “Don’t worry, Miss Clayton. Everything’ll be fine, you’ll see. I know it’s not much, but you know the old saying ‘What does not kill us makes us stronger?’ Well, it’s the truth. I know it’s hard now, but you’re a strong woman. Everything’ll be fine, in time.”

With that, the marshal left her cottage and rode back into town. Clara again lowered her head and gazed at Emmett’s dusty hat, the one she had flattened just five days prior when they first met. It seemed like one hundred years ago and at the same time as if it had just happened.

There was some truth that old saying Marshal Strickland had mentioned, Clara conceded. Only, a part of you had to still be alive for it to apply.

* * *

Wednesday

September 9, 1885

12:18 PM

The next morning Clara had finally found the resolve to face reality. She had spent all of the rest of yesterday alone in her cabin, weeping to herself and asking God every question she could imagine as it pertained to the events of the last week, from why it was requisite that she have no happiness in life to why He had brought Emmett into her life only to take him away so suddenly and so heartbreakingly. At some moments, at her most bleak of dispositions, she wondered if he was just a dream, a fantasy her mind had envisioned and created, as it almost felt impossible for him to have really existed, only to be torn from her just two days later.

Though her mood remained just as downcast as before, when she woke up in the morning, Clara managed to will herself to bathe and change into a clean dress and prepare to head into town. After all, she had business to attend to and she wanted above all else to settle all of Emmett’s post mortem affairs. She had promised to love him for all time, and that oath (and that true everlasting love) was motivation enough for her to put aside her despair for the sake of her Emmett.

She rode into town at noon, but just as she had her horse trotting down the main road toward the marshal’s office she was stopped by Joey, who dashed in front of her horse, causing her to pull back on its reigns to make it come to a stop.

“Miss Clayton,” Joey said. “I’m glad to see ya’. Won’t ya’ come in an’ have lunch?”

Clara shook her head. “I’m only in town for business, I’m afraid.”

“Please, Miss Clayton,” Joey said. “Just a bowl of soup. Compliments of the house.”

“I’d rather not,” she said hesitantly.

“Well, then I’m afraid yer gonna have to run me down, ‘cause I ain’t leavin’ the street ‘til you come inside and get yerself some grub.”

She scrutinized the bartender’s assistant seriously. Seeing the determined look on his face, his arms folded across his chest defiantly, she relented. Though she wasn’t in the mood to eat, she was hungry, and she knew he (and the marshal, who had probably told Chester to be expecting her around this time) only had her best interest at heart.

“Okay,” she said, climbing off of her horse and walking it to the hitching post. “I’ll have a bowl of soup.”

Joey smiled victoriously. “Already have it over the fire. Come on in, Miss Clayton.”

She tied her horse to the hitching post and then followed Joey inside the bar. She sat at one of the round tables and asked for only a glass of water to drink with her meal, and soon she was brought a bowl of steaming chicken soup.

As she sipped from her spoon delicately, she was approached by Chester, who now sat in a seat across from her.

“How are ya’, Miss Clayton?” he asked.

She looked up at him, a long frown on her face, considering just how she should answer the question. “Indignant,” she finally spoke.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Chester said, patting her hand lightly. “Emmett was a good friend of mine. If you ever need someone to talk to you can always come to me. I know you had only just met, but I could tell how much you meant to each other. Even Emmett could see that you were destined for one another.”

“Did he say that?” she asked wonderingly.

“Not in so many words,” Chester answered truthfully. “But I could tell he knew it. You have to understand that Emmett was a very logical man. He always analyzed everything as if it had some scientific answer. But I think he knew that love had no real answer, or question for that matter, and it may have bothered him some, because it wasn’t something he could figure out with a quill and paper. But if it was, then it wouldn’t be so special, and I think he came to understand that.”

“So do I,” said Clara, recollecting the conversation they had just before they had kissed for the first (and last, she reminded herself woefully) time.

“He’s lucky to have met you before he died,” Chester said as he stood from the table. “How’s that one line go? ‘It’s better to have loved and lost …’”

Clara nodded, recalling the line from the poem Chester was referring to. “Alfred Lord Tennyson. ‘I hold it true, whatever … be … befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’”

“You’ve got quite a memory,” Chester said, impressed.

“Well, I am a teacher,” she said modestly. “I must have read that poem dozens of times over by now.”

Chester patted her shoulder lightly. “If you ever need anything, Miss Clayton, you can always come to me.”

“Thank you,” she said, and Chester returned to the bar to attend to a new customer who had entered.

She finished her soup and left the bar, heading over to Marshal Strickland’s office across the street. She knocked lightly on the door and stepped inside the building.

Marshal Strickland sat at his desk, going over some paperwork before him. He glanced up when he heard Clara knock and smiled warmly when he saw her. “Miss Clayton. Glad you could make it. You have some lunch?”

“I did,” she confirmed. “Thank you.”

Strickland waved his hand at her, pushing aside her gratitude. “I take care of my folks.” His face suddenly twisted into an odd grimace, as if something in that statement hurt him. He quickly shook it off, though, and asked: “You ready?”

She nodded her affirmation and Marshal Strickland led her to the back of the office to where the jail cells were located. He took her to the jail room nearest the back wall and stood between her and the bars.

“Get up!” the marshal commanded to the occupant inside, who was currently seated on the jail’s bunk, his head lowered as he picked at the rough skin of one of his hands.

The man inside glared up at Marshal Strickland, but obeyed, slowly rising to his feet.

“This the man?” Strickland asked Clara.

She peered over the marshal’s shoulder and gazed intently at the man in the jail cell. There was no doubt about it at all. He flashed her a wicked grin, as if daring her to accuse him.

“That’s him, marshal,” she said positively. “That’s the man who … shot Emmett.”

Just as Marshal Strickland was nodding to confirm what he had suspected all along, a soft chortle rose from Mad Dog Tannen’s throat and he started to bellow out loud, not in a jovial fashion, but in a way that was vile and wicked.

“Yo’ gonna regret that, li’l missy,” he roared at her.

“Hush up, Tannen!” Marshal Strickland barked.

Tannen wrapped his hands around the bars of the cell and stuck his face between the slits, his piercing eyes glaring at her. “I guess it wasn’t enough I had to kill yer boyfriend. Now I gotta beef ya’ too!”

“That’s enough, Tannen!” Marshal Strickland cried, reaching for his billy club and striking Tannen across the fingers of his right hand.

Tannen let out a sharp bawl and instantly withdrew from the bars of the cell. He held his crippled hand and wailed: “It’s broke! Ya’ broke my gun hand!”

“An’ that’s not all I’ll break if you don’t keep quiet, Tannen,” Marshal Strickland shot back. “An’ I wouldn’t worry about it too much. You won’t be around long enough to let it bother you much, anyhow.”

Tannen snarled at Strickland, but withdrew to the back of the cell and returned to the bunk, murmuring to himself.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Marshal Strickland said as he led Clara back to the front of the office. “That bastard has no decency at all. But don’t you worry ‘bout him. As long as you testify in court, I’m certain that this town will be spared of Buford Tannen once and for all.”

“Tell me, Marshal,” Clara said as they returned to his desk, “why did that man shoot Emmett? It seemed as if they had a conflict before.”

“Indeed they did,” Marshal Strickland said as he settled back into his wooden seat. “Emmett shod Buford Tannen’s horse, and Tannen’s horse threw a shoe. Tannen shot the horse and then went to jail for robbin’ the Paradise Stage. He blamed Emmett for it. Said he owed him eighty dollars for the horse.”

“And he shot Emmett over eighty dollars?” Clara demanded, incredulous.

Marshal Strickland gazed up at her, but didn’t know quite what to say. “I’m sorry, Miss Clayton. There’s nothing I can say that will make what happened have a just cause. Buford Tannen doesn’t see life. All he knows is iniquity and vengefulness.”

She glanced back at the jail cell, at the man who murdered her Emmett, and shook her head sadly. “It makes you wonder …”

“Wonder what?” Marshal Strickland asked after a moment.

“I used to be so certain,” she answered. “Now, I can’t imagine how I could have ever been right.”

“Right about what, Miss Clayton?”

“If men like that exist,” she began. “I just can’t imagine …”

With that, she turned and left the marshal’s office.

* * *

After picking out the tombstone at the undertaker’s shop for Emmett’s grave and settling on an epitaph (“Shot in the back by Buford Tannen over a matter of 80 dollars” – so that the world knew the name of the horrible man who took her Emmett from the world and for what petty reasons he did it – and “Erected in eternal memory by his beloved Clara” – so that the world would remember how much they cared for each other), and buying a black dress and veil for the funeral, Clara rode back to her cottage after being informed by the undertaker of when the funeral would be held the next day.

A few people, including Chester and Seamus McFly, were going to say a few words about Emmett and Clara had made the decision to do the same, only she didn’t know if her powers of prose could do him justice, so she spent the rest of the day searching through her collection of books (which had been delivered on a separate train the day after she arrived, along with a few other items) for the composition that would best express how she felt.

The search helped keep her mind off of the current events somewhat and allowed her, for at least a time, to forget her despair. She forced herself to have some supper (she cooked herself a light vegetable soup) that night, but didn’t eat much of it, and went to bed early, but found sleep difficult and was restless the whole night. A part of her feared that if slumber did completely envelop her, that she may choose to never wake from it, while another part of her welcomed it.

* * *

Thursday

September 10, 1885

8:49 AM

The wake was held in Emmett’s blacksmith shop, the living room having been cleared for the attendants, and his casket propped up on two chairs in his former sleeping area in the rear of the building. It was a light crowd, as Emmett hadn’t been the most extroverted of persons. Among the guests were Clara, Mayor Dawson and his wife, Chester, Joey, Seamus McFly and his family, and Marshal Strickland, along with a mix of other townspeople who had been acquainted with Emmett. They chatted amongst each other, telling various tales of Emmett’s experiences in Hill Valley.

Clara hung back, listening to the stories of the person she felt so close to but didn’t know much about on the extrinsic level. Some people went to the opened casket to say their final goodbyes to Emmett, but Clara remained near the entrance of the smithery, her arms hung down and her hands clasped together. The thin veil hung over her eyes, dimming her vision as she watched, never once having the urge to step near the opened casket.

The memorial service began just after noon, and it was held in the same location, as Emmett had never been much of a religious person (choosing not to attend church as was customary every Sunday, instead using the time to work), and so it had been agreed by Marshal Strickland and Chester that it wouldn’t be appropriate. As the scientist had once told Chester when he inquired of his refusal to attend the weekly sermons (which was not a favorable choice to many of the townspeople): “I happen to hold faith that I’ll be judged on my actions during my lifetime and not my inactions.”

Wooden chairs from the Palace Saloon (which Chester had closed for the day, much to the chagrin of some of the less sympathetic barflies) had been set up inside the smith shop by that time for the guests to sit in and Marshal Strickland, who had been decided to officiate the service, began the ceremony once everyone had been seated.

Marshal Strickland stepped behind a dresser which had been set in front of Emmett’s casket to act as a makeshift pulpit and, sliding a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and clearing his throat, he began:

“As you all know this is the memorial service for Emmett Brown who died on Saturday. We made the decision not to have it held in a church, as it didn’t seem fitting of Emmett’s memory, who was more of an intellectual than a spiritual. I suppose that could have something to do with the low turnout, that and Emmett was more concerned with being himself than making friends.

“Folks like him don’t come around often. When you find a chance to make acquaintances with someone as unique as Emmett I believe you should take advantage of it, and I’m glad I did. And I’m sure most of you are as well. It’s always hurtful when a good person dies. But for some reason it hurts even more when that person brought something to our lives that no one else could. Those folks who don’t follow the customs or rules set up by society, those who are happy being themselves, they’re a rare breed. And I must say that I am privileged to have known Emmett Brown. He was a good, kind, decent man and I don’t know that one like him’ll show up in the next century.

“With that,” he said, returning the paper to his pocket, “I will open the floor. There are a few people who have volunteered to speak, and then should anyone else want to say some words they may come up. After that we’ll take the casket up to Boot Hill Cemetery where the gravesite has been set up. Seamus, you’re to speak first,” he added, pointing to the Irishman.

Seamus nodded and rose from his chair as Marshal Strickland left the stand and went to his own seat in the crowd. Seamus stepped before the dresser and delivered his own speech, speaking mostly of Emmett’s fine character and his determination during adversity. Chester spoke next and revealed some lighter stories of Emmett, from the discovery of Emmett’s inability to hold liquor (which received a faint chuckle from the mourners), his mysterious irreparable wagon (“never did figer out what became of the damned thing,” he added whimsically), and his devotion to the town of Hill Valley, “which very well may have cost Emmett his life. If I could do it all over again, I’d force a drink down his gullet and carry his soaked ass outta the bar and throw him on the first train outta Hill Valley. But there was no getting’ through to Emmett, not when he had his mind set on somethin’. At least I can take solace in the fact that I know from his own mouth that he was happy. If there’s one thing that man deserved it was happiness.”

Chester stepped away from the podium then and Marshal Strickland took his place behind it, saying: “Now Miss Clayton has chosen a poem to read in Emmett’s memory. Miss Clayton, you want to come up here now?”

Clara, who sat in the back row, nodded slightly and stood and went to the back of the smith shop. She stepped before the dresser and, standing there, viewing the paper she had transcribed the poem on, she turned to glance back at Emmett’s open coffin. She quickly snapped her eyes back to the paper and, taking a deep breath, went ahead: “I only knew Emmett for two days. To some it may seem odd, perhaps even silly, that after only knowing him for such a short time that his … he could mean so much to me. I don’t intend to convince those people of my feelings, but I will share them. Emmett was the most wonderful man I have ever met. I may have only known him for two days, but if felt as if we had known each other for a lifetime, as if our souls had met in some other world and were only now becoming reacquainted. I don’t believe that I’ll ever find someone I feel that way about again, and it makes me realize how lucky I am to have met him and known him, no matter how short a time it was for. I can only hope that our souls will have the opportunity to come together again in the future. For Emmett I have selected to read a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

Here she paused, closing her eyes momentarily and breathing in and out deeply, and then began to read the sonnet, slowly and longingly:

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a lover I seemed to lose

With my lost saints—I love thee with the breath,

Smile, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.”

She could feel the tears swelling in her eyes and so she quickly left the dresser and returned to her seat in the back of the audience to wipe them away in solitude. Marshal Strickland returned to the dresser once more and asked if anyone else would like to say a few words. Mayor Dawson volunteered and gave a short speech on his experiences with Emmett. After that, as there were no more volunteers to speak, the memorial service ended and the party broke for a complimentary early lunch at the Palace Saloon before the burial ceremony that afternoon.

Clara stayed behind, watching as some men nailed Emmett’s casket shut and carried it out to a wagon and laid it inside. Clara continued to gaze over at the wagon after the men had parted to the saloon for their own lunch, her gloved hand covering her mouth and nose as she wept silently to herself.

“Miss Clayton,” she jumped as a hand touched her shoulder and turned to look upon Marshal Strickland. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“No,” she whispered in a dried voice. “Not today.”

“It’ll get better,” he said, reaching his hand behind the black veil that covered her puffy eyes and wiping a tear from her cheek. “I promise.”

She smiled weakly at him but didn’t respond.

Less than an hour later the mourners reconvened and rode out to Boot Hill Cemetery. When they reached their destination in the slopes of southern Hill Valley, the pallbearers, who consisted of Seamus, Chester, Joey, Mayor Dawson, Mr. Statler, and Marshal Strickland, carried the casket out of the wagon and to the hole which had been dug the day before just before the gravestone Clara had picked out, and set it up to be lowered into the ground. They all stood around the gravesite at this time, and here Clara brought from her pocket the broach she had worn to the festival Saturday night that had her name affixed to it. It had been given to her by her mother when Clara was just a little girl, before she had died giving birth to her brother. At times she would look upon it late at night, for it seemed to be the only gift of love she had ever received, and the only semblance of it as well.

As they lowered the casket by ropes into the grave, Clara let the broach fall from her fingers and to the top of the casket as it settled into the dark earth. It was best that it be buried with Emmett, as was intended.

Once the casket was laid into the ground, some workers went at filling in the hole with shovels and soon the crowd began to slowly disperse as the ceremony came to an end. After a while only Clara and Marshal Strickland remained, Clara standing to one side, watching the men finish their work, and Marshal Strickland standing just behind her.

He came up and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “You’ll be all right,” he said, mostly looking for assurance, not to comfort.

“Yes,” she said slowly.

The marshal accepted it, then turned and returned to his horse and left the gravesite.

The men finished their work and, tipping their hats at Clara, departed themselves. She went to the grave and stood over it, looking down at the only figure of Emmett that remained, a cold and dark stone, and began to weep bitterly to herself.

She didn’t leave until the sun began to set on the day and the darkening of the sky seemed to be telling her it was time. Placing her hand on the stone, she said quietly: “Goodbye, Emmett,” and then turned from him and returned to her horse and rode back to her cottage alone.

* * *

Monday

September 14, 1885

6:54 PM

Clara visited Emmett’s grave every evening that week. She would sit before his tombstone and tell him of how much she missed him and how life seemed so empty all of a sudden. She reasoned that, though it had always been empty and though she had felt unloved for so long, somehow it was worse knowing what would have been, and knowing that the only happiness she had ever asked for was taken away from her and that it would never be equaled.

Marshal Strickland kept watch over her, checking in on her when he could, or having one of his men do so to see how she was holding up. He understood her pain well enough to feel a sense of responsibility in helping her through the ordeal, and Clara was thankful for it. Being a newcomer to the town she didn’t have anyone to lean on, and the marshal’s concern was the only thing that made life feel important.

On Saturday Marshal Strickland had informed Clara that Buford Tannen’s trial had been scheduled at the Hill County courthouse for that next Saturday and that it was expected to be a quick verdict. Clara’s testimony would be enough for a jury to convict him. All they needed was someone with enough resolve to indict him. There was no jury in Hill County that wouldn’t find Mad Dog Tannen guilty – all they needed was a firm offense to condemn him on.

Clara had sworn to Emmett that she would do everything in her power to see that his shooter would be brought to justice, and she had no intentions of reneging on that promise. Nothing else was more important, and no matter what the future held she vowed to at least see that through.

Just after the sun had begun to set on the Monday following Emmett’s funeral, Clara had left Boot Hill Cemetery and had ridden back into town. She was stopped as she crossed before the Palace Saloon by Marshal Strickland, who stood on the deck outside the bar, leaning against a green post and taking a sip from a shot glass as he stared up at the darkening sky.

“Miss Clayton,” he said, taking a step off of the deck and approaching her horse.

Clara brought the horse to a stop and looked sidelong at the marshal.

“I suppose you just came back from visitin’ Emmett?” he asked her after a moment.

She nodded.

“Why don’t you come inside an’ have Chester make you a drink?”

“Oh, I don’t drink,” she replied.

“How about a cup of tea?” he asked her. “Come on in an’ have a chat with some folks.”

“I don’t think so, Marshal,” she said. “I’d rather just go home and go to bed.”

“I understand,” Marshal Strickland consented. “I have to go relieve Deputy Smith of jail watch now, anyhow. But I do hope you get out and try to associate with some folks, Miss Clayton. The more you keep yourself withdrawn the worse off you’ll be.”

“I know,” Clara said. “But I’m just not ready yet.”

“It’ll take some time,” agreed Marshal Strickland. “Just try to stay strong and remember that we’re here for you.”

“I will,” she assured him, then led her horse away, out of Hill Valley.

* * *

At 7:00 Marshal Strickland returned to his office to take over watch of the inmates and Deputy Smith went out on patrol until his shift ended for the day. After 7:30 the marshal’s hired nanny brought his son to his office. The boy wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and the marshal wasn’t disinclined to show his son the ropes (at least the milder side of the law), just as he had at the festival.

There wasn’t much excitement at the little jailhouse, but his son would skim through the police and prison manuals by lamplight and ask questions of his father, who would entertain himself by playing solitaire at his desk. His nanny would return at 9:00 so that his son could be in bed by 10:00, and the boy absorbed as much information as he could until it was time for him to leave.

Just before 8:00 the marshal heard a noise coming from one of the cell’s in the back and he sat up straight in his wooden chair and listened carefully, hushing his son who had been asking another question. He had heard something banging on the bars, and what sounded like Mad Dog Tannen whispering. He rose from his seat and went to the back of the office. He peered into Tannen’s cell and saw the outlaw lying back on his bunk, holding his broken hand to his chest and staring up at the ceiling of his cell.

“You talkin’ to yourself Tannen?” the marshal asked.

“Ain’t no one else to talk to, Marshal,” he answered roughly, still looking up at the ceiling. “An’ you ain’t much of a magpie yerself.”

“Can’t much talk to a dead man,” returned Strickland evenly. “An’ that’s about all you is. Now you better hold yer tongue back here before I make it so you don’t have any teeth to mouth off with.”

With that, Marshal Strickland turned from the jail’s bars and returned to the front of the office. Stepping up behind his son who sat in front of his desk, he placed his hand on his shoulders and said: “You see, son, no matter how they try to intimidate you, always maintain discipline. Remember that.”

“Yes, sir, pa,” his son answered obediently.

His father patted him on the shoulder, then moved toward the door. “Stay put right where ya’ are. I’ll be right back. I’m just gonna visit the privy.”

He left the building and his son returned to reading the police manual that sat before him on the desk. As he was skimming the book he heard the whispers that his father had heard rise once more. He paused in his reading and looked over his shoulder toward the jail cell. Grinning mischievously to himself, he called to the back of the jail: “Pipe down back there!”

The whispers ceased and a cruel laugh supplanted them.

“Come over here, boy!” Tannen called to him.

The boy Strickland hesitated. “My pa told me to stay put—”

“You always do what yer daddy tells ya’?” Tannen asked derisively.

The young Strickland scrunched his face at the statement, then rose from his seat and went to the back of the office. He approached Tannen’s cell and peered inside. Mad Dog sat up from his bed and stood and went to the bars.

“You got a smart mouth on ya’, kid. Jus’ like yer old man,” the outlaw said as he glared down upon the child. “If you was smart you’d keep quiet, else yer gonna end up the same as yer daddy.”

The child puffed his chest out proudly. “I’m gonna be jus’ like my pa when I grow up.”

He heard the sound of the front door opening behind him and thought that his father must have returned. He was just about to turn and sprint back to the desk, lest his stern father thought he was being disobedient when Tannen suddenly reached out through the bars and grabbed the collar of the boy’s jacket and pulled him back toward the jail.

“You wanna be just like daddy, huh? Then you better start growin’ eyes in the back of yer head,” Tannen growled.

Just as he released his hold of the boy an arm from behind wrapped around the child’s waist and a hand covered his mouth so he couldn’t scream. Looking at the man who held the child securely, Tannen motioned to the two figures which stood behind him. “Get the keys.”

After finishing his business, Marshal Strickland returned to his office. As he went to his desk he noticed that his son was gone. He raised his eyes to the back of the office. “Zeb?” he called. “You in here?”

The entire office was dark, the lantern at the desk having been put out and the marshal didn’t think to re-light it. He moved through the black shadows to the back of the cell, groping about and calling his son’s name. He peered into Tannen’s cell and saw a shadowed figure lying in the bunk. Peering through the bars, he asked: “You seen where my son got off to, Tannen?”

The sound of a cocking gun drew Strickland’s attention from the jail cell and from the shadows stepped Mad Dog Tannen, holding up the marshal’s rifle and aiming it at him, broken hand fingering the trigger. “Yeah, I seen ‘im, Marshal.”

From the other side of the room stepped the other two members of Tannen’s gang, one holding securely to Strickland’s son, his mouth still gagged by his hand.

“Open the cell,” Tannen said to the man who held the keys.

He obeyed and opened Tannen’s former prison and his third man rose from the bunk and stepped out of the cell to join the others.

“Bring the kid in,” Tannen ordered.

His lackey did just that, dragging Strickland’s son into the jail cell.

“Leave him outta this, Tannen,” Strickland said through gritted teeth.

“Don’t ya’ worry ‘bout yer boy,” Tannen said as he approached Strickland and shoved the barrel of the rifle into his chest. “Jus’ do as I say an’ he’ll be jus’ fine. Now me and my boys, we’re gonna ride outta Hill Valley quietly, ya’ hear? An’ yer gonna get in this cell an’ keep quiet ‘till yer deputy comes to relieve you, understand?”

Strickland’s face remained rigid, but he nodded in compliance.

“Good,” Tannen said, pleased. “Now turn around an’ march straight into that cell.”

Strickland obeyed. He turned from Tannen and moved toward the opened barred door.

“Oh, Marshal,” Tannen said, stopping Strickland in his tracks. “You remember what I said the las’ time, don’t ya’? I told ya’ the nex’ time you turn yer eyes from me you wouldn’t have the chance to turn back. Well, a promise is a promise, Marshal.”

He pulled the trigger on the rifle and Marshal Strickland collapsed forward to the floor of the cell. His son attempted to break free from the man who held him and run to his father’s aid, but could not.

“Bring the body in the cell,” Tannen ordered. Then, turning to another man, he said: “Bring the horses around.”

Both the men obeyed, one dragging Strickland’s lifeless body into the cell and the other rushing outside to bring around Marshal Strickland’s and their own horses.

After Strickland’s body was in the cell, Tannen tossed aside the rifle and commanded: “Let’s go.”

With that, his man released his grasp on the boy and weeping he went to his father’s side. They locked the cell with the two inside, son leaning across his fallen father’s body, and rushed outside to the horses that were waiting for them.

Some pedestrians from the bar had come out when they heard the gun shot and were forced to stand at a distance and watch silently as Buford and his men, pistols drawn and aimed at the aghast townsfolk, climbed aboard their horses and rode out of Hill Valley.

* * *

Tuesday

September 15, 1885

10:34 AM

Clara received the news the news the next morning courtesy of Seamus McFly, who explained to her that Buford Tannen’s gang had ridden into town last night and set Tannen free, and that Tannen had then murdered Marshal Strickland and they had all ridden out of Hill Valley quietly. The entire patrol was sent after him, but there were no signs of his or his men’s whereabouts. Mad Dog Tannen had escaped un-adjudged.

Clara was quiet as Seamus spoke and remained silent for some time after he had left. She wasn’t certain how to react. She had never thought that this would happen. She had always just assumed that Tannen would be brought to justice – destiny deserved her at least that much. How could life be so inequitable?

She sat at the desk in her bedroom all morning, not crying, but just meditating over everything that had happened. First her Emmett had been taken away from her, now the man who had become her only ally and companion, the only person who understood what she was going through and was there to look after her was taken away as well, and the man responsible was free. No, such sadness was too pungent for tears. What did life have left for her?

Shortly after noon that day, as she sat at her desk, head lowered into her crossed arms, there came a knock at the door. She rose and went to the door, opening it with quivering hand to see a messenger. He held out a package for her.

“They said that you should have this – that it should be delivered to you,” he said, handing her the wrapped object.

Clara accepted it and watched the man return to his horse and gallop away. She examined the flat object in her hands and read the address scribbled on the front – the address to Emmett’s smith shop.

She tore open the packaging and looked upon the picture inside – a matted photograph of Emmett standing before the clock tower at the festival, the description typed on a strip of paper and glued below the photograph – “The New Clock - September 5, 1885.”

Gazing at it, Clara suddenly became aware that this was the only picture of Emmett she had, the only one she would ever have – the only memory of him. He existed now and forever only as a still, gray apparition. This picture and his stone were all that remained of Emmett Brown and all that was left of her soul.

She fell into an armchair in the living room and, doubled over and rocking back and forth, viewed the picture of her Emmett, her love, and remained in the chair, ruminating, as the day faded and grew dark and black clouds collected in the sky, thundering and lightning as a harsh rain began to pour and a storm gathered over Hill Valley. The time for her to visit Emmett’s grave came and went. Instead, as evening fell to night, she rose from her chair and, kissing her fingers and then pressing them to the picture of her Emmett, she laid his picture on her desk and left her cabin, walking slowly, laboriously through the whipping rain and the wind tearing at the skirts of her dress, into the darkness beyond, toward Shonash Ravine.

* * *

The citizens of Hill Valley didn’t know of Clara Clayton’s disappearance until the following evening, and it took a search party until the end of the week to discover her fate. No one doubted the veracity of the reports that concluded that her end did not come by means of homicide – Clara Clayton’s despair had become a widely discussed topic in Hill Valley the last week, and Seamus McFly had returned that ugly day with a nauseating sense that Miss Clayton had received enough heartache for one lifetime.

Never had the little town of Hill Valley been befallen with such tragedy in its history, like an out of control train bearing down upon all the things that had been lined on its track without derailing, and it was a moment in time that was never forgotten.

Epilogue

Wednesday

September 15, 1886

1:58 PM

Mayor Dawson checked his pocket watch again, then glared into the distance. He could see smoke rising into the sky just beyond and knew the time was nearly at hand.

“All right everyone, hush up!” he called to the throng of people gathered around. “Here it comes. Let’s have a moment of silence now.”

The crowd, which had been hitherto chatting lightly, ceased talking and looked out into the distance. They heard the rumbling and the chugging, and soon steam locomotive 131 came barreling through. The conductor, as instructed, blew the train’s whistle in remembrance and the gathering of observers watched in silence as the train rushed by them, kicking up a sudden gust of air, and disappeared across the newly completed bridge.

After a moment Mayor Dawson nodded that the commemoration ceremony was now over and the crowd returned to its dialogue. Chester, who had arrived just before the train came through, went to Seamus McFly, who was with his wife and son, chatting with another family.

“Mr. Oswalt, sure’n am glad to see you here,” Seamus said as the bartender approached him. “We were afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Seamus,” Chester said. “You know, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about what happened, my God, one year ago to this day. It almost breaks my heart in two.”

“Aye. How it all happened … it don’t get much worse. I wish we would’ve done somethin’. Maybe gotten Emmett outta town while we had the chance.”

“I think about it every day. He’d still be alive if he had just left Hill Valley when we told him to, an’ so would Miss Clayton. Sometimes I feel the heaviest guilt pressin’ down on me when I think of it. But then I wonder – if he had left when he did, do ya’ think he would have ever returned? An’ do ya’ think that he would’a ever met Miss Clayton?”

“I don’t s’pose we could ever know for certain,” Seamus returned.

“I don’t suppose so either. But when that weight is bearing down upon me an’ I don’t feel like I can get a gasp of air, I think to myself, if I had to choose between livin’ my life out comfortably until a ripe old age, or meeting the love of my life an’ dyin’ tomorrow, I think I’d choose the latter, an’ I’d copper a bet that Emmett Brown an’ Clara Clayton would choose the same.”

“I think you’re right, Chester,” Seamus said, placing his hand on his shoulder.

With that, Chester turned from Seamus and approached the large wooden sign which had been erected near the edge of the ravine which now had various flowers gathered around it. Chester placed his own flower before the sign, a single tea rose in an empty bottle of Moxie, and gazed down upon the sign.

“Well, Emmett, I know you didn’t want to leave Hill Valley because it was yer home,” he said to the sign. “Maybe you were right. Maybe if you hadn’t met Miss Clayton in life, then your souls couldn’t meet when you died. I don’t know. I just hope yer happy, Emmett. You an’ Miss Clayton. If anyone deserved happiness it was you two.”

With that, he rose and, seeing that the gathering was now beginning to disperse, he left the ravine to return to the Saloon to pour drinks for the local sots. As he left, he thought that the townsfolk couldn’t have chosen a better name to christen the former Shonash Ravine, and its memorial remained through the history of Hill Valley for every age to read: