William had often had a revolutionary war era long gun pointed at him. He'd participated in more than a hundred Revolutionary War reenactments, after all.  But [i]those[/i] muskets had been [i]reproductions[/i], and while they could be loaded with powder and fired, sending forth a cloud of thick smoke to create a realistic battle, they couldn't actually send forth a lead ball that could, potentially, take a man's head right off.  William's rifle had been an genuine 18th century weapon, cared for over the years and maintained such that it was safe to use in its original manner.  Of course, until he'd put a ball through that terrorist, he'd never actually shot anyone with it.  And now, seeing the weapons pointed at him, William certainly didn't want any of [i]them[/i] shot at [i]him![/i]

Samuel's sudden appearance and story telling -- about how William was [i]a friend from up north[/i] -- seemed to be holding the men, but the dangerous weapons were still very much pointed at William's head and torso. At least, until Keziah showed.  

[color=007236]"There you are!"[/color] she called out as she headed toward the scene taking place in the packed dirt street outside her home.  She continued chastising William with, [color=007236]"Speak of the devil ... I told you to stay put!"[/color]

William wasn't sure how to react.  He was standing in the streets of 18th century Boston in a Hessian uniform covered in blood with guns pointed at his head while a fiery little woman a full head shorter than him ripped him a new ass hole for being a bad boy.  Not confusing at all.  William only heard some of what Keziah said to him and, next, to the soldiers who so badly wanted to either shoot him or arrest him, but whatever it was, it worked: the men slowly lowered their rifles, and after a bit more conversation with his host and hostess, they began to disperse and aid their comrades with Samuel's medical help.

For his part, William simply followed the fire ball back to the cabin.  Before he closed the door behind him, he took one last look about the neighborhood.  It was what William might have called the [i]suburbs[/i] of 18th century Boston.  The homes lined a wide, packed dirt road flanked by wandering ditches trenched by the runoff of the Northeast's sometimes harsh rains.  The size of the individual properties seemed to vary a bit, from a part of an acre to a couple of them.  Fences and corrals could be seen separating properties.  William knew that at any other time the fields beyond those barriers would be filled with cattle, sheep, goats, and more.  Yet now, the fields were mostly empty, likely a result of the British troops -- or maybe even the Patriot rebels -- stealing anything and everything that could be used to feed the war effort.  William had heard that in times like these, the populace often brought their stock animals inside to live with them, to protect them.  He closed the door and looked about himself for piles of pig dung or breeze blown collections of chicken feather but saw none, then laughed.  He'd spent years -- decades, actually, having begun his quest for history at age 11 -- learning about this time, and now he was here living in it.  What would he learn in the days to...

[i]Days...?[/i] he wondered.  

Just how long was he going to be here?  Just how long was he going to be [i]stuck[/i] here?  In 1775?  William still didn't know why he was here or how he'd gotten here.  As he thought once again about his last moments in the 21st century, it was obvious that the firing of his ancestor's musket had caused this somehow.  But, William had fired it often, at Revolutionary War and German Culture-related exhibitions.  Why was this time different?  It didn't take a genius to figure that one out: William had killed a man with the weapon.  He'd put a ball in the weapon and sent it forth as he had so often, but [i]this[/i] time he'd shot that [i]shot[/i] at another man.  Killed that other man.  Then ... he was here.  [i]What the fuck?[/i]

"Where's my weapon?" he asked Keziah softly.  She was involved in her duties once again and either didn't hear him or simply didn't respond.  William stood again and began a casual search for the weapon, not realizing that neither his host or hostess had seen the weapon.  It wasn't here William would soon enough learn, but he was becoming panicked as he asked, "Where's my rifle?  I had it when I was shot.  Did you see it when you found me?  Samuel ... could he have put it away.  I [i]need[/i] that rifle."