"Howdy Pardner" Part 1- for the What if? Challenge 3/9/17

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

The prompt: What if The Man from UNCLE and its characters were set in 1880?

Two men, one clothed smartly in a crisp white shirt with black string tie, striped vest and pressed pants; he had leather gloves on his hands and a black stetson hat with a sterling silver band on his head.  His face was handsome and chiseled.

Hanging low on his hip was a black leather holster, in it a pearl handled  Smith and Wesson Schofield .45 six shooter. Inlaid in the pommel of that gun was the initial ‘S’.

The other man walking beside him was in less well kept clothing, his hat hanging on his back, draped from a cord around his neck. He wore a vest, light colored trousers and shirt, but appeared more disheveled like a working cow hand.

He was a fair haired, skinny, and a bit shorter in stature that his companion. One outstanding feature was his eyes, they were as blue as the sky but had a coldness to them even in the stifling heat of Texas.

His gunbelt hung low on his hip; the well oiled the brown leather belt held his pistol with the letter ‘K’ inlaid into the dark pommel. His was a Smith and Wesson as well, but with Russian modifications.

They were heading down a corridor in the back of a Laredo drinking establishment called, ‘Del Flores’ Saloon,’ and finally coming to a door, the well dressed cowboy turned away from it and faced the bare wall opposite it.

Pushing with both hands; a secret panel opened and the two men quickly slipped inside, closing the wall behind them.

There was another door, and a special knock was given.

“Enter,” a voice called.

“Hey pardner, after you,” the dark one gestured. The blond merely nodded and proceeded in as instructed.

“Gentleman, welcome,” an older man seated at a small table spoke to them. He affected a slight accent, British perhaps with a hint of a Scottish burr.

His name was Alexander Waverly and he was the man in charge of this secret place that housed a newly formed organization called the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.  It operated under the acronym of U.N.C.L.E... a clever name for a unique agency.

It came into being, filling a need after the end of the American Civil War. With the confusion that ensued following the near division of the United States, there arose a glut of mad men hell bent on taking over not only the country but possibly the world.

Those working for Waverly were tasked with special assignments, not unlike members of the United States Secret Service, though they weren’t associated with the U.S. government. They were independent of any governmental influence and were dedicated to the eradication of evil.

Alexander Waverly saw the need to stop those who would try to subjugate mankind, and though the United States had its own agents out there, they were busy with their particular assignments and were but a small force of men.

One megalomaniac in particular was garnering the attention of the Secret Service at the moment; he was a diminutive genius named Doctor Miguelito Loveless. It was an going game of cat and mouse with him and he was under scrutiny by the best agents the U.S. government had, two men by the name of West and Gordon.

Often, U.N.C.L.E. stepped in to solve a problem when West, Gordon and the other U.S. Secret Service agents could not.

Mr. Waverly looked up as his two men entered the room that served as his office. He was dressed in the manner of a gentrified cattleman in tweed clothing reminiscent of his homeland.

At the moment he was smoking a pipe; it was his favorite, with the bowl carved out of wood from the root of a Mediterranean White Heath tree; called ‘bruyere’ it was now anglicized to ‘briar’ wood.

The room was filled with a pleasant sweet scent from the tobacco and was a welcome respite to the smell of horses and their manure, but after a while most people became desensitized to life around them in this rugged part of the country.

“Howdy, sir.” The dark haired man greeted him. The blond remained silent.

“Gentlemen I have just received a letter from a friend of mine, Sir Reginald Royce.  Apparently he is suspecting there is a sinister plot afoot in his neck of the woods, as it were. It involves members of the American military.”

“Would that not be handled by the American government,” the blond finally spoke up. He had a hint of an accent, a mixture of British and perhaps Slavic overtones.

“I would normally agree young man, but Sir Reginald suspects there something out of the ordinary happening with the local army stationed in the vicinity. The men he is well acquainted with have not been acting themselves and have become quite belligerent. There’s talk about starting a war with Mexico. As Reginald is a peaceful land owner doing farming and some cattle ranching; he is concerned as to the well being of those who live in their small town of Escobar, which lies on the border with Mexico.”

“As I recall it is sparsely populated, and an there is a Fort Escobar located there,” the blond man said.

“Yes quite Mr. Kuryakin...I mean Mr. Kay. Dash it all, I must remember to call you that. Your Russian name seems to attract too much attention in these parts.”

Kuryakin wasn’t happy with that and it showed. “No more than Mr. Solo’s first name being Napoleon?”

The American responded, “Which is why our cover names are Lee Solo and you’re Eli Kay. Illya Kuryakin is a name that doesn’t exactly fall trippingly off the tongue.”

“That is because your pronunciation is not good...Amerikanskii. My name is Il-ya, not Eel-e-yuh Your Russian as well as your French accent by the way, are awful,” he rebutted.

“I was sent here as representative from Tsar Nicholas II, and my ethnicity should not be of concern. There are Irish agents, British, Negro agents, French, even Chinese. Are we not in a place meant for the fusion of nationalities, cultures and ethnicities? Does not the plaque on your newly erected Statue of Liberty state…’Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free?’ I should be able to be free to use my own name without fear of repercussions, should I not?”

“Look pard, I meant no disrespect,” Napoleon said. In reality Solo was annoyed that Kuryakin had just insulted him with the comment about his his accents, but it was better not to continue that discussion...at least not now.

“Gentlemen please, enough with your banter, do it on your own time,” Waverly huffed, releasing a ring of pipe smoke that encircled his head.

”I have been in contact with President Hayes, and given the stability of the army officers from Fort Escobar is in question, he has agreed to let us investigate the situation. Once our findings are made I will report them directly to the President and he will take the appropriate actions if necessary. You are not to engage the United States military, am I clear on this? I don’t want a war between this country and Mexico exploding because you two could not control yourselves...that means no dynamite Mr. umm, Kay?”

Kuryakin nodded his compliance, though he looked a bit disappointed.

“Yes sir,” Napoleon saluted, having formerly been a Lieutenant in the U.S. Army.

Kuryakin had been a member of the Imperial Russian navy, but didn’t fare well as sea sickness made his tenure somewhat difficult.

When Waverly requested his Imperial majesty send a representative to his newly formed organization; it was no surprise to the young Russian that he was selected among hundreds of potential representatives, but not for a good reason.

Why would the navy want someone who turned green and became sick aboard an Imperial ship. Illya Kuryakin was an embarrassment.

However, given that he was a superior horseman, having learned from the Kubayanski Cossacks of the great plains of Russian, that made it a plus in his favor to work for Waverly in the wilds of western America, and so he was shipped off to work for the U.N.C.L.E.

Comments

[pfrye.livejournal.com]

Oh fun!

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

:> ) Thanks! It was an excellent prompt!