Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Listen, do you got a back door to this place?"

"Yeah, it's in the back." Chester watched Emmett and the stranger run through their only escapeway. He had an awful feeling about this. The stranger was only a kid, after all. But it wasn't his place to interfere; it never was. He just hoped that Tannen outlaw finally got what he deserved.

The bartender followed the crowd gathering outside the saloon. To his surprise, Tannen’s gang already had a hold of Emmett.

“Listen up, Eastwood. I'm gonna shoot somebody today, and I'd prefer it be you. But you're just too damn yella’. I guess it'll just have to be your blacksmith friend.”

He knew Mad Dog was rotten, but this wasn't Emmett's fight; he shouldn't be involved.

“Forget about me, Marty, and save yourself!” Emmett shouted.

Marty?

“You got one minute to decide; you hear me runt? One minute!” Buford held his pocket watch out.

A train horn blew in the distance while the seconds ticked by.

“Times up, runt!” Buford locked and aimed his pistol at Emmett’s face.

Before Tannen was able to go through with the crime he was prepared to commit, a voice rang out.

“I’m right here, Tannen!”

The stranger stepped out of his hiding place. Eastwood, as they call him. The two duelers took their place.

"Draw." Buford spat.

“No.” Was the young stranger's curious response. What was even more curious was the fact that he removed his holster and dropped it to the dirt.

"I thought we could settle like men." He spoke.

What the hell was he doing?

"You thought wrong, dude." And with a smoky shot, Clint Eastwood fell to the ground.

Chester was baffled. Tannen had gone off his rocker this time. That poor boy…

It was truly a disturbing sight. The hollow laughter of Buford as he approached Eastwood's body chilled him straight to the bone. A shot through the heart couldn't have been avoided.

Although he risked being killed himself, Emmett broke free of the Tannen goons’ hold. He collapsed at Eastwood's side.

“ Marty! Marty, come on, get up!” He was shaking the boy’s body.

“What the hell are you doing, blacksmith?” Buford raised his gun again. "Two yellow bellies with the same gun..."

“I wouldn't advise that, Mr. Tannen.” Marshal Strickland entered with a shotgun trained at Buford.

The outlaw looked up and said, “Sheriff, this is a personal matter between-”

He was cut off by Emmett uppercutting him, and Buford stumbled back.

Chester knew that Brown was never the type to commit violence, ever. Punching the biggest outlaw in the Hill County area was completely out of the question. But there Buford was, knocked to the ground by the blacksmith.

Emmett Brown had enough anger in his eyes to kill two grown men on sight.

Soon, the sheriff's horse was towering over Buford. He made one last attempt to run for it, but before he could get far, he tripped on a stove door left on the ground. The outlaw promptly flew face-first into a manure cart. The last words he said before he was hauled off to prison were as follows:

“I hate manure.”

Emmett went back to Eastwood’s, or “Marty's” side.

“Come on! Wake up, this is not a time to joke." He looked as if he was losing hope.

Chester ran over. “Here, let me help you get him inside.” He grabbed the boy under the left arm while Emmett took the right. They dragged him into the saloon and waited for a doctor to arrive.

It felt like they had waited an eternity. The doctor finally arrived after. He checked the pulse and frowned. It was far too late. The distraught look on Emmett’s face was something Chester thought he'd never forget.

Chapter Text

Eastwood's body was carried out by Emmett himself. It was sad how much it looked like the boy was sleeping. The dark red patch soaking his poncho suggested something otherwise.

The saloon regained business shortly. Not even thirty minutes after the shooting Chester went back to serving drinks. All of it just stirred up old memories. Memories of his brother. He walked around the corner and poured himself a shot.

Joey tapped him on the shoulder. “You know, if Beauregard knew about you stealing his drinks, he'd have you out of here faster than that Eastwood kid.”

"That's why he's not gonna find out, Joey.” Chester laughed. He would quit drinking soon, or that's what he told himself. Everyone drinks here; what’s the harm?

One of the saloon girls walked up to the counter.

“Pearl.” Chester nodded his head as a greeting.

“Chester.” Pearl smiled back at him. “This kind man here said he would like to buy us breakfast; can you do that?”

She looked behind her, and a local man tipped his hat at the bartender.

"Yes, ma’am, I can do that.” Chester left to enter the kitchen.

The kitchen wasn’t much to look at, but it cooked food, and that’s all it needed to do. Sam Braxton, the cook at the Palace Saloon, was busy cleaning dishes. Chester told him the two orders for breakfast, and Sam had them ready in record time. Braxton was a good cook and a fast one, too. It wasn’t a wonder why Beaugard hired him.

Chester served the two at their table. Warren, the saloon’s current piano player, sat in the corner with his piano. Chester walked over.

“Hey Warren, how’ve you been?” Chester inquired.

Warren was in the middle of a song that he only called “The Cowboy Medley."

"Not much, Chester, not much. How’ve you been dealing with the duel?”

Chester sighed. “I’ve been fine. Keep up the good work.”

He returned to the bar. The day went on as usual, and the night came as quickly as it ever did. The blacksmith returned, this time without Clint Eastwood.

Chester had never seen a man more sad than Emmett Brown after the events of that morning. He had to admit to himself that he was always down after a duel. This one seemed worse than the others somehow, and he'd seen a number of duels in his time. Luckily, this was the last Hill Valley would see of Buford "Mad Dog" Tannen for a while. He was arrested after the fight, and his reign of terror was finally over. Chester would never have to deal with sweeping up bullets again. Well, he wouldn’t until the next outlaw came to town.

Chester thought he'd seen hurt when Emmett had broken Miss Clayton's heart, but it was nothing like this. The look of pure anger and despair hung on Emmett’s face like sap on a tree. He knew Emmett couldn't take alcohol; he'd proven it to a full bar earlier this morning. But it was his job to bartend, and he'd do his job either way. He poured him a glass of some of the lightest stuff they had in the saloon.

“What have I done?" Emmett sank into his arms as he lay down on the bar counter.

He hated to see his friend like this. The bartender knew Emmett and Eastwood were close. Every once in a while, Chester could hear him mumble something about ‘Marty’, but the blacksmith was mostly silent. Luckily, he could convince him to head home before he ended up like he was this morning, or on the 4th of July.

Chapter Text

The last call for drinks had been made about half an hour ago, and the bar had emptied rather quickly. It was 4 a.m., and Chester noted that when he glanced at the clock behind the bar. He started to clean up the shop for the next day, frowning at the bullet holes in the floor as he swept.

They reminded him of the newcomer, gone as fast as he came. For some reason, he was still thinking about the topic of this morning’s duel. Something about it just stuck in his mind.

He had just finished drying the last of the glasses when he heard a quiet ‘ping’ sound from the other end of the saloon. At first, he had brushed it off as simply the wind. But then he heard it again. He looked up; nobody was in the bar, not even outside the building.

Chester walked from behind the counter. After looking around, he found nothing. Strange. There was work to finish, so he headed back to the counter.

Ping.

There it was again. He whipped around.

“Hello?”

No response.

Just a trick of the night, He thought.

He slowly walked back out to the front and adjusted the chairs at some of the tables.

Ping ping.

It was beginning to bother him. What was that noise? Soon he realized. Of course, it was piano notes. The question left to answer was who was playing them.

"I don’t know who you are, but the bar’s closed,” Chester called into the dark corner where the piano sat. There was nobody but him in the bar. Another set of notes was played.
Ping, ping, ping.

Chester wasn’t a particularly superstitious man but did believe in a legend or two occasionally. He shook the chill off and walked back behind the counter to shelve the glasses. He put on his coat; the desert is cold at night after all. Surely he had just had a long day, with the duel this morning. It had to be a sleep-deprived illusion he was hearing. As the bartender started to leave the saloon, he felt like he had forgotten something. Something important. He stopped in the doorway for a moment to look at the piano.

“Goodnight, Mister Eastwood.”

With that, he made his way home, trying to figure out what to think of the previous events.

After a while of thought, Chester knew the duel that was actually bothering him didn’t involve Clint Eastwood. It didn’t involve Buford Tannen or Hill Valley at all. All this morning did was remind him of his past. To be specific, the day his older brother, Cole, was shot. The scenario was eerily similar in some ways and, in other ways, not so much. Cole was shot in the chest, much like Eastwood, but he never agreed to any duel. Some might say Cole made a bit too many people a bit too angry. The shooters practically ambushed him.

Even though Chester was able to haul him to a doctor, it was too late. It was always too late. Sometimes it makes you wish you could turn back time. He would regard that day as one of the lowest points in his life. After Cole’s death, he started drinking as a way to numb his emotions. At the same time, he started seeing things. He would always chalk it up to the wind or some intoxicated delusion. A chair would move, or maybe a window pane would tap, but it couldn’t have been real, right? After tonight at the saloon, maybe it wasn’t all as reasonable as he thought. Eastwood truly was sitting at that piano, wasn’t he?

Not the usual type of spirit in a saloon, is it?

Chapter Text

The next day at the bar was like any other. They opened at six, and the usual customers came pouring in. There was a lot of talk about the duel today, as there usually is after such an event. The gravestone had started preparations before they even knew the kid was dead. Every odd was up against him, so one could guess what the aftermath would be. Mr. Taylor began work on the coffin, and if Chester were to believe the rumors, they were going to plan a funeral for September 12th.

Surprisingly, Emmett hadn't returned to the bar. After such a loss, people were prone to drinking away their sorrows. Although, knowing Emmett, he was glad he didn't come. Chester knew losing a loved one in such an unfair duel was one of the hardest things a person could go through. Knowing from personal experience, he thought drinking was how any man deals with such a scenario. Last night must have been enough for the blacksmith, alcohol-wise. Just thinking about the duel seemed to mix up emotions. He tried to resist the urge to pour himself a glass. Instead, he poured a shot for one of the usuals.

“So, Chester, are you going to that Eastwood character’s funeral?" The current patron at the counter asked.

"I don't know... I've been thinking about it. Emmett must be having a hard time dealing with it.” The bartender replied, walking back to put away an abandoned bottle.

"Why's that?” The patron set his glass down.

"They were close, I suppose,” Chester said, refilling the glass.

"That's too bad."

After that, the patron was absorbed into another conversation.

The saloon is usually never quiet, but there are times when the talking slows down. The day was getting late; some people left and some people came. Piano music floated around the bar, this time the local pianist at the keys. The red sun filled the sky with brilliant colors. The piano player walked up to the bar.

“Gooday, Warren. What can I do for you?” Chester grinned.

“Not much, I'm afraid.” The man sighed.

“What's that matter? Nothing an old drink can fix.” The bartender chuckled, leaning on the counter.

“Chester, I'm leaving town. My ma’s gotten sick.”

“Oh, well. I wish you the best of luck.” Chester frowned and wished Warren off. The pianist left to collect his luggage.

Ping, ping, ping.

The sound of conversation overshadowed the noise at first. A poorly copied version of a tune radiated from the old wooden piano. One of the few conversations seemed to cease. Some ears perked up, including that of the bartender. He brushed it off quickly, much like the others in the saloon. Then, they heard it repeat.

He glanced at the townspeople closest to him at the bar.

"Did you folks hear that?"

They didn't look up from their conversations or even their drinks.

Just the wind, Chester. He told himself.

But there was no reason to deny what he heard.

The clunky rendition of “Grandfather’s Clock," which Warren was playing earlier, continued to play quietly in the corner. Patrons turned their heads, wondering if they had drunk too much. The music slowly faded away. The conversations continued, and everyone went about their drinks as if nothing had happened.

Surely someone else had to have heard it, right?

**

The day had fully winded down by now.

"Last call for drinks!” Joey hollered. People flocked to the counter to place their final orders.

“Hey, Chester? Did you hear that strange piano?” A man called from the small crowd of patrons.

“Yessir, I did. I believe something strange is messing with that piano. Haunting, if you will.”

The patron leaned in and said, “You didn't hear it from me, but I do believe it's that Eastwood fella doing the haunting.”

Chester laughed. “Maybe so, maybe not.”

But he knew what the answer was.

As always, the bar started to close up. Joey was here to help clean this time, but not much else was different.

Ping, ping, ping.

Joey jumped up.

“What the hell was that?” He shouted.

“I'm not entirely sure myself," Chester walked over to the piano and sat on the seat.

“ There's one thing I've been meaning to try.” Chester placed his hands on the keyboard.

He played a couple of keys on the piano. The same notes were repeated, but this time without his hands on the piano.

“Well, I'll be darned.” Joey started to smile. “Can I have a go?”

Joey proceeded with similar results.

The bartender shooed his assistant off the bench. For some reason, he felt the need to appear formal, so he dusted himself off.

Chester announced this:

“Mr. Eastwood, or any other spirit that might inhabit this piano, I want to ask a question.”

“Don’t you reckon speaking to the dead is a sin?” Joey whispered.

“Playing piano ain't a sin, Joey, and it isn't now.” Chester resumed his announcement.

“If your answer to my question is yes, do this,” he said, playing two notes after each other. "If not,” he said, playing the note once.

Joey had to hold back laughter; it was a little funny after all. Chester glared at him.

“Is this Clint Eastwood playing the saloon piano?”

Ping, ping.

The bartender's grin widened. “See, I told you I was onto something.”

Joey had no response, only a slight smile. They both finished arranging the saloon for tomorrow.

“Night, Joey. Goodnight, Mr. Eastwood,” Chester nodded his head toward the piano.

“You are so full of it, Chester," Joey laughed.

They went their separate ways.

Joey thought to himself, Talk about whiskey and spirits.

Chapter Text

When closing time came around again, Chester felt more cautious than he had the previous night. He had even left the lanterns lit over some table, although it seemed childish. Even though the hotel ran 24 hours the bar closed around 3 in the morning. As much as he wished it was the wind, that familiar plink noise of the saloon piano radiated from the corner. At least he knew he wasn’t crazy now. Joey had helped him prove that. But Joey went home early today, so Chester was left to tidy up.

Ping, ping, ping.

He chose to ignore it. After all, a little piano never hurt anyone. The same awkwardly played Grandfather’s Clock tune began to play. The bartender couldn’t help but smile. At least the kid was entertaining himself.

As the portion of the song repeated, the notes seemed to become more refined and less of a jumbled mess of sounds. Glasses were dried, chairs adjusted, and everything on his mental checklist was completed. Although they had just been cleaned, Chester poured himself a glass of whiskey. He tried to think he was “hiding” the fact of stealing drinks, as Joey put it, but little to his knowledge the regulars at The Palace had developed him somewhat of a reputation. Some would joke that the bartender was as much of a drunk as anyone else in the saloon. Maybe they were right. Chester placed the glass back on the counter.

Remembering the “experiment” he did the other night, Chester walked to the piano.

“Do you want me to leave a light lit?”

Ping, ping.

“Leaving it lit, it is.” Chest laughed, proceeding to light the lantern closest to the piano.

He blew out the remaining lanterns and took his coat off the rack. After saying goodbye to Eastwood, although it seemed like saying goodbye to the piano, he started to walk to his house. The one he took every day since he got this job. Walking past Mr.Taylor’s shop, the bartender paused to look at the various tombstones propped up along the street. His eyes seemed to be drawn to a specific one, one that looked oddly familiar…

The view of the town was great from up on the hill. He was sitting next to a short, square tombstone. Engraved on it was ‘R.I.P. Cole J. Cassidy 1827-1859’. Chester's brother was shot less than a year ago, yet the stone was already worn.

“I’ve got to leave Cole,” He turned to the grave maker as if he were talking to it directly. “-Got to get out of this town.”

“There’s this nice state called California. Anybody can start a new life there.” He lifted his hands up for a moment.

“I’m as good as anyone…” Chester pushed himself up. He looked down at the faded tombstone before leaving. Left in his place was a small piece of paper, seemingly ripped from a newspaper, with small print along with the word “California” inked in large letters.

By habit, he started to walk to the saloon. If he has gone through all the fuss of emphasizing this “new life” of his, how about starting with quitting a bad habit? Chester changed his direction to where he had tied his horse. This quickly went south because he kept a flask in his bag.

Maybe next time, He thought as he unscrewed the cap.

Although it wasn’t much of a life he was leaving behind, he knew he would miss it. Memories of the past were quickly moved aside as he looked to the future. He was quite literally leaving his past behind him.

Chester led his horse down a well-used dirt path, the first step to California done. Sure, he hadn’t lived his whole life in Stillwater, Minnesota, but a good portion had been spent in that little town. Enough time to be attached to it, at the same time enough to be tired of it.

The early-autumn sun was setting across the tree line. Riding a horse for hours on end can tire a person out. Chester made a rest stop at one of the many trees out in the country. He sat staring at the sun glowing a vibrant red. It slowly retreated below the horizon, leaving a place for the tiny dots of stars to fill the void of the sky. A feeling of satisfaction washed over him.

On the road again, just like old times.

Chester was broken from his memories by a loud crash. He jerked his head toward the sound. Some sort of stray cat had knocked over a barrel, subsequently breaking whatever was on top of it; Although, it was too dark for him to see what broke.

He wondered how long he had been standing there. He quickly started back on his walk home.

He arrived at the house after an hour’s worth of walking. He would’ve taken a horse, but a couple of months prior his and a couple of salon-goers' horses were shot by the one and only Buford Tannen. He was more lucky than some because he lived closer to town.

The Cassidy home was a moderately sized cabin with shuttered front windows and a small garden out front. Chester wasn’t much of a gardening type himself but Nettie, his wife, adored it.

He pushed the door open. Nettie was sitting by the fire, seemingly staring into space. She turned her head when she heard the doorknob twist.

“Welcome home, dear.” She smiled.

“Hello, dear.” Chester couldn’t help but smile back at her.

He hung his coat back on the rack as she got up to greet him.

“Was the kid there again?” She kissed him on the cheek.

“He sure was. I feel awfully bad for him, though. Doesn’t like the dark, he says.” Chester laughed. He was surprised she believed him at all. But, he was glad she did.

“The situation reminds me of what happened before you left Stillwater, as unfortunate it is to bring it up.” She noted.

He sighed, “Well, if Cole never died, we would have never met. You have him to thank for us.”

Nettie laughed. Chester really adored her laugh. It sounded just like it did the day he met her

Chapter Text

Getting to California is no easy task. It certainly wasn't a cheap task either. Chester had taken jobs here and there across different states. “Life is made for having experiences.” As his mother always said, rest her soul. He was certainly having new experiences. He had helped as a farm hand on an old man's property, fixed wagons to the best of his abilities and even worked a printing press.

But through all the jobs he had cycled through in the past months, one stuck out to him. He didn't have it for a very long time, of course, but the week or so he did have it was interesting. He had been a temporary bartender's assistant at a place called the Raccoon Saloon. The name was a bit funny but they had plenty of customers and decent pay.

Although it supplied him with alcohol, for free if he was careful enough, his favorite part of the job was the stories. Stories from all sorts of people. One particular gentleman came in and started to ramble about some barware, which was odd, to say the least.

But as they say, nothing good lasts forever. He wasn't getting to California if he was going to stay here. Winter was closing in and he hadn't even gotten to the edge of Nevada.

It was late October when he left the saloon in the little corner of South Dakota. By December he had made it to the heart of Nebraska, or so he heard. He could hardly tell what was ten feet in front of him, much less where in the state he was. Snow blanketed the stores and houses when he rode into Valleyfield that day.

Naturally, he walked into the saloon first. They were usually warm and provided places to stay, so it was his best bet.

“We’re out of room.” The monotonous sounding clerk stated.

“What do you mean you’re ‘out of room’?” Chester resisted the urge to shout.

The clerk squinted his eyes, “Do you need me to repeat myself?” He took the liberty to emphasize every syllable.

Chester glanced at the bar. He better find a place to stay before it gets too late. For now he would have to rely on the good Samaritans of Valleyfield. After a couple of hours of asking around, he got lucky. A small family of farmers had offered him the little shed next to their barn for the winter.

Talk about luck. He thought.

When he got his belongings mostly settled in, he laid down on the hay-scattered floor. His situation wasn't all great, in return for the shed he had promised to stay and help the farmer tend to his land come springtime. Now, he had to focus on getting through the winter.

The future always seems to catch up on you. In the spring of 1861, Chester Cassidy was riding into town, like any other day before. He made his way to the town square before hitching his horse to one of the nearby posts. It was a nice day. He must have had his head in the clouds because moments after he got off his horse he had bumped into a lady.

“Excuse me, my apologies ma'am.” He tilted his head down and took off his hat for a moment.

“It's alright.” She responded.

When he lifted his head in front of his eyes was probably the prettiest woman he had ever seen.

“What's your name?” To him, the question seemed to ask itself.

“Nettie, Compton. I'm Nettie Compton. I apologize for bumping into you.” She smiled, oh how she smiled.

“Oh no, the fault is mine. I'm Chester Cassidy. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Compton.” He started to smile himself.

“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Cassidy.” Nettie replied.

She had her hair tied into a bun and a green dress on. In her hair was a beautiful golden pin that took the image of a daisy. Her eyes had a gray tint to them, like snow. The snow he knew so well when he first came to this town.

“Can I help you with anything?” Chester asked, still smiling.

“Well, I do have an errand to run. With your horse, I bet I could get the goods home three times the speed I could walk.” She looked over his shoulder at his horse.

“Well, no time to lose then.” He set his hat back on his head and offered to give her a hand in getting the horse. She denied it, instead getting on by herself. They ended up getting the errands done in record time.

**

Needless to say, Chester spent a little more time in Valleyfield than he had planned. Maybe California would just have to wait. He has someone else to start a new life with.

After spending years in that little town of Valleyfield. Chester finally felt he was back on track. He remembered the reason he set out on this trip so long ago. Surprisingly, Nettie had happily agreed to go to California with him.

“What about your home here?” Chester asked. He knew he had left his hometown in such a random act but there was nothing left for him in Stillwater. Nettie had so much to leave behind here.

“Chester, I've spent most of my life here, but my family never planned that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Back during the big California gold rush my father packed the whole family up and we started towards the Golden State. Alas, we left too late and were snowbound in Valleyfield. So, my father found a job and we stayed.”

It's a small world. He thought he had been in the same spot as her and her family.

“So, you'll go to California with me?”

He had overstayed his welcome, and on June 1st, 1872, Chester and Nettie Compton-Cassidy left for California.

They arrived in a little mining town called Hill Valley. Chester had a good feeling about this place. The business was bustling and the houses were solid. They got a cabin near the town square. After a temporary job or two after they moved in, Chester landed a job he knew could keep. In 1876 a man called Bueargard Tannen opened a saloon. Chester had been recruited as a bartender.

Just like old times. Chester remarked in his head.

Nettie and Him had made good for themselves in their little slice of the country. To this day they had kept doing good for themselves, and Chester had even kept his job as a bartender.

Chapter Text

Cheer and rowdiness filled the saloon. The end of the week was never a special day, but never a boring one either. The usual come-and-go routine day. Something that was unexpected was a local Irishman stepping into the saloon for the first time in days, months even. He took a seat at the far end of the bar.

“Hello Seamus, I haven't seen you in here for a while.”

“Good day, Mr. Cassidy. It's finally safe to do so, I suppose.” The Irishman chuckled. "Buford Tannen seems to be gone for good."

"I sure hope he is, Mr. McFly. Anything I can get for you?"

Seamus sat up suddenly and looked around. Chester tilted his head.

“Hmm, strange…” The farmer muttered.

“What is it?”

“I feel a presence of some sort. It must sound silly." Seamus laughed.

“Ask a few of the people; they won't tell you it's silly." Chester set down a shot glass.

“Oh, no drinks for me today. Maggie would be furious. I'll have soup,” Seamus stated, pushing the glass away.

"If you say so,” The bartender turned. "Joey! Get up and ask Sam to make some soup, will you?” He turned back to the farmer, who was still alert.

"Do you hear that? A piano, but no player." Seamus furrowed his eyebrows.

“That would be the presence you were speaking of.” Chester pointed to the piano and said, "He just started messing with it.”

The farmer turned his attention back to the bartender and asked, “Who did?”

“Eastwood, Clint Eastwood.”

"Ah, I see... Eastwood. It truly was a sad duel. That Brown fellow said I could have the holster, the one that had ultimately failed to be of use to Clint. It's an honor.”

"An honor, hah! It's an embarrassment if you ask me.” One of the old timers who usually came to the saloon happened to be eavesdropping and decided to comment.

Chester sat down on the bowl of soup and said, “Don't mind them. But, if you do mind, why were you the one who got it?”

Seamus nodded to the bartender in a gesture of thanks. “I'm not sure... Mr. Brown said, ‘He would've wanted me to have it.’” He gazed back at the piano.

“Emmett sure is funny that way." Chester shook his head.

“If I remember correctly, this salesman came up to me and tried to convince me the gun was his. Funny indeed…”

**

School got out, and the children ran from the schoolhouse back to their homes. Chester noted as they ran past the entrance of the saloon. A few daring ones tried to sneak in but were promptly shooed away. A short time later, after the children had long gone, Miss Clara Clayton walked in. The patrons tipped their hats at her as she walked by.

“Miss Clayton, curious to see you here. Care for a drink?”

"Oh no, the children are much more important than any alcohol,” Clara stated.

“Suit yourself. What are you here for then?” Chester asked, noticing the small bundle of flowers in Miss Clayton's hands.

"Well, I heard that a certain,” Clara paused to think of the right word, “spirit, was here. Did I hear correctly?”

Rumors sure do spread quickly. Chester scoffed to himself, then pointed to the piano. “I'm not sure if he's always ‘here’, but the piano’s where he usually is.” His eyes followed her as she placed the mini-bouquet on top of the piano lid.

"If you mind my asking, where did you hear it from?” He called to Clara as she left.

She turned to him and smiled again. “A little birdie told me.” After that she walked back through the swinging doors, leaving only the little bundle of purple flowers lying atop the oak piano.

**

Days had passed, and the town moved on from the duel, not that it had affected much so far. Just another man dead in the dust for all the rest of the people. It had been 5 days since anyone had seen Emmett. He locked himself away in that barn so tight that not even the wind could get in. Most surprisingly, he’d left his business to rot as well. People needed a blacksmith, and Emmett was the only man within 20 miles that could do the work. But after days of isolation, Emmett Brown solemnly walked into the Palace saloon one Saturday evening. Looking just as tired and just as down as the night of the duel.

“ Emmett! Where’ve you been? I've knocked about a million times. I need my horse reshoed!” One obscure patron laughed, and another shouted some other thing he needed to be done.

"Hello, Chester.” Emmett looked like he forced a smile. "So, they shot the piano player; how ironic," he scoffed.

"If you're going to start rambling about the so-called future, at least have the shot this time!” one from the old-timer trio hollered.

Chester ignored them. "Emmett, how’s life been treating you?”

“Unimportant question, I'm afraid. Mar- Eastwood, is he here?” Chester hated to say that Emmett almost looked desperate for an answer.

"Over by the piano.” Chester sighed, pointing to the corner yet again.

Emmett dragged himself to the instrument; his eyes all of a sudden lit up. An upbeat and better-played tune suddenly sprouted from the piano. Chester had taken the liberty to follow Emmett through the saloon this time. And, boy, did Emmett have the biggest smile on his face when that tune started to play. Although Chester was quickly torn away by a customer, he could see that Emmett, too, had placed a gift on the piano.

By the time he was done taking and serving the order, the blacksmith had gone. After a glance, he could see what the gift was, a photo. It showed three people—in the middle, a kid who looked like Clint. They were all wearing funny clothes and standing in front of a well. The girl on the right is wearing a shirt saying “Hv Class of '84."

How strange.

Chapter Text

The funeral was held on September 12th, 1885, in the Boot Hill Cemetery. Even strangers attended the funeral of Clint Eastwood. Emmett Brown notably said the eulogy. It was confusing at times, reminiscent of his ‘future’ rant on the night after the festival, but it ultimately showed how close he and Eastwood were. Chester himself was invited, and although confused by the request, he accepted it.

The gravestone reads as follows: Here Lies Clint Eastwood, Died September 7, 1885, Shot in the chest by Buford Tannen in a duel, erected in eternal memory by his good friend Emmett.

Some returned to the saloon after the event, including himself. Seamus McFly had returned to leave another gift on the saloon’s piano. In his words, the holster had ultimately failed the boy on that fateful day.

Rumors spread quickly. The phantom piano player was a little story at first; Schoolchildren heard it, and it got passed on. Next thing you know, the people are teaching a ghost how to play the piano. For Chester Cassidy, at least it brought business to the saloon. The piano had become an altar by then.

The ghost of Clint Eastwood still played on that piano for years to come. At some points, he gathered large crowds who would clap and cheer him on. Sometimes Chester could swear he saw Clint himself sitting on the seat, playing right along with the crowd. But he was always gone in the blink of an eye.

The music rarely ceased in the Palace Saloon, although it changed from time to time. Even as the night got slow and the winds got quiet, you could still hear the ping of that old wooden piano. Joey helped to keep the piano in good shape, per popular demand. Although he kept his blacksmith job up, Emmett seemed to spend most of his time at the tracks or locked up in his livery barn.

One day, many months after the duel, Emmett took a train ride. That was the last anyone in Hill Valley would hear from Emmett for a long, long time. Before he left, though, Emmett returned to the saloon. He was smiling brightly and in his best clothes. He left a sealed envelope on the piano, along with a note.

“I miss you. See you later, Future Boy.”