The Night of the Pit Fighter

[Double Take]

THE NIGHT OF THE PIT FIGHTER

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Slowly James West got to his feet and shook his head to clear it. He looked around, not liking what he saw. He was standing in the center of a circular pit about 50 feet across. The floor was dirt, packed down by innumerable feet of the men who had fought and died in that pit. The wooden walls surrounding the pit rose 10 feet above the floor surmounted by an iron railing that added another 4 feet to its height.

James West studied the faces of the other men occupying the pit. For the most part their eyes were cold, but a few of them leered hungrily at their intended target. Like West, they were dressed in loose fitting, black cotton trousers. They wore no shirts or shoes and their bodies displayed numerous scars from whippings and combat.

On either side of West stood a Whip, men who enforced the rules of the competition with long bullwhips. Their faces were hard and it was clear they would show no mercy to the still groggy victim. They knew that this new man was destined to die in the pit, a training exercise for the experienced pit fighters who survived in the nightmare world of enslaved combatants.

"Third, first up," the Whip ordered.

Five of the fighters moved back to stand against the wall, leaving West in the center facing his opponent. The two Whips backed off to give the men room; their whips were in their hands ready to goad the fighters if they hesitated.

The pit fighter that now faced West was tall and stoutly built. Third, like all the fighters was only known by his rank, did not anticipate having any problems felling his opponent. Even a man who was normally considered good with his fists stood little chance against a pit fighter who spent hours training for the weekly battles. He knew what was in store for him if he delayed so he launched himself at the newcomer.

West easily anticipated the charge; he had learned long ago to read an opponent’s intentions in his eyes. He sidestepped the taller man, ramming his elbow into the man’s midriff. As Third doubled over with pain Jim brought his clenched fists down on his neck. Third fell heavily to the ground, but quickly rolled to his feet and managed to duck under a powerfully flung fist. Third countered the move by tackling West, sending them both crashing to the floor.

As Jim fell backward, he brought his foot up into his opponent’s stomach and flipped him over his head. Instantly both men were back on their feet and continued to trade blows. Third bent double from a fist to his stomach, but as he did so he grabbed Jim around the waist and launched himself forward. Like a cat, Jim West managed to roll with his opponent and ended up on top. That gave him the advantage he needed and a hard right to his opponent's jaw finished the fight.

Jim barely had time to get to his feet before the Whip sent in the next fighter. This was a large man, thick through the neck and chest. The man’s muscles screamed power, and West knew that he would have to rely on his speed and agility to overcome this opponent.

West hesitated, looking for an opening as the two men circled each other. Suddenly he felt a sharp sting on his back as one of the Whips lashed at him leaving an angry red welt. Instinctively Jim glanced toward the Whip. In that second, the hulking man, ranked fifth in the stable, attacked, slamming his powerful fist into Jim's ribs. Jim staggered backward, struggling to keep his feet. The blow had knocked the wind out of him, leaving him momentarily vulnerable to his opponent. Fifth grabbed West by the arm and waist and threw him across the arena.

West came to rest against the wooden wall. He lay there as if stunned by the fall. He watched his opponent through half closed eyes while he struggled to breathe. Fifth grinned as he approached his victim. He was one of the few fighters who relished the sport and did not seem to mind his lack of freedom. As the big fighter reached down and grabbed him by the arm, Jim brought both feet up in a hard kick to the man's stomach. He let the man's backward momentum pull him to his feet, at the same time twisting out of Fifth’s powerful grip.

Before Fifth regained his balance, Jim followed up with a second kick that caught the large man on the chin, slamming him to the ground. Jim didn't wait to see if he was going to get up again; he pounced, driving his right fist into the man's jaw.

Frowning, surprised that the newcomer was still on his feet, a Whip motioned for two of the remaining fighters to take on West. Jim moved out from the wall far enough to give himself room to maneuver. He still felt a little fuzzy from being drugged and it sapped his energy. The odds were now against him, and there were two more fighters who hadn’t been called upon yet.

OK, James thought, time to leave the party.

“It’s been fun boys!” Jim called as he charged toward the two approaching fighters.

Jumping at the last minute, Jim slammed his body horizontally into the two men. All three went down, but West’s momentum carried him past his opponents, and he rolled smoothly to his feet. He covered the remaining distance to the opposite side of the arena in just a few strides. He leapt up and grabbed the bottom of the iron railing. He pulled himself up, hand over hand, until he could reach the top rail. As he swung himself up and over, there was a crack of a rifle shot, and a bullet plowed into the floor at Jim’s feet causing him to freeze. Two armed guards, stationed in the gallery surrounding the pit and hidden by shadows, covered him with their guns.

Armed with rifles, these men were prepared to deal ruthlessly with any uprising from the fighters. They kept themselves far enough back so they could not be attacked. Should any of the pit fighters go after a Whip or try to make a break for freedom, they were there to stop them, usually permanently.

Jim remained motionless straddling the rail. With two rifles pointed at him and nothing to use as cover, he wasn’t going anywhere. Slowly, he swung his leg back over the rail and dropped to the floor of the pit.

Again, Jim found himself facing the two fighters who did not give him a chance to recover after he landed. They moved in swiftly, grabbing his arms and hurled him against the wall. The fighter on his right drove his fist into Jim’s stomach. The second fighter drew back his fist for a follow up blow... that never landed. A young, dark-haired fighter, still in his teens, intervened, grabbing the fighter’s arm and bringing his fist down on the man’s jaw. The man stumbled backward, releasing Jim’s arm which immediately was directed toward his other attacker.

Jim threw a puzzled glanced at the young man to his left. The youth grinned at Jim, “You fight well.”

The Whips sent the remaining fighter to join the fray, but with Jim and the young man working together, the other three didn’t stand a chance. One by one they fell, until only one fighter remained facing Jim and the young pit fighter.

“Stop,” called a voice from the gallery above the pit, “First?”

The young fighter stepped toward the center of the pit. He looked up at a dim figure in the shadows above, “I will train this one!”

“Very well. He is your responsibility.” Then the figure addressed the Whips, “Take them back to their cells and bring in the next group.”

Jim balked when the Whip indicated for him to follow First through a door. He did not know what lay beyond the opening. To go through may cut off all hope of escape; he was tired and his ribs ached, but he felt his best chance of escape was to remain in the arena. The Whip, however, was quick to punish Jim’s defiance, and bullwhip curled around Jim’s shoulders and chest drawing blood from a long stripe across his ribs. A second time the whip flicked in his direction, but this time Jim grabbed it, allowing it to wrap around his arm. With a quick yank he pulled it free of the man’s grip just as the second Whip moved in with his weapon raised.

First moved quickly, stepping between West and the descending whip. He turned so the whip came down across his back. He grabbed Jim by the arm and punched him hard in the jaw. Jim was caught by surprise, not expecting an attack from the same person who had fought by his side just a few minutes before. First yanked the whip from Jim’s hand and shoved him through the open door. As he did so, he flung the whip to the floor and braced himself for the beating he knew was coming.

Jim turned back to re-enter the arena, but one of the armed guards was already there, his rifle raised and trained on Jim’s chest. While the second Whip positioned himself between West and the dark-haired teen, the first Whip grabbed his weapon. Fury on his face, he took it out on the youth’s back. Jim started forward, but the rifle leveled on his chest prevented him from stepping in.

First stood there, barely flinching when the whip lashed across his back adding fresh welts on top of old scars and barely healed wounds. To resist would make the beating all the worse. Taking the punishment without resistance was the only way to survive. First recognized the fighter in James West. He knew that Jim would never survive that first beating; he would have fought back, and his resistance would have been his death.

The beating stopped, and the Whip turned to West, “He won’t always be there to take your stripes. You learn your place or you’re dead!”

First grabbed Jim’s arm and shoved him toward the opening.

“Move. Don’t say anything, don’t do anything,” he snarled.

First moved ahead of Jim when they reached the bottom of the narrow flight of stairs. Another armed guard stood in a recessed doorway at the base of the stairs with his back to a heavy wooden door. He had a clean shot at anyone on the stairs or approaching down the narrow passageway that led to the fighter’s cells.

As he followed the young pit fighter, Jim noted the placement of more guards. Like a prison, a great deal of thought had been given to arranging the guards and Whips so that the enslaved fighters would have no chance of overpowering them.

The prison like atmosphere was continued in the living quarters of the enslaved fighters. The walls of the passageway and cells were made of roughly shaped stone blocks, but the floor was bare dirt. As they were below ground, the only light came from irregularly spaced wall sconces that lined the narrow passageway. Small vents in the ceiling allowed for some airflow; nevertheless, the air was thick from smoke and dust, with the unmistakable odor of confined humanity.

First stopped abruptly and opened a door of iron bars, typical of a prison cell. He entered and Jim was shoved into the cell behind him. Jim turned when he heard the door slam shut and the distinctive click of the lock turning. He frowned, his green eyes narrowing as he studied his surroundings. Jim had nothing on him that would allow him to open the door. He swore softly at his captors, who had deprived him of his means of escape when they had stripped him of his clothes and boots.

He gripped the bars of the door and gave it a hard shake. It was as solid as it looked. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the bars. He still felt woozy from the drug, and his ribs were sore. The fact that his partner, fellow Secret Service agent Artemus Gordon was out there, somewhere, reassured him. Artemus would not stop looking until he located James West. Jim needed to stay alert and stay alive.

************************************************************************

There was nothing particularly dangerous about their current assignment for a change. James West had provided an official escort for the body of a senator that had been transported to his home town in Kansas for burial, a duty that Jim had requested out of respect for the elderly man he had known since the War. His friend and partner, Artemus Gordon, had left Washington two days later on board their private train, the Wanderer. They were to meet at Garnett before heading north to their next assignment.

Artemus Gordon was mildly concerned. Jim was not at their scheduled meeting place, a saloon on the south of Garnett. By the looks of the main room, Jim may well have been there earlier in the day. The bartender was restocking the bottles and glasses behind the bar. A number of broken chairs were piled in a corner and there were still splinters of wood and shards of glass littering the floor. Clearly a fight had taken place a few hours earlier.

Gordon approached the bar. The bartender did not turn around although he could clearly see Artemus’s reflection in the big mirror behind the bar.

“What’re you after? My patience and bottles are near gone.”

“Information. That’s all,” Artemus replied. “I’m supposed to meet a friend here and wondered if you’ve seen him.”

“Well, most everybody left or was carried out after the fight started. What’d he look like anyway?”

“Brown hair, green eyes. Dressed in a short blue jacket and black chaps,” Artemus ventured hesitantly, watching as the bartender’s face turned red and his nostril flared.

Not a good sign, Artie thought. Jim was definitely involved in the destruction.

“Unless you’re planning on paying for your friend’s antics, you best get outta here,” the bartender grumbled and pointed at the door with the beer mug he was holding.

“Any idea where he went?”

“He paid for his whiskey and sauntered out. I was too busy cleaning up this mess to worry about were he went, so long’s he don’t come back!”

Gordon walked through the swinging doors and paused on the boardwalk. He pushed his hat back from his forehead and gazed up and down the main street. At least Jim had walked out of the saloon. The best place to start looking would be the sheriff.

The sheriff wasn’t concerned about the bar fight. As no one had been shot, he wasn’t going to get involved. Yes, he had seen the stranger on the black spitfire of a horse, but that was it. He suggested Gordon check at the hotel.

The hotel was another dead end. West had checked out earlier in the day. The clerk had no objections to letting Gordon search the room, but there was no clue as to his partner’s whereabouts.

The livery stable came next. The stable boy, Bernie, remembered James West. He had tipped him well to give his horse some extra attention. Just a short time ago he had saddled Jim’s black and watched him head north along the main street.

Artemus was puzzled and his concern for his missing partner was growing. North would have taken Jim back in the direction of the train. Perhaps he had planned on intercepting Artemus, but if that was the case Jim had never made it. There was only the one road to the siding where the Wanderer waited several miles from town. Artemus decided he had two choices, return to the private railroad car or get a room at the hotel and spend the night in town. Even though it would be nearly dark by the time he made it, Artemus thought Jim would most likely head to the train.

“Back to the train it is, then,” Artemus muttered to himself as he mounted his horse.

Evening and night passed with no sign of Jim West. Artemus returned to town in the morning traveling slowly, looking for any indication that Jim had left the main road. The hard, dry soil left virtually no signs of passage. A quick check of the town also revealed no indication of his partner. Frowning and growing increasingly worried, Artemus returned to the train and sent a message to Colonel Richmond.

West missing. Appears to have left Garnett. Any contact with Colonel Richmond?

The reply came just a few minutes later. No contact. No news. Keep me informed.

Artemus decided to remain on the siding for another 24 hours. He telegraphed, Scipio, the next town along the line. Perhaps the sheriff there had news of West.

Three more days of fruitless searching passed. Artemus traveled to the closest towns in the surrounding area to no avail. Frustrated, he returned to Garnett. As he rode into town, Bernie from the livery stable spotted him and waved him over.

“Some guy brought your friend’s black in the other day. Said it was an extra horse he wanted to get rid of. Mr. Hammond bought him. He owns this livery stable. But I recognized that horse right off. Even came with that fancy saddle and bridle. I bet old Hammond’ll keep them for himself.”

Gordon looped his horse’s reins over the hitching post and followed Bernie into the barn. Jim’s black whinnied when he recognized Artie and tossed his head.

“Did you see the man who brought him in?” asked Artemus patting the horse on the neck.

He was desperate for any information. Jim’s horse would not have just wandered away, even if Jim had been thrown or something had happened. No, someone had physically parted the horse from his rider, of that Artie was sure.

“Twas after I left for the night. You’ll have to check with Mr. Hammond, but he don’t keep the best records,” Bernie said. Artemus tipped the young man and asked him to have Jim’s horse ready to go when he returned.

Mr. Hammond proved to be a congenial older man. He had recognized the quality of the black quarter horse the man had brought in the night before. It was too good a deal to pass up, especially when he talked him into including the horse’s tack. At first Mr. Hammond was reluctant to part with his new acquisition, but after seeing Artemus Gordon’s credentials he grudgingly agreed to sell him for the same price he had paid.

The ranch hand who brought the horse in was named Ben Flemming. Hammond believed he had seen him in town before, probably at the saloon. He did not know precisely where he worked, but Hammond guessed it was at a ranch some distance to the west.

At least now I have a direction to start looking, Artemus thought as he headed back to the train, leading Jim’s horse.

************************************************************************

[Double Take]

The young man introduced himself simply as First. Jim guessed he was no more than 15 or 16 years old. Slender and wiry, his grim expression made him look older than he was. The letters CC were branded across his chest just below the hollow of his throat. First returned Jim’s scrutiny, then relaxed and the coldness left his blue eyes. He wet a rag from a bucket of water and cleaned the whip weals on Jim’s back and arm.

“What is this place?” Jim asked.

“Welcome to the Pits,” First answered with a grim smile. He paused before continuing, “This is the Double C Ranch. We fight at the pleasure of the stable master...or die.”

“Why did you help me?”

“I told you. You fight well. Shame to see a natural fighter killed as a training exercise.” First hesitated, “You the Law?”

“Something like that,” Jim answered cautiously. He took the rag from the boy, rewet it and wrung it out. First sat on a stool while Jim carefully wiped the blood from the oozing cuts.

“They would have killed you, you know. You fight the Whips and the guards’ll shoot you. You take the beating if you want to live...Not that this is really living,” First added softly, then continued. “I’m First, the highest ranked fighter in this stable. If I take you, the Master knows you can fight. You obey the rules, and maybe you’ll live.”

First indicated a pallet on the other side of the small cell, “You might as well rest. The Whips won’t be back ‘til tomorrow.”

The young man lay on his stomach on the other pallet, resting his head on his arms. There was little to do between practice sessions and meals. Most of the fighters dealt with the boredom by sleeping. He watched as Jim restlessly paced the confines of the small cell.

“How long have you been here?” Jim asked when he realized his cellmate was watching him.

“Too long. Maybe a couple of years.”

“Anyone ever escape?”

The young man snorted, “By dying.”

The fights were not usually to the death, First explained. The fight continued until there was a clear winner, often a knock-out, occasionally death. The fighters were ranked, and pitted against another fighter of a similar standing from the same stable, or more frequently, from a different stable. Betting drove the brutal system. Like the Roman games of old, it was a spectator sport and a great deal of money changed hands during a bout.

Some of the fighters were prisoners, siphoned out of the penal system and sold to a stable. Others, like First, and apparently James West, were abducted off the streets by scouts after demonstrating an ability to fight. The scouts were generally very careful with their selections. Even a prisoner, if he had enough outside ties, would be missed.

“That sounds about right,” Jim said nodding his head. “I got into a little altercation in a saloon in Garnett. I thought it best to head out of town and meet up with my partner at the railroad siding. They must have been at the bar and followed me. They hit me with a drug dart and I woke up here. They wouldn’t have known I work for the government.” He shook his head, “Artie’s always getting on to me about fighting. Guess I should have listened to him.”

After hearing Jim’s story, First realized that the scouts must have made a mistake grabbing West. It probably was not until after he was searched that the scout realized Jim was a federal agent. By then it was too late. Killing him as part of a training exercise seemed to be the best way to get rid of the mistake permanently, but greed won out. When the stable master had seen West fight, and First had confirmed his skill, the stable master decided to take a chance and keep the new man. An exceptional fighter would improve his stable, or could be sold for a tidy sum.

Jim West digested the information. He was familiar with animal blood sports, but he had never even heard rumors of the enslaved pit fighters. The organizers were experts at keeping their operations out of the public eye. Anyone involved, either as a spectator, owner or worker, was carefully screened.

Even if Artie figures out what’s happened to me, can he infiltrate the organization? Most likely, Jim thought, I’m on my own to escape.

************************************************************************

Artemus Gordon did not go directly to any of the large ranches west of Garnett. Instead he frequented the saloons in the region, listening for any hint of information that would help him find his partner. He had to be careful; the towns were close enough together to run into the same person at different watering holes. Fortunately his bag of disguises allowed him to remain anonymous as he moved from town to town.

Nearly a week had passed since his partner had disappeared. Gordon was disguised as a low-life con-man. He was dressed in a cheap brown suit, old, but clean and in reasonably good repair. A bulbous nose, stringy brown hair and a thick mustache completed his disguise. He accompanied another, similarly dressed man into the large, crowded, wooden structure close to Jerome, a town a few miles west of Garnett.

Gordon had met George Monroe several days before at the Garnett Sports Palace, a bar that hosted boxing matches for the entertainment of its patrons. Watching the fight, George had quickly been caught up in the action and cheered the contenders on, encouraging moves that would have been frowned upon by boxing officials. Listening to him, Artie realized that this man must be used to watching a less disciplined form of fighting. Artemus wondered if there was a connection between Jim’s disappearance immediately after a bar fight and the no-holds-barred style of fighting that George Monroe seemed to favor.

Artemus introduced himself to Monroe as Harry Metlock and soon they were drinking together while they watched the fights. From there it was a fairly simple matter of plying George Monroe with whiskey and talking about various bouts Gordon had witnessed to gain George’s trust. By the end of the second night of drinking, George was ready to invite his new friend to a “real show” as he called it. But first, he would need to get permission from the men who ran the operation. If all went well, in two days George would introduce Harry Metlock to a real man’s sport.

Artemus Gordon contacted Colonel Richmond and laid the groundwork for his cover. Harry Metlock had been a Union soldier during the war. Cashiered out under suspicion of selling stolen merchandise, he had continued his exploits during the next few years moving on whenever the law got wise to him. He had done some time in jail, but then had dropped out of sight two years ago.

George Monroe located his new friend in the saloon Friday afternoon. He grinned and invited Artemus to join him the next night to watch the fights.

“You gotta understand, Harry, if you come and they find out you ain’t who you say you are, they’re liable to kill you. But the fights are good and you can earn some big money if you bet on a winner!”

“Why the secrecy?” Gordon asked perplexed.

“Well, not all the fighters are there of their own accord, if you follow me. And occasionally they get a little carried away with the fun of it.”

The muscles in his jaws twitched as Artemus clenched his teeth; he could guess Monroe’s meaning and did not like the sound of it. If his instincts were correct about Jim’s whereabouts, his partner could be in real danger.

*****

It took a few minutes for Gordon’s eyes to adjust to the hazy atmosphere of the building. Smoke from cigars and oil lamps hung in the air. Not a saloon as he first expected, it was more like an arena. Spotlights illuminated the buildings primary feature, a large central pit, about 35 feet across with a dirt floor. A cluster of men stood around a blackboard which listed the upcoming bouts with the fighter’s rank and stable. Others stood at the rail, looking down at the pit, waiting for the entertainment to start. Bets were placed on the upcoming fights, while men made notes to themselves and discussed the merits of the various fighters as though they were betting on horses.

When the fights started Artemus Gordon had to force himself to stay in character. He was disgusted by the spectacle and the blood thirsty cheers of the crowd. As George Monroe had predicted, money changed hands quickly as the evening progressed. It was obvious to Gordon that the fighters were little more than slaves, forced to fight for the crowd’s amusement. Two Whips were always on the arena floor ready to goad the fighters if they faltered. Inconspicuously placed around the room, a couple of guards with rifles and a clean shot into the pit completed the security.

Although, he had no firm evidence, Artemus knew in his gut that this was where he would find his partner, James West. Not necessarily in this arena, but one like it. He was beginning to form a plan in his mind. Hopefully, he would be able to locate his partner and take down this depraved sport at the same time.

As he was leaving with Monroe, Artemus tried to get a feeling for how wide spread this sport was and how many pit fighter stables were in the area.

George shrugged, he hadn’t given it much thought. He knew of at least four stables, one even bigger than the place they had been tonight. But he had no idea if it was prevalent in other parts of the country.

“You in for next week?” George asked.

Artemus shook his head sadly, “I wish, but I already made plans that will take me outta the state for a few weeks. I’ll look you up when I come back.” He grinned and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m wanting some more of that action!”

The need to stay in character had over ruled the regulations forbidding an on-duty Secret Service agent from gambling. Artemus Gordon had a good eye, and had come out wealthier than he went in.

************************************************************************

For Jim West the next few days were a difficult adjustment. Fed twice a day, the monotony was only relieved by his conversations with his cellmate and the training sessions. During the hours they spent alone in the cell, First and Jim talked frequently. First was curious about the world outside and plied Jim with questions. Jim came to trust the young fighter and related some of his own exploits as well as other news he thought would interest the youth. In turn, Jim quizzed First on life as a pit fighter seeking any information that would be helpful. An undercurrent to Jim’s questions was his determination to escape.

First had long ago given up any hope of escaping from the pits. Before meeting James West he truly believed that death was the only way out. But hearing about some of Jim’s close encounters and ingenious solutions to impossible situations made him wonder if escape was possible. Still, he dared not allow himself to hope. Hope was dangerous. It led to disappointment, and that could lead to death. First was still unsure if Jim would even be able to survive in the pits. A man as strong willed as West was likely to find himself the target of one of the guards.

The only time the fighters left their cells were during the training sessions. These lasted for an hour or more in the morning and then again most afternoons. Two or three pairs of fighters were taken to the arena to practice. There were never less than two Whips present, and the guards in the gallery made their presence known whenever West and First entered the arena.

Jim was impressed with First’s speed and skill. He obviously had formal training in martial arts. It had been a while since Jim had sparred with someone that challenged him. He found that he had to concentrate and sharpen his skills to match moves with the youth.

First was equally impressed with his new recruit. Prior to being kidnapped and thrown into the world of pit fighters, First had competed in youth competitions. He had wrestled and boxed, but he had excelled in the martial arts. Since his enslavement, First had adapted his fighting style to fit the situation. Gone were the polite formalities and rules, replaced by the need to win at all costs. The faster you could get your opponent down, the less chance of serious injury. Neither was First above learning new techniques. He recognized Jim’s unique ability to deal with multiple assailants and quickly assimilated some of Jim’s moves into his own repertoire.

*****

Jim threw First over his shoulder then reached down casually to give the young man a hand back to his feet. He suddenly spun around when he felt the sharp sting of a whip across his back.

“You’re here to fight, not dillydally with each other,” the Whip snarled.

Jim clenched his fists, but First’s sharp “don’t!” prevented him from following through. Nevertheless, the Whip took it as challenge to his authority and stayed close to the two men, looking for any excuse to ply his whip.

By the end of the hour, Jim’s back and shoulders were laced with ugly red welts. Only First’s whispered admonishments not to retaliate kept Jim from taking out his anger on his abuser. When they returned to the cell he could not keep still. His green eyes burned with anger and he restlessly paced until First grabbed him by the arm. Jim turned and swung automatically, but the boy anticipated the blow and was ready, absorbing it with the open palm of his hand. He braced his legs and held up both hands, palms out in front of his body and let Jim work out his anger.

After a couple of minutes, Jim turned away and dropped down on his pallet. First picked up the rag and started cleaning the worst of the lacerations on Jim’s back.

“Perhaps you will survive after all. I had my doubts that you could hold your temper against the Whips.” Then First dropped his voice to a whisper, “I’ve been thinking. The only chance of escape is if you are sold to a different stable. And that can only happen if you stay alive and fight well enough to impress one of the other masters.”

“I’m listening,” Jim muttered back.

“They use wagons to transport fighters shackled in a large box. If you can free yourself, you will have to get past the master and any Whips that he brings. Still, it is the best chance.”

“I’ll need something to pick the lock.”

“Tell me and I will try to get it. Being First has some privileges. I have a little more freedom than most,” the teen replied with a grim smile. Deep in First’s heart a spark of hope ignited. This man, this James West, was unlike anyone that he had ever met.

************************************************************************

The Wanderer headed toward St. Louis and the Secret Service office there. Artemus knew this was going to be a major operation and he would need to involve other agents to pull it off successfully. First he needed to create an identity that would pass the scrutiny of the stable masters who oversaw the area around Garnett. His new disguise would be that of the master of a small pit fighter stable from outside the area, looking to increase his number of fighters and profits by moving into an established area. He would need the monetary backing of the Department to allow him to purchase one or two pit fighters to salt his stable made up of fellow agents. Although he didn’t voice his thought out loud, he held in his heart the hope he would be able to purchase his partner and get him out of the hellish situation.

Artemus decided to leave the train on a siding nearly three hours ride from Lowrys Mill. According to George Monroe, the largest pit fighter stable was located a few miles outside of the growing Missouri town. The siding was far enough away that no-one would actually visit his “stable”, but close enough to allow easy access to the surrounding towns and other stables.

“James, I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I make for you,” Gordon muttered aloud as he mounted his horse and headed toward Lowrys Mill. He was going to be spending a lot of time in the saddle and he did not look forward to it.

His new identity was Jesse Bell, a ruthless gambler who had made his money early on by playing poker, then bushwhacking the winner as he left town. Well dressed and groomed with graying hair, a neatly trimmed beard and aristocratic nose disguised his seedy side from the general public. Make-up and a slight paunch helped to add several years to his character.

Gordon entered the local saloon. George Monroe had pointed out Charles Crossett to him when they had been at the fights the previous weekend. Crossett owned the largest pit fighter stable in the area. Artemus hoped to find Crossett and strike up an acquaintanceship with him. He needed to get his foot in the door if his plan was to succeed, and this seemed the best way to do it.

He wandered up to the bar and ordered a beer. Leaning back against the bar, he surveyed the room over the rim of his mug. No sign of Charles Crossett yet, but the evening was still early. A poker game was commencing in one corner. Artemus wandered over and asked to join. The players welcomed the newcomer as he slid into a chair facing the entrance.

Artemus Gordon was on his second beer; it could turn out to be a long night, so he paced himself. He was verging on calling it quits when his quarry entered. Charles Crossett was an imposing man, nicely dressed; a clean, polished individual no one would associate with such a heinous blood sport as pit fighting.

Artemus rose and stretched. He excused himself from the next hand of poker and ambled over to the bar for another beer.

“Wouldn’t happen to know any out-of-the-way homesteads for sale in the area?” he casually asked the bartender, leaning against the bar just a few feet from Crossett. “I need a place where nobody is going to be a-calling and sticking their nose in my business. I’ve had enough of nosy neighbors distracting me from my work,” Gordon continued.

The barkeep shrugged, and then addressed the other man at the bar, “You know of anything, Mr. Crossett?”

Artemus looked surprised, “You wouldn’t be the Charles Crossett I heard tell about at the sporting arenas back home? I would enjoy a nice chat with you about prospects in this area.”

Charles Crossett, studied the gent who faced him, “Your name, sir?”

Gordon introduced himself as Jesse Bell, and suggested they talk at a quiet table in the corner. Still cautious, Crossett agreed and they headed for a table away from the crowds.

“I don’t believe I have heard of you, Mr. Bell, but you mentioned sporting arenas. What type of sports do you enjoy? Perhaps we have some mutual acquaintances.”

“Oh, I enjoy lots of different sports. Ponies, boxing, other types of ...eermm...non-traditional sports shall we say. Fighting and gambling are kinda my passion. Not enough action in my last neighborhood. Not enough for me to earn a decent living. So I’m looking to move to a more lucrative area.”

“Well, Mr. Bell, I may know a few places that could meet your needs. Give me a couple of days to check them out and I’ll get back to you. Are you staying in town?”

Shortly thereafter Artie left the saloon and returned to the hotel. Now he had to wait and hope his cover held. Early the next morning he made the three hour trek to the train. He exchanged his horse for a buckboard with a large wooden box attached to the bed. With a tidy sum of money in his wallet, he headed south to wait for his next meeting with Charles Crossett.

************************************************************************

[Double Take]

Getting the metal to fashion into a lock pick turned out to be easier than either had expected. In a training session a few days later, Jim and First were paired off against another team consisting of Second and Fifth. Normally the practice sessions did not get too intense, but Second had lost his rank to the dark-haired youth and his bitterness still festered.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Second plowed into First with his shoulder using his greater size and weight to drive the younger man to the ground. As he staggered back, First grabbed the larger man underneath the arms and deliberately fell back, jerking Second off his feet and sending him hurtling into the wall of the arena. Second crashed to the ground, landing squarely on a wooden water bucket, shattering it. He clamored to his feet and charged at First again

Jim spotted the metal band that had held the staves of the bucket together. It wasn’t perfect, but he thought he could fashion it into a lock pick. He just needed to get it back to his cell unobserved.

The sparring was rapidly becoming a brawl. Fifth joined in on the attack on the young fighter. Jim moved in as well, grabbing Fifth and throwing him hard against the door that led to the lower level. The door splintered under the impact and Fifth disappeared down the flight of stairs. Jim followed, “inadvertently” kicking the battered remains of the bucket through the doorway.

First realized what Jim was doing and guided his attacker in the same direction. Pretty soon all four men were fighting in the narrow passageway leading to the slaves’ cells. Jim and First managed to kick or throw the metal band from the bucket in the direction of their cell. By the time the four combatants were close to Jim’s cell, the Whips and guards had moved in. Slashing indiscriminately with their whips they struggled to break up the fight.

A third Whip moved in with a club. Second went down from a stout blow to the head. The club clipped Jim lightly, just enough to stun him, but not take him down. First grabbed Jim by the arm and thrust him into their cell. The door clanged shut behind them.

Jim looked up rubbing his head as the Whips drove the other two fighters further down the corridor. He spotted the metal band that First had kicked into the cell when they had entered. He nudged it out of sight underneath his sleeping pallet.

“Something tells me those Whips aren’t going to be any too pleased with us,” Jim grinned at First.

West dipped his hand in the bucket of water and wiped his face, then ran his hand through his hair. He dropped down on his pallet, lying on his back. First leant back against the iron bars of the door.

“Will it work do you think?” First asked quietly.

Jim considered the task, “With a little time and patience, yes it will work.”

By the end of the second night, Jim had a workable lock pick fashioned. He tore a small opening on the inside of the waistband of his trousers where he would hide the lock pick for his first bout, until then it remained hidden under his pallet covered with dirt.

*****

As near as Jim could figure, it was almost two weeks since he had been grabbed. First was sure that Jim’s all important debut bout would be soon, probably in the next few days. That first fight was critical. Jim had to make a good showing and defeat his opponent. Their stable master would not sell Jim unless the price was high enough. A good price would only come if Jim proved himself an outstanding fighter. Without the sale, there would be no opportunity to escape.

Jim was surprised when an entire morning passed without being taken to the arena for the daily practice session. First sat on his bed, staring at the floor. He knew what the change in routine meant. Since Jim’s arrival he hadn’t been involved in a bout. That was going to change tonight. That also meant Jim would most likely fight the following evening.

Mid-afternoon came and First rose and started stretching and warming up. Jim eyed his cellmate with puzzlement, then joined him.

“You think you’re fighting tonight?” Jim asked. “Will I?”

First shook his head, “Debut fights are always held on the second night.” He hesitated, “You’re ready. You just have to put on a good show.”

An hour later a Whip came and escorted First from the cell. Jim watched as they disappeared down the corridor. He sat back down on his pallet. It was the first time he had been alone in two weeks; it felt strange. He lay back with his arms behind his head. It was going to be a long evening, and, though he wouldn’t admit it, he was worried about the young fighter.

************************************************************************

Artie left the buckboard and horse at a livery stable in Scipio, just a two hour ride northeast of Lowrys Mill. He rented a horse for the remainder of the journey. He picked up his key from the hotel’s front desk and headed to his room to wait. He didn’t expect to be contacted by Charles Crossett for a day or two. Being a Secret Service agent had taught him patience. Assignments were not the constant action and adventure stories he used to impress young women, but instead included a lot of down time: research, surveillance and just waiting.

His patience paid off, and the following evening Charles Crossett sat down at his table in the hotel’s restaurant.

“There’s some action at my place tomorrow night if you want to check out the area before you settle here.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Artemus said with a wide smile. “What are my chances of picking up some new acquisitions this weekend?”

Crossett smiled back, “If your money’s good, your chances are good. You might want to come prepared on Sunday.”

Charles Crossett left after giving Gordon directions to his Double C Ranch, a little over two miles west of town. Gordon finished his meal and returned to his room. Tomorrow he would telegraph Colonel Richmond and bring him up-to-date. He felt the familiar flutter of excitement as he anticipated his plans coming to fruition.

Late Saturday afternoon he headed out to Crossett’s ranch on his rented horse. As he rode he surveyed the area carefully. He would need to have agents secreted fairly close to the ranch when they made their raid. In the meantime, he learned all he could about the ranch and its buildings.

The arena was very similar to the one Artemus had attended with George Monroe, only on a larger scale. There was more room for spectators and the security, if anything, was better than the other pit. Three guards stood on raised platforms around the edge of the gallery. There were nearly 20 men already milling around, most by a large board listing the fighters. Artemus spotted George Monroe off to one side. He was sure his disguise would hold, but he took no chances and kept away from him.

Charles Crossett approached him and extended his hand in greeting. As they shook hands, Crossett clapped Gordon on the back and guided him over to the blackboard. He pointed to the third bout of the evening; Crossett’s highest ranked fighter was matched against the highest ranked fighter of the Crescent D stable.

“My boy may not look like much, but he’s fast as lightning. This should be a hell of a fight!”

The evening progressed and Gordon played his part, betting and cheering with the crowd. As predicted the third bout of the evening was an incredible display of talent. Artemus watch the young dark-haired fighter from Crossett’s Double C stable. There was no doubt that the boy had talent, but something else caught Gordon’s eye. Some of his moves were familiar to Artemus, not traditional fighting moves. How many times Gordon had seen his partner use those same moves he couldn’t guess. He felt a tightness in his stomach. Jim was here, definitely!

At the end of the evening, Crossett approached Artemus Gordon. “Impressed?” he asked.

Gordon responded with a quick smile, “Very! If your new fighters are anything like your first, I may have competition at the sale.”

************************************************************************

It was several hours later when First was returned to his cell. He immediately crossed the cell and drank from the water bucket before dropping down on his pallet. Jim sat up and studied the youth in the dim light.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m First, remember?” First smiled grimly. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he finally answered. But his reluctance to say more worried Jim.

“So what’s in store for me tomorrow?” Jim asked, as much to get First talking as to prepare himself.

“You’ll be able to get rid of that beard, I’ll tell you that,” First hesitated before he continued. “The master told me that you are scheduled for the last bout tomorrow evening. He expects to make a pretty penny on you if you perform.”

Jim sensed that something was bothering the young fighter, but First continued, not giving Jim a chance to probe.

“Listen to me, Jim,” First whispered urgently. “Tomorrow you gotta fight and fight hard. Don’t give your opponent any opportunity to take you down. You put on a good show and it’ll drive your price up. Master is only gonna sell if he can get a good price for you. You can bring this whole wretched system down if you can get away! You’ve got to!”

There was no mistaking the desperation in the boy’s voice. Everything hinged on Jim being sold and then escaping. First had lived without hope for a long time. James West’s arrival had renewed that spark. Jim didn’t reply, but as he lay back on his bed he realized that freeing this young man was as important to him as gaining his own freedom.

************************************************************************

The next evening, Artemus Gordon arrived in a buckboard and was directed around to the rear of the arena. He left the horse tied to a hitching post. He fussed around the wagon surreptitiously studying the buildings and grounds. From the outside the arena looked like a large barn with an attached stable. Most of the facility must be underground, including where the fighters were held Gordon surmised since nothing was visible from above. That could pose a problem for getting the fighters out safely during the raid.

He entered the building and wandered over to the blackboard. The last bout of the evening was listed as Crossett’s first against an unranked fighter. A mark by the new fighter indicated he was to be sold after the fight. There were two other fighters with the same mark. One was also unranked, but from a different stable. The third fighter for sale was Double C’s fifth.

*****

Jim rubbed his hand over his chin, not the clean, close shave of a sharp razor, but at least it was better than the rough beard he had been sporting. A Whip had come and escorted him from his cell to a small alcove were he could wash and shave, from there he was taken to a large room lined with small, individual, barred cells.

Five of the cells were already occupied by pit fighters who Jim had never seen before. Judging from the brands on their chests, they were from two different stables. Like all the fighters Jim had seen, they were lean and hard muscled, bodies marred by scars. One man’s nose was so misshapen from being broken that Jim wondered how he could breathe. Their eyes were cold and expressionless, they had done this many times and knew what to expect. The sixth cell was occupied by First.

Jim started toward the cell next to First, but the Whip blocked him and shoved him toward a cell on the opposite side of the room. After the door slammed shut, Jim squatted down, leaning back against the stone wall. He could not communicate with First, but he rested one hand on the waistband of his trousers where the lock pick was hidden. Across from him, First inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Jim’s unspoken message.

As he waited Jim thought about what First had told him earlier in the day. Up till then, First had refused to tell Jim anything about himself. Trust and friendship came slow in a place where your sparring partner could become your adversary and executioner. Nevertheless, First had come to trust James West as he had trusted no one since becoming a pit fighter.

“When you first came you asked me my real name. I had no hope then of ever being free, of being that person again.” First paused, “My name is Eric, Eric Mannheim. I thought he was dead, as dead as my parents, but now…” First let his voice trail off.

*****

Fighters were led in and out by Whips. Jim didn’t recognize a couple of the Whips and realized that they must come from other stables. Two armed guards covered the room, one at each end, perched, as usual, high enough to have a clean line of fire if one of the fighters caused a problem.

Several of the combatants were carried back into the room and unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the cell. Others walked or hobbled in under their own power. Jim noticed none of the Double C fighters, except Fifth, returned after their bouts and assumed they must have been taken straight back to their cells.

After several bouts had concluded, Jim rose and began stretching. He had warmed up earlier in the evening, but now went through his routine again. He still did not know who he would be fighting, and he needed to be ready, even though he felt confident he could take down almost any of the fighters from his stable.

One by one the fighters were led out to the arena, while Jim and First remained in their separate cells. Realization struck Jim and suddenly he understood First’s unwillingness to talk about Jim’s opponent for his debut fight; his opponent was First! A knot formed in his stomach when he considered what he had to do. He and First were evenly matched, and he was about the only fighter Jim thought could defeat him. To put on a “good show” against First was going to mean a prolonged, aggressive match.

Jim rose and grasped the bars of his cell. “First!” he called, ignoring the snap of a whip inches from his face.

The boy rose, his blue eyes hard and grim. He met Jim’s gaze briefly, then turned away.

“Stand back,” a Whip ordered. Jim moved away from the door to the cell, then stepped out when it swung open. A second Whip stood by First’s cell, waiting for Jim to be moved into the arena.

*****

Artie could feel the tension and excitement build around him, but it was nothing compared to his inner tension. He wasn’t sure if he felt relief or fear when James West entered the arena. He had seen the young fighter who Jim was pitted against and knew he was formidable, despite his age.

From where Artemus Gordon stood, Jim didn’t look too much the worse for wear. But as Jim crossed the arena and turned to face the center of the pit, Artie winced at the sight of the raw stripes that crisscrossed his partner’s back.

A few seconds later, First entered the pit. The crowd surrounding Artie cheered and stomped. Artie joined in, his vibrant voice audible over the crowd. He was unsure if Jim would be able to hear him, but he hoped he would recognize the familiar voice of his partner.

*****

Jim took up his position across from First. He could hear the shouts from the gallery, urging the combatants on. One voice was familiar, and it was all Jim could do to suppress a smile. He felt some of his tension drain away. With his partner nearby his chance of regaining his freedom improved.

First had no intention of making this an easy fight for Jim. He intended on pushing Jim hard to make a good impression with potential buyers. Jim had no opportunity to let his young cellmate know that Artemus Gordon was in the gallery, and even then, Jim could not be sure if Artie was in a position to help implement an escape.

First and Jim knew each other too well to spend time sizing each other up. First moved in immediately with a high kick toward Jim’s head. Jim blocked the kick with his arm, while hooking his leg behind the young fighter’s knee and jerking him off his feet. First somersaulted backward and came up in a crouch, ready for Jim’s attack.

Back and forth they continued, kicking, punching, and throwing as the opportunity rose. Both were gleaming with sweat and breathing hard, when Jim saw an opening and brought his elbow hard into First’s abdomen. When the young fighter stumbled back, bent over from the blow, Jim followed up with a double hammer between his shoulders. First absorbed the impact by allowing himself to drop to the ground, rolling and regaining his feet. He staggered back a few steps to give himself some space before Jim’s next move.

Immediately a Whip stepped in and brought his weapon down across the young pit fighter’s back. A second lash landed and First threw himself back at West.

From where Artemus Gordon stood, he could see the change in the fight. At first they had been so evenly matched that he wasn’t sure who had the upper hand, but now Jim’s physical size was beginning to give him the advantage. Gordon reckoned that Jim was easily 30 pounds heavier and somewhat taller than the youth he was fighting. When Jim landed a blow against the First’s jaw, the teen went down and was slow to get up.

Surely, that’ll be the end of the fight, Artemus thought, but he was wrong. First had no intentions of capitulating, the need to show that James West was the superior fighter and clear winner spurred him on. Again, he sent a kick toward Jim’s head, but pulled it at the last second. When Jim’s hands went up to block the blow, First dropped low and drove his fist into Jim’s ribs. Even as Jim staggered backward, he grabbed First by the shoulders, rolled backward and brought his right foot into the youth’s stomach, throwing the boy over his head. He immediately came to his feet in a crouch, but then slowly straightened up. First lay where he had fallen unmoving.

Jim started toward the young man and was instantly blocked by a Whip. He hesitated, wanting to check on the pit fighter he had come to think of as a friend, but he was too close to achieving his goal to risk an encounter with the Whip. Jim knew that with Artemus close by his chance for escaping improved dramatically, but doing something foolish could cost him that opportunity.

He turned abruptly and headed for the door that would take him to the lower level. At the junction that would lead back to the cell he shared with First, the Whip motioned him back toward the room with the small holding cells. Jim found himself back in his original cell, but now the number of occupants in the room had dropped. Four of the cells opposite him were still occupied by fighters from other stables. On his side there were only two other fighters, including Fifth from the Double C stable.

Jim paced the small confines of the cell. His green eyes smoldered; he did not know what lay in store for him, or the fate of First…of Eric Mannheim. He didn’t have long to wait, presently five men entered the large room. Four of the men approached the holding cells where West and the other two fighters stood. Jim recognized the master of the Double C stable, although he had never seen him up close. Two of the men were complete strangers, but clearly had money. The fourth was Artemus Gordon.

Briefly Artemus caught Jim’s eye, but no outward sign of recognition or concern betrayed his gaze. Nevertheless, Artie felt his stomach tighten when he looked at his partner. A bruise was beginning to darken Jim’s lower ribs and he was bleeding freely from the corner of his mouth. The other two fighters up for sale dropped their eyes when the men approached, but Jim held his head high, he would not be cowed by the presence of the stable masters.

Artemus glanced at the other two fighters up for sale, then at Jim again. Jim gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, but it was enough. The two men had worked together so long that a look was all that was needed to convey both question and answer. Artemus, joined in the bidding on the new fighter, but allowed the other stable masters to out bid him. He held off at first when bidding started on his partner, but then stepped in when it began to slow. Charles Crossett looked surprised when Gordon stopped the bidding and asked the stable master to name his price.

“I am tired of this petty one-upmanship,” Gordon complained. “Tell me what you want and let’s be done with it. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”

Crossett smiled and complied, asking double the price of the last fighter. Artemus glanced at his competition, but they shrugged. As good as this new fighter was they were unwilling to spend so much money on a single fighter. Artemus surveyed his new acquisition. Jim leaned back against the stone wall of the cell, his arms folded across his chest. He glared at Artie, then dropped one hand to waste height as if indicating a child.

Artemus turned and called to Mr. Crossett who had moved on to the third fighter at auction, “You wouldn’t be interested in selling that kid of yours would you? I could do with another fighter of the same caliber in my stable.”

“Sorry, Mr. Bell. This one may have bested my first tonight, but I’m willing to bet it won’t happen again.”

“Then perhaps next weekend we can have a rematch,” Artie suggested as he headed toward the exit.

Crossett smiled, reminding Artemus of a predatory animal, “I’ll discus it with you, Mr. Bell. Perhaps we can have a little side wager.”

One by one the other fighters were shackled and led out of the room. Finally, Artemus returned. A Whip opened West’s door and motioned him out. The manacles placed on his wrists were connected by a stout chain that also encircled his waist, preventing him from moving his hands more than a few inches. He was escorted out by Artemus, the Whip and an armed guard.

Clumsily, because his movement was limited, West climbed into the box attached to the wagon’s bed. A short chain from the floor was fastened to the length between West’s wrists, forcing him to sit hunched forward. The hinged side of the box was shut and secured, leaving him in the dark. A few minutes later the wagon lurched into motion.

As he headed away from the ranch toward the main road, Artie was careful not to talk to or show concern for his new acquisition. He suspected that Crossett had men stationed around the grounds, and sure enough, just before he pulled out on to the main road, a ranch hand stopped him.

“Open up the box! We check to make sure fighters are secured before you leave the ranch. We can’t take no chances that one might escape. Especially as your new and don’t have any backup.”

Artemus Gordon jumped down from the wagon, grumbling at the delay. He opened the padlock and the ranch hand studied the fighter within from the light of a lantern. Satisfied, he shut and locked the box and allowed Gordon to continue.

Jim waited a few more minutes before he extracted his lock pick and set to work. No sooner had he finished then one of the slats across the front of the box was pulled away, letting in some light, and more importantly, fresh air.

“You all right there, James, my boy?” Artie asked as he handed his partner a canteen, not surprised that Jim had freed himself of the shackles.

“I’ll be better after a hot bath and decent food. How far do we have to go?”

“Quite a ways, I’m afraid. You had better stay there until we are well out of the area. You don’t know who we might run into out here.” Artemus handed Jim a handkerchief which he wet and started to clean the blood off his face.

“We have to take them down, Artie. There are at least three other stables of slave fighters in the area. I’m not leaving First in that hellhole!” He hesitated, “Did you see if he was alright?” There was no mistaking the mixture of anger and concern in Jim’s voice.

“He made it out under his own power, but barely. Colonel Richmond and I have a plan in the works. Setting up a rematch with the kid will open the way nicely,” Artie said with satisfaction. “This time next week, we’ll have him out of there and those slave masters will be the ones in irons!”

After they had been on the road for a good hour, Artie stopped and opened the box. Jim joined him on the seat, but was content to let his partner drive while he listened to him outlining the plan.

When the lights of the train became visible through the darkness, Jim allowed himself to relax. As the two men climbed from the wagon, Jim turned toward Artie, “Thanks, partner,” he said softly.

Artie grinned, “Don’t thank me, Uncle Sam footed the bill!”

“Hmmm, and if we don’t recover the money it will be coming out of your salaries! Welcome home, Jim,” Colonel Richmond added, leaning against the rear railing of the parlor car.

The three men entered the parlor car. Under the bright gas lights the scars on Jim’s back stood out. His body was streaked with grime and sweat. His bruised ribs made his movements stiff, and, although it had stopped bleeding, his lip was swollen and red. Despite his appearance, the fire in Jim’s eyes continued to burn. Disregarding his injuries and exhaustion, he would have discussed the plans Colonel Richmond and Artemus had formed, but Richmond stopped him even before Jim could broach the subject.

“Get yourself cleaned up and rested. There is a doctor in Ohio City, we can debrief in the morning on the way there.”

“Forget the doctor, Colonel. I’m fine. Artie and I discussed your plans. They’re sound, but need some fine tuning with the information I have.” Jim didn’t argue about waiting until morning, but headed through the swinging door toward his quarters.

************************************************************************

[Double Take]

First made his way back to his cell, oblivious to the presence of the Whip behind him. His mind was on Jim West. If Jim did not have the opportunity to escape, First and the other pit fighters would spend the rest of their lives in this living hell. If Jim tried and failed, then he was probably dead. It wasn’t until the Whip shoved him hard into his cell that he snapped out of his musing. He turned, glaring at the Whip who stood in the opening, tapping his whip against his hand.

There was nothing pleasant about the Whip’s smile, “You’re slipping. Your rank won’t protect you much longer. I’m going to enjoy the day when you drop to number two.”

First stood for a few minutes staring at the closed door of his cell. He felt as empty as the cell. He hadn’t realized how much he had enjoyed the companionship of another. Now he would be back to the old routine where his primary human contact was sparring with the other fighters, some of whom would just as soon see him dead. He was dirty, as well as tired and sore, but in his unsettled mood he threw himself down on his pallet without tending to his injuries. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about surviving, for now he just wanted to hang on to the thread of hope that James West would gain his freedom…and help him escape from this nightmare existence.

************************************************************************

Over the next few days Jim West had little time to himself or to enjoy his freedom. He went over the layout of the slave fighter quarters, training pit, holding room and other areas he had either seen or heard about with Artemus and Colonel Richmond. They compared Jim’s descriptions with the layout that Artie had memorized and came up with a detailed plan of the Double C Ranch and its facilities, both above and below ground. Based on this information, they planned how to position agents to mount a raid on the ranch during a fight. Their goal was to take it down with as little bloodshed as possible.

Artemus, as Jesse Bell, firmed up the details with Charles Crossett and set up bouts with three fighters in addition to James West. These were all athletic agents who could pass as pit fighters with a few artfully made up scars. The agents acting as fighters would be unable to carry weapons of any type, but the two Whips and guard who would accompany them would be armed. Gordon would also have his gun and carry an additional pocket revolver for Jim.

The morning of the raid was dreary and overcast. Colonel Richmond organized the agents who would be positioned outside of the grounds. They would need to be in place early in the day so as not to arouse suspicion.

In the pre-dawn hours, two agents hid themselves in a dense stand of trees several hundred yards from the Double C outbuildings. Later that day a peddler and his wagon, pulled by a team of mules, ambled along the road that led toward Crossett’s ranch. Innocuous from the outside, inside were hidden four agents. A couple more agents dressed as weary looking travelers stopped to rest under an oak tree just beyond the turn off for the ranch.

Artemus was also busy. Jim and the three other agents posing as fighters were dressed in the standard loose fitting pants. Jim did not need any of Artie’s makeup scars, his couple of weeks in the pits had seen to that, but he watched as Artemus carefully created similar scarring on the other three men. Then Artie started work on the brand he had designed to mark his fighters. He applied makeup in the form of two interlocking Ss. After he had finished with the four men, Gordon stepped back to admire his handiwork.

“Why’s Mr. West’s brand redder than the others?” a young assistant asked.

Artie grinned, “Ah, well, it hasn’t had time to heal yet. You know Mr. West’s the new kid on the block.”

Jim frowned slightly, “Artie.”

“Still wet behind the ears.”

“Artie.”

“A complete novice.”

“Artie! Can we get going already?” Jim grumbled, unsure that he appreciated his partner’s humor at his expense.

“James, how can you expect a young recruit to learn the subtle nuances that define a true master if they are not explained to him?” Artemus’s innocent expression just caused Jim to shake his head as he started toward the door.

“Gentlemen.” Artemus gestured to the other agents to follow his partner as he exited the parlor car.

Outside they were joined at the wagons by three more agents who would be accompanying them into the arena building. The men acting as Whips and guard had been briefed on the duties of their roles. In addition to the bullwhips hanging from their belts, the Whips carried small pocket revolvers inside their leather vests, the handle of their whips concealed a single-shot gun barrel, and secreted inside their belts were small charges that could be used to open the doors of the holding cells. Only the guard was outwardly armed. He carried a rifle in addition to his revolver. He too carried a second pocket revolver hidden in one vest pocket and a two shot derringer in the other.

*****

It was a long ride to Lowrys Mill, Jim and the other agents inside the boxes were glad of the cloud cover which kept the boxes a little cooler. As on his previous trip, Jim leaned against the back of the box so he could talk to Artemus through the gap created by the removable slat. It passed the time until they were within an hour of their destination, then all four fighters were shackled and the slats replaced.

As before, Artemus was directed to pull his wagons up behind the stables. A Double C guard directed the disguised agents to take their charges to the holding room where they were locked in individual cells. Unobtrusively, the agents studied the surroundings and planned their moves. The Whips took up there stations by the fighter’s cells in the holding room while the guard accompanied Artemus to the main gallery.

Jim glanced around the room; many of the cells were already occupied by visiting fighters. Shortly, a Whip led in a fighter Jim recognized as Second. The Double C fighter grinned unpleasantly when he saw West, then glanced at the other Secret Service fighters. From his cell he continued to watch Jim closely as a Whip led First into the room.

Jim frowned when the young fighter was shoved into an empty cell next to him. First sank to the ground with his knees drawn up to his chest, head bowed in defeat. The dispirited teen barely looked like the confident pit fighter with whom Jim had trained. First did not look up or catch Jim’s eye. The previous day when the stable master had told him he would be fighting Jim, the young man’s hopes had been torn to shreds. Second, his sparring partner at the time, recognized the change in First’s demeanor and took full advantage of it. When the Whip had finally broken them apart, First was battered and bruised.

Jim rose and stood facing the stone wall just a few feet from his former cellmate. Leaning forward against the wall he started stretching to prepare himself for the upcoming fight. Using his movements to mask his real intentions, Jim whispered to First, outlining the plan. First did not look up or even acknowledge Jim, but a smile touched his lips. When the teen did start stretching to loosen up his muscles before the bout, his eyes gleamed with anticipation.

First was escorted from his cell to the fighting pit. He glanced up at the gallery and noticed a well dressed older man with a slight paunch standing by the railing. First cocked his head slightly when Gordon winked at him, and then turned his attention back to the entrance as Jim West stepped into the pit.

Jim moved in quickly on his opponent. First blocked Jim’s fist, grabbing his arm he pivoted smoothly flipping the agent over his shoulder. Even as he did so Jim was able to whisper, “Be ready,” in First’s ear.

Jim rolled to his feet to meet First’s charge, the two fighters struggled with each other moving across the pit. Jim threw First over his shoulder so the youth landed against the wall. First climbed to his feet with his back against the wooden wall surrounding the pit. Jim looked up toward the gallery, and First, recognizing the signal, gave a subtle nod. Jim charged directly at his opponent, jumping just before he reached him. Almost as if they had rehearsed the move, First created a stirrup with his hands, catching Jim’s foot and boosting him upwards so Jim easily caught the top of the railing and swung himself over.

As West cleared the rail, Artemus Gordon drew his revolver and spun around taking out the guard stationed behind him. Simultaneously, the disguised agent with him fired at the Double C guard across the pit. The third guard started to bring his rifle to bear on Jim, when another shot sounded. The guard dropped to his knees clutching his shoulder.

Suddenly realizing what was happening, the spectators scrambled toward the exits, but their path was blocked by the remaining agents who had moved in as soon as the bouts had begun. The frightened spectators were order to the ground and held there while the agents searched and secured them.

“Jim!” Artemus called after his departing partner. He never got the chance to give Jim the small revolver he had hidden in his coat pocket. As soon as he cleared the rail Jim had scanned the crowd looking for Charles Crossett. He spotted the man bolting out of a side door. There was no time to get the gun from Artie; unarmed, he went in pursuit, leaving Artemus to head toward the holding cells.

Crossett was already mounted on a horse and spurring the animal into a gallop just as Jim stepped out on to a small landing at the top of a flight of stairs. Without hesitation Jim launched himself from the railing as Crossett passed below him. The two men landed hard on the ground with Jim on top.

Charles Crossett easily outweighed the agent, but he stood little chance against the man he himself had acknowledged as an outstanding fighter. Desperation gave Crossett a quickness that he normally would not possess and he managed to roll over so that West was underneath him. Jim’s bare foot came up in Crossett’s stomach, and the larger man found himself being thrown handily over his opponent’s head. Both men quickly regained their feet. Charles Crossett pulled a knife hidden in his boot. He lunged, slashing with his knife. Jim nimbly side stepped the larger man and brought his hand down with a smashing blow on the elbow. In one smooth move, Jim grabbed the knife as Crossett dropped it, and pivoted, twisting his assailants arm behind his back, the blade now at Crossett’s throat.

“You wouldn’t,” gasped Crossett his eyes bulging in fear. The man holding the knife to his throat had every reason to kill him.

“No, I won’t,” Jim snarled back. “I’m going to enjoy seeing you swing.”

Jim forced his prisoner around to the front of the building where he turned him over to another agent. Seeing that Jim was unarmed, an agent tossed him a rifle. Jim nodded his thanks before heading back inside the building to locate his partner.

*****

Artemus Gordon had full confidence in his partner’s ability to take down Charles Crossett even if he was unarmed, so he swung over the rail and dropped to the floor of the pit. One of the Whips was already down, bleeding from a broken nose. The other was bolting for the door pursued by First. Artemus, pistol in hand, quickly crossed the pit and followed them down to the lower level.

As the Whip reached the bottom of the stairs, the guard positioned there fired at First. The young fighter threw himself flat on the step giving Artemus a clean shot at the guard. With the guard out of the way, First continued in pursuit of the fleeing Whip. They turned and disappeared down a narrow passageway.

Hearing shouts and gunshots, Artemus broke off his pursuit and turned toward the holding room. A Double C guards lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of his platform. Artemus arrived in time to see one of the agents disguised as a Whip go down with a bullet in his side. The other agent dropped to the floor discarding his whip and drawing his hidden revolver. As he aimed at the remaining guard, a Double C Whip lunged toward him, kicking the gun from his hand. The shot went wide giving the guard an opportunity to find cover. Instead the guard found himself facing a grim-faced Artemus Gordon holding a revolver.

The guard moved to raise his hands in surrender, but instead swung his rifle at Gordon’s head. Artemus side stepped the blow, but the rifle barrel clipped his right hand knocking the gun from his grip. Before the guard could bring his rifle to bear on him, Artemus swung, and his fist connected with the guard’s jaw. Gordon wrenched the rifle from his grip and pointed it at the guard.

Further into the room, the other disguised agent wrestled with the Double C Whip. The agent managed to throw the Whip over his shoulder and turned to face him in a crouch.

“Hold it!” Gordon’s voice echoed through the room. Both the guard and Whip froze at the sight of the armed agent. Artemus motioned the two Double C men toward an empty cell with the rifle. “Nice and easy. Summers, would you like the pleasure?” Artemus called to the other agent who slammed the cell door behind the two men.

Summers moved quickly, releasing the three Secret Service fighters from their cells. One grabbed the rifle from the dead guard and headed up the stairs, the other two tended to the fallen agent. Artemus retrieved his revolver and handed the rifle to Summers.

He headed out to look for the young pit fighter when he ran into his partner.

“Where’s the kid, Artie? He’s not above.”

“He was headed down that passage after a Whip.” Artie indicated the direction the youth had gone. “That leads to the fighter’s cells, right?”

*****

The Whip headed straight for the slave quarters. He ran past the locked cells ignoring the calls of the confused fighters. A heavy wooden door separated the cells from a long narrow room containing tables and benches used by the Whips and guards. The Whip slammed the door behind him and darted into a large store room. Unlocking a chest, he flung open the top and grabbed a loaded pistol. He was just coming out when First tackled him to the ground. The gun skittered across the floor, coming to rest under a table.

The Whip slammed his elbow back, hitting the young fighter in the jaw hard enough to loosen his grip on the Whip. Wrenching himself free the Whip scrambled for the gun. First was already on his feet and a hard kick to the Whip’s ribs sent the man rolling across the room. First ignored the gun; two years of beatings and bullying burned in his brain and his hands could be as deadly as any firearm. Of all the Whips, this was the man who seemed to have taken pleasure in making the life of the fighters miserable, and especially that of the teenage pit fighter.

First reached down and easily jerked the much larger man to his feet. The Whip raised his hands to protect his face, but he couldn’t prevent the powerful fists from reaching him. Again he made a desperate lunge toward the gun just a few feet away, but First grabbed his arm and slammed him up against the wall, his right arm across the Whip’s throat the other still grasped the man’s arm. The Whip clawed at the boy’s face with his free hand, but First continued to increase the pressure on the man’s throat. The Whip’s face turned red as he fought to breathe and his frantic struggles became weaker.

Abruptly, First released his adversary and picked up the gun. He held it uncertainly as he looked at the Whip leaning against the wall gasping for breath, his eyes widened at the sight of the gun in the teen’s hands. Slowly First brought the pistol up, supporting its weight with both hands. Slowly, deliberately he pulled back the hammer.

“First! Don’t!” Jim yelled as he and Artemus entered the room. Jim had no doubt that the fighter had every intention of exacting his revenge.

The youth did not back down. Now the revolver was steady in his hands, and his eyes did not waver from his intended victim.

“You’re not a killer. Give me the gun,” Jim extended his hand toward the boy. “Eric, this is not who you are!”

The youth looked back at the sound of his name. A name he had not heard for a long time. He frowned as he turned toward Jim. The anger seemed to drain out of him, and Jim read the doubt in his blue eyes. A very real part of him still wanted revenge, but his early upbringing argued against it. Slowly he let the hammer fall back in place and stepped away from the Whip.

In that instant while all attention was on the young pit fighter quick as a snake the Whip launched himself at Eric, slamming into him with his shoulder. He made a grab for the gun, but missed and darted across the room to a stairway on the opposite side. All hesitation and doubt disappeared as the young fighter caught his balance, turned and fired at the fleeing man. Crashing into a table, the Whip slid to the floor and lay still.

Jim’s hand closed over the revolver that the teen held. Eric relinquished the gun without argument. He just stared at the unmoving form across the room. Without looking at West or Gordon, he turned and walked back down the passageway that led to the cells.

“You better stay with him, Jim. I’ll check out this exit,” Artie said indicating the staircase.

“Watch yourself, Artie. That should lead into the main house. There may be guards.”

Jim caught up to the young fighter at the entrance to the holding area. His way was blocked by two agents.

“Mr. West?” one agent asked motioning to the teen.

“How are things above?” Jim responded.

“Under control,” the agent reported. “Colonel Richmond is directing operations.”

“It’s okay then.” The agents stepped aside, allowing West and the youth to pass.

Eric ignored the other pit fighters still locked in cells as he passed through the room. His focus was on the iron gate on the opposite side. Through this gate visiting fighters were brought into the holding room. Through this gate lay the outside world and freedom. Eric paused briefly before pushing the heavy gate open, and then ran quickly up the stairs.

Jim caught hold of Eric’s arm just before he pushed open the trapdoor that led to the outside. “You better let me go first. They know me. I wouldn’t want your first taste of freedom to be marred by a bullet.”

************************************************************************

“This whole mess is going to take special handling. The jails in this area just are not equipped to deal with this number of people. Now you’re telling me some of the fighters should not be released,” Colonel Richmond sighed rubbing his forehead.

“You’ll need to be careful bringing in local law enforcement, sir. At least some of the fighters came straight from jails,” Jim cautioned his superior.

Artemus entered the kitchen of the ranch house where West and Colonel Richmond were discussing how to proceed. Eric stood to one side, leaning against the wall. He looked uncomfortable, as though he were unsure if he should be there, but was unwilling to be separated from Jim West. Someone had found him a shirt, which hung loosely from his wiry frame, but his feet were still bare.

Jim had found the opportunity to change into the clothes he had stashed in the peddler’s wagon. Neatly dressed in his short bolero jacket and blue pants, the only thing that spoke of his earlier ordeal was his mussed hair and a leanness to his face.

“Things are pretty quiet out there now. All the Double C Ranch hands are in custody. With all these arrests, it’s really going to shake up the region!” Artemus commented.

An agent entered the room and waited for Richmond’s attention.

“Gentleman,” Colonel Richmond addressed Jim and Artemus, “why don’t you take this young man and head back to the hotel in town? There’s nothing more to be done tonight. I’ll catch up with you there tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir. Come on kid, you’re probably ready to get away from this place once and for all,” Artemus said motioning for the teen to join him as he started for the door.

“Good night, Colonel,” James West rose and followed his partner out of the house.

************************************************************************

“Are you sure this is necessary?” Eric asked as Artemus Gordon helped him with the ascot. “I’m just meeting my aunt, not marrying her!”

“Be glad he didn’t insist on knickers and a bow tie.” Jim grinned.

“As my great Aunt Maude used to say, you can never make a first impression a second time,” Artie responded tucking the dark blue ascot into Eric’s blue and gold vest.

A week had passed since the enslaved fighters had been liberated. They had left Colonel Richmond to finish dealing with the mess in Lowrys Mill and had taken the train to St. Louis where Eric’s aunt was meeting them. Upon receiving Jim’s telegram, she had responded enthusiastically, opening her home to the young man.

Jim smiled when he thought how quiet and insecure Eric had been the first few days after his release. Artemus Gordon’s outgoing nature and the boy’s natural resiliency, combined with his trust of Jim, had started to heal the emotional scars left from his enslavement. Now he easily joined in the banter between the two agents.

“Well, it will be the second time. I already made an impression on her when I was six. I don’t think being all gussied up is going to change that!”

“Women like nicely dressed men, just ask Jim,” Artemus smirked and winked at the youth.

Jim, ignoring the jibe, handed Eric his jacket and smiled as he clapped the teen on the shoulder, “You look fine. Come on, your aunt’s train should be here soon, and you never want to keep a woman waiting, not even your aunt!”

END