Post by California gal on Apr 12, 2009 11:39:58 GMT -8
THE NIGHT OF DEATH’S RIDE
Death rides on every passing breeze,
He lurks in every flower.
— At a Funeral, No. 1, Reginald Heber (1783-1826),
Church of England Bishop and hymn writer
Death rides on every passing breeze,
He lurks in every flower.
— At a Funeral, No. 1, Reginald Heber (1783-1826),
Church of England Bishop and hymn writer
Artemus Gordon stepped out into the passageway, closing the door to his compartment, then lifted his arms above his head in a broad stretch as he yawned, finally bringing his hands down to his waist as he flexed his back. Slept amazingly well, considering the racket that’s going on! Outside the Wanderer, the wind was still howling while rain clattered against the metal roof and sides, as well as the windows. This had been going on since late yesterday afternoon, at which time the train had pulled over to a siding to connect the wires and check the conditions ahead.
Those conditions had not been good. The reports they received indicated that a landslide had partially blocked tracks that wended through the southern Wyoming hills. Clearing the way would have to wait until the storm moved on, and at that time no one knew when that would be. The crew then banked the fires in the engine and they and the two agents all had settled in for a long wait, enjoying a spirited poker game well into the evening before turning in.
Straightening, Artemus continued along the narrow walkway. He was wondering whether Jim was awake yet when he heard a sound just as he reached the closed door of his partner’s stateroom. Was that a groan? Artie halted. The sound came again, followed by a distinct gasp. A gasp of pain!
Artemus rapped on the door. “Jim? Jim, are you all right?”
When the only response was a repeat of a cry that was definitely one of agony, Artemus grabbed the latch and pushed it open. The only light emanated through a couple of small windows, gray on this stormy morning. But the illumination was enough to show him an astounding and appalling scene: his partner was writhing in pain, his face contorted and bathed with perspiration. The coverings were mostly on the floor, and Jim’s upper body also gleamed with moisture.
As Artie froze, staring, Jim’s hands went to his head, and another groan of anguish escaped his lips as his back arched against the obvious pain he was experiencing. The sound brought Artemus back to life and he stepped into the room, grabbing his partner’s arm, experiencing new horror. “My god, Jim! You’re burning up!” Jim’s skin seemed furnace-hot!
The voice somehow penetrated through Jim’s anguish and his eyes opened a slit. “Artie… Artie… Loveless… stop Loveless…” The voice was weak, hoarse.
He wanted to do so many things at once: comfort Jim, run to get help, bring cool water… Artemus finally leaned down to put his hands on Jim’s shoulders, trying to calm him, speaking quietly. “Jim, it’s all right. I’ll be right back. It’s all right…”
For a moment, Jim stilled, glazed eyes half opened. “Artie… Loveless… won’t let him… can’t let… take me…”
“It’s all right,” Artie soothed again. The delirium was to be expected with such a high temperature. “I’ll be back. Just rest.”
As much as he hated to, Artemus left the compartment, this time turning back towards the rear of the car and crossing over to the next, where the horses were stabled and which contained the crew’s quarters as well as Artie’s lab. Just as he entered, Orrin Cobb emerged from the bunkroom, followed by the fireman, Kelly. They were both yawning and stretching.
“Something wrong, boss?” Orrin asked, seeing Artemus's obviously distressed state. “Didn’t mean to sleep so late…”
“No, no. That’s okay. Jim’s ill, Orrin, very ill. Any idea where the nearest town is?”
The engineer knew better than to ask too many questions, though curious about the sudden illness. “I expect Crocker, maybe twenty, twenty-five miles east. But the weather…”
“I know. But I’ve got to get a doctor. Get some cold water and cloths. Stay with Jim and try to cool his fever. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
W*W*W*W*W
Almost five hours later, weary and beside himself with worry, Artemus Gordon leapt off his horse at the porch of the varnish car, racing up the steps, paying no mind to the man who was laboriously climbing out of the buggy that stopped alongside the train. As he pushed open the door to the varnish car, he nearly collided with Orrin Cobb, who was on his way out.
“What happened?” Artie demanded. The expression on the engineer’s face was clearly readable.
Cobb shook his head in obvious distress. “He’s gone.”
Artemus Gordon’s heart lurched. “He died? Jim?”
“No, no! Sorry, didn’t mean that. He left. He got himself out of bed, dressed and saddled the black, rode off.”
Artie vaguely was aware of the sounds of the doctor climbing the steps behind him. “He couldn’t do that!”
“He did! It’s crazy, Mr. Gordon. I fell asleep… “
“You what?”
“We all did. I was sitting in Mr. West’s room, doing like you said, putting cold cloths on him, making him drink some water too. We took turns doing that. Seemed to be helping some… then he’d get bad again. Anyway, all of a sudden I opened my eyes and he wasn’t there. Didn’t even remember falling asleep. I went out, found Kelly and Johnson dozing also. And the horse was gone, door standing wide open.”
“Where’s the sick man?” the doctor demanded behind Artemus.
Artie turned, thoroughly distraught. “Doctor, it seems that in his feverish delirium, Mr. West escaped… left.” He dug in his pocket, came up with some bills. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” Pushing the cash into the doctor’s hand, he nearly shoved the man out the door.
“Any idea about which way he went?” he asked the engineer when the door was closed again.
Cobb shook his head. “It was still pouring at that time. I went out and looked around, but there’s nothing. No tracks. Rain washed anything away.”
Artemus raked fingers of both hands through his thick hair. “My god, he could be laying out there… he was in no condition to ride! How did he saddle up by himself?” The engineer simply shook his head again, quite aware that his employer did not expect a reasonable answer. Artemus took a deep breath.
“Orrin, please take my horse to the car and water and grain her. I’m going to change clothes, grab a bite to eat…” If I can get anything down… “Then I’ll go out searching. I didn’t pass him on the way back so he apparently didn’t go that way. The landscape is pretty flat in that direction. I think I would have seen another rider. At least if he stayed anywhere near the road we traveled on.” Again his fingers combed through his hair, as he tried to think rationally. “I’d better send a couple of telegrams too. Might need some help.”
W*W*W*W*W
Luck was with him to some extent. First of all, the sun came out. The rain had halted during the journey back to the Wanderer with the doctor from Crocker. That older man had insisted he could not sit a horse and had to travel in his buggy, which slowed them considerably on the return to the train. Artie knew he had been completely rude to the physician. I’ll call on him, or write to him, as soon as this is over.
Over. He did not really want to think of the consequences of that word as he rode along the muddy roadways. However, unexpected good fortune came his way in the form of two travelers who had seen the wild-looking man on the black horse. The first was a cowboy who said he tried to hail the rider, thinking he didn’t look “right.”
“He was kinda swaying in the saddle, looked almost like he was going to fall off any old time. I yelled, and he just kicked that black horse into a gallop. No way I was going to catch him.”
The second traveler was a redheaded woman in a buggy who stated she was on her way to her home after being stranded at a friend’s during the storm. She too had seen a young man unsteady in the saddle. “I couldn’t tell if he was injured or what. He rode right by me, didn’t even look when I called out and asked if he needed help.”
Artemus knew he was at least going the right direction. Both informants had described Jim West and also told him a town named River Bend was situated another ten or twelve miles along if he stayed on this road. Chances were the man they had seen would stay to the road as well. Despite the surface was soft and sometimes slick, Artemus kept the chestnut at a brisk pace.
During the long ride he started to consider the events of the morning. While on the trek to Crocker, the only thing on his mind had been Jim’s illness and finding a doctor to treat him. Now he kept thinking about the fact that the crew had all fallen asleep. Why? That made no sense. They were good men who always carried out their duties, and did what was asked of them and often more.
Was it possible that sleepiness was an early symptom of the illness that struck Jim? Artemus cast that idea aside immediately. Jim had been very alert and obviously feeling fine last night, winning hand after hand in his usual manner. Even Frank Harper, a consummate poker expert, barely held his own against Jim when they occasionally got together. Secret Service agents were not allowed to gamble in public places—unless it somehow fit into their assignment, as often happened for Frank—so they usually played cards in private settings. Rarely were the stakes high. The pleasure was in the winning, not the amount won.
So it made no sense to think that the drowsiness had anything to do with the illness, which apparently attacked Jim during the night. The dampness of his bedding indicated to Artemus that Jim had been feverish for a couple of hours. And in pain. Artie remembered how Jim had described the knife-like headaches he had suffered after Loveless doped him with some concoction that also gave him hallucinations. Was that why Jim was babbling about Loveless this morning? Had the agony he was experiencing awakened memories of that incident?
He reached River Bend late in the afternoon, and the first thing he saw was the black horse, head down, tied in front of a building labeled as “sheriff’s office and jail.” Artemus jumped from his own horse, barely tied the reins over the rack alongside the black, and raced inside. A middle-aged man wearing a badge turned from a cabinet where he was replacing a rifle; cleaning rags were on a nearby desk.
“Where’s the owner of that horse?” Artie demanded.
“We took him to the doctor’s house. He’s a sick young man. You know him?”
Artemus took a deep breath, experiencing some relief, yet still tense. “He’s my partner. He’s all right?”
“He was still alive, that’s all I can say. Rode into town on that fine horse, barely hanging onto the saddle. In fact, the horse stopped out there in the middle of the street, and the young fellow just fell off into the mud. I’m waiting for a boy from the livery stable to take care of the horse…”
“Where’s the doctor’s house?”
“Last house at the far end of town. White one, with brown shutters. You…”
Artemus heard no more, racing back outside. He patted Blackjack on the neck and promised to come back for him, but jumped into his own saddle to head in the direction the sheriff had indicated. The house was easily found and once more Artie flew off the horse and up onto the home’s porch, pounding on the door.
Within a minute, the door was opened by a slender man in his forties, his face adorned with mustache and goatee, head completely bald. He was in his shirtsleeves. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Artie prevented himself from shoving the man aside. “Doctor, a man was brought to you awhile ago. He’s my friend. My partner. Where is he?”
The physician stepped back slightly. “He’s in the back room. But…”
Artie did not wait, slipping by the doctor and heading toward the closed door the physician had waved toward. Pushing open that door, he halted short, his mind refusing to accept what he was seeing.
A hand touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry. He died about an hour ago.”
A form lay on an examining table; a form covered by a sheet, head to toe.
“No,” Artemus Gordon whispered. “No.” He felt his knees start to buckle, and he grabbed for the doorframe. “It’s… it’s someone else.”
“Possibly,” the doctor said gently, taking Artie’s arm now. “Why don’t you sit down out here awhile…”
“No.” Artie jerked his arm away, willing strength into his legs. It’s not Jim. It’s someone else. All I have to do is pull back that sheet, prove it, and then go out hunting for him again. It’s not Jim. It can’t be…
Every iota of willpower he owned was required to move his legs toward that table. Reaching it, Artemus stood still a long, long moment then forced himself to touch the cool white sheet near where the head would be. He slowly pulled it back.
“Oh, no! God, no!” The words came out as a sob when he saw the still face… the much loved and well-known face. Handsome even in death, with a coating of whiskers, his dark hair still damp. Tears began to streak down Artemus Gordon’s face, but he ignored them, willing his mind to think rationally. We’ve been fooled too many times.
“Pardon me, doctor,” he said in a strained but level tone. “My name is Artemus Gordon. This… this is James West. We are agents of the United States government. I need…” He swallowed hard. “I need to make certain of the identification.”
As he reached to unbutton the mud-streaked blue shirt, Artie realized his hands were trembling. No amount of willpower could stop them from shaking, so he just did the best he could, fumbling with the buttons until he got several opened. Then he pulled the fabric aside, and a new sob escaped his throat as he saw the scars… scars from all the years of battle against Rebs and criminals. The one on his upper arm from the time in the Mexican desert chasing the stolen horse… another caused by a wound inflicted by the corrupt sheriff who led the Viper gang… the barely visible small white scar from the time Skull’s puppet snapped some flesh away with the tip of a bullwhip… almost overlapped by an equally small residue of the day of Prince’s “buffalo hunt”…
Artemus heaved a deep, wrenching sigh as he carefully buttoned the shirt, never taking his gaze from the still face. Even while feeling the cool, lifeless skin under his fingers, he attempted to will life back into that face. Open your eyes, James. Please open your eyes. I want to see that teasing glint in their green depths. Please don’t leave me like this! What am I going to do?
“I’ve very sorry,” the doctor said quietly alongside him. “I did all I could, but it was just too late. His fever was very high… too high. His body simply… well, burned out. I have no idea how he even stayed in the saddle long enough to reach town. Have you any idea how far he rode?”
Artie shook his head slightly. “I guess… maybe ten, fifteen miles. I don't know.” He was unsure even how far he himself had ridden. “Doctor, I…” He realized he could not think clearly, to know what to do next.
The doctor tugged on his arm, guided him back into the other room. Artie wanted to protest. He did not want to leave Jim alone. But he also knew he needed to sit down, so he sank into a chair. The doctor left a moment and came back with a glass of ruby liquid. Artemus accepted it gratefully, took several swallows of the flavorful wine.
“Mr. Gordon, I can see that the young man meant a great deal to you and this is a great shock. Would you like me to make… arrangements?”
“Arrangements?” At first Artie could not grasp the meaning of the word.
“The funeral,” the doctor said quietly. “We don’t have a funeral parlor, but we do have a gentleman who makes fine caskets, and a minister. The cemetery is…”
Artemus was shaking his head vehemently. “No, no. I have to—I have to take him… home… to the train. To Washington, DC.” Oh God, I have to tell them. He put the glass aside and got to his feet. “Is there a telegraph office in town?” He had not seen anything on his ride from the sheriff’s office to this house.
“Yes, it’s across the street from the bank.” The physician put a gentle hand on Artie’s shoulder. “Go send your messages, Mr. Gordon. Perhaps you should think about getting something to eat as well, and some rest. You look exhausted. I’ll take care of things here.”
W*W*W*W*W
Grief, first take on shape! what is shapeless causes fear and torment but when the enemy materializes, half the victory is won.
— “Melancholy,” Poems (1821). Franz Grillparzer (1791–1872), Austrian author
— “Melancholy,” Poems (1821). Franz Grillparzer (1791–1872), Austrian author
Artemus Gordon wondered ever after how he got through that night. He did not remember much of it. He found the telegraph office and wrote out a few notes, with basically the same message: James West dead. Details to follow. Taking him to Washington. The message went to President Grant, Colonel Richmond, Lily Fortune, several fellow agents, and to Matthew West in Quebec, with only slight variations. He knew Matthew would contact their father; Matthew usually knew where Nevin West was located.
Time and again he wanted to run back to the doctor’s house to check again. To look at that still face and be able to say no, that’s not him. That’s not my friend, my partner, my brother. Jim West is alive. He’s undefeatable. A mere fever would not take him. Manzeppi couldn’t kill him. Loveless couldn’t kill him. So many tried, so many failed. It could not be a fever that finally stole the life from that wonderful, vibrant young man.
But he did not return to the doctor’s home. Not immediately. In some ways he felt cowardly for not doing so. He had glimpsed a wagon bearing a long wooden box heading in the direction of the physician’s house. I couldn’t bear to see him put into that box. Not yet. Maybe later I can… view him. Not yet.
The decision to take Jim back east was easy. Artemus knew that General Grant would insist on it, as would Richmond and others. Jim had told his partner that his eventual plan had been to have disinterred the body buried at Fort Challenge as soon as feasible and transport it east to Arlington. Artemus remembered teasing his partner about that, suggesting that a separate boxcar would have been hitched behind the train due to the odors involved. He had teased because he had been aware how painful the entire incident had been to Jim West. For quite some time afterwards, Jim appeared to have problems accepting that his partner was indeed still alive.
Now I can’t believe he’s dead. I don't know how long it’ll be before I’ll be able to grasp that he is gone. Gone. Never to grace to parlor car with his inimitable grace and charm. Never to again astound with his athleticism, his wit, his…
Time and again Artemus had to halt such thoughts, aware that he was close to tears, and he did not want to cry in front of strangers in the small restaurant, or in the telegraph office, or with the sheriff, who proved to be a very sympathetic man. He had heard of West and Gordon, but had had no idea that the feverish man who fell into the mud outside his jail was the famous James West. The stranger had not had any identification with him.
Artemus had sent a wire to the Wanderer, informing the crew and asking them to bring the train to this little town in the morning. The rail lines passed about two miles to the east of here. The plan was to carry the coffin in a wagon out to meet the train. It could be placed in the stable car, for a last ride with Jim’s beloved stallion at his side.
I’ll make sure Blackjack is part of the funeral. Then I don't know what I’ll do with that blasted horse. No one else can ride him. Maybe I’ll just find someone with wide open fields and ask them to give Blackjack a home for the rest of his days. I’ll pay any expenses…
Thoughts like that crept in and out of his mind during the night as he tried to sleep on the cot in the small room behind the sheriff’s office. He had gone back to the doctor’s house finally to tell the physician that a wagon would be picking up the casket in the morning. Then he had taken one more look, alone in the room, lifting the lid and gazing at the still form. He apologized silently that Jim West was still attired in his muddy garb.
Maybe in Washington we can scare up a Captain’s uniform, huh? Funny, they had never really talked about what to do if… when… something like this happened. Yet Jim had handled things well the time he thought his partner had died, with the quiet military services at Fort Challenge, and the plans to do grander things in Washington. Jim knew Artemus liked pomp and ceremony.
And you don’t. Didn’t. But you’re going to get it anyway, pal. You’re going to get the grandest damn funeral ever, maybe second only to a presidential funeral. All your friends will be there. I know Matthew and his family are already planning the trip. Perhaps a few enemies too. Regardless of how people like Loveless and Manzeppi despised James West, Artemus knew they respected him as well in their own ways.
The most astounding and wonderful thing happened the next morning when the Wanderer pulled in…
After sleeping fitfully, Artemus awakened from dreams where Jim West was talking to him, pleading with him to do something, find something. Artie could never quite figure out, upon rousing, what it was about. But the same dream reiterated all through the night, so that when the sky began to lighten, he was sitting on the side of the cot, head in hands, exhausted, knowing he was not going to sleep any further.
He washed up some in a basin of cold water, not attempting to shave. He knew he looked like hell, his clothes soiled and rumpled. But that did not matter right now. He also knew he was going to be unable to eat, but he did go to the café nearby for several cups of coffee. The plump, middle-aged waitress appeared to know his story by now and just kept pouring coffee with a warm, sympathetic smile.
As he was downing his third or fourth cup he heard a familiar sound, the wail of the Wanderer’s whistle from the distance. Calling him. Calling James West home for his last ride. Heavily, Artemus got to his feet and walked the short distance to the stable where the horses had been kept overnight. The man there silently helped him saddle both horses; then Artie mounted Mesa and led Blackjack toward the doctor’s home.
A buckboard was sitting in front of the house, and half a dozen men waited. Obviously, the doctor had realized the deceased’s partner would want to be there before any move was made. Little was said as the men went inside. Artemus fought against the impulse to take one more look inside the box. I don’t want to remember that pale, still face. I want to remember the man I knew and loved, the spirited stallion, like his black horse. Indefatigable. Laughing at life… and death.
Tying the satin black horse, gleaming in this morning’s bright sun, at the back of the wagon bearing his master seemed the right thing to do. Artie wondered if somehow Blackjack sensed what was happening. The usually always-moving horse was uncommonly quiet, almost somber.
The wagon took a narrow rutted lane out through fields toward the train track. The sheriff had commented that surveyors had made an error when they laid the spur line; it was supposed to have been laid closer to town. But the actual tracklayers refused to vary from the map they had. “Don’t make no never mind,” the sheriff had sighed. “If there’s something to be delivered here, or a passenger needs to get off, the train just stops. If we need to send something or someone out, we just go out and flag it down.”
The Wanderer was waiting, chuffing lightly, somber black smoke coming from the stack, steam released occasionally from under the engine, as the wagon approached. Artie saw the crew standing quietly alongside the engine, hats in hands. And then he saw her emerge from the varnish car.
He later did not remember dismounting and running on foot the last hundred yards or so. All he remembered was she was suddenly in his arms, or he was in hers, and she was voicing her grief in a choked voice. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I loved him, as you did, like a brother. And he would have been my brother when we married. Oh Artemus!”
Several minutes elapsed before Artemus realized he was sobbing into her dark shining hair, releasing the grief he had been holding in during the last twelve or more hours. Lily did not ask any questions. That would come later. Artemus had one, though, as he finally was able to speak, drawing back, but still grasping her shoulders, needing the physical touch of her being.
“How did you get here?”
She smiled wanly. “I was in Cheyenne visiting a friend. Your message was forwarded. I figured out where you were, took a train, and then hired a rig. I reached the Wanderer very early this morning before it headed over here.”
“Oh, God, Lily! Thank you! I need you so!” He pulled her to him again.
A few minutes later he was able to take her hand to lead her toward the buckboard and the waiting men. Artemus knew these men had homes and jobs to return to. They had generously given of their time and efforts in this difficult task when asked by the doctor and sheriff. He nodded to Orrin, who opened the car’s side doors and pushed the ramp down.
Fate is extremely strange, Artemus mused later, time and again, wondering what would have ensued had not that coyote chosen to chase that rabbit in that direction at that particular time on that particular morning, alongside that railroad track. But the coyote did chase the rabbit, which, fleeing for its very life, dashed under the waiting train, and then almost directly under the hooves of the two horses that drew the buckboard with its precious cargo.
The incident happened just as four of the townsmen had climbed up into the wagon bed to heft the casket and were about to carefully negotiate lowering it off the wagon bed into the grips of Orrin and the other men who had come to stand alongside to assist. Artemus and Lily had moved back out of the way, tightly holding each other’s hand.
The first thing I’m going to do, Lily remembered thinking at that moment, is get some food in him, and then tuck him into bed. He looks perfectly awful!
And then the rabbit appeared, whereupon the startled horses reared and bucked, causing the buckboard to jerk sharply. Men yelled, Lily screamed… and the coffin crashed to the ground over the side of the wagon as the men completely lost their balance and their grip.
With utter horror, Artemus saw the lid burst open and the contents spill out. He was momentarily torn between shielding Lily’s eyes from the sight and rushing to try to right things. Then everyone froze, and except for the sounds from the idling engine and the snorting and pawing of the team horses as well as Mesa and Blackjack, all was completely silent.
Orrin Cobb stared, and then slowly turned to his employer. “Boss!”
The word broke the spell and Artemus dashed forward, falling to his knees along side the broken casket. For a long moment he simply stared, then reached out to touch the lumpy bags of feed grain that had spilled onto the ground, not believing what his eyes were seeing.
“What in the world?” Lily asked at his side.
Artemus Gordon looked up at her. “They… it’s not Jim. Why… what…” He could not think nor speak coherently.
Lily was the one who put it straight. “They’ve substituted bags of grain for his body. Why?”
“Stay here.” Artemus jumped to his feet and sprang into the saddle of the chestnut, reining around until he was in the direction toward town. Then he put his heels to the horse, leaning low. Mud and ruts be damned, he needed to get back to town immediately.
He rode directly to the doctor’s home. No surprise there. The physician was not to be found. Nor was the corpse of James West. Resisting the urge to set out on his own to try to find the doctor, Artie went back to the sheriff’s office and told that astounded man what had occurred.
“That’s crazy! Why would he do that?”
“What do you know about this doctor, sheriff?”
“Well, not much. He showed up, oh, must have been three weeks ago…. maybe a little longer. Said he was looking to set up his practice and knew we were without a doctor. Older one passed away some months back. Seemed to be a good man. Knew his stuff. Folks liked him.”
“But you never checked his credentials, his background?”
“No, never thought to.”
Artie grimaced. “Probably wouldn’t have made any difference. Chances are you would have learned he was perfectly reputable—whether or not he was actually the man he said he was.”
“What do you think is going on? Why would they steal West’s body?”
“I’m not even going to try to speculate on that, sheriff.” I’m afraid to. I don’t want to get my hopes up. Not yet. We’ve seen too damn many strange things over the years. “What I’m going to do is contact my superiors again, maybe get some help to find that doctor… and my partner.”
The next few hours were busy ones. Calling on Cobb for assistance in the varnish car, Artemus wrote one message after another, as the engineer sat at the key and sent them out. Lily put together a kettle of soup, and stood over her fiancé, almost spoon-feeding him at times, as he frantically worked at trying to solve as much of the mystery as possible and seek assistance.
The sheriff had promised to put together a posse to try to track down the doctor. Artemus had thanked him and had not discouraged him, even knowing in his heart that such a search would be in vain. Whatever this was about, whoever was behind it, for whatever reasons, a plan would have been in place to immediately hide their tracks and any other signs. Artie knew that some intelligence was behind the whole gambit. He just did not know who or why. The lawman later reported the expected lack of success.
“It’s like when I learned Jim had ridden away from the train yesterday,” Artemus told Lily as he handed still another handwritten sheet to Cobb, “I don't know where to start. I got lucky yesterday… maybe.” Artemus was beginning to wonder about the two fortuitous encounters that steered him to River Bend. He had belatedly told the sheriff about both of them, but the lawman did not recognize his descriptions of either the cowboy or the woman as being residents of the area, but that did not necessarily mean anything. His county was a large one.
By the time evening rolled around, Artemus thought he had things well in hand, except for the part about where to start looking for his partner. He tried not to speculate about whether Jim was actually dead. He had seen the body, touched it. Jim had not been breathing, he was certain. The skin had been cool. Artemus had been around other dead men, and he knew what a dead man looked and felt like. But…
“What are you thinking about?” Lily asked as she handed him a glass of sherry and sat down beside him on the sofa. This was probably the first time they had been alone all day. Orrin and his crew had had their evening meal and retired to their quarters after an exhausting night and day. The train was to pull out before dawn, heading toward Cheyenne.
“When I first found Jim sick and delirious, he kept talking about Loveless. I thought he was just raving, under the fever. Now I can’t help but wonder.”
“I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it, Artemus. How could Jim being sick have anything to do with Dr. Loveless?”
“That’s just it, I don't know. There’s another strange thing. The entire crew fell asleep at the same time when Jim left the train. That just doesn’t seem… right. These are good men. They wouldn’t slack their duties. Jim was… is their friend.”
“It still doesn’t make any sense, darling.”
Artemus sighed deeply then took a swallow of the sherry. “I know. Tomorrow morning we’ll pick up Frank and Jeremy and you can catch the next train back to…”
“Oh no.”
He stared at her. “What do you mean, ‘oh no’? Lily, you can’t…”
“Yes, I can. I’m nearly as worried about Jim as you are. I can help, my dear, if only as moral support. But I’m not going back to the company until I know what has happened. How could I possibly recite lines on the stage when I don't know what’s happened to one of my dearest friends?”
W*W*W*W*W
And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep,
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep?
—The Hermit. Chap. viii. Stanza 19, Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774), Anglo-Irish writer
A charm that lulls to sleep,
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep?
—The Hermit. Chap. viii. Stanza 19, Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774), Anglo-Irish writer
“How are you feeling, my dear friend?”
“I’m not sure. Am I alive?”
The giggle was too familiar. “Of course. I’m interested to learn your reactions to everything that occurred. I am a scientist after all. Scientists keep copious notes, you know.”
Jim West tried to rise, fell back with a sigh. “Weak as a newborn. What did you do to me?” He looked at the gnome of a man seated beside the bed on which he was laying.
Miguelito Loveless grinned widely. “Many things. You’ll learn in time. Suffice it to say that I murdered you and brought you back to life. What do you think about that?”
“Nothing you do surprises me, Loveless.”
“Oh, I’m so disappointed. But I do hope you are pleased with your quarters. Only the best for my guests.”
Jim allowed his gaze to rove around the well-appointed bedroom, taking in the gleaming glass mirror on the ornate bureau, the stone fireplace, as well as this huge and soft bed with ornate brass-topped posts at all corners. He wasn’t bound, though that did not make any difference at the moment. He truly felt as though he would not be able to stand without help. Even just lifting his head was almost impossible. He was under soft coverings, on a soft mattress.
The big question is how the devil did I end up here? The last clear memory I have is going to bed on the Wanderer. Other memories, fragments, don’t make much sense.
“Beautiful room. Where is it located?”
“In my home,” Loveless beamed, slipping down off the stool he had been sitting on. “Now I want you to rest. You’ll need a great deal, I’m afraid, to regain your full strength. And I want you back to your hale and hearty self.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jim responded dryly. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s going on.”
“I repeat: you’ll learn in time. I’m sure you will be interested in hearing about your funeral.”
“Did I have a grand one?”
Again the giggle. “Not yet. But I’m certain it will be memorable.” Loveless’s eyes grew hard. “This time Mr. Gordon will not be around to rescue you, Mr. West. As far as he is concerned, you are lost to him forever.” With a wave, Loveless toddled from the room. Jim did not miss the click of the lock after the door closed behind him.
Reaching up a hand, Jim scrubbed it over his jaw. He was clean-shaven. His attire was also clean, a nightshirt. I’m not injured as far as I can tell… just so damned weak. I’ve got to remember what happened…
Staring toward the ceiling wallpaper with its elaborate design of rosebuds and lilacs intertwined with golden ivy, he tried to think. They had stopped the train on a siding due to the storm, connected to the trackside wires and received word that the way ahead was impassable. With nowhere to go, he and Artie and the crew had played poker until late in the evening, the wind and rain raging outside. Then he had gone to bed in his compartment on the Wanderer.
Then how the hell did I get here? What does Loveless mean, he murdered me, that Artie thinks I’m dead? He knew that Loveless would tell him eventually. Perhaps what was surprising was that the little doctor did not boast more about it right away. He usually liked to brag about his accomplishments. What had Loveless done that would have convinced Artie that his partner was dead? Another doppelganger?
No. I think by now Artie would take extra steps to identify the body… if there was a body. Was that it? Loveless had arranged some sort of “accident” that made it appear Jim West had died, but with no identifiable corpse? Similar to what Dr. Faustina accomplished in New Orleans? Loveless had said “funeral” rather than “memorial service.” That makes it sound like a body is available. But…
He sighed wearily. Right now, I’m all but helpless and obviously in Loveless’s clutches. I’ve got to bide my time, regain my strength. Sounds as though Loveless is going to give me time to do just that. Then what?