Post by California gal on Jun 2, 2013 9:30:05 GMT -8
THE NIGHT OF THE DEADLY TREACHERY
Ipsa se fraus, etiamsi initio cautior fuerit, detegit.
[Treachery, though at first very cautious, in the end betrays itself.]
— Annales (XLIV, 15), Titus Livy (59 BC-17 AD), Roman historian
Ipsa se fraus, etiamsi initio cautior fuerit, detegit.
[Treachery, though at first very cautious, in the end betrays itself.]
— Annales (XLIV, 15), Titus Livy (59 BC-17 AD), Roman historian
“I’ll wait out here, Jim, just in case he tries to bolt.”
Jim West nodded toward his partner, then stepped quietly toward the gaping, broad opening that was the entrance to the stable. I hope the information we have is correct and that Mott is in here. I’m tired of chasing this guy! A moment was needed to allow his vision to adjust to the dimmer interior of the building, but he saw nothing except the swishing tails of a couple of horses in their stalls. Moving further in, carefully so as to not make any extra noise, he heard the scraping sound of a pitchfork probably removing old hay from a stall, and it appeared to come from the left side.
Jim stepped that way. He did not draw his gun, but kept his hand near the snake-embossed pistol at his hip. Mott was not a gunman but a bookkeeper. Perhaps the fact that he was now toiling in a livery stable indicated how desperate he was, accepting such a different lifestyle in order to hide. Reaching the aisle from where the sound was emanating, Jim paused. He could see a man plying the pitchfork.
“Mr. Mott?”
The tool clattered to the floor, and a couple of nearby horses snorted, startled by the noise. Abel Mott was a thin man in his forties. He usually wore rimless glasses but they were not on his nose; Jim could see the folded shape in his shirt pocket.
“Who are you?” Mott demanded, backing up slightly.
“My name is James West. I’m an agent with the federal government. We want to help you.”
Mott stood still now, peering. He finally pulled his spectacles from his pocket and donned them. “Show me your credentials.”
Jim reached inside his coat and brought out the folder, opening it so that the badge would show. Mott leaned toward it slightly to study it then took a few steps forward. “What do you want with me?”
“I think you know, Mr. Mott.”
The other man shook his head furiously. “It’s not safe for me out there!”
“We’ll protect you. You’ll have a twenty-four hour guard. Once Royer is convicted, you’ll be free to live your own life again.”
For a long moment Mott stood still. “You sure of that?”
“We’ll do our best. You’ll have to cooperate.”
“Testify, you mean.”
“Yes. And also follow directions.”
Again seconds of stillness elapsed. Finally Mott started moving slowly toward Jim. “I am tired of all this.”
Jim breathed a sign of relief. Now it would be merely a matter of getting Mott safely to the Wanderer, then transporting him to Saint Louis where he would be taken into custody by the federal attorney’s office. I hate these kinds of jobs. But at least it’s all but over. He was confident that he and his partner could protect Mott until they handed him over to the attorney.
“Artie,” Jim called over his shoulder as Mott stepped out into the wider area that led to the door. “All clear?”
Not hearing a response, he was starting to turn toward the door when he saw his partner’s silhouette against the bright sunshine framing him in the doorway. He saw the fringe on the sleeve of the leather coat and the broad brimmed hat his partner favored. He also saw the way the right hand was holding a pistol.
“That’s not neces…”
The explosion from the gun’s barrel covered the last syllables. Jim heard the grunt of pain from behind him and whirled. Abel Mott was staggering backwards, crimson blossoming on the front of the sweat-stained shirt. Shocked, for an instant Jim simply stared at the former bookkeeper as he crumpled to the hay-strewn floor. Then he spun back.
“Artie!”
Not for one instant had he considered drawing his own gun. Now the weapon held by the man in the doorway blasted again, and the impact of the slug entering his body sent James West reeling. He grabbed for the support of one of the posts by the nearest stall, gaping. “Artie…” he whispered toward the oh-so-familiar shadow in the doorway. “Artie…” Deep blackness closed in.
W*W*W*W*W
Oh, colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd,
Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom, when betray'd.
— Lalla Rookh--The Fire Worshippers, Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish Poet
Oh, colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd,
Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom, when betray'd.
— Lalla Rookh--The Fire Worshippers, Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish Poet
“Jim! Jim! Can you hear me? It’s Colonel Richmond! You need to talk to me! Who did this?”
The voice came from a great distance, through the oceans of pain and weakness that engulfed him. He did not seem to have the strength to even open his eyes, and making his mouth and tongue work was momentarily impossible. Something touched his mouth, something cool, and the liquid seared then soothed his lips so that he opened them to allow more water into his mouth and throat.
He tried opening his eyes, but all was one mass of shimmering, shadowy shapes and colors, so he closed them again. Once more he attempted to operate his lips and tongue. The voice that emerged was foreign even to his ears, raspy and barely audible.
“Artie,” he whispered. A pain, sharp and nearly unbearable, unrelated to the physical agony he was experiencing, washed through his body and soul. Complete blackness closed in again as a voice spoke from somewhere and faded into the darkness.
“He’s out again.”
W*W*W*W*W
Cruelty is the highest pleasure to the cruel man; it is his love.
—Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864), English poet and author
Cruelty is the highest pleasure to the cruel man; it is his love.
—Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864), English poet and author
Artemus Gordon blinked as the heavy hood was pulled off his head. The illumination in the cabin was dim, doubly shaded by the trees he knew they had traveled through and likely now surrounded this structure. The hood had been thrown over his head soon after he had been pushed into the wagon behind the livery stable, his hands bound behind his back, and then more rope around his ankles.
The wagon had traveled rapidly away from town. He had heard the gunshots inside the stable, and then the shouts that faded as the wagon put distance between itself and the scene of the crime. He had been waiting outside, as he told his partner he would be, “on guard.” Some guard I was, he realized, bitterly.
He had not heard the man approaching from behind. Noticing that the soil was very soft and sandy did not mollify him. He had been quietly ordered to go behind the stable, remove his coat and hat, as well as his gun belt, which were all donned by another man, a man of a physical build similar to his own.
Artie had been puzzled at first but realized even before he heard the shots what was going to happen. Jim would see the silhouette in the open door, unable to see the man’s features. That man, who had been called Coursey by his three companions, returned around the building mounted on Artie’s chestnut. That was when the wagon driver lashed his horses and the man sitting in the bed of the wagon put the hood over Artie’s head and pushed him flat.
Only a while later when the wagon finally slowed did Artie realize that the horseman had not accompanied the wagon initially. He had laughed about his success as he rejoined them, boasting about the false trail he had laid, certain he had covered his tracks before uniting with his companions.
That was when Artie heard the conversation that caused every fiber of his body to turn to ice. They had been highly successful, they bragged. Not only was Abel Mott dead but so was Jim West. “Got him right in the heart!” Coursey boasted.
Then why am I alive? Why am I alive? That puzzle echoed in his head repeatedly as the wagon continued. The men’s conversation did not reveal that, as they now talked about the bonus they were going to get for their success.
Earl Royer’s name was mentioned. Artie had not needed to hear it to be aware that that had been the man behind the ambush. For several years now the Secret Service as well as other state and federal agencies had been attempting to get evidence to arrest and convict Royer, a notorious criminal. Royer lived openly on his ill gotten wealth, murdered and stole to live his luxurious lifestyle, but he had been clever as well as devious. More than once one agency or another had believed they had evidence, only to have it stolen or refuted. Witnesses changed their minds, disappeared, or died in an “accident.”
Abel Mott had been Royer’s bookkeeper for years. He knew everything that occurred in Royer’s little kingdom, especially the finances. A lifelong bachelor, he had met a young widow who urged him to leave that life behind. However, when he tried to resign, the woman was attacked and beaten badly.
Mott had previously contacted a member of the Secret Service to help him escape from Royer, and a method had been devised whereby he would be swept away to a secret hideout. His new love was to come along. When she was assaulted, Mott panicked and fled, certain he would be next. For several months nearly every agent in the department—as well as Royer’s men—had been on the lookout for him. He had finally been spotted in Denver. West and Gordon had been sent to apprehend him.
Artie stared up at the man who was now standing in front of the chair into which he had been shoved and bound securely. “You bastard!”
Earl Royer laughed heartily. “Brilliant bastard, you might say, Mr. Gordon. I must thank you and the late unlamented Mr. West for leading us to Abel Mott.”
Artie gritted his teeth, glaring. Royer was a big man in his fifties. His lifestyle had affected his body, stomach protruding now from too many rich meals and good liquor. His suit was tailored perfectly to cover that expanding body. He did not seem to be vain about his physical shape, but his hair was another matter. He wore his hair slicked down with oil, parted in the middle, and Artemus would be willing to wager a good sum that Royer used a dye to keep the very dark color it now had, with not a sign of gray.
They couldn’t have followed us. We were too careful! He knew that, but he also realized that what Royer was saying had to be true. If Royer’s men had not followed them directly, they had at least received enough information to lead them to the stable, arriving there at the same time as the agents and successfully carrying out an ambush.
“What now?” Artie asked then. He did not want to give Royer the satisfaction of displaying any further anger or grief. “Why am I still alive?”
If possible, Royer’s grin grew even wider. “My original thought was to have both of you killed at the same time. You certainly have given me enough trouble over the years to warrant it. But then I thought of a more pleasurable scheme. West is dead. Witnesses will give the authorities an accurate description of the man who committed the atrocities. And you will eventually hang—or be shot down by a posse—for the murder of West and Mott.”
“Very clever,” Artie replied acidly. People had been in the vicinity of the stable, at least a few of which had likely been planted by Royer. Colonel Richmond and other authorities would have no option but to seek Artemus Gordon for the murders. “Except maybe I’ll give myself up and tell the truth.”
Royer laughed again. “No you won’t, Gordon. I know enough about you and West to realize that the first thing on your mind will be to come after me. I welcome you to try. You won’t find me, and eventually, while you are concentrating on me, others will be searching for you—and will find you.”
Again Artemus had to clench his jaw, knowing Royer was speaking truth. With the situation as it was, if he turned himself in, precious time would be lost. Royer could even head to Europe or elsewhere to hide out. He was certainly not short of funds. However, I doubt he would do that, at least not initially. He enjoys being able to outwit the authorities in this country, something he has done for years. He’s not going to give that up. Not yet.
Artie lowered his head then, as if surrendering. After a moment, he looked up again. “So you’re setting me free?”
“In a manner of speaking. My men and I will depart tomorrow. But we will leave your jacket, hat and weapon, as well as a knife which I have no doubt you will get to and use to cut your bonds. Your horse will be outside. But I expect by that time we will be far away from here. Don’t try to track us. Coursey there is an expert on laying and hiding trails. You won’t find us. You’d best be thinking of hiding yourself!”
He laughed loudly and the other men joined in as they made themselves as comfortable as was possible on the cabin’s rickety furnishings. Artie fell silent, knowing that anything he said would only draw taunts. He briefly wondered why Royer and his minions would wait until tomorrow to leave, but quickly realized that Royer was aware that any law officers in the vicinity would not only be watching for Artemus Gordon, but for Earl Royer, seeing as one of the men killed had been sought by Royer. An extra day would cause the feverish hunt to cool down a bit.
The day passed slowly. Twice Artie was untied and allowed to use the equally dilapidated outhouse behind the cabin, and he was given water to drink. In the evening, a bowl of the stew the man Coursey cooked up was handed to him, his arms untied from the chair but not his legs. When his four captors stretched out on bedrolls on the floor, Artie remained in the chair.
He dozed some during the night in his uncomfortable position, but the discomfort was not what kept him awake. Grief was the cause. Time and time again he heard those shots echoing from the stable, and saw Coursey’s wide grin as he hurried around the stable mounted on Mesa. “I got ‘em,” he chortled. “Both dead as doornails.”
I won’t be able to attend the funeral… I can’t say goodbye… Worst, he knew that the last thing Jim West saw was his partner, his best friend, pulling the trigger. The only comfort was the knowledge that he himself was going to be alive to achieve vengeance. Royer thought he was being clever leaving Artemus Gordon free to face possible hanging. That’s not going to happen, you bastard. I won’t hang until after I kill you!
He thought about Lily Fortune. What would she think when she heard the news? And she would hear, of that he was positive. Would she believe he could have done such a thing? Maybe I can manage to see her before… before it all plays out.
When morning came, Royer pretty much ignored him, as did the others. They fixed their breakfast then gathered up their possessions. Artie had to admit he was somewhat surprised that Earl Royer did not simply stand back and let his hirelings do the preparations for departure. Nor had he complained about the poor accommodations and simple food. Not much was known about Royer’s early years; perhaps he knew what it was like to live a rough life.
Just before he stepped out the door, Royer paused. “Goodbye, Gordon. I’ll be reading the newspapers avidly to learn your fate, whether it be cut down by a posse, a bounty hunter… or a hanging.”
Artie sat silently as the door closed, and then began to look around. Initially he thought that either Royer forgot to leave the knife or he had lied about it. However, he then spotted the sharp hunting knife, jammed into the wood alongside the stone fireplace—about six feet off the floor.
Closing his eyes a moment in frustration, Artie opened them and set about tipping his chair over. Securing the knife was going to take time. Tied to this chair, he could not even hop over and attempt to dislodge it with his head.
But I’ll do it. I’ll get free, and I’ll find Earl Royer. I swear, Jim. He will pay for murdering you. On my life, I swear it!
W*W*W*W*W
Choose your friend wisely,
Test your friend well;
True friends, like rarest gems,
Prove hard to tell.
Winter him, summer him,
Know your friend well.
—Unknown
Choose your friend wisely,
Test your friend well;
True friends, like rarest gems,
Prove hard to tell.
Winter him, summer him,
Know your friend well.
—Unknown
He forced himself to eat everything on his tray despite the lack of an appetite. He needed the sustenance to rebuild his strength. Loss of blood, the shock of the wound and the subsequent surgery to remove the lead pellet had left him weak and drained of energy. On this second day after the shooting, he had to have help to get out of bed while the linens were changed. It would get better, but he was too frail to attempt to leave the hospital at this time.
And I have to get out of here. I have to find Artemus. I have to find him before anyone else does, talk to him, find out why…
Jim lowered the fork, his eyes unfocused on some distance spot across the room. All he had was that incredible memory of turning to see his partner, his best friend, standing in the doorway with the pistol. Of the shots being fired. Of the force of the bullet as it drove into his flesh, sending him reeling back in pain, into darkness.
It can’t be true.
He had tried to convince the colonel of that as soon as he roused to find his commanding officer seated beside the bed. Richmond had quietly told him that a nationwide manhunt was in force, seeking Artemus Gordon. “No, not Artie. He didn’t do it.”
Richmond had shaken his head, his face grim. “It’s not only your testimony, Jim. You told me it was Gordon and I could not believe it. However, two witnesses have come forward.”
“Witnesses? Who?”
“A man who was returning to pick up his horse at the stable and saw it play out. He described Gordon’s jacket, hat, and general build. A young woman who rents a room in the house across from the livery saw the same thing. Gordon fired two shots then ran out to mount his chestnut horse and ride off at a rapid pace. His trail was followed for a few miles, then lost.”
Jim had tried to argue as forcefully as his strength at the time would allow, but to no avail. Colonel James Richmond seemed to be convinced. The witnesses, although fairly new to Denver, were deemed reliable. Also, an investigation had revealed a deposit had been made into Gordon’s bank account in Washington, DC in the amount of fifty thousand dollars. The clerk who took the deposit admitted that Gordon had not made it himself, but he remembered the man who had come to his window with it. A smiling man who stated that the funds were payment for services rendered and that Mr. Gordon was expecting to see the funds recorded. The deposit had occurred the morning of the assault.
“Jim,” the colonel had spoken gently then, “I’m quite aware of what Artemus means to you. But… people change. I was there a month ago when he was complaining about the hours and low pay…”
“That was a joke, colonel! You knew that!”
“I thought it was at the time. But sometimes what people speak in jest is actually the truth. We may never know what was on his mind until we pick him up… alive.”
Aware that he was not getting anywhere, Jim did not dispute further, only asked for updates each time Richmond or one of the other agents visited him. Artemus had vanished completely. As well, Earl Royer had dropped out of sight. To Jim, that was telling, but he was unsure what it meant. He had no doubt Royer had a hand in the murder of the key witness and the attempt to kill a government agent.
The gnawing question was why they had not also shot Artemus outside the stable where he was waiting. Jim refused to believe—could not believe—that his partner had turned traitor. The only explanation was that Royer had taken Artie prisoner. Jim could not begin to guess why. Royer was a clever man, they all knew that. He could have a use for Artemus Gordon.
But what? Does he expect Artie, now an accused murderer, to actually help him somehow? Thus far, Royer’s criminal behavior did not include outright robbery of banks, trains, or any other institution. He made his money primarily by extortion and smuggling, the latter activity putting him under the purview of the federal agency when he “neglected” to pay duties and taxes. The slaying of an agent who had infiltrated Royer’s domain enhanced the federal charges. The other murders in which he was suspected were tied to the other crimes as part of the intimidation that made him so successful.
With Abel Mott dead, Royer will have a free ride for a while. Undoubtedly he will hire a new bookkeeper, if he hasn’t already, but whoever that is would be forewarned by Mott’s death.
Shifting his position slightly and wincing as he felt the pull on the wound in his upper left shoulder, Jim looked toward the window. He could not see much other than the roof of the building next door and the leaden sky, but he now saw that snow was falling lightly. Not unusual for Denver in October.
His bodily weakness was frustrating. He had been wounded before, but this one was certainly one of the most serious. Because of his own robust health, he usually recovered swiftly. Nonetheless, he knew that time was going to be needed. He would not serve himself, or Artie, well by jumping the gun. But he was not going to wait to be officially discharged. He knew himself, knew his strengths and limitations. Artie was out there somewhere and needed him. Of that he was absolutely certain.
I don't know what I saw in the doorway of the stable. At the time, I thought it was Artie. But it could not have been. Never. Artie would not shoot me, let alone commit murder. Never.
W*W*W*W*W
Artemus Gordon climbed to his feet, and realizing how shaky his legs were, grabbed the stone mantel of the fireplace next to him. Despite the coolness of the air, he was perspiring. Beads of sweat had collected on his forehead and he could also feel them streaming inside his shirt, tickling his skin.
“Six hours!” he muttered, glancing toward the window, which revealed the growing dimness of the afternoon as the sun lowered in the west. The sun had been heading for its zenith when he tipped his chair over and began the arduous task of sliding toward the side of the fireplace where the knife was jammed into the wall. Beyond needing to scoot the chair across the rough wooden floor, he had had to break the chair to free his body so as to be able to reach that knife.
The chair proved to be extremely sturdy, and not until he got up against the stone hearth where he was able to start cracking it against the hard rocks did it begin to crumble. Even that took time, precious time in which Artie knew Royer was undoubtedly traveling farther and farther away. But after breaking the chair and freeing himself from its constraints, he found he had to turn into an acrobat, scooting up against the wall to rest his body on his shoulders and neck. Only then did his boot toes touch the embedded knife and start working on loosening it.
And then came the danger that the knife might come free and fall point first toward his body. He had no other choice, however, and continued to work at it. Finally the tip of the blade started to slide out. Artemus almost somersaulted to get himself out of the way, and just made it as the blade flew to the floor and embedded itself again into the floor—just where he had been.
The easiest task was cutting his wrist ropes by rubbing them against the blade—fortuitously the sharp side was toward him—then pulling the knife to cut those on his boots. That was when he climbed wearily to his feet and experienced the weakness in his limbs, not to mention slight vertigo. When he felt able, he walked across the floor to the bucket resting on a stool in the corner, using the dipper there to drink deeply of the water.
His gun belt and jacket were in a heap near the door. Artie fastened the belt on, but did not don the jacket just yet. He found his hat hanging on a nail on the wall and placed it on his head. These are the items that will be in any description of me given to law officers, he mused as he stepped to a grimy window and peered out. Royer may have left men outside to ambush me. They would turn my body in and claim any reward…
The pain of the realization was sharp: The reward for the murderer of Abel Mott… and James West. The man who pulled the trigger had left the stable without checking on his victims, but he had assured Royer that both men were dead. “I don’t miss at that range.” Coursey’s boast echoed in Artemus's head.
We led Royer right to Mott. That was another painful awareness. They had been alert, always watching their surroundings and any people in those surroundings. Artie knew they had not seen anyone more than once. But Royer had a large organization. He could have had a dozen or more men switching places to follow the agents in their search for Mott. None needed to appear in any town where they stopped more than once.
Now Jim is dead along with the witness, and I’m the accused murderer. We were aware that Royer was a smart man, but this…!
It was almost too much to accept or comprehend.
W*W*W*W*W
Without constancy, there is neither love, friendship, nor virtue in the world.
—Joseph Addison (1672-1719), English essayist, poet, and statesman
Without constancy, there is neither love, friendship, nor virtue in the world.
—Joseph Addison (1672-1719), English essayist, poet, and statesman
Lily Fortune arrived on the third day of his recuperation. She entered the hospital room with her chin high, expression controlled and determined. But the moment she gazed upon Jim laying in the hospital bed, his face drawn and worn, the whiteness of the bandage showing just above the dark blanket that covered him, that composure broke down. She hurried to the bed, taking his hand and grasping it tightly.
“Jim, tell me it’s not true. Artemus didn’t… didn’t do this!” Tears flowed down her cheeks.
“He did not do it, Lily. I’m not sure what happened, but I know Artie did not shoot either Mott or me.”
“Then why did you say he did? The newspapers…”
Jim sighed, and realized that the movement did not cause as much pain as it had earlier. “They first asked me when I was barely conscious. I can’t say now whether I was naming Artie as the culprit or asking for him. The colonel took it as the former. He also has two witnesses who say they saw him—or someone who looked like him—leaving the area of the livery stable. I know that the man I saw in silhouette in the open doorway resembled Artie, but I couldn’t see his face. I can’t believe the witnesses saw him closely either. They saw the jacket and the hat.”
Releasing his hand, Lily moved the room’s lone chair close to the bed, sitting down. “Jim, where is he?”
“I don't know. I can’t even promise he’s still alive, Lily. But what I will promise is that I will find him, find out what happened.”
She saw the steely determination on his face and took his hand again. “Jim, it’s going to be weeks before you are in any condition…”
“Not weeks,” he said grimly. “I think another few days is all I need. I’m able to get out of bed now and get to the chair…”
“You need more than that, Jim!” the actress cut in. “The snow has melted and the streets are ankle deep in mud. I had a terrible time getting here, first by train, then simply from the depot to the hospital. It may snow again, or at least rain and…”
“I can’t let that stop me, Lily. If the situation were reversed…”
She sighed, leaned forward slightly, lifted his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “Oh, Jim. You are my dear friend and I know you love Artemus as I do. But he would not want you to risk your life…”
“He doesn’t have a say in the matter. As I was saying, if it was me out there with a murder charge over my head, Artie would be breaking down walls to help me.”
“I know. I know.” She lowered his hand but continued to hold it, now in both of her own as she gazed at him earnestly. “Then you must allow me to help.”
He smiled. “I appreciate that, Lily. But I don't know what you could do…”
Her chin came up. “For one thing, I know the doctor does not plan to officially release you for at least another two weeks, perhaps longer.”
“That’s what he thinks,” Jim grumbled.
Now she smiled. “It seems to me that if you had someone who promised to look after you, he might be convinced to allow you to leave sooner.”
“And then what?”
“Then we will find Artemus.”
“Is that why Artemus shot you, Jim? Because he knew you had designs on his girl?” A voice cut into their conversation.
Both jerked their gazes toward the room’s door. Lily attempted to release Jim’s hand but he grasped hers tightly now. “Don’t be crazy, Frank!” Jim exclaimed. “We…”
“I actually heard quite a bit of what you were discussing,” Frank Harper stated, coming all the way in now and closing the door behind him, his lean face sober after a brief teasing grin. “You should have been more careful about closing the door completely, Lily.” He paused at the foot of the bed. “Think about it, nevertheless. If Lily becomes your nurse, a prosecuting attorney might look on it as a highly auspicious motive.”
Jim stared at his colleague. “You don’t believe for one minute…!”
“Of course not. As I said, I’m just saying. I admire Lily’s dedication but it seems to me that you’d be better off in my tender care.”
“Are you insane?”
Harper grinned now. “Not in the least. I have some leave coming to me. I could rent a little house here in Denver, hire a cook—you know I cannot match Artemus when it comes to the culinary arts—and as an old and dear friend, help you regain your health… while also helping you search for Artemus.”
Jim glanced at Lily. “Frank, you can’t jeopardize your career. The colonel…”
“Knows it could not have been Artemus.”
“He could have fooled me,” Jim growled.
“I think I understand,” Lily said quietly. “Officially, the colonel has to accept the obvious, especially because of the witnesses.” She looked down at Jim. “But he knows you, Jim, and he knows Artemus.”
“Exactly. The story has hit all the papers thanks to that reporter who was in the area of the shooting. If Richmond didn’t set out a search for Artemus, how would it look?” Frank said. “So, any ideas where to begin?”
“Actually, I have,” Jim responded, suddenly feeling a great deal better. “I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I remembered a few years ago reading through some information gathered on Royer that said he had constructed a large home in the mountains just south of Denver.”
Harper’s eyes narrowed. “You think he might have taken Artemus there? This time of year, they could be snowed in!”
“And unreachable from the outside as well.”
“At least by a large force,” Frank nodded thoughtfully. “If it does snow, are you thinking a sleigh…?”
“Snowshoeing. I’ve had some experience.”
“That’s very strenuous activity,” Frank pointed out. “Are you sure?”
“Another couple weeks and I’ll be fine. It’ll take us awhile to check maps and other information to make certain of the location of the house, perhaps find a guide—and also try to learn for certain if he’s there.”
“Not to mention finding the best route for us to take,” Lily said.
Both men looked at her. “You can’t make such a trek, Lily!” Jim protested.
Her chin came up. “Why not? Don’t forget, I grew up in Michigan. Have you ever endured a Michigan winter?”
W*W*W*W*W
The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence, as for his repose.
—Reports, Semaynes' Case (vol. III, pt. V, p. 185), Lord Edward Coke (1552-1634), English judge and legal writer
The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence, as for his repose.
—Reports, Semaynes' Case (vol. III, pt. V, p. 185), Lord Edward Coke (1552-1634), English judge and legal writer
Artemus Gordon sighed as he lowered the empty coffee cup and looked at the man sitting across the table from him. “Orrin, thank you. Believe me, I will exonerate you from aiding and abetting, if it comes to that. I’ll swear I held a gun on you.”
The engineer grinned. “Thanks, boss. But it won’t come to that. I have faith in both you and Mr. West. You’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Artie looked down at his empty plate for a moment, remembering the utter relief he had experienced upon entering the parlor car, finding engineer Orrin Cobb, and being told that Jim West was alive and recuperating in a Denver hospital. Until that moment he had believed Jim was indeed dead, as Royer apparently believed initially.
The snow had started coming down in earnest as he made his way toward the Wanderer, which they had left parked on a siding some forty miles outside of Denver so as not to alert anyone of their presence. He stayed off the main roads in the hopes of also avoiding anyone out searching for him—a hope that became reality. He did not encounter any other human. As the snow fell more and more heavily, piling up on the ground, his progress had been slowed, and he had taken overnight shelter in an old line camp to warm up. A can of peaches and some wrinkled apples had been in the cabin, but by the time he gained the train, he was starving as well as nearly frozen.
Orrin had been alone on the train. The fireman, Kelly, had left to visit some cousins in a nearby town, knowing their employers would not be back for at least a week. “He likely will be held up by the snow now, unless it melts,” Cobb said. “Even then the mud will be bad.”
Colonel Richmond and Frank Harper had come to the train earlier, partly to see if Gordon had fled there, but also to inform the crew of the tragic events. They were the ones who told the engineer that Jim was alive.
Artie looked up. “I’ve got to talk to Jim, to make sure he doesn’t believe I…”
Orrin was shaking his head. “He wouldn’t ever believe that of you, Mr. Gordon. It would be dangerous for you to go into Denver, let alone the hospital.”
Artie grinned then. “Orrin, you forget who you are talking to!”