The Night of the Traitorous Death

[Double Take]

The Night of the Traitorous Death

“You’ll hang for this, mister,” the voice snarled in his ear. The cavalry sergeant dragged the Secret Service agent back to his feet. He kept a tight grip on the arms of James West, pulling them behind his back. Although West did not try to get away from the soldier pinning his arms, he pulled forward to get a better look at the body lying on the ground.

“He’s an imposter. He was going to kill the Secretary of State!” Jim’s voice was drowned out by the uproar of angry voices. Two more cavalry troopers came running up. One bent to retrieve a pistol with a rattlesnake on the grip from the ground and tucked it into his belt. They stepped in front of West, blocking his view with their bodies and rifles.

The only reason that James West was still alive after the shooting was that, against all logic, he ran toward his target instead of fleeing the scene. The troopers guarding the victim were momentarily stunned into immobility by West’s unexpected actions, but then a tough, war-hardened sergeant, who kept his wits about him, tackled the young agent. Had West fled the scene, the troopers would have undoubtedly gunned him down.

An official straightened up from the huddle that surrounded the body. As he turned, silence immediately descended, and in a heavy voice he addressed the small cluster of newspaper reporters and guests standing nearby, “He’s dead. President Grant is dead.”

There was an audible gasp from the by-standers. A young woman accompanying her husband and hoping to see the President for the first time, clutched her handkerchief, then turned and buried her face in her husband’s shoulder at the announcement. The silence that followed was punctuated by her soft weeping.

The troopers blocking West’s view stepped aside as their commander approached. Colonel Toby MacEwen stared hard at the man in front of him. The veteran cavalry officer was speechless; his mouth worked as he searched for something to say, but the words would not come. MacEwen stepped to one side finally allowing the Secret Service agent to get a better look at the body on the ground.

He was lying on his side with his back to James West, a sturdily built man in a black sack suit. His top hat had rolled to one side exposing his dark brown hair lightly salted with gray. Jim couldn’t see all of the man’s face, but he could see the neatly trimmed beard and sideburns. A cigar stub was still gripped by the dead fingers.

A tall, sandy-haired Secret Service agent approached West and the troopers, looking baffled and angry. Jim knew Oliver Madison slightly, but they had never worked together before this assignment. Jim had spent most of his time in the western states and territories, while Oliver Madison primarily operated in the northeastern states.

“Do you know what you just did?” Madison struggled to find the words. “You served under that man. You swore allegiance to him.”

James West confidence in his information was beginning to erode. As he looked up at Madison, he fought to keep the doubt from creeping into his voice, “I received a message from Artemus Gordon that puts the real President Grant over twenty miles from here at the hotel in Laurel. That man is the imposter.”

“I have been with the President constantly for the past twenty-four hours. I escorted him here from the White House myself,” Madison replied tightly. He pointed back at the body, “That is President Ulysses Grant.”

Colonel Toby MacEwen returned from where he had been talking to a group of men near Grant’s body. He glared at West then addressed the three troopers who were still restraining the agent, “Get him out of here! Find someplace where you can lock him up securely. If he gets away, you will face charges as well. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” the trio responded in concert.

One of the troopers produced a pair of handcuffs and shackled West’s wrists in front of him, while another removed his gun belt. Jim made no move to resist. His mind was still trying to come to terms with what Madison had just told him.

President Grant was dead by his hand. A fellow Secret Service agent had confirmed his identity. A sick feeling was growing in the pit of West’s stomach. How could he have been misled to the point where he had shot a man he had known and respected for so many years? A man he was proud to consider a friend.

Jim let the troopers escort him toward the stately house owned by one of President Grant’s closest friends. The President had arrived at Arthur Branigan’s country estate, near Mount Airy in central Maryland, just minutes before and was preparing to address a small group of reporters prior to going inside where he planned on spending a few quiet days relaxing, riding and swapping stories with his old friend.

The morass that had gripped the brain of James West since he first realized that the man he shot was the President of the United States was beginning to release its hold. If the dead man was the President, then the information he had received was wrong. He knew his partner’s handwriting; there was no doubt in his mind that the message delivered by the carrier pigeon was genuine. If Artemus Gordon believed that he was with the real President Grant, then he must be in danger.

President Grant was dead by his hand. When the time came, he would face the penalty for that deed without flinching. Artemus Gordon was alive, or at least he had been a short while ago, and very likely in trouble. Jim feared that by the time he could convince someone of his partner’s danger, it would be too late.

Mentally, he took a deep breath. What he was about to do went against his upbringing and military training. He had always believed in accepting responsibility for his actions, and even now he was prepared to face the consequences, but he was the only one who could get to Artemus in time.

James West and the troopers guarding him mounted the stairs to the wide porch that spanned the front of the house. Jim’s ever alert mind had already taken in his surroundings and planned his escape route even before he consciously made the decision to run. It was as natural and automatic as breathing. That talent had allowed him to get out of many dire situations, and it served him now.

The prisoner gave no warning to the troopers that he intended on making a break for it, not even the slightest glance to one side. So when West slammed his left elbow into the ribs of the trooper behind him, the man was caught totally by surprise and went down in a crumpled heap from the blow. Jim allowed his momentum to swing him around and he brought his clasped hands up underneath the rifle barrel of the second guard. The trooper’s finger instinctively tightened on the trigger, but the shot went high and wide, knocking a chunk of plaster from the house. The agent followed up the blow by driving his elbow into the man’s jaw. Two down.

The sergeant was a step ahead of them when West made his move. He pivoted and started to raise his revolver to take aim at the prisoner, but West’s foot slammed into his stomach sending him crashing against the door. Jim grabbed the revolver from the limp grip and bolted for freedom. The shackles on his wrists did not hamper his speed and he vaulted the balustrade surrounding the porch, barely breaking stride. Jim gave a sharp whistle as he ran and was relieved to see his black quarter horse cantering toward him.

The first trooper to fall climbed painfully to his feet. A quick glance told him that his comrades were still out of the fight. He ran toward the balustrade and knelt down, raising his rifle to his shoulder. From his left he heard shouting and several wild gunshots, but nothing came close to the dodging man. The trooper took his time; one controlled shot had more chance of hitting his target than several hastily fired rounds. The prisoner had just reached his horse when the trooper fired. He saw West stagger and knew his bullet had found its target, but the horse swung round and blocked the fleeing man from his view, preventing him from making a second killing shot.

***

James West grabbed Blackjack’s reins and was just about to swing into the saddle when he felt the bullet drive into his left arm. The force of the lead shot biting into his flesh knocked him backward against the high-strung horse which swung around, effectively shielding the injured agent from the guns.

Adrenaline kept the pain at bay. West swung into his saddle and kicked the black into a gallop, keeping low in the saddle. Gunshots continued behind him, but West did not return fire with the stolen weapon. He had no desire to cause further injury nor could he afford to waste bullets. He guided the galloping horse on a serpentine path through the open farmland that surrounded the elegant country estate.

***

Oliver Madison watched the renowned secret agent swing into the saddle and take off. A slow smile crept over his face. He ran over to a neatly ordered group of cavalry men standing by the woods that bordered the property to the north. They had drawn their revolvers and were firing at the fleeing agent. Several reporters and the Secretary of State, Hamilton Fish, also hurried over.

“Make sure you don’t hit him!” Madison admonished the gunmen. “The boss doesn’t want him dead that way.”

“I don’t like this. His escaping wasn’t in the plan,” Fish growled as he peeled the long whiskers from his jaw. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

As James West disappeared from sight, Oliver Madison started to laugh.

***

Blackjack took the low stone wall at a gallop. Jim guided him into the woods that broke up the rolling Maryland countryside north of Washington into a patchwork quilt of farms, fields and forest. The woods became denser and he was forced to slow the horse to a walk as they threaded their way through the trees. Occasionally, Jim had to veer off his course to maneuver around tangled thickets of brambles and dense underbrush. Slowly their meandering course took them down a gently sloping hill until they came to a shallow, stony creek that ran through the valley.

Jim stopped and let his horse drink from the clear water. Only now did he become aware of the throbbing pain of the bullet wound in his left arm. It only took him a few seconds to pick the lock of the handcuffs and toss them into some underbrush so a search party would not readily spot them. He grimaced as he carefully pulled off his blue trail jacket. The sleeve of his shirt was soaked with blood. He removed the scarf tie from his neck and bound it around the wound; he could not spend the time to clean or tend it properly, he just tried to stop the bleeding as best he could. His primary goal was to keep moving, to get as much distance between him and his pursuers as possible. Artie’s life depended on his avoiding capture so he could locate his friend and whoever was responsible for setting him up to murder the President.

This was the same creek that ran close to the siding where the Wanderer sat idling, awaiting his return. Jim knew there would be guards posted by the train, but it would be illogical for him to return there; they would expect a hunted man to try and lose himself in the countryside, so he hoped it would only be lightly guarded. If he was to help Artie he would need supplies, ammunition and other items from the train. He turned Blackjack in the direction of the siding and kept the horse to the middle of the stream to avoid leaving tracks or other indication of their passage.

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Oliver Madison entered the magnificent home belonging to Arthur Branigan and his wife, Eleanor. He looked around the spacious entranceway, admiring the tasteful elegance. Madison’s silent admiration turned into a soft whistle as a woman appeared on the landing overlooking the foyer. She paused with one hand on the rail looking down at the tall Secret Service agent below.

***

Eleanor Branigan knew how to make an entrance. She knew how to do many things, especially how to get what she wanted from the adoring men that surrounded her. She could be charming and sophisticated, sweet and playful, or fiercely aggressive depending on her needs. She used her beauty like a rich man used his money: to gain power and influence over others.

She was slender and graceful. Her porcelain skin was set off by her dark auburn hair pulled back and arranged in a chignon with ribbons woven through the curls. A few loose curls framed her heart shaped face. Her large brown eyes normally glowed with a doe-like softness, but could be become ice hard when her intentions were thwarted. Whether at a dinner party or relaxing in her home, Eleanor always made sure she was the most beautiful and desirable item in the room.

To the casual observer she was the lovely young wife of Arthur Branigan who had served with Ulysses Grant during the Mexican-American War and again during the recent conflict. Later, Arthur had campaigned hard for Grant when his friend ran for the office of President. At his side during the campaign was his new wife, a beautiful young woman who made him forget the years that weighed heavily on him. She encouraged and supported him, enjoying the benefits of being the wife of a well connected man.

After Grant’s victory, Eleanor had used her husband’s connections to become the center of Washington’s high society. Swirling through the lavish balls and dinners with her husband on her arm, she met men of influence and power who could be useful to her, and other men who excited her because of who they were.

At first, Arthur Branigan was blind to his wife’s pursuits. He was so dazzled by her beauty and his love for her that he did not realize that anything untoward was happening. When he finally learned of her secret relationships, he blamed himself and worked all the harder to keep in her good graces, even if that meant turning a blind eye to some of her activities as he was doing now, alone in his den with a half-empty bottle of brandy.

***

Eleanor smiled sweetly at the man below and then swept down the stairs with the grace of a dancer. Oliver Madison met her at the bottom, kissing her passionately as he embraced her. She allowed him his moment then gently pushed him back so she could look up at him, her normally soft eyes becoming hard.

“You let him escape!” she whispered fiercely, keeping her voice low, unsure of whom might be just outside the door. “I want James West’s neck in a noose. Do you understand?”

“Don’t worry, my love,” Oliver tried to placate the woman. “I’m sure he believed me about the President. He won’t try to run; that’s not his way. Leave him to me. I think I know where he is headed. West will turn himself in willingly. You’ll have your execution. I promise!”

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The knot in his belly was still as tight as it had been immediately after Madison identified the body as President Grant. James West had killed men before, he had even believed he killed his best friend and partner, Artemus Gordon, but this was very different. On that occasion he had been drugged and had hallucinated the shooting. The drug had blunted his emotions and he had been spared this sick feeling of murdering a man he admired greatly.

Jim stared at the back of his horse’s head, letting the animal find its own way along the stony streambed. He tried to keep his mind focused on locating Artie, on forming a plan, but the crumpled form of President Grant kept creeping into his mind. How could I be so wrong! I was sure it was the imposter threatening Hamilton Fish. He swallowed hard and struggled to focus his thoughts on what he needed to do.

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“How long are you going to keep me locked up in this ivory tower?” President Ulysses S. Grant demanded of the man assigned to protect him while he remained out-of-sight in a richly appointed hotel in Laurel, Maryland, a small, but thriving town on the mainline between Washington and Baltimore.

“Now that Jim knows the man he is supposed to be guarding is the double we should be able to track him back to find out who originated this plot, sir,” Artemus Gordon responded. It was over eight hours since he had sent Henrietta back to the train with the message. Artemus had hoped to hear from his partner by now, but he wasn’t concerned yet with the prolonged silence. “If you make an appearance before Jim has located the mastermind, he’ll know we’re onto him and disappear.”

The agent’s only response from the President of the United States was an irritated grunt as he turned his attention back to the papers he was studying. Artemus hoped that it was at least partially affirming that he would continue to cooperate with the men assigned to protect his well-being.

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

Jim left his horse in the woods bordering the railroad tracks where the Wanderer sat idle with just a trace of smoke rising from her stack. As he suspected, the train was lightly guarded with only two sentries on duty, both seemingly bored by their assignment. Clearly no one expected James West to return to his train after assassinating the President.

From the wood’s margin Jim watched the soldiers long enough to recognize their pattern. One man was stationed on each side of the car. They did not appear to coordinate their movements, but randomly walked the length of the train from varnish car to engine and back again. However, the guard on Jim’s side liked his cigarettes, but, for some reason, did not have a supply of matches. Maybe due to boredom as much as anything, he would roll a cigarette and then seek out his fellow guard for a light.

As soon as the cigarette smoking guard disappeared behind the varnish car seeking his companion for a match, Jim West crossed the open space between the woods and the railcar. He secreted himself on the steps leading up to the front entrance of the varnish car. After a few minutes the unsuspecting guard passed by, cigarette dangling from his lips. A quick blow to the base of his neck and he collapsed, never even seeing his attacker. Jim heaved the limp form over his shoulder and carried him into the car where he deposited him in one of the berths. He pulled a short length of rope from a pocket and quickly tied the guard’s wrists.

Most of the shades were drawn in the well-appointed varnish car, so Jim was not concerned about being spotted from the outside. He moved quietly and efficiently through the car gathering items that might prove useful including his spare gun belt and pistol. After he stowed the items in his saddlebags, he went over to the desk in the parlor and looked for the message from his partner that had been delivered by carrier pigeon earlier that day.

He was sure he had set it inside the box disguised as a set of books that hid the telegraph key, but now there was no sign of it. He hurriedly looked on the mantle, and then throughout the rest of the parlor. It was definitely missing…but nothing else had been disturbed. Jim doubted anyone had searched the train yet. If they had, they would have taken more than just one small, tightly folded piece of paper.

Jim’s head jerked up in surprise when the rear door to the parlor opened. Oliver Madison stood in the doorway, revolver drawn and cocked. He stepped into the parlor and shut the door behind him.

“I thought you would come back here, Jim,” the fair-haired agent said softly. “Come quietly. There are soldiers and police officers from all over the region searching for you. Colonel Richmond has leant all the agents he can spare to the search, as well.”

Jim moved slowly away from the mantle where he had been standing, keeping his hands away from his body. Madison’s words cut through him, Colonel Richmond has leant all the agents he can spare to the search. The possibility of being gunned down by a friend had not entered his mind. His body stiffened at the thought of facing off against a fellow agent. If they got between him and helping Artemus, he was unsure of the outcome.

“Take off your gun belt,” Madison said as he approached the agent.

Being careful to make no sudden moves, Jim removed his gun belt, watching Madison closely. Just as he was about to lay the belt on the back of the gold sofa, he swung it hard, striking Madison on the side of the head with the holstered revolver. Oliver Madison staggered to one side from the blow. Jim didn’t give him a chance to recover; he vaulted over the sofa back and landed a powerful punch against the tall agent’s jaw. Oliver fell sideways, grabbing the sofa back for support. Jim’s next blow caught the agent between the shoulder blades. He grabbed Madison by the collar and pulled him upright, only to knock him out cold with a second blow to the chin.

Jim wasn’t sure why, but his intuition told him to search the agent for the note from Artemus. A quick check of his Madison’s breast pocket revealed the tightly folded piece of paper. He stood looking down at the unconscious agent for a moment wondering why he would have come after the note. The whistling of the remaining guard as he completed his trek to the engine and back brought West out of his musing. He returned the note to Madison’s pocket, grabbed his gun belt and saddlebags, then headed back through the swinging door toward the front of the car.

Dusk was falling when James West disappeared back into the woods bordering the train tracks. It would not be long before the unconscious Madison was discovered. He needed to be well clear of the area before a serious search of the woods was made.

Jim cut through the woods until he reached the road that lead to Laurel. He kept Blackjack moving as swiftly as he dared while keeping just out of sight of the road by staying in the margins of the forest that bordered it for much of the next few miles. By the time the trees ended in farmland, darkness had closed in completely and he was forced to take to the road to continue traveling.

***

[Double Take]

Oliver Madison climbed slowly to his feet. He rubbed his sore jaw and looked blearily around the parlor. There was a loud thumping sound coming from the opposite end of the car. Madison headed through the swinging door and along the narrow corridor; he winced as he ran, massaging his stiff neck. The noise was coming from the last berth; a rhythmic banging accompanied a muffled cry.

Madison and the guard emerged from the rear of the train just as the second guard completed his rounds. The trooper looked confused when he spotted his fellow guard on the platform with Madison.

“Did you see West?” Madison demanded.

“Wha...West? Here?” the dumbstruck guard asked.

“You fool! He knocked out Wimberley, here, and waltzed right past you!” Madison thundered in aggravation and stormed off. The two guards could still hear him swearing as he mounted his horse and rode off into the gathering night.

Wimberley shook his head and grinned at the second guard, “West got the better of him, as well. I’d dearly love to see Mr. Madison explain that to her ladyship!” Wimberley fished in his pocket for his tobacco and rolled a cigarette. “Got a light? I got one doozie of a headache.”

***

Jim West was puzzled when he did not encounter any search parties or road blocks on the road connecting Mount Airy to Laurel. He passed one or two people traveling despite the late hour, but no one paid any attention to him. He was glad he had changed jackets which hid his injury from casual glances. It was nearly midnight when he felt he could go no further without stopping, so he turned Blackjack off the road and sought a place to rest for what was left of the night. The moon had finally risen and provided just enough light for him to carefully guide his horse along a narrow stream that, after several hundred yards, disappeared into a dense wood.

The day’s events were finally catching up with Jim West. His injured arm throbbed and he was beyond tired. His knees almost buckled when swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. He stood for a moment leaning against the black horse waiting for the wave of dizziness to recede.

After a couple of minutes he shook off the pain and weariness and led Blackjack to the stream to let him drink while he filled a canteen with water. When he was finished Jim pulled the saddle off the horse and left him to graze by the stream.

Despite the dense trees surrounding him and being a good way off the road, Jim decided against lighting a fire. Thankfully the skies were clear and enough moonlight made its way through the branches for him to see. Standing in a patch of moonlight, he took off his jacket, easing it carefully over his injured arm then tossed it on his saddle. He removed the crude bandage, wincing where the blood had dried and it had adhered to the wound. Another wave of dizziness came over him and he found himself sitting on the ground by his saddle. A long drink from his canteen helped clear his head before he resumed tending his arm.

The shirt was ruined, the sleeve soaked in blood with a neat hole where the bullet had penetrated his flesh. So he tore it into strips and used it to clean and bandage the bullet wound. The cool water felt good against his throbbing arm as he wiped away the dried blood. Jim inspected the wound in the dim moonlight that filtered through the trees. The bullet had passed cleanly through his bicep and the wound had almost stopped bleeding. Though it hurt and was stiff, there was no sign of infection and he knew he could use his arm if the need arose.

He leaned back against his saddle and made a meager meal from some jerky he had grabbed while on the train. He pondered the events of the day as he had done over and over again, reliving the horrifying moment when he realized the man he had shot was President Grant. He forced the image of the crumpled form from his mind and concentrated on the events that had taken place since then. It was odd that he had not encountered any of the search parties that Oliver Madison claimed were scouring the countryside for him. Other than the guards by the train, he had seen no one.

Why had Madison taken the message from Artie? And, if he was so sure Jim would be on the train, why had he entered alone? Jim had no answers, but was determined to locate Artemus Gordon in the morning.

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

Artemus Gordon was up early the next morning. He was pouring himself some coffee that he had ordered to be sent up from the hotel’s kitchen when there was a brief rap on the door and Colonel Richmond entered the sitting room of the Presidential Suite. Gordon looked up and started to smile, but Richmond’s expression stopped him.

“You don’t look like your bringing good news, Colonel,” Artemus said handing Richmond the coffee he had just poured and getting another cup for himself. “Have you heard from Jim yet?”

Richmond accepted the steaming cup and shook his head, “No word from West, or Madison either. And I had a confused report from a man whose young son claims to have witnessed a man ride up and assassinate the President yesterday at the Branigan’s estate.”

“Assassinate? If Jim was forced to shoot the double we should have received a wire from him or Madison by now,” Artemus said with a puzzled look. He paused for a moment, “Colonel, I would like to go and talk to that family. If something did happen, Jim and Madison could be in trouble.”

Richmond nodded, “I’ll have someone here to replace you right away. Report back to me as soon as you find something.”

Colonel Richmond set down his coffee cup and left. Artemus sat quietly thinking about what his superior had told him. If Jim was forced to shoot the double, then he must have anticipated a move on the part of the double that he couldn’t stop any other way. Perhaps the sole purpose of the imposter was to allow him to get close enough to pull off his own assassination attempt. Jim might have been forced to shoot the fake Grant to prevent a murder. But if that is the case then Jim or Oliver Madison should have reported in.

As soon as Gordon was relieved from his post he headed north to Mount Airy. The President had been scheduled to make an appearance before the press at the country estate of his friend, Arthur Branigan, with whom he was staying for the next few days.

A half mile outside of town, Artemus located the small home of Benjamin Weiss, the man who had reported the assassination to the Secret Service. He had a few acres around his home that he tilled, but primarily he worked as a farmhand for a wealthy family.

Gordon barely even had time to dismount when a young, freckle-faced redhead came dashing around the side of the house, a long stick clutched in his hands. He started to raise his make believe rifle when he realized the visitor was a stranger. The boy stopped short and gaped at the tall, well-dressed gentleman that swung down from his horse.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Mister Thomas Weiss, would you?” the agent asked as he tied his horse to a post in front of the house.

“Uh huh...I mean yes, sir. I am,” Tommy responded. “You here to see my dad? ‘Cause if you are, you’ll have to come back ‘cause he’s working.”

“Actually, Mr. Weiss, I am here to see you. I work for President Grant and I want to ask you a few questions about what you saw yesterday. But first I’d like to speak to your mother. Is she home?”

The young boy dashed up the stairs to the porch and into the house, calling for his mother. Artemus waited patiently on the porch until Tommy returned with his mother in tow.

“Mom, this man works for the President,” the boy explained breathlessly.

“Mrs. Weiss, my name is Artemus Gordon. I’m with the Secret Service and I need to ask your son some questions about what he witnessed yesterday,” Gordon introduced himself showing her his credentials.

“So Tommy did see someone killed yesterday. Please say it wasn’t the President,” Mrs. Weiss said her distress obvious.

“No, ma’am, the President is safe,” Artemus reassured her, “but I do need to find out precisely what your son witnessed.”

Mrs. Weiss turned to her young redheaded son, “Answer Mr. Gordon’s questions, Tommy.” She offered for them to talk inside, but Artemus opted to remain on the porch. He and Tommy sat down on the wooden steps in front of the small white-washed home.

“Your father said you saw a man shoot someone that looked like President Grant yesterday, Tommy. Is that right?” Artemus asked the boy.

“Do you work for him for real? I mean President Grant?”

“That’s right,” Artemus replied with a smile and, again, pulled out the small leather folder with his identification and badge. The youngster gaped at the official looking document emblazoned with the seal of the United States.

“Yeah, I saw this man ride up and shoot the President. He got off his horse and shot him. But you said it wasn’t really him? Just someone that looked like him.”

“That’s right, Tommy. President Grant is fine. Can you tell me what the man on the horse looked like? What was he wearing?”

“He had on a blue jacket and a black hat. His horse was black too. I couldn’t really see what he looked like. I was hiding in the woods across from the house. But them soldiers that grabbed him, they was closer. Maybe they could tell you what he looked like.”

“Soldiers, Tommy? Maybe you better start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

That sounds like Jim all right, Artemus thought, but if he was detained by the President’s guards they should have notified Colonel Richmond.

Young Tommy Weiss described his adventure to the agent beginning with sneaking through the woods hoping to catch a glimpse of the President. He had seen the man with the blue jacket gallop up on his horse, dismount and run toward the group of men that included President Grant. The President approached a man, who from the child’s description, Artemus believed to be the Secretary of State, Hamilton Fish, and then the assassin pulled his revolver and fired once.

“The man jumped off his horse and ran toward them and yelled at the President to stop. But I think he was too far away for them to hear, so he pulled his gun and shot him. And President Grant, he just fell dead. But, I guess, it weren’t really President Grant, right?” Tommy related, enjoying having an attentive audience.

“What happened next, Tommy? What happened to the man in the blue coat?” Artemus was becoming increasingly anxious about his missing friend.

“Well, he started running towards the dead man, which I thought was kinda strange. I mean, I thought he would have run away, but then some soldiers grabbed him and then they took him to the house. But he got away from them and tried to run. That’s when one of the soldiers shot him!”

Artemus Gordon’s face went tight with concern and he looked hard at the young boy next to him, “Keep going, Tommy,” Artemus struggled to keep his voice calm and even, despite his growing fear for Jim’s safety. “Do you know if they killed the man?”

“Naw, he jumped on his horse and rode off. They kept shooting at him, but I don’t think they hit him ‘cause he rode off lickety-split and I didn’t see him again.”

“Did the soldiers go after him?”

“I’m not sure ‘cause I high-tailed it out of there. With all the shooting, I was scared!” Tommy answered.

Artemus sat silently staring at the ground for a minute considering the events Tommy Weiss had described. The freckle-faced boy looked at the dark-haired man sitting next to him, “That man in the blue jacket, he a friend of yours?”

“Yes. Yes, he is.” Where was Madison during this? “Tommy, another man I know was there as well. He is very tall, taller than me, with sandy-brown hair and a long mustache. Did you see him?”

“I think so. I saw a real tall man talk to your friend after he shot the pretend president. I’m sure he had a mustache. When your friend took off he kinda came over in my direction. He was laughing. Like he thought the whole thing was funny. I thought it was strange, but that’s when I high-tailed it outta there.”

Artemus frowned, even more puzzled than he was before. Why would Madison laugh when Jim escaped? It sounds like he wanted Jim to escape. None of it makes any sense. Why wouldn’t he have contacted Colonel Richmond?

After thanking the boy for answering his questions, Artemus remounted and returned to the hotel in Laurel. By then it was early afternoon and he was anxious to report back to his superior and go in search of Jim. He found Colonel Richmond in the sitting room of the Presidential Suite trying to mollify an annoyed Ulysses S. Grant who was fretting about being cooped up.

Artemus repeated his conversation with young Thomas Weiss to Colonel Richmond, while President Grant listened. Artemus wasn’t sure why, but he left out the part about Madison’s laughter. Besides, it probably doesn’t mean anything anyway.

“Something must have happened to Oliver Madison, as well, otherwise he would have reported in,” Richmond mused. “It’s strange. There have been no reports or even rumors of the assassination other than by the Weiss boy. What the devil happened to the reporters that were supposed to be there?” Richmond shook his head in frustration, “I’ll see what I can learn about the soldiers who were assigned to protect the double.”

“Nothing has been reported in the papers yet? That is odd.” Artemus said rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Colonel, I would like to go back and search the area around the Branigan estate thoroughly. There must be some clue as to what happened to Jim and Madison. They can’t both have disappeared into thin air along with the rest of the presidential party.”

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Like his partner, Jim West was also up early, but without the luxury of room service and hot coffee. Several hours of sleep had made a difference for the young agent. Although his injured arm was still stiff and painful, the throbbing had quieted somewhat.

In the pre-dawn darkness, he saddled his horse and headed back to the road. As during the previous evening, he met only a few stray travelers, mostly tradesmen who were making the journey into Laurel where they could catch the train to Washington or Baltimore. They barely glanced at the agent who cantered past them on his spirited black horse.

West knew that Artemus and Grant’s double were staying at the exclusive Crowne Laurel Hotel on the east side of town. The hotel had been built north of the city overlooking the Patuxent River, a small river known for its excellent trout fishing. Its rural location now enabled the hunted agent to avoid going into town to reach it. Jim turned off onto a narrow track that ran alongside the river and brought him to the wooded valley below the hotel, which had been built on the crest of the hill providing an unparalleled view of the countryside.

The hotel had been built years before as a get-away spot for Washington’s elite. An easy train ride from the Capital, the resort offered recreational fishing and hunting opportunities for the wealthy city dwellers who did not want to maintain their own place in the country. Formal gardens bordered by a high wrought iron fence surrounded the large elegant bluestone structure.

Jim left his horse tied to a tree in a small clearing several hundred yards from the fence. A gate in the fence allowed guests access during daylight hours to a path that wound through the woods to the river and prime fishing spots. At night it was locked fast to keep vagrants from troubling the residents. Jim took the lock pick from behind his lapel and inserted it into the lock. With a few deft movements, the lock clicked and he pushed the gate open. Jim hadn’t taken more than two steps when he heard the distinctive click of a gun being cocked and a figure stepped out from behind a dense bush, his revolver leveled on the agent.

Two more men appeared out of the shadows of the woods, both with their guns trained on the hunted man. Jim took a step back from the gate and slowly raised his hands as he turned to face Oliver Madison.

“Odd. You seem to keep showing up and yet I haven’t encountered anyone else looking for me,” Jim commented in an even voice. He looked over the two men accompanying Madison. Both wore army uniforms, but there was something not quite right about them, not quite military. He eyed them suspiciously then dropped his voice so only his fellow Secret Service agent could hear him. “Madison, my partner is in there with the double. He may be in trouble. We need to warn him. We need the double; he’s the key to finding out who’s behind this...”

A shrill scream cut through the early morning stillness! A young woman enjoying the sunrise in the cool morning air rounded a corner of the path and saw three men holding a fourth at gunpoint. Surprised as well as frightened, she screamed and fled back along the path.

The scream gave West the distraction he needed. Madison’s behavior was still puzzling him, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to help him contact Gordon. He stepped back and rammed his elbow into the stomach of the man standing behind him; in one smooth motion he reached over his shoulder and grabbed the soldier by the back of his neck and uniform and threw him over his own shoulder into the second guard. Before Madison could raise his gun, West lashed out with his foot and sent the pistol flying. Still reluctant to inflict serious injury on another agent, Jim did not press his advantage; instead he darted into the woods toward his waiting horse.

Dodging between the trees, he could hear his pursuers falling behind. As he entered the small clearing where his horse was tethered, a soldier stepped from behind a tree trunk and smashed the butt of his rifle between West’s shoulder blades, sending the agent crashing to the ground at the feet of his mount.

Jim got slowly to his feet, shaking his head as if stunned and keeping his injured arm tight in against his side as though the blow had furthered the injury. He recognized both of the men as being two of the cavalry troopers who had seized him immediately after the shooting the day before.

One of the troopers grabbed West by the right arm. Jim deliberately stumbled into him. Grabbing the man’s rifle, the agent pivoted and used it to flip the trooper over his shoulder. He kept hold of the gun and jerked it from the soldier’s grip. He started to turn toward the second trooper, but never had the chance to bring the gun to bear on the man. The trooper switched his grip to the barrel of his rifle and swung it like a club at the agent. Jim tried to block the blow, but he was a fraction too slow and the solid wood butt of the rifle connected with his injured arm. Jim lost his grip on the rifle he was holding as he staggered sideways. Despite the searing pain in his arm, he recovered his balance and threw himself at the trooper still hoping to disarm him. The two men crashed into the underbrush with Jim on top. He had a grip on the soldier’s rifle and had almost wrestled it from the other’s grip when Madison and his cronies came running up.

Jim heard their approach and glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the pistol grip swing toward his head. There was no time to duck, no chance to ward off the blow; he crumpled to the ground next to the cavalry trooper and lay still, blood trickling from his temple.

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

Artemus rubbed his back as he straightened up; he had covered the distance between Laurel and Mount Airy too many times in the last 12 hours. He tied his horse to the wrought iron hitching post near the expansive porch of the elegant white house. He adjusted his gun belt and tugged on the front of his cavalry uniform to straighten it. Thick black sideburns merged with a drooping mustache beneath an aquiline nose. He pushed his hat back as he studied the surroundings. Nothing seemed out of place. A gardener glanced up from trimming the bushes by a large wooden barn that had weathered to a silvery gray. The gardener nodded a polite greeting to the cavalry captain and then returned to his task.

The disguised agent climbed the steps to the porch and strode purposefully up to the front door. Just before he reached for the knocker he noticed a brass case from a spent bullet in a crack by the door. He picked it up and studied it for a moment before dropping it in his pocket. Remembering Tommy Weiss’s depiction of Jim’s escape, he walked over to the balustrade and leaned over peering at the ground; sure enough, the setting sun reflected off of a second cartridge case. He returned to the door and was about to knock when it swung open to reveal a scowling housekeeper.

The black dress hung on the sturdily built woman like a sack; only her apron strings gave any indication as to the location of her waist. Her graying hair was pulled back in a tight bun beneath a small white cap. She managed to give the handsome officer at the door a tight smile, but there was no warmth to it.

Artemus removed his hat and gave the woman his most charming smile, “My name is Captain Earnest Baldry. I am here to see Mr. Branigan.”

“Mr. Branigan is out,” came the terse reply.

“Perhaps I could see Mrs. Branigan then,” Artemus said maintaining his smile, though with some effort.

There was a pause while the housekeeper considered possible ways of keeping the officer away from her employers, but being of limited imagination she gave in and ushered the guest into the parlor.

“I will see if Mrs. Branigan is available.”

While he waited, Artemus prowled around the richly appointed parlor looking for clues that would tell him the whereabouts of his partner or Oliver Madison, but not really expecting to find anything. On the marble mantle over the fireplace he spotted a small, tightly folded note. Curiosity overcame discretion and Artemus picked up the note and carefully unfolded it. That’s the note I sent Jim confirming the identity of the President. Artemus thought back over the conversation he had with young Tommy Weiss. I am sure he said Jim never entered this house, so someone else must have found it and brought it here. Who else would have known about it? Madison?

Something else Tommy had said came back to him, “He was laughing. Like he thought the whole thing was funny.” An idea that had been growing in Artemus’s mind now blossomed in to a full-fledged suspicion. Madison’s actions don’t make sense...unless he is somehow involved in the duplicity. He carefully refolded folded the piece of paper and returned it to its place on the mantle when the door opened and Eleanor Branigan swept into the room with her usual grace.

With a dazzling smile she extended her hand toward the dark-haired officer who strode across the room to meet her. As Gordon took her hand, her eyes narrowed and she glanced past him to the mantle where the captain had been standing moments before then she returned her soft warm gaze to him.

“Mrs. Branigan, it is an honor to meet you. I am Captain Baldry. I was assigned to the President’s escort and had some questions about what transpired yesterday.”

Eleanor motioned for her visitor to sit and reached for a bell cord to summon a servant.

“It’s a little strange that I don’t recognize you, Captain Baldry” she said with a sweet smile as doors on both ends of the room opened admitting a host of burly men. “After all, I hired all the players myself.”

Players! Artemus thought as he rose from his seat and backed away from the steadily advancing men. He drew the service revolver from its holster, but the sight of the gun had little effect on the men who continued to move toward him. Artemus backed away, angling toward a set of French doors that led to a patio. A quick glance through the glass confirmed that his horse was no more than fifteen yards away. He had only seen the one gardener outside and hoped his way would be clear to escape with minimal interference once he made a break for it. He reached for the handle and was just pushing the door open when it was jerked out of his hand as an unseen henchman yanked the door open from the outside. Two of Eleanor’s men charged before the agent had a chance to regain his balance. One kicked the revolver from Gordon’s grip while a second tackled him to the ground.

The two men landed in a tangled heap on the patio. Hands grabbed Artemus by his uniform and dragged him to his feet. A fist slammed into his midriff, sending the agent staggering backwards. Artemus clutched his stomach, bent double in pain. He maintained his hunched posture to cover his actions while he fished inside his uniform for a small silver sphere. As one of his attackers grabbed his lapel and pulled him upright, his fist drawn back to deliver a final blow, Artemus hurled the smoke bomb at the larger group of on-rushing henchmen while ducking under the fist. His own punch connected solidly with the man’s jaw, knocking him backward. The sphere, which had exploded in a haze of choking green smoke, left Eleanor’s men blinking and gasping for breath.

Artemus took advantage of the turmoil and made a break for his horse. He vaulted the balustrade, much as his partner had done the day before, and dashed across the porch. A quick thinking gunman cut through the house and emerged from the front door just as the agent reached the steps. A flying tackle sent both men tumbling down the steps landing on the packed dirt of the drive. Despite being taller and heavier than his attacker, Artemus was unable to throw off the younger man before his cohorts arrived. Angry and embarrassed that Gordon had nearly escaped from them in front of their employer, they laid into the agent trying to redeem themselves in her eyes. By the time Eleanor arrived and they dragged him to his feet, Artemus Gordon’s face was bloody and he sagged in their grip.

Eleanor reached out and stripped the mustache and sideburns off the agent’s battered face.

“Artemus Gordon,” she sneered. “It looks like we will be holding a double execution just as soon as Oliver locates your partner and convinces him to turn himself in for the murder of President Grant.”

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

[Double Take]

Oliver Madison stood in the clearing staring down at the prostrate form of James West. The plan was falling apart. He had promised to deliver a guilt-ridden James West to Eleanor, a man fully expecting and accepting his execution. Instead, he was sure the unconscious man at his feet was already suspicious of a plot, and probably of Oliver Madison’s involvement as well. Now the only thing that could allow him to fulfill Eleanor’s wishes would be if West still believed he had killed the real President Grant, and would admit his guilt in a hastily staged trial.

Thankfully, the next stage setting for the drama was already in place. Months before the plan had been set in motion he had located an empty house a little way from the Branigan’s estate, and with money supplied by the auburn haired beauty, had converted parts of it to look like a courtroom, prison cells...and gallows.

Madison prodded West’s inert form with his toe. He had brought a sealed vial of a sleeping compound, but it didn’t look like he would need it. He sent two of his men ahead to retrieve the wagon they had left out of sight of the track by the river. Meanwhile he and the remaining men threw the limp form of the secret agent over the back of his horse and headed back down the path.

***

Oliver Madison walked around the austere room. Furnished with a judge’s bench, jury box, table and chairs for the defense and prosecution and a small gallery for the public, it looked like it could be in almost any courthouse. The tall windows let in light, but high white-washed walls blocked the view of the empty fields that surrounded the converted structure.

Madison frowned as he considered the next stage. It was disappointing, but knew he could not participate in the upcoming part of the charade. Jim West was too suspicious. New players would be brought in to play in the courtroom drama as well as a few “witnesses” who had been at the Branigan place when the “President” was shot. Soon his beloved Eleanor would be sitting in the gallery watching the man who had snubbed her, spurned her advances, now shamed and humiliated, go quietly to his death.

He had sent a messenger to the Branigan estate with the news of West’s capture. In a few hours it would be over.

The thought of gathering the grateful woman into his arms brought a smile to his face. He could practically taste her sweet kisses and smell the musky perfume she favored. In his mind she was a kitten, purring and appreciative. He was protecting her, defending her, in a way her husband never could. There would be more rewards to come later.

“Soon, my love. Soon James West will pay the price for his arrogance and I will claim the brass ring,” Madison whispered to the empty room.

***

Even before he opened his eyes, James West was aware of the damp, earthy smell that permeated the air. When he did open them he lay still for a few moments longer listening for any sound or movement. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the cot. Too fast, he closed his eyes against the dizziness and waited for it to pass. He raised a hand to his sore head brushing aside the dried blood. A quick check determined that the hidden knife in the back of his jacket was gone. No surprise there. However, his picklock and boots had been overlooked; the knife in the toe was intact, as was the items secreted in the heels.

Jim walked around the small cell examining the walls and door closely. The wall opposite the door was stone, cool and damp to the touch. In spots it was slick with mildew and the mortar crumbled when he scratched at it. The other walls were brick and stood in stark contrast to the aged stone. He carefully studied a patch of the brick wall where the light from the barred opening in the door fell on it. It was obviously newly constructed: the bricks dry and clean, the mortar showed no signs of staining or age. Jim moved to the door. Rust flaked from the bars when he touched them, leaving an orange stain on the palms of his hands. The cell looked like it had been constructed from disparate parts hastily thrown together to give the appearance of an old, established prison. And the smell; again Jim was aware of the musty smell like that of a cellar rather than a prison housing inmates under crowded conditions.

Peering out through the bars in the door revealed a narrow corridor lit by wall sconces. He could see other cell doors across from his, but there was no sound to indicate they were occupied. A short way down to his left the passageway ended in a stout wooden door, to his right it made a ninety-degree turn that cut off his view.

Jim turned his attention to the door of his cell. There was no way to reach the lock, but the door hinges were on the inside. He removed the heel of his right boot and extracted a small vial of fluid. Careful not to waste a drop he allowed the fluid to dribble on to each of the three hinges. Within seconds, the strong acid started to bubble and eat away at the metal. Less than fifteen minutes later the door sagged as the hinges gave way under the weight of the heavy door. Jim manhandled the door to one side. There was no way he could cover his escape by replacing the door so he wasted no time and headed down the passageway to his right.

The corridor was short, and as Jim suspected, not part of a real prison. It ended at a set of rickety wooden steps that led up to an equally battered pair of cellar doors. They were bolted from the outside, but the wood gave way when Jim put his shoulders against them and heaved upward.

He paused momentarily in the bright, late afternoon sunlight and quickly scanned the area for guards. Relieved that there was no one in sight, he crossed the narrow space between the side of the building and a high, whitewashed brick wall. Ignoring the pain from the bullet wound in his arm, Jim jumped and caught the top of the wall. He hissed softly as he pulled himself up, the injured muscles burned when forced to support his weight as he clambered to the top.

Jim lay along the top of the wall for a moment waiting for the pain to subside and taking advantage of the deep shade of a large oak tree to hide him. From this vantage point he could see that the building he had just escaped from appeared to be a large, old house. The front section of it looked to have been recently renovated, while the rear half showed signs of neglect with vines growing up the wall, partially covering broken windows; paint hung in long strips where it had peeled off the siding.

A narrow track ran alongside of the wall and turned in under an arched gateway that led to the front of the house. As Jim watched, a wiry young man dressed in a cavalry uniform rode out of the gate and urged his horse into a canter. Jim gathered himself to spring, relying on the shade and the rider’s inattention to cover him. Just as the man passed beneath him, Jim leapt from his perch, knocking the unsuspecting rider to the ground. Jim rolled to his feet and was on the man as he got shakily to his feet clearly stunned by the fall. Jim brought his doubled fists down hard on the base of the man’s neck knocking him out with the single blow. The rider collapsed to the ground at Jim’s feet and didn’t move.

Catching him underneath the arms, Jim dragged the young man off the track and around the corner of the wall out of sight of the road. He caught the horse which had wandered a short distance away and led him over to where he had left the unconscious man. In the saddlebags he found some rope which he used to bind the man’s arms and legs, and used the man’s own neckerchief as a gag. After relieving the unconscious man of his gun belt, he buckled it around his waist and checked to make sure the revolver was fully loaded. An added bonus was a small, bone-handled knife that was tucked in the man’s waistband which Jim slipped into an inside jacket pocket.

Jim frowned as he fingered the collar of the young man’s uniform. The fabric wasn’t correct; the boots were not regulation issue either. Jim checked for any form of identification, finding none confirmed his suspicion that this “cavalry trooper”, and probably the others he had encountered as well, was bogus.

Satisfied that the man would not be able to free himself or call for help, Jim mounted the horse and took off at a gallop along the track. Speed was essential, so he decided to run the risk of encountering someone and stayed on the established track.

Through all the recent events, his partner’s welfare was never far from his thoughts. Each hour that passed could put his friend and partner, Artemus Gordon, in greater danger...assuming he was still alive. President Grant’s death still churned in his stomach, but an inkling of hope grew as Jim considered the actions of his fellow Secret Service agent, Oliver Madison. Though he couldn’t fathom why Madison would be involved in a plot to assassinate the President and discredit a fellow Secret Service agent, Jim was becoming suspicious that was exactly what Madison was trying to do.

The countryside through which he galloped was comprised of farmland separated by stands of trees. The track followed the lay of the land, disappearing down into shallow valleys and reappearing on the far side. It curved and twisted following the easiest path through the rolling hills of Maryland. Jim didn’t know exactly where he had been taken and relied on his gut instinct to guide him. He knew which direction he was traveling, but not precisely where he was in relationship to Laurel where he hoped to find his partner and the “double”.

Jim turned the horse off the track and urged it up a steep hill that rose higher than the surrounding ones. When he reached the top he reined in the horse and sat studying the landscape. Absently, he reached forward and patted the sweaty neck of his mount, feeling the animal blowing hard after the prolonged gallop and steep climb.

Finally, from here he was able to get a better feel for his whereabouts. To his left, less than a mile away, a well-traveled road wound its way through the valley disappearing now and then where the trees created a canopy over it. The track he was following joined it at the base of the hill. A few miles distant the spires of several churches poked up through the trees indicating a fair-sized town. A tight smile crossed his face when he recognized the tallest spire as being that of St. Mary of the Mills church in Laurel. He was approaching from a slightly different direction then his previous attempt early that morning, but like before, he knew he would be able to skirt the town, although the time of day was not in his favor and he was likely to meet some travelers on the main road that led into town.

***

Jim entered the grounds of the Crowne Laurel Hotel through the same gate he had tried to use earlier that day. This time the gate was unlocked and there was nobody to waylay him. He was able to cross the neatly manicured grounds without being seen by keeping to the lengthening shadows thrown by the sun, now low in the sky. He paused beneath the Presidential Suite’s second floor balcony that afforded a magnificent view of the valley and beyond. His injured arm ached, and his fight with Madison’s men, combined with climbing the wall after his escape from the cell, had started the wound bleeding again, but, for now, the bandage minimized the blood loss and the ache was bearable; tired as he was, he felt confident that he could make the climbed to the second story and gain access to the Presidential Suite.

Not knowing what awaited him inside, Jim had only a vague plan in mind. He hoped that slipping in through the second story bedroom would give him the element of surprise. If Artemus was still guarding the double then the next stage would be easy, but if another Secret Service agent was on duty, especially one that he had not worked closely with before, things could get ugly fast. Jim had no desire to get into a confrontation with a fellow agent, but he had to act on the premise that he was a wanted man and whoever was on duty would be aware that James West had assassinated Ulysses S. Grant, President of the United States.

The elegant bluestone hotel was simple in its design. Though not intended to provide handholds for a would-be thief or intruder, the architect had offset every sixth row of blocks, creating a series of ledges on the exterior of the building. Jim took advantage of the design and pulled himself up to the first narrow ledge. He hooked his foot over the ledge and reached for the next ledge to pull himself up. His injured arm protested when he used it to support his weight as he climbed, but he gritted his teeth and continued.

From the second ledge, Jim was able to grab a hold of the bottom of the balcony’s wrought iron rail, pull himself up, hand-over-hand, until he reached the top rail and then swing himself over. Crouching down he stealthily approached the French doors that opened from the bedroom onto the balcony. A small wrought iron table held a glass ashtray littered with the stubs of several cigars. Smoke still curled from the end of one.

The double must still be inside. They have to know by now that he is the double, so why are they treating him like the President? Giving him the freedom to move around…he could easily escape from this balcony!

Jim peered through the glass paned doors; they provided the only light, the room’s gas lamps having not yet been lit. A stately walnut bedroom set dominated the room. The quilt that adorned the bed featured the symbol of America, a bald eagle, wings spread, with a red, white and blue background. Portraits of various presidents and paintings depicting historic events hung from the burgundy flocked walls.

No one was visible in the room, so Jim slipped the knife blade between the double doors, flipped open the latch and eased his way into the room. He drew his gun as he silently crossed to the other side and crouched down to listen at the closed door that led into the spacious sitting room. The voices he heard were familiar. He had no problem recognizing the quiet voice of Jeremy Pike which was overpowered by a deep rich voice; a voice that was so like President Grant’s that, for a few seconds, Jim almost believed the man he admired was still alive.

***

Jeremy looked up from his discussion with the President, suddenly alert. He wasn’t sure what he had heard, just a faint sound from the bedroom, but he was on his feet immediately. Grant looked at him, puzzled by the secret agent’s sudden movement. He paused in his tirade against the inefficiencies of the bureaucratic process until Jeremy motioned for him to continue talking and indicated for his charge to move to the far side of the room away from the bedroom door. Jeremy started to go for his gun when the bedroom door was flung open and James West sprang into the room with pistol drawn.

Jeremy immediately relaxed and stepped forward to greet his fellow agent, “Jim! Artemus and Colonel Richmond were getting concerned when you didn’t report in yesterday. Where is Madison? Is he with you?”

The revolver in Jim’s hand lowered slightly, but was not returned to its holster. Jim studied the two men carefully before he cautiously addressed Jeremy Pike.

“Jeremy, where’s Artemus? What’d he tell you of the status of the mission?” Jim was uncertain of how much to reveal to the tall, curly-haired agent in the presence of this Grant. He was no longer certain if Jeremy even knew that the Grant he was guarding was the double as they appeared to be treating him like the real President.

Grant approached, frowning at the gun in the weary agent’s hand, “West, where in the blue blazes have you been?” He motioned to the revolver, “Put that thing away and let’s hear your report. Why isn’t Gordon with you? Richmond sent him to locate you.”

Jim stepped backward, away from the advancing man and made no effort to holster the gun. His eyes told him this was the man he had served under for so many years. The face, the blue-grey eyes, the strong frame and the mannerisms were all those of General Ulysses Grant, but his logical mind refused to let him believe it.

“Mr. President, please stay where you are, sir...Jeremy?”

The President’s dark eyebrows met as his frown deepened. He was not accustomed to being treated this way by anyone under his command, but he trusted the agent holding the gun. He was certain James West would have a good reason for his unusual behavior; Grant could wait for an explanation…at least for a few minutes.

Jeremy glanced at the President then turned his attention back to his fellow agent. Jim’s clothes were travel stained and dirty. Dark stains marred the sleeve of his jacket and dried blood crusted a cut on his temple. Jeremy wasn’t sure, but he guessed that marks on the jacket were blood as well.

“Colonel Richmond said you had shot and killed the imposter at the Branigan’s estate yesterday morning. Artemus rode to Mount Airy to talk to a witness and later went back to check out the Branigan’s estate. But that was a few hours ago and, as far as I know, he has not returned or telegraphed a report.”

“The imposter? Are you sure?” Jim looked from Jeremy to Grant and back. He wanted to believe that this was the real Grant; that the dead man was, in fact, the double, but there was still a nagging doubt in his mind.

“Of course! Who did you think it was?” Jeremy replied perplexed. “I was here when Artemus sent Henrietta off with the message. Didn’t you receive it?”

“I received it,” Jim said grimly. “Mr. President, if you will permit me. The officer who was killed at Fort Stedman, but later was discovered to still be alive. Artemus and I escorted you to Montana to dedicate a statue to him. What was his name?”

“Colonel Wayne Gibson,” the President responded immediately. He studied the haggard young agent before him. West was obviously bone-tired and looked emotionally drained to an extent that Grant could never recall having seen him, “You believed it was me you killed not the double?” he said quietly. It was as much a statement as a question. Now he understood West’s questions and his pained expression that stood in stark contrast to the young agent’s normally stoic mien.

Jim’s body relaxed visibly and he finally holstered the gun. “Yes, sir. My apologies, sir. I had to be certain.” He turned to Jeremy Pike, his voice tightly controlled, but the older agent could see the anger in the other’s green eyes, “Oliver Madison must be part of the scheme. He worked hard to convince me that the man I shot was the real President Grant…Now fill me in on what you know. You said Artie went out to the Branigan estate. I’m not sure, but I think they must be connected as well. The whole thing was beautifully staged.”

Grant shook his head, “Arthur Branigan wouldn’t be caught up in a scheme like this. No, I’m sure. But his wife, now she’s a different story. If half the tales I’ve heard are true, she has any number of men around Washington dancing to her tune.” He paused and looked at West with his lips pressed tightly together suppressing a smile as he regarded the handsome agent, “Hhmm, you wouldn’t have crossed paths with Eleanor Branigan recently would you?”

Now it was Jim’s turn to frown as he thought about his only encounter with the Washington socialite several months ago. He had not given it much thought at the time; she was a married woman, the wife of one of Grant’s closest friends, and, therefore, definitely off limits. They had met at a formal ball in Washington. He had thought her sidelong looks and evocative comments just playful flirting, but when she had sent an invitation for a private lunch he had declined politely. Although she was young and beautiful, he knew that was a line he would be wise never to cross; besides he preferred less complicated relationships.

“Ahhh, so you are familiar with the woman in question, Jim!” Jeremy made no attempt to hide his smirk.

“Yes, I met her once. At a ball in Washington a few months ago, but that’s as far as it went.” Jim paced the room thinking, “Jer, you said Artemus went to the Branigan’s a few hours ago. What prompted him to search there?”

“A man reported the assassination of President Grant to the department. Apparently his son was hiding in the woods and saw what happened. Artemus talked to the child earlier today then decided to go back and check out the Branigan’s estate when you and Madison did not report back. The boy said you had been shot. Are you okay?”

Jim rubbed his left arm well below the bullet wound. It had started throbbing again after his climb up to the balcony.

“It’ll wait until we find Artemus and get those responsible for this charade,” Jim replied tersely. “Mr. President, with your permission, sir, I would like to contact Colonel Richmond and then locate Artemus.”

Grant immediately went to the front door of his suite and called for one of his aides who was standing watch in the hall. The bespectacled assistant with thinning brown hair entered the room with a puzzled frown when he saw the two agents where there had only been one before. He was familiar with James West, so decided not to question how he had gained access to the room.

“Jacobs, contact Colonel Richmond immediately and have him send a replacement for Pike,” Grant barked sending the assistant scooting out the door to follow his orders. “Now, James, I want a full report.”

***

The moon was rising over the horizon when the two agents slowed their mounts to a walk. As soon as Colonel Richmond had relieved Pike, the two men had headed out in search of their missing friend. Pike and West had ridden as fast as they dared in the gathering darkness toward the makeshift courthouse, backtracking the route Jim had taken to reach the hotel. Before they reached the arched entrance in the whitewashed brick wall that surrounded the converted house, they turned off the road and skirted the wall until they reached the rear of the structure.

From the backs of their mounts, the two men climbed onto the wall and silently dropped to the ground. In the moonlight they could make out the dilapidated rear of the converted house and the overgrown garden that separated it from the wall. No lights shone in the windows and the only sound was the chorus of crickets, but Jim’s gut said this was where they would find his partner. This house was where Eleanor Branigan wanted the drama to play out.

“Jeremy, you go in through the backdoor. I’m going around front. Watch yourself, she’s probably expecting visitors,” Jim cautioned the other agent.

Jim watched as Jeremy eased the battered door open and slipped inside carrying a small lantern that they had brought with them, then he headed around the front of the building. Though he had seen no evidence of occupation, he hugged the building to keep out of sight of anyone watching from the upstairs windows. As he had noticed during his escape, the front of the house was in good repair and had been converted to look like a typical courthouse with slender, white Corinthian columns supporting the portico. Most of the changes were cosmetic and had been done quickly; they would not have stood up to a close inspection. In a large grassy area not far from the arched entranceway was a wooden gallows. Jim had no doubt that the noose had been intended for his neck.

Cautiously, Jim climbed the wide stairs that led up to the heavy double doors. Above the lintel was mounted a carved relief of Lady Justice with her sword and scales. The door opened with barely a whisper and he stepped into the penultimate scene of Eleanor’s play: the courtroom where James West was to have admitted his guilt and been sentenced to death.

The moonlight shone through the tall windows falling on Artemus Gordon who was gagged and bound by his wrists to a sturdy wooden chair in front of the judge’s bench. Even in the dim light, Jim could tell that his partner had taken a beating. He undid the gag first then retrieved the knife from his pocket to cut through the rope.

“You’re always telling me I’m a magnet for trouble, but it looks like you attracted some of your own,” Jim whispered as he started to cut Gordon’s bonds.

“Well, James, I can’t be expected to let you have all the excitement while I baby-sit the President. Besides how was I to know that this was all because of a woman scorned. Next time I’ll let you handle the aggrieved female on your own.”

“So you’ve met Mrs. Branigan I gather…”

“Jim!” Artemus tried to warn his partner as the door in the rear of the jury box abruptly opened revealing Eleanor and three of her henchmen who entered behind her with guns drawn. Jim started to go for his, but stopped at the growled order from Oliver Madison trailing in the wake of the auburn-haired beauty.

Before Jim turned to face his adversaries he tugged the bottom button of his vest free and pressed it against the stout ropes that still bound his partner. Eleanor stood just inside the doorway wrapped in her serene beauty; a peach colored dress hugged her curves before cascading to the floor in ruffled tiers. She reached up and caressed Madison’s cheek lightly before approaching the two captives.

She oozed confidence like a queen surveying her minions. She circled West, who had stepped between his bound friend and the cocked revolvers, studying his handsome face and toned body. She traced her gloved fingers across his broad shoulders, then reached out and removed the knife from his hand, no more expecting resistance than if she was taking a toy from a child. Jim pointedly ignored her and focused his attention on Madison.

“Is she worth your honor, Madison?” he said softly, seeing the gathering anger and barely contained jealousy in the tall sandy-haired agent’s eyes. “Grant and Richmond know of your involvement; you won’t be able to walk away from this.” He stopped when he felt the tip of the knife prick his throat.

“You’ve upset my plans. It was only your neck I wanted in a noose, now both you and your partner will pay the price of your foolish disregard,” Eleanor purred enjoying the control she had over the men.

Cool green eyes gazed into the brown eyes of the beauty before him, “I don’t play with fire when someone else controls the flame.”

Ignoring the knife he turned his attention back to Madison. He stepped forward so his body partially blocked Artemus from the view of the gunmen and Madison. He needed to keep their attention on him for a few more minutes to allow his partner enough time to free himself. He wasn’t sure of Jeremy’s location, but was confident the agent could take care of himself and eventually would find them.

“You’re just her puppet, Madison. She jerks the strings and you do her bidding. She’ll cut those strings just as soon as you’re a liability to her.”

***

Artemus watched the little curl of smoke rise from the rope as the acid ate into it. The strands parted and he worked his wrist back and forth until he felt the rope loosen and slip away. Everyone’s attention was on Jim; he could see Madison’s anger rise and knew it would boil over any second. Keep it up, James. Just a few more seconds! Keeping his movements to a minimum he pulled out a small knife hidden in his waistband. Just as he started to cut his other arm free all hell broke loose as Madison charged at West. No longer concerned about hiding his actions, Gordon sliced at the ropes, cutting himself free just in time to jump clear as Madison’s body hurtled toward him, driven by a powerful uppercut to the chin delivered by his partner.

A quick glance told him that Jim was in his element, bodies flying, fists and feet laying out one attacker after another. In such close quarters, none of Eleanor’s henchmen dared use their guns because of the risk of injuring one of their cohorts.

Madison started to clamber back to his feet still so focused on getting at James West that he didn’t notice the dark-haired agent still dressed in a cavalry uniform a few feet from him. Artemus grabbed an arm as Madison charged past him back into the fray, swinging the taller man around then driving a fist into his jaw. Madison staggered, taken by surprise; his hatred of West had made him oblivious to an attack from such an unexpected direction.

Artemus took advantage of Madison’s hesitation and followed up with a blow to his midsection. Madison feigned injury and bent double as he staggered back. He pulled a knife from a sheath in his boot, but Artemus anticipated the move, kicked the knife from his hand, grabbed the man’s shirt and yanked him headfirst into a thick support post. Madison bounced back from the blow, stood for a moment with a dazed look on his face before he sank gracefully to the ground; a trickle of blood ran over his thick mustache.

Just as he was turning his attention back to the battle by the door, Artemus spotted Eleanor, knife in hand, charge at Jim’s unprotected back. He sprinted across the room and grabbed her around the waist with one hand and clamped his other hand down on her wrist forcing her to drop the knife she had taken from his partner.

“No, my sweet Eleanor,” Artemus whispered in her ear. “I shouldn’t do that if I were you. Murdering a government agent in front of witnesses may go even beyond what your circle of influence can get overlooked.” He hung on to her while she struggled and shrieked curses at the two agents who had spoiled her plans.

The last of the thugs was on the ground when a curly brown head peeked around the door; Jim drew his revolver then relaxed when he saw it was Jeremy Pike. Jeremy entered and raised an eyebrow as he glanced around. “Looks like I missed out on some of the party. I ran into a couple of her men in the rear part of the house dressed in cavalry uniforms. They were reluctant to show me in and wouldn’t listen to reason, so I had to use some physical persuasion to get past them.”

Artemus came over, still clutching his struggling prize. Her normally perfectly coiffed auburn hair was askew and Eleanor clawed at the arm encircling her delicate waist with a gloved hand. Gone were the aristocratic confidence and feminine beauty which she normally radiated and lured men to her like a siren’s call. Now she was a cornered animal, snarling and dangerous if she broke free of the vice-like grip Artemus maintained.

“Jeremy, have you met the mastermind behind this masquerade? Let me introduce you to Mrs. Eleanor Branigan,” Artemus said.

“Under most circumstances, ma’am, I would be pleased to make the acquaintance of a friend of the President, but I’m afraid this isn’t one of them,” Jeremy responded. He picked up an oil lamp from the shelf by the door and lit it so he could see the room better. He shook his head in disbelief at the realistic detail of the courtroom. “Looks like she went to a lot of trouble, Jim, to convince you that you had murdered the real President Grant.”

Artemus concurred, “She wanted Jim to admit his guilt and accept punishment for the crime.”

Jim nodded, “The front of this building has been worked over to look like a courthouse. Even has its own gallows out front; the prison’s in the cellar.” Jim turned and looked at the unconscious form of Oliver Madison with disgust, “She’ll get what she wanted I expect, an execution, just not the man she intended.”

End