Post by Paradox Eyes on Aug 22, 2010 5:02:15 GMT -8
The Night Of The Fervent Restoration
by Paradox Eyes
Chapter 1.
“Wasn't it you who always said West was indestructible?” What choice did I have, but to nod my head and go on believing it?
[excerpt from 'The Memoirs of Artemus Gordon']
“Step out, Senor! Let your blood be spilled like a man!”
Artemus Gordon quickly ducked as another bullet tore into the exact spot, once again, on the rock face near his shoulder. The taunting words echoed through the large rocks and dissipated. He spat out the grit that flew into his partially open mouth and readied himself to return fire. Cuchillo 'Knife' Veloso wasn't much of a getaway artist but he was a steady consistent shot, you had to give him that. Artemus girded himself and swung out to aim. He fired back, but he already knew somehow, that his target had moved again. In the corner of his field of vision, he caught the fleeing shadow, just before Veloso disappeared between two black pillar rocks.
"Damn it, Jim!" He mumbled to himself. "I hate chasing bandits through rocky terrain. I just hope you're having better luck than me right now."
Artie scrambled for all he was worth toward the path Veloso had taken.
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The large bay mare snorted and pulled at the bit, as her hoof slid on the loose rock. James West gave the mare her head, letting her carefully pick her own way up the steep trail. Suddenly she stopped, nostrils flaring, ears rotating at some scent and sound only she could perceive. Jim studied the mare's reactions. They were close now. Maybe just up over the ridge they'd find their quarry.
She'd been a good choice in those hurried moments back in Westfield. Jim had only just stepped out of the small hotel that morning, when the subject of his hunt had ridden into town. Unfortunately the man, who had been on the run for the last week, also spied the government agent on the boardwalk. He immediately spun his horse around and galloped back out of town.
Not wanting to waste precious time getting to his own horse at the livery and saddling up, West eyed the nearest available mounts on the street. A middle-aged man had just come from one of the shops to his own horse. The mare looked strong and fleet enough. Jim briskly pulled out his government identification and his wallet. He offered the man a couple hundred more than the animal was probably worth. The man eyed the cash and accepted the deal on the spot. “Just let me have my saddlebags,” was all he had to say as he took the bills. Within a few short moments West and the bay mare were in pursuit of the outlaw.
He rode cautiously, with his right hand resting on his gunbelt, near his pistol. His fingers absentmindedly tracing the deep tooling in the black leather, while his eyes scanned the terrain. He momentarily thought about the belt. It wasn't one he wore often. The belt itself was much wider with ornate patterns, more in the Spanish style of the deep southwest. His mind drifted to the assignment he and Artie had undertaken a while back, delivering a gift, a horse, to Mexico's President Juarez. He'd worn the belt then as well. "Hey...gringo! Are you dead? Shoot me..." In odd moments, from time to time, that long ago challenge surfaced so clearly in his memory...
Annoyed with his wandering thoughts, Jim West quickly pushed the distraction from his mind and focused on the task at hand...
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Artemus crept as quietly as he could upon reaching the passage between the craggy rocks. Gun held at the ready, every nerve ending was tuned to the deadly business at hand. He could make no errors here. He was alone. You'd think having a partner would make the job a little less dangerous. That was never the case at all. It did make getting in and out of sticky situations easier. However today was not one of those days. Today they were both alone on the job, without back-up, and that made their situations even more precarious.
Jim was days away in the north chasing Veloso's murderous partner in crime. They had caught up to the terrorizing twosome in Colby. Unfortunately the pair of bandits split up immediately and headed in different directions. Artemus Gordon took out after Veloso to the south and James West headed out after Veloso's partner to the north.
Holding his breath and peering carefully around the edge of the rock, Artemus searched for his man. Veloso would have to double back if he wanted his horse. Either that or...
Too late. He heard the particles of gravel clatter above him.
Within an instant Veloso had dropped from above, striking Artemus hard enough to drive him to his knees and send his gun scattering. The flash of a very large knife made Artemus jerk suddenly to the side. It caught his upper left arm, but better that than his throat.
Artemus grabbed Veloso's arm trying to dislodge the knife that Veloso's nickname was so aptly taken from. Although not unexpected,Veloso was a strong man and a good fighter. Artie figured the man wouldn't release his grip on that knife even he was dead. The agent kicked upward as hard as he could, throwing Veloso backwards.
Artemus Gordon didn't care much for the physical aspect of overcoming an adversary. That was Jim West's pride and joy. Artie preferred to beguile and outwit them. But Jim had made certain his friend and partner could maneuver with the best of them. They hadn't spent all those hours on the train practicing defensive and offensive moves for nothing.
Artemus attempted to scramble for his gun but Veloso was back on his feet and rapidly hurled himself once more at the agent. Artie blocked the knife thrust this time, knocking Veloso's arm upward and jabbing his elbow as hard as he could into his opponent's ribs. The loud grunt of pain told him he had made good impact. He whirled and slammed a fist into Veloso's mid-section. Veloso staggered back only momentarily. Then roaring in fury, he charged again, swinging the knife with deadly intent, not only slicing through the fabric of Artie's jacket this time, but also ramming him so hard he fell into the broken rocks.
Artemus' knee felt like it had exploded when the sharp edges tore through his pants and flesh. Veloso turned and came in for the kill. The unexpected dirt thrown in his eyes caused him to miscalculate yet again and Artemus took advantage of the near miss. This time he drove his fist into Veloso's face. The punch dropped Veloso on his back. Unbelievably he still held onto the knife and pulled himself back onto his feet. But the few interim seconds were all Artemus really needed, he reached his weapon and brought it to bear.
Both men stood panting as Artemus held his gun on Veloso. “Don't even think about it.” He ordered as Veloso considered using his knife one last time. “I'll drop you right here and now if you'd prefer. It makes no difference to me how you go back. Dead or alive, it's all the same to me today. Now throw the knife over in the rocks and get down on your belly. Put your hands behind your head!”
Veloso hesitated and then finally complied. Artemus dropped down heavily on the bandit, garnering a satisfactory grunt of pain for his trouble. After pulling the bandit's arms down behind him and handcuffing him, he yanked the outlaw to his feet. “Alright, let's go.” He shoved Veloso ahead of him and they walked back to where the horses waited. Artie could feel the trickle of cooling blood as it made its way down his arm, inside his sleeve. It wasn't dripping too badly, so the cut was probably not seriously deep. He forced himself not limp. The pain made him angry.
Artie growled under his breath. Nearly a week had been spent playing cat and mouse with Veloso in and round the smaller communities, south of the town of Colby where the train waited. Jim was still gone and that also concerned him. He was tired, his patience was shot, his arm hurt like hell, his knee felt pulverized and every bone in his body ached. He felt a truly foul mood take hold of him as he prepared for a long uncomfortable ride back. And if Jim was back already, waiting and relaxing at the train with a big grin on his face when he got there, he'd probably want to slug him too. He smiled at his vision, knowing full well, he'd never do such a thing.
“Your partner is a dead man. Rafa is gonna kill him.” Veloso's irritating voice scraped across Artemus' raw nerves.
“Shut up.” Artemus barked as their horses stepped along.
“First he's gonna kill your partner, maybe slow and painful...maybe some fancy way he never tried before.” Veloso grinned like a toothy hyena. “Or maybe he'll shoot your partner's eyes out. He's fast and good with a gun. He really liked it when he did it to that stage driver. Or maybe he'll use his knife. I taught him real well with the knife! Maybe he'll cut your partner's arms off and leave him for dead.” He continued grinning and goading Gordon with the most grotesque threats he could think of.
“I told you to shut up!!”
But Knife was just warming up. “When he's done killing your partner, he's gonna come back for me. You'll see... Then Senor Gordon, it will be your turn. And my pleasure.” He laughed a sickening laugh.
“I told you to shut your mouth! If I hear one more word out of you, I'm going to stuff my sweat soaked handkerchief in it and bind it tight with my neck tie!” Artemus hissed.
Knife continued the taunting. “Maybe after Rafa frees me, I'll come find you and then I'll cut you up in little pieces and leave a trail for the coyotes to follow to your carcass, eh?”
Artemus' jaw's clenched tight as his last thread of patience gave way. His right arm shot out and knocked Veloso from his horse. The bandit hit the dusty earth with a resounding thud and a shocked look. Artie reined his horse around to where he could look down on the murdering scum. He slowly wagged his head back and forth, clucking. “Tsk, tsk, tsk...I thought you were a better rider than that Knife. Now I'm going to have to get off my horse and help you back up on yours. But first...” He reached inside his jacket. “I'm going to take a moment to mop the sweat from my brow.” Then he looked down at Veloso and gave him his best, most fiendish, contemptuous smile, one that even his fictitious 'Aunt Maude' would have been proud of on a ill-humored day...and he also undid his tie.
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West and his newly acquired mount had kept up a hard pace all morning and steadily into the late day, until at last they had arrived at these foothills. The tracks they were following now led up into rockier terrain.
Jim dismounted, patting the mare's neck. “Good girl,” he whispered and offered her the two sugar cubes he had saved from the breakfast table for his own horse.
She happily slobbered the sweet treats around the bit in her mouth. Satisfied the mare would stay quiet for at least a few moments, he crept on foot up to the summit of the ridge.
The wanted man he had been following for the better part of the week was below in clear view. No longer mounted on his horse, he now sat in a partially slumped position on a rock. West looked carefully around him. Every fiber of his being was on alert for the unexpected. Seeing and sensing nothing other than the man below, he stepped quietly down the trail, gun drawn.
“Don't move.” He ordered as he approached.
The outlaw, known as Rafa Avanzada, raised his head and turned toward West. He waited quietly.
“Toss that gun away from you.” Jim barked, eying the man's pistol, still in its holster. Something wasn't right here.
The man complied with exaggerated effort.
“The knife too. Slowly.” Jim nodded at the knife protruding from the man's boot.
The man sluggishly complied again, moving as commanded, with seemingly great effort.
“Now get on your feet.” Jim motioned with his gun.
The man raised his eyes to him. “I cannot,” he said. “I am sick Senor.”
Jim studied him for a moment. Avanzada, of Mexican decent, was drenched with sweat. His skin, in spite of its natural dark tone, was pale, his eyes glazed.
“Sick or not, you're under arrest for the murder of two stage coach drivers, the robbery of three stage coaches, another bank robbery in Abilene, the murder of a sheriff's deputy, the attempted murder of a federal marshal and.... You get the idea. I'm sure they'll read the complete list at your arraignment. Now get up!”
Just then the mare whinnied behind him. He stepped quickly to the side, casting his wary attention to the ridge behind him. The sound of the gravel scattering away from his boots, in the otherwise quiet landscape, made his skin prickle. The mare wandered down the slope, alone, toward the Mexican's lathered horse. All else was an eerie stillness. Satisfied that she was the only thing behind him, Jim turned his attention back to the sick bandit. The man hadn't moved.
“What's wrong with you?” He asked sternly.
Avanzada panted out the answer. “I think I am poisoned Senor.” He ran his sleeve across his dripping face and rested his head on his sleeve. Suddenly he retched but nothing came up.
“I need a doctor...” He mewed. “I need...” The dry heaves came again.
Jim winced and eyed the empty canteen lying on the ground. “Did someone poison your water? I can't say I blame them if they did.”
“No, Senor. I came across a camp of some coolies...Chinese men. They were going to find work on the railroads. But one, he didn't feel so good so they stopped to camp. They offered me food. I think the food was bad, spoiled. I am very sick, Senor.” He retched again. “I can go no further. Do what you want with me. I need a doctor.”
Jim pondered the situation for a moment. The nearest town right now was Atwood. It meant going further on instead of turning back to Westfield. But there was probably a doctor there and he could leave the prisoner with the Sheriff.
“You can see a doctor when I get you into town. Maybe he can get you well in time for your hanging. Now get up!” West grabbed the killer's arm none too gently and dragged him to his feet. He supported him as he pushed him toward his horse.
“Get up there.” West growled and helped Avanzada mount his horse. He could feel the fevered heat radiating from the man's body through his sweat drenched clothing. He was burning up with it. “Don't even think about running again.”
West mounted up on the bay mare and pointed for the Mexican to ride ahead of him. The sick man said nothing, just turned his horse in the chosen direction and tried to keep his balance in the saddle.
The cloudy moonless night fell quickly and heavily with a suffocating darkness. West handcuffed his prisoner to the gnarled root of a nearby tree and made camp. Not that the prisoner was at risk to escape; he was so sick with fever now, he no longer wanted water or food. Jim West was no doctor, but he seriously wondered if he'd be taking a dead man back in the morning. He pondered the man's fate.
Jim West did not possess a dark heart but he viewed the outlaw's fate as a kind of well-balanced justice. How fitting that he die of food poisoning at the unknowing hands of innocents. He stared out into the darkness, wondering what had become of the Chinese workers, if Avanzada had harmed them, but he had no clue as to where Avanzada had met them so there was little he could do about them.
Morning light broke early and West checked the prisoner's pulse once more. After a fitful night of moaning and spasms of pain, the outlaw lay still and silent now. West saddled the horses and carefully slung the sick man over his saddle, securing him. They headed quickly for the town of Atwood.
On arrival after noon, the prisoner was still alive. West took him directly to the Sheriff's office, slung him over his shoulder and carried him inside. There he was met by a temporary deputy from the next town over, who explained that the sheriff and his regular man had been gone all week but were due back by evening. After explaining the situation to the deputy and leaving orders for the man to be kept in custody, Jim left to find the telegraph office. The deputy sent for the doctor.
West sent two telegraphs, the first to the nearest fort, informing them of Avanzada's capture, condition and location. They could take control of the prisoner and he could be on his way. The second he sent back to his train to inform his partner Artemus; updating him on the situation and relaying instructions. He left the telegraph office for a while and planned to stop back a short time later to see if Artie had replied yet.
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Artemus Gordon pulled off his dusty trail beaten boots in the cool, quiet peacefulness of the empty varnish car. Groaning, he plopped down on the sofa. As soon as he had exuded a huge sigh of relief, the telegraph started clicking. He quickly jumped up again and keyed the required code. The incoming message was from Jim West.
LOCATION ATWOOD <stop> PRISONER SICK WITH FOOD POISENING<stop> TAKEN INTO CUSTODY WITHOUT INCIDENT<stop> FORT NOTIFIED <stop> WILL MEET IN COLBY-THREE DAYS<stop> JIM <stop>
Taken without incident. Artemus Gordon shook his head smiling, wouldn't you know it? Jim West was blessed with the most unbelievable luck. Artie hadn't even taken inventory yet of all his cuts and bruises courtesy of Veloso and there was Jim, plucking his own prisoner from the hands of fate like an
over-ripe apple. He sat down and keyed an answer in return. He grinned, ending the message with a little something to get Jim's attention. Then slapping the book-disguised unit shut, he grabbed fresh paper from the drawer and sat down to write up his part of the report. He sighed, looking at the dried blood on his sleeve and knee. He'd take the extra time to write it now and get it out of the way. Then he'd clean up and relax the next few days.
A couple of hours later he headed down the hallway to prepare hot water for a bath.
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Jim was still looking at a lengthy ride, first back to Westfield to retrieve his own horse, then south to where Artemus and the train would be waiting in Colby.
He returned to the sheriff's office one last time in the lingering afternoon for a last chat with the deputy. “I've notified the Fort. They'll come and take Avanzada off your hands. I have a long ride ahead of me so I'll be going.”
The stand-in deputy acknowledged with a nod and added, “Doc Halstead is still out of town on his rounds. He ain't expected back for a few hours. I got my doubts about your man though...he looks pretty bad. We'll just leave him be on that cot in the cell and see what happens. He'll just have to to hold on.”
“I suppose he will... Thanks for your help Deputy and goodbye.” Jim touched two fingers to his hat brim as he stepped out the door.
“Adios, Mr. West.”
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He peered into the low sun as he rode. The clawing heat of the heat of the late day had never bothered him like this before. He reined the bay mare to a halt, pulled his hat off and mopped his wet face on his sleeve. Then uncapping his canteen, he drank deeply. For good measure he poured some in his hand and slopped it on his burning face. The momentary coolness felt good. Jim pulled the telegraph from his pocket, unfolded it and read it again. Then he chuckled.
INFORMATION RECIEVED <stop> WELL DONE JIM <stop> VELOSO IN CUSTODY ALSO <stop>CONFIRMED-WAIT WITH TRAIN IN COLBY <stop> MEET IN THREE DAYS<stop> DO NOT DAWDLE SIR!<stop> ARTEMUS<stop>
Smiling, Jim gazed across the landscape. He knew how Artie hated waiting for him, especially in a small town with not much nightlife. But that was how it was. Artemus had taken control of the other bandit who had ridden with Avanzada. Assignment completed. Good. He refolded the note, this time tucking it into his wallet. He didn't really think about why he kept it, maybe something in his subconscious had plans for a playful reply once he reached Westfield. He slipped the wallet back in his jacket, forgetting it for the moment. Kicking the mare into an easy lope, he hoped to cut the ride time as short as possible.
The first wave of dizziness struck an hour later. He stopped again, squinting once more at the low sun. He hadn't thought it was this hot earlier. He reached down and patted the mare. She didn't seem overly sweated in the late day heat. He drank deeply from the canteen again and calculated the time and distance to Westfield. He'd camp tonight, get his own horse back tomorrow and head straight for the train.
They traveled a little further before he decided on a campsite near a stream. He fought a crushing exhaustion in the perceived heat. Dismounting, the dizziness came again and lasted longer. He considered his prisoner's condition and for the first time felt a mild concern. He had believed that Avanzada had suffered from a serious form of food poisoning, not contagious in any way. But now he wondered. He seemed to be feeling worse by the minute. After drinking and cooling himself in the fresh water, he built a fire and lay down to rest without eating. He was certain he'd feel better in the morning.
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Artemus eased himself into the steaming bathwater. “Ouch! Dang it, that smarts!” He winced as the hot water found its way into the cut on his arm and his gouged knee. He watched the small whirls of scarlet dissipate into the bathwater. The cut on his arm was a toss up as far as needing stitches. Oh well, it had stopped bleeding before he arrived at the train and it was too late for that now anyway. He'd pack it with salve and bandage it when he was done.
He kept one hand dry above the water and now reached for the cigar on the small table next to the tub. Biting the tip off, he spat it into his hand, put the waste on the table and picked up a match. With the cigar in his mouth, he flicked the match with his fingernail, lighting it. Once the cigar was lit, he reached for the cognac he had already poured.
Cigar hanging to one side, he sipped, savoring the euphoric warmth as the drink soothed his ragged nerves. During moments like these, he pondered his choice to accept the assignment with the Secret Service. He looked around him. Yes, it was dangerous. Yes, it could end in tragedy. But he and Jim enjoyed one heck of an exciting lifestyle. And the train was a rolling lap of luxury. Who wouldn't love that? He wondered if Jim ever had second thoughts about it all. Nahhh....Jim West was born and made to order for this life. Artie tried to picture his partner in some other career, like a banker, a saloon owner or a sailor. He chuckled, it just couldn't be, he just could not picture James West as anything else.
Hell of a day, he thought. The bandits were behind bars, Jim was safely on his way back and the assignment had been successfully completed. All was right with the world tonight. He could just picture Jim lying in his bedroll, enjoying the starlit night as much as Artemus was enjoying his bath.
Artie smiled and puffed out a smoke ring. He watched it drift gently in the air, the lamp lighting its way, at first sharply defined and clear, then fading away as if it had never existed at all.
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The stars had presided over an excruciating and painful night.
After restless hours of feverish discomfort, Jim welcomed the light of dawn. He broke camp, fighting the dizziness that was ever constant now. Whatever the outlaw had been sick with, it wasn't food poisoning. He drank as much as he wanted and re-saddled the mare. He'd have to find a doctor in Westfield when he arrived. As soon as he readied himself to mount up, the vertigo and nausea hit him hard. He bent over and retched violently, his shaking hand clinging to the saddle to steady himself. When he finished, he could feel the sweat running down his neck and back. The landscape heaved and swirled around him. He closed his eyes against it all for moment. Maybe it would be better to return to Atwood and see the doctor there.
He wiped his hand across his face and forced himself to get up in the saddle. He needed to move fast. If the illness worsened as quickly with him as it had with Avanzada, he knew he would be in serious trouble. Contagious. The word slapped across his conscious. Possibly fatal? Avanzada certainly looked like he was dying and quickly too. What if it were some kind of influenza or plague? It came on faster and harder than anything he'd ever encountered before or heard of. What if he had just delivered a death sentence to the people of Atwood? And now he, himself was headed back toward Atwood. The dizziness and nausea came again nearly unseating him. But he'd never even make it to Atwood either. He was certain of that now.
He looked around. There were ranches spread out across this territory. The best he could hope for was to find one, find someone. Someone who could get a message out to Atwood. Let them know there was a possible epidemic about to begin, let the doctor know... He'd have to keep his distance from them though. He couldn't risk infecting anyone.
He picked a direction and reined the mare around. He fiercely clung to the saddle to keep himself from falling. A desperate thought appeared within him, perhaps lives depended on what he did now, including his own life.
What might be left of it anyway....
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Ephraim Treverson yanked the sharp thorn from his leather glove. Best dang invention man ever dreamed up he thought...gloves. He chuckled to himself. He was a man with a positive nature. Everyday he thought something else was the best... Everyday was a day for hope to begin anew. Then he looked down and kicked the trampled brush out of his way.
He looked out across the land, his land, and then down again at the array of cattle hoof marks in the sand. He grunted in disgust. Bill Herrod, who owned land next to his, still thought he owned the whole damn valley. He'd probably have to have a run-in again with him again. Explain the facts once more in spite of the law having done so several times in the past. Even though Ephraim hadn't fenced this section, there not being any need yet, he knew in his heart that the time would come. And Bill Herrod could like it or not. A man had a right to plan his future. Even if that future was taking its time arriving.
Not a young man anymore, he pulled off his hat in the morning sun and dragged a gloved hand through his silver hair. Having crossed over into his sixties last summer, he was still a strong healthy man with many good years left. He intended to make the most of them. He jumped when his horse suddenly jerked its head up and whinnied. Ephraim squinted at the horizon. “Since when do you have so much to talk about this early in the morning?” He asked the gelding.
Then he eased the rifle from its scabbard on the saddle. He could just make out an answering whinny in the distance. He put the rifle back and took an old beat-up spyglass out of the saddlebag instead. Adjusting it, he could just make out the shape of a bay horse. The animal was saddled but wandering without a rider, stopping every now and then to pull at a tuft of grass.
“Guess we better go have a look,” he said as he swung up onto his horse.
The bay mare whinnied again as they came closer, his own horse nickering in return. Ephraim knitted his brow. The sounds should have brought the mare's rider out in the open for a look. But no one was around. She was just wandering loose.
Ephraim scanned the area, listening carefully. Only the soft whisper of mid morning breezes and the chirping of birds answered his curiosity. A movement in the sky some distance away caught his eye. He watched. Buzzard. “That's never a good sign,” he murmured. He looked at the ground. The mare's tracks were meandering, but from definitely from that direction. Reaching down, he caught hold of the mare's reins. “Come m' lady,” he coaxed. “Let's go see what that buzzard finds so interesting.”
They covered the ground quickly until they were virtually beneath the floating scavengers. There were three of them now. Ephraim turned his head to the left, slowly, looking carefully as he brought his eyes back around to the right. Nothing. He kicked his horse and they walked slowly toward an outcropping of rocks. There. The first thing he saw were black boots, toes down.
He slid out of the saddle and trotted to where the man lay in the half shade of the rocks. “Mister?” He called out cautiously. He didn't see any other tracks but the mare's and some long marks in the sand where the man had apparently dragged himself to reach shade. He stepped closer and the fallen man moved, half rolling over on his side. Ephraim could see he was deathly ill as he struggled to speak.
“Don't...stay away,” the agent rasped. “Warn them...you have to warn them...sickness...don't touch me...”
Ephraim stepped closer. “What...? What are you trying to say Mister?” He squatted down beside West trying to make sense out of the garbled words.
“Don't touch me...” The agent raised a shaky hand in warning against the approaching shadow. “Stay away...please...don't...” They were his last words as he slipped into unconsciousness.
The older man now knelt carefully beside him peering closely, his eyes widening in wonder. “Merciful heavens!” He jerked back, gasping in shock. “You're finally here!”
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The late afternoon sun hung low in the pink and orange pillowed sky. Pulling the team to a stop in front of the ranch house, a neighboring rancher jumped down from the buckboard to help Raessa Treverson gather her packages and step down.
She thanked him profusely for the day trip into town and waved to him until he was well down the road. Then hugging her packages tighter, she headed to the house. She was later than usual and she hoped Ephraim hadn't been too worried over her. Odd, she thought as she approached the house. He usually came straight out to meet her. She crinkled her brow and looked off to the distance with concern. She wondered if he was still out riding fences this late in the day. That was rather unexpected and worrisome.
As soon as she stepped through the door, she knew something was wrong. The kitchen was in disarray, towels and pans pulled out of place. The cabinet door hung open and a drawer was pulled out. Dried herbs lay spilled on the counter. She opened her mouth to call out but the sound of her own name stopped her.
“Raessa? That you?”
She dropped the packages on the table and hurried down the hallway toward her husband's voice. “Ephraim?? Are you alright dear?”
Ephraim stepped out of the extra bedroom. “Raessa honey...he's here! He's finally back!”
Puzzled, Raessa looked at her excited husband. His eyes were all alight in a way she hadn't seen in years. “Who's here? Who is back?” She asked.
He took hold of her shoulders to steady her. “Samuel. Samuel's come home Raessa.”
“WH...WHAT?!!”
“See for yourself. He's awful sick though. We gotta take good care of him now. He's terrible sick. It's a good thing I found him when I did. He almost made it on his own.” He led her to the room. “He was just a few miles short of home.”
She stood in the doorway, utterly dumbfounded by the sight before her and Ephraim's excited words. There in the bed lay a younger man. Oh he was sick alright. He lay there barely conscious and writhing in the throes of the illness. But was he their dead son Samuel? Her eyes blinked repeatedly trying to comprehend. Not a chance! The voice in her head shouted.
She finally found her tongue again. “Where did he come from?” She questioned quietly. “Who is he?”
“I just told you who he is! For heaven's sake, old woman, don't you recognize your own son?”
“Son?” No. She stepped closer now in the lamplight, disbelief making everything move in slow motion. He bore a striking resemblance to their own son, but older, probably about the age Samuel would have been, but still, she knew he was not Samuel. Samuel had died a long time ago.
Ephraim put his arm around her. “The Almighty has finally seen fit to bring him home, Raessa.”
She looked at her husband's face and eleven years worth of fear began to flood her heart. “Ephraim,” she began tentatively. “He's no...be careful Raessa... What if he's not Samuel? What if he just looks like Samuel?” Her eyes met his anxiously.
“RAESSA!! What's wrong with you woman! Why it's as clear as the nose on your own face. That IS Samuel! And if we don't do something for him soon, he may just die on us for real this time! What kind of mother have you become?”
She watched him become more agitated by the minute, and now subtle clouds of rash anger began to appear along with the wild anxiety already established in his eyes. He was clearly worrying himself into a fit over the stranger.
She looked from her overwrought husband to the young man lying there, gravely ill, and back again. In her absence, Ephraim's mind must have somehow snapped once again. He must have lost his grip on reality when he found the young man. Her mind began to weigh the odds of returning both of them back to some state of normalcy.
She took a deep breath and pulled herself together with resolve. “What's the matter with him? Why is he so sick?” She turned her focus to Jim West.
“I can't rightly say...” Ephraim returned to the bedside. He reached down and replaced the wet cloth on the sick man's forehead. “He's got a fever the likes of which I ain't ever seen. He could barely speak when I came up on him. He said 'don't touch me' and 'sickness'. Can't say I liked the sound of that. Maybe he's got the Yellow Fever.”
Raessa sucked in her breath and frowned. “Yellow Fever?!” That could be the death of all of them if they weren't careful. On the other hand, she wasn't about to deny the young man care, family or not.
“I added some of those herbs you used to use and also spooned some mint infusion into the water basin. Then I bathed his skin with it. I thought it might feel good to him. You use to do that when he was a boy and had a fever.” Ephraim spoke softly.
Raessa looked sadly at Ephraim and replied. “You've never forgotten anything about him, have you? Even after all these years.”
“I guess not. I always knew he'd come back someday.”
She suddenly made her decision. She would go along with Ephraim's delusion for the time being. Just until the young man was better and could explain himself, as to who he was. Then Ephraim would calm down, realize it was just a mistake and everything would be fine. She took charge of both of them.
“Ephraim, go fetch buckets of that real cold water from the old well out back and fill our bathing tub. Hurry up. We need to get that fever down. We'll wrap him up tight in a blanket and bind him. We can't have him thrashing about when we put him in the water. You keep that cold water coming.” She looked around the room. “What did you do with his clothes?”
“I already burned em. Just in case it's...you know...contagious...”
“Good. And you remember to wash your hands plenty while tending to him, you hear?”
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