Post by California gal on Feb 17, 2009 11:42:47 GMT -8
Originally posted May 2008
My brave lad he sleeps in his faded coat of blue,
In a lonely grave unknown lies the heart that beat so true;
He sank faint and hungry among the famished brave,
And they laid him sad and lonely within his nameless grave.
Chorus:
No more the bugle calls the weary one,
Rest noble spirit, in thy grave unknown!
I’ll find you and know you among the good and true,
When a robe of white is giv’n for the faded coat of blue.[/i][/center]
“Artemus, my friend, in my deepest gratitude for your finding this excellent restaurant, I am going to pay the tab.” Jim West grinned at his partner, especially at the astonishment on Artemus’s countenance. Usually the game was to see if one could trick the other into paying, not volunteering.
“Well,” Artie replied, picking up his cup of coffee and holding it toward his partner, as though offering a toast, “in that case, I’m grateful for your gratitude, and accept. And I will graciously reciprocate by buying the drinks when we go across the street for a little after-dinner libation.”
“Seriously,” Jim said, reaching into his jacket for his wallet, “that was one of the best steaks I’ve had in a long, long while. You’ve never eaten here before, have you?”
“Nope. But it stands to reason that an eating place in the middle of Kansas, with all the corn-fed beef in the region, really ought to have good steaks. Plus the place was busy. That’s another sign.”
“What a detective you are!” Jim chuckled. His smile faded. “You keep looking at something behind me.”
Artie sighed. “Yes, I know. There’s a fellow back there, eating alone. Empty sleeve. He looks somewhat familiar to me, but I can’t place him. Also, I get the sense that he knows one of us, or thinks he does, but is reluctant to approach.”
Jim laid some bills on the table, and stood up, turning slightly so that he could see the man in question. “Well, I’ll be…!”
Without hesitation he strode across the floor, making his way among tables both empty and occupied, until he gained the one in the far corner. The man there got to his feet rather hesitantly. He was in his middle to late thirties, with dark blond hair that needed cutting and a mustache that needed trimming. His clothes also revealed lack of care, but more that they were faded and could have used some mending, rather than being soiled.
“Captain West?” he said, blue-gray eyes searching the face of the approaching man.
Jim held out his hand. “Gus Kaplan! It’s been a while. Too long!”
Kaplan extended his left hand to grip Jim’s right one. “Howdy, captain.”
“Not a captain anymore, Gus. And you’re not a private. Just Jim West. You live here now? Last I heard of you was when you went home to Michigan after your injury.”
“No, sir. I’m just passing through. Wasn’t aware you resided in these parts.”
“I don’t,” Jim smiled. “Just passing through as well.” He saw Kaplan’s gaze move beyond him, and looked around. “Artemus, this is Gus Kaplan. He was in a Michigan artillery unit and I got to know him when we worked together setting up some pieces at Shiloh. Gus, my partner, Artemus Gordon.”
“Kaplan!” Artie knew then, but he asked anyway. “Any kin to an Aaron Kaplan?”
Kaplan accepted the hand Artie extended. “He was my brother, sir. I recognize your name. You were the officer who wrote to my ma, and sent Aaron’s blouse home to her.”
“Yes,” Artemus admitted, a little surprised with the sudden spate of sorrow he experienced over an incident that had happened such a long time ago. He had not thought of Aaron and that bloody shirt for a long, long while. “Aaron was a fine young man. One of the worst days of my life when he died.”
Jim saw the sadness on his partner’s face, but withheld questions for now. Incredible coincidence that Artie and Kaplan had this connection. “Gus, you said you are passing through. Where are you headed?”
“Denver. I have kin there who’s holding a job for me if I can get there fast enough. Problem is, I’m having to work my way toward it and it’s slow going.” Kaplan smiled ruefully.
The two agents exchanged glances, and Artie spoke up. “We’re on our way to Cheyenne,” he said. “Why don’t you ride along with us and we can drop you in Denver, no problem.”
Kaplan frowned, obviously puzzled. “Drop me? You have a wagon?”
Jim chuckled. “No, Gus. A train. And we have space for a guest.”
The former artillery man was shaking his head. “I don’t understand. You have a whole train, all your own?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a ‘whole train,’ actually,” Artemus grinned. “But it suits us. Are you finished eating? We’re going across to the saloon for a couple of drinks. Come with us, and we can talk about it.”
Kaplan looked down at the few coins he had placed on his table. “Well, I… I’m a little short…”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jim chortled. “Mr. Gordon has already offered to treat.”
Gus Kaplan was still somewhat reluctant, but in the end decided that he could drink a beer. He surely did want to visit with Captain West and maybe talk to Mr. Gordon about Aaron. For himself, as they crossed the street to the watering hole, Artemus hoped he could steer the conversation away from Aaron Kaplan. He did not want to discuss the details of that young soldier’s death with his brother. Not right now anyway.
Turned out he was somewhat successful in directing the talk away from that subject, partially because the tavern was filled to capacity with boisterous men, and a few women, who seemed to be celebrating something. They eventually learned that the owner of the place was very popular, and today was his birthday. Everyone there was offering toasts, telling stories, singing and laughing, making for a lot of commotion.
After a couple of drinks—paid for by Artemus—the trio departed, mounted their horses and rode toward the siding where the Wanderer was parked for the night. They had seen their train crew in the saloon as well, but neither Jim nor Artie worried that those men would be derelict in their duties; they would be there to fire up the engine early in the morning to get underway.
Jim noticed the state of Gus Kaplan’s horse as they rode through the moonlight. The animal was old, the tack equally ancient. Quite apparent that Kaplan had fallen on hard times, as had many a veteran in the years since the war ended. Gus had been severely injured by a Confederate shell blast, requiring the amputation of his right arm and ending his military career. The last time Jim had spoken to him had been in a hospital in Nashville where Gus had been recovering in late spring of sixty-two.
The one thing Jim remembered most about Augustus Kaplan was that he worried more about his brother than himself. Gus was a hardworking man, and received praise from his commanding officer, which was why he had been assigned to the artillery unit that Captain West guided to a vantage point he had located in the midst of the battle. Because they had had to take a roundabout and lengthy route to the site, they had conversed, which was when Jim learned about the absent brother.
Gus had wanted to know if the captain was aware whether a particular Michigan infantry regiment was on the field. Jim did not know, but promised to tell Kaplan if he heard of that troop being present. As it turned out, Jim never gained that information, but even if he had, Gus had been injured early on and taken off the field before Jim returned to the artillery’s position to see if they needed any help or supplies.
Even at the hospital, Kaplan fretted less about his own disabling injury than the safety of his brother. “What am I going to tell Ma if I go home without him?” Gus had wailed. “She’ll skin me alive!”
At that time in their military careers, James West and Artemus Gordon had not met. Only after the conclusion of the fierce and deadly battle of Shiloh were the pair brought together. Never once had it occurred to Jim that Artemus might be acquainted with Aaron Kaplan, even being aware that Artemus was in a Michigan regiment. What a coincidence!
Gus Kaplan was very impressed. He stated so several times, along with the awe that appeared in his expression as he looked around the parlor car. He had also been astonished regarding the quarters for the horses. “This nag ain’t had accommodations like this in a long while,” he said, shaking his head. “Nor food!”
Entering the parlor car, however, he was nearly speechless as he gaped. “This is like a grand hotel room! I mean, I never seen one, but I heard about them. You two musta struck it rich, huh?”
“Not exactly,” Jim laughed. “It goes with our job. We’ll tell you more later, but let’s get you settled.”
The guest compartment elicited more expressions of amazed admiration from the ex-soldier. Artemus saw how Kaplan eyed the bed, and remarked that they would not be the least bit insulted if Gus wanted to hit the hay. Like the horse, undoubtedly its rider had not enjoyed such accommodations in a long while, if ever. Kaplan hesitated, then agreed that he was pretty tired after riding all day.
Back in the parlor car, Jim poured brandy for each of them. He handed a snifter to his partner and asked, “Aaron Kaplan was in your regiment?”
“More than that,” Artie sighed, sinking onto the sofa. “I was with him when he died. Wonderful young man. You never heard a bad word about him. Good-looking, always smiling, courageous, but not reckless. He was always ready to help, to volunteer. In fact, that’s how he came to meet his end. It was that job I did while you were laid up after Chickamauga. Remember? I was ordered to scout some territory in east Tennessee, and I requested volunteers. Aaron was one of six.”
“I do remember you talking some about it afterwards. You lost a couple of those men.”
“Yes. The other man was killed in a skirmish. Another was wounded. But Aaron… Jim, it was…”
Artemus’s words stopped and he stared into the amber liquid into his glass, obviously not seeing the brandy, but a far away place and a dying man. Jim waited. Perhaps a full minute elapsed before his partner lifted his gaze, brown eyes anguished. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but taut.
“Happened on our third day out. We were deep in the mountains, but so far as we were aware, no Rebs were in the vicinity. Which was, of course, what we wanted to learn, where they were, how many. Maybe we were all a little too relaxed, less cautious. The terrain was rough, and often we had to lead our horses. Aaron was on the point… and he apparently tripped a wire. A torpedo exploded very near him, killing his horse and injuring Aaron severely.”
Jim frowned. “Didn’t kill him outright?”
“Not immediately. He lingered… for an agonizing twenty-four hours. Jim, there was nothing that could have been done for him. The shrapnel tore up his… his guts. Even the morphine I had with me didn’t do much good. Perhaps because his… his stomach couldn’t process it. Once or twice Aaron begged us to end it for him, but… we couldn’t. All we could do was wait, keep him company.”
“I take it the blast didn’t draw any enemy soldiers.”
“No. I suspect it had been set up a long time before. Perhaps weeks or months. Maybe forgotten. Aaron just happened to… to be the lucky one to trip the wire. The one thing Aaron asked me to do was to remove his blouse and send it to his mother. So she would have something to remember him by. Of course it was bloody and torn, but I promised I would… and I did. When he mercifully passed, we buried him there in those mountains. Once we completed the assignment, I took his shirt back to Chattanooga with me, had it washed as best could be done, then sent it to Mrs. Kaplan in Michigan with a letter.”
“Did you know the Kaplans before the war?”
“No. They were in the same county, but on the far side. Apparently had a small farm there. Aaron’s father died when he was a baby, I know. His mother ran the farm, with his brother’s help. Aaron mentioned his brother, but I had never met him before today. That’s why Kaplan looked familiar in the restaurant. Not nearly as fine-featured as Aaron, and his hair is darker, but there is a resemblance.” Artemus downed the last of his brandy and sighed deeply. “I’m glad we’re able to help Aaron’s brother now.”
Jim studied his partner for a moment. “You don’t blame yourself for Aaron’s death.”
Artie quickly shook his head. “No. No, it could have been any one of us who tripped that wire. Aaron just happened to lead out. He often did that. If he had lived, I’m certain he would have been an officer before the war ended. He had leadership qualities. It’s just… well, I couldn’t help but feel the world had lost a young man who might have contributed greatly in the future.”
“I’m sure we lost thousands of those,” Jim said quietly. “On both sides.”
“Exactly. I agree, Jim. I agree. I knew other fine men who were killed. Friends and acquaintances. But Aaron… if you had known him… he was a special young man. He always talked about going home and helping his mother, but I had a feeling he would not have been satisfied with remaining on a scrub farm for long. We’ll never know.”
The following day was fairly uneventful, as the small train made its way northeasterly across Kansas, toward Colorado. At one point, they had to pull off onto a siding to allow a larger train to pass through, but their engineer assured the agents that they would make southern Colorado by nightfall, and Denver the next day as scheduled.
Over and over, Gus Kaplan expressed his gratitude to Jim and Artie. His cousin, he said, had this position in the livery stable where he worked, a job grooming horses, something that even a one-armed man could do, but he was not sure how long he could keep it open. The owner was due back from a trip at the end of the month, Gus said, and the cousin felt he had to have filled the job by then.
“I was really scrambling, trying to earn money for food and still traveling fast enough to get to Denver by the last of the month. Got so I wasn’t sure I was going to make it, with only four days left! Your offer was a godsend.”
During the hours on the train, the subject of Aaron Kaplan came up, and Artemus was forced to discuss the young soldier with his brother. Artie was relieved, if a little surprised, that Gus did not want details on how Aaron died. Mostly he talked about what a beautiful baby Aaron had been, how their mother adored the boy, and had been heartbroken first when he joined the infantry without her knowledge and permission, and then, of course, to receive the news of his death.
“That blouse you sent was precious to her,” Gus stated. “She kept it in her bedroom all the time, and I’m sure she held it often, feeling maybe she was holding her baby boy in her arms. She didn’t ask, but I was tempted to bury it with her when she passed away. I guess I was a little selfish. I wanted some of Aaron near me, now that I was going to be all alone.”
Jim listened to the conversation and found himself wondering why Gus had not resented the favored brother more than he appeared to. Perhaps that spoke to what a fine boy Aaron had been, that even his possibly neglected older brother had not been envious. Strange, though, that Gus did not ask more questions about how his beloved brother died. Then again, perhaps he feels knowing would be too painful. Hard to say. People react differently.
As promised, the Wanderer slid onto the siding just south of the border of the Colorado Territory for the night. The crew came to the car for their supper, then disbursed to their own quarters. They were working men, and their day would start early. Jim and Artemus engaged in a chess game for awhile, but Jim could tell Artie’s attention was not on the game. The clue was that Jim West was winning, a rarity at this particular competition. So he claimed boredom and found a book to read.
Artemus was relieved when Jim called off the game. He knew he should have simply said no when it was first mentioned, but he thought it might aid in taking his mind off things. Problem was, he had no idea what was bothering him. Just that something was. Something on the edge of his consciousness. He had never really been prescient, or even believed in such things, yet at this time he would have been willing to wager something unsettling was in the future.
Of course, one did not need to be a seer to realize that, given their occupation. “Unsettling” was far too mild a word for what often occurred in their lives. Yet, this gnawing sensation in his guts just told him that something was not right. He could not ascribe it to any particular thing. He began to believe that Augustus Kaplan’s presence had some bearing on it, but he could not ascertain why.
He had regretted the death of Aaron Kaplan as much as he regretted the loss of any man during that awful war. Aaron’s fatal injuries had been horrific, his final hours filled with pain and torture, but those same circumstances had happened to many men. Some others had not had friends around them when they succumbed, dying alone on a field while the battle raged on beyond them.
Aaron certainly had not blamed him, or anyone else. During one brief relatively pain-free moment, Aaron had even attempted a jest, chiding himself for always barging on ahead of the others. He had accepted his fate, made his last wishes known, and finally embraced that pain-free oblivion of death.
The letter Artemus had written to Mrs. Kaplan had not been the first, nor the last, he had had to write to surviving family. All had been difficult. He had even sent small mementos, usually a picture or a New Testament or some other trinket the late soldier had carried. Never before an article of clothing. He had been bothered by the knowledge that the laundress in Chattanooga had been unable to wash away all the bloodstains, then wondered if those very stains would be comforting to the grieving mother.
None of this explained why he was feeling edgy now. Perhaps it was merely having a “stranger” aboard the Wanderer. They had had guests riding with them in the past, but that had usually been another agent, even Colonel Richmond a few times—someone they knew well. Jim had admitted that his acquaintance with Gus Kaplan had been relatively brief, though he had liked the artillery man enough to seek him out in the hospital in Nashville.
Artemus thought about voicing his unease to Jim, but decided against it. For one thing, Jim tended to be quite pragmatic about such things. He played hunches, listened to his instincts, but rarely believed in “fortune telling” or sensing a future disaster. Artemus knew his partner would have just laughed it off, blaming it on the rich onion soup they had had at the midday meal. And who knew? Maybe that was the cause.
Jim West was mildly surprised when he stepped into the galley, not only because it was empty, but that the coffee had not been started. Not like Artemus. First thing he did in the morning was to stir up the stove and start the coffee, not to mention put on a kettle to heat water for shaving and washing up.
The stove was cold, last night’s coffee still in the enamel pot, and the tea kettle all but empty. Artie seemed a little restive last night. Could be he did not get to sleep right away, and now is making up for it. Oh well. Just will mean the coffee will be a little late, not to mention maybe not quite as good. But he’d better not complain if he’s going to sleep in!
He was just finishing putting the coffee grounds in the pot when Orrin Cobb and the other crew showed up, like himself expecting the coffee to be ready and waiting. Jim apologized. “Is Mr. Gordon sick?” Orrin asked.
That had not occurred to Jim. Artie had seemed on edge, but maybe he had also not been feeling well. It would be like Artemus not to mention it, especially with a guest on the train. “I don't know. I’ll look in on him. Keep a watch on the coffeepot.”
He made his way to the door of Artie’s compartment, tapped on it and called his partner’s name, first quietly, then a little louder. Jim frowned. Artie was known to sleep well, but he also had the same instincts Jim himself had, those of a cat, awakening instantly at any untoward sound or call. After a long moment of consideration, Jim turned the latch and pushed the door open.
He stared inside the compartment, not quite grasping what he was seeing. The blankets were mussed and Artemus’s nightshirt lay in a pile on the floor beside the bed. The boots that Jim knew Artemus always placed neatly at the end of the bed were gone. The door to the wardrobe closet stood ajar.
Jim stepped over to that closet, pulling the door wide. He quickly ascertained that his partner’s leather jacket was absent… but his gun belt and pistol were hanging on the hook inside the door.
“What the devil?”
Unaware that he had spoken aloud, Jim spun to go back into the passageway. Without pausing or knocking, he opened the next door, that of the guest compartment. Empty as well, although the bed had not been slept in. The carpetbag that Gus Kaplan had carried onboard was still on the floor. Jim hefted the bag to the bed, opened it and rummaged through. Clothing, though not much, and all of it in similar condition to that which Kaplan had worn.
Jim strode back to the kitchen. “Orrin, when you came through the livestock car, were all of the horses there?”
The engineer’s eyes widened. “Sure. We grained and watered them, same as usual. Why? What’s happened?”
“Both Artemus and our visitor are gone.”
The three crewmen gaped at him. Kelly spoke first. “Gone where?”
“That’s what I want to know. Sam, would you saddle my horse while I get my gear ready?”
The satin black horse was waiting for him when he stepped out the rear door of the parlor car ten minutes later. A worried Orrin Cobb was there as well. “Boss, I’ve been looking around, and I don’t see any signs. No other horses. Not even any footprints.”
Jim glanced about. He had not seen much of the area in the darkness last night, and had not even tried, figuring they would be on their way first light. “If they stayed in that thick grass, any tracks would have disappeared by now.”
“I was thinking that,” the engineer answered unhappily. “Which way you going to go?”
Jim West expelled a breath. “I don't know. I guess I’ll circle around a bit, see if I can pick up anything. Orrin, I have no idea what’s going on. Artemus would not have left without telling me.”
“Not of his own free will,” Orrin growled.
“Yeah.” That was the crux of the matter. Why would Gus have taken Artie off the train? Certainly the two men had departed together. Why?
He swung into the saddle. “Keep the train here on this siding,” he told his engineer. “One of you stay in the car with the telegraph at all times. If I get near wires, I’ll contact you.”
“Or maybe he will,” Orrin offered.
“Maybe,” Jim agreed. His instincts told him otherwise. One possibility was that Gus Kaplan had kidnapped Artemus Gordon, hoping to receive ransom. In their conversations, they had told Kaplan of their government jobs, so he knew that the luxurious train was not a sign of their own wealth. Furman Crotty had once claimed to have demanded a ransom for the agents. But Gus Kaplan was no Furman Crotty.
What’s going on?
Artemus Gordon sank wearily, almost gratefully, onto the large boulder. He had no idea of the distance they had walked, but he knew it had consumed over six hours, since just before midnight, and he was exhausted. He had been awakened by the touch of hard, cold metal against his temple, only to look up into the hate-filled face of Augustus Kaplan, illuminated by the rays of the moon filtering through the small window in the compartment.
His first thought had been that Kaplan was either sleepwalking or playing some sort of joke. But the growled commands to get out of bed and dress were not those of a somnambulist nor a prankster. Kaplan had warned him to be silent, because if Captain West was roused, much as Kaplan would regret it, he would kill Gordon’s partner. The moment he was aware that Captain West was in the passageway, Kaplan whispered, he would shoot through the door.
Artie looked up at his captor, who was peering through some brush in the direction from which they had just come. Although the moon had been full, they had really not been able to see much as they trudged across the prairie during the early morning hours. Now they were at the edge of the foothills, with the sun on the horizon, and Artie suspected that because they had ascended a long slope, Kaplan had a pretty good view of what they had left behind them.
Kaplan held the pistol pointed in his prisoner’s direction as he looked through the brush, glancing back toward Gordon every few seconds. Finally he seemed satisfied that no one was imminently trailing them, and he turned around.
“Kaplan,” Artie began.
But just as had occurred several times during the night, his captor hissed “Shut up,” and pointed the gun menacingly. “I don’t want to hear nothin’ out of you, Gordon. Justice is slow at times, but it’s caught up with you. Get on your feet.”
Warily Artie rose, wondering if this was it. Had Kaplan marched him all these miles to simply shoot him down now? That was quickly answered as Kaplan waved the gun with a curt, “Move, that way,” indicating a pile of boulders some forty or fifty feet ahead.
As he had during the entire walk, Kaplan stayed well back, not giving his prisoner an opportunity to attempt to disarm him. Kaplan obviously knew he would be at a disadvantage in any tussle, and was not going to risk it.
This has to have something to do with Aaron. Has to. But Artemus had not been able to elicit any information during the night, always receiving the command to keep quiet or shut up. They had not seen a sign of a living soul, but Kaplan might have feared sounds would carry across the wide open areas they were traversing.
No one could have been more surprised than Artemus Gordon when they passed through a small corridor created by two great rocks to find a pair of horses grazing beside a small spring. Saddled horses, though the girths were slack. Kaplan briskly ordered his prisoner to tighten those straps, and then he carefully checked them, keeping a wary eye on Artemus as he had to use his one hand, tucking the pistol briefly under his arm, to inspect the tautness. Again. Artemus was ordered to stand some distance away. No chance to jump Kaplan.
“Open up the saddlebag on the paint and get those chains out,” Kaplan ordered, stepping away from the horses.
A cold lump in his stomach, Artie did as ordered, finding a set of manacles connected by a heavy chain. They looked to him to be similar to what were used on prisoners in chain gangs. Under Kaplan’s orders, he fastened a manacle to each of his wrists. He was then commanded to tie the pinto’s reins securely to a scraggly but strong appearing evergreen tree growing next to the spring.
“Get in the saddle,” Kaplan ordered. “Don’t try nothing stupid, neither, Captain Gordon. I don’t want to kill you yet, but by heaven, I will. I won’t be cheated.”
Artie did as commanded, still aware of the murderous hatred in Kaplan’s blue-gray eyes. He did not fully understand it yet, but Kaplan wanted him dead. The longer that moment could be delayed, the better. As long as he was alive, the chances of being rescued remained, not to mention that an opportunity might arise to allow him to overpower his captor.
Again Kaplan tucked the pistol under his arm, swiftly pulling a heavy cord out of his coat pocket. Before Artemus realized what was happening, Kaplan looped the cord over the stirrup and boot, and tightened it, securing his boot to the stirrup. He stepped around and repeated the action on the other stirrup.
He’s got this well-planned. Every movement choreographed. He had these horses waiting, with the manacles… the cord in his pocket. And it’s all working out the way he wants. But why? Why?
Further proof of Kaplan’s planning and preparedness ensued, as he procured a length of rope from the other horse, a bay, a loop in one end, which he tossed over Artemus’s head, letting it settle around his neck, whereupon he jerked it tight. Then he loosened the pinto’s reins from the scrub tree and mounted the bay, tying the other end of the rope around his own saddlehorn.
“Now, Captain, I expect you’ll think twice about trying some smart-aleck trick like goading your horse to run off. Try it, and you’ll likely break your neck—or at least be choked to death.”
“Where are we going?” Artie asked quietly as Kaplan started his horse moving.
“To your grave, Captain Gordon. To your grave.”
THE NIGHT OF THE FADED COAT OF BLUE
My brave lad he sleeps in his faded coat of blue,
In a lonely grave unknown lies the heart that beat so true;
He sank faint and hungry among the famished brave,
And they laid him sad and lonely within his nameless grave.
Chorus:
No more the bugle calls the weary one,
Rest noble spirit, in thy grave unknown!
I’ll find you and know you among the good and true,
When a robe of white is giv’n for the faded coat of blue.[/i][/center]
“Artemus, my friend, in my deepest gratitude for your finding this excellent restaurant, I am going to pay the tab.” Jim West grinned at his partner, especially at the astonishment on Artemus’s countenance. Usually the game was to see if one could trick the other into paying, not volunteering.
“Well,” Artie replied, picking up his cup of coffee and holding it toward his partner, as though offering a toast, “in that case, I’m grateful for your gratitude, and accept. And I will graciously reciprocate by buying the drinks when we go across the street for a little after-dinner libation.”
“Seriously,” Jim said, reaching into his jacket for his wallet, “that was one of the best steaks I’ve had in a long, long while. You’ve never eaten here before, have you?”
“Nope. But it stands to reason that an eating place in the middle of Kansas, with all the corn-fed beef in the region, really ought to have good steaks. Plus the place was busy. That’s another sign.”
“What a detective you are!” Jim chuckled. His smile faded. “You keep looking at something behind me.”
Artie sighed. “Yes, I know. There’s a fellow back there, eating alone. Empty sleeve. He looks somewhat familiar to me, but I can’t place him. Also, I get the sense that he knows one of us, or thinks he does, but is reluctant to approach.”
Jim laid some bills on the table, and stood up, turning slightly so that he could see the man in question. “Well, I’ll be…!”
Without hesitation he strode across the floor, making his way among tables both empty and occupied, until he gained the one in the far corner. The man there got to his feet rather hesitantly. He was in his middle to late thirties, with dark blond hair that needed cutting and a mustache that needed trimming. His clothes also revealed lack of care, but more that they were faded and could have used some mending, rather than being soiled.
“Captain West?” he said, blue-gray eyes searching the face of the approaching man.
Jim held out his hand. “Gus Kaplan! It’s been a while. Too long!”
Kaplan extended his left hand to grip Jim’s right one. “Howdy, captain.”
“Not a captain anymore, Gus. And you’re not a private. Just Jim West. You live here now? Last I heard of you was when you went home to Michigan after your injury.”
“No, sir. I’m just passing through. Wasn’t aware you resided in these parts.”
“I don’t,” Jim smiled. “Just passing through as well.” He saw Kaplan’s gaze move beyond him, and looked around. “Artemus, this is Gus Kaplan. He was in a Michigan artillery unit and I got to know him when we worked together setting up some pieces at Shiloh. Gus, my partner, Artemus Gordon.”
“Kaplan!” Artie knew then, but he asked anyway. “Any kin to an Aaron Kaplan?”
Kaplan accepted the hand Artie extended. “He was my brother, sir. I recognize your name. You were the officer who wrote to my ma, and sent Aaron’s blouse home to her.”
“Yes,” Artemus admitted, a little surprised with the sudden spate of sorrow he experienced over an incident that had happened such a long time ago. He had not thought of Aaron and that bloody shirt for a long, long while. “Aaron was a fine young man. One of the worst days of my life when he died.”
Jim saw the sadness on his partner’s face, but withheld questions for now. Incredible coincidence that Artie and Kaplan had this connection. “Gus, you said you are passing through. Where are you headed?”
“Denver. I have kin there who’s holding a job for me if I can get there fast enough. Problem is, I’m having to work my way toward it and it’s slow going.” Kaplan smiled ruefully.
The two agents exchanged glances, and Artie spoke up. “We’re on our way to Cheyenne,” he said. “Why don’t you ride along with us and we can drop you in Denver, no problem.”
Kaplan frowned, obviously puzzled. “Drop me? You have a wagon?”
Jim chuckled. “No, Gus. A train. And we have space for a guest.”
The former artillery man was shaking his head. “I don’t understand. You have a whole train, all your own?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a ‘whole train,’ actually,” Artemus grinned. “But it suits us. Are you finished eating? We’re going across to the saloon for a couple of drinks. Come with us, and we can talk about it.”
Kaplan looked down at the few coins he had placed on his table. “Well, I… I’m a little short…”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jim chortled. “Mr. Gordon has already offered to treat.”
Gus Kaplan was still somewhat reluctant, but in the end decided that he could drink a beer. He surely did want to visit with Captain West and maybe talk to Mr. Gordon about Aaron. For himself, as they crossed the street to the watering hole, Artemus hoped he could steer the conversation away from Aaron Kaplan. He did not want to discuss the details of that young soldier’s death with his brother. Not right now anyway.
Turned out he was somewhat successful in directing the talk away from that subject, partially because the tavern was filled to capacity with boisterous men, and a few women, who seemed to be celebrating something. They eventually learned that the owner of the place was very popular, and today was his birthday. Everyone there was offering toasts, telling stories, singing and laughing, making for a lot of commotion.
After a couple of drinks—paid for by Artemus—the trio departed, mounted their horses and rode toward the siding where the Wanderer was parked for the night. They had seen their train crew in the saloon as well, but neither Jim nor Artie worried that those men would be derelict in their duties; they would be there to fire up the engine early in the morning to get underway.
Jim noticed the state of Gus Kaplan’s horse as they rode through the moonlight. The animal was old, the tack equally ancient. Quite apparent that Kaplan had fallen on hard times, as had many a veteran in the years since the war ended. Gus had been severely injured by a Confederate shell blast, requiring the amputation of his right arm and ending his military career. The last time Jim had spoken to him had been in a hospital in Nashville where Gus had been recovering in late spring of sixty-two.
The one thing Jim remembered most about Augustus Kaplan was that he worried more about his brother than himself. Gus was a hardworking man, and received praise from his commanding officer, which was why he had been assigned to the artillery unit that Captain West guided to a vantage point he had located in the midst of the battle. Because they had had to take a roundabout and lengthy route to the site, they had conversed, which was when Jim learned about the absent brother.
Gus had wanted to know if the captain was aware whether a particular Michigan infantry regiment was on the field. Jim did not know, but promised to tell Kaplan if he heard of that troop being present. As it turned out, Jim never gained that information, but even if he had, Gus had been injured early on and taken off the field before Jim returned to the artillery’s position to see if they needed any help or supplies.
Even at the hospital, Kaplan fretted less about his own disabling injury than the safety of his brother. “What am I going to tell Ma if I go home without him?” Gus had wailed. “She’ll skin me alive!”
At that time in their military careers, James West and Artemus Gordon had not met. Only after the conclusion of the fierce and deadly battle of Shiloh were the pair brought together. Never once had it occurred to Jim that Artemus might be acquainted with Aaron Kaplan, even being aware that Artemus was in a Michigan regiment. What a coincidence!
Gus Kaplan was very impressed. He stated so several times, along with the awe that appeared in his expression as he looked around the parlor car. He had also been astonished regarding the quarters for the horses. “This nag ain’t had accommodations like this in a long while,” he said, shaking his head. “Nor food!”
Entering the parlor car, however, he was nearly speechless as he gaped. “This is like a grand hotel room! I mean, I never seen one, but I heard about them. You two musta struck it rich, huh?”
“Not exactly,” Jim laughed. “It goes with our job. We’ll tell you more later, but let’s get you settled.”
The guest compartment elicited more expressions of amazed admiration from the ex-soldier. Artemus saw how Kaplan eyed the bed, and remarked that they would not be the least bit insulted if Gus wanted to hit the hay. Like the horse, undoubtedly its rider had not enjoyed such accommodations in a long while, if ever. Kaplan hesitated, then agreed that he was pretty tired after riding all day.
Back in the parlor car, Jim poured brandy for each of them. He handed a snifter to his partner and asked, “Aaron Kaplan was in your regiment?”
“More than that,” Artie sighed, sinking onto the sofa. “I was with him when he died. Wonderful young man. You never heard a bad word about him. Good-looking, always smiling, courageous, but not reckless. He was always ready to help, to volunteer. In fact, that’s how he came to meet his end. It was that job I did while you were laid up after Chickamauga. Remember? I was ordered to scout some territory in east Tennessee, and I requested volunteers. Aaron was one of six.”
“I do remember you talking some about it afterwards. You lost a couple of those men.”
“Yes. The other man was killed in a skirmish. Another was wounded. But Aaron… Jim, it was…”
Artemus’s words stopped and he stared into the amber liquid into his glass, obviously not seeing the brandy, but a far away place and a dying man. Jim waited. Perhaps a full minute elapsed before his partner lifted his gaze, brown eyes anguished. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but taut.
“Happened on our third day out. We were deep in the mountains, but so far as we were aware, no Rebs were in the vicinity. Which was, of course, what we wanted to learn, where they were, how many. Maybe we were all a little too relaxed, less cautious. The terrain was rough, and often we had to lead our horses. Aaron was on the point… and he apparently tripped a wire. A torpedo exploded very near him, killing his horse and injuring Aaron severely.”
Jim frowned. “Didn’t kill him outright?”
“Not immediately. He lingered… for an agonizing twenty-four hours. Jim, there was nothing that could have been done for him. The shrapnel tore up his… his guts. Even the morphine I had with me didn’t do much good. Perhaps because his… his stomach couldn’t process it. Once or twice Aaron begged us to end it for him, but… we couldn’t. All we could do was wait, keep him company.”
“I take it the blast didn’t draw any enemy soldiers.”
“No. I suspect it had been set up a long time before. Perhaps weeks or months. Maybe forgotten. Aaron just happened to… to be the lucky one to trip the wire. The one thing Aaron asked me to do was to remove his blouse and send it to his mother. So she would have something to remember him by. Of course it was bloody and torn, but I promised I would… and I did. When he mercifully passed, we buried him there in those mountains. Once we completed the assignment, I took his shirt back to Chattanooga with me, had it washed as best could be done, then sent it to Mrs. Kaplan in Michigan with a letter.”
“Did you know the Kaplans before the war?”
“No. They were in the same county, but on the far side. Apparently had a small farm there. Aaron’s father died when he was a baby, I know. His mother ran the farm, with his brother’s help. Aaron mentioned his brother, but I had never met him before today. That’s why Kaplan looked familiar in the restaurant. Not nearly as fine-featured as Aaron, and his hair is darker, but there is a resemblance.” Artemus downed the last of his brandy and sighed deeply. “I’m glad we’re able to help Aaron’s brother now.”
Jim studied his partner for a moment. “You don’t blame yourself for Aaron’s death.”
Artie quickly shook his head. “No. No, it could have been any one of us who tripped that wire. Aaron just happened to lead out. He often did that. If he had lived, I’m certain he would have been an officer before the war ended. He had leadership qualities. It’s just… well, I couldn’t help but feel the world had lost a young man who might have contributed greatly in the future.”
“I’m sure we lost thousands of those,” Jim said quietly. “On both sides.”
“Exactly. I agree, Jim. I agree. I knew other fine men who were killed. Friends and acquaintances. But Aaron… if you had known him… he was a special young man. He always talked about going home and helping his mother, but I had a feeling he would not have been satisfied with remaining on a scrub farm for long. We’ll never know.”
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He cried, "Give me water and just a little crumb,
And my mother she will bless you for all the years to come.
Please tell my sweet sister so gentle, good, and true
That I'll meet her up in heaven in my faded coat of blue." (chorus)
[/i]And my mother she will bless you for all the years to come.
Please tell my sweet sister so gentle, good, and true
That I'll meet her up in heaven in my faded coat of blue." (chorus)
The following day was fairly uneventful, as the small train made its way northeasterly across Kansas, toward Colorado. At one point, they had to pull off onto a siding to allow a larger train to pass through, but their engineer assured the agents that they would make southern Colorado by nightfall, and Denver the next day as scheduled.
Over and over, Gus Kaplan expressed his gratitude to Jim and Artie. His cousin, he said, had this position in the livery stable where he worked, a job grooming horses, something that even a one-armed man could do, but he was not sure how long he could keep it open. The owner was due back from a trip at the end of the month, Gus said, and the cousin felt he had to have filled the job by then.
“I was really scrambling, trying to earn money for food and still traveling fast enough to get to Denver by the last of the month. Got so I wasn’t sure I was going to make it, with only four days left! Your offer was a godsend.”
During the hours on the train, the subject of Aaron Kaplan came up, and Artemus was forced to discuss the young soldier with his brother. Artie was relieved, if a little surprised, that Gus did not want details on how Aaron died. Mostly he talked about what a beautiful baby Aaron had been, how their mother adored the boy, and had been heartbroken first when he joined the infantry without her knowledge and permission, and then, of course, to receive the news of his death.
“That blouse you sent was precious to her,” Gus stated. “She kept it in her bedroom all the time, and I’m sure she held it often, feeling maybe she was holding her baby boy in her arms. She didn’t ask, but I was tempted to bury it with her when she passed away. I guess I was a little selfish. I wanted some of Aaron near me, now that I was going to be all alone.”
Jim listened to the conversation and found himself wondering why Gus had not resented the favored brother more than he appeared to. Perhaps that spoke to what a fine boy Aaron had been, that even his possibly neglected older brother had not been envious. Strange, though, that Gus did not ask more questions about how his beloved brother died. Then again, perhaps he feels knowing would be too painful. Hard to say. People react differently.
As promised, the Wanderer slid onto the siding just south of the border of the Colorado Territory for the night. The crew came to the car for their supper, then disbursed to their own quarters. They were working men, and their day would start early. Jim and Artemus engaged in a chess game for awhile, but Jim could tell Artie’s attention was not on the game. The clue was that Jim West was winning, a rarity at this particular competition. So he claimed boredom and found a book to read.
Artemus was relieved when Jim called off the game. He knew he should have simply said no when it was first mentioned, but he thought it might aid in taking his mind off things. Problem was, he had no idea what was bothering him. Just that something was. Something on the edge of his consciousness. He had never really been prescient, or even believed in such things, yet at this time he would have been willing to wager something unsettling was in the future.
Of course, one did not need to be a seer to realize that, given their occupation. “Unsettling” was far too mild a word for what often occurred in their lives. Yet, this gnawing sensation in his guts just told him that something was not right. He could not ascribe it to any particular thing. He began to believe that Augustus Kaplan’s presence had some bearing on it, but he could not ascertain why.
He had regretted the death of Aaron Kaplan as much as he regretted the loss of any man during that awful war. Aaron’s fatal injuries had been horrific, his final hours filled with pain and torture, but those same circumstances had happened to many men. Some others had not had friends around them when they succumbed, dying alone on a field while the battle raged on beyond them.
Aaron certainly had not blamed him, or anyone else. During one brief relatively pain-free moment, Aaron had even attempted a jest, chiding himself for always barging on ahead of the others. He had accepted his fate, made his last wishes known, and finally embraced that pain-free oblivion of death.
The letter Artemus had written to Mrs. Kaplan had not been the first, nor the last, he had had to write to surviving family. All had been difficult. He had even sent small mementos, usually a picture or a New Testament or some other trinket the late soldier had carried. Never before an article of clothing. He had been bothered by the knowledge that the laundress in Chattanooga had been unable to wash away all the bloodstains, then wondered if those very stains would be comforting to the grieving mother.
None of this explained why he was feeling edgy now. Perhaps it was merely having a “stranger” aboard the Wanderer. They had had guests riding with them in the past, but that had usually been another agent, even Colonel Richmond a few times—someone they knew well. Jim had admitted that his acquaintance with Gus Kaplan had been relatively brief, though he had liked the artillery man enough to seek him out in the hospital in Nashville.
Artemus thought about voicing his unease to Jim, but decided against it. For one thing, Jim tended to be quite pragmatic about such things. He played hunches, listened to his instincts, but rarely believed in “fortune telling” or sensing a future disaster. Artemus knew his partner would have just laughed it off, blaming it on the rich onion soup they had had at the midday meal. And who knew? Maybe that was the cause.
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He said, “My dear comrades, you cannot take me home,
But you’ll mark my grave for mother, she’ll find me if she’ll come;
I fear she’ll not know me, among the good and true,
When I meet her up in heav’n in my faded coat of blue.” (chorus)
[/color][/i]But you’ll mark my grave for mother, she’ll find me if she’ll come;
I fear she’ll not know me, among the good and true,
When I meet her up in heav’n in my faded coat of blue.” (chorus)
Jim West was mildly surprised when he stepped into the galley, not only because it was empty, but that the coffee had not been started. Not like Artemus. First thing he did in the morning was to stir up the stove and start the coffee, not to mention put on a kettle to heat water for shaving and washing up.
The stove was cold, last night’s coffee still in the enamel pot, and the tea kettle all but empty. Artie seemed a little restive last night. Could be he did not get to sleep right away, and now is making up for it. Oh well. Just will mean the coffee will be a little late, not to mention maybe not quite as good. But he’d better not complain if he’s going to sleep in!
He was just finishing putting the coffee grounds in the pot when Orrin Cobb and the other crew showed up, like himself expecting the coffee to be ready and waiting. Jim apologized. “Is Mr. Gordon sick?” Orrin asked.
That had not occurred to Jim. Artie had seemed on edge, but maybe he had also not been feeling well. It would be like Artemus not to mention it, especially with a guest on the train. “I don't know. I’ll look in on him. Keep a watch on the coffeepot.”
He made his way to the door of Artie’s compartment, tapped on it and called his partner’s name, first quietly, then a little louder. Jim frowned. Artie was known to sleep well, but he also had the same instincts Jim himself had, those of a cat, awakening instantly at any untoward sound or call. After a long moment of consideration, Jim turned the latch and pushed the door open.
He stared inside the compartment, not quite grasping what he was seeing. The blankets were mussed and Artemus’s nightshirt lay in a pile on the floor beside the bed. The boots that Jim knew Artemus always placed neatly at the end of the bed were gone. The door to the wardrobe closet stood ajar.
Jim stepped over to that closet, pulling the door wide. He quickly ascertained that his partner’s leather jacket was absent… but his gun belt and pistol were hanging on the hook inside the door.
“What the devil?”
Unaware that he had spoken aloud, Jim spun to go back into the passageway. Without pausing or knocking, he opened the next door, that of the guest compartment. Empty as well, although the bed had not been slept in. The carpetbag that Gus Kaplan had carried onboard was still on the floor. Jim hefted the bag to the bed, opened it and rummaged through. Clothing, though not much, and all of it in similar condition to that which Kaplan had worn.
Jim strode back to the kitchen. “Orrin, when you came through the livestock car, were all of the horses there?”
The engineer’s eyes widened. “Sure. We grained and watered them, same as usual. Why? What’s happened?”
“Both Artemus and our visitor are gone.”
The three crewmen gaped at him. Kelly spoke first. “Gone where?”
“That’s what I want to know. Sam, would you saddle my horse while I get my gear ready?”
The satin black horse was waiting for him when he stepped out the rear door of the parlor car ten minutes later. A worried Orrin Cobb was there as well. “Boss, I’ve been looking around, and I don’t see any signs. No other horses. Not even any footprints.”
Jim glanced about. He had not seen much of the area in the darkness last night, and had not even tried, figuring they would be on their way first light. “If they stayed in that thick grass, any tracks would have disappeared by now.”
“I was thinking that,” the engineer answered unhappily. “Which way you going to go?”
Jim West expelled a breath. “I don't know. I guess I’ll circle around a bit, see if I can pick up anything. Orrin, I have no idea what’s going on. Artemus would not have left without telling me.”
“Not of his own free will,” Orrin growled.
“Yeah.” That was the crux of the matter. Why would Gus have taken Artie off the train? Certainly the two men had departed together. Why?
He swung into the saddle. “Keep the train here on this siding,” he told his engineer. “One of you stay in the car with the telegraph at all times. If I get near wires, I’ll contact you.”
“Or maybe he will,” Orrin offered.
“Maybe,” Jim agreed. His instincts told him otherwise. One possibility was that Gus Kaplan had kidnapped Artemus Gordon, hoping to receive ransom. In their conversations, they had told Kaplan of their government jobs, so he knew that the luxurious train was not a sign of their own wealth. Furman Crotty had once claimed to have demanded a ransom for the agents. But Gus Kaplan was no Furman Crotty.
What’s going on?
W*W*W*W*W
Artemus Gordon sank wearily, almost gratefully, onto the large boulder. He had no idea of the distance they had walked, but he knew it had consumed over six hours, since just before midnight, and he was exhausted. He had been awakened by the touch of hard, cold metal against his temple, only to look up into the hate-filled face of Augustus Kaplan, illuminated by the rays of the moon filtering through the small window in the compartment.
His first thought had been that Kaplan was either sleepwalking or playing some sort of joke. But the growled commands to get out of bed and dress were not those of a somnambulist nor a prankster. Kaplan had warned him to be silent, because if Captain West was roused, much as Kaplan would regret it, he would kill Gordon’s partner. The moment he was aware that Captain West was in the passageway, Kaplan whispered, he would shoot through the door.
Artie looked up at his captor, who was peering through some brush in the direction from which they had just come. Although the moon had been full, they had really not been able to see much as they trudged across the prairie during the early morning hours. Now they were at the edge of the foothills, with the sun on the horizon, and Artie suspected that because they had ascended a long slope, Kaplan had a pretty good view of what they had left behind them.
Kaplan held the pistol pointed in his prisoner’s direction as he looked through the brush, glancing back toward Gordon every few seconds. Finally he seemed satisfied that no one was imminently trailing them, and he turned around.
“Kaplan,” Artie began.
But just as had occurred several times during the night, his captor hissed “Shut up,” and pointed the gun menacingly. “I don’t want to hear nothin’ out of you, Gordon. Justice is slow at times, but it’s caught up with you. Get on your feet.”
Warily Artie rose, wondering if this was it. Had Kaplan marched him all these miles to simply shoot him down now? That was quickly answered as Kaplan waved the gun with a curt, “Move, that way,” indicating a pile of boulders some forty or fifty feet ahead.
As he had during the entire walk, Kaplan stayed well back, not giving his prisoner an opportunity to attempt to disarm him. Kaplan obviously knew he would be at a disadvantage in any tussle, and was not going to risk it.
This has to have something to do with Aaron. Has to. But Artemus had not been able to elicit any information during the night, always receiving the command to keep quiet or shut up. They had not seen a sign of a living soul, but Kaplan might have feared sounds would carry across the wide open areas they were traversing.
No one could have been more surprised than Artemus Gordon when they passed through a small corridor created by two great rocks to find a pair of horses grazing beside a small spring. Saddled horses, though the girths were slack. Kaplan briskly ordered his prisoner to tighten those straps, and then he carefully checked them, keeping a wary eye on Artemus as he had to use his one hand, tucking the pistol briefly under his arm, to inspect the tautness. Again. Artemus was ordered to stand some distance away. No chance to jump Kaplan.
“Open up the saddlebag on the paint and get those chains out,” Kaplan ordered, stepping away from the horses.
A cold lump in his stomach, Artie did as ordered, finding a set of manacles connected by a heavy chain. They looked to him to be similar to what were used on prisoners in chain gangs. Under Kaplan’s orders, he fastened a manacle to each of his wrists. He was then commanded to tie the pinto’s reins securely to a scraggly but strong appearing evergreen tree growing next to the spring.
“Get in the saddle,” Kaplan ordered. “Don’t try nothing stupid, neither, Captain Gordon. I don’t want to kill you yet, but by heaven, I will. I won’t be cheated.”
Artie did as commanded, still aware of the murderous hatred in Kaplan’s blue-gray eyes. He did not fully understand it yet, but Kaplan wanted him dead. The longer that moment could be delayed, the better. As long as he was alive, the chances of being rescued remained, not to mention that an opportunity might arise to allow him to overpower his captor.
Again Kaplan tucked the pistol under his arm, swiftly pulling a heavy cord out of his coat pocket. Before Artemus realized what was happening, Kaplan looped the cord over the stirrup and boot, and tightened it, securing his boot to the stirrup. He stepped around and repeated the action on the other stirrup.
He’s got this well-planned. Every movement choreographed. He had these horses waiting, with the manacles… the cord in his pocket. And it’s all working out the way he wants. But why? Why?
Further proof of Kaplan’s planning and preparedness ensued, as he procured a length of rope from the other horse, a bay, a loop in one end, which he tossed over Artemus’s head, letting it settle around his neck, whereupon he jerked it tight. Then he loosened the pinto’s reins from the scrub tree and mounted the bay, tying the other end of the rope around his own saddlehorn.
“Now, Captain, I expect you’ll think twice about trying some smart-aleck trick like goading your horse to run off. Try it, and you’ll likely break your neck—or at least be choked to death.”
“Where are we going?” Artie asked quietly as Kaplan started his horse moving.
“To your grave, Captain Gordon. To your grave.”
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