Post by Double Take on Oct 14, 2009 17:35:58 GMT -8
The Night of the Traitorous Death
“You’ll hang for this, mister,” the voice snarled in his ear. The cavalry sergeant dragged the Secret Service agent back to his feet. He kept a tight grip on the arms of James West, pulling them behind his back. Although West did not try to get away from the soldier pinning his arms, he pulled forward to get a better look at the body lying on the ground.
“He’s an imposter. He was going to kill the Secretary of State!” Jim’s voice was drowned out by the uproar of angry voices. Two more cavalry troopers came running up. One bent to retrieve a pistol with a rattlesnake on the grip from the ground and tucked it into his belt. They stepped in front of West, blocking his view with their bodies and rifles.
The only reason that James West was still alive after the shooting was that, against all logic, he ran toward his target instead of fleeing the scene. The troopers guarding the victim were momentarily stunned into immobility by West’s unexpected actions, but then a tough, war-hardened sergeant, who kept his wits about him, tackled the young agent. Had West fled the scene, the troopers would have undoubtedly gunned him down.
An official straightened up from the huddle that surrounded the body. As he turned, silence immediately descended, and in a heavy voice he addressed the small cluster of newspaper reporters and guests standing nearby, “He’s dead. President Grant is dead.”
There was an audible gasp from the by-standers. A young woman accompanying her husband and hoping to see the President for the first time, clutched her handkerchief, then turned and buried her face in her husband’s shoulder at the announcement. The silence that followed was punctuated by her soft weeping.
The troopers blocking West’s view stepped aside as their commander approached. Colonel Toby MacEwen stared hard at the man in front of him. The veteran cavalry officer was speechless; his mouth worked as he searched for something to say, but the words would not come. MacEwen stepped to one side finally allowing the Secret Service agent to get a better look at the body on the ground.
He was lying on his side with his back to James West, a sturdily built man in a black sack suit. His top hat had rolled to one side exposing his dark brown hair lightly salted with gray. Jim couldn’t see all of the man’s face, but he could see the neatly trimmed beard and sideburns. A cigar stub was still gripped by the dead fingers.
A tall, sandy-haired Secret Service agent approached West and the troopers, looking baffled and angry. Jim knew Oliver Madison slightly, but they had never worked together before this assignment. Jim had spent most of his time in the western states and territories, while Oliver Madison primarily operated in the northeastern states.
“Do you know what you just did?” Madison struggled to find the words. “You served under that man. You swore allegiance to him.”
James West confidence in his information was beginning to erode. As he looked up at Madison, he fought to keep the doubt from creeping into his voice, “I received a message from Artemus Gordon that puts the real President Grant over twenty miles from here at the hotel in Laurel. That man is the imposter.”
“I have been with the President constantly for the past twenty-four hours. I escorted him here from the White House myself,” Madison replied tightly. He pointed back at the body, “That is President Ulysses Grant.”
Colonel Toby MacEwen returned from where he had been talking to a group of men near Grant’s body. He glared at West then addressed the three troopers who were still restraining the agent, “Get him out of here! Find someplace where you can lock him up securely. If he gets away, you will face charges as well. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!” the trio responded in concert.
One of the troopers produced a pair of handcuffs and shackled West’s wrists in front of him, while another removed his gun belt. Jim made no move to resist. His mind was still trying to come to terms with what Madison had just told him.
President Grant was dead by his hand. A fellow Secret Service agent had confirmed his identity. A sick feeling was growing in the pit of West’s stomach. How could he have been misled to the point where he had shot a man he had known and respected for so many years? A man he was proud to consider a friend.
Jim let the troopers escort him toward the stately house owned by one of President Grant’s closest friends. The President had arrived at Arthur Branigan’s country estate, near Mount Airy in central Maryland, just minutes before and was preparing to address a small group of reporters prior to going inside where he planned on spending a few quiet days relaxing, riding and swapping stories with his old friend.
The morass that had gripped the brain of James West since he first realized that the man he shot was the President of the United States was beginning to release its hold. If the dead man was the President, then the information he had received was wrong. He knew his partner’s handwriting; there was no doubt in his mind that the message delivered by the carrier pigeon was genuine. If Artemus Gordon believed that he was with the real President Grant, then he must be in danger.
President Grant was dead by his hand. When the time came, he would face the penalty for that deed without flinching. Artemus Gordon was alive, or at least he had been a short while ago, and very likely in trouble. Jim feared that by the time he could convince someone of his partner’s danger, it would be too late.
Mentally, he took a deep breath. What he was about to do went against his upbringing and military training. He had always believed in accepting responsibility for his actions, and even now he was prepared to face the consequences, but he was the only one who could get to Artemus in time.
James West and the troopers guarding him mounted the stairs to the wide porch that spanned the front of the house. Jim’s ever alert mind had already taken in his surroundings and planned his escape route even before he consciously made the decision to run. It was as natural and automatic as breathing. That talent had allowed him to get out of many dire situations, and it served him now.
The prisoner gave no warning to the troopers that he intended on making a break for it, not even the slightest glance to one side. So when West slammed his left elbow into the ribs of the trooper behind him, the man was caught totally by surprise and went down in a crumpled heap from the blow. Jim allowed his momentum to swing him around and he brought his clasped hands up underneath the rifle barrel of the second guard. The trooper’s finger instinctively tightened on the trigger, but the shot went high and wide, knocking a chunk of plaster from the house. The agent followed up the blow by driving his elbow into the man’s jaw. Two down.
The sergeant was a step ahead of them when West made his move. He pivoted and started to raise his revolver to take aim at the prisoner, but West’s foot slammed into his stomach sending him crashing against the door. Jim grabbed the revolver from the limp grip and bolted for freedom. The shackles on his wrists did not hamper his speed and he vaulted the balustrade surrounding the porch, barely breaking stride. Jim gave a sharp whistle as he ran and was relieved to see his black quarter horse cantering toward him.
The first trooper to fall climbed painfully to his feet. A quick glance told him that his comrades were still out of the fight. He ran toward the balustrade and knelt down, raising his rifle to his shoulder. From his left he heard shouting and several wild gunshots, but nothing came close to the dodging man. The trooper took his time; one controlled shot had more chance of hitting his target than several hastily fired rounds. The prisoner had just reached his horse when the trooper fired. He saw West stagger and knew his bullet had found its target, but the horse swung round and blocked the fleeing man from his view, preventing him from making a second killing shot.
***
James West grabbed Blackjack’s reins and was just about to swing into the saddle when he felt the bullet drive into his left arm. The force of the lead shot biting into his flesh knocked him backward against the high-strung horse which swung around, effectively shielding the injured agent from the guns.
Adrenaline kept the pain at bay. West swung into his saddle and kicked the black into a gallop, keeping low in the saddle. Gunshots continued behind him, but West did not return fire with the stolen weapon. He had no desire to cause further injury nor could he afford to waste bullets. He guided the galloping horse on a serpentine path through the open farmland that surrounded the elegant country estate.
***
Oliver Madison watched the renowned secret agent swing into the saddle and take off. A slow smile crept over his face. He ran over to a neatly ordered group of cavalry men standing by the woods that bordered the property to the north. They had drawn their revolvers and were firing at the fleeing agent. Several reporters and the Secretary of State, Hamilton Fish, also hurried over.
“Make sure you don’t hit him!” Madison admonished the gunmen. “The boss doesn’t want him dead that way.”
“I don’t like this. His escaping wasn’t in the plan,” Fish growled as he peeled the long whiskers from his jaw. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
As James West disappeared from sight, Oliver Madison started to laugh.
***
Blackjack took the low stone wall at a gallop. Jim guided him into the woods that broke up the rolling Maryland countryside north of Washington into a patchwork quilt of farms, fields and forest. The woods became denser and he was forced to slow the horse to a walk as they threaded their way through the trees. Occasionally, Jim had to veer off his course to maneuver around tangled thickets of brambles and dense underbrush. Slowly their meandering course took them down a gently sloping hill until they came to a shallow, stony creek that ran through the valley.
Jim stopped and let his horse drink from the clear water. Only now did he become aware of the throbbing pain of the bullet wound in his left arm. It only took him a few seconds to pick the lock of the handcuffs and toss them into some underbrush so a search party would not readily spot them. He grimaced as he carefully pulled off his blue trail jacket. The sleeve of his shirt was soaked with blood. He removed the scarf tie from his neck and bound it around the wound; he could not spend the time to clean or tend it properly, he just tried to stop the bleeding as best he could. His primary goal was to keep moving, to get as much distance between him and his pursuers as possible. Artie’s life depended on his avoiding capture so he could locate his friend and whoever was responsible for setting him up to murder the President.
This was the same creek that ran close to the siding where the Wanderer sat idling, awaiting his return. Jim knew there would be guards posted by the train, but it would be illogical for him to return there; they would expect a hunted man to try and lose himself in the countryside, so he hoped it would only be lightly guarded. If he was to help Artie he would need supplies, ammunition and other items from the train. He turned Blackjack in the direction of the siding and kept the horse to the middle of the stream to avoid leaving tracks or other indication of their passage.
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Oliver Madison entered the magnificent home belonging to Arthur Branigan and his wife, Eleanor. He looked around the spacious entranceway, admiring the tasteful elegance. Madison’s silent admiration turned into a soft whistle as a woman appeared on the landing overlooking the foyer. She paused with one hand on the rail looking down at the tall Secret Service agent below.
***
Eleanor Branigan knew how to make an entrance. She knew how to do many things, especially how to get what she wanted from the adoring men that surrounded her. She could be charming and sophisticated, sweet and playful, or fiercely aggressive depending on her needs. She used her beauty like a rich man used his money: to gain power and influence over others.
She was slender and graceful. Her porcelain skin was set off by her dark auburn hair pulled back and arranged in a chignon with ribbons woven through the curls. A few loose curls framed her heart shaped face. Her large brown eyes normally glowed with a doe-like softness, but could be become ice hard when her intentions were thwarted. Whether at a dinner party or relaxing in her home, Eleanor always made sure she was the most beautiful and desirable item in the room.
To the casual observer she was the lovely young wife of Arthur Branigan who had served with Ulysses Grant during the Mexican-American War and again during the recent conflict. Later, Arthur had campaigned hard for Grant when his friend ran for the office of President. At his side during the campaign was his new wife, a beautiful young woman who made him forget the years that weighed heavily on him. She encouraged and supported him, enjoying the benefits of being the wife of a well connected man.
After Grant’s victory, Eleanor had used her husband’s connections to become the center of Washington’s high society. Swirling through the lavish balls and dinners with her husband on her arm, she met men of influence and power who could be useful to her, and other men who excited her because of who they were.
At first, Arthur Branigan was blind to his wife’s pursuits. He was so dazzled by her beauty and his love for her that he did not realize that anything untoward was happening. When he finally learned of her secret relationships, he blamed himself and worked all the harder to keep in her good graces, even if that meant turning a blind eye to some of her activities as he was doing now, alone in his den with a half-empty bottle of brandy.
***
Eleanor smiled sweetly at the man below and then swept down the stairs with the grace of a dancer. Oliver Madison met her at the bottom, kissing her passionately as he embraced her. She allowed him his moment then gently pushed him back so she could look up at him, her normally soft eyes becoming hard.
“You let him escape!” she whispered fiercely, keeping her voice low, unsure of whom might be just outside the door. “I want James West’s neck in a noose. Do you understand?”
“Don’t worry, my love,” Oliver tried to placate the woman. “I’m sure he believed me about the President. He won’t try to run; that’s not his way. Leave him to me. I think I know where he is headed. West will turn himself in willingly. You’ll have your execution. I promise!”
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The knot in his belly was still as tight as it had been immediately after Madison identified the body as President Grant. James West had killed men before, he had even believed he killed his best friend and partner, Artemus Gordon, but this was very different. On that occasion he had been drugged and had hallucinated the shooting. The drug had blunted his emotions and he had been spared this sick feeling of murdering a man he admired greatly.
Jim stared at the back of his horse’s head, letting the animal find its own way along the stony streambed. He tried to keep his mind focused on locating Artie, on forming a plan, but the crumpled form of President Grant kept creeping into his mind. How could I be so wrong! I was sure it was the imposter threatening Hamilton Fish. He swallowed hard and struggled to focus his thoughts on what he needed to do.
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“How long are you going to keep me locked up in this ivory tower?” President Ulysses S. Grant demanded of the man assigned to protect him while he remained out-of-sight in a richly appointed hotel in Laurel, Maryland, a small, but thriving town on the mainline between Washington and Baltimore.
“Now that Jim knows the man he is supposed to be guarding is the double we should be able to track him back to find out who originated this plot, sir,” Artemus Gordon responded. It was over eight hours since he had sent Henrietta back to the train with the message. Artemus had hoped to hear from his partner by now, but he wasn’t concerned yet with the prolonged silence. “If you make an appearance before Jim has located the mastermind, he’ll know we’re onto him and disappear.”
The agent’s only response from the President of the United States was an irritated grunt as he turned his attention back to the papers he was studying. Artemus hoped that it was at least partially affirming that he would continue to cooperate with the men assigned to protect his well-being.
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Jim left his horse in the woods bordering the railroad tracks where the Wanderer sat idle with just a trace of smoke rising from her stack. As he suspected, the train was lightly guarded with only two sentries on duty, both seemingly bored by their assignment. Clearly no one expected James West to return to his train after assassinating the President.
From the wood’s margin Jim watched the soldiers long enough to recognize their pattern. One man was stationed on each side of the car. They did not appear to coordinate their movements, but randomly walked the length of the train from varnish car to engine and back again. However, the guard on Jim’s side liked his cigarettes, but, for some reason, did not have a supply of matches. Maybe due to boredom as much as anything, he would roll a cigarette and then seek out his fellow guard for a light.
As soon as the cigarette smoking guard disappeared behind the varnish car seeking his companion for a match, Jim West crossed the open space between the woods and the railcar. He secreted himself on the steps leading up to the front entrance of the varnish car. After a few minutes the unsuspecting guard passed by, cigarette dangling from his lips. A quick blow to the base of his neck and he collapsed, never even seeing his attacker. Jim heaved the limp form over his shoulder and carried him into the car where he deposited him in one of the berths. He pulled a short length of rope from a pocket and quickly tied the guard’s wrists.
Most of the shades were drawn in the well-appointed varnish car, so Jim was not concerned about being spotted from the outside. He moved quietly and efficiently through the car gathering items that might prove useful including his spare gun belt and pistol. After he stowed the items in his saddlebags, he went over to the desk in the parlor and looked for the message from his partner that had been delivered by carrier pigeon earlier that day.
He was sure he had set it inside the box disguised as a set of books that hid the telegraph key, but now there was no sign of it. He hurriedly looked on the mantle, and then throughout the rest of the parlor. It was definitely missing…but nothing else had been disturbed. Jim doubted anyone had searched the train yet. If they had, they would have taken more than just one small, tightly folded piece of paper.
Jim’s head jerked up in surprise when the rear door to the parlor opened. Oliver Madison stood in the doorway, revolver drawn and cocked. He stepped into the parlor and shut the door behind him.
“I thought you would come back here, Jim,” the fair-haired agent said softly. “Come quietly. There are soldiers and police officers from all over the region searching for you. Colonel Richmond has leant all the agents he can spare to the search, as well.”
Jim moved slowly away from the mantle where he had been standing, keeping his hands away from his body. Madison’s words cut through him, Colonel Richmond has leant all the agents he can spare to the search. The possibility of being gunned down by a friend had not entered his mind. His body stiffened at the thought of facing off against a fellow agent. If they got between him and helping Artemus, he was unsure of the outcome.
“Take off your gun belt,” Madison said as he approached the agent.
Being careful to make no sudden moves, Jim removed his gun belt, watching Madison closely. Just as he was about to lay the belt on the back of the gold sofa, he swung it hard, striking Madison on the side of the head with the holstered revolver. Oliver Madison staggered to one side from the blow. Jim didn’t give him a chance to recover; he vaulted over the sofa back and landed a powerful punch against the tall agent’s jaw. Oliver fell sideways, grabbing the sofa back for support. Jim’s next blow caught the agent between the shoulder blades. He grabbed Madison by the collar and pulled him upright, only to knock him out cold with a second blow to the chin.
Jim wasn’t sure why, but his intuition told him to search the agent for the note from Artemus. A quick check of his Madison’s breast pocket revealed the tightly folded piece of paper. He stood looking down at the unconscious agent for a moment wondering why he would have come after the note. The whistling of the remaining guard as he completed his trek to the engine and back brought West out of his musing. He returned the note to Madison’s pocket, grabbed his gun belt and saddlebags, then headed back through the swinging door toward the front of the car.
Dusk was falling when James West disappeared back into the woods bordering the train tracks. It would not be long before the unconscious Madison was discovered. He needed to be well clear of the area before a serious search of the woods was made.
Jim cut through the woods until he reached the road that lead to Laurel. He kept Blackjack moving as swiftly as he dared while keeping just out of sight of the road by staying in the margins of the forest that bordered it for much of the next few miles. By the time the trees ended in farmland, darkness had closed in completely and he was forced to take to the road to continue traveling.
***