The Night of the Water Demons

[Double Take]

THE NIGHT OF THE WATER DEMONS

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“Easy, boy, easy,” the Secret Service agent spoke quietly to his jittery horse. “It’s just foam.”

Artemus Gordon glanced across the lake watching the dark clouds building on the horizon. The long, narrow lake, which a few hours ago was so calm that the tree lined shores reflected perfectly in its dark surface, was choppy from the approaching storm. Small white caps slapped against the rocks at the water’s edge. In spots the quickening wind created foam from the rough waters then blew it on shore at the feet of Gordon’s normally even-tempered chestnut gelding.

Again, the horse shied and sidestepped away from the blowing foam. His nostrils flared and sweat lathered his coppery neck despite the cool temperatures. Not wanting to risk being thrown by the nervous animal, Artemus dismounted and tried to lead his agitated mount. The chestnut tossed his head, threatening to rear back. Artemus gripped the reins while trying to reassure the horse with his voice, but nothing would soothe the frightened animal.

The dense woods came to within a few yards of the water making it impossible for the agent to lead his horse away from the shoreline. Just a half a mile farther, the path he was following turned and led away from the lake. Artemus Gordon only had to make it that far and, maybe, the horse would calm down.

A distant crack of thunder was too much for the gelding. The animal bolted, pulling Gordon off balance as he tried unsuccessfully to hang onto the reins. The rocks were slick from water and foam, and the special agent landed hard on his backside. Climbing to his feet, he shook the water off his hands and wrinkled his nose at the odd smelling slime that coated them. He whistled to the retreating horse. Always in the past his whistle had brought the well-trained horse cantering over to his owner like an obedient dog, but now the animal’s panic outweighed his training and the horse continued his frantic gallop along the trail.

Artemus shook his head with annoyance. There was nothing to do now but follow the trail on foot. His best hope was to find his horse or, perhaps, his partner, James West, farther along the trail where it left the edge of the lake. That was assuming Jim got the message Artie had left at the inn and that he spotted the marker Gordon had left when he turned off the main logging trail.

That was the problem with splitting up; there was always a chance that they would miss each other in the sparsely populated, wide-open country. And this situation was trickier than normal since they were operating in a foreign country. They did what the needed to do, and Artemus Gordon had continued heading north while his partner sought help from the local law enforcement to complete their current assignment.

Gordon rubbed his hands together and frowned as he considered his bad luck. Losing his horse could not have come at a worse time with the storm threatening. He looked back over his shoulder at the ominous clouds. It hadn’t started to rain yet, but with the way his luck was going, he was sure it would start at any minute.

Thunder continued to rumble in the distance and the wind whipped at the leaves still clinging to the trees. Fall was firmly entrenched in this part of Canada. Many of the leaves had already fallen, and this storm promised to bring down those that still clung stubbornly to the trees.

As he watched, the billowing thunderheads seemed to form themselves into a huge face. A giant grinning mouth opened wide, laughing at his misfortune. The agent rubbed his hands over his face and stared at the clouds again. The face was gone.

Artemus Gordon closed his eyes for a second and pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand. He drew a deep, calming breath and then opened his eyes again. His intellectual brain told him that the face in the clouds was just a figment of his imagination, but he still felt unsettled by the vision.

A sudden gust of wind ripped the hat from his head. It tumbled over the ground until it caught on a jumbled pile of rocks a few yards ahead. Dingy brown foam marred the cream colored hat when he finally retrieved it. Gordon wiped off the offending matter, his nose wrinkling as he, again, noticed the odd odor. A quick rinse in the cold lake water was the best he manage to clean the slime off his hands. He ran them through his hair, made unruly by the gusts coming off the lake, then returned the hat to its rightful position and continued his trek. Unconsciously, he let his right hand rest on the butt of his revolver.

The wind was making the trees in the woods to his left creak and groan. A leaf, fluttering on its crazed descent to the ground, brushed the back of his neck. He spun around, drawing his revolver, eyes darting over the landscape as he looked for the unseen attacker.

“Artemus, my boy, this wind is getting to you as well as the horse,” he muttered to himself when he saw the leaf flutter to the ground a few feet in front of him. He sighed as he holstered his gun.

His gaze strayed out over the choppy waters. Only a few yards from shore, windrows of foam formed undulating lines. As he watched the near end of one formed itself into the head of a snake and reared up gazing coldly at the agent. The reptilian head bobbed and wove; its tongue flicked out tasting the air. Mouth agape, Artemus stumbled backward getting as far from the water’s edge as he could, his eyes wide with disbelief at the apparition. As suddenly as it had appeared the foam serpent broke apart as the wind changed directions.

Tired. Got to be I am over tired, the agent thought as he holstered his pistol, but he left the trigger’s tie down off. He rubbed his hand over his damp face. Beads of perspiration dotted his brow.

The path narrowed sharply where it was partially blocked by a large boulder. Artemus Gordon had no choice but to move so close to the lake’s edge that the small white-caps splashed against his dark brown boots. A scrambling sound from behind caused the agent to spin around, his pistol already in his hand. A mass of grayish foam blew off the lake. He watched as a body took shape; it grew legs, a head and a stumpy tail. The reptilian beast circled around the agent. Its jaws opened wide and snapped at the booted feet. Without thinking, Artemus kicked at the creature, scattering the foam.

This can’t be real. Tense and wide-eyed, the man pivoted around searching the rocks for other attackers, his gun still gripped tightly in his hand. He could feel his panic rising as he struggled to regain his self-control, but his grip on reality was slipping away. Artemus broke into a stumbling run; his only thought was to get away from the lake. More foam broke free of the lake surface ahead of him. It skittered over the rocks that protruded from the water’s surface, taking on forms of nightmarish creatures at it came on shore.

His escape cut off by the scurrying shapes, Artemus fought back. He kicked and fired at his attackers. The bullets plowed into the soil or ricocheted harmlessly off the rocks, passing through the foam apparitions without slowing them down. His breath was coming in rasping gasps as he tried to stop their relentless onslaught. They came at him from all sides, circling around and cutting him off from any possibility of making it into the trees.

Grey-brown slime coated his boots. Six shots, and his revolver was empty, but the creatures continued to advance giving Artemus Gordon no time to reload. Several of the largest creatures had broken apart when he kicked them only to reform as smaller demon shapes. The desperate agent groped in his waistband, searching for one of the small explosives pellets he kept hidden there.

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[Double Take]

James West heard the approaching hoof beats and reined in his fiery black horse. He was eager to meet up with his partner and learn what Artemus Gordon had discovered concerning the whereabouts of their quarry, Farran Roy, a notorious anarchist who specialized in volatile chemical combinations. He hoped his partner had better luck than he had.

The two Secret Service agents had been assigned the task of capturing Roy and bringing him back to New York City to face arson charges stemming from a failed attack on the large assay office there. Over the past three days, the agents tracked the big bear of a man as he made his way north. They arrived in Rossie, a small town on the banks of the St. Lawrence River, which separated the United States from its neighbor to the north, less than a day behind their quarry. It was obvious that Farran Roy was headed to Canada, hoping to disappear into the sparsely settled country. With his towering height and flaming red hair, Roy couldn’t remain in the Northeast; he would be quickly identified from the wanted posters tacked up in every bank, post office, telegraph office and police station in the Northeast.

After crossing the busy waterway by ferry, Artemus Gordon had continued following the anarchist’s trail while Jim West headed southwest toward the largest town in the area. Before separating the two agents had agreed to meet up at Sweet’s Corner, a small village built at a crossroads where a logging trail intersected the main road through the area. It was now obvious to the two agents that Farran Roy was not only acquainted with the area, but probably had cohorts operating in these parts.

Being unfamiliar with the Canadian province, the two government agents hoped to get some help from the local constabulary to make their task easier. Although Jim received permission to pursue the criminal, the chief of the local office of the Dominion Police was unable to provide help in the form of manpower. Their police force was already spread thinly across the large territory. Chief Constable Hallady had grumbled to West about his own problems with an anarchist plot he suspected was brewing in the area. The police chief had not heard of the giant red-haired man West was pursuing, and he dismissed any notion that Roy could be connected with the Canadian outlaws Hallady was investigating.

Arriving at the only inn in Sweets Corner, Jim found that Artemus had left a message directing him to head north along the logging trail toward the lake. A few miles along the path, Jim spotted a subtle marker on a lichen covered bolder indicated a side trail that Gordon had taken.

***

A puzzled frown creased Jim’s forehead as the riderless horse galloped into view around a bend in the trail. Jim considered using his mount to block the charging horse, but the wild look in the chestnut’s eyes made him think better of it and he allowed the animal to pass unhindered. That can’t be good. I wonder what happened to Artie. Jim turned to watch the retreating animal. There would be time to catch him later after he located his partner.

The soft moaning of the wind in the trees was drowned out by the sudden sound of gunshots ripping through the forest. Six shots fired in rapid succession; the echoes of the first overlapped the last in a panicked cacophony of sound. Jim wheeled Blackjack around and clapped his heels against the animal’s sides. He leaned forward giving the horse his head as they charged down the path toward the source of the sound.

Jim pulled back sharply on the reins when he caught a glimpse of the lake through the trees. Blackjack half reared as he slid to a sudden stop. Judging from the sound of the shots Jim knew the shooter was nearby, close to the water’s edge. He swung to the ground and left the black horse hidden in the trees as he made his way on foot to the lake, crouching low with his gun drawn.

Expecting to find his partner under attack, Jim raced along the edge of the lake. As he got closer he could hear his partner’s shouts, but a rocky outcropping blocked his view. It was hard to believe, but Artie’s voice was tinged with panic!

“Get off! What the devil! Get off you foul beast!” Gordon roared, his words accented by the clicking of an empty gun being fired.

An explosion shook the air causing Jim to throw himself flat against the jutting gray rock. Cautiously, Jim peered around the side of the large boulder that blocked his view. He could see Artemus Gordon several hundred feet down the trail. To his surprise, his partner appeared to be alone, kicking at the air and firing wildly at the ground. There was no evidence of attacking humans or animals, just wind driven foam coming off the lake. This harmless scum seemed to be the object of Artie’s terror.

Jim released the hammer of his revolver, but did not holster his gun as he slowly approached his partner.

“Artie, what is it? What’s wrong? Artie!” Jim called to the agitated man as he continued to scan the water’s edge and trees for the cause of his partner’s distress.

Jim’s voice penetrated Artie’s fixation and he looked up, his brown eyes wide and staring. The curly dark hair was damp with sweat. His breathing coming in ragged gasps.

“Get out of here, Jim! Don’t let them touch you! Blast it, Jim, get out of here!”

James West continued his cautious approach. What was wrong with his partner? Drugged? Ill? Deranged? It didn’t matter. He needed to get his to his partner and get him calmed down.

“There’s nothing there, Artie. Just foam off the lake. Nothing that can hurt you.”

A sudden gust caused a large piece of foam to break free of the water’s surface and tumble toward the blue-clad government agent. Artemus charged at Jim, shoving him out of the way of the foam, kicking and shooting at it with his empty gun. Caught by surprise, Jim fell backward, but immediately sprang back to his feet. He holstered his gun, grabbed his frantic partner’s shoulders and shook him hard.

“Artie, listen to me! There is nothing there!” But Artemus didn’t hear him, he continued to kick and fire at the offending matter.

Jim’s lips tightened in a grimace as he decided on the next step. “Sorry, Artie.”

Artemus never saw the fist that slammed into his chin. His head snapped back and his body went limp. Jim caught his partner before he hit the ground and threw him over his shoulder. He scooped up Artie’s gun and headed back toward the opening in the trees where the trail left the water’s edge. As he walked he whistled for Blackjack. His partner was heavy and the uneven footing made walking difficult.

The black horse appeared from the trees and cantered along the lakeshore slowing as he approached his master. Jim threw Artie’s limp form over the saddle and led the horse back toward the trail. The trees would provide protection from the wind and allow him to build a crude shelter from the approaching storm. He looked back at the ominous clouds; the worst of the storm was going to pass to the east of them, but rain was still threatening.

***

Artemus Gordon groaned as he opened his eyes. Not even the freshly brewed coffee smelled good, and the odor of the sizzling bacon was enough to turn his stomach. Slowly he sat up, closing his eyes against the wave of dizziness that hit him when he changed position. He rubbed at his aching forehead and ran his hand over his face, feeling the gritty growth of beard on his cheeks. He winced when his hand touched his tender jaw.

A bath and soft bed were foremost on his mind, but a quick look around the rough campsite told him that creature comforts were still days away. He was sitting under a ground sheet that was draped over branches forming a makeshift tent. He spotted his partner crouched by a fire a few feet away from the shelter.

Water dripped from the branches of the trees that surrounded the small clearing. It was broad daylight, but the sun had not yet pierced the dense cloud cover.

“Coffee?” Jim asked seeing his partner sitting up and peering around groggily.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet,” Artemus replied. He spotted a canteen propped against his partner’s black saddle which was lying next to him under the groundsheet, along with Jim’s saddlebags. He uncorked the container and drank his fill, then splashed some on his face.

“Any idea why my jaw feels like I had an encounter with a brick wall?” Artemus asked his fellow agent.

“Do you remember what happened by the lake yesterday?” Jim responded, avoiding his friend’s gaze.

“You didn’t answer my question, but no. It’s all kind of fuzzy. I remember trying to beat the storm, but my horse was acting up and bolted. I don’t remember much after that.”

“Did you eat or drink anything that someone else had given you?”

“No. I hadn’t even stopped to fill my canteen. What are you getting at? What happened? And why do I suspect the bruise on my jaw would match your fist?”

Jim hesitated, “When I found you, you were acting...oddly. Like you were drugged or something. Yelling and shooting at foam coming off the lake. You seemed to think it was attacking you. I couldn’t get you to listen to me.”

“So you slugged me,” Artie concluded.

“Sorry, Artie. You sure you don’t want some coffee?” Jim extended a tin cup toward his friend like a peace offering.

Artemus shook his head and then closed his eyes when the movement made the world spin sickeningly.

“What time is it? How long was I out?”

Jim didn’t bother checking his pocket watch, “Mid-morning. You were out for nearly eighteen hours. You were sleeping quietly, so after it quit raining I backtracked along the trail and found your horse a ways back. Fortunately his reins got tangled in a bush or he might have been halfway to the border by now.”

Jim took a sip of his coffee then asked, “Did you have any luck finding Farran Roy? The local police don’t have the manpower to help us. We’re on our own.”

The fog was beginning to clear from Artemus Gordon’s brain. He thought back over the last twenty-four hours when he had last seen West.

“Roy is hold up in a building about ten miles north, right on the edge of the lake. Looks like he’s part of a well organized operation, but it beats me what they’re doing in the building. I watched it for a while and saw supplies coming and going by boat. Part of the building is built right out over the water so the boats come in underneath it and off-load their cargo through a trapdoor.”

“How did you find him?” Jim asked his partner.

“I ran into a hunting party of Indians. They were from a village on the other side of the lake. They saw Roy coming this way by boat with a guy from the town. Farran Roy is pretty hard to miss with his flaming red hair and beard,” Artie hesitated for a minute. “Come to think of it, the Indians warned me that there were evil spirits in the lake. They used to have a village on this side, not far from here, but moved to the opposite shore to get away from the spirits. They said every time the winds come across the lake the evil spirits attack anyone in their path. Maybe that’s what happened to me?”

“Evil spirits, Artie? Don’t tell me you believe that nonsense!”

“Not spirits, Jim. What if Roy’s friends are dumping some kind of chemical or drug into the lake? The wind whips up the surface of the lake and brings the stuff on shore as foam, or maybe you just breathe in the stuff. That might explain the Indian’s evil spirits and what happened to me.”

Jim nodded, “If you’re right I probably wasn’t exposed long enough for it to affect me. Now the wind has dropped, we should be okay approaching the building. The men delivering supplies obviously weren’t affected so it must be safe most of the time. We’ll go and have a look ‘round later.”

Artemus nodded his throbbing head cautiously, “I think I can manage that coffee now. I should be feeling human again in a little while.”

***

Shortly after noon, the two agents broke camp and backtracked along the trail for several miles until it joined the wider road used by loggers. They rode slowly, looking for a hidden trail. Jim spotted a gnarled old sugar maple; its trunk wrapped partially around a silver birch like a protecting big bother. The two agents turned off the main trail and followed what looked like the track of some small animal that wound itself between the trees.

The track took a meandering path through the dense woods, skirting the base of moraines where the retreating glaciers tens of thousands of years before had left mounds of rubble, diving down into shallow valleys and climbing out again on the far side. In places the path faded, but it never disappeared entirely. The men and their horses finally found themselves in a clearing occupied by a log cabin and an overgrown paddock with a lean-to.

Leaving the horses to graze in the paddock, Jim and Artie entered the cabin and dropped their saddlebags on the rough table made of hand-hewn planks. Although he was unable to offer any assistance in the form of manpower, Constable Hallady had arranged for them to use the cabin and boat of a trapper currently occupying one of the constabulary’s cells. When Hallady explained to the old fur trapper what the American agents were planning, he willingly cooperated. The trapper had no love for his neighbors whose habits forced him to set his trap lines farther afield and in less productive areas.

The trail they had followed to the clearing continued down to the lake on the other side of the cabin. Leaving Artie to prepare something to eat, Jim followed the trail until he reached the edge of the lake two hundred yards farther on. As promised, a sturdy canoe was propped against a tree well back from the water’s edge. A long flat rock jutted out from the shoreline forming a natural dock. The ground next to the rock was flat and smooth almost devoid of vegetation from the regular passage of the canoe as it was pulled in and out of the water.

Jim stood for a minute studying what he could see of the long narrow lake. The surface was practically smooth, mirroring the trees, sky and clouds in its dark surface. The many bays and projecting spits of land blocked his view of Farran Roy’s hide-away, but he knew it was just a few miles to the south.

A mournful wail echoed across the lake as a pair of loons landed on the water with a gentle splash. First one, then the other of the large diving birds disappeared under the water in search of a meal. Nothing moved on the lake surface until a head reappeared eyeing the man standing on the shore with mild interest before disappearing beneath the surface again.

***

Later that afternoon, the two agents picked their way slowly through the woods until they were less than a mile from their destination. They left their horses well back from the lake so they could approach undetected. They cautiously made their way through the woods to a point where they could watch the building.

It was a wooden structure built on a stone foundation. More than half of its fifty-foot length jutted out over the lake where it was supported by stone pilings. There was just enough headroom for a small boat to pass beneath it, allowing the boat’s occupants to tie up below a trap door and load or unload cargo. A few small windows were haphazardly positioned along its length. The front of the building had several narrow windows on either side of the door allowing the occupants to see anyone approaching, but not permitting someone from outside to get a good look at the interior.

The weathered grey building gave no hint as to its purpose. The only clue that something was taking place inside was the number of vents and chimneys that protruded from its tin roof and the pipes that jutted from the floor, venting waste into the once pure waters of the secluded lake.

The surface of the water around the building swirled with colors from an oily sheen. The slick spread south from its source, picked up by the gentle current that traveled through the lake, carrying the noxious film until it finally evaporated before reaching the water supply of the small towns that bordered the southern end of the lake.

Dusk was rapidly falling and the two agents felt they had seen enough. During the course of the afternoon several skiffs had pulled up beneath the building, taken on cargo and then disappeared downstream. Artemus recognized the lean man with shoulder length mousy brown hair who had brought Roy by boat the day before. As the boatman approached the building, he removed his floppy broad-brimmed hat revealing a balding pate.

He was clearly making another delivery, this time his boat was laden with canisters instead of a passenger. He greeted Farran Roy by name when the trapdoor was raised. Since that time no one had left the building either by the front door or by boat. The two agents returned to their patiently waiting horses and headed back to the trapper’s shack to discuss their next step.

***

“What do you think, James, a frontal assault or do we go in through the backdoor?” Artemus asked his partner as they prepared for the evening foray.

In answer, Jim grinned, pulled a strand of firecrackers from his saddlebag and tossed them to his partner.

Artemus caught the strand, “I guess that means the quiet approach isn’t going to be that quiet after all.”

“I’ll go in through the trapdoor over the lake, Artie. You provide the distraction. With any luck I’ll be able to get Roy out before they realize I’m there.”

“If they ask, who should I say is calling? United States Secret Service? Dominion Police? Or an angry neighbor who doesn’t like the smell?” Artemus grinned at his partner’s puzzled look. “I just want to be prepared, be in character. I would have suggested their Indian neighbors, but I left my bow and arrow in my other bag.”

“Better go with the Dominion Police. I am sure Constable Hallady would be happy to deputize you if anyone cries foul. He’s very short handed as it is.”

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[Double Take]

The paddle dipped softly into the calm waters, propelling the small craft along. Moonlight glimmered on the rippling wake left by passage of the canoe. The only other light came from a small window set high in the north facing wall of the wooden structure. Two more strokes and the canoe disappeared beneath the building.

From the shore, Artemus watched the canoe disappear. He pulled out his pocket watch and noted the time in the light from a partially covered lantern. Three minutes. That should give Jim long enough to locate the trapdoor.

Before setting out he had made sure that his partner was well equipped with acid and other means for quietly gaining entry through the trapdoor. Artemus hoped that the occupants did not go in for fancy gadgetry to bar the door; a metal lock or wood crossbar posed no challenge for the well equipped agent paddling the canoe, but something more sophisticated could slow him down significantly.

Artemus’s small arsenal was already in place. A couple of short strands of fireworks connected by a long fuse created a time delay and would sound like intermittent gun fire. In addition he had carefully bent over and tied down a number of small saplings. At his feet were several thin strands of rope attached to the anchored trees.

A quick check of his pocket watch told the agent his partner’s three minutes were almost up. He lit the long fuse that would ignite the fireworks and waited for it to burn half way.

Artemus took a deep breath and called out, “You there, in the shed, give yourselves up or we’re coming in, eh.”

Within seconds the light shining on the north side went out. Artemus heard some scraping sounds from the dark building and then caught the moonlight glinting off two rifle barrels that had suddenly appeared from hidden openings in the front of the building. He threw himself flat on the ground and yanked on the ropes. The saplings to his left sprang upright, giving the illusion of men moving into position, within seconds the first of the firecrackers went off like a pistol shot, followed by another, and then another.

The return fire came with a roar and flashing muzzles. The hapless maple saplings that had provided a distraction were quickly shredded along with most of the other vegetation in their vicinity.

Keeping low and being careful not to disturb anything, Gordon crept to a new position where several more ropes and fuses lay waiting for him. Firecrackers and returning gunshots continued for several more minutes.

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Jim West quietly placed the paddle in the bottom of the canoe and grabbed a wooden beam over his head to slow his movement. Now he was hidden from sight, he pulled the covering off the lantern, searching the low roof above his head for the trapdoor. He eased himself along; going from beam to beam until he found what he was looking for...a strong metal eye screw affixed to a stone piling below a trapdoor. A short iron ladder descended down almost to the water giving easy access to the boatmen who supplied the structure.

After tying up the small boat, Jim waited, listening for sounds from within the building. All was quiet until he heard footsteps pounding across the floor above him in response to his partner’s shouted orders. A few more seconds ensured that all the occupants were now in the front room of the building.

Jim carefully stood up and steadied himself with the ladder. He gently pushed against the trapdoor, but was not surprised when he felt resistance. He pulled a thin piece of metal from his inside jacket pocket and slipped it into the gap and slid it along until he met resistance. The dull thunk told him it was wood, probably a plank slid across the door and held in place by brackets.

Jim bent a slender wire into a u-shape then slipped it through the gap and over the board so the end reappeared on his side. He attached a fuse to the wire and pulled it back through. He repeated the process on the opposite side then touched a match to the ends. A few seconds later the fuses sparked and spluttered as they burned through the plank.

The hinges of the trapdoor creaked lightly as it was lifted from below. Jim poked his head up through the opening and looked around. Satisfied that he was alone in the dimly lit room, he pulled himself up through the trapdoor, and then eased it back into place.

Through the closed door he could hear the muffled voice of a man giving orders. Shortly afterwards, Artie’s firecrackers went off and were answered by the crack of rifle shots from within the building. Jim carefully eased the door open and found himself in a dark hallway that ran the length of the building along the south wall. He moved slowly toward the front of the building, his back pressed against the wall. Other doors led off the hall, but Jim had little interest in these. His mission was to apprehend Farran Roy and return with him to the United States.

“Jones, go get more bullets from the storeroom,” a voice in the front room hollered.

Jim froze, his back against a door. Fortunately the knob in his hand turned and he ducked into the room. He blinked in the sudden brightness after coming in from the unlit hallway. The chemical smell that assaulted his nose made his eyes water and sting.

Workbenches covered two walls, while the third was crowded with shelves and cabinets. Bottles, packages and beakers of every color and shape were carefully arranged on the shelves. Labels identified the contents as various corrosive acids, flammable liquids and other potentially dangerous materials. The source of the smell was a large open vat of oily fluid whose surface swirled with colors at the slight vibration caused by Jim’s footfalls.

For the moment, Jim’s curiosity overcame his need for speed and stealth. He spotted a notebook on the workbench and flipped through its pages. The handwritten formulas had been carefully logged, crossed out, rewritten and amended. The formulas meant nothing to the special agent, but next to them were detailed descriptions of the outcomes, both hoped for and realized.

“Constable Hallady has an even bigger problem than he realizes,” Jim muttered. He spotted a waterproof oilskin pouch, slipped the journal into it and then into his jacket pocket.

He looked up when he heard footsteps pounding past the closed door. The men in the front room were now resupplied with ammunition. Jim new that he needed to act fast to complete his task; Artie could not keep them occupied indefinitely.

The fresh air that washed over him felt wonderful when he slipped back into the hall. He crept forward until he could see into the large front room. Two men were kneeling with rifles against their shoulders; their fusillade momentarily stilled while they searched for targets. Like small turrets, the guns were mounted and protected by heavy gauge steel that curved slightly around the gunmen. Through the narrow cross-shaped opening in the wall the men could aim and fire their weapons in a hundred and sixty degree arc without exposing themselves to outside fire. A frontal attack was doomed to failure.

One of the other two men in the room was keeping his cohorts supplied with ammunition while the fourth man prepared what Jim assumed was an explosive device. None of the men had red hair. That meant Farran Roy was behind him in another part of the building.

An alarm went off in Jim’s head and he started to turn when he sensed movement behind him. He managed to block the first blow with his arm, but Roy had both a height and weight advantage over the agent. The second punch landed hard on West’s jaw sending him into a backward summersault. He lay stunned in the front room, flat on his back surrounded by the startled Canadians and the towering red-haired giant.

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[Double Take]

The sudden pause in firing from inside of the wooden building felt like a reprieve after the concussive gunfire, but the sudden cessation alarmed Artemus. He slowly raised his head and peered around the base of the tree where he had remained protected by its ancient mass from the hail of bullets. The acrid smell of gunpowder was tempered by the earthy smell given off by the damaged foliage.

I wonder what’s distracting them? Jim? No way to know if he’s in trouble, but I’ve got to give him more time. His firecrackers were still going off, but he knew there were only a few more shots remaining. Artemus continued his charade, determined to give his partner as much time as he could.

“Hold your fire, men!” he yelled as the last firecracker went off. “You in the shed. There’s no escaping, eh. We have you surrounded.”

The gunfire from the building resumed, now focused on the spot where they heard Gordon’s voice.

Artemus watched the waters north of the building intently for signs of movement. If all went well, Jim should be ready to make his escape during this final round of “gunfire”. Artemus fished a match from his vest pocket and struck it on the bark of the tree. He touched it to the end of his remaining string of firecrackers, then yanked on the rope to release the next wave of sapling attackers.

The fugitives holed up in the building were not firing back with the same gusto as they had done earlier. In fact, only one of the mounted rifles was peppering the woods where his saplings had sprung erect; the other rifle was pointed skyward as if its operator was engage elsewhere.

Several more minutes passed with only sporadic fire coming from the building. Something was definitely wrong. There was no sign of Jim and the second wave of distractions was nearly at an end. Artie pulled a small, round brass cylinder from his jacket pocket and wound it with a key. He attached an amplifying trumpet to it and set it down at the base of the tree. Next came two fist-sized grenades. He lit the fuse of the first and threw it in the general direction of his final string of firecrackers. He waited a few seconds before lighting the second which he bowled across the ground into the clearing in front of the building. He flipped a switch on the wind-up music box, and started creeping through the underbrush.

Artemus’s voice boomed out from behind the stout beech tree, “Okay, men, bring in the heavy artillery!”

As if on cue, the first of the grenades exploded with a flash and a deep cannon-like boom. The second grenade exploded a moment later, releasing a cloud of smoke that obscured the front of the building.

Artemus watched the flashes of the muzzles as their operators swung them around, focusing on the new threat. The second rifle had rejoined the defense of the building at the apparent onslaught of heavy artillery.

The agent kept low as he moved swiftly in an arc that finished at the water’s edge on the opposite side of the building to where the gunfire now concentrated. As long as the men did not look out a side window, his approach to the building was clear.

He waded out into the water, shivering as its chilly surface rose over the tops of his boots. He was thigh deep by the time he reached the canoe tied below the trap door. He caught hold of the lower rungs of the ladder then pulled himself up. The trapdoor gave immediately when he pushed against it. If the occupants had caught his partner they had not yet determined how he had entered the building.

Artemus crouched low as he eased open the door to the hall. He could hear the men yelling to each other in the front room. Another concussive boom rang out. Each grenade Artie had designed would result in three “attacks”...cannon fire followed by smoke.

Artemus crept forward until he could see into the front room. There was no sign of Jim or Farran Roy, so he headed back down the hall, carefully opening doors to check for occupants. He struggled to stifle a cough when he opened the chemical room door and blinked rapidly to clear his stinging eyes.

Then he heard a harsh voice from a room toward the back of the building, “How many men ya got out there?”

The demand was followed by a sharp slap of a hand striking flesh. “Ya ain’t no Canuck. Ya here after me, ain’t ya?”

Inside the room was James West, tied to a chair, a dribble of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. He glared at his captor, but said nothing.

Towering over his partner was Farran Roy. His shoulder-length red hair glowed like copper in the lamp light. He raised his hand again to strike the defenseless man in front of him. Artemus saw the slight flicker of Jim’s eyes and knew that the bound man was aware of his presence and would do his best to keep the big man distracted.

“Give it up, Roy. Constable Hallady wants you and your friends taken care of. He sent a half dozen men with me, and more are on their way. You’re through. Tell the boys out front to give it up. One of those shells could wipe out this entire building!”

“The Canuck police? They don’t know nothin’ about what’s going on here. He....” Roy never finished his sentence. Artemus came up quietly behind him, picking up a sturdy piece of lumber that was leaning against the wall just inside the door. The wood made a dull thwack as it collided with the Roy’s crown.

In seconds, Artemus had freed his partner’s wrists and was back at the door watching to see if anyone had heard the ruckus. Jim finished cutting his bonds with Artie’s penknife and heaved Roy onto his shoulder. His knees almost buckled under the weight of the bigger man, but he steadied himself against the wall and got the weight balanced enough for him to carry. He gave a curt nod to Artemus who opened the door, and the two men set off down the hall with their burden.

They almost made it. Artemus had the trapdoor raised when he heard a shout from the hall. One of the men had spotted the loosely flopping arm of Farran Roy dangling down West’s back.

“What the devil! Bart! Russ! He’s got Farran. Stop him!” the leader shouted over the din of the gunshots. He turned to follow his two men up the hall, but yelled back to the remaining rifleman. “Carl, the attack’s most likely a ruse, but stay sharp, eh!”

Jim unceremoniously dropped his burden to the floor as he was tackled from behind by Bart Jones, the lanky boatman who had arrived earlier in the day. Jim managed to twist around in his attacker’s grip. He felt Bart’s hand’s close on his throat. The grip tightened, cutting off the agent’s air. Jim tried to pry the hands from his throat, but years spent working on boats and hauling supplies gave the Canadian a strength in his arms that was incongruous with his lean body. Jim brought his doubled fists down hard between the man’s shoulder blades. A second blow weakened Bart’s grip enough for Jim to shove him backward and land a hard right on his chin. The agent was back on his feet in the second it took Bart Jones to shake off the blow and come at him again.

Artemus dropped the trapdoor, narrowly missing Roy’s head. He leapt over the inert form and entered the fray, landing a fist on the jaw of Russ who was just coming through the doorway from the hall. Gordon glanced over his shoulder and saw that his partner was back on his feet and had a grip on the shoulder and arm of his balding attacker. Gordon stepped out of the way as his partner brought his knee up into the pit of the man’s stomach and then pivoted around and flung him in the direction of the open door.

Bart collided with Russ who was still hanging onto the door jam, trying to keep his feet after Gordon’s punch. The two men fell backward into the hall, temporarily blocking the third from joining in.

“Artie, get him into the boat,” Jim called as he grabbed the big man by the arms and dragged him into position by the trapdoor so he could be lowered feet first into the canoe below.

Artemus dropped into the canoe and braced himself as Jim lowered their unconscious prisoner down to him. Gordon deposited the behemoth on the floor of the canoe and started to untie it from the piling. He looked up expectantly at his partner who was still crouched by the open trapdoor.

“Get going! I’ll finish up here!” Jim responded to Artie’s inquiring look. Before his friend had a chance to object, Jim dropped the trapdoor back in place and spun around to deal with the angry threesome approaching through the doorway.

Rather than waiting for them to split up and surround him, Jim went on the offensive. He launched himself at the tightly clustered men; crashing into the lead man, driving him backward into the others. Again, they found themselves in a pile in the narrow passageway, this time with James West on top. Jim grabbed the shirt of the ring leader, pulled him to his feet and then knocked him out cold with a powerhouse left that connected solidly with the man’s unshaven jaw.

Russ was on his feet again and managed to duck under Jim’s defenses to land a hard blow to the agent’s midsection. Jim staggered back a few steps, but managed to block Russ’s next punch, after which he took the man down with one of his own. As Russ scrambled to his feet, Jim’s leg came up in a powerful kick that caught the Canadian under the chin. Russ did a back flip and stayed down.

Jim took a step toward Bart who was still dazed after being slammed against the wall by Jim’s initial attack. Footsteps approaching from the left warned Jim that the remaining gunman, Carl, had left his position and was coming to help his comrades. Jim ducked into the chemical room just as the fourth man raced down the hall, pistol in hand. As he passed the open doorway, Jim grabbed the man’s gun arm by the elbow and swung him into the room. He twisted Carl’s arm until he was bent over double, dropping the revolver; Jim’s knee came up under the man’s chin with tooth crunching force. The outlaw fell back and lay still on the wood floor.

Jim took advantage of the brief respite. He coughed as he tried to catch his breath in the chemical laden air, but, nevertheless, he crossed the room to the workbench where he had spotted the Canadian’s notebook still wrapped in the oilskin. He had noticed it was missing from his pocket, along with his derringer when Artie released him. Both the derringer and his black gun belt were lying on the workbench beside it.

Jim glanced back at the open door as he buckled on his gun belt. Through it, he could see two bodies sprawled on the floor unmoving, but he also heard swearing from the hallway as at least one of the other two men regained his feet.

Jim looked up as he finished tying down his holster to see Bart enter the room. Hate filled the man’s eyes as he rushed across the room, trying to tackle the agent before he had a chance to draw his gun. Jim’s back slammed painfully against the edge of the workbench. He reached behind him and his hand came in contact with a bottle. Not caring as to its contents, Jim swung the bottle and brought it down on the balding head of his attacker.

Bart howled in pain as the acid coursed down his head leaving bright red streaks in its wake. Jim’s fist slammed into Bart’s temple sending the man crashing into the shelves on the opposite side of the room. Bottles crashed to the floor around Bart’s inert form lying face down on the floor. They released their contents in a vile mix of fumes.

Two of the fluids mingled, smoked, then ignited into a tongue of blue flame which rapidly spread across the room. The flames climbed the wooden workbench and spread up the wall. A package of white powder lay in the path of the flames. It sent up sparks as the powder ignited filling the air with an orange glow. Almost immediately the open vat started to burn adding a heavy gray smoke to the air.

Carl crawled out of the smoke filled room. He staggered to his feet. Without even glancing back at his partners who were just beginning to rouse themselves, he fled down the hall to the front of the building.

Jim went to grab Bart and drag him out of the room, but a quick check told him that the balding man was beyond his help. The unblinking eyes stared at the liquid pooled around his body.

The smoke and fumes were becoming too much for the agent. Coughing and covering his face with a handkerchief, Jim staggered into the hall close behind the fleeing men. A shot rang out forcing Jim to dive for cover in the smoke filled room. He drew his revolver and peered around the doorjamb. The two remaining battered Canadians blocked his path to the front of the building. As he watched they broke for the door, firing behind them to prevent the agent from following them.

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

Artemus watched as the flames spread to the roof. One of the windows on the north side was blown out by an explosion that sent orange flames licking skyward. He put more distance between himself and the conflagration, worriedly scanning the building and water for any sign of his partner.

Another explosion rocked the shed and one of the pilings supporting it over the lake gave way causing a section to collapse into the cold waters. Steam hissed and rose off the lake as the burning wood came in contact with the water.

Smoke roiled higher and higher; the underside of it glowed dully as it reflected the flames. Bright oranges and yellows danced on the surface of the lake perfectly mirroring the inferno above its calm surface.

The hands that gripped the paddle tightened with each explosion; the knuckles white where they clutched the smooth wood. Artemus back paddled as another explosion rocked the structure which sent flaming debris high into the air. Artemus shielded his eyes from the soaring flames. Nothing could survive in that inferno. All he could do was pray that his partner had made it out the front of the building.

The rear half of the building sagged; its floorboards and foundation pilings started to collapse. Suddenly the rear wall exploded outwards as a body hurled itself against the weakened wall, seeking escape in the cool waters.

The light from the blaze illuminated the man as he hit the water, his blue bolero jacket and pants appearing as a bright splash of color against the grey building. Artemus saw his partner surface and start swimming strongly away from the building. The dark-haired agent relaxed his grip on the paddle and took a deep breath, only then realizing he had been holding it.

A few quick strokes brought the canoe within reach of the swimmer. Jim grabbed hold of the side of the small boat. He fished the oilskin packet from his jacket pocket and handed it to his partner along with his gun belt.

“What this? You went back after a souvenir?” Artemus took the oilskin with a puzzled frown.

“Thought you would enjoy some late night reading,” Jim replied with a slight grin, then his face sobered. “It’s filled with formulas and notes. Whatever they were working on in that building is in there.”

Artemus nodded and slipped it inside his jacket.

“Can you hang on while I get us to shore?” Artie asked his partner, the shallow canoe was too unstable to allow Jim to climb in without risking upsetting it. Jim nodded. He was still coughing from the smoke and fumes. Acid burns were visible on the back of his right hand were he gripped the boat.

“At least two of them made it out the front door. You better head for that little bay we passed on the way here. I doubt that those men will be following us anytime soon, but let’s make sure we’re well out of range,” Jim responded.

Twenty minutes passed before Artemus angled the canoe toward land. Jim staggered to his feet as soon as his knees hit bottom. He grabbed the line at the front of the canoe and dragged it up onto the shore a few paces. While Artemus climbed out, Jim scooped up handfuls of water and splashed their prisoner until he got a moaning response.

Artemus kept Farran Roy covered with his pistol while Jim pulled him into a sitting position and tied his hands. As soon as their prisoner was secured, Artemus pulled off his buckskin jacket and handed it to his partner who accepted it gratefully. Even with the added warmth of the new layer, Jim could not stop the shivering that wracked his body every few minutes. The water had been cold enough, but now there was a cool breeze blowing off the lake.

The two men climbed into the canoe to head back to the trapper’s cabin. Artemus took up the steering position at the rear of the canoe and Jim settled in the front with a second paddle. The effort of paddling helped warm the wet agent, but Jim still looked forward to a blazing fire and hot coffee when they reached the small shack.

As they backed the canoe away from the shore, over the treetops to the south the men could see the occasional flicker as the flames shot higher whenever a new chemical ignited. The black smoke billowed into the air high above the lake until the light winds caught it and pushed south.

“That should put a crimp in their plans,” Artemus said with a satisfied smile, “whatever they are.”

Jim rested the paddle on his knees while he turned to look at their scowling prisoner, “Maybe we should take Red here and let him have a chat with Constable Hallady before we head back to New York.”

“I suppose you’re going to make me give Hallady the notebook as well,” Artemus grumbled then his face brightened. “What if we accidentally forgot that I had it until we reached New York? We could send it back with a courier after I get a chance to read it.”

“Artemus, you’re not planning on trying out any of those formulas on the train are you?” Jim asked his voice sharp with feigned fear. “I never should have told you about that notebook.”

“James, my boy, I am hurt by your lack of faith in me,” Artemus grinned back at his partner. “I have yet to do any serious damage to the car with one of my experiments!”

The End