Post by California gal on Feb 17, 2009 15:08:30 GMT -8
Originally posted June 2008
“I didn’t think you could be susceptible to a bully’s taunts.”
Artemus Gordon glanced over to where his friend was seated on the plush sofa of the parlor car, then resumed his stare out the window at the arid Wyoming landscape. “Normally, I’m not. But this is… different.”
“How?”
“It’s… it’s hard to explain. Of all people, Jim, you should understand.” Now he turned to face him. “How many times have you responded to a challenge?”
“Too many times. I’ve often wished I could be like you, let it flow away like water off a duck’s back.” Jim West got to his feet. “Artie, you can’t face Kip Manley.”
“Jim, for crying out loud, you’re acting like I’m not capable of fighting my own battles!”
Jim West reached for the gun belt laying over the back of the couch, turning his back. He barely glanced over his shoulder as he began to strap on the belt. “No. What I’m saying is that you are not a gunhand, Artie. You can shoot a gun, and shoot it accurately. Maybe better than me. But you could never beat Kip Manley to the draw.”
“And you can.”
Now Jim looked back and saw the anger—and hurt—on his partner’s face. “Artie, be reasonable. You…”
“Reasonable! Turn it around, James. How would you feel if you were being told to go sit in the corner and let the big boys fight it out!”
“I wouldn’t like it,” Jim replied quietly. “But I hope I’d have the sense to realize the truth of it. Artemus, Manley will kill you!”
Artemus Gordon folded his arms across his chest, glaring. “So I get to live with everyone snickering behind their hands because I allowed you to take my place. I don’t look well in yellow, Jim.”
“No one will think that…”
“Like hell! Jim, Kip Manley wants me, not you. I’m the one who testified against him at the court martial. I’m the one who sent him to prison. I’m the one he has challenged!”
Jim lifted his gleaming pistol from its holster, spun the cylinder. “And I’m the one he’s going to face. Give it up, Artemus. I’m not going to allow you to ride into Whitewater and meet Manley. I’ll hog-tie you before I’ll permit that. Or I can order you to remain here.” He raised his gaze to look directly at his partner.
“Order me!”
Jim smiled slightly. “Remember, I have two weeks’ seniority on you.”
For an instant he thought his partner was going to explode again. Jim sympathized. He understood Artie’s feelings. Indeed, he would feel the same. But facts were facts. Kip Manley had a reputation as a fast-draw and deadly killer. Artemus was no match for him.
Just as Jim was sure he was going to hear another tirade, Artie turned and departed from the parlor area, heading back toward the galley and beyond. Jim knew that Artie’s mare was already saddled and tied to the rear of the parlor car, alongside Jim’s horse. So he was not going for his horse, unless he exited through another door.
I need to get into Whitewater ahead of him, just in case he has any intention of going there.
Jim turned and picked up his jacket. He was pulling it on when he heard the footstep behind him. His nostrils caught the faint scent of something sweet. He was about to turn to see what his partner was doing, but the opportunity swiftly passed as the strong arm went around his neck, while a hand pressed a saturated cloth over his mouth and nose.
Jim West struggled, trying to loosen the grip, and even attempted to hold his breath, but those first few seconds did him in. The shock of his partner’s assault had caused him to breathe in deeply, inhaling the fumes of the chloroform, so that the anesthetic immediately began its work, numbing his senses. Even trying to hold his breath was useless, because that required another inhalation.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” Artie said softly into his ear. “This is something I have to do for myself.”
Artemus held the cloth in place a few extra seconds after his partner sagged, just in case he was playing possum. Then he caught Jim under the arms and hoisted him to the sofa, taking a moment to check his pulse to make sure it was still strong and steady.
“I know you meant well, partner.” Artemus gazed down at his unconscious friend. “If things were reversed, I know I’d probably try to do the same thing. But you also know that I have to do this. I have to face Manley. I hate the code of honor that requires it. Forgive me.” The dose of chloroform he used would keep Jim out for an hour or so. Just long enough for me to get to Whitewater and do what has to be done.
The first thing Jim West noticed was how dry his mouth was. His brain seemed full of cotton as well. He grasped the back of the sofa and pulled himself to a sitting position, trying to figure out where he was and why.
Artie!
“Artie!” He called out, or tried to, his voice emanating as a hoarse whisper. Pushing himself to his feet, Jim staggered through the door into the galley, where he found a pitcher of water, poured a tumbler full, and downed it. The wetness eased his dry throat, and the coolness helped clear his head.
“Blast you, Artemus! I’m going to kill you!” If Kip Manley doesn’t beat me to it. The realization of exactly what his partner had done caused an icy sheen to flow over Jim West’s soul.
Jim forced himself to make a quick but methodical search of the compartments in the car, as well as the stable car, then used the communications hose to contact the crew. The crewmen told him they saw Artemus riding away over an hour ago. Of course, they had had no notion anything was amiss.
Only then did Jim leap into the saddle and put his heels to the black, which responded promptly, breaking into a swift gallop, as though sensing the frantic haste his master required. Artemus has over an hour’s head start. That phrase kept drumming through Jim’s head, and ice continued to flow through his veins. Whitewater was ten miles east, at the south end of this Wyoming valley, a long and hard ride.
Jim West could not forget the incident that had occurred in Tehada, Arizona Territory, when he had believed Artemus had died from an assassin’s bullet, his own panicky—and futile—attempts to find a pulse, the funeral that ensued, and his need for revenge. Jim also recalled his astonished joy to realize that his friend—his brother in all but blood—still lived. However, the dread of having to relive the moment that had occurred in the hotel was always within him. He did not want to experience that pain again. That fear had fueled his attempt to prevent Artie from answering the challenge of Kip Manley.
Manley had been a fellow officer in Artemus Gordon’s regiment. Early in the war, he had been arrested for stealing from his comrades. Gordon had been the leading witness at his trial, having seen Manley departing from the tent of a colonel shortly before that officer discovered some valuables missing. Kip Manley spent the rest of the war in the stockade, ultimately dishonorably discharged. For a man who came from a distinguished military family, this was the definitive disgrace… and he blamed his former childhood friend.
Jim had never laid eyes on the man, but over the years, the agents had occasionally heard stories regarding Kip Manley, usually about his growing prowess as a gunman and paid killer. They had also heard rumors that Manley boasted about the day he was going to kill Artemus Gordon, the friend who had betrayed him and—in his version—lied about Kip Manley to save his own skin. Manley appeared to spend a great deal of his time in Mexico, with periodic forays into the States to carry out a paid killing.
Not always for pay, Jim mused as the spirited black horse thundered toward the town. Stories also abounded of how Manley defeated the challengers who wanted to trade on his reputation to gain one of their own. He was so fast and accurate with his pistol that he always won, and always knew he would win. The agents were never sure just how much of the tales about Manley were fact and how much was the usual embellishment that accompanied the stories of a man with Manley’s reputation. Jim was also aware that hearing the tales saddened his partner.
A week ago the two agents had halted their train on the siding and proceeded on horseback to the town on the north side of the valley, Black Mesa. As a favor to the postmaster there, they had come to investigate a mail robbery. George Howard was an old friend from army days. The matter had been cleared up rather rapidly, but the pair had lingered to spend time with George and his family.
Yesterday, as they were preparing to take their leave from Black Mesa, word had arrived that a man in Whitewater, a town on the other side of the valley, was seeking Artemus Gordon. That man, they were told, was one Kip Manley, and he was challenging Gordon to meet him in Whitewater in a showdown. Artie had at first pooh-poohed the idea.
“I’m no gunfighter,” he stated flatly.
However, the story quickly spread through Black Mesa that the well-known federal agent was backing down from a challenge. Both Artemus and Jim presumed that Manley very likely had arranged for the story to reach Black Mesa, and perhaps had planted a man or two there to spread the rumors about the apparent cowardice of Artemus Gordon.
“Forget it,” Jim had advised, “let’s just get out of here.”
By then it was too late. Artemus Gordon knew that his honor had been challenged, as well as sullied. He stated flatly that he was going to go into Whitewater and meet Manley. Perhaps he could convince his one-time friend that a fight was foolish. Jim had talked and talked, futilely trying to persuade Artie otherwise. Finally, he made his own decision: he would face Manley himself… whereupon his best friend blew his top.
Jim knew he had never seen Artemus so angry as at that moment. Artie had quickly cooled down, realizing that his partner meant well. However, he also remained adamant, as they debated the issue for hours while the time set by Manley for the duel approached.
Jim knew now he had made a mistake in pulling rank. He had both astonished and hurt his partner by doing so. He himself could be stubborn and hardheaded. Artie was usually much more reasonable, but he could be mulish when, in his view, the occasion demanded. This challenge had been such an occasion.
I should have been more aware. I should have known he’d do some fool thing like this! To allow Artie to sneak up behind me that way…. That Artemus did so was a strong clue to his current feelings, how much this all meant to him. Usually Artie preferred to use his personality, his fluency with words, as well as guile, to remove himself from such situations.
The incident with Manley’s court martial had occurred before Jim had ever met Artemus Gordon, and he knew only what Artie had told him a few years ago when they had overheard some men talking about a recent gunfight that had happened in their town. One Kip Manley had outdrawn a local man who had been reputed to be very fast. Artie had then told Jim of his previous acquaintance with a man bearing that name.
They had been friends in Michigan, growing up in the same area, attending school together, and finally enlisting in the same regiment. “I was shocked when I realized that Kip was the camp thief,” Artie said at the time, “but later realized I should not have been. A number of petty thefts had occurred in school, as well as from our homes, not to mention stores in the area, but no one connected it to Kip. Yet he had been there, and he was in the camp when things began to go missing. I never was sure why he stole. His family was not wealthy, but he always seemed to have everything he asked for. Just the thrill of it, I suppose.”
But Artemus Gordon had witnessed Kip Manley leaving the colonel’s tent just a short while before the colonel discovered that his pocket watch and some money were missing. The watch was found secreted in the tent Manley shared with another soldier, whereupon Kip tried to blame his tent mate. But that man had been out on picket duty during the only possible time period that the theft could have occurred.
“At that time, testifying against Kip was the hardest thing I thought I would ever have to do,” Artie had stated sadly. “Turned out that a number of other camp thefts could be traced to him, which made it only slightly easier for me.”
Now Kip Manley, having turned himself into a notorious killer, wanted his final revenge. It occurred to Jim to wonder why Manley decided to call Artie out so publicly. Why not just come after him, even ambush him? Manley must be the type of fellow who likes attention, Jim mused. Perhaps he knows enough about Artemus Gordon to be aware of Artie’s job and reputation. Killing a government agent of the status of Artie could be an added fillip to a glory-seeking gunfighter… if that’s what Manley is.
As the town of Whitewater loomed, Jim slowed his pace slightly. Whitewater was not as prosperous as its sister city, Black Mesa, on the other side of the valley. George Howard had related that the two towns had been established around the same time by rival factions. Whitewater thought it had the upper hand because it was developed alongside the swift flowing river; the founders thought that the waterway would be used to float supplies in and possibly cattle out of the valley. Then the railroad had cut through the valley, however, its route laid closer to Black Mesa. Plus, George said, Black Mesa always seemed to have better management, better businesses, and thus became a more flourishing town.
The two agents had visited Whitewater just briefly during their investigation of the mail theft, to talk to the deputy sheriff who upheld the law in that town, appointed by Sheriff Baines, who maintained his headquarters in Black Mesa. Neither one of them had liked Deputy Simon Yates. He appeared to be the type of man who let the badge go to his head. However, the sheriff had said that Yates did a good job in Whitewater. He never received any complaints, and the town was well-run and law-abiding. In fact, Baines asserted, things were so quiet in Whitewater, despite the proliferation of saloons there, he himself rarely felt the need to make the trek across the valley.
Whitewater had just one main street, and as Jim rode down the middle, he noticed how the few people on the board walkways stared at him. Some might know who he was. They might also know that he was Artemus Gordon’s partner. Did their stares indicate that something had happened to Artie?
Deputy Yates was standing on the porch of the small building that housed the jail, a thick cigar jutting from his mouth. Artie had joked after their previous visit that the cigar was fatter than the deputy. Yates was an extremely thin man, almost skeletal, with a long face and a protruding, pointed chin. He had a high forehead, and his thinning hair seemed to extend the face even further.
Jim steered his horse toward that porch, and halted, not immediately dismounting. “I’m looking for Artemus Gordon,” he said.
Yates jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Inside.”
Jim West climbed down slowly. He did not want to ask the questions. Is he hurt? Is he alive? Would they have dragged his body into the jail to await claiming by his partner? Had a doctor repaired any wounds and left him there?
The deputy did not move until Jim stepped up onto the porch and headed for the door, and then he followed the agent inside. Jim took a few paces beyond the door, then stopped. The jail section was at the rear, just two cells created by iron bars embedded in the floor, with no wall or door dividing them from the office proper. One cell was empty. Artemus Gordon lay on his back on the cot in the other one.
I don’t see any blood…
Jim walked swiftly toward those bars, gripping the cool iron in his hands. “Artie!”
“He’s dead drunk,” Yates said behind him. “Damn coward!”
Jim West spun. “What the devil are you talking about?”
Yates shrugged his thin shoulders. “Just what I said. He rode hell for leather into town, stomped into the Silverado and braced Kip Manley. Manley told him to go to the devil. Gordon went to the bar, downed some liquid courage, then shot Manley in the back of the head.”
For a long moment, Jim just stared at the deputy, absorbing what he had just been told. Then he shook his head slowly. “That’s a lie.”
Again Yates shrugged. “I wasn’t there. But plenty of folks saw it. Only reason the trial ain’t goin’ on right now is that the judge is sick. Likely tomorrow morning, with a hanging by noon.”
“Let me into the cell,” Jim snapped.
“Can’t do that. ‘Sides, what good would it do? He’s out cold. Downing a quart of redeye in twenty minutes will do that. I don’t expect him to wake up ‘fore I drag him to the Silverado for the trial. Kind of ironic, huh? We use the Silverado for our courtroom, and that’s the scene of the crime.”
Jim had difficulty hanging onto his temper. He could see that Artie’s chest was rising and falling evenly, as though in a deep sleep. He stepped closer to the bars again. “Artie! Artie!” His partner did not stir. Again Jim turned to the deputy. “Where’s Manley’s body?”
Yates’s almost invisible brows lifted slightly. “Buried.”
“Buried! That was fast!” Too fast.
“Why not? No need to have a corpse laying around. Especially the way his head was all busted up.”
“Did you get the bullet out?”
“Huh? Why bother?”
“Because it’s standard procedure,” Jim replied tightly.
One more time Yates shrugged those nearly nonexistent shoulders. “Well, hell. Nine people seen Gordon do the shootin’. Don’t need no bullet.”
Jim held his temper and his tongue by the hardest. He wanted to bring up the fact that Manley had challenged Gordon to a gunfight, to point out that Artemus Gordon did not drink that way, that he would never shoot a man in the back, drunk or sober. Instead, he simply told the deputy that he would be back to look in on the prisoner later.
The first thing he did was to stride down the board walkway to the telegraph office. He was not entirely astonished when the telegrapher told him that all the lines were down, that he could not contact the sheriff over in Black Mesa, nor anyone else. Jim surprised the man by stepping around the counter and tapping out a code on the apparatus. But the telegrapher smirked when no response was forthcoming.
“See?”
Jim departed without comment, crossing the dusty street toward the largest of the town’s half dozen drinking palaces. George Howard had told them that drinking, gambling, and whoring were the main industries in Whitewater now. The few stores survived merely because the men who frequented those places, and the women and men who worked in them, also needed food and clothing. The few families residing in or near Whitewater were connected with the general store, the blacksmith, the feed and grain emporium, and other such establishments, either owning them or employed within.
Passing through the double doors that were standing wide open in the early afternoon heat, Jim paused as he stepped to one side to allow his vision to adjust to the dimness, while not remaining a silhouette in the doorway. When he and Artemus were in Whitewater a few days ago, they had visited one of the other, smaller saloons for a beer. Despite that he had never before set foot in here, Jim realized that every person in the Silverado just now knew his identity.
None stared directly, but all glanced his way at least once. A half dozen women and perhaps twenty or twenty-five rough-appearing men were present, all armed. The men were at the bar or seated at tables, drinking, playing poker, or just talking with their companions. The women were scattered around the room, in the company of one or more of the male patrons, except for one woman who was at a table alone.
He crossed the floor to the bar and asked for a beer. The stocky barkeep placed one before him without comment. Jim put a coin on the bar. “I hear there was some excitement in here awhile ago. Did you witness it?”
The bartender’s eyes narrowed slightly as he busied himself wiping down the bar with a stained rag, not meeting Jim’s gaze. “Saw it all.”
“Where did it happen?”
“That corner table. The one where Lizzie is sitting alone.”
Jim glanced that way. The woman he had noticed was still seated by herself. “Odd she would want to hang around where a murder was committed.”
“Lizzie is funny that way.”
Jim picked up his glass and strolled across the room, still conscious that he was under scrutiny by every pair of eyes. They know who I am. They know my connection to Artie. What the devil is going on here?
No signs of blood were on the rough wooden floor around the table where the woman was sitting, nor did it appear that the boards had been recently scrubbed. Jim put his beer down and sat down across from the woman, careful to put his back to the wall, in a position where he could see the entire room. She looked at him, then directed her gaze back into the glass of whiskey sitting before her. “I can’t tell you anything.”
Her words were so soft Jim almost missed them. “Just thought you might like some company,” he said in a normal tone, loud enough to carry to the poker game ten or so feet away. He picked up his own beer, and murmured when he held the glass to his lips, “I understand this where the killing took place?”
She was a brunette, with big brown eyes, probably in her early to mid thirties. Chances were that in her younger days her beauty had been spectacular. Quite a bit had eroded away in her lifestyle, but she was still very attractive. “Go away,” she whispered. “You want to hang with your friend?”
“Did you know Kip Manley?” Jim asked quietly.
“Everybody knows Kip,” she replied. Jim thought he heard acid in her tone, though her facial expression did not alter. He noticed the tense of the verb she had used and wondered what it meant, if anything. Might be just a slip, because Manley had been dead just a few hours.
“Did you see the shooting?”
At first he thought she was not going to answer. The brown eyes flicked toward him, briefly scanned the room, then once more dropped toward the gleaming liquid in her glass. “Everybody saw it.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“Give me your hand,” she whispered. “I read palms.”
Jim extended his right hand across the table and she cradled it in one of hers. For a long moment, she stared at his palm, and he saw her eyes widen. “What do you see?” he asked.
“You don’t want to know. You’d better get out of here.” She traced a fingernail across his palm as she spoke, as though pointing out one of the lines. “I’m going to tell you a name. Don’t react.”
Jim nodded, and spoke in a louder voice. “That’s pretty interesting. Long life, huh? In my profession?”
“Merton Warner.”
Good thing she warned me! Jim took a breath. Another name from the past. The long ago past. “He’s here?”
“That’s why you gotta leave. No use both of you hanging.” Lizzie released his hand and said loudly, “That’s about all I got to tell you, mister. Fame and fortune. What else could you ask for?” She got to her feet and strolled away, carrying her tumbler of whiskey and swaying slightly. Jim was certain she was not that inebriated.
He picked up his beer to take a last swallow, when he noticed a man descending the staircase built along the side of the broad room. A stocky, well-dressed man, perhaps in his fifties, with a smooth pate but luxurious ginger-colored muttonchop whiskers which displayed only a few silver threads. He was looking in Jim’s direction.
So Jim waited as the man approached. “I’m thinking you’re Jim West, the partner of the man who was arrested for the murder today.”
“I’m Jim West.”
“Dolph Osborne. I own this place.” He sat down without invitation. “Sad business.”
“You witnessed it?”
“No, I was upstairs. Came down when I heard the gunfire. Your partner usually drink like that?”
“What were you told occurred, Mr. Osborne?”
The saloonkeeper chewed his lip a moment. “That this Gordon came in, charged right up to where Kip Manley was sitting—right in this chair as a matter of fact. Sitting with Lizzie. She was his favorite. Likely you could see why. She was sitting where you are. Anyway, Gordon demanded a showdown, and Kip told him to go away. Gordon went back to the bar, ordered a bottle of whiskey, drank more than half of it, one shot after another. Then he comes back, pulls his gun and shoots Kip in the back of the head.”
“That’s odd.”
Osborne blinked. “What is?”
“Why didn’t Lizzie warn him that Gordon was returning, that he had pulled a gun?”
“Well… I don’t know. Like I said, I wasn’t down here. Likely it’ll come out in the trial tomorrow.”
“Likely,” Jim murmured.
He got to his feet, nodded to Osborne and strode out of the saloon, crossing the street to the jail. Yates was not on the porch, but he was inside, in his chair behind his desk, booted feet up on the desktop.
“He ain’t awake yet. Like I said before, I don’t expect him to wake up till time for the trial.”
Jim barely glanced toward the cell, where Artie was still sprawled on the wooden bench that served as a seat and bed. “Where did you bury Kip Manley?”
That apparently was the last question Yates expected. He pulled his feet down from the desk, leaning forward. “Why you want to know?” he asked, expression guarded.
“I want to put some posies on his grave,” Jim replied sarcastically.
“I don’t know where he was put. Some of the boys took him out into the prairie. Seems that was what Kip always said he wanted. To be planted out in the middle of nowhere, his grave unmarked.”
“Strange request from a man who enjoyed publicity the way Manley seemed to. Where will I find Merton Warner?”
Yates’s mouth dropped open, long chin drooping almost to his chest. He pulled it shut with some effort. “Why do you want him?”
“Old friend. Just thought I’d look him up.”
“You can see him at the trial tomorrow. He’s the judge.”
Jim did not react to this astonishing information. Warner a judge? “Is there a doctor in this town?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to have him look at my partner.”
Yates got to his feet. “Ain’t nothing wrong with him. He’s just sleeping off a drunk. Don’t worry, he’ll be awake and sober in time to be hanged tomorrow.”
“You didn’t answer my question about Warner. Where does he live?”
“You ain’t got no business with him.”
“But I do. I intend to act as my partner’s defense attorney. I think I should talk to the judge beforehand.”
Yates was getting nervous, perspiration shiny on his long face. “I told you before, he’s sick. He ain’t taking visitors. You can talk to him at the trial.”
“Deputy Yates, you’ve been of great assistance to me. I’m very grateful.” With that sardonic remark, Jim exited the office. He glanced around and saw a small restaurant almost directly across the street, next to the Silverado. Crossing and going inside, he chose a small table that allowed a clear view of the sheriff’s office, told the man in a dirty white apron that he just wanted coffee, and waited.
About five minutes elapsed before Yates emerged. Jim saw how he stared around, his gaze lighting for a long moment on the black horse that was still tied to the rack in front of the jail. Then the deputy locked his office door and strode down the walkway. Jim got to his feet, tossed a coin on the table and went to the doorway.
He saw Yates turn a corner at an alley beyond the building that housed the mercantile and separated it from the town’s hotel. Jim left the cafe, crossing the street to his horse and mounting, then riding in the opposite direction from that which the deputy had taken. He halted again at a big barn-like structure almost at the edge of town.
A burly man wearing a leather apron emerged as Jim dismounted. “Something I can do for you?”
“I’m not sure,” Jim replied mildly. “Wonder if you’d mind looking at the horse’s left front hoof. He seems to be favoring it and I’m wondering if the shoe is loose.”
The blacksmith stared at him a moment. Someone else who knows my identity. The smith took the reins, led the horse into the building. Jim followed, gazing casually around. As he had expected, he spotted Artie’s chestnut mare in a stall. He also carefully took in the layout of the building, noticing a back door, as well as a couple of windows that were standing open just now.
“Looks okay to me,” the smithy said, releasing the black’s forefoot.
Jim smiled. “Must have been dogging it. He does that from time to time to get a little attention.” He dug in his pocket for a coin, but the man waved him off. Jim led the horse back outside, mounted, and with a nod toward the big man, continued on his way out of town, heading in the same direction from which he had ridden in an hour or so earlier.
“Artie! Artie! Can you hear me? Snap out of it, partner! Come on!”
Artemus Gordon heard the familiar voice, urgent in its tone. Were they experiencing an earthquake? Why was the bed shaking? No… not the bed. Just his body. “What…? Jim… what…?” He heard his own voice, rasping and dry. What was that roaring sound that seemed to drown out his own thoughts?
“Come on, pal. I need you awake. I wish I had some coffee to pour in you.”
Artie forced his eyes open, and was momentarily startled to realize that doing so did not change things much. All was black. But he did see shapes. Or a shape. Looming over him. Again the earthquake… no, hands were shaking his shoulders. “Whassgoinon…?”
Jim picked up the canteen he had just filled from the frigid waters of the nearby river and held it to his partner’s lips. Artie drank greedily, but Jim pulled it away after a moment. His own vision accustomed to the blackness of the moonless night, Jim saw Artie’s eyes blink several times.
“Jim? Where are we?”
“Away from that blasted jail,” Jim replied crisply. “Artie, we’ve got to get back to the train. I need you to be able to ride on your own. Can you sit up?”
“Help me,” Artie said, and Jim grasped his partner’s arm, pulling him to a sitting position. “Whoa,” Artemus murmured. “The ground isn’t very steady in these parts.” He closed his eyes for a long moment.
“Artie, I want to know what happened, but we haven’t the time just now. They’ve already discovered you’re gone.” He had heard the shouts from town. Yates must have been able to signal after all, or at least make some noise.
He had secreted himself in some brush on a hill outside of town and waited long hours until full summer dark, then crept back into town when the only signs of life were in the always busy saloons. Breaking Artie’s mare out of the livery had been fairly easy. Getting his partner out of jail was only slightly more difficult.
Yates, and others, must have believed that he had gone back to the train, which was what he had hoped they would think. He was puzzled when no one followed him out of town to make sure, yet was well aware that Warner had always suffered from overconfidence. Jim had hidden the two horses in the alley alongside the jail, then stepped boldly in through the unlocked front door, catching Yates completely by surprise.
After using Yates’s own manacles on him, fastening his hands behind his back, Jim had gagged the deputy and locked him in the unused cell, then opened Artie’s. His partner was still in a deep sleep, and could not be roused. So after finding Artemus’s gun and belt in the sheriff’s desk, Jim had hoisted his partner over his shoulder, carried him out to the horses. He found it necessary to hold Artie on his own saddle with him, leading the chestnut, which unfortunately slowed their pace. Knowing that when and if the escape was discovered the belief would be that the two agents would head for the train, Jim had gone the opposite direction, to the riverside. His hope was that by the time Artie was ready to ride, the posse would have checked the train, and would be searching elsewhere.
“Artie,” Jim asked quietly, “did you see Merton Warner?”
Artemus Gordon’s eyes popped open. “Merton Warner! Here? You saw him?”
Jim shook his head quickly. “No. But I know he’s here. This was one gigantic spider web, Artie. Not just you being lured into it. Both of us. We’re both flies.”
“I don’t understand.” Artie rubbed his hand over his face, as though trying to brush away the dust that was still muddling his thoughts.
“I know you don’t, pal. But we don’t have time to talk about it now. We need to get to the train and put some distance between us and Whitewater, then regroup and come back and take care of a few things.”
“Help me up,” Artie said.
Jim pulled him to his feet. Artemus immediately staggered, then leaned with his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths. Jim waited. He did not know what kind of drug had been used, but he was pretty sure Artemus had been given more than one dose. He had been unconscious close to twelve hours.
“Okay,” Artie breathed, carefully straightening. “I can manage now. I don’t suppose this was some sort of revenge on your part.”
Jim was momentarily puzzled. “Revenge?”
“For the chloroform.”
Jim chuckled, shaking his head. “No. I’ll get you another time. Let’s go. We’re going to have to take a circuitous route to reach the train.”
“I sure as the devil wish I knew what was going on,” Artie grumbled as he pulled himself into the saddle. He had quickly realized that he should not make any sudden movements, lest the vertigo return. His head felt heavy, as though he needed a stick poked in under his coat to hold it up. He knew his partner well, however, and he recognized the urgency in Jim’s tone and demeanor. Explanations would come later… on both sides. Merton Warner? Isn’t he dead? Or in France?
Jim led the way, riding along the river bank. He looked back frequently to make sure that Artemus was staying in the saddle. The roar of the swift flowing water below them precluded conversation. He was intensely curious about how his partner had ended up in a drugged stupor in the jail cell, but odds were that Manley, or someone, had provided a spiked drink. Had Manley been present at all? Had Kip Manley’s name merely been used as part of the bait? Knowing Merton Warner was involved had changed the situation drastically. Warner was capable of elaborate plots that could have drawn in people like the bar girl Lizzie and the owner of the Silverado, as well as the bartender and others.
James West had first encountered Merton Warner in New Orleans shortly after the battle of Vicksburg. Warner had been a profiteer, accumulating a small fortune in the black market, smuggling cotton out and other much-needed items in, selling them mainly to the needy South at exorbitant prices. Jim had arrested Warner, seen him sentenced to prison, and pretty much forgotten about him.
Then about a year after the end of the war, while in the process of building their own reputations as Secret Service agents, Warner crossed the paths of both Gordon and West. Having been released from prison, Warner was in the process of a plot to rob the United States mint in Denver. Artemus, in one of his disguises, had infiltrated the gang, learned the plans, whereupon he and Jim foiled the robbery. Once again, Merton Warner had been sent to prison. He had raged during his sentencing, promising full vengeance against the two men who had prevented him from fulfilling his destiny.
Two years ago Warner escaped from prison and attempted to carry out that revenge. He had used a slick ruse to capture Jim West, but fell for another one of Artie’s disguises. His plans were ruined. On this occasion, however, he had escaped custody before a trial could be held, and completely disappeared. Rumors had it that he had gone to Europe and died there. Until now, no reason had arisen to throw doubt on the story.
The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten when their circuitous route led them to a hill from which they should have been able to look down on the engine and cars waiting on the siding. Jim pulled back harshly on the reins, and a moment later, Artemus halted beside him.
“Jim! The train… where is it?”
“I don't know,” Jim grated. The tracks in either direction were empty.
For a long moment both men sat still, scanning the landscape. Nothing was within view, not their train, and no humans or horses.
“What now?” Artie asked quietly.
“We should try to get to Black Mesa, I guess. But somehow I suspect it’s not going to be as easy as it looks.”
Artemus nodded. His head was clearer now, as long as he did not attempt to run a marathon or grapple with a horde of banditos. “I think we need to regroup.”
Jim laughed softly at the term, then reined his black horse back the way they had come. Artemus followed, and they continued until they encountered the river again. The waterway meandered all around the valley, and at this point was too deep and swift to attempt to cross. They found a deep cutout, however, that had been caused by erosion at a time when the river ran even higher, creating a particularly good place to hide. The cover was enhanced by a couple of trees leaning precariously over the opening, almost disguising it completely.
“Tell me what happened to you, Artie?” Jim asked as soon as they were settled in with fresh water in their canteens.
Artemus sighed. “I was snookered, Jim. A man on the street told me that Kip Manley was in the Silverado, so that’s where I headed. I hoped to talk Kip out of the gunfight. Which reminds me, I apologize profusely for the chloroform. I was… I was not thinking all that clearly at the time.”
“I got that impression. But don’t worry. I had a good nap.”
Artie grinned. “All right. But I am going to pay for it eventually, right?”
“If we live long enough,” Jim smiled, then sobered. “Go on with your story.”
“Okay. I went into the Silverado, and there was Kip.”
“So he is involved.”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. After hearing that Warner is here, I thought maybe it was all a made-up story.”
“He acted like he had no idea I was in the neighborhood and laughed when I told him I had heard he challenged me. He said that apparently a friend of his had heard of our presence in the area and started talking up the fight, despite that Kip had told him he had buried the hatchet where I was concerned. I tell you, Jim, I was so relieved, I guess I was willing to believe anything. He poured me a drink—from the same bottle he was drinking from by the way—and I drank. That’s pretty much all I remember until I woke up awhile back.”
Jim shook his head. “What in the world is Warner planning? He lured me into town but stayed out of sight. Apparently he was going to be the judge at your trial.”
“Oh, great. Talk about your unbalanced scales of justice!”
“Yeah. I think I wasn’t supposed to know of his presence here until I walked into the courtroom tomorrow.”
“How did you find out?”
“A woman in the Silverado, name of Lizzie, told me.”
Artie nodded. “She was sitting with Kip. I got the impression she was extremely unhappy about something.”
“It seems as though a large portion, if not all, of the town’s population is in on the scheme, though I’m not sure how willingly.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Makes the odds rather fair, don’t you think? Something like a hundred to one.”
“I noticed that. We need to get to Black Mesa, Artie. The depth of the river on this side of the valley, especially where it borders Whitewater, pretty much cuts off retreat in that direction. I have no doubt the bridge there is, or will be, heavily guarded.” George had informed them that bridge was the only span on the river in that area.
“Where do you suppose the train is?”
Jim shook his head. “Hard to say. Out of our immediate reach. Just hope the crew wasn’t harmed.”
“Yeah. You think Warner has a picket line set up?”
“I have no doubt. If it wasn’t in place before I helped you escape, it certainly was set up afterwards. If he’s got enough men…” Jim shook his head. “How you feeling?”
“Oh, a lot better. Hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Sorry, I didn’t bring a sandwich along. That’s what you get for sleeping through supper.”
“Yeah. But we are in a pickle, Jim. No food, only the ammunition on our belts.”
“Well, we have to find a way through the picket line, Artemus. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Artie knew what Jim meant. During the war, their espionage activities had required them to evade large and small enemy patrols. Slipping through a picket line around a camp had become almost second nature. “I don’t suppose George will come looking for us. If he notices the train has moved on, he’ll just believe we departed.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. Artie, I think we need to split up.”
“Jim…” He had known it was coming. He also knew Jim was probably right. That did not mean he liked the idea.
“I know. We can’t hang around here all day, and in broad daylight, two of us are going to make a much bigger target than just one. Here’s what I propose…”
Artemus held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say, Jim. You’ll create a commotion to draw as many men to you as you can, while I slip through and get help at Black Mesa. But what if it’s too late for help? What if they kill you?”
“You’re a worrywart, Artemus. I don’t believe Warner has ‘shoot to kill’ orders out. He went to too much trouble to set all this up. He’s not going to have either one of us killed until he’s good and ready. He wants to have some fun first.”
“I have to agree,” Artie sighed. “And when he’s good and ready means after he’s tortured you, if he nabs you first.”
“Have you got a better idea, Artie? And don’t say you’ll create the diversion. I know you, Artemus. I can see you haven’t entirely recovered from the drug.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” Artemus responded. “The one who heads toward Black Mesa will need his wits about him as well.”
Jim remained silent a long moment, knowing the truth to this. Finding the way to the other side of the valley while avoiding searchers could be difficult. “Want to toss for it?” he asked finally.
“Only if you let me use my two-headed quarter.”
Jim West laughed. “Let’s base it on the horses then. You know Blackjack is the faster. The one creating the diversion is going to need to outrun pursuers.”
“Dang it, Jim,” Artemus Gordon sighed, “why are you always able to rationalize everything, even when it’s irrational?”
“A gift,” Jim replied wryly. “If you feel up to it, we’d better get moving.”
“As my head is slowly clearing, I’m remembering something,” Artie murmured, turning toward the brown horse that had been waiting quietly. He opened one of the saddlebags and pulled out a bundle of cloth. “I have a little disguise here—a Mexican peon.”
“Left over from Halloween?”
“Ha ha!” Artie snickered at his partner’s attempt at whimsy. “I stuck it in here when we first went to Black Mesa, thinking I might use it to help solve the mail theft, then didn’t remove it.” He shook out the bundle, revealing a loose blouse and colorful serape, as well as a floppy sombrero and a small box which contained his makeup.
“I don't know, Artie,” Jim spoke doubtfully.
“Jim, with Merton Warner out there, we need every edge we can get. Every diversion.”
“You’re right. Okay. While you are fixing yourself up for your stage appearance, I’ll head out. Give me at least a half hour. I’ll try to make enough noise not only to draw Warner’s men to me, but so that you can hear I’m in action.”
“Just stay in action, partner. No laying down on the job.” Artie’s words were light, but his face was grim.
“That goes double, pal. No siestas. See you later.” Jim swung into the saddle.
“Yeah,” Artie replied, sourly. “Later.” He did not like this plan of action one bit, even while being aware that Jim was probably right. One of them needed to get to Black Mesa for some help. They could only hope that the telegraph was still in operation there; the army might be needed. Jim West was always throwing himself into the middle of the storm, and as Artie had once commented to a Mexican Federale officer who asked why Gordon allowed it, “What makes you think I had a choice?” One would think that after all these years, after the number of times Jim has done this, I’d be used to it.
Artie applied the makeup swiftly but accurately. He had a brushy black mustache to paste to his upper lip, along with the skin-darkening cream. Artemus Gordon was going to do everything in his power to avoid encountering anyone at all, but the disguise just might help him if he did run into any of Warner’s men. The plan was that every man now scouring the region for them would be drawn toward the commotion Jim West would be causing.
Jim spotted the first men about two miles from where he left his partner alongside the river, and fortuitously, he saw them before they saw him. That gave him a few moments to lay out his strategy. He had just rounded a low knoll when he heard a man laugh—a much too loud laugh from someone who should have been worried about alerting his quarry, which had just happened. Pulling to a halt, Jim swung the black horse around then slowly and cautiously ascended the rise from the backside, to a vantage point from which he could view his pursuers behind the shelter of some heavy brush at the summit.
Five of them, all mounted, not doing much pursuing at the moment; they seemed to be quite relaxed in their saddles. Three were smoking cigarettes. They were not taking their job very seriously, perhaps because they were out of the range of surveillance by Warner and the deputy sheriff.
Jim inspected the surroundings. He was not familiar with this area, but the landscape indicated that the river arced a little north of this site. The river cut a sinuous path throughout the valley after curving around Whitewater, providing water for the cattle of the few ranches located here. He wanted to give himself an escape route once he exposed his presence to these men, and the river with its swift and deep current was an all but impassable barrier. Be nice to know where the next picket line is, too, but I’m going to have to just risk it. Artie needs time and space to get to Black Mesa.
He leaned down to pat the black’s neck, murmuring encouraging words. This was not going to be fun, for man or beast. Riding at a gallop over unfamiliar ground was not a wise activity: they could encounter obstacles—a prairie dog hole, fallen log, rocks…. The pace had to be swift to avoid capture. Or to hopefully avoid capture.
Jim rode back down the rear of the knoll, then took a deep breath before spurring the gallant black horse into top speed through the low area where he had originally spotted the men. About halfway to them, just as one of them shouted a greeting, apparently inquiring if the oncoming rider was one of his cohort, Jim hauled back on the reins. The black reared and snorted. Jim then reined him away from the posse, drawing his gun and firing a single shot toward the men. Artemus had been right. Without the supplies in the train at their disposal, the ammunition they possessed was limited and to be hoarded as much as possible.
His abrupt appearance apparently threw the five men into confusion, as several seconds elapsed before they got on his trail. So much time that Jim felt it necessary to slow down slightly lest they lose him. As soon as he was sure they were behind him, he kicked the black’s speed up again, throwing another shot in his pursuers’ direction. They reciprocated, and he ducked low in the saddle so as to create less of a target. With any luck, the sounds of their shots would carry not only back to Artemus to alert him to move out, but to any other of Warner’s men in the vicinity, pulling them to this area.
He had not proceeded very far when proof appeared that, indeed, the commotion had drawn the interest he hoped, as another group of men appeared from his left, with their weapons streaking fire. When another similar posse emerged from his right, Jim West knew he was in trouble. They had been much nearer than he had anticipated, and were going to be able to close down his escape route.
Artie, you’d better be well on your way!
THE NIGHT OF THE DEADLY DARE
An argument needs no reason, nor a friendship.
Fragment 40 – Ibycus (c. 580 BC)
An argument needs no reason, nor a friendship.
Fragment 40 – Ibycus (c. 580 BC)
“I didn’t think you could be susceptible to a bully’s taunts.”
Artemus Gordon glanced over to where his friend was seated on the plush sofa of the parlor car, then resumed his stare out the window at the arid Wyoming landscape. “Normally, I’m not. But this is… different.”
“How?”
“It’s… it’s hard to explain. Of all people, Jim, you should understand.” Now he turned to face him. “How many times have you responded to a challenge?”
“Too many times. I’ve often wished I could be like you, let it flow away like water off a duck’s back.” Jim West got to his feet. “Artie, you can’t face Kip Manley.”
“Jim, for crying out loud, you’re acting like I’m not capable of fighting my own battles!”
Jim West reached for the gun belt laying over the back of the couch, turning his back. He barely glanced over his shoulder as he began to strap on the belt. “No. What I’m saying is that you are not a gunhand, Artie. You can shoot a gun, and shoot it accurately. Maybe better than me. But you could never beat Kip Manley to the draw.”
“And you can.”
Now Jim looked back and saw the anger—and hurt—on his partner’s face. “Artie, be reasonable. You…”
“Reasonable! Turn it around, James. How would you feel if you were being told to go sit in the corner and let the big boys fight it out!”
“I wouldn’t like it,” Jim replied quietly. “But I hope I’d have the sense to realize the truth of it. Artemus, Manley will kill you!”
Artemus Gordon folded his arms across his chest, glaring. “So I get to live with everyone snickering behind their hands because I allowed you to take my place. I don’t look well in yellow, Jim.”
“No one will think that…”
“Like hell! Jim, Kip Manley wants me, not you. I’m the one who testified against him at the court martial. I’m the one who sent him to prison. I’m the one he has challenged!”
Jim lifted his gleaming pistol from its holster, spun the cylinder. “And I’m the one he’s going to face. Give it up, Artemus. I’m not going to allow you to ride into Whitewater and meet Manley. I’ll hog-tie you before I’ll permit that. Or I can order you to remain here.” He raised his gaze to look directly at his partner.
“Order me!”
Jim smiled slightly. “Remember, I have two weeks’ seniority on you.”
For an instant he thought his partner was going to explode again. Jim sympathized. He understood Artie’s feelings. Indeed, he would feel the same. But facts were facts. Kip Manley had a reputation as a fast-draw and deadly killer. Artemus was no match for him.
Just as Jim was sure he was going to hear another tirade, Artie turned and departed from the parlor area, heading back toward the galley and beyond. Jim knew that Artie’s mare was already saddled and tied to the rear of the parlor car, alongside Jim’s horse. So he was not going for his horse, unless he exited through another door.
I need to get into Whitewater ahead of him, just in case he has any intention of going there.
Jim turned and picked up his jacket. He was pulling it on when he heard the footstep behind him. His nostrils caught the faint scent of something sweet. He was about to turn to see what his partner was doing, but the opportunity swiftly passed as the strong arm went around his neck, while a hand pressed a saturated cloth over his mouth and nose.
Jim West struggled, trying to loosen the grip, and even attempted to hold his breath, but those first few seconds did him in. The shock of his partner’s assault had caused him to breathe in deeply, inhaling the fumes of the chloroform, so that the anesthetic immediately began its work, numbing his senses. Even trying to hold his breath was useless, because that required another inhalation.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” Artie said softly into his ear. “This is something I have to do for myself.”
Artemus held the cloth in place a few extra seconds after his partner sagged, just in case he was playing possum. Then he caught Jim under the arms and hoisted him to the sofa, taking a moment to check his pulse to make sure it was still strong and steady.
“I know you meant well, partner.” Artemus gazed down at his unconscious friend. “If things were reversed, I know I’d probably try to do the same thing. But you also know that I have to do this. I have to face Manley. I hate the code of honor that requires it. Forgive me.” The dose of chloroform he used would keep Jim out for an hour or so. Just long enough for me to get to Whitewater and do what has to be done.
W*W*W*W*W
The first thing Jim West noticed was how dry his mouth was. His brain seemed full of cotton as well. He grasped the back of the sofa and pulled himself to a sitting position, trying to figure out where he was and why.
Artie!
“Artie!” He called out, or tried to, his voice emanating as a hoarse whisper. Pushing himself to his feet, Jim staggered through the door into the galley, where he found a pitcher of water, poured a tumbler full, and downed it. The wetness eased his dry throat, and the coolness helped clear his head.
“Blast you, Artemus! I’m going to kill you!” If Kip Manley doesn’t beat me to it. The realization of exactly what his partner had done caused an icy sheen to flow over Jim West’s soul.
Jim forced himself to make a quick but methodical search of the compartments in the car, as well as the stable car, then used the communications hose to contact the crew. The crewmen told him they saw Artemus riding away over an hour ago. Of course, they had had no notion anything was amiss.
Only then did Jim leap into the saddle and put his heels to the black, which responded promptly, breaking into a swift gallop, as though sensing the frantic haste his master required. Artemus has over an hour’s head start. That phrase kept drumming through Jim’s head, and ice continued to flow through his veins. Whitewater was ten miles east, at the south end of this Wyoming valley, a long and hard ride.
Jim West could not forget the incident that had occurred in Tehada, Arizona Territory, when he had believed Artemus had died from an assassin’s bullet, his own panicky—and futile—attempts to find a pulse, the funeral that ensued, and his need for revenge. Jim also recalled his astonished joy to realize that his friend—his brother in all but blood—still lived. However, the dread of having to relive the moment that had occurred in the hotel was always within him. He did not want to experience that pain again. That fear had fueled his attempt to prevent Artie from answering the challenge of Kip Manley.
Manley had been a fellow officer in Artemus Gordon’s regiment. Early in the war, he had been arrested for stealing from his comrades. Gordon had been the leading witness at his trial, having seen Manley departing from the tent of a colonel shortly before that officer discovered some valuables missing. Kip Manley spent the rest of the war in the stockade, ultimately dishonorably discharged. For a man who came from a distinguished military family, this was the definitive disgrace… and he blamed his former childhood friend.
Jim had never laid eyes on the man, but over the years, the agents had occasionally heard stories regarding Kip Manley, usually about his growing prowess as a gunman and paid killer. They had also heard rumors that Manley boasted about the day he was going to kill Artemus Gordon, the friend who had betrayed him and—in his version—lied about Kip Manley to save his own skin. Manley appeared to spend a great deal of his time in Mexico, with periodic forays into the States to carry out a paid killing.
Not always for pay, Jim mused as the spirited black horse thundered toward the town. Stories also abounded of how Manley defeated the challengers who wanted to trade on his reputation to gain one of their own. He was so fast and accurate with his pistol that he always won, and always knew he would win. The agents were never sure just how much of the tales about Manley were fact and how much was the usual embellishment that accompanied the stories of a man with Manley’s reputation. Jim was also aware that hearing the tales saddened his partner.
A week ago the two agents had halted their train on the siding and proceeded on horseback to the town on the north side of the valley, Black Mesa. As a favor to the postmaster there, they had come to investigate a mail robbery. George Howard was an old friend from army days. The matter had been cleared up rather rapidly, but the pair had lingered to spend time with George and his family.
Yesterday, as they were preparing to take their leave from Black Mesa, word had arrived that a man in Whitewater, a town on the other side of the valley, was seeking Artemus Gordon. That man, they were told, was one Kip Manley, and he was challenging Gordon to meet him in Whitewater in a showdown. Artie had at first pooh-poohed the idea.
“I’m no gunfighter,” he stated flatly.
However, the story quickly spread through Black Mesa that the well-known federal agent was backing down from a challenge. Both Artemus and Jim presumed that Manley very likely had arranged for the story to reach Black Mesa, and perhaps had planted a man or two there to spread the rumors about the apparent cowardice of Artemus Gordon.
“Forget it,” Jim had advised, “let’s just get out of here.”
By then it was too late. Artemus Gordon knew that his honor had been challenged, as well as sullied. He stated flatly that he was going to go into Whitewater and meet Manley. Perhaps he could convince his one-time friend that a fight was foolish. Jim had talked and talked, futilely trying to persuade Artie otherwise. Finally, he made his own decision: he would face Manley himself… whereupon his best friend blew his top.
Jim knew he had never seen Artemus so angry as at that moment. Artie had quickly cooled down, realizing that his partner meant well. However, he also remained adamant, as they debated the issue for hours while the time set by Manley for the duel approached.
Jim knew now he had made a mistake in pulling rank. He had both astonished and hurt his partner by doing so. He himself could be stubborn and hardheaded. Artie was usually much more reasonable, but he could be mulish when, in his view, the occasion demanded. This challenge had been such an occasion.
I should have been more aware. I should have known he’d do some fool thing like this! To allow Artie to sneak up behind me that way…. That Artemus did so was a strong clue to his current feelings, how much this all meant to him. Usually Artie preferred to use his personality, his fluency with words, as well as guile, to remove himself from such situations.
The incident with Manley’s court martial had occurred before Jim had ever met Artemus Gordon, and he knew only what Artie had told him a few years ago when they had overheard some men talking about a recent gunfight that had happened in their town. One Kip Manley had outdrawn a local man who had been reputed to be very fast. Artie had then told Jim of his previous acquaintance with a man bearing that name.
They had been friends in Michigan, growing up in the same area, attending school together, and finally enlisting in the same regiment. “I was shocked when I realized that Kip was the camp thief,” Artie said at the time, “but later realized I should not have been. A number of petty thefts had occurred in school, as well as from our homes, not to mention stores in the area, but no one connected it to Kip. Yet he had been there, and he was in the camp when things began to go missing. I never was sure why he stole. His family was not wealthy, but he always seemed to have everything he asked for. Just the thrill of it, I suppose.”
But Artemus Gordon had witnessed Kip Manley leaving the colonel’s tent just a short while before the colonel discovered that his pocket watch and some money were missing. The watch was found secreted in the tent Manley shared with another soldier, whereupon Kip tried to blame his tent mate. But that man had been out on picket duty during the only possible time period that the theft could have occurred.
“At that time, testifying against Kip was the hardest thing I thought I would ever have to do,” Artie had stated sadly. “Turned out that a number of other camp thefts could be traced to him, which made it only slightly easier for me.”
Now Kip Manley, having turned himself into a notorious killer, wanted his final revenge. It occurred to Jim to wonder why Manley decided to call Artie out so publicly. Why not just come after him, even ambush him? Manley must be the type of fellow who likes attention, Jim mused. Perhaps he knows enough about Artemus Gordon to be aware of Artie’s job and reputation. Killing a government agent of the status of Artie could be an added fillip to a glory-seeking gunfighter… if that’s what Manley is.
As the town of Whitewater loomed, Jim slowed his pace slightly. Whitewater was not as prosperous as its sister city, Black Mesa, on the other side of the valley. George Howard had related that the two towns had been established around the same time by rival factions. Whitewater thought it had the upper hand because it was developed alongside the swift flowing river; the founders thought that the waterway would be used to float supplies in and possibly cattle out of the valley. Then the railroad had cut through the valley, however, its route laid closer to Black Mesa. Plus, George said, Black Mesa always seemed to have better management, better businesses, and thus became a more flourishing town.
The two agents had visited Whitewater just briefly during their investigation of the mail theft, to talk to the deputy sheriff who upheld the law in that town, appointed by Sheriff Baines, who maintained his headquarters in Black Mesa. Neither one of them had liked Deputy Simon Yates. He appeared to be the type of man who let the badge go to his head. However, the sheriff had said that Yates did a good job in Whitewater. He never received any complaints, and the town was well-run and law-abiding. In fact, Baines asserted, things were so quiet in Whitewater, despite the proliferation of saloons there, he himself rarely felt the need to make the trek across the valley.
Whitewater had just one main street, and as Jim rode down the middle, he noticed how the few people on the board walkways stared at him. Some might know who he was. They might also know that he was Artemus Gordon’s partner. Did their stares indicate that something had happened to Artie?
Deputy Yates was standing on the porch of the small building that housed the jail, a thick cigar jutting from his mouth. Artie had joked after their previous visit that the cigar was fatter than the deputy. Yates was an extremely thin man, almost skeletal, with a long face and a protruding, pointed chin. He had a high forehead, and his thinning hair seemed to extend the face even further.
Jim steered his horse toward that porch, and halted, not immediately dismounting. “I’m looking for Artemus Gordon,” he said.
Yates jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Inside.”
Jim West climbed down slowly. He did not want to ask the questions. Is he hurt? Is he alive? Would they have dragged his body into the jail to await claiming by his partner? Had a doctor repaired any wounds and left him there?
The deputy did not move until Jim stepped up onto the porch and headed for the door, and then he followed the agent inside. Jim took a few paces beyond the door, then stopped. The jail section was at the rear, just two cells created by iron bars embedded in the floor, with no wall or door dividing them from the office proper. One cell was empty. Artemus Gordon lay on his back on the cot in the other one.
I don’t see any blood…
Jim walked swiftly toward those bars, gripping the cool iron in his hands. “Artie!”
“He’s dead drunk,” Yates said behind him. “Damn coward!”
Jim West spun. “What the devil are you talking about?”
Yates shrugged his thin shoulders. “Just what I said. He rode hell for leather into town, stomped into the Silverado and braced Kip Manley. Manley told him to go to the devil. Gordon went to the bar, downed some liquid courage, then shot Manley in the back of the head.”
For a long moment, Jim just stared at the deputy, absorbing what he had just been told. Then he shook his head slowly. “That’s a lie.”
Again Yates shrugged. “I wasn’t there. But plenty of folks saw it. Only reason the trial ain’t goin’ on right now is that the judge is sick. Likely tomorrow morning, with a hanging by noon.”
“Let me into the cell,” Jim snapped.
“Can’t do that. ‘Sides, what good would it do? He’s out cold. Downing a quart of redeye in twenty minutes will do that. I don’t expect him to wake up ‘fore I drag him to the Silverado for the trial. Kind of ironic, huh? We use the Silverado for our courtroom, and that’s the scene of the crime.”
Jim had difficulty hanging onto his temper. He could see that Artie’s chest was rising and falling evenly, as though in a deep sleep. He stepped closer to the bars again. “Artie! Artie!” His partner did not stir. Again Jim turned to the deputy. “Where’s Manley’s body?”
Yates’s almost invisible brows lifted slightly. “Buried.”
“Buried! That was fast!” Too fast.
“Why not? No need to have a corpse laying around. Especially the way his head was all busted up.”
“Did you get the bullet out?”
“Huh? Why bother?”
“Because it’s standard procedure,” Jim replied tightly.
One more time Yates shrugged those nearly nonexistent shoulders. “Well, hell. Nine people seen Gordon do the shootin’. Don’t need no bullet.”
Jim held his temper and his tongue by the hardest. He wanted to bring up the fact that Manley had challenged Gordon to a gunfight, to point out that Artemus Gordon did not drink that way, that he would never shoot a man in the back, drunk or sober. Instead, he simply told the deputy that he would be back to look in on the prisoner later.
The first thing he did was to stride down the board walkway to the telegraph office. He was not entirely astonished when the telegrapher told him that all the lines were down, that he could not contact the sheriff over in Black Mesa, nor anyone else. Jim surprised the man by stepping around the counter and tapping out a code on the apparatus. But the telegrapher smirked when no response was forthcoming.
“See?”
Jim departed without comment, crossing the dusty street toward the largest of the town’s half dozen drinking palaces. George Howard had told them that drinking, gambling, and whoring were the main industries in Whitewater now. The few stores survived merely because the men who frequented those places, and the women and men who worked in them, also needed food and clothing. The few families residing in or near Whitewater were connected with the general store, the blacksmith, the feed and grain emporium, and other such establishments, either owning them or employed within.
Passing through the double doors that were standing wide open in the early afternoon heat, Jim paused as he stepped to one side to allow his vision to adjust to the dimness, while not remaining a silhouette in the doorway. When he and Artemus were in Whitewater a few days ago, they had visited one of the other, smaller saloons for a beer. Despite that he had never before set foot in here, Jim realized that every person in the Silverado just now knew his identity.
None stared directly, but all glanced his way at least once. A half dozen women and perhaps twenty or twenty-five rough-appearing men were present, all armed. The men were at the bar or seated at tables, drinking, playing poker, or just talking with their companions. The women were scattered around the room, in the company of one or more of the male patrons, except for one woman who was at a table alone.
He crossed the floor to the bar and asked for a beer. The stocky barkeep placed one before him without comment. Jim put a coin on the bar. “I hear there was some excitement in here awhile ago. Did you witness it?”
The bartender’s eyes narrowed slightly as he busied himself wiping down the bar with a stained rag, not meeting Jim’s gaze. “Saw it all.”
“Where did it happen?”
“That corner table. The one where Lizzie is sitting alone.”
Jim glanced that way. The woman he had noticed was still seated by herself. “Odd she would want to hang around where a murder was committed.”
“Lizzie is funny that way.”
Jim picked up his glass and strolled across the room, still conscious that he was under scrutiny by every pair of eyes. They know who I am. They know my connection to Artie. What the devil is going on here?
No signs of blood were on the rough wooden floor around the table where the woman was sitting, nor did it appear that the boards had been recently scrubbed. Jim put his beer down and sat down across from the woman, careful to put his back to the wall, in a position where he could see the entire room. She looked at him, then directed her gaze back into the glass of whiskey sitting before her. “I can’t tell you anything.”
Her words were so soft Jim almost missed them. “Just thought you might like some company,” he said in a normal tone, loud enough to carry to the poker game ten or so feet away. He picked up his own beer, and murmured when he held the glass to his lips, “I understand this where the killing took place?”
She was a brunette, with big brown eyes, probably in her early to mid thirties. Chances were that in her younger days her beauty had been spectacular. Quite a bit had eroded away in her lifestyle, but she was still very attractive. “Go away,” she whispered. “You want to hang with your friend?”
“Did you know Kip Manley?” Jim asked quietly.
“Everybody knows Kip,” she replied. Jim thought he heard acid in her tone, though her facial expression did not alter. He noticed the tense of the verb she had used and wondered what it meant, if anything. Might be just a slip, because Manley had been dead just a few hours.
“Did you see the shooting?”
At first he thought she was not going to answer. The brown eyes flicked toward him, briefly scanned the room, then once more dropped toward the gleaming liquid in her glass. “Everybody saw it.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“Give me your hand,” she whispered. “I read palms.”
Jim extended his right hand across the table and she cradled it in one of hers. For a long moment, she stared at his palm, and he saw her eyes widen. “What do you see?” he asked.
“You don’t want to know. You’d better get out of here.” She traced a fingernail across his palm as she spoke, as though pointing out one of the lines. “I’m going to tell you a name. Don’t react.”
Jim nodded, and spoke in a louder voice. “That’s pretty interesting. Long life, huh? In my profession?”
“Merton Warner.”
Good thing she warned me! Jim took a breath. Another name from the past. The long ago past. “He’s here?”
“That’s why you gotta leave. No use both of you hanging.” Lizzie released his hand and said loudly, “That’s about all I got to tell you, mister. Fame and fortune. What else could you ask for?” She got to her feet and strolled away, carrying her tumbler of whiskey and swaying slightly. Jim was certain she was not that inebriated.
He picked up his beer to take a last swallow, when he noticed a man descending the staircase built along the side of the broad room. A stocky, well-dressed man, perhaps in his fifties, with a smooth pate but luxurious ginger-colored muttonchop whiskers which displayed only a few silver threads. He was looking in Jim’s direction.
So Jim waited as the man approached. “I’m thinking you’re Jim West, the partner of the man who was arrested for the murder today.”
“I’m Jim West.”
“Dolph Osborne. I own this place.” He sat down without invitation. “Sad business.”
“You witnessed it?”
“No, I was upstairs. Came down when I heard the gunfire. Your partner usually drink like that?”
“What were you told occurred, Mr. Osborne?”
The saloonkeeper chewed his lip a moment. “That this Gordon came in, charged right up to where Kip Manley was sitting—right in this chair as a matter of fact. Sitting with Lizzie. She was his favorite. Likely you could see why. She was sitting where you are. Anyway, Gordon demanded a showdown, and Kip told him to go away. Gordon went back to the bar, ordered a bottle of whiskey, drank more than half of it, one shot after another. Then he comes back, pulls his gun and shoots Kip in the back of the head.”
“That’s odd.”
Osborne blinked. “What is?”
“Why didn’t Lizzie warn him that Gordon was returning, that he had pulled a gun?”
“Well… I don’t know. Like I said, I wasn’t down here. Likely it’ll come out in the trial tomorrow.”
“Likely,” Jim murmured.
He got to his feet, nodded to Osborne and strode out of the saloon, crossing the street to the jail. Yates was not on the porch, but he was inside, in his chair behind his desk, booted feet up on the desktop.
“He ain’t awake yet. Like I said before, I don’t expect him to wake up till time for the trial.”
Jim barely glanced toward the cell, where Artie was still sprawled on the wooden bench that served as a seat and bed. “Where did you bury Kip Manley?”
That apparently was the last question Yates expected. He pulled his feet down from the desk, leaning forward. “Why you want to know?” he asked, expression guarded.
“I want to put some posies on his grave,” Jim replied sarcastically.
“I don’t know where he was put. Some of the boys took him out into the prairie. Seems that was what Kip always said he wanted. To be planted out in the middle of nowhere, his grave unmarked.”
“Strange request from a man who enjoyed publicity the way Manley seemed to. Where will I find Merton Warner?”
Yates’s mouth dropped open, long chin drooping almost to his chest. He pulled it shut with some effort. “Why do you want him?”
“Old friend. Just thought I’d look him up.”
“You can see him at the trial tomorrow. He’s the judge.”
Jim did not react to this astonishing information. Warner a judge? “Is there a doctor in this town?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to have him look at my partner.”
Yates got to his feet. “Ain’t nothing wrong with him. He’s just sleeping off a drunk. Don’t worry, he’ll be awake and sober in time to be hanged tomorrow.”
“You didn’t answer my question about Warner. Where does he live?”
“You ain’t got no business with him.”
“But I do. I intend to act as my partner’s defense attorney. I think I should talk to the judge beforehand.”
Yates was getting nervous, perspiration shiny on his long face. “I told you before, he’s sick. He ain’t taking visitors. You can talk to him at the trial.”
“Deputy Yates, you’ve been of great assistance to me. I’m very grateful.” With that sardonic remark, Jim exited the office. He glanced around and saw a small restaurant almost directly across the street, next to the Silverado. Crossing and going inside, he chose a small table that allowed a clear view of the sheriff’s office, told the man in a dirty white apron that he just wanted coffee, and waited.
About five minutes elapsed before Yates emerged. Jim saw how he stared around, his gaze lighting for a long moment on the black horse that was still tied to the rack in front of the jail. Then the deputy locked his office door and strode down the walkway. Jim got to his feet, tossed a coin on the table and went to the doorway.
He saw Yates turn a corner at an alley beyond the building that housed the mercantile and separated it from the town’s hotel. Jim left the cafe, crossing the street to his horse and mounting, then riding in the opposite direction from that which the deputy had taken. He halted again at a big barn-like structure almost at the edge of town.
A burly man wearing a leather apron emerged as Jim dismounted. “Something I can do for you?”
“I’m not sure,” Jim replied mildly. “Wonder if you’d mind looking at the horse’s left front hoof. He seems to be favoring it and I’m wondering if the shoe is loose.”
The blacksmith stared at him a moment. Someone else who knows my identity. The smith took the reins, led the horse into the building. Jim followed, gazing casually around. As he had expected, he spotted Artie’s chestnut mare in a stall. He also carefully took in the layout of the building, noticing a back door, as well as a couple of windows that were standing open just now.
“Looks okay to me,” the smithy said, releasing the black’s forefoot.
Jim smiled. “Must have been dogging it. He does that from time to time to get a little attention.” He dug in his pocket for a coin, but the man waved him off. Jim led the horse back outside, mounted, and with a nod toward the big man, continued on his way out of town, heading in the same direction from which he had ridden in an hour or so earlier.
W*W*W*W*W
But in deede,
A friend is never knowne till a man have neede.
Proverbs, Part I, Chap. XI – John Heywood (1497-1580)
But in deede,
A friend is never knowne till a man have neede.
Proverbs, Part I, Chap. XI – John Heywood (1497-1580)
“Artie! Artie! Can you hear me? Snap out of it, partner! Come on!”
Artemus Gordon heard the familiar voice, urgent in its tone. Were they experiencing an earthquake? Why was the bed shaking? No… not the bed. Just his body. “What…? Jim… what…?” He heard his own voice, rasping and dry. What was that roaring sound that seemed to drown out his own thoughts?
“Come on, pal. I need you awake. I wish I had some coffee to pour in you.”
Artie forced his eyes open, and was momentarily startled to realize that doing so did not change things much. All was black. But he did see shapes. Or a shape. Looming over him. Again the earthquake… no, hands were shaking his shoulders. “Whassgoinon…?”
Jim picked up the canteen he had just filled from the frigid waters of the nearby river and held it to his partner’s lips. Artie drank greedily, but Jim pulled it away after a moment. His own vision accustomed to the blackness of the moonless night, Jim saw Artie’s eyes blink several times.
“Jim? Where are we?”
“Away from that blasted jail,” Jim replied crisply. “Artie, we’ve got to get back to the train. I need you to be able to ride on your own. Can you sit up?”
“Help me,” Artie said, and Jim grasped his partner’s arm, pulling him to a sitting position. “Whoa,” Artemus murmured. “The ground isn’t very steady in these parts.” He closed his eyes for a long moment.
“Artie, I want to know what happened, but we haven’t the time just now. They’ve already discovered you’re gone.” He had heard the shouts from town. Yates must have been able to signal after all, or at least make some noise.
He had secreted himself in some brush on a hill outside of town and waited long hours until full summer dark, then crept back into town when the only signs of life were in the always busy saloons. Breaking Artie’s mare out of the livery had been fairly easy. Getting his partner out of jail was only slightly more difficult.
Yates, and others, must have believed that he had gone back to the train, which was what he had hoped they would think. He was puzzled when no one followed him out of town to make sure, yet was well aware that Warner had always suffered from overconfidence. Jim had hidden the two horses in the alley alongside the jail, then stepped boldly in through the unlocked front door, catching Yates completely by surprise.
After using Yates’s own manacles on him, fastening his hands behind his back, Jim had gagged the deputy and locked him in the unused cell, then opened Artie’s. His partner was still in a deep sleep, and could not be roused. So after finding Artemus’s gun and belt in the sheriff’s desk, Jim had hoisted his partner over his shoulder, carried him out to the horses. He found it necessary to hold Artie on his own saddle with him, leading the chestnut, which unfortunately slowed their pace. Knowing that when and if the escape was discovered the belief would be that the two agents would head for the train, Jim had gone the opposite direction, to the riverside. His hope was that by the time Artie was ready to ride, the posse would have checked the train, and would be searching elsewhere.
“Artie,” Jim asked quietly, “did you see Merton Warner?”
Artemus Gordon’s eyes popped open. “Merton Warner! Here? You saw him?”
Jim shook his head quickly. “No. But I know he’s here. This was one gigantic spider web, Artie. Not just you being lured into it. Both of us. We’re both flies.”
“I don’t understand.” Artie rubbed his hand over his face, as though trying to brush away the dust that was still muddling his thoughts.
“I know you don’t, pal. But we don’t have time to talk about it now. We need to get to the train and put some distance between us and Whitewater, then regroup and come back and take care of a few things.”
“Help me up,” Artie said.
Jim pulled him to his feet. Artemus immediately staggered, then leaned with his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths. Jim waited. He did not know what kind of drug had been used, but he was pretty sure Artemus had been given more than one dose. He had been unconscious close to twelve hours.
“Okay,” Artie breathed, carefully straightening. “I can manage now. I don’t suppose this was some sort of revenge on your part.”
Jim was momentarily puzzled. “Revenge?”
“For the chloroform.”
Jim chuckled, shaking his head. “No. I’ll get you another time. Let’s go. We’re going to have to take a circuitous route to reach the train.”
“I sure as the devil wish I knew what was going on,” Artie grumbled as he pulled himself into the saddle. He had quickly realized that he should not make any sudden movements, lest the vertigo return. His head felt heavy, as though he needed a stick poked in under his coat to hold it up. He knew his partner well, however, and he recognized the urgency in Jim’s tone and demeanor. Explanations would come later… on both sides. Merton Warner? Isn’t he dead? Or in France?
Jim led the way, riding along the river bank. He looked back frequently to make sure that Artemus was staying in the saddle. The roar of the swift flowing water below them precluded conversation. He was intensely curious about how his partner had ended up in a drugged stupor in the jail cell, but odds were that Manley, or someone, had provided a spiked drink. Had Manley been present at all? Had Kip Manley’s name merely been used as part of the bait? Knowing Merton Warner was involved had changed the situation drastically. Warner was capable of elaborate plots that could have drawn in people like the bar girl Lizzie and the owner of the Silverado, as well as the bartender and others.
James West had first encountered Merton Warner in New Orleans shortly after the battle of Vicksburg. Warner had been a profiteer, accumulating a small fortune in the black market, smuggling cotton out and other much-needed items in, selling them mainly to the needy South at exorbitant prices. Jim had arrested Warner, seen him sentenced to prison, and pretty much forgotten about him.
Then about a year after the end of the war, while in the process of building their own reputations as Secret Service agents, Warner crossed the paths of both Gordon and West. Having been released from prison, Warner was in the process of a plot to rob the United States mint in Denver. Artemus, in one of his disguises, had infiltrated the gang, learned the plans, whereupon he and Jim foiled the robbery. Once again, Merton Warner had been sent to prison. He had raged during his sentencing, promising full vengeance against the two men who had prevented him from fulfilling his destiny.
Two years ago Warner escaped from prison and attempted to carry out that revenge. He had used a slick ruse to capture Jim West, but fell for another one of Artie’s disguises. His plans were ruined. On this occasion, however, he had escaped custody before a trial could be held, and completely disappeared. Rumors had it that he had gone to Europe and died there. Until now, no reason had arisen to throw doubt on the story.
The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten when their circuitous route led them to a hill from which they should have been able to look down on the engine and cars waiting on the siding. Jim pulled back harshly on the reins, and a moment later, Artemus halted beside him.
“Jim! The train… where is it?”
“I don't know,” Jim grated. The tracks in either direction were empty.
For a long moment both men sat still, scanning the landscape. Nothing was within view, not their train, and no humans or horses.
“What now?” Artie asked quietly.
“We should try to get to Black Mesa, I guess. But somehow I suspect it’s not going to be as easy as it looks.”
Artemus nodded. His head was clearer now, as long as he did not attempt to run a marathon or grapple with a horde of banditos. “I think we need to regroup.”
Jim laughed softly at the term, then reined his black horse back the way they had come. Artemus followed, and they continued until they encountered the river again. The waterway meandered all around the valley, and at this point was too deep and swift to attempt to cross. They found a deep cutout, however, that had been caused by erosion at a time when the river ran even higher, creating a particularly good place to hide. The cover was enhanced by a couple of trees leaning precariously over the opening, almost disguising it completely.
“Tell me what happened to you, Artie?” Jim asked as soon as they were settled in with fresh water in their canteens.
Artemus sighed. “I was snookered, Jim. A man on the street told me that Kip Manley was in the Silverado, so that’s where I headed. I hoped to talk Kip out of the gunfight. Which reminds me, I apologize profusely for the chloroform. I was… I was not thinking all that clearly at the time.”
“I got that impression. But don’t worry. I had a good nap.”
Artie grinned. “All right. But I am going to pay for it eventually, right?”
“If we live long enough,” Jim smiled, then sobered. “Go on with your story.”
“Okay. I went into the Silverado, and there was Kip.”
“So he is involved.”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. After hearing that Warner is here, I thought maybe it was all a made-up story.”
“He acted like he had no idea I was in the neighborhood and laughed when I told him I had heard he challenged me. He said that apparently a friend of his had heard of our presence in the area and started talking up the fight, despite that Kip had told him he had buried the hatchet where I was concerned. I tell you, Jim, I was so relieved, I guess I was willing to believe anything. He poured me a drink—from the same bottle he was drinking from by the way—and I drank. That’s pretty much all I remember until I woke up awhile back.”
Jim shook his head. “What in the world is Warner planning? He lured me into town but stayed out of sight. Apparently he was going to be the judge at your trial.”
“Oh, great. Talk about your unbalanced scales of justice!”
“Yeah. I think I wasn’t supposed to know of his presence here until I walked into the courtroom tomorrow.”
“How did you find out?”
“A woman in the Silverado, name of Lizzie, told me.”
Artie nodded. “She was sitting with Kip. I got the impression she was extremely unhappy about something.”
“It seems as though a large portion, if not all, of the town’s population is in on the scheme, though I’m not sure how willingly.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Makes the odds rather fair, don’t you think? Something like a hundred to one.”
“I noticed that. We need to get to Black Mesa, Artie. The depth of the river on this side of the valley, especially where it borders Whitewater, pretty much cuts off retreat in that direction. I have no doubt the bridge there is, or will be, heavily guarded.” George had informed them that bridge was the only span on the river in that area.
“Where do you suppose the train is?”
Jim shook his head. “Hard to say. Out of our immediate reach. Just hope the crew wasn’t harmed.”
“Yeah. You think Warner has a picket line set up?”
“I have no doubt. If it wasn’t in place before I helped you escape, it certainly was set up afterwards. If he’s got enough men…” Jim shook his head. “How you feeling?”
“Oh, a lot better. Hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Sorry, I didn’t bring a sandwich along. That’s what you get for sleeping through supper.”
“Yeah. But we are in a pickle, Jim. No food, only the ammunition on our belts.”
“Well, we have to find a way through the picket line, Artemus. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Artie knew what Jim meant. During the war, their espionage activities had required them to evade large and small enemy patrols. Slipping through a picket line around a camp had become almost second nature. “I don’t suppose George will come looking for us. If he notices the train has moved on, he’ll just believe we departed.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. Artie, I think we need to split up.”
“Jim…” He had known it was coming. He also knew Jim was probably right. That did not mean he liked the idea.
“I know. We can’t hang around here all day, and in broad daylight, two of us are going to make a much bigger target than just one. Here’s what I propose…”
Artemus held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say, Jim. You’ll create a commotion to draw as many men to you as you can, while I slip through and get help at Black Mesa. But what if it’s too late for help? What if they kill you?”
“You’re a worrywart, Artemus. I don’t believe Warner has ‘shoot to kill’ orders out. He went to too much trouble to set all this up. He’s not going to have either one of us killed until he’s good and ready. He wants to have some fun first.”
“I have to agree,” Artie sighed. “And when he’s good and ready means after he’s tortured you, if he nabs you first.”
“Have you got a better idea, Artie? And don’t say you’ll create the diversion. I know you, Artemus. I can see you haven’t entirely recovered from the drug.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” Artemus responded. “The one who heads toward Black Mesa will need his wits about him as well.”
Jim remained silent a long moment, knowing the truth to this. Finding the way to the other side of the valley while avoiding searchers could be difficult. “Want to toss for it?” he asked finally.
“Only if you let me use my two-headed quarter.”
Jim West laughed. “Let’s base it on the horses then. You know Blackjack is the faster. The one creating the diversion is going to need to outrun pursuers.”
“Dang it, Jim,” Artemus Gordon sighed, “why are you always able to rationalize everything, even when it’s irrational?”
“A gift,” Jim replied wryly. “If you feel up to it, we’d better get moving.”
“As my head is slowly clearing, I’m remembering something,” Artie murmured, turning toward the brown horse that had been waiting quietly. He opened one of the saddlebags and pulled out a bundle of cloth. “I have a little disguise here—a Mexican peon.”
“Left over from Halloween?”
“Ha ha!” Artie snickered at his partner’s attempt at whimsy. “I stuck it in here when we first went to Black Mesa, thinking I might use it to help solve the mail theft, then didn’t remove it.” He shook out the bundle, revealing a loose blouse and colorful serape, as well as a floppy sombrero and a small box which contained his makeup.
“I don't know, Artie,” Jim spoke doubtfully.
“Jim, with Merton Warner out there, we need every edge we can get. Every diversion.”
“You’re right. Okay. While you are fixing yourself up for your stage appearance, I’ll head out. Give me at least a half hour. I’ll try to make enough noise not only to draw Warner’s men to me, but so that you can hear I’m in action.”
“Just stay in action, partner. No laying down on the job.” Artie’s words were light, but his face was grim.
“That goes double, pal. No siestas. See you later.” Jim swung into the saddle.
“Yeah,” Artie replied, sourly. “Later.” He did not like this plan of action one bit, even while being aware that Jim was probably right. One of them needed to get to Black Mesa for some help. They could only hope that the telegraph was still in operation there; the army might be needed. Jim West was always throwing himself into the middle of the storm, and as Artie had once commented to a Mexican Federale officer who asked why Gordon allowed it, “What makes you think I had a choice?” One would think that after all these years, after the number of times Jim has done this, I’d be used to it.
Artie applied the makeup swiftly but accurately. He had a brushy black mustache to paste to his upper lip, along with the skin-darkening cream. Artemus Gordon was going to do everything in his power to avoid encountering anyone at all, but the disguise just might help him if he did run into any of Warner’s men. The plan was that every man now scouring the region for them would be drawn toward the commotion Jim West would be causing.
W*W*W*W*W
Jim spotted the first men about two miles from where he left his partner alongside the river, and fortuitously, he saw them before they saw him. That gave him a few moments to lay out his strategy. He had just rounded a low knoll when he heard a man laugh—a much too loud laugh from someone who should have been worried about alerting his quarry, which had just happened. Pulling to a halt, Jim swung the black horse around then slowly and cautiously ascended the rise from the backside, to a vantage point from which he could view his pursuers behind the shelter of some heavy brush at the summit.
Five of them, all mounted, not doing much pursuing at the moment; they seemed to be quite relaxed in their saddles. Three were smoking cigarettes. They were not taking their job very seriously, perhaps because they were out of the range of surveillance by Warner and the deputy sheriff.
Jim inspected the surroundings. He was not familiar with this area, but the landscape indicated that the river arced a little north of this site. The river cut a sinuous path throughout the valley after curving around Whitewater, providing water for the cattle of the few ranches located here. He wanted to give himself an escape route once he exposed his presence to these men, and the river with its swift and deep current was an all but impassable barrier. Be nice to know where the next picket line is, too, but I’m going to have to just risk it. Artie needs time and space to get to Black Mesa.
He leaned down to pat the black’s neck, murmuring encouraging words. This was not going to be fun, for man or beast. Riding at a gallop over unfamiliar ground was not a wise activity: they could encounter obstacles—a prairie dog hole, fallen log, rocks…. The pace had to be swift to avoid capture. Or to hopefully avoid capture.
Jim rode back down the rear of the knoll, then took a deep breath before spurring the gallant black horse into top speed through the low area where he had originally spotted the men. About halfway to them, just as one of them shouted a greeting, apparently inquiring if the oncoming rider was one of his cohort, Jim hauled back on the reins. The black reared and snorted. Jim then reined him away from the posse, drawing his gun and firing a single shot toward the men. Artemus had been right. Without the supplies in the train at their disposal, the ammunition they possessed was limited and to be hoarded as much as possible.
His abrupt appearance apparently threw the five men into confusion, as several seconds elapsed before they got on his trail. So much time that Jim felt it necessary to slow down slightly lest they lose him. As soon as he was sure they were behind him, he kicked the black’s speed up again, throwing another shot in his pursuers’ direction. They reciprocated, and he ducked low in the saddle so as to create less of a target. With any luck, the sounds of their shots would carry not only back to Artemus to alert him to move out, but to any other of Warner’s men in the vicinity, pulling them to this area.
He had not proceeded very far when proof appeared that, indeed, the commotion had drawn the interest he hoped, as another group of men appeared from his left, with their weapons streaking fire. When another similar posse emerged from his right, Jim West knew he was in trouble. They had been much nearer than he had anticipated, and were going to be able to close down his escape route.
Artie, you’d better be well on your way!