The Night of the Twisted Mind

Dedicated to ChallengersPet, even though this story doesn't concentrate on her pet, Artie. She's the one who got me into this! My first WWW fiction.

The characters mostly belong to someone else. (A couple are mine.) Thanks for letting me play with them.

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

"James, you are dead wrong on this one."

James West stared at the unyielding expression of his partner and felt the warming tide of anger rising within him. "Damn it, who made you God, Artie?"

A little surprise washed over Artemus Gordon's countenance. "Jim, it's plain as the nose on your face. You've made a mistake"

"So the genius declares!" West sneered. "I am quite aware that you are way ahead of me in brain power, Gordon, but that doesn't mean you are always right." Jim West glared at the man seated on the sofa in colonel's anteroom.

Gordon got to his feet slowly, concern showing now as he extended a pleading, open hand. "Simmer down, Jim. Look, we're both tired. This vacation coming up is going to do us a lot of good. Let's not let"

Jim West raised a clenched fist. "You're not always right, Artemus! Damn it, I'm getting tired of being patronized!"

"I'm not"

"Did you hear me?" The fury in him was an inferno now, a wild ferocity he could not seem to control. Seeing the distress on his partner's face served only to stoke the fire. Why did it always have to be Artie who was the all-knowing one? "I'M TIRED OF BEING PATRONIZED!"

The gun seemed to leap out of the holster at his side into his hand. Horror replaced concern on Gordon's face. "Jim?"

Three shots reverberated in the room. The first one hit Gordon in the middle of the chest, hurling him back onto the sofa.

"Jim" he gasped.

The second two shots finished it. Jim West heard the other door open, heard the cry of horror and alarm, but he did not move, staring at the man slumped back over the couch now, at the front of the brocade vest now stained crimson with gore. The eyes were still open, gaping at him in accusation.

"My God, West," Colonel Richmond grabbed the gun from his hand. "What have you done?"

James West sat up abruptly, aware of the perspiration pouring from his forehead blending with the tears coursing down his cheeks. It was only a dream. He knew that. It had to be. A nightmare. A hellish nightmare that

Oh God. Oh no!

He looked around. The nightmare was continuing, only now was much too real. The bars of his cell made it so. The rough cot with its straw mattress on which he was laying made it so. The stone floor, cold and dank under his bare feet as he swung them down off the cot, made it so. And above all, the stack of newspapers alongside the cot confirmed it all.

WEST CONFESSES! blared the issue laying on top. James West did not need to look at the others. He knew the others by heart. He had stared and stared at those screaming, screeching banners, edition by edition, trying to make them go away, to vanish into the netherworld of dreams and nightmares from which he could awaken to leave them all behind. But that never happened.

Artemus Gordon Slain!

James West Arrested for Murder!

West Confesses!

James West Sentenced to Hang!

President Grant Commutes West's Sentence to Life!

That last one caused almost more anguish than the first. Jim had begged the warden to allow him to write a letter to the president, a request that was refused. "President Grant washes his hands of you," Warden Parrott responded grimly. "He felt he owed you your life for all you have accomplished for him and for the country. But he wants nothing more to do with you now."

A sound caused Jim to look up. Changing of the guard. The entire time, all the months, he had spent in this cell, a guard had been seated directly opposite the bars, morning, noon, and night. "Suicide watch," Warden Parrott informed him. The guards were changed every four hours, twenty-four hours a day. He was not allowed to have or even handle a razor, and his shoes and their accompanying laces had been taken away.

The trousers of his coarse, drab grayish prison costume had a string in the waist to keep them up. That tie-string was checked regularly to make sure he had not attempted to remove it. They feared he might attempt to take his own life, and damn it, they could be right! They could have at least given him the brogans without the laces. Being barefoot was somehow degrading. Then again, perhaps that was what he deserved.

The guard's presence might not have been so bad, primarily because he had been otherwise alone in this cell block, except that none of the guards ever spoke to him. He had tried to talk to them early on, but each one sat there like a statue, staring at him. Staring at him with unblinking eyes–or so it seemed. The eyes of Artemus Gordon. The faces, the bodies of the men changed, but the eyes were always the same. Brown, wide, staring, accusing.

Jim scrubbed his shirt sleeve over his face, wiping away some of the moisture. When were these nightmares going to end? How many times am I going to have to relive that horrendous moment? It was always exactly the same, beginning at the instant when Artie coolly informed him of his purported error, ending with the colonel jerking the pistol out of his hands.

Worse, he could not even remember what the argument had been about. They had asked him in the judge's chambers when he had waived his right to a jury trial and agreed to accept the judge's sentence. They had asked him, and he just shook his head. He could not remember. Maybe that was saddest of all. How could he not remember what had caused him to take his dearest friend's life? His brother. More than a brother.

He knew that a doctor who specialized in brains and behavior–an alienist, so called–had testified that James West's mental capacity had been affected, apparently before that horrible day. Jim tried and tried to recall previous instances where he had experienced such uncontrollable rage but could not. Odd that he could not even recall the doctor's face, though the name was Jim thought hard Pickle? No, Mickle. Not a name he had ever heard of, he was certain. Then again, he had not had much contact with alienists. The doctor said that was another symptom. "He's insane, or on the verge of insanity," the physician pronounced solemnly. The voice droned on to relate how the years of facing death and uncertainty during West's career as a Secret Service agent had taken its toll. "Mr. West snapped. It's as simple as that."

How could it be that simple? Jim shook his head physically, then looked at the new guard seated on the bench against the wall outside the bars. This sentry was a burly man with a heavy dark beard and staring brown eyes. Jim had attempted to match gazes with those guards from time to time during the early days, and found he could not, only partially because the guard's eyes never blinked. Meeting "Artie's eyes" for more than a few seconds was more than James West could endure. Except for the fact that he had heard murmured exchanges of conversation between the changing guards, he might think they were automatons of some sort.

With a deep and noisy sigh, he lay back down, putting one arm under his head as a pillow, to stare at the ceiling. Couldn't they have at least given him a cell with a window? As it was, the sole illumination was emitted from lanterns affixed to sconces on the opposite wall, above the guard station. Lanterns that burned, night and day. Whenever night and day occurred. Jim knew he had pretty much lost track of time. Time seemed completely irrelevant now anyway.

Not even the meal service helped, because the meals were monotonous once-a-day amalgams of the same thing: usually a piece of some sort of overdone meat, accompanied by a few tasteless boiled potatoes and a tin cup of coffee. Occasionally soggy vegetables were included. He had not complained about receiving only one meal each day, partly because of the poor quality of the victuals, but also because he simply had no appetite. All he ever consumed most days was the strong, pretty decent coffee that came with the tray. Eating was merely something he did to break the monotony of the long, dreary hours.

If only I could contact Grant. If only I could let my president know that I prefer death to this this lifetime years an eternity in this cell. If I have not lost my mind already, the life sentence will surely do it. The cell, the silent guards staring at me with accusing brown eyes, the persistent dream, the fragmentary memories Why can't I remember the entire situation?

The only thing that appeared certain was that Artemus Gordon was dead. Death and taxes. Taxes that would be paying for the incarceration of James West for how many years? He was a young man yet. In good physical condition at the beginning of this sentence. That would deteriorate on the diet and lack of exercise. What would happen, Jim mused silently, if I refused to eat?

I've never been a man to contemplate suicide as an option. No matter what the situation I found myself in and some were pretty terrifying I always looked for the way out. I never considered giving up, surrendering. This is different, however. A lifetime of remembering that I murdered a man I loved as more than a friend, a man I knew loved me. My brother Artemus. I murdered him. How? Why?

In some sense, learning those reasons were a good motive to remain alive. How was he to find out those reasons, however? Since being locked in this cell so many months ago, his only contact had been with the guards who watched him and brought food, and a couple of times with the rotund, bald warden. Parrott had not been around for weeks.

Weeks. Months now since that cell door slammed on him, after the sentencing. What had happened during those weeks? Jim held a hand out in front of his face. Was it only the dim, yellowing lantern light that caused his skin to seem to retain the sun-golden shade earned after so many long treks on Blackjack? Shouldn't he be acquiring a prison pallor by now? Too bad he did not have a mirror to view his face.

He sat up again, and picked up the stack of newspapers, leafing through them, trying to concentrate on the dates of each edition, not the glaring, blaring headlines. He had read all the articles through once. That was enough. The first paper, the one with the news of the crime, was dated six months prior to the last, which proclaimed Grant's humane amnesty. What the president believed what humane amnesty.

It must be a symptom of the insanity, he determined, dropping the papers to the floor and laying down again. His memory had been affected. Almost like selective memory, he decided. He recalled pretty clearly the moment of the murder, up to Richmond grabbing the gun, just as it repeated in his dream. Then everything seemed to segue to a over to the judge's chambers. Only bits and pieces of each subsequent incident were clear. Had Richmond been in the judge's chambers? What about Jeremy? He simply could not recall any contact with fellow agent Jeremy Pike during the entire ordeal. Could well be that Jeremy avoided him. Hell, I'd avoid myself if I could! Why had Jeremy not at least come by to give him hell?

He heard footsteps then, and a guard bearing a tray appeared in front of the bars. Must be a special cadre of guards assigned to him, Jim mused, because the same half dozen or so rotated as sentry, or to bring the tray. Did none of them ever take time off?

The guard on the bench stood up and picked up the rifle that leaned against the wall next to him. Wordlessly, he pointed the weapon toward the cell. Jim did not move from the cot as the guard with the tray produced keys, opened the cell door, placed the tray on the floor inside, closed the door, locked it, then turned and left. The sentry sat down.

What would happen if I didn't eat that food? Jim lay still. He was not hungry, in fact, had had little appetite since day one. He had eaten, more as an exercise in doing something. A request for books to read had been denied. Only the newspapers had been provided. The newspapers containing the terrible story that he would prefer to forget. Maybe he would try to stir things up and find out what happened if he did not touch the food. Perhaps that would at least cause someone to talk to him! If I'm not insane already, I will be, in this virtual solitary confinement.

Warden Parrott had told him what he already assumed, that he had been placed in a special cell block because the prison was filled with men he and Artemus had captured. Maybe he could ask to waive his right to this "protection." Maybe he would get lucky and one of those former adversaries would successfully gain vengeance.

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

"Heard anything from Jim?"

Artemus Gordon looked up from the menu he had been perusing as Colonel Richmond took the chair opposite him at a white-linen-covered table in the hotel's grand dining room. "Nope. And I'm taking that as good news."

Richmond accepted the carte that the waiter hurriedly brought him. "How so?"

"He must be having one hell of a good time," Gordon grinned. "After all, he's all alone in San Francisco. We know how many beautiful women reside in San Francisco. Jim West's presence always seems to be a magnet for the most alluring."

The colonel smiled. "You're not so bad yourself at drawing the women."

"Thank you, sir. But I'm minor league compared to my pal. No, I think he arrived and immediately came in contact with some lovely lady who is consuming his time day and night."

"He usually at least sends you a telegram saying he arrived safely."

Artie chuckled. "Yes, but as he's told me so many times, I'm not his mama! I'm actually glad, colonel. Jim needs time away, including away from me. I love the man, but even married folks need distance at times."

"Don't I know that," the Secret Service officer responded ruefully, shaking his head. "What's the special today?"

"We're in Kansas City, Colonel Richmond," Gordon reminded with a sly grin.

Richmond laughed. "Steak it is. I thought Pike was going to join us tonight."

"Yes. He'll be along, I'm sure. I left him at the siding finishing that report. No food, I told him, until that's done."

"You're a harsh taskmaster, Mr. Gordon."

"Someone has to be. Ah, there he is." Gordon looked toward the restaurant's entrance, where he saw a somewhat frazzled-appearing fellow agent Jeremy Pike speaking to the headwaiter, who pointed in the direction of their table. "Hmm, wonder if something's wrong?"

Richmond twisted slightly in his chair to gain a view of the approaching man. "He does look disturbed, doesn't he? Damn, can't we have one peaceful meal?"

The grim-faced Pike handed Artie a folded piece of yellow paper as he pulled out the third chair at the table. "This was delivered to the train."

"What is it?" Richmond demanded, seeing the expression on Gordon's face turn from mild curiosity to dismay as he read. Without comment, Artie handed the paper over. Richmond read aloud. "To James West, Kansas City. Sir, your reservation is being held. Please advise whether you plan to use the room. A fee may be charged for late cancellation. Your obedient servant, Henri Marseilles, manager, Buena Vista Hotel, San Francisco." The colonel raised his eyes. "What the devil? This sounds as though West never arrived!"

"I sent a wire asking for confirmation of that," Pike said briskly, "but I decided I'd better deliver this to you instead of waiting for a response."

Gordon reached over and took the missive back, inspecting it. "Appears to be a genuine Western Union telegram."

"The boy who delivered it looked genuine too," Jeremy said. "They would not have had our private code. I know Jim didn't use it when he made the reservations, sending from a Western Union office. What do you suppose happened?"

"Knowing West," Richmond sighed audibly, "anything. Hell, he might have met one of those beautiful women Artemus and I were just discussing and took a side trip to to who knows where!"

"He would have told me," Gordon said softly. "He would have sent me word. I don't like this at all. It's been almost three days since he departed Kansas City." Three days in which anything could have happened, and three days that were a head start for anyone who might have intended harm to the stellar agent.

"All right," the colonel said, getting to his feet. "Let's get on it. We need to check the railroad people and see what they know. If Jim West debarked somewhere between Kansas City and San Francisco, surely it was witnessed."

A cold lump formed in Artemus Gordon's stomach as he too stood up. "I hope so. I sure as hell hope so."

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

"Tee-hee-hee!"

The childish giggle seemed to reverberate among the pieces of machinery and glassware in the expansive and cluttered laboratory. The man it emanated from turned and did a little jig on the small platform on which he was standing. He then put a hand over his mouth and attempted to compose himself under the withering stare from the other man in the room.

"I beg your pardon, Dr. Crania. Sometimes I simply cannot control myself." The giggle threatened again, and he choked it back. He did not want to annoy his companion. Not yet.

"I suppose I understand," Dr. Wilfred Crania replied, turning his attention back to the task at hand. "Dr. Loveless, you must remember. We are not finished yet." He carefully fastened a thin wire to a point on the bowl-shaped contraption on the table in front of him, tying a minute knot.

"Oh, indeed I comprehend that well." Miguelito Loveless scampered down the steps to the floor of the laboratory. "It's just that well, this device that allows me to witness James West in all his misery is marvelous. I'm pleased that I thought of it. Even though sound, hearing his sighs and sobs, would be the crowning touch, I am delighted to be able to view him at all without his knowledge. I only wish I could be there in person, to watch him, and to allow him to see me watching him."

The man with the bulbous forehead lifted his gaze again. "Dr. Loveless, you know that would defeat the purpose." The voice and expression were those of an instructor speaking to a particularly dense student. Crania was highly annoyed that Loveless was taking credit for the invention's idea. He had, nevertheless, learned that to protest such a claim would be useless. Dealing with Loveless's incredible vanity was perhaps the most difficult task he had encountered in this so-called "partnership." Best to just ignore it, along with the little man's endless criticisms and complaints.

"Yes, yes, yes." Loveless hated having to rely on another in this process, but the fact was, Crania had knowledge and procedures that he himself had not acquired. Not yet. "I know. I know. If West saw me, he would suspect the ruse. It's going so well he was weeping again when he awakened. His eyes are haunted as he remembers thinks he remembers the murder. How long do you think the entire process will take now?"

Crania sighed audibly. The little man had asked this question almost hourly it seemed. "I don't know, doctor. My previous experiments have involved men of much less mental fortitude than Mr. West. He has an iron will, as you undoubtedly know."

"And I'm going to break that will," Loveless growled, shaking a fist at no one in particular. "I'm going to see him a groveling, sniveling madman before we are finished. His perceived guilt will destroy him. It's the one thing that can. I know that. And then I'll hand him over to his beloved friend and watch Gordon deteriorate as well. Can you imagine Gordon's reaction? I can! Wonderful to contemplate. Wonderful!" He now scrubbed his hands together, anticipating the scene in his mind. "I'll have to devise a manner in which to watch the reunion. If only it could be recorded for posterity."

"Give me time, and I might manage that," Crania snapped. "But for now, arranging the vision-transporting machine consumed much too much of my time. Time I could have been devoting to driving your Mr. West mad."

"And we're well on that road," Loveless chortled, looking back toward the eyepiece on the board above the platform somewhat longingly. He had watched every movement his prisoner had made over the last several hours, unable to draw himself away. The system of mirrors and some other unknown mechanism relayed the scene to the laboratory, on the floor above the cell area, to be displayed on a small glass screen. It worked far better than a simple peephole in the ceiling of the cell, which might have been too noticeable to the inmate, especially one with the abilities of James West. A mere pinprick was all that was needed for Crania's apparatus. I'm going to have to learn his secret, Loveless determined. The secret of the vision transportation machine, and many others, including how Crania was planting the nightmare in West's brain, over and over.

"We need some more memories," Loveless pronounced, hoisting himself up onto a stool near Crania's workstation.

"And what did you have in mind?" Crania asked dryly. "Did West massacre an entire schoolyard full of children?" He was rapidly wishing he had never gotten involved with the crazy, obsessed little man. It all had seemed like a superb opportunity to test and advance some of his theories and procedures, as well as to have this magnificent laboratory built and stocked to work in. Loveless, however, was never satisfied. He did not seem to realize what had been accomplished in just four days. James West was teetering on the edge of madness.

Loveless gasped. "Children! No, no! But there must be something. I want him writhing in agony, Crania. Not physical pain, you understand. Nevertheless, he has to regret every moment he spent foiling my plans. Aha! I think I have it!" His big eyes lit up with joy.

"Yes?"

"Imagine. Just imagine, how James West would feel if he learned that I, the great Dr. Miguelito Loveless, have been acclaimed as the savior of mankind, the rescuer of the entire world. That everything he had done to stop me over the years has been wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong!" Loveless clapped his hands to congratulate himself for the inspiration.

"And to accomplish that? I've warned you, doctor, we cannot overload his memory. The relevant bits and pieces I've placed in his brain are sufficient, particularly because he now undoubtedly feels that his mind is defective. Something is preventing his mind from working as it should. He does not comprehend why he cannot remember everything. In other words, he is losing his senses and going insane."

"Nothing so complicated," Loveless said smugly. "I shall merely need the printing press again."

Crania frowned. "Now, be careful. Use subtlety. Even West, in his state, could spot a fraud."

Loveless sniffed haughtily. "You need not worry, Dr. Crania. Subtlety is my middle name."

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

"James, you are dead wrong on this one."

James West stared at the unyielding expression of his partner and felt the warming tide of anger rising within him. "Damn it, who made you God, Artie?"

A little surprise washed over Artemus Gordon's countenance. "Jim, it's plain as the nose on your face. You've made a mistake"

"So the genius declares!" West sneered. "I am quite aware that you are way ahead of me in brain power, Gordon, but that doesn't mean you are always right." Jim West glared at the man seated on the sofa in colonel's anteroom.

Gordon got to his feet slowly, concern showing now as he extended a pleading, open hand. "Simmer down, Jim. Look, we're both tired. This vacation coming up is going to do us a lot of good. Let's not let"

Jim West raised a clenched fist. "You're not always right, Artemus! Damn it, I'm getting tired of being patronized!"

"I'm not"

"Did you hear me?" The fury in him was an inferno now, a wild ferocity he could not seem to control. Seeing the distress on his partner's face served only to stoke the fire. Why did it always have to be Artie who was the all-knowing one? "I'M TIRED OF BEING PATRONIZED!"

The gun seemed to leap out of the holster at his side into his hand. Horror replaced concern on Gordon's face. "Jim?"

Three shots reverberated in the room. The first one hit Gordon in the middle of the chest, hurling him back onto the sofa.

"Jim" he gasped.

The second two shots finished it. Jim West heard the other door open, heard the cry of horror and alarm, but he did not move, staring at the man slumped back over the couch now, at the front of the brocade vest now stained crimson with gore. The eyes were still open, gaping at him in accusation.

"My God, West," Colonel Richmond grabbed the gun from his hand. "What have you done?"

James West roused to the now familiar sense of loss and misery. At least no tears this time, but his shirt and hair were damp with perspiration. The nightmare was draining. He awakened feeling exhausted, as though he had not slept at all, as the dream occurred every time he slept. Would he ever have a peaceful night of sleep again? Did he deserve one?

Sitting up, he looked at the implacable guard. The thin one now. Lord, had they all been chosen because of their stoicism, or because they all possessed the deep brown eyes? Had someone decided that if he was not going to hang, he at least would endure a living death, with constant reminders of his crime?

The newspapers were where he had left them, only the top copy had changed. Instead of the "West Confesses," headline, the one with "James West Sentenced to Hang" was now visible. Someone had come in while he slept. The tray, however, with the now cold food, was still on the floor. He had not eaten the last two meals. The first one had been taken away. Not this one. Odd that he did not feel any hungrier than he did after not eating for two days. Of course, the food served was not exactly conducive to hunger cravings. Last night he had only drained the cup of strong coffee.

And then slept like a log.

Jim rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. This was strange. Why had not this occurred to him previously? He had been in this cell for months. He could not recollect shaving himself, nor anyone else performing the task for him, during that entire time. Yet his beard growth was that of only a few days. Was someone creeping in to trim it while he slept?

He sat with his arms resting on his knees, head bowed. A posture of penitence. A glance up revealed that the guard did not move, simply watched him. After a long minute, on a whim, Jim got up and stepped over to the bars.

"Hey," he said. The sentry merely stared. "What do you think my chances would be of getting some chocolate cake?" Had he seen a slight flicker in that implacable gaze? "Man, I love chocolate cake. How about you? What's your favorite?" The silent stare continued. Jim West heaved a great, noisy sigh, leaned his forehead against the cool bars. "Artie's favorite was strawberry shortcake. Always talked about his Great Aunt Maude's strawberry shortcake. Now he's dead. He's dead!"

Jim lifted his head, his face contorted in grief. "How did I do that? What is wrong with me? My best friend! Have you ever hurt your best friend? Killed him?"

Again, he wondered if he saw something in the brown eyes. But the guard did not move, his facial expression unchanging. West turned and threw himself on the cot, burying his face in the straw ticking. He made sounds and hoped it passed for sobbing. Twice he peeked toward the guard. The second time, the man was leaning forward slightly. Maybe he's not so impervious after all.

After a few moments, he quieted and hoped the sentry thought he had fallen asleep. He had not, Jim realized, been doing a lot of thinking about his situation. To be honest with himself, he had been spending most of his waking moments wallowing in grief and guilt. The dreams and the newspapers aided and abetted those emotions. What would happen if he threw the newspapers out of the cell? If he refused to eat? Would anyone care?

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

Artemus Gordon pulled the wall map down and stared at it a long moment before turning to face the half dozen men gathered in the parlor car. One was Jeremy Pike, the others were additional agents that Colonel Richmond had assigned. Armed with the information amassed over the first thirty-six hours after learning of his agent's disappearance, Richmond was certain that a full-scale operation was necessary. He would provide more men if Gordon requested. In the meanwhile, his best men were in the special train hurtling westward across the plains.

"Here's the story so far," Artie said. "Jim left Kansas City four days ago. We know he got on the westbound Kansas & Pacific car. Jeremy and I saw him off. We've been able to contact and talk to the conductor and porters on that particular train. These men remembered Jim, knew who he was. Fame has some value, it seems. In any case, the porter in his car, in particular, was disappointed when Mr. West left the car during a stop in Salina, so he watched Jim through the window.

"Seems a telegram was delivered to Jim at that stop. The conductor handed it to him, and said that Mr. West appeared a bit disturbed by the contents. He got up, grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment, and told the conductor that he would be leaving the train, would not continue on to San Francisco at this time. That was the morning of the second day. As you may know, Jim had attempted to book a private compartment on that particular train, but they were all sold out due to a large wedding party traveling west. That might have been fortuitous because he was then in a position to be observed and his activities noticed.

"In any case, the porter watched Jim's progress when he left the train. The porter said Jim met two men off to one side of the platform and–in the porter's opinion–was not particularly happy about it. Something in the way his shoulders moved,' the porter stated. He has made a hobby, it seems, of watching passengers and trying to guess their emotions, reasons for traveling, relationships to others, simply by noting their body language and facial expression. Sharp fellow.

"He gave us an excellent description of the two men Jim met, but thus far we have not been able to identify them. They were not agents, of that much we're certain. That may have been something Jim belatedly realized. We've been unable to discover an actual telegram that was received in Salina to be delivered to James West on the train, so it appears that was a fake to draw him off the train.

"The porter stated that Jim left the platform with the two men, walking in between them while carrying his bag. One of the men put his hand on Jim's shoulder. They disappeared around a building, and that was the last he was seen. We have not been able to find a witness to say whether they went into town, mounted horses, got into a carriage. They simply vanished at this particular point, though currently two agents are in Salina attempting to locate someone who may have seen him later."

"So he was snatched." Husky, florid-faced Bill Maher chomped down on his unlit cigar, his expression mirroring the anger on the countenances of his companions.

"So it would seem," Artemus responded in a voice far more mild than he felt. He knew the importance of retaining his equanimity at this point. Panic was not going to help. Nor did self-blame. "The question is more by whom than why. We can guess the why. Also, where did they take him?"

"And is he alive?" Jeremy growled in a low voice.

"We have to go on the premise that he is," Artie said stolidly. He had already had too many nightmarish thoughts about that. Jim West had enemies. Many, many enemies. Men who wanted him dead. Some who would enjoy watching him suffer a long and lingering death.

I should have given in and gone with him. Jim had asked him several times if he would. Had even appeared a trifle annoyed when Artie staunchly refused. We needed time off. I knew that. But if I had been with him What? Would the kidnapping have not taken place? Or would both of them now be in the hands of whoever?

"What's the plan?" George Murdoch's always morose face was even more morose on this day.

Artemus Gordon sighed. "I don't know if we can even formulate a plan just yet. We obviously need to start at Salina. Perhaps by the time we arrive there, the other agents will have more information for us. Whether or not, we just have to start looking. Try to find some some clue. Some sign. Unless we have further information, we'll be literally blindfolded. All we can do is fan out and keep asking questions. They cannot have vanished without someone seeing them, somewhere." Could they? Artie had seen many strange things over his career as a Secret Service agent. The brilliant, but mad, men they had encountered had come up with all manner of ingenious inventions. Please, God, no invisibility machine! We have to find Jim. Alive and well. Please!

"We'll arrive in Salina early tomorrow morning. At that time, I'll give you your assignments. Get a good night's sleep. It might be the last one you'll have in a while." If only I could take my own advice!

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

"James, you are dead wrong on this one."

James West stared at the unyielding expression of his partner and felt the warming tide of anger rising within him. "Damn it, who made you God, Artie?"

A little surprise washed over Artemus Gordon's countenance. "Jim, it's plain as the nose on your face. You've made a mistake"

"So the genius declares!" West sneered. "I am quite aware that you are way ahead of me in brain power, Gordon, but that doesn't mean you are always right." Jim West glared at the man seated on the sofa in colonel's anteroom.

Gordon got to his feet slowly, concern showing now as he extended a pleading, open hand. "Simmer down, Jim. Look, we're both tired. This vacation coming up is going to do us a lot of good. Let's not let"

Jim West raised a clenched fist. "You're not always right, Artemus! Damn it, I'm getting tired of being patronized!"

"I'm not"

"Did you hear me?" The fury in him was an inferno now, a wild ferocity he could not seem to control. Seeing the distress on his partner's face served only to stoke the fire. Why did it always have to be Artie who was the all-knowing one? "I'M TIRED OF BEING PATRONIZED!"

The gun seemed to leap out of the holster at his side into his hand. Horror replaced concern on Gordon's face. "Jim?"

Three shots reverberated in the room. The first one hit Gordon in the middle of the chest, hurling him back onto the sofa.

"Jim" he gasped.

The second two shots finished it. Jim West heard the other door open, heard the cry of horror and alarm, but he did not move, staring at the man slumped back over the couch now, at the front of the brocade vest now stained crimson with gore. The eyes were still open, gaping at him in accusation.

"My God, West," Colonel Richmond grabbed the gun from his hand. "What have you done?"

James West kept his eyes closed for a long while, forcing himself to consider the dream nightmare moment by moment. Why had they been in Richmond's office? He could not come up with that answer. The vacation part was right. He and Artemus had been given two weeks' leave. Jim's immediate idea had been to spend it in the wonderful, cosmopolitan city of San Francisco. Artemus thought that was a splendid idea, but refused to accompany him.

"You go, Jim, and have a superb time. For me, I think I'd prefer to just stay here in Kansas City, do some reading, perhaps visit a few museums, take in some lectures."

Jim had been skeptical. Artemus, of course, knew that Jim West did not always appreciate the same cerebral pastimes that Artemus Gordon did. Jim could not grasp, nonetheless, how spending two weeks at those pursuits could be considered a vacation. He tried several times and in several different ways to convince his partner to accompany him, even to mentioning a couple of women whom Artie had met and seemed to like–and vice-versa–who resided in the Pacific Coast city.

So had that instigated the argument? How could something so trivial have exploded into the hot fury that had caused James West to draw out the gun, let along pull the trigger three times? No, the argument had to have been over something else. But what? Jim could not really think of another instance where he had become angry because Artie's superior knowledge overcame his own. He deferred to Artemus often, because he knew that his partner was more often right in matters of information, esoteric or utile, just as Artie generally bowed to his own tactical knowledge and ability to read people.

But what was the reason? Why could he not remember it? Why did the dream always begin at one spot and end at another, with no variations? He stared at the rough, stained ceiling above him, willing the answer to appear to him. What could have possibly come between him and Artemus Gordon? After so many years together, they had known each other so very well

With a sigh, Jim sat up. The redheaded guard was on the bench now. Brown eyes instead of green on this redhead. Brown, staring eyes. Artie's accusing eyes. Closing his own for a moment, Jim remembered the moment in the nightmare. The moment when the first bullet slammed into Artemus's chest. He seemed to feel the stabbing pain in his own soul.

No sense. Nothing made sense. He could not recall ever having a dream, or nightmare, previously that was so crystal clear in his mind after awakening. The usual pattern seemed to be that the more he tried to remember, the more it faded away. Only if he spoke to someone about it almost right away did it stick in his memory. This one was not only crystal clear, but reiterated itself perfectly night after night.

Jim looked down at the stack of newspapers. Again, the order had been changed while he slept, with the "Artemus Gordon Murdered" headline on top. The previous tray was gone as well. Why would the sentry change the newspapers? To remind him of the events? As if he needed a reminder. Between the dream and the flashes of memory about

He frowned, staring at the grim-faced guard, but not really seeing him. He forced himself now to think of the judge's chambers. He could almost see the judge's face, but not clearly. Same with the prosecuting attorney and the alienist who had given expert testimony. They had been there, he knew what had been said, but could not actually hear the words of either the judge or the attorney. Only those clinical words in the droning voice of the alienist. One would think that the intoning voice of the judge pronouncing his fate–hanging at that time–would have been implanted in his brain just as the nightmare was.

Did I have a defense attorney?

Jim tried and tried to picture the room, the men present. Like the dream, the incident seemed to start at one point, end at another. He could not go beyond those points in either direction. No memory of standing up with the cold chains weighing on his arms. Jim West had been present at other such hearings, both in the courtroom and in a judge's private room. The prisoner was always chained. The prisoner always stood to hear the sentence pronounced, the chains clanking softly. Those sounds always remained in Jim's memory for a long while when they applied to someone else's sentence. Why not his own?

I've been indulging in self pity, he decided, turning to go back to the cot again, sitting down with his elbows on his knees, staring now at the newspaper, but once more not really seeing it. Self-indulgence seemed to be an apt description of the agony he had been experiencing, thinking of his own pain and grief and almost nothing else. The repeated nightmare was a constant reminder of the horrific deed he had committed, however, never giving him an opportunity to forget, even if he wanted to do so. All he had been able to think about was the murder, Artie's death, and his own hand in it. Very little time had been spent these past months reflecting on other incidents, other portions of the whole situation.

Is that how it's supposed to be? Was he supposed to be so caught up in his guilt and grief that nothing else mattered? Putting the newspapers here, so that they were the only information, the only reading material he had. Was that someone's idea of his punishment? If so, it was successful. The anguish he experienced every time Artie's stricken face appeared in his thoughts. But whose diabolically clever vengeance was behind it?

Grant? Artemus Gordon had been a particular favorite of Ulysses S. Grant. Jim had long been aware of that, but that awareness had never bothered him in particular. He knew that the general, and president, was cognizant of James West's value and talents, and held them in esteem. Grant knew the best way to use each man, and often had. No, this sort of penalty was not something President Grant would do, or condone, if he knew about it. He had commuted the sentence from hanging. That was the kind of man Grant was. He had thought he was doing the right thing for a man who had served him so long and faithfully.

These events had happened. How could he be remembering them if they had not actually occurred? But why not the entire sequence of events? Why was the memory not in his mind of the events which happened moments after Richmond grabbed his gun? He could not remember being arrested, being taken to a police station, or anywhere else, to be arraigned. No long sessions of questioning until the judge's chambers.

The jump from the moment of the murder to the session in the judge's chambers indicated that for whatever reason he was blocking everything else from his memory. That was strange. If I was going to block anything, wouldn't it be the murder itself? Or was that simply too momentous to forget? Even if he wanted to.

From the judge's chamber, he had no recollection of being transported to this prison. In fact, Jim realized he had no notion of where this prison was located. Was it Leavenworth? San Quentin? Another federal penitentiary? He tried to remember if he had heard of a Warden Parrott previously and if so, which prison he presided over. The name meant nothing to him.

What did all these lapses in his memory indicate? The alienist stated he was losing his mind. Was that true? Had he literally lost chunks of his memory? Other events were perfectly clear. He could remember things that happened as a boy, the Christmas he received the shiny red sled he had wanted so earnestly, how he had enlisted in the Union Army and became a member of Grant's staff. In particular, he remembered the day he first met Artemus Gordon. Seemed that only the events that occurred after the murder were fragmented. Maybe that was normal after such a traumatic occurrence.

Nevertheless, why could he not remember someone as important as his own attorney? He must have had one. Even while pleading guilty, he would have had an attorney to advise him. No judge worth his salt was going to allow the accused to make statements without a lawyer present. Yet he could not recall a single conversation with an attorney of any sort, defense or prosecution.

Is my mind that far gone?

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

Miguelito Loveless paced the stone floor of the laboratory, his face taut with anger as he threw black looks toward the man with the large forehead who was calmly working on the upside-down bowl. That's what it looked like anyway. A metal bowl used to serve salad or potatoes. Dr. Loveless hated to have to rely on another person, but that was the case here. That "salad bowl" was supposedly what was going to do the trick. The coup de grace, the nasake-no ichigeki, that would send James West hurtling over the edge into the abyss of total insanity.

He halted by the work bench and glared at the other man. "Dr. Crania, this is simply unconscionable. It is taking too long! Your methods do not appear to be working!"

Crania barely glanced up. He was becoming inured to the little man's outbursts. Seemed all Loveless did was complain. Well, if he was so brilliant, so perfect, why had he needed Dr. Wilfred Crania's assistance?

"It's working, doctor. West is absorbing it all, and it's preying on his consciousness. This phase of seeming acceptance is quite reasonable."

"Not to me!" Loveless retorted. "I just watched him awaken calmly. He had the dream, I know that. I saw his face while he slept." Miguelito paused, frowned. "When are you going to tell me how you accomplished this this imprinting? How did you put the nightmare and the memories into his head?"

"All in good time, Dr. Loveless. All in good time. Once West is certifiably mad, we'll have plenty of time to discuss it." Crania only hoped that when Loveless learned how simple the procedure had been he would not lose that infamous temper and do bodily harm. Crania knew he was going to have to be very careful when he related the method. He was quite certain the good doctor was familiar with mesmerism. He had only taken it a step further.

"That's just it! Time is running out. I've had reports that Gordon and other agents are in Salina and scouring the area. Gordon is a smart man not nearly so intelligent as I am, of course but he will figure it out eventually. People will tell him about these ruins. He may ignore them, or he may even take a look and decide it's the wrong place. Sooner or later, however, he'll be back."

Crania made some notes on a journal page as he tested the strength of the connection of the wire he had just attached to the "bowl." "This device will render time pointless. When Gordon finds his partner, James West will be beyond assistance."

"Then let's use it. Now!"

Dr. Crania barely prevented himself from rolling his eyes in exasperation. He retained a benign expression on his brow-dominated face, and spoke in a calm voice. "I will need to make tests. Perhaps by tomorrow if I can complete the wiring today." Without interruption, he wanted to add. "Understand, Dr. Loveless, that the device as it is would not necessarily render a man insane so much as destroy all thinking processes, and turn him into an idiot"

Loveless threw his hands in the air. "What do I care? James West as a blithering, salivating idiot is almost as good as a madman!"

"You didn't let me finish, doctor. It could destroy the brain cells and make him a pathetic idiot, or it could kill him."

"Oh." Loveless stopped moving for a moment. "Oh, I see." Killing James West was not the plan. Artemus Gordon would suffer if his friend died, but the suffering would be relatively short-lived. The scheme was for Gordon to have to witness his mad–or moronic–friend suffering a living death. Day in and day out, year in and year out. Artemus would endure what James West was suffering now. His pain was yet to come.

"Then we must accelerate the current process," Loveless declared. "Put West to sleep more often so that the dream recurs more frequently."

"Perhaps," Crania mused, nodding. "I have not tried that. If, as you say, West awakened calmly, he may be attempting some reasoning as well as acceptance. A more frequent recurrence of the nightmare would not allow time for reasoning. I must consult my notes. I presume you have given up on the idea of the newspaper."

"I most certainly have not!" Loveless sniffed. "In fact, I believe I'm going ahead with it. Just one more thing to prey on West's mind, the fact that he persecuted a brilliant and oh-so-innocent man."

Crania was shaking his head. "I must persuade you, doctor, that it is not a good idea. It could backfire."

"Nonsense!" What did this scientist who spent his entire life inside a laboratory know about human nature? He himself, Dr. Miguelito Loveless, had made a career of studying human nature. He knew James West as well as he knew himself. West had a conscience. That very conscience was causing his anguish just now, driving him toward a complete breakdown of all his faculties. Knowing that he had committed another "atrocity" against an innocent man, himself, the great Dr. Loveless, would only weigh West's mind down further, adding the stones, so to speak, that could well throw him completely off balance. Perhaps the "salad bowl" would not be needed. He rubbed his substantial chin. "I think first though, I'll have Warden Parrott' pay him a visit. That might shake things up in West's pea-sized brain!"

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

Artemus Gordon leaned both hands on the desk and stared at the map spread out there, barely conscious of the other two men in the car with him. Where are you, Jim? Where are you? The map of this county had been provided by the local sheriff. Artie had made some marks on it to signify certain landmarks, as well as to indicate locations where witnesses reportedly espied the three men. Biggest problem was that the trio had been supposedly spotted all over the county!

"What next?" Jeremy asked quietly.

Gordon straightened now, supporting his elbow in one hand while his chin rested in the other hand as he looked around at Pike, Bill Maher, and George Murdoch. The rest of the agents were still out asking questions and re-asking them. "On this map, it appears that the majority of the sightings were made in the eastern part of the county, although the one that reported seeing them over here–the schoolteacher's report–is very credible." Artie reached out and tapped the map on the portion west of Salina. "She was able to describe the traveling bag Jim was carrying, something no one else has accomplished."

"But then why did so many see them in the opposite area?" Bill asked, then answered his own question before anyone else could. "Because they whoever has Jim set up some decoys."

"I was just going to say that," Jeremy stated. "If she saw him still carrying the bag, it really makes more sense that she, and the others who report spying them in that area, are more accurate."

"Yes," Artie concurred. "But Saline County is nearly sixty square miles in area. It's also rather sparse in vegetation as well as population at this point. The railroad coming through has changed that to some extent, but there are still vast expanses where nothing but rolling prairie is visible."

George, who had been morosely silent, leaned forward suddenly, putting a finger on a spot near the western boundary of the county. "The ruins of an old mill are right about here. The creek dried up and the place was abandoned." He looked a little sheepish as he felt the gazes of the others on him. "I was a federal marshal for a year or so after the war, and spent some time traveling through this area."

Jeremy shook his head. "I'm pretty sure that's the place I checked out. Big two-level stone building, half falling down. Deserted."

"We have no way of knowing if Jim is even in this county," Artie said unhappily. "Even in the state."

"Or the country," Bill growled.

The four men fell silent, staring at the map, each with his own thoughts. They had all worked with James West at some point, Artie knew, to a greater or lesser extent. He also knew they admired and liked the handsome, versatile agent. Jim West would have given his life for any of them. He was that sort of man. Is. Is that sort of man. I can't let myself think otherwise. Jim is alive. Somewhere, he is alive and waiting for me to help him. Why was I so stubborn about this vacation? I should be with him!

"What next?" Pike iterated his earlier query.

Artemus looked at Jeremy Pike's grim face, knowing the expression matched his own. "I guess we just keep at it. Jeremy, let's you and I go look at this mill again. Even if no one is there now, it sounds like a place someone might use for a stopping place. They took Jim off the train midmorning. At some point, they'd need to rest, maybe feed themselves."

"I didn't see any signs of a recent campfire, or horses, but then again, I maybe did not look closely enough. I was in a hurry." Jeremy smiled briefly. All of them were anxious, struggling to be patient and efficient in their search. It was not easy, especially not knowing if they had time, or if time had expired.

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

"Mr. West, how are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

Jim frowned as he looked at the beanpole of a man standing outside the bars. He was attired in a business suit rather than the uniform of the prison guards. Jim stood up. "And you are?"

The man's brows lifted. "Ishmael Parrott. Surely you remember me. I know it's been a few weeks."

Now Jim West stood up. "No. You're not Parrott." The warden he had known was short and rotund, with a bald, perspiring head.

"Indeed I am! I did not bring any written identification with me but" The tall man turned toward the guard who was now standing behind him at attention. "Laidlaw, who am I?"

"Warden Parrott, sir."

Jim almost laughed, for this was the first time he had heard a guard speak. But the situation did not call for mirth. What was going on here? He stepped over to the bars, grasped them with both hands as he peered through. "I don't get this. You're not the man who was here before."

"Of course I am, Mr. West. I know you've had a difficult time, with a great deal on your mind, what with murdering your dearest friend. That can do things to a man's thinking processes, in particular his memory, I've been told. I am Ishmael Parrott, warden of this prison"

"Which prison?"

"What?" The man on the other side of the bars seemed startled, even a bit disconcerted.

"Which prison am I in? What's the name of it?"

"I don't think that's important, Mr. West," the man said, recovering his aplomb to display a mournful, almost sympathetic smile. "You'll never leave it. What does it matter what's on the outside? This is your home for the remainder of your miserable life."

"You're not Parrott," Jim stated harshly, gripping the bars tightly. The cold, hard metal seemed to help ground him to reality. Whatever reality was now.

"Mr. West," the thin man sighed, shaking his head. "I am sorry you have this delusion. Would it help if I repeat the conversation we had the last time I was here? I asked if you wanted your meal schedule changed, because you were not eating well. The dining room staff tell me that your tray is still being returned uneaten, by the way. You said it did not matter. Then you asked if you could get word to President Grant, and I was forced to tell you, sadly, that our president has washed his hands of you. He cannot be seen consorting with murderers, nor can he show you any further favoritism. The newspapers vilified him for commuting your sentence."

Jim stepped back, anger stiffening his back. "Then hang me! Damned if I care!" Everything this man said was true. That was exactly what he recollected about his last conversation with Warden Parrott. That did not mean, however, that the information could not have been passed from one man to the other. But why? Was it his shattered mind again? Was this actually the man he had spoken to previously, and the image of the short fat man was

"I think I know how you feel," the warden said gently. "I'm not sure but what I would be the same. If you were other than who you are, we could put you with the other prisoners, where you would at least have some company. But you would not last a day with those men, Mr. West, and it's my duty to protect you."

Jim West clamped his mouth shut, rather than express the sentiments he wanted to blurt out, that he would prefer to be put among the men who would kill him. The erstwhile warden stood silently, gazing at him, hands folded at his waist. When Jim did not speak, he did.

"I'm going to assume, then, that you are comfortable here. It's not the Buena Vista, is it? But it's your home. Make the best of it. And do summon me if I can be of any reasonable assistance. Good evening." He turned and soon disappeared from Jim's range of vision. The guard sat down and resumed the expressionless staring toward the prisoner.

Jim West gazed at the guard for a moment, tempted to make a remark about hearing him speak. Instead he went back to the cot and sat down. What the hell did this all mean? Why did he have this picture of a completely different warden in his head? Perhaps he had never actually seen or spoken to the warden before now. No. That was not the case. This man had just repeated a conversation

Jim rubbed a hand over his forehead. There it was again. The single instance of a conversation, without being able to recall what occurred prior to or after it. Standing at the bars, as he had just now done, but instead talking to a rotund man who continually mopped his face and shining pate with his handkerchief. They had indeed spoken about Grant. Why could he not recall how he felt before or after the talk?

Surely he had been downcast with the realization that his commander-in-chief had disowned him, even while understanding why. Yet I have no recollection of those feelings, not even whether President Grant personally come to talk to me at any time during the whole affair. Wouldn't he have? U.S. Grant was a straightforward kind of man. Would he not have tried to truly find out what happened, to at least have given Jim West the benefit of the doubt at the outset? Grant had experienced times in his life when he had been accused of misdeeds or misbehavior without proof, solely on gossip. He would

The only memory James West had was of the previous conversation, and of the physical appearance of the man he had believed was the warden. The short fat man with the perspiring face and shiny bald head. Not this tall, thin man.

He was losing his mind. Or, more accurately, he had lost it the day he killed Artie. This was just a further manifestation. He had dealt with the insane before in his career. Dr. Miguelito Loveless came to mind. Brilliant, but undoubtedly also unbalanced. Jim knew that such men could behave rationally, have rational thoughts, just as he was having upon occasion. Like now.

No, wait. He had to think this out. Something was not right. What that was, however, was the problem. Things were logical and illogical at the same time. Had this warden–or whoever he actually was–come simply to check on his welfare? Perhaps James West was something of a celebrity in his care. If that was the case, why had the warden waited for weeks before returning?

Weeks. Months. Jim scrubbed his hand over his jaw again. The whiskers were thicker and longer since yesterday, but not that much more. If he had been asked to guess, he would probably have said that the growth was less than a week's worth. Yet he had not shaved within a week. Had he? Not shaved, nor bathed. For how long? Why would he not remember being taken to the room where the prisoners who wished to do so were allowed to attend to personal hygiene chores? Jim knew that that was a normal routine in penitentiaries he had visited over the years. If not every day, at least every few days or once a week.

Jumping to his feet, Jim stepped over to the bars. "When is my bath scheduled?"

The guard blinked. Actually blinked. The swift movement and abrupt question had obviously startled him out of his trance-like soberness. "What?"

"Simple question. What's the schedule? I want a bath. Clean clothes. A shave. I'm entitled."

The man opened his mouth, shut it again, looked down the corridor, then back at the prisoner. "I'll have to ask."

"Do that. As soon as possible. Otherwise I want to see the warden again."

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

"The time has come," Miguelito Loveless proclaimed.

Dr. Crania stared at him, alarmed. "It's not ready" He motioned toward the bowl-like apparatus with all the attached wires that rested on his workbench.

Loveless waved a hand. "Not that. Not yet. Though we may have to take a chance with it eventually. I mean the newspaper. West will be sleeping soon. At that time, the latest edition of the newspaper will be placed in his cell. I can't wait to see his reaction!" He chortled, imagining the renewed throes of guilt and grief the super-agent would be experiencing. "Could be the paper will do the trick." The fact that West was asking about a bath and shave is not a good sign. Sounds like his reasoning facilities are still intact. Not good. Not good. But Miguelito Loveless would never admit that to Dr. Crania.

"One last time, doctor, in my studied opinion, showing him that newspaper is a bad idea."

"I don't give a tinker's darn what you think," Loveless pouted. "This is my plan. Don't forget that. Besides, West's companions are getting too near. Fordham reported that Gordon and Pike were snooping around outside earlier. Of course, they found nothing, but the mere fact that they were here at the mill means we need to be extra cautious. As well as extra efficient. James West has to lose his senses, one way or another, very soon now. Very soon. I don't care now whether he becomes a raving madman or a slobbering idiot."

"But you must see"

The small man cut him off. "I see only that your methods are too slow, doctor. I told you how the visit of the warden' shook West's senses. He did not know what to make of it. I need to move fast, so that he has no time to recover. He'll sleep soon. When he awakens, the newspaper announcing my triumph will be waiting for him. I can't wait to see his reaction!"

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

"He's in there."

Jeremy Pike looked toward the half collapsed building that had once been a grist mill constructed alongside a now virtually dry stream, then back at the man crouching behind the rocks with him. "Those tracks could have been made by any passerby."

"It's just a hunch, Jeremy. A feeling. It's the kind of place a man might choose to hide a secret."

"What man?"

Artemus Gordon sighed, shook his head. "There is the million dollar question. Whoever took James. Man or men. Was it the two who were seen escorting him away from the train station? From the description, I'd wager the answer is no. They sounded like henchmen. Ordinary men. Someone else, someone with brains had to have plotted this. Someone who found out, had means to find out, about Jim's plans."

"Are you going to search the place?"

Artie winced. "We can't go bulling our way in there. Not without knowing the setup, the circumstances. Tears me apart to have to wait, but that's necessary. We need to view the place at night. If anyone is in there, they'll need illumination of some sort. And light often has a way of seeping out through unexpected peepholes and corners."

"So I'm to go back and get the others."

"Get the others, but wait until near dark to bring them in. Be damn careful when you return, too. Leave the horses well back and come the rest of the way on foot. Take Mesa now and leave her in that grove back there. If the sheriff can round up a few men, so much the better. Make sure they are men who can comprehend, and take, orders. There's going to be a fair amount of sitting back and watching."

The hardest part. Watching and waiting, not knowing what was going on. Despite his sense of the situation, Artemus knew he could be wrong. Other reasons could exist for the signs they had spotted. Jim may not be here at all. Jim West could be dead, buried in an unmarked grave somewhere. Over the years, however, Artemus Gordon had learned to trust his instincts where his partner was concerned. Those instincts informed him that this decrepit mill was the key, might even be the place.

"Artemus," Jeremy said as he started to creep away. "I'm going to bring Blackjack back with me. James might need him."

Artemus Gordon only grinned.

Ì Ì Ì Ì Ì

Buena Vista Hotel!

Jim West stared at the ceiling above him, all thoughts of the recurrent nightmare he had again experienced cast aside. He had just awakened, and the memory of the so-called warden's visit jumped into his head. That beanpole of a man had said, "It's not the Buena Vista, is it?" Why? Why had he referred to the hotel in San Francisco in which Jim West had been planning to stay?

He had also said, "good evening." Jim had noticed that at the time, with the realization that it was the first instance in a long while when he had a good idea of what hour of day it was. Why mention the Buena Vista? Jim had never used that particular hotel on previous visits to San Francisco, deciding to for the upcoming vacation after a recommendation by an acquaintance. The vacation that never happened because

He sat up and swung his feet down to the chilly floor. Wonder what this place would be like in winter? I should know! He had been here for over half a year according to the newspapers. He should have been in this cell during at least a portion of the winter. Or was this prison located in California or Florida so that winter would be barely noticed? That was strange, too, now that he was taking the time to consider the matter: None of the articles in the paper mentioned which penitentiary he had been sent to.

Thinking of the newspapers, Jim looked down at the stack and stared. A new one had been added. He read the headline, and started to laugh. God, how could I have been so stupid? I'm stupid, all right, but not crazy.

"Hey, guard," he called to the burly man who was back at the post. "Tell Dr. Loveless I'd like to talk to him."

The sentry jumped to his feet, startled into a reaction by West's demand. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Jim reached down to pick up the newspaper, holding it so that the headline faced the guard. "Tell him it was a good trick while it lasted."

After a long moment, apparently contemplating his options, the guard turned and stalked down the corridor. For the first time, James West was completely alone. He sat down on the cot, turning the paper around. He did not need to read the story to realize its import to the situation. The headline said it all: The World Turns to Dr. Loveless As Its Savior!

Reading the "article" was a good way to pass the time, however. He just needed to stop laughing as he read. No doubt of the identity of the author of the article. Miguelito's vanity was unmistakable in virtually every word. The leaders of all the nations of the world, according to the item, had been meeting in Antwerp, where they begged and pleaded with the great Dr. Loveless to save them from themselves.

The much maligned and persecuted (particularly by one particular Secret Service agent who was now paying the price for his arrogance, and who would remain nameless), brilliant, superbly talented, exceptionally wise Loveless had modestly agreed to render his services at no cost, of course, being the generous and wonderful man that he was. President Grant in particular had groveled before the great doctor, begging his forgiveness, which was munificently given, without malice.

Jim shook his head, bewildered. What the devil was leaving this edition supposed to have accomplished? He could see the reasons for the other newspaper editions, which seemingly confirmed history and were a continual reminder of the horrendous deed he had committed. They had almost worked. Almost. He rubbed his forehead. The memories were still there. Was it possible Loveless had indeed kept him prisoner for months without being detected? Where could this building be located? Another country?

Something else he had not considered until now, undoubtedly due to the agitated state of his mind, was that the newspapers did not have a city of origin on their front page. Simply The Tribune above the headlines. Perhaps he had unconsciously associated the name with Chicago, never questioning. Could well be why the name had been chosen.

I need to remember more. I need to concentrate hard, and remember more. What happened prior to the argument? What occurred after it? Between the arrest and the judge's hearing? How did I travel to this prison if that's what it is. Did anything happen? Did any of it actually occur? Is is Artemus truly dead? If Loveless was behind it all, anything was possible. The crazy little man had a penchant for impossibly complicated schemes that invariably went off track somewhere, primarily due to his vanity and inability to admit a mistake.

Jim rubbed his unshaven chin again. Was it possible? Was this beard truly just a few days' worth? He could buy the fact that the newspapers were fake. Not only the headlines, but the dates as well. But what about the memories? What about the nightmare? He knew he could not have been hypnotized. That had been tried in the past unsuccessfully. He was not susceptible to hypnosis, mesmerism as it was often called. If the memories were false, how had they been placed in his brain?

Well, perhaps he would soon learn. He heard hurried footsteps in the corridor, and the guard returned, accompanied by two others. Their expressions indicated they were angry and maybe a little frightened. All three carried their rifles. The cell door was opened and Jim was ordered to precede them back down the corridor.

As he stepped out of the cell, Jim saw a window at the far end of the corridor. He was only a little surprised to see that it was dark outside. Although he had slept, he had not slept the night away. He doubted he ever had. The coffee. Why had he not realized that? He drank the coffee every time it appeared on the tray and he had slept afterwards. Passed out in actuality. Had whatever had been in the coffee also caused the dreams?

He tried not to speculate too much as they reached the end of the corridor, coming to a door that opened to a staircase leading upwards. A candle in a sconce was the only lighting. Still barefoot, Jim stepped cautiously. The stairs were steep and constructed of rough wood. What was this building? He had glanced the opposite direction when he left the cell, and saw that the corridor extended only a dozen feet that way, to what appeared to be a boarded up section that had been just out of his view from the cell. The only thing he was certain of at this point was that this building was not a penitentiary.

At the top of the stairs was another closed door. Jim reached for the latch, but it was jerked open. "Mr. West!" The voice was all too familiar. "How good to see you in such good health. How's your state of mind?"

Jim stepped up onto the floor and gazed down at the beaming countenance. "Good evening, doctor. I'm feeling pretty good right now. Quite a scheme you concocted." Loveless moved back as Jim entered the laboratory, looking around. "This is interesting. What are you cooking up?" The room was full of tables, shelves, all manner of glassware and other apparatus. He spotted the strange-appearing man seated at a lab table, a man with a huge cranium that overpowered the smaller features of his face.

"My associate, Dr. Crania," Loveless said grandly. "Doctor, finally, you have the honor to meet the great James West."

Crania barely glanced up, concentrating on something he was working on, something hidden by a shelf from where Jim was standing. Jim stared at Crania. "I have a feeling we've met before."

"I told you so," Crania said.

"Shut up, shut up," Loveless snarled. He then turned back to West, his face wreathed in a charming but false smile. "Mr. West, how does it feel to know you murdered your best friend?"

"Did I?" James West regarded his adversary coolly, almost mockingly.

"Of course you did. You remember it don't you? The rage you felt, the uncontrollable fury? The way the pistol bucked in your hand? The blood on Artemus Gordon's chest?"

"I wasn't aware you were there to witness it," Jim said calmly, refusing to allow his hopes to rise. He was fairly certain now that the shooting did not happen the way he dreamed it, but had it occurred at all?

Loveless spun. "Dr. Crania! Is the instrument ready?"

"As ready as it ever will be," the other man said resignedly. "As I warned you, I cannot predict the results." He got to his feet now, and Jim saw he held a metal bowl. No, not a bowl really. Only shaped like a bowl. Dozens of wires appeared to be fastened to the outside surface of the bowl.

"Please have a seat, Mr. West," Loveless invited graciously, indicating an wooden chair with arms near Crania's workstation. Jim glanced back and saw that the three guards were still behind him with their weapons ready. He was helpless at the moment, and completely unknowing of Loveless's plan. What was going on here now?

"Tell me," Jim said mildly as he sat down, "how did you do it?"

"Do what?" Loveless responded. He grabbed Jim's nearest arm, placed it on the chair arm, and immediately fastened a leather strap around Jim's wrist, securing it firmly to the chair.

"The dreams. The memories. I know they aren't real. But they seemed real."

Loveless skipped around to the other side and fastened the other arm. "That was Dr. Crania's doing. I've learned a great deal from Dr. Crania."

Jim saw the expression on Loveless's face. He did not like making that admission, despite how gracious the words sounded. He still wanted something from Crania, obviously. Perhaps something that involved the strange object that the other man was still fussing with, twisting the long lengths of the wires and fastening the loose ends to a board with metal pegs. Jim West did not like the looks of the device.

"Really simple, actually," Crania said smugly, continuing his task as Loveless fastened a wide leather strap that pinned Jim's chest to the back of the chair. "A matter of mesmerism."

Jim shook his head. "I can't be hypnotized. It's been tried."

"Simple," Crania repeated, his expression taking on a cast that was very similar to ones Jim had seen on Loveless's countenance more than one time. A man completely assured of his own brilliance. "A drug I've perfected that lowers the will. You've been ingesting it every few hours."

"In the coffee."

Loveless had been glaring at Crania for some reason, as though he perhaps did not like what he was hearing. He giggled abruptly. "Didn't I tell you, doctor. James West is not a man who can be fooled easily. In a sense, it is a shame to destroy that fine mind."

An icy cold sensation struck Jim West's spine. He forced himself to not look at Crania and his bowl with wires a bowl that would fit on top of a man's head. "But the dreams," he went on in a voice more calm than he felt, "I had the exact same dream every time."

"That was because I described it to you, Mr. West," Crania said. "In detail. Then I told you that every time you heard the word lemon' while in your drugged state, you would have the dream. The guards were instructed to speak the word as soon as you went under. So you dreamed the dream. The key word also reinforced the other memories I implanted. The judge's chambers, for instance. The visit from the warden that never happened."

"The nightmare," Loveless chortled. "The nightmare that was also a memory. You believed it, didn't you? You believed everything. Including the newspapers."

"I suppose the mesmerism and the drug helped there too."

"To a certain extent," Crania said. "I planted the suggestion. But you have a strong will, Mr. West. The drug overcame it enough for me to hypnotize you, but your will was always fighting back. I tried to explain that to Dr. Loveless. He wanted to hurry the process. It couldn't be done. With a will like yours, more time was needed. Thus, unfortunately, I'm going to have to use this apparatus without any previous testing. The doctor insists."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. West," Loveless smirked. "Dr. Crania tells me he cannot predict the results. The bowl will be placed over your head and he will activate the apparatus it is connected to. An electrical apparatus. The arrangement of the wires will rearrange the basic manner in which your brain functions."

"You see," Crania spoke eagerly now, coming forward, the strange bowl in his hands, "the brain consists of electrical impulses. My device will draw those impulses out through the wires, to my machine, and back to your brain only not to the area where they originated. That's the theory at least."

"Lovely," James West murmured, fighting against the cold tightness of fear. "So what happens to my brain? I end up believing I'm President Grant?"

"If you're lucky," Loveless chortled. "If you're lucky! Believe me, Mr. West, so far as I'm concerned,the best possible result will be if you come out of this alive and well physically with the brain of a madman. The next best condition would be if you were simply a mindless idiot. However, Dr. Crania tells me it could well result in your death. I should be truly sorry."

"Thanks," Jim said dryly. "So would I."

"You see, Mr. West," Loveless went on, standing before Jim, hands folded benignly at his waistcoat, "my desire was to see you insane. That was the whole point with the hypnosis, the drugs, the dreams. Attempting to cause your mind to accept that months had elapsed, not merely a week. It almost worked, didn't it? I was watching you the entire time."

"Watching me? How?" Jim knew he had not spotted any sort of window or peephole in the walls or ceiling.

"My vision transporting device," Crania announced. "I wish we had opportunity to demonstrate it to you, Mr. West. It's quite a triumph. I expect to make quite a fortune from it once I patent it."

Jim saw the eyes of Miguelito Loveless brighten as he turned toward the other scientist. "A fortune? Indeed? You never mentioned that, doctor."

Crania shrugged. "Well, after all, it's my invention. I allowed you to use it out of the goodness of my heart and as a way of testing it."

"But you developed it in my laboratory! It belongs to me!"

"It belongs to me," Crania said sternly. "It's in here." He tapped his bulbous forehead. "No plans have been put on paper. I never put plans on paper."

"But you keep notes!" Loveless cried as he waddled toward the workbench.

Crania was too fast for him, grabbing a notebook with his free hand and holding it high above his head. "Not that the notes would do you any good. They are in a code only I know. However, I much prefer to retain them so I don't have to repeat procedures. Really, Dr. Loveless. I had not expected such behavior from you. I thought you were a scientist!"

"I am a scientist!" Loveless protested. "I am the world's greatest scientist! You must not keep this information from me, Crania. Undoubtedly I can improve upon it. Add color. Sound."

Crania shook his head. "Perhaps when I have perfected it, patented it, I will reveal the methods. In fact, I probably shall, because I will be offering a license–for a fee–to enterprises that want to manufacture it."

"What good is it?" Jim asked, wanting to keep the conversation going and that bowl off his head. "What can it be used for except acting as a peeping Tom?" He saw Loveless scowl as the gibe struck.

"Oh, I foresee myriad uses, Mr. West," Crania rhapsodized, his eyes taking on a glazed look. "I believe that in time I can work out a way to send these pictures through the air"

"Ridiculous!" Loveless snapped. "I would never have believed you were a loony, Dr. Crania!"

"How dare you! I'm not loony. It can be done, and I'll prove it to you one day." Crania glared at the smaller man.

"It sounds interesting," Jim egged them on, "and quite feasible. I'd like to hear more about it. Are you suggesting, for instance, that people in New York could see some event occurring in, say, the District of Columbia?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. Certainly. That will be quite simple. A great deal more study will need to go into the possibility of sending these pictures, let's say, to London." Crania clutched the bowl to his chest, eyes wide with his dreams.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Loveless shouted. "Don't you see he's only trying to delay the inevitable? Put the bowl on his head."

"It's not a bowl," Crania sniffed, insulted. "It's"

"I don't care what it is. Put it on his head and throw the switch!" Loveless smirked toward the strapped-down man. "Any last words, James West?"

"Go to hell."

Loveless giggled, clapped his hands as he watched Crania place the inverted bowl over West's head. "I never thought you were a sore loser, West. But c'est la vie, c'est la guerre! I have won!"

"Oh dear," Crania fretted as he stepped back, lifting the apparatus up. "In all the haste and confusion I forgot the straps."

"Straps? What straps?"

"To hold it securely on his head. It'll only take a moment. I'll just"

Everyone, including James West, looked toward the open door at the stairwell. The pounding sound of hurrying footsteps was accompanied by shouting. A man burst through. A tall beanpole of a man in a suit. "They're coming!" he yelled. "It's a posse! Hundreds! We're surrounded!"

For a moment no one moved, then the three armed guards turned as one toward the door, halting only when Loveless bellowed at them. "Stop! Stop! Guard the door!" He spun around. "Crania, put the bowl on his head! Do it! Do it! Hurry, man, hurry!"

Crania dithered for a moment, looked at the pair of leather straps he held, looked at the frantic Loveless, then dropped the straps to step over to place the inverted bowl on Jim's head. More noise was coming from beyond the stairwell now. Voices. Many, many voices, shouting orders. Then the thunderous roar of boots on the stairs.

"Throw the switch!" Loveless screeched. "Throw the switch!"

Crania seemed frozen now, gaping toward the door as several men burst in, yelling orders. One of those men was a hale and hearty and very much alive Artemus Gordon.

"You stupid!" Loveless was purple with rage. He pushed by Crania, heading for the board to which all the wires were attached.

"Artie!" Jim yelled. "Loveless, get Loveless!" He quickly realized that although Artie had seen him, the noise level in the room now, with the guards and posse shouting back at each other and a couple of scuffles ensuing, prevented Artie from hearing him. With a jerking motion, James West divested himself of the menacing helmet. It flew from his head, caroming off a nearby table, and clattered to the floor on the side of Jim's chair away from the panel where he saw Miguelito Loveless throw a switch. Sparks arced among the wires inside the helmet on the floor.

Crania screeched now, as a pair of the struggling men wobbled close to the apparatus, one's boot heel scraping it. "No, no!" he yelled and headed toward it.

Jim West stuck out his unfettered legs. They caught Crania's ankles, sending him hurtling forward, sliding toward the bowl, with nothing to break his movement. His large head struck the interior of the bowl, and kept moving until head and helmet were pressed up against the nearby wall. Jim West watched in helpless, fascinated horror as he viewed the expressions on the scientist's face. Seconds elapsed before that countenance went suddenly quiet, eyes wide and blank.

Artemus and his boys were getting things under control now. The guards and the "warden" were being cuffed. Gordon headed toward his friend, stepping over the prone doctor with barely a glance.

"Well, James, here you are, sitting around while we're doing all the work."

James West suddenly found that he had no voice. He had a lot of things to say, most importantly to warn Artie to find Loveless who must be hiding. But he looked at those brown eyes, the real, glowing, living brown eyes, saw the warm grin on his best friend's face his living breathing best friend. He took a deep breath, forced his emotions to simmer down.

"Artie, get Loveless."

Gordon blinked, looking around. "Loveless? Miguelito? Where?"

"He was here. Look over there, behind that panel with all the wires. Be careful undo the switch."

Still baffled and a bit worried about his friend's state of mind, Gordon went over to the wired board, threw the switch off, and looked around. "Jim, there's no one here."

"Search the damn room! Look in the cupboards! He's here somewhere!"

Jeremy hurried over then. "It's true, Artie. One of the men in the guard uniforms just told me that Loveless was here. He also said that Loveless mined the goddamned building. We've got to get out of here, pronto!"

Jim was quickly released from the chair, and as much as he wanted to make a thorough search of the room, knew that getting out of the building was more imperative. He knew Miguelito Loveless too damn well. Be just like him to have planted explosives, as well as to set them off, even with himself still inside. He would not mind dying with his enemies, as long as he knew said enemies perished.

Once outside the building–with Jim breathing his first fresh air in a week in the early hours a cool summer morning–they headed away at a fast pace. Jim found himself immediately at a disadvantage, his still bare feet encountering stones and stickers. Burly Bill Maher simply grabbed the smaller man, hoisted him over his shoulder, and kept going. Jim could not stop laughing. Only the loud and violent explosion that rent the structure, hurling fire and stone in all directions, halted his mirth.

At the first blast, everyone hit the ground, prisoners and posse alike. Stones and other rubble fell all around them, and a couple of men yelled in pain, especially if some of the rubble was still burning or perhaps was embedded with a nail. All in all, however, no one was seriously injured. The only known casualty was Dr. Crania. Jeremy suggested that Loveless might have gotten caught in his own trap. Gordon and West looked at each other, and each shook his head.

"He got out somehow," Artemus Gordon said. "He always does." He looked back at the burning structure now, glowing in the early morning light. "Jim, what the hell was going on back there?"

"Long, long story," Jim sighed, rubbing his sore feet. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you, Artie. No idea at all."

The horses were brought up. George Murdoch produced a carpetbag, which Jim seized with glee and gratitude. George had spied the bag in the lab, picking it up as he headed out the door. It contained not only the items Jim had packed for his San Francisco stay, but the clothes he had been wearing on the train. He knew that Loveless planned to dress him–or his body–in them before turning said body, alive or dead, over to Artemus. He would not want to have left any clue regarding what happened to Gordon's friend.

Jim protested, but Artemus insisted, and won out in the end. Jim, now clad in his own clothes and riding his gleaming black horse, allowed himself to be taken to the offices of one Dr. Criss, purported to be the finest physician in Salina, Kansas. He spent pretty much the remainder of the day there, not only undergoing a battery of tests and examinations, but exchanging stories with Artie, Jeremy, and the very curious sheriff of Saline County who had been asked to form a posse but never clearly understood why.

"You still have these memories?" Artie asked as they relaxed in Criss's parlor in the house next to his clinic late in the afternoon. Jim had been able to have a bath and shave, and Mrs. Criss had had her cook prepare two excellent meals, one when they first arrived, and another at the noon hour. Jim had done both justice, surprising himself with his appetite now. Dr. Criss had suggested that the drug used had possibly suppressed his desire for food as well as opened his mind to Crania's suggestions. Now that he had not ingested the drug for probably seven or eight hours, his senses were returning more toward normal.

"They're there," Jim nodded. He did not want to mention just now that he dreaded sleep, lest the nightmare return. Criss said all of it would fade without the prompt.

"I think you should take Dr. Criss's suggestion to allow his alienist friend to hypnotize you and attempt to get rid of them, Jim. After all, le that triggering word is a rather common one. It could cause all sorts of problems every time you pass a bakery, for instance."

Jim laughed. He had to. "I'll think about it. Damn, Artie, it was a clever scheme. It might well have worked if Loveless had given it more time. And not allowed his vanity to interfere."

"The newspaper, you mean."

"As soon as I saw that, it was all over. For him to be involved explained everything. Well, almost everything. I still was not sure what had happened to you, for instance. In retrospect, I believe I erred in allowing him to know he was revealed. Perhaps I should have played along a bit further. As it was, I was damn close to having my brain fried when you showed up."

"I'm glad we didn't wait a moment longer. We had seen the lights inside during the night, but couldn't figure out the layout of the old mill. An agent finally found a farmer who used to take his grain there to be ground. He was able to tell us where the doors and corridors were, how to get to the second floor where we had seen cracks of light. But what the hell happened to Loveless?"

Jeremy entered the room, throwing his hat on a sofa and sitting beside it. "He had an escape route. The skinny fellow that Jim told us posed as the prison warden is talking his head off. He keeps saying he didn't know what he was getting into, that he was paid to play the part, that was all. Anyway, along with the planted dynamite, Loveless had a chute built from that lab to the ruined portion of the building where he kept his horse and carriage. Obviously, he jumped into that chute and escaped in the buggy."

Jim gazed at him. "You've searched the ruins pretty thoroughly?"

"Still at it. But we found the other fellow's corpse, or most of it. No other body parts. Who the devil was this Crania, Jim?"

"I can answer that," Artie said. "I wired Colonel Richmond with the good news and asked a few questions. He had heard of Crania. Seems the fellow was brilliant, beyond genius. Perhaps even smarter than Loveless, but never tell Miguelito I said so. Crania held positions in several universities due to his brilliance, but always lost them because of his penchant to perform bizarre experiments and proffer eccentric theories, while neglecting his university duties. He finally could not get a legitimate position because of his reputation."

"And Miguelito offered him something he could not refuse," Jim murmured. "He was brilliant. Had some ideas that I would have never even dared imagine." Including his brain scrambler. The device that ended up killing him. "He said he never drew plans, kept everything in his head. Now they are all gone. Including his vision transporter."

"His what?" Jeremy and Artemus spoke as one.

Jim laughed, waved his hand. "Never mind. I'll tell you later."

Dr. Criss entered to report that the levels of the drug in Jim's blood were diminishing. He had taken a sample earlier in the morning, and another one a short while ago. "I believe in a few days, it will be completely gone. I suggest, in the meanwhile, rest and plenty of fluids to give your body an opportunity to recover. The ordeal was not physical, Mr. West, but the emotional and psychological toll was heavy. I hope you realize that. You need a long rest. A vacation."

"Well, that's how the whole thing started, wasn't it?" Jim grinned, as the doctor smiled and nodded, leaving the room again.

"That reminds me," Artie said, digging into his jacket pocket to produce a folded yellow paper, which he handed to his partner, barely able to suppress his own mirth.

Puzzled, Jim West opened the paper and read it. "A fee for late cancellation! What?"

"Take me with you," Jeremy suggested. "I'll explain to the manager about the er extenuating circumstances."

"We'll both go with him," Artie stated firmly. "I don't think he can be trusted safely out of our sight, do you?"

"Not for long," Pike grinned.

Artie looked at the grandfather clock standing against one wall. "It's getting late, and I have an appointment."

Jim looked up as his partner got to his feet. "An appointment?"

Gordon grimaced. "Well, it's duty, James. Tough duty, but I feel that it's something I must do in order to express our gratitude."

"What in the world are you talking about?"

"You see, we located the mill primarily because of a schoolteacher who saw you with Loveless's men, and noticed you had the travel bag with you. That was our first clear lead, something we felt secure in following up. I well, I promised this old maid teacher that I would treat her to dinner. You know. In a town like Salina, having dinner with a well, a celebrity of sorts you know, Jim. The things we do for our country."

Jeremy was staring open mouthed. "Artie? Old maid?"

"Old maid," Gordon replied somberly. "I'll do my duty, and smile through it all. For without her help, we may not have reached Jim in time. Correct?"

"Correct," Jeremy echoed. "But Artie"

"Tut tut, don't give it another thought. I would not think of inflicting this on anyone else. Now when the doctor releases Mr. West, Jeremy, take him to the hotel and make certain he stays there. Understand?"

Jim could see that Jeremy was confused about something, and he himself was somewhat baffled. Artemus Gordon rarely neglected his civic duty, but this dinner date seemed above and beyond. "Are you sure you don't want us to at least go with you, Artie?"

"No, indeed. I can handle it. Miss Fancy, I'm afraid, seemed to take something of a fancy toward me." He chuckled at his own clever phrasing. "You know how these spinsters are."

"Miss Fancy?" Jim gaped.

"Rosemary Fancy." Artie sighed. "Quite a lovely name for well, I can't keep the old girl waiting. I'm sure she's donned her Sunday best for the occasion. Au revoir, mes amis. Jim, did I tell you how glad I am to see you again?"

"Same here, partner. Same here."

"What was that about?" Jim asked as Artemus sauntered out the door.

Jeremy Pike swallowed. "Well, nothing I guess. Just what Artemus said. He's escorting the the old maid schoolteacher to dinner in order to express his our gratitude."

Sometime later, in the early twilight, the two agents were riding their horses toward the hotel in the middle of town, the whole thing became crystal clear to James West. As they passed a restaurant where lamps were illuminating the interior, causing many of the patrons to be visible at their tables, Jim West pulled Blackjack to a halt.

"There's Artie!" he exclaimed.

Jeremy halted his horse, making sure he was well out of arm's reach of West. "Yep, there's Artemus, and Miss Rosemary Fancy, the old maid schoolteacher. I'd say she's at least twenty-four, Jim. Maybe even twenty-five. Poor, decrepit old maid."

Jim West sat on the black horse and stared. The woman sitting across the table from Artemus Gordon was a beautiful redhead, attired in a green satin gown that possessed much more décolletage than one would think a schoolteacher would even be familiar with, baring creamy skin. Green ribbons festooned her flaming hair. As they watched, she leaned forward, smiling warmly. Artemus Gordon smiled back, reaching across the table to take her hand.

Jim sighed. Well, perhaps Artie deserved it. He had saved Jim West's life. However maybe Artie would not get to meet that brunette in San Francisco after all. Jim had had this particular woman in mind when he tried previously to convince Artie to accompany him to the coast.

"Jeremy," he said, twisting in the saddle to face the apprehensive agent, "when we get to San Francisco, remind me to introduce you to Heidi. I think you and she will hit it off smashingly."

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