The Night of the Race With Death
The black acrid smoke seemed to permeate every pore in Artemus Gordon's exhausted body as he continued stumbling eastward through the smoldering forest, searching for an escape route from the intense heat. With every step, the flames stubbornly licked at his clothes, his hair, his shoes. All around him burning trees toppled like dominoes one right after another, several barely missing Artie as he lurched almost drunkenly out of the way. Having lost his hat early in his hellish journey, his face was covered in soot and gray ash swirled into his dark chestnut hair, giving him a ghoulish appearance. He cradled his broken right arm and used a long, sturdy branch under his armpit as a crutch to take weight off his badly twisted ankle.
Over the crackling and popping he was convinced that he could hear the moans and weak cries for help from others like he, trapped for hours with walls of fire cutting them off from safety. It distressed him bitterly that he was unable to help with any rescue effort, but acknowledged in his heart that realistically he could barely help himself.
His dire predicament had started the previous day after the successful completion of another mission for his employer, the Secret Service. Artie took advantage of a few days off to a make a short unplanned visit to see an old friend who worked at a nearby logging camp. Being caught in the midst of a tornado of flames resulted not only in Artemus' separation from his friend but from his horse, which had thrown him, causing his injuries, and also from his partner, James West, who was ten miles away having stayed behind in their private train, the Wanderer. He could only pray that Jim had become concerned at his delay and had noticed the plumes of smoke even now undoubtedly rising over the countryside.
With parched throat and skillfully using his left hand to open the canteen he had forethoughtfully snatched up on his harrowing flight from the logging camp, he greedily drank what few drops remained before throwing the canteen away in frustration. Praying that his usually unerring sense of direction wouldn't fail him, he unsteadily continued on his search for the nearby Peshtigo River. One painful step at a time he drug himself up a short rise, his tortured breath catching in his lungs as he survey the devastation and ruins of the village below. A sheen of bitter tears appeared in his eyes at the lack of any sizable body of water within his walking distance. He finally had to acknowledge that he was lost in a raging forest fire with no discernable way out. He now second guessed every decision he had made during the grueling last six hours, wondering if his salvation would've lay in the west rather than the east. Also when he should have trusted his own instincts about the overwhelming smoke haze and smell, he had allowed himself to be lulled by his friend's assurances that small fires had been smoldering in the area for months.
Stumbling back towards the trail snaking its way through the trees, Artie felt a blast of heat towards his back as the overly dry foliage continued to catch fire and burn at a blistering rate. A tongue of flames licked at his fringed jacket which to his horror, caught fire. He grimaced as he tried awkwardly to beat it out with his left hand, finally succeeding but slightly burning his skin in the process.
Disoriented and now unsure of his location within the unfamiliar forest, the defeatist attitude in his mind whispered 'give up', but Artemus Gordon's will and determination exceeded that of most men and he resumed his hobbling trek. After another twenty minutes of struggling, never looking back, he was forced to stop when a large burning tree blocked the path. Every tortured breath caused a deep wheeze finally culminating in a coughing spell that persisted for several long minutes. Twisting around, he discovered to his dismay that the path behind him was now blocked by a wall of flames and smoldering debris. Out of obvious options, he sank to his knees, cataloging his regrets: characters never portrayed, ovations never taken, ladies never romanced, inventions never invented. That chain of thoughts naturally culminated in a bittersweet musing of the friendship with his partner, James West, and their adventures together. Although Jim was not an emotionally demonstrative man by nature, Artie held no doubts about the high regard Jim had for him and how much they had both gained from their close bond. He regretted leaving Jim to carry on alone, but hoped that in experiencing Artie's previous "deaths" that Jim had learned lessons that would help him manage his grief. He only worried that in this situation there would be no vengeance to be loosed that could slake the emptiness in Jim's soul.
He chuckled briefly as he thought how ironic it was that he had escaped the clutches of some of the country's worst villains, only to perish due to a natural disaster. Just as he had resigned himself to face his end, he heard a familiar loud neighing. Jumping over the burning log was a steed as black as death itself with his blue-suited salvation astride its back.
Note: This story is loosely based on the Peshtigo Fire which occurred in Peshtigo, WI on 10/8/1871. It was reported to be the largest natural fire disaster in U.S. history.