August of 1874 in Colorado was hot. Desperately hot. In July of that year a record-breaking streak of 18 consecutive days at 90 degrees had baked the high mountain towns and the desert cities to a crisp. Denver had been sweltering and the town of Saguache, Colorado, 180 miles south of Denver, had been no exception.
The name meant either 'green place' or 'blue earth' depending on which Ute Indian you chose to listen to, but the town, according to Washington, was nothing more than a glorified mining operation, like all the others in the area. The sparsely populated county had been established only 8 years prior.
"Sag-watch, Colorado." Arte said with his teeth bared, holding the cable he had just translated at eye-level, arms length in front of him. Like he was giving a speech, Jim thought.
"It's pronounced Saw-watch, Arte."
"Saw-watch? How could you possibly know?"
Jim only shrugged and went back to oiling the crank lever of his rifle. Their previous adventure had meant that the weapons aboard The Wanderer were neglected for longer than usual.
"Saw-watch..." Arte muttered to himself, then set the pad of paper down and went back to fixing his tie. He'd chosen the blue suit this time, for its lighter material, and his fingers slid over the light blue satin ascot tie as he fixed the neck band in place. "Saw-watch, hey, Jim. D'ya ever think about, I mean really stop to consider, names?"
"Names?"
"Of cities and countries. Even people."
Jim could feel the one sided conversation that was coming, and while his hands stayed busy with the rifle in pieces before him, his mind started to wander.
"Take Washington, for example. D.C. It's named after General George Washington of course, but he could have easily been a Sam Gargoyle, or a Walter Barthing. Then our nation's capital would have been Gargoyle, District of Columbia."
Arte turned to inspect his work in the small mirror that hung on the wall behind him, and caught Jim's reflection over his shoulder, and the stare that Jim was giving him. A mix of concern and maybe a little fear.
"I know it sounds peculiar but just one minute change in history, one tiny alteration and you could be Artemus Gordon. I could be James West. It's fascinating to consider."
Arte slipped on his jacket, tugging at the lapels and shrugging his shoulders until the custom-made article rested just right.
Snapping the trigger mechanism back into the stock, Jim operated the lever once, making sure it moved smoothly before he placed the tiny screws in their holes and twisted them home. "No offense, Arte, but where are you going with this?"
Arte stuck out his lower lip and shrugged, throwing his hands in the air and then patting them against his vest as he took a breath. "Nowhere. Just making conversation. Didn't mean to bother you with my humble ponderings."
"Arte..." Jim smiled, fitting the final piece into the rifle before he operated the lever, gently released the hammer, then replaced the weapon in the saddle holster it normally occupied. He stood from the table he'd been working at and went to his partner, clapping him on the shoulder before moving past him. "That's what I'm here for."
Arte gave him a look as the engine slowed, the wheels squealing as the brakes were applied. Bending to look through the window, Gordon took in the single room station up ahead, sun bleached walls and dust covered windows dancing in the heat. He could just make out two men standing as deep into the shade as they could under the awning of the station. One man seemed glued to his pocket watch, the other stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Both men wore only shirts and vest over their slacks, and straw hats.
"Looks like our welcoming party is ready for us."
"The whole nine yards, eh Arte?" Jim asked pulling on his own vest and jacket.
"Well..."Arte muttered to the window. "In a town with a population of under 100, these two may well be an extravagance."
As the train pulled to a final halt, steam billowing from the brake lines, Arte considered his gun belt where it lay on the table, then decided against it. They were there only for supplies, before heading to a rendezvous with a Sergeant from Los Pinos Indian Agency, and possibly to help in the search of missing persons; not to shoot it out with the natives. Considering the temperature outside it was wise to avoid carrying around unneeded weight.
Grabbing their hats, the two secret servicemen left their private car, stepping out into the hard, dry heat. The two men under the awning snapped their heads toward the end of the train as Jim's boot crunched into the rocky soil. The man in the lead, bearing a tin star on his vest, met Jim's eyes first, then Arte's, then continued to look behind Gordon as if expecting another man to appear.
Once Gordon and West had cleared the train, and it became apparent that no one else was going to exit, the second man under the awning craned his neck searching the platforms of the other car and even the engine.
Jim was the first to shake the Sheriff's hand.
"Sheriff William Bowdeen." The man introduced himself, then nodded to his companion. "That's Carlos Sanderson of the Saguache Sentinel."
"Well where is he?" Twenty-three year old Sanderson demanded, sharp accusing blue eyes boring first into Arte, then Jim.
"Where is who?" Arte asked, shaking the Sheriff's hand without looking at him.
"Eh...Carlos is askin' about the prisoner, fellas." Bowdeen explained. "He's awful anxious to get a look at him, and he's been spoutin' about freedom of the press and all that...I figured you all wouldn't mind."
"Prisoner?" Jim asked, meeting Arte's equally confused gaze, before they both looked back to the Sheriff.
Bill Bowdeen had to be in his sixties. A thin, wiry older man with the dark, weathered skin of a former prospector and the laid back ease of a cowhand, he put his hands on bony hips and nodded. "Well yep, we was told you fellas would be comin' up with a special prisoner for our jail out here. Jest had it built."
"If this is some sort of ruse, to keep the truth from the American people about this sinister and grisly crime, you'll not only have me to answer to, but the entire constituency of this great territory." Sanderson began.
Arte gave a thin, patronizing smile to the young man, patting the air in front of him as if to say, 'Good boy, down.'
"My name is Artemus Gordon, and this is my partner James West. We're Secret Service agents, requested by your territorial governor to assist in an official capacity in some sort of...man hunt or something."
"You mean he's escaped?" Sanderson exploded, seeming almost delighted at the prospect, despite the outrage in his voice.
"Now Carlos, I've told ya about that too many times to count. You go puttin' words in other people's mouths and then printin' 'em in that rag o' yours you'll get run outta Saguache the same as you got run outta every other town."
As Sanderson paced away, angrily vouching for the rights of the people against tyranny and the general debauchery of the federal government, the laid back sheriff followed a few steps behind, trying to calm the younger man.
Arte and Jim watched the show with baffled expressions before Arte asked, "You get the feeling we're a day late and a dollar short?"
"Actually...I think we're early.." Jim said, looking in the other direction.
When Arte asked, "Huh?" Jim pointed past the end of the train, down along the track where a column of blue coated horsemen approached leading several wagons. Almost twenty men rode in a long line, some carrying guide-ons designating their regiment.
"Those are General Charles Adam's men." Arte declared. Jim nodded in agreement and both watched as the horsemen approached in formation, turning according to the commands given by the Sergeant in Charge and finally forming a semi-circle around the two wagons, twenty feet from the train station.
Their approach hadn't gone unnoticed by Sanderson and Bowdeen, and all four men stepped off the platform together as the Sergeant dismounted, coming to full attention in front of Jim West and Artemus Gordon. The young brown-haired non-commissioned officer threw a salute, which Jim returned, then smiled pumping first West's hand, then Gordon's.
"Mr. West, Mr. Gordon. Good to see you sirs. Sorry that you weren't informed about our charge before hand but the decision to move him was only made a day ago, and our telegraph lines have been down for sometime."
"That's...quite alright, Sergeant." Arte offered, looking askance at the wagons. "Who exactly are we talking about here?"
"Alfred Packer."
Again Arte and Jim turned to each other, neither one of them recognizing the name. "Packer?" Jim asked.
The Sergeant nodded. "The Maneater of Colorado, sir."
"Maneater?" Arte asked, catching sight of Sanderson's disapproving glare out of the corner of his eye a second later.
"Yes sir, accused of murdering and eating 5 men, sir."
"What!?" Arte demanded, getting that same sick feeling. That undeniable understanding that they were now in it, up to their ears, with no way out.
"He's confessed, sir, and everything."
Arte swallowed and Jim stood beside him, arms crossed, leaning forward slightly with his mouth hanging open and nothing to say.
"Well," Bowdeen finally announced, stepping forward to slap a hand against Arte's back, before he slid in front of the Secret Service Agents and offered a handshake to the Sergeant. "Looks like we won't be needin' you gents for that manhunt after all."
"Uh well.." The Sergent began. "It's not so much a manhunt...as it is a body hunt. We haven't found them yet, Mr. Packer's victims, that is."
"Ah...of course." Sanderson said with accusatory satisfaction, before he loudly clapped his hands together and stormed away from the train and up the hill towards what looked like the main thoroughfare of town.
The loud explosion of air seemed to snap Jim and Arte out of their silence. Artemus stumbled for a minute over a dozen questions before he clarified, "Body hunt?"
"Yes sir."
"And whose body, may I ask, will we be looking for?"
"Well, sirs, that keeps changing. But we've got a fairly good idea."
"Ah..." Arte said, turning a meaningful glare on his partner.
Jim met his gaze and smiled politely, before looking back to the cavalryman. "That's very reassuring, Sergeant. Carry on."
The young man snapped another salute then returned to his unit, shouting the commands that would take them up the main street and to the newly built jail at its crest.
"Cannibals, Jim. We've gone from pirates to cannibals." Arte said through his teeth.
Jim turned and smiled, tapping the back of his hand against Arte's stomach. "At least there aren't any boats."
"Small mercies..." Arte said before they turned together toward the sheriff of the tiny town.
"Are you sure your jail is equipped to handle this prisoner?" Arte asked, gesturing to the phalanx of calvary men that had apparently been required to transport one prisoner.
The sheriff watched the parade as it slowly climbed the hill, nodding. "I got about ten deputies."
"Ten!? Ten deputies for this tiny town?" Arte asked. The town of Saguache could fit in a thimble or a on a postage stamp.
The sheriff, who had been digging in his pocket for a large chaw of tobacco, had pulled it out and had a knife poised at a corner, working a chunk loose. Before he popped it into his mouth he said, "You gentlemen should follow me."
Working his jaw against the stiff tobacco the lanky man walked toward the varnish car at the end of the train, then around the back of it, waiting for Jim and Arte to follow, before he swept his hand toward the long valley spreading before them.
Never before had Jim or Arte seen more brand new buildings, tents, or people crammed into one valley. The land below them was teeming with the varied hodgepodge of activity that was characteristic of every boomtown in America.
"Guess you gov'ment boys ain't got our new census papers yet." Bowdeen said, before he jerked his head back in the direction of the train. "Com'on. I'll show ya the new jail."