1

The assignment in Springfield consisted of the fairly easy task of delivering documents to the states' Governor and afterward, James West was able to enjoy a few days north in the bustling city of Chicago. He had joined his friend and fellow Secret Service agent, Artemus Gordon, who had already started to paint the town red, and both proceeded to push their limits, taking in all the big city could offer; they dined, danced, and drank a winding path through the town. They had charmed an untold number of beauties during their seventy-two hours of carousing and both men felt deflated upon receiving new orders that would send them to the open (and lonely) plains of the southwest. Back to unfaltering responsibility and duty, death and danger, and in so, West savored and cherished life outside commitment, no matter how little of it was afforded. It was the necessary balance he needed to remain human.

The morning had beat West to the sunrise a few hours earlier and, he deduced, Artie had done so also; Gordon had this amazing ability to absorb great amounts of alcohol without many repercussions; and usually after a night of non-stop revelry and debauchery, he would be freshly clean, shaved, and checked out of the hotel, having the Wanderer on-track, steamed-up and ready to go by the time West would arrive. West would often enter the train defeated, only to stumble upon a perfectly arranged Gordon, sipping tea and reading the newspaper, ready with a pithy remark to launch at the weary West.

This morning had been no different; James had finally found the energy, let alone motivation, to drag himself from the comfort of Sylvia and the feather bed; its cloud-like softness only complimented the silken skin of his consort, Sylvia St. John. Her golden hair gently caressing his shoulders and neck had pulled him from his heavenly slumber.

"Hmnf…" crept from his lips as his eyes struggled against the sheen of the light-splashed curtains.

"James…" Sylvia enthusiastically spun around pressing her bosom into his back, "…promise you will at least contact me when you come back into town."

He maneuvered to a comfortable position and brushed his hair from his brow, "I would never take you lightly, Sylvia." He delicately ran his fingertips along her sensuous cheek softly lifting her face to his and continued, "It would hurt me deeply if we never saw each other again."

West drew her close and kissed her eagerly. He held her for a moment, reliving the wonderful evening before with all of his senses. Her touch, her scent burned into his mind, he then exited the bed and made his way to the dresser only to flinch at his reflection in the mirror above.

His hair shot every-which direction, two days growth of whiskers boldly outlined his rugged jaw, and he turned back to the bed remarking to Sylvia, "Are you sure you want to see me again?"

She giggled at his joke, her eyes flashed as she answered, "Most definitely."

**********

The Palmer House was the only hotel in Chicago constructed of steel and brick and its owner had boasted that it was the first fireproof hotel. The hotel had recently reopened; the previous one had burned down in the great Chicago fire some years earlier. It was an expression in extravagance, the ceilings reached in high arcs with elaborate paintings of rich color in red and gold that rained down into the lobby, the deep mahogany rails and trimmings shone an opulent brilliance. The plush carpet eased his steps and felt good under his boots. For those whose legs couldn't take the climb, the hotel even hosted a vertical rail car that would lift or lower you to the desired floor. As worn as he felt, West decided to take the stairs to the lobby, opting to revel in the exquisiteness of the hotels dazzling interior; it would be soon enough that he would be surrounded by some form of threat or danger and he wanted to appreciate the rest of his visit.

With the porter bringing up the rear with his bags, West spotted the barbershop nestled across the lobby and wondered if time allowed him a shave and soap. He checked his pocket watch, 9:48 and it looked as if the barber had just acquired a vacancy.

Reaching the bottom of the stairway, West then crossed the lobby between the gigantic couches strategically set in the great hall. Various patrons walked to and fro, distinguished travelers rested around the seats, some engrossed in magazines, others smoking cigars and making conversation.

"And what could I do for you, sir?" the barber enthusiastically asked while he brushed clean his chair.

"Quick shave?" West questioned the time.

The barber smiled and gloated, "Five minutes without a nick," he twisted the chair around, inviting West to have a seat. He set his towel on his workbench and started mixing the cream.

West replied as he turned to tip the porter, "… and without a nick eh, well that'll surely benefit your tip jar."

What he found when he went to take his seat took him back, as it was now occupied by a burly gentleman in a black suit, slouched within the chair, his coat draped across his forearm, and arrogantly staring down his nose at West.

The barber jumped in on discovering that someone other than his intended customer had taken the seat, "Excuse me, sir, I believe that this gentleman was next."

The man sat in silence, his gaze trained on West.

"Sir…" the barber had started.

"I heard you," he barked from the side of his mouth, "shave," he ordered.

"Any other time…" West left his comment hanging while he turned to gather his bags, as he did not have the time or the inclination to waste any effort concerning such a rude man.

Jim put it together a fraction too late as two other gentlemen had already secured his arms; the rude man was a distraction so the others could get close enough without detection. West peered over his shoulder and glimpsed that the burly gentleman had left his seat, had taken the straight razor from the barbers tunic pocket, and was proceeding towards him, brown teeth shone underneath his devilish grin.

Both captors had Jim's arms firmly trapped and he had little sway as their bodies were tightly pressed against his sides; West hadn't any leverage and could barely move.

The burly man laughed, "He said this was going to be extremely difficult and challenging," he had the straight razor open and was almost within striking distance.

THWACK! The end of Artie's cane struck the man across his eyes, sending him tumbling back into the parlor. Artie then lashed out again with his cane catching one of Jim's captors under the ear.

West was free and in a flash had the tables turned against his remaining captor as he grabbed the man's collar with his free hand, shoving it under the man's chin, the other twisted and locked under his coat, grabbing his belt. Able to now use his leverage, West was under the man's center of gravity and he lifted and pushed the thug, and the two crashed like a runaway locomotive into a hotel display sending glass and wooden fragments into the air.

Before the last of the shattered contents reached the ground West had fired off three hard rights to his assailants jaw and spun around to face the other attacker.

In a blink of an eye West had scanned the area and situation; only three attackers, one down behind, one in front-knife in hand and charging, no sight of Artie and the big man. From across the floor shot the other thug, in his right hand was a gigantic bowie knife, blade facing outward. West lurched forward also, both men in a collision course toward each other. Just before they met, West grabbed one of his leather bags in stride and had brought it up to catch the attackers plunging knife. The thug's hand practically went through the bag and West spun at the last possible moment, twisting the knife hand while simultaneously sending his shoulder booming into the man's face, crushing his nose. Both men went to the ground, only one got up.

West ran for the parlor to aid Artemus, holding his bruised shoulder, he was rounding the bend when he felt the tackle and his feet leave the floor. The thug he left in the display case had recovered and now had West at a disadvantage as they exploded through the glass doors of the hotels main entryway. People on the sidewalk scattered as the men fell to the ground, shards of glass and wood clattered and splintered around them.

**********

Artie had managed to evade the big man's attacks by keeping the barber's chair between them but was losing ground as his mobility in the crowded parlor made maneuvering difficult, its lacquered 'silver dollar floor' provided little traction and the razor welding goon was getting closer and closer with each attempt.

"I'm gonna slice that smirk off your face," the big man spit, blood from his brow flowing over his nose.

Gordon had enraged the giant, as it was his strategy to out-think and finesse his opponent. Artemus believed that to lower himself to his enemy's level was uncouth, besides extremely unhealthy and for every problem the solution would present itself; he just needed some time for that to happen. Out of the corner of his eye he spied West and one of the other attackers flying through the front doors, it distracted him just enough to lose his rhythm and he ended up trapped in a corner.

"Got cha now, ya pansy," the giant gloated as he positioned himself to block Artie's escape.

Gordon felt a burst of warmth coming from his right, he quickly glanced, the big red letters 'careful hot' had hit him like an arrow. The towel warmer beside him had one towel remaining; Artie realized he had just found his solution, if, he could time it right.

The furious giant lunged for Gordon, growling and with blade raised; Gordon poked the end of his cane in the steamer, adding insult to injury stated, "Your face is really dirty, here wipe it off!" Whipping his cane from the steamer, Artie sent the scalding, wet towel into the giant's already wounded face, sending the brute blinded and burned, off-track and off balance, into the mirrored wall and workbench from which Gordon had been a split-second earlier.

The giant yanked the towel from his face and spun around, his eyes adjusting from the trauma, waves of steam floated from his head, the blood from the cut on his brow was now pink and barely visible, diluted from the hot water, the underlying redness and heat damaged skin went hand in hand with the angry twist of the big man's face. Dazed and smarting he stumbled towards Artemus.

Gordon then realized which cane he had brought, twisting the handle, Artemus brandished the sword that was hidden inside.

The thug paused; Artie could see the gears churning behind the heavy man's eyes, suddenly and without a word, the ruffian bolted for the storefront window.

**********

The circle of people watching the fracas grew more intense as onlookers pushed and shoved their way through each other for a better view. Citizens gasped as the men rolled back and forth on the glass strewn ground.

West was trying to get out from under his attacker but most of the man's weight was evenly dispersed, his legs spread wide made moving him extremely difficult if not impossible. West knew that this was a professional killer and it would become more and more dangerous the longer the struggle continued, he had to get the upper hand, fast.

Unexpectedly the attackers mass shifted, but not enough for West to escape, the man reared up with a long shard of glass in his bloody hand that came plummeting down toward West's neck.

Jim caught his wrist with both hands, stopping the transparent dagger from finding its target; it precariously hovered over West' throat.

The madman flung his free hand on top of his other and began to slowly pull himself upward, gaining leverage. West felt the edge of the shard caressing his throat just below his Adam's apple. Jim felt bits of wood and glass pressing into his back as he gnashed on the dusty ground. The attacker's face was inching its way into West's view and a twinge of pain shot from his neck as the glass slowly dug into his skin.

Sweat poured from the thug's blondish hair, dropping onto his hands, the pain boosted his anger and resolve, and kicked in his reserves.

West's arms started to buckle under the strain, the shard in his neck inched deeper, the pain began to flare and he could see the doggedness in the killer's eyes; knowing he had the advantage over West.

West closed his eyes and reached deep within for a last effort, his arms grew numb and the world went silent. The only thing he was aware of was the thunderous beating of his heart; he didn't hear the big thug from inside the hotel crash through the storefront and scamper away, he couldn't hear his killer's laughter as he pushed West ever closer to death.

Unexpectedly the pressure was gone, so too was the pain from his throat, and West opened his grit-covered eyes to find the diminutive Dr. Miguelito Loveless standing above him, a bloody brick in his hand. West momentary looked around and saw his attacker stumbling into the crowd, holding his head. Observers made their way over, some came to assist West, others to peer into the hotel, wondering what was going to fly out next. Jim turned to Loveless, who, wide-eyed, dropped the brick and took a step back. Jim was speechless, the thought was unimaginable, Loveless had saved him.

"Jim," Artemus called as he stepped through the broken doors, sword in hand. From behind him came Sylvia, tears streaming down her cheeks. Both pushed past the gathering of onlookers, hotel staff, and patrons. West, as good Samaritans deluged him with offers of help, watched in silent amazement as Loveless faded from sight in a sea of legs and dust.