Spoilers for TNOT Pistoleros. Set during and after the episode.

Night of the Regret

I buried my partner today. Regret for words left previously unspoken taunt me. Did he realize what he meant to me? What my reticence rarely allowed me to vocalize? Did he comprehend the complete trust that I handed over to him daily (at first reluctantly)? He was always so free with his emotions and I always knew where I stood with him. I pray that he went to his grave knowing how much respect and even care I had for him. If I had had just five minutes more with him, would I have been able to express my deepest feelings, knowing I would never again have that chance?

My heart cracked the moment I realized he was gone, but there is no time to grieve. I have one last task to perform before I can let any semblance of emotion touch my soul.

Somewhere a murderer's heart still beats; a man who denied my friend that basic right. I vow on the grave that I just left that I will not rest until the heart of Artie's executioner ceases to beat as well.

Hatred burns within me. How dare some nameless, faceless, soulless assassin take away something so precious from me, to rob the world of Artemus Gordon, a man with so much devotion, bravery and patriotism? A singular individual whose likes I know I will not see again in my lifetime.

No matter whom I am partnered with in the future there will never again be that magic, that relationship built on complete honesty and trust. There are others in the Service that I respect and admire but Artemus Gordon was one of a kind. I'll never be able to share so much of myself with anyone ever again. It was such a risk I took the day I allowed Artie to open a fissure into my heart. It wouldn't be worth risking a repeat. The reward isn't worth it.

Resurrected. How can a man buried six feet under return triumphantly from the dead? Not only to return to life, but to save my own in the process? Speechless for a heart beat or two, I give the only response my frozen brain can make, "Thanks". I know it won't pacify him for long, but once we are back home in the Wanderer, I will find a way to let him know my appreciation and respect for him. Life is too short, especially in our line of work, to take someone for granted. In my case, it is long overdue.

Sleep eludes me. From all the riding and fighting I have partaken of in the past few days, it should be simple to give in to my exhaustion, but it seems that every time my heavy eyelids close, I am assailed with a replay of that ghastly scene at the hotel and the macabre scene at the cemetery. Hopefully a few days in Artie's cheerful presence will chase the potential nightmares away.

As the days pass, I have become the object of his concerned glances. He has noticed (how could I keep it from his observant eyes?) that I prowl the train cars at night and that I keep close tabs on his whereabouts. Other than a brief recitation of his ordeal, he has not mentioned and I have not asked for the details of his imprisonment. Can I admit that I, James T. West, am afraid? The conversation I meant to have is buried behind a barrier built by years of pride. I have left unsaid those words I vowed just days ago to say to the man who even now sits across the room from me. He seems to have accepted my silence, but he shouldn't have to. I didn't learn my lesson. Maybe I never will.