Here's the usual disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any of these characters. I've been immersed in writing Black Sheep Squadron fanfiction for the last two years and took a break from the South Pacific during World War II to try my hand at WWW. I must confess I'm a newcomer to (re)discovering this show so any errors are of my own creation. Reviews are welcome, please and thanks.
The Night of the Silver Arrow
Chapter 1
"Silver arrow through the night,
Silver arrow take thy flight.
Silver arrow seek and find
Cursing heart and cursing mind."
- William S. Burroughs
3 a.m.
August 1872
Rabbit Gulch, Wyoming Territory
The lantern flashed, an abnormally large firefly in the late summer night. Once, twice.
Finished.
Then darkness again blanketed the warehouse district near the rail yards.
On a nearby hillside, a figure shifted in the saddle and acknowledged the signal with two flashes from a similar lantern.
Get clear.
A match rasped. The tiny flame flickered then burst into a glorious fireball when it was applied to the pitch-soaked rag knotted around the arrow shaft. The horse, a buckskin gelding, tossed his head at the scent of fire but remained steady. The figure raised a bow, sighted down the shaft and gauged distance and breeze as flames caressed slim fingertips. With a fluid motion born of practice, the fingers released the bowstring on an exhalation of breath. Before the string stopped quivering, two more arrows followed, ignited, timed and placed with precision.
The archer felt the bowstring slap against the leather wrist guard and lowered the weapon, smiling with grim satisfaction. Tipped with orange flame, the missiles sliced like meteors through the darkness. They landed with soft thuds the archer could hear from the semi-concealment of the hillside.
Within seconds, the cedar shingles of the warehouse roof ignited. Flames raced along the ridgeline, engulfing the structure. The archer watched the conflagration as it raged. The sight brought no pleasure. It was another step toward frontier justice. Two wrongs might not make a right but they did make a difference. The archer thought the difference between right and wrong largely depended on which side of the law you were on.
Satisfied, the figure drew a final arrow. With a graceful motion, the shaft was nocked and loosed. It sliced the darkness to bury itself in a corral fencepost above the heads of the warehouse guards who had been unceremoniously deposited there, unconscious, bound and gagged, but a safe distance from the fire. Flames from the burning warehouse danced on the silver leaf that had been applied to the knapped flint arrowhead.
The archer sat patiently, a shadow slightly darker than the surrounding night. In the distance, a coyote howled. Then a lantern flashed twice from a neighboring hillside, a repeat of the earlier signal.
Ready. Waiting.
The archer returned the signal.
Coming.
After extinguishing the lantern and tucking it back into a saddlebag, the figure touched light boot heels to the buckskin and was soon swallowed by the night.
By the time the sleepy residents of Rabbit Gulch were woken from their beds to form a fire brigade, the warehouse was fully consumed. Showers of sparks drifted on the breeze and efforts changed from any hope of saving the building to preventing nearby structures from joining it. When untied and roused, the guards remembered nothing, only being struck from behind in the dark. The sheriff yanked the arrow from the fencepost and studied the gleaming silver head.
There was no question. The Robin Hood gang had struck again.
XXX
Secret Service Field Office
San Francisco, California
"I'm sending you boys to the Wyoming Territory. The faster you get there, the better."
"The Wyoming Territory, Colonel? Aren't they up to their backsides in Indian trouble out there?" James West balanced his hat on his knee, his smile impassive, as Colonel Richmond's words sunk in. His barely-healed ribs still ached from the brawl that concluded his and Artie's last assignment. He wasn't crazy about heading into the middle of a bunch of angry Kiowa and Blackfeet but given recent developments, he wasn't crazy about staying here, either. He might be safer with the Kiowa and Blackfeet.
"I was hoping for something a little more . . . ," he paused, searching for the right word, ". . . relaxing."
"Relaxing? I think you've done all the relaxing you need! You are not in any position to argue!" Richmond's voice lowered and he spoke through clenched teeth. "President Grant asked me to impress upon you both that it would be in your best interests to get out of San Francisco. It's entirely possible you have worn out your welcome here. Do I need to remind you, Jim, who Anastasia Thorndyke's father is?"
Jim's smile faded marginally. He cleared his throat.
"No, sir. I would prefer you didn't."
"Then you will accept this assignment and maybe Senator Thorndyke will forget your dalliance with his daughter. And God knows whatever trouble you've been getting into, Artie," Richmond added with a glance at Jim's partner. Artemus Gordon was perched on another chair, trying to look pious. The effect was spoiled by the smile that kept breaking through in spite of efforts to hide it.
"In my defense, Anastasia Thorndyke appeared much older than she actually was," Jim said.
Richmond glared.
"She is Senator Thorndyke's youngest daughter."
"She acted much older."
"His. Very. Youngest. Daughter."
Who had a very diverse skill set, Jim thought, but kept it to himself. There wasn't anything to be gained by pointing out playing the harpsichord and doing needlework were only a few of the girl's talents.
"You were telling us about the trouble in the Wyoming Territory, sir." With a sideways glance at Jim, Artie stepped into the conversation before it could derail further. And to deflect any attention from himself, Jim thought. Artie had been enjoying the company of another of the senator's daughters in a secluded part of the rose garden on the evening in question, he just hadn't gotten caught.
Richmond let out his breath in a huff and dropped the subject of Senator Thorndyke's daughter. Jim would have liked to point out the young lady hadn't been at all opposed to their dalliance. In fact, the walk in the rose garden had been her idea in the first place. What happened after that had shown every indication of becoming a mutually enjoyable evening but looking back, he doubted it was worth being sent into the vipers' nest that was currently the Wyoming Territory. He forced his mind back to what Richmond was saying.
"A gang of ruffians is stealing refined silver out of warehouses in the Trouble River valley before it's to be transported to the U.S. Mint. They've hit five warehouses in the last six weeks. The owner thinks there's Indian involvement and we need to get to the bottom of it. The U.S. Treasury is counting on that silver and the mine owner is near frantic."
"I wasn't aware Wyoming was much of a silver producing state. I thought that was Nevada," Jim said, still idly wondering what else might have happened that evening if Senator Thorndyke hadn't decided to leave the reception and go looking for his flirtatious daughters.
"As a rule, yes. But the Blue Mountain Mining Company has tapped into a vein of exceptionally high quality ore along the Trouble River. Its existence is no secret. The press has been all over it, especially in light of the robberies. This gang is fast. Their timing is impeccable and they don't leave a trail. The local officials are vexed and no one is talking."
Richmond looked from Jim to Artie and back.
"To tell the truth, the area ranchers don't seem to have a problem with it at all and that's got the investigation bottlenecked. These thieves have some sort of 'steal from the rich, give to the poor' approach and that's not setting well with the man who owns Blue Mountain Mining." Richmond handed Jim a slip of paper with an address written on it. "The two of you will meet with the owner – Maurice LeClaire - for the details."
He paused and gave a resigned sigh.
"Jim, if you and Artie could clear up this mess and put an end to these robberies and fires, I'm sure President Grant would be inclined to shush Senator Thorndyke's complaints about your conduct."
"His daughter wasn't complaining. I don't see what the problem is," Jim muttered.
Richmond pretended he didn't hear him.
"Your carriage is waiting. LeClaire is expecting you."
XXX
Later that evening
A private home in the Nob Hill District
San Francisco, California
"That was the third warehouse this month and they took out two the month before! If this keeps up, they'll drive me into ruination!"
The man seated behind the desk was in high dudgeon. He was cadaverously thin and his cheeks were flushed with unhealthy color. Coarse white eyebrows over hooded eyes gave him a vulture-like appearance. His entire being radiated rage at the thieves stealing his hard-earned gains.
From his seat in a wing-backed leather chair, Jim steepled his fingers and looked around the richly appointed room. Ornately carved furniture sat atop a thick Aubusson carpet. Blood red damask draperies framed windows beyond which cold rain was falling. A fire crackled in the hearth, reflecting off the dark walnut paneling and refracting in the crystal chandelier overhead. A portrait of LeClaire himself, looking like a captain of industry, glared with disapproval from a nearby wall. It didn't look like his ruination was imminent.
"Can you tell us a little more about the situation?" Jim asked. So far, LeClaire had been full of a great deal of righteous indignation and very few usable facts.
"They're stealing my silver and giving it to those wretched homesteaders who think they can just stake claims to land with some of the richest mineral rights in the territory. The Laramie Tribune has started calling them the Robin Hood gang. Robbing Hood is more like it. And they're burning my warehouses on top of it all. They're a bunch of hoodlums, I tell you! Thanks to them, I'm teetering on the brink of ruin!"
LeClaire picked up an object from his desk blotter. It glittered in the firelight as he caressed it. It seemed to calm him somewhat.
"Gentlemen," he continued, "this is argentite ore. I'm negotiating a deal to purchase 30,000 acres in the Trouble River valley. When the deal goes through, I'll own the largest silver mining operation in the Wyoming Territory. But these interfering thieves are destroying everything! I've already lost investors who feel the Indian threat there is too risky. Now I'm the target of these saboteurs! If this keeps up, I'm doomed!" He set the chunk of ore down with loving tenderness, then clasped his hands over his eyes, the picture of a businessman in the throes of financial devastation.
Jim chanced a look across the room. Artie's mouth was compressed in a line that did little to prevent the sparkle of humor from reaching his eyes. Artie had spent enough time on the stage to recognize good acting when he saw it. Jim could tell this didn't even come close.
As Jim watched, Artie wrinkled his nose and sniffed delicately, then arched his eyebrows. Jim acknowledged him with a brief nod. He smelled it, too, an odd, cloying odor unlike anything he'd encountered before. It didn't seem to be coming from any specific source, yet it permeated the room. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and put it out of his mind. They weren't here to deal with odd smells.
"What about the Indian threat?" Artie queried.
"We suspect Indians because of the arrows," LeClaire said. "There's no telling what those savages will do next."
"Arrows?" Jim asked. While the Indian population wasn't above reproach, they generally avoided attacking settlements, let alone targeting specific business enterprises. The tribes that called that area home had little use for shiny metal and he doubted LeClaire's problems were Native American in origin.
"The arrows have shown up at every fire." LeClaire snapped his fingers and a hulking man stepped from the shadows. "Nigel, bring me the arrow."
Jim and Artie both startled. The figure had been standing so still he blended into the room's elaborate decoration. LeClaire turned back to the agents seated in front of him. "My manservant, Nigel," he said dismissively.
Manservant? Jim thought. Nigel stood easily over six feet tall, with muscles straining the cloth of his jacket. His face was expressionless, devoid of anything but the mildest awareness of the proceedings. Jim recognized a bodyguard when he saw one, although he wasn't sure why a mining executive would feel the need for a bodyguard in his own sitting room.
Nigel returned with an object and handed it to LeClaire.
"The arrow, sir." His voice was a monotone that matched his expression.
LeClaire held it aloft for the men to see. The flint projectile shimmered unnaturally in the lamplight.
"There's been one like this at every fire."
"May I?" Jim held out his hand.
"Give it to Mr. West," LeClaire said. Wordlessly, Nigel stepped forward and picked up the arrow. He pivoted and carried it to Jim, who took it from him with an acknowledgement of thanks. The man did not reply but stepped silently behind LeClaire's desk, where he stood, hands clasped behind his back.
Jim studied the projectile and noticed with some surprise the flint had been dipped in silver. Firelight chased over the surface as he turned it in his fingers.
"It's like they're leaving a calling card, laughing at me!" LeClaire continued. "That's sterling silver – I've had it analyzed. It's MY sterling sllver! It would take someone with a silversmith's training to create those. I tell you, they're out to get me! They want to ruin my operation and take it all for themselves. I won't let that happen!"
For a second, Jim saw the gleam of insanity in the other man's eyes. It was the madness spawned by lust for a precious metal, he thought, that cold, lifeless material that could drive men insane – or to their death - in their quest to possess it. Then the look was gone and LeClaire was again human.
"In terms of total volume of your mine's output, how much have you lost to this gang?" Artie asked.
LeClaire waved a hand dismissively.
"It's not so much the quantity, it's the quality. They're taking refined ore, you see, the purest form, ready to be pressed into coins or made into fine jewelry or household goods." He stopped and fondled a pair of ornate ink wells atop his desk. "It's a small amount each time, relatively easy to conceal and transport. And to make it worse, no one has any idea if there are two or 20 of them. The guards are always disabled, the silver is taken and the warehouses fired. By the time anyone knows what happened, they've vanished without a trace."
"So this gang has never actually been seen?"
"Not hide nor hair. But my silver keeps reappearing in the hands of those wretched ranchers who refuse to sell me their land. All those damned cattle are grazing on top of one of the richest silver veins in the country. I have my lawyers working day and night to buy them out. The wheels of industry turn slowly on a good day, gentlemen, and time is money."
LeClaire opened his mouth to continue when a young footman in livery entered the room.
"Sir, this just came for you." He held out a telegram. "It's regarding –" He broke off, glancing curiously at Jim and Artie, then with obvious unease, at Nigel. "It's regarding the other matter."
LeClaire waved one hand negligently as he reached for the paper. He read it, his face impassive.
"It makes no difference, Giles. You may speak in front of these gentlemen." He sighed wearily. "Just additional woe in my life. My . . . daughter . . . has vanished. She's been gone for almost six months now. I have a detective working full time on the case but all attempts to find her have failed. This missive," he waved the telegram, "is from him. He says her trail has gone cold. I fear I shall never see the girl again."
LeClaire dropped the telegram into the fire and went back to playing with the lump of ore on his desk, caressing it as if it were a living thing. The footman bowed his way out but not before Jim caught the scathing look he gave his boss and the quick, nervous glance he shot at Nigel.
"How old is she?" Jim asked. Missing daughters were more intriguing than silver thieves.
"How old is who?" LeClaire looked up blankly. "Oh, my daughter. Yes. Right. She's 22. She went to the Wyoming Territory to visit relatives, then just vanished. Pouf. No sign of foul play but I think she could have been lured away by some fast-talking shyster. She's such a fragile little thing, so young and innocent."
"It's none of my business," Jim mused, "but if she's of legal age, maybe she just wanted to travel, see the country." He wouldn't blame anyone for wanting to get away from LeClaire. The man did not strike him as a stable father figure and the house, with its oppressive opulence and lurking bodyguard, would be enough to drive anyone mad.
"I fear she's been kidnapped, although I never got a ransom note," the mining baron sighed. "And she was betrothed to . . . a family friend. They were to be married soon. The poor man is devastated, absolutely heartbroken. Well, enough of that. Can you find out who is sabotaging my warehouses before I lose everything?"
The man switched between oily concern for his missing child and genuine distress about his business ventures with ease, Jim noted. There it was again, that gleam of madness in his eyes when he talked about his silver mines, as if his sanity went in and out of focus. And a betrothal? It wouldn't surprise Jim one bit if the girl found her prospective bridegroom not to her liking and had taken matters into her own hands.
"Where was the latest robbery?" he asked.
"A little outpost called Rabbit Gulch. After the first three fires, I started using warehouses at less populated stops on the rail lines, thinking they would be harder to track but it's like this gang can read my mind. No matter what I do, I can't stop them. I'm begging you, please help me."
XXX
Jim and Artie's boots echoed in the vast marble-tiled foyer as they showed themselves out of LeClaire's home. Rain pounded the roof of the port cochere as they waited for their carriage.
"Mister West? Mister Gordon?" The voice was barely more than a whisper.
They turned to see Giles, the boy who had delivered the telegram. If possible, he looked even more nervous than he had earlier. He glanced around, then approached the men.
"If you go to Trouble River, sirs, be careful. Things aren't . . . right . . . out there."
"What do you mean?" Artie asked.
The young man looked nearly panicked.
"I can't tell you any more. He can't see me talking to you!"
The carriage pulled up at that moment, wheels splashing through the puddles on the cobblestones. Giles turned and bolted.
"What do you suppose he meant by that?" Artie mused, watching him go.
"I think the kid's just scared of his boss and his henchmen," Jim said. "LeClaire's half mad and that house was something out of an Edgar Allen Poe novel."
Artie shrugged and opened the door of the carriage. The men settled against cushioned seats as the cabbie chirped to the horses and they set off for their hotel. They were silent for a few minutes before Artie spoke.
"Did you notice anything odd about that bodyguard?"
"Aside from the impression he was a few bricks short of a full load? No."
"Maybe it was nothing more than that," Artie concurred. "But I was watching him – he seemed incapable of acting unless instructed by LeClaire."
"Bodyguards aren't hired for their keen intellect."
Artie shrugged and switched tacks.
"And what was that smell? I know you noticed it."
Jim nodded.
"Either LeClaire needs to fire his cook or someone was playing with a chemistry set in the basement."
Silence fell again as the carriage rolled through the rain-shrouded streets.
"I hear Wyoming is nice this time of year."
Jim rolled his eyes.
"I can't imagine how nice it's going to be with Indians warring against the settlers and a band of renegades on the loose but at least I won't have an angry senator after my neck."
"Ah, James, always the optimist. That's what I like about you," Artie mused. "Was it just me or did LeClaire seem more concerned about stopping the thieves than finding his daughter?"
Jim shot him another look.
"That girl's probably gone back East to get away from daddy and is having the time of her life. It's been my experience that when we find women who have disappeared, they're never as happy about it as their fathers and husbands expect them to be." He paused. "You know, we never got her name."
"Jim," Artie said in a warning tone. "We're going out there to catch the bandits, not look for that girl."
Jim looked out the carriage window at the rainy night.
"I know. But if our paths cross, I want to know who to stay away from. One outraged father on the war path is enough."
It was Artie's turn to roll his eyes.
XXX
The next morning, the Wanderer steamed away from the fog and cable cars of San Francisco, headed for the cool, late summer landscape of the Wyoming Territory.
TBC