THE NIGHT OF THE DREADFUL MISTAKE

By Andamogirl

Author's note: season 4. This story takes place directly after the end of "The Night of the Pistoleros". At the end of the episode, in the tag, we can see that our heroes have different hair styles and Artie suddenly has lost several pounds. The official explanation is that the episode was filmed in May of 1968 but held back to February 1969 until after Ross Martin recovered from his heart attack. The tag was filmed later after the actor lost weight from his illness.

I'm going to give you here, with my story, an unofficial explanation, in the Wild Wild West way. Let's pretend that about six months have elapsed between the end of the episode (when Artie disguised himself in General Rydell) and the tag (with Jim and Artie ready to have onion soup and stew with two lovely ladies). The Wanderer and our heroes are back to Washington, it's autumn and that explains why it's cold and raining outside, and also the menu.

References to the following episodes: "The Night of the Pistoleros"; "The Night of the Gypsy Peril"; "The Night of the Skulls" & "The Night of the Bottomless Pit."

References to my story called "The Night of the Comanche Moon", reading it first would help to understand the coming one.

References to my other stories: "The Night of the Mexican Imposture"; "The Night of the Ice Cold Death"; "The Night of the Cheyenne called White Eagle."

I was reading an article about the Sand Creek massacre (on November 29, 1864, a band of Colonel John Chivington's Colorado volunteers (675 men) killed and mutilated an estimated 70–163 Native Americans peaceful Southern Cheyenne and Arapahoe Indians at Sand Creek, in southeastern Colorado Territory. About two-thirds of whom were women and children) when I had the idea of that story.

Jim: Artie, you couldn't be quiet, not even at your own funeral, could you?
Artie: Well, somebody had to tell the truth.

TNOT Skulls

Jim: Thanks, Artie.

Artie: "Thanks, Artie"? Is that all you can say to me? I've just come back from the grave, risen like Lazarus,and that's what you say? "Thanks, Artie"?

Jim: Thanks, Artie.

Artie: It's a pleasure.

TNOT Pistoleros

Many thanks to my beta reader Tripidydoodah.

Warning: graphic violence, drama. Angst & hurt / comfort. Suicide attempt. PTSD.

WWW

TEASER

Washington D.C. mid-November

At night

Now

Once the two lovely ladies were gone, Artemus Gordon closed the door, locked it and headed toward the table, joining his partner there.

Outside it was still raining heavily and the thunder rumbled. It had been going on for a couple of hours now, and showed absolutely no signs of abating.

The older man rubbed his temples tiredly and said, "The onion soup was edible, but barely, and I didn't like the stew, despite what I said before eating it. I don't love stew, in general and this one in particular. The meat was overcooked and there was too much sauce and it had no flavor but the wine was good. Next time, let me chose the restaurant and takeaways." He gave Jim a half-smile. "Listen to me… I barely ate a thing in six months and I am choosy. I should be happy not to eat lizards and snakes anymore, but onion soup and stew instead, but I'm still a gourmet, so old habits die hard, I suppose…"

Looking down at Artie's plate, food half intact Jim said, "I agree, the dinner was passable… But that's not why you barely touched your food Artie. You can't live without eating buddy…"

Deliberately avoiding Jim's concerned gaze, Artemus poured some red wine into his glass. "I eat, but not much. I'm not hungry."

Flabbergasted Jim lifted his eyebrows. "Not much? Birds eat more than you do, Artie. You have barely touched food since you came back."

Ignoring his partner's remark, Artemus picked up a hazelnut cookie from a plate and ate a few bites, grimacing at the taste. "Not as good as mine, that's for sure..." He commented, and then he almost gagged, not because it wasn't good but because he couldn't eat anything without feeling nauseous. He dropped what was left of it, almost half of it, on the table. "Even the cookies are bad." Heavy-limbed he padded to the golden couch and sat on it. "The food wasn't the best I ate, but the company of the lovely waitresses was nice." He smiled. "Thank you Jim, that was a very nice surprise. I loved it." He yawned and stretched both his arms and legs feeling like they weighed tons. "We'll do the dishes tomorrow… I'm far too tired to do anything tonight." Then he took a sip of wine.

Pouring himself a cup of hot coffee Jim nodded. "Yes, that can wait. You need to get some sleep buddy," He said and frowned in concern again.

But he knew he wouldn't. Artemus had barely slept since his return to the Wanderer. When you don't sleep you can't have nightmares. "Maybe you should try laudanum to sleep."

But Artemus shook his head. "No, it's a powerful drug and I don't want to become an addict."

Sipping his coffee, Jim continued to observe his companion who had spent half a year far away from him with the Comanche and had come back only two days ago.

Despite his deep suntan, Artie didn't look healthy, at all. His face was drawn, his cheekbones were even more prominent than before, his cheeks hollow and his jawline sharp and mostly strained and marked by what had happened to him – and he didn't know what. Artie didn't want to talk about it – he just knew that the last days had been horrible, that's all. He had insisted, but his best friend had replied, "It's the best you're getting."

No one knew what had happened - except the President. Artemus had given his report to Grant who had read it before sending Artie to the Military Hospital for a complete medical evaluation. No one else, not even Artie's mom, Harry or him, to whom Artie told everything, knew what had happened. What had made Artemus Gordon the shadow of the man he was before.

He had lost a weight during his six months plus stay with the Comanche who had limited resources of food in their settlement, and were on the edge of being underweight. Yellow Arrow's Comanche had cattle but they were a large band, and had to ration in order to feed everyone. They often ate snakes and lizards, plus some armadillos and skunks to survive. He sported a leaner body, less filled with bulky muscle than it should be and it looked as if he was drowning in his clothes.

Since he had come back he ate the bare minimum to stay alive.

He wasn't going to regain some weight eating less than a bird. Something terrible had happened to his friend, le bon vivant, and made him lose his legendary good appetite. Nothing before had succeeded in cutting off his appetite. What had happened?

He had lost his joie de vivre too – but why? - and tried to hide it, like when he had proposed two hours ago going out on the town with 'a couple of lovelies' he knew, then go to a good restaurant. But it was just a façade. He was a very good actor and that helped.

His best friend had changed drastically; he wasn't the same man he was before he had disappeared. He sincerely hoped that the old Artemus would re-appear one day.

He sighed. If only he could help Artie… and talking about what was haunting him was a good start.

Ending his train of thought, Jim poured himself another cup of coffee, and took his place on the couch beside his best friend.

He sighed and said, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Artemus." He settled the cup of coffee on the table. "If only I had managed to stop Daniel Danford, and his posse, nothing that happened afterwards, would have happened," he said, feeling guilty. "I was hit by a stray bullet. It grazed my temple and I passed out, and I fell from my horse. As they thought I was prisoner of the 'Apaches' they threw me across my saddle and kept me with them until they were firing at the Comanche, killing a few of them."

Images of the attack popping into his mind, Artemus nodded. "Yes, I remember. Curiously the same thing happened to me: a stray bullet grazed my temple, I passed out and I fell from my horse… The difference is they took me for an Indian, as I was wearing Indian clothing. By the way, it's a good thing you managed to bring Lockpick home. I love that horse."

Jim nodded. "Lockpick was distressed without you and Mo was too. Those poor horses were lost without you." He took a sip. "And I too..." He trailed off.

Looking down at his hands, covered with healing burns, Artie said, "I know." He sighed and added, "I fell to the ground and hit my head hard on a rock. Silver Cloud managed to pick me up, and we fled," he said. He paused and added, "When I woke up, hours later, I wasn't Artemus Gordon anymore but Strong Bear, the Comanche warrior and speaking the Comanche language only. I only remembered the Comanche-me wearing a breechcloth and loose-fitting deerskin leggings, and moccasins, but naked from the waist up with my face painted with black stripes as a camouflage… before we attacked Torres, Loveless and their men… I had severe selective amnesia. The only thing I remembered was my life as a Comanche – because I often stayed with Yellow Arrow's band, during my leaves - enjoying their simple life and I learned the Comanche language with him." He paused. "Don't feel guilty, please, you don't have to. You did your best to stop them, Jim and you could have died doing it…. There was nothing else you could've done."

Jim nodded. "I can't help it Artie…" He continued his story: "I woke up hours later in Danford's ranch and I hit his face, before telling him that he had made a terrible mistake."

Still staring at his hands, now trembling a little, Artie rasped with a strangled voice, "It was a dreadful mistake, as it started a series of tragic events…" He paused and closed his eyes for a few seconds, his heart pounding violently against his chest. He could feel the burning pain on his skin once more… He drew a deep breath and managed to calm down and block the images and sounds and even smells of his torments painfully flooding his memory. But he knew it was only temporary. He had vivid flashbacks, right in the middle of the day and each time he closed his eyes, he relived that hell. He let out a helpless sigh. "Go on." Catching Jim's concerned gaze he added, "I'm fine."

Knowing that it wasn't the truth, Jim continued, "I reached the Comanche settlement near Piedra Blanca three days after the attack, and I found it empty. I searched for you, for days, but there were no sign of Yellow Arrow's band of Comanche and of course no sign of you either. I knew that you weren't dead, Artie. For me you had just disappeared." He touched his chest, above his heart. "I could feel it deep in my heart, deep in my bones. I knew that you were with the Comanche, somewhere, but I didn't know why you didn't come back. But I knew you were safe with them. After almost six months without any news from you, Colonel Richmond declared you had died in the line of duty. Then we held your funeral in Arlington cemetery. We buried an empty casket…"

Artemus cracked a small smile. "Again. Well, at least my grave is ready…for the next, and final time I die. You have attended my funeral three times already, you know… no, four times, if you count the time I was buried before Colonel Vautrain changed the past and saved my life. But I don't consider it because neither you nor I remember it. So…. The first time I was there, disguised as a priest, and people gathered around my grave loved my sermon."

Jim nodded and said. "I arrived after your sermon." He sighed. "But this last time I was there to pronounce your eulogy… even if I knew that you were not dead. It was short and I finished it with a quote from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, because I know your love for the English bard." He cleared his throat and quoted, "'When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine, That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun.'"

A smile appeared on Artie's pale lips. "I appreciate that, thank you."

Jim continued, "It was the second time I watched your casket being lowered into the ground, in a span of a few days. But this time the coffin was empty. No faux-Artemus Gordon inside. But I knew you weren't dead. That's why I refused to have a new partner. I was waiting for you to return and I worked alone." His smile broadened, and he added, "And, a few days later you reappeared and it was the most beautiful day of my life! I was right, you weren't dead, just disappeared." He gave his partner a watery smile. "I know I already said this many times, but I'm so glad you're back…"

Rubbing his forehead, Artie nodded. "Me too. You didn't find me because the Comanche had left the settlement erasing all trace of their passage so as not to be tracked and attacked by whites…" He stopped and heaved a wrenching sigh, tears coming to his eyes.

A Pause.

The rain was heavier now and the pieces of ice bigger and they were being blown into the side of the train by the wind.

Finally, Artie croaked, "They built another one, in the Llano Estacado with more water and a bigger mesa for the horses and cattle." He regained composure and said, "I was hurt, and my friends took care of me, but if I didn't come back, that's because I forgot who I was and even my own native language. Silver Cloud and the others told me who I was, in Comanche language, a white man called Artemus Gordon, and what I did, with whom – you - but I didn't believe them. I was Strong Bear, a Comanche warrior… and I am. They didn't insist, happy to have me, a man marked by the Sacred Kwihnai at their sides. I would bring the protection of the Big Father upon the band… " He heaved a long, sad sigh and his voice cracked, "But I didn't." He swallowed past the lump in his throat and, after a few seconds, he eventually calmed down enough to say, his voice hoarse, "I was Strong Bear, Comanche warrior for almost six months, living with my adoptive band. Then things turned bad, very bad…"

A new Pause.

Suddenly there was a huge thunderclap coming almost simultaneously with the flash of light that crashed not far from the Wanderer.

Expecting the occurrence… Jim didn't move or let out a sound, he even stopped breathing, hoping that Artemus would tell him what happened, to get that off his chest, to feel better.

Something terrible had happened, he knew, so horrible that Artemus had been traumatized by it. He placed his hand on Artie's comfortingly and immediately the other man flinched away and moved it back.

In a flash Artemus's body tensed up ready to fight and his eyes darkening, the older man snapped, "Don't touch me! Don't touch me, ever!"

Raising a hand in a peace gesture, Jim said, "Easy buddy, I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry Artemus, I won't touch you again." He had forgotten that detail. His partner now avoided any physical contact, he thought. And he knew why. He had seen POWs react like that with doctors taking care of them after being freed from hell. They had been humiliated and tortured.

As if he had read Jim's mind, Artie relaxed, but just a little. He yawned loudly and said, "I'm sorry Jim…" He took a deep breath and he whispered. "Lowell's men, they… they humiliated me, they tortured me… and now I can't… I can't bear to be touched."

Frowning Jim asked, gently, "Who's Lowell? What happened?... Tell me Artie. let it out. It's a good thing to talk to a friend. A burden shared is a burden halved, right?" There was a long silence between them, Jim hopeful that his best friend would open up to him. "Come on, buddy." He smiled and tried humor. Artie loved that. "Tell me everything before your old 'noggin' turns to mush… "

Staring straight ahead at the white wall in front of him, Artemus leaned against the backrest of the couch. He raked a nervous hand through his hair and he started to speak, his mouth dry, his voice tight with strain, "White men… I mean prospectors searching for gold discovered a large vein, close to the new settlement of the Comanche in the Llano Estacado, in the Caprock Escarpment. The news spread fast in the region and a large group of prospectors, cattlemen, farmers and buffalo hunters led by a rancher called Carter Lowell attacked the settlement to be able to find gold safely, without fearing to be attacked by a band of Comanche…" He paused, the silence only troubled by the rain and beads of hail lashing against the windows pummeling the roof of the train. "I didn't know that when they attacked. Colonel Ferguson of fort Denton, where I was brought… after… told me that." He took a deep breath, swallowed hard and continued. "I don't regret anything. If I had to kill those men again, I would," he said, determinedly as his right hand clenched and unclenched in anger, at his side. "They attacked the Comanche settlement without warming. Defenseless old men, women and children were shot, their bodies… their bodies…" He paused and let out a low whimper, with tears in his eyes. He tried to fight the tightness in his throat, he couldn't. He took a breath, ignoring the taste of bile in his throat as he spoke, his voice hoarse with intense, raw, emotion, "They were scalped and their bodies mutilated – for souvenirs. I did my best to protect them, fighting them among the other warriors, but I was hurt… and I fell off my horse." He touched the back of his head automatically. "Silver Cloud and a group of twenty braves somehow managed to escape the massacre but I was captured. Colonel Richmond told me that the surviving Comanche warriors led by Silver Cloud were captured later by a cavalry detachment and deported to the Indian Territory the day after I was put onto a train to Washington D.C. They joined the Comanche already settled there. They lost everything, their families, their friends, what they had… tepees, belongings, even their independence… they're not free to go where they want now." Tears rolled down his gaunt cheeks. "The last thing I saw, the last thing I saw… was… was Red Crows's daughters Little Willow and Red Leaf… lying in a pool of their blood, both scalped," he finished, a thin layer of sweat covering his face, his voice heavy and thick with deep, wrenching sorrow. He resisted the urge to be sick as a wave of nausea hit him and he let out a strangled sob.

Jim's eyes widened and he stared at Artemus, numb with shock. Then, an expression of pure horror showed on his pale face and he put his hands over his mouth. "Oh my God!" He nearly vomited before swallowing hard and forcing his stomach to behave. His heart sank.

He knew now why his best friend was so traumatized, why he didn't sleep or eat, why he had horrible nightmares… He was in terrible pain, he thought.

Crying openly, Artemus added, "They were killed…Yellow Arrow the peace Chief, Red Crow the medicine man, Long-Tailed Coyote, Spotted-Horse, Yellow Bird, that lovely woman… all of them, almost the whole band died and I stayed alive… They could have killed me, and I wished they did when I saw that almost everyone I knew and loved or was dead, around me. I would have died as a warrior by protecting my band… but they captured me and brought me to their camp, to play with me… I stayed a week in their hands. They took me for a Comanche. I looked like one, fought like one, talked like one, had a Comanche tattoo on my back…. They threw me at the bottom of a dry well and left me there, in the heat, without food and water to see how long I was going to resist. I resisted for four days. Then, they pulled me out and put a rope around my neck… and they dragged me behind a horse… They threw rocks at me… they burnt my hands and feet…. Then, they tied me to pickets buried in the sand, expecting that rattlesnakes come to bite me, so that I died in horrible suffering ... but no rattlesnake came. Finally they decided to hang me. I had a rope looped around my neck when, fortunately for me, an old prospector called Caldwell who was part of the group recognized me; or rather he recognized my eyes, before it was too late. He had served at my side during the war. I was his Captain. He checked my battle scars to be sure and told the others who I was. I… I didn't put this in my report to the President… in order to humiliate me, two men stripped me of my clothes in front of everyone, then, when I was naked, they forced me to move on all fours and they gave me a bath like a dog, and… they cut my beaded scalp locks and my braids…" Bile burned the back of his throat and he swallowed it down.

Having said that Artemus ran a tired hand through his hair searching for his missing Indian scalp locks and braids. "They weren't long, but long enough to be ones. For a Comanche it's the worst kind of humiliation as we-they took pride in their hair." He mopped his tears with the back of his sleeve, and with a sudden lighter spirit, he said, "That's why I now have much less hair and that awful, flat, hairstyle… The hairdresser did his best to make me presentable. My locks were gone and I don't think they're going to come back until I feel fine again. I have a theory you know, hair is a good indicator of our health… "

Smiling inwardly, Jim thought, 'it's something that the 'old Artie' would say. He's still here, and he'll resurface, one day. But when?'

Artemus continued, "Mine lacks energy, like me…." He paused. He ran a hand over his wet eyes and felt very tired, beyond exhausted. "Like me."

Running a hand through his own tamed hair, Jim said, "Are you sure about that theory of yours? My hair is like your hair, buddy, and I'm fine."

Artie nodded. "You cut your hair, tamed your hair… that's different. I'm so stressed that my hair is stressed too and refuses to be like it was before…" He took a deep breath, noticing that he was cold, suddenly and had goose bumps on his arms. He swallowed. "Lowell's men… they had fun removing all my hair… everywhere. They insulted me, called me a traitor to my people… I didn't understand them at that time, but when I was myself again, I remembered every word. I remembered everything. Caldwell gave me some white man's clothes and the next morning he brought me to Fort Denton, then he left. The medical officer took care of me, while Colonel Ferguson sent a telegram to Washington. I was very weak, but I tried to escape, hitting a couple of soldiers in the process. By the end of the afternoon, I was on a train to Washington, cleaned, my hair cut and wearing a suit – but handcuffed and framed between two soldiers. They escorted me up to the Wanderer, to you… It was Dr. Henderson's idea. He thought that seeing you would trigger the return of my memory, the complete one. And you were there, Jim, at the railroad station, standing on the rear platform of the Wanderer, waiting for me, smiling, crying with joy, and when I saw you… all of a sudden everything came back. I wasn't amnesiac anymore. It worked." He wiped his tears and stood, giving the other man a small smile. "You brought me back, Jim, you saved me." His voice trembled and he tried to gather himself.

Standing in his turn, Jim reached out to place a comforting hand on the older man's arm but froze remembering that Artie couldn't bear to be touched and he lowered it to his side. "But you miss being Strong Bear, the Comanche brave."

Eyes unfocused again, lost in his memories, Artie nodded distractedly. "I miss my friends, and the boys and girls I played with." He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his weary face. "Good night, Jim. Sleep well. See you tomorrow."

He headed toward the door, shoulders hunched.

Rubbing his jaw thoughtfully Jim moved toward the writing table and opened the telegraph box. Artemus needed comfort.

He had done what he could, Helena and Harry too then, after a weekend stay here in Washington, but it wasn't enough.

He hoped that the General-then-President-still-mother-hen Grant could help Artemus. He received the response from the White House to his telegram ten minutes later. Atermus Gordon was summoned in the President's office the following morning, at 10 AM.

In his bed, huddled under a warm blanket and a thick bedspread, Artemus fell asleep to the sound of rain pattering against the glass of his window and the warmth of Marmalade and Aztec sprawled on the pillow each side of his neck.

WWW

Later that night

Still shocked by what Artemus had told him, Jim couldn't sleep.

Each time he closed his eyes he saw Red Crow's daughters, dead, both lying in a pool of their own blood, scalped. With those images in his head, and with even more horrible memories, he knew now why Artie couldn't sleep at night. Wouldn't sleep at night to avoid nightmares.

He rolled over and yawned. According to his watch, it was almost two AM. He put it back on the nightstand and stood.

He left his sleeping compartment and headed toward the galley for the Washington Herald he had left on the couch.

It was dark in the parlor suite, but not enough for him not to notice the opened door… accompanied by the cold rain-damp air.

Suddenly there was a flash of light that illuminated the pitch dark night sky for a moment, followed closely by booming thunder.

He spotted Artemus's silhouetted shadow in the darkness. His best friend was standing on the rear platform, hands on the railing, leaning against it, as the rain spattered on him.

The other man was wearing only his black striped pajamas pants which were plastered to his hips, buttocks and legs.

The rain (no hail) was falling harder than before, if possible.

He was tipping his head back, face upturned to the stormy sky – feeling the rain on his skin.

Jim lit the candles of the candlestick sat on the table and took the folded coverlet from the couch. Then he padded toward his best friend stepping out into the downpour.

His whole body was instantly soaked.

Artie was engrossed in watching the thunderstorm and drenched from head to toe by the pouring rain falling obliquely, ice-cold water cascading down his shivering body. "Artie, what are you doing out here, buddy? Come inside. It's dangerous to stay here."

Another crack of thunder and another boom echoed snapping Artemus out of his thoughts. He slowly turned toward his partner, beads of water dripping down his face - noting in passing that he was shivering – and said, "I always loved thunderstorms. I find them relaxing, for some reason… I love the sound of the rain and thunder, I find it rather comforting…" Then his look became haunted. He was gripping the railing in front of him so hard that his knuckles were white. "It was raining when they attacked the settlement… I remember that the shots were mixed with the thunder and lightning bolts," he said with a husky voice. He screwed his eyes shut and let out a sigh, long and pained.

His dark hair flattening and slicking, Jim wiped the rain from his eyes and shivered as he was frozen to the bone too. He was reaching out when he remembered that Artie didn't like to be touched. When the massive lightning bolt lit up the sky, Jim urged, "Let's get inside Artie, you are soaked wet and cold. I don't want you to end up with a cold or struck by lightning!" Then he placed the coverlet on Artemus's shoulders (without touching his best friend) and the older man smiled. "Your mom told me to take care of you, and I am," he explained. Then he reached for the door – showing the way to Artemus, stumbling.

They both entered the parlor suite.

There was another flash of light accompanied by thunder, closer, and Artemus flinched and winced. "You know, thunder sounds like canons firing… maybe there's a war up there…" he said. Shivering, he crossed his now slender arms over his bare chest, showing his ribs clearly visible on his side, covering some of the nasty bruises and raw scrapes and cuts there. "Do you remember the war, Jim?"

Moving to stand next to his best friend, Jim nodded. "Yes, I remember everything, and I remember meeting an extraordinary man."

Artie nodded. "Yes, I met him too. General Grant was an extraordinary man, and he's now an extraordinary president."

Jim smiled. "Yes, he is, but I was thinking about you."

Looking at Jim's dripping frame Artemus nodded. "I know that, but thank you. You're not so bad yourself; for a drowned cat," he said with a half-smile.

Immediately Jim beamed with joy. That was the Artemus he knew. The man with the witty sense of humor. He was still there. Somewhere, he mused. 'Please, come back Artie,' he thought.

Thunder rumbled. Lightning cracked. Again.

"The Great Sprit is furious… and he lets us know… He witnessed so many horrors…" Artemus said, swaying in place, blinking blearily. Finally realizing that he was drenched, cold and shivering, he added, "I need a hot shower and a change of clothes. See you in the morning, Jim. Thanks for the coverlet."

Then he headed toward the door leading to the narrow walkway, staggering.

Still grinning, Jim closed the door, the rain splattering against the panel glass in dull thuds. "See you in the morning, Artie."

But his smiled vanished from his lips. A sleep-deprived Artie wouldn't sleep.

Tbc.