The Wild, Wild Wests: The Day of Hell's Half-Acre

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of the Wild, Wild West characters, though I often feel as though they own a part of me!

Dedicated with love to the remembrance of

Ross Martin, Michael Garrison and Michael Dunn

Acknowledgement

This written work would not exist without the encouragement

and cajoling of varin, hmltwin and hlltwin –

I hope they don't regret it!

Prologue: Chicago 1908

Boys Will Be Boys . . . .

The old man leaned heavily on his eagle-headed cane as he shuffled along the waterfront. Some days his leg hurt worse than others, some days his heart. Today both hurt. He could have stayed home and napped all day and no one would have reproached him for laziness but himself. That would have meant being all alone in a house that hadn't seemed so large and forlorn once. It was the help's day off and always, on such days, he dreaded the emptiness. Aching or no, today he'd fled it.

Along with his body he tried to let his mind wander, hoping it could take away the pain. He remembered sea green eyes and hair like a cool, dark river. Maybe that's why he'd chosen the wharf as his destination. How he longed for her now and always, his quiet spring in the desert. How he longed to see those familiar colors. He knew he wouldn't see her again on this mortal plain. He hoped with all his aching self he'd meet her in the hereafter. He could not bear to think otherwise. As the grief stabbed at him anew, he tried to turn his thoughts to anyone, anything else, but pain wasn't ready to let him be yet. He remembered the warm smile, the deep laugh of a friend now gone too, a friend he had loved like a brother . . . .

Yes. Some days his heart hurt worse than his leg.

If retreat into memory couldn't distract him, perhaps observation could do a better job. He'd been good at that once. Better than good. And though much of him was enfeebled, he still remained as eagle-eyed as the cane. He lifted his head up from its downward cast to look at the row of warehouses in front of him. He prided himself on the clear, sharp view. His shuffling walk picked up tempo as he took in the lines, the facades, the walls, crusted and grimy yet glistening in the noonday sun, the man with the rifle, the seagulls, the . . . .

Man with the rifle?

No. He could not have seen that. Surely not.

His brisk limp halted and his shoulders gave an involuntary shudder.

Was this it? Today? Was his mind finally going?

He knew the children were worried about him. He'd seen that too, in their faces when they'd been up to the house for supper last week. He'd dismissed it at the time, but did they have a reason to worry? Was he so nostalgic for the old days that he was conjuring up images of mysterious armed figures on rooftops?

With his free hand, he rubbed the eyes that had not been failing him up to now. That made them water a bit, but when he looked back again at Warehouse Row his vision seemed as sharp, and as normal, as ever. He wasn't seeing anything he shouldn't be seeing in front of the warehouses, no capering dwarves or giants, no sea dragons spouting flames, no dancing harem girls, no . . . Adele.

Sucking in his breath, he screwed up his courage and raised his eyes to the rooftop where he'd seen, thought he'd seen, the man holding the rifle. He saw a line of rooftop, nothing more. A plain line of rooftop. He was holding that breath in, still wondering if he should tell the kids about this and pinching his palm a little with his fingernails when he saw the glint. The glint of metal just back from the edge of the roof, gliding along in a slow, straight line. There was someone up there with a gun! Seagulls didn't glint. He hadn't just imagined it.

But why was a man up on top with a rifle? There had to be a reason. Armed security guards did not normally patrol the roofs of warehouses in broad daylight, and from what he could recall of his brief glimpse, the figure had not appeared to be wearing a policeman's uniform either. So what was he doing up there? Looking for a target?

The old man, with an effort, craned his neck and slowly turned around to see what was behind him. No obvious targets there. Opposite the warehouses was another row of buildings of the sort you'd expect to find in this part of town. Cheap dives. Restaurants and taverns for the unfussy, whorehouses with hourly rates that didn't hide what they were. A dusty souvenir and curio shop because cities had to have those everywhere. Come to think of it, he hadn't picked the most congenial and secure part of town for his stroll. But since when had he ever worried about that? It almost made him laugh.

No secured, barred window displays of precious baubles and jewelry were to be found here. No visiting dignitaries would be sauntering along these sidewalks who had to be thrust down and covered with one's own body to save them from an assassin's weapon. Good damn thing too. He'd be too slow these days, and if he knocked someone down to cover them up and save their life, he'd never be able to get himself up again.

So why a man with a rifle on the rooftop? And why should he care? It wasn't his business anymore, hadn't been his business for years. How he could imagine the children scolding if he gave in to his curiosity!

But the children weren't here, were they? And he was.

"Boys will be boys!" He could remember hearing that said like a cuss phrase, his friend's wife tossing her hands up in exasperation. Adele had never scolded. She never gave him a single word of rebuke, and that had made him behave himself even more. But Adele wasn't here either.

Maybe he would get a closer look at that warehouse. Just for old time's sake . . . .

There didn't seem to be a good way to try a frontal approach. Now that he was actually observing rather than merely staring, he noticed a few other things that were out of place. Several of the warehouses had regular size doors in front that were open to the street, people going in and out without shutting them. A few had larger bay doors in the front, though most would be in back. One of those warehouses had its front bay door open too – and all of the other warehouses abuzz with activity to varying degrees. But the warehouse with the gunman on the roof showed no other sign of life at all. No trade or other activity going on. No one coming near. Windows covered over. Single front door shut – and locked, he would bet, if he were still a betting man. He wouldn't find out much if he tried to get in that way, so he wouldn't try to get in that way.

That's what side alleys were for.

Now firm of purpose if not of legs, the old man hobbled down past a couple of the other warehouses at a distance, even tipping his hat to a couple of people before moving in close and doubling back – as close as he could get. If the gunman on the roof was hanging back a bit from the edge to avoid being seen, then neither could he see anyone right up against the walls. The old man slipped into the alleyway confident he had not been spotted.

Yes – there was a side door here as he had suspected there might be. It was locked too, as he'd also expected. But here, out of sight of the street, a lock should not present much of a problem. He never went anywhere without his cane these days, but he'd never gone anywhere without his trusty lock-picks for a lot longer than that. And unlike his legs, he could still count on them to work. In an era when horses were being replaced by machines and scientific changes surrounded him like a whirlwind, locks and keys had remained thankfully uninnovative. Why, if he hadn't had to juggle the cane between his knees and brace one elbow against the wall to hold himself up, he could have done this job blindfolded.

Whether his personal hinges needed oiling or not, the lock yielded to his efforts with a satisfying, almost silent click. He was in, if he wanted to be. Did he? Oh hell, yes. With an excitement he hadn't known he still had in him, he slipped in through the shadows as quietly as possible, putting as little weight on the cane as he could. The old instincts were there along with the familiar thrill and they warned him of trouble ahead.

Boys will be boys . . . .

He should have been surprised by what he found inside, but thanks to experience he wasn't. This warehouse was far from inactive. There were plenty of people further in from the sound of it, and plenty of materials being moved about. Why was all being done in secret with an armed man on the roof? Something really wasn't right here. No one had seen or heard him though, so he snuck in for a closer look. He wished now that he had brought a gun. He might not be able to hold it steady anymore, but it would have made him feel better.

What he saw as he limp-slinked through the shadows were men bustling about objects that might be seen in any commodities shipping facility – barrels and crates and boxes. Their labels read nothing alarming – barrels of flour or cornmeal, crates containing canned goods of various sorts, boxes that purported to be full of other boxes – of biscuits, crackers, gelatin and the like. Nothing too suspicious from their outward appearance. But there was something furtive in the way they were being packed, and conspicuously little food smell to the whole area. His nose was no longer as sharp as his eyes, but it knew what it was picking up – a scent of machine oil, the distinct tang of gunpowder and polished metal. Other scents too – familiar yet not. Scents he'd smelled as a younger man, and not in places associated with grocery goods. Just what had he gotten himself into?

Nothing he wouldn't have gotten himself into or out of a couple of decades before. He drew courage from that thought as he tried to figure out a way to get a closer peek without being caught. He watched the men working to see if there was a pattern to their movements, any opening he could exploit. Old, old intuitions were clicking into place, but old reflexes couldn't be counted on to do the same. He'd never move fast again, but there was still a chance . . . .

Yes. One flour barrel not too far from where he stood hidden in the shadows was being ignored. An oil lamp nearby provided some illumination. He would be able to see whether the barrel's contents really were flour, but he could keep to the shadows and hide behind the barrel itself if he could still crouch. It was worth the risk.

His legs must have had their own memories of what they once had been, because lame or no, he swore they moved him faster in the next moment than they had all year. He made it to the concealed, dark space behind the barrel without being noticed. Now for the tricky part.

He had seen from the short distance away that the lid to this barrel hadn't been firmly hammered down yet. That would be common enough if the contents were flour. A small gap could allow any grain gas to dissipate safely before the top was hammered shut for shipping. Even with his feeble strength he should be able to lift the cover . . . . With the cane cradled between his knees again, he got a grip on the edge and carefully lifted the lid to find underneath it . . . another lid.

Below the barrel's cover, down a gap of about five inches, was the inner lid. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck and arms. He knew a smuggler's barrel when he saw one. On top of this second, hidden cover, a five-inch thick layer of flour would be deposited so that any inspector examining the barrel for contents would be fooled. But flour wouldn't be the real cargo. What was?

With considerably greater difficulty, the old man managed to get enough leverage on the inner lid, not without a small squeak which he prayed wouldn't be heard. There was barely enough lamplight flickering down into the barrel to see by, but he recognized the smugglers' treasure. He'd have known them just by feel, by smell.

Guns.

A barrel packed tight as a pickle jar with revolvers.

That wasn't all. The barrel was alarming enough, but as he peered about to make sure he wasn't attracting attention, he saw the contents of one of the boxes of crackers. They'd crack all right – bullets did that when they were fired. And the crates didn't contain canned vegetables, but something that resembled fireworks but probably wasn't. What the hell?

The hairs on his neck and arms strained to stand out even farther. Whatever else it was, this wasn't a legitimate government covert operation. He might not have as many contacts in Washington as he once did, but he still had enough. They wouldn't have set up an undertaking this dangerous this close to his back yard without alerting him. Heck, the kids would've warned him even if they did think he was going dotty! Which right now he almost wished he was . . . .

He'd get a warning through to Washington. Damn it with being what's-her-name's day off, he'd go straight back to the house, get on the old wire set and . . . .

"What'cha doin' there, Gramps?"

A large, younger hand fastened onto his shoulder with a grip that felt like a vise.

Oh, hell . . . .

Without waiting for an answer, the man holding onto him yanked him up painfully and hauled him out from behind the barrel.

"Hey, Ed!" his assailant called out to another man, "Look what I got here! I dug up a fossil!"

The man called Ed stepped into the lamplight. He was a big bruiser, bigger than the one holding onto the old man's shoulder, and he did not look pleased. Their prisoner wasn't too pleased at being caught either.

"My name isn't Gramps," he said with a trace of his old growl. The fossil part he could almost agree with.

"Who are you, old man?" Ed growled back. "How did you get in here?"

They didn't really expect him to cooperate that easily, did they? He tried to think what his friend would have done in this situation, but he wasn't up for subterfuge so he fell back on taciturn silence instead. He steadied his hand on the cane's eagle-head handle.

"Answer the man," the shoulder-gripper shook him. "Or you'll be sorry."

As if he was supposed to believe they'd let him go after what he'd seen! Confirming the old man's dark suspicions, Ed drew a gun and pulled back on the hammer. Time to act.

Boys will be boys . . . .

Pressing a button hidden in the cane's left eagle eye caused a sharp knife blade to shoot straight out of the bottom of the cane like a spike. The old man brought the cane up and with all of his strength drove it down into the foot of the man holding him. That thug let go of his elderly prisoner with a very satisfying scream. In almost the same movement, the old man used his free arm to swat the gun out of Ed's hand and send it flying, which hurt his arm like all get out. Before either of his assailants could react, he pressed a button in the eagle's right eye. A stream of thick, green smoke shot out of the eagle's beak which he aimed at their faces while holding his own breath. Both of the younger men went down in a heap.

The old man was free, but there were shouts from other parts of the warehouse now, as the men packing contraband realized they had an intruder in their midst. He had to get out, and fast, but he also needed to make sure this weapons-smuggling racket didn't remain hidden. With no time or strength left to do anything else, the old man snatched up the oil lamp and, in spite of his arm injury, threw it with unerring aim into the box that looked as if it contained fireworks. He didn't wait around to see the result but took off for the side alley door he'd come in as fast as the cane and his rickety legs would permit. Behind him he heard more shouts, and the hiss of rockets taking off and flames beginning to crackle. He kept his grip firm on the cane, now with its knife blade once again retracted.

Thank you, old friend, he thought as he ran. You've pulled off your most amazing trick yet. You've been dead a year now, but you found a way to save me – again.

But he wasn't saved yet – he had to do the rest himself. The doorway he'd come in beckoned. With his suddenly trembling, injured arm he shoved it open and exited into welcome, blinding daylight. Outside, the streets of Chicago's wharf were still blissfully busy. Someone would notice the chaos erupting behind him. Someone would see the strangeness he'd seen and report it to the authorities if he didn't get the chance.

Breath coming more heavily now, cane more heavy in his hands, he sought the open street of Warehouse Row. He'd flag a cab, he'd get away. He could hear shouts, maybe the sound of pursuit along with the sound of explosions and the pounding in his ears. He was tired, should have left this sort of thing to the kids . . . . The sun was bright but he felt as if his vision, his trusty vision, was starting to grow darker around the edges.

The old man stumbled a bit as he moved forward. Something was nagging at him, trying to caution him back, but what? All he could think about was getting out a warning, reaching an escape route. Why . . . ?

The bullet tore through his left shoulder and drilled down into the pavement at a sharp angle, making him drop his eagle-headed cane. Both arms useless now. He stared dumbly at the cane for just a second as it clattered onto the cobblestone street and blood began to blossom through his jacket.

You forgot about the man on the roof, he chided himself. Shouldn't have gone right out into the open like that. Too late now. Another bullet whizzed by his left ear, narrowly missing. With no cane left to hold him up, he tried to run an evasive pattern – how did that go again? He heard someone near him scream, saw pedestrians pointing at him and at the rooftop. He heard whistles and shouts all around. He expected the gunman from the roof of the warehouse to take another shot, but none came. He'd done it, he'd gotten people to notice that warehouse. Good. But he still had to get home, get a warning off to Washington. If only he didn't feel so sweaty, so heavy . . . had to be the blood loss . . . .

A sharp, stabbing pain like an ice pick ripped through his chest, but it wasn't a bullet. He couldn't breathe. The pounding in his ears stopped. He couldn't hear either. He started to see people running toward him – trying to help him? Danger – but he was too dizzy, too tired to warn them away . . . . Everything was spinning around, or was that only him?

Retired Secret Service agent James T. West collapsed to the pavement as his world went dark.