James West could feel darkness beginning to creep into the edges of his vision, and even as his heart sank at finding no way out of the booby-trapped stagecoach, he took small solace in the fact that his captors had at least spared him the ether.
By this point in his career, West considered himself something of a connoisseur when it came to knock-out gases. Ether was common as beer and awful as moonshine, an ordeal to be endured; it stank, it stung his eyes and throat, and he invariably awoke feeling queasier than if he'd spent a night downing bad whiskey. No, this gas had a vaguely sweet aroma. A far pleasanter scent than both the sulphuric one of natural gas, and the sour breath stench of carbon dioxide, both of which had been tried on him--quite sparingly, but memorably--in the past.
West started feeling a bit giddy, dizzy. His hands tingled warmly, as if feeling the effects of a slow wine, and though he fumbled at the locked door and impenetrable window, he hadn't much strength for it, nor much inclination. He sagged back into his seat, mildly surprised that he was still sensible in the fog. Chloroform, perhaps? Though this stuff smelled drier than that, and he felt reasonably sure that he should have been unconscious by now if it were. Either way, he'd ruled out the really dangerous intoxicants, so there was really nothing for him to do until whatever it was wore off. West let the gentle rocking of the galloping stagecoach lull him into a stupor, his eyelids finally falling shut.
That was the problem with anesthetics, he thought finally. Unlike liquor, for as often as he experienced them, he was still, annoyingly, a lightweight.
~Fin~