Vocab word of the day: Trucks
Definition: a group of two or more pairs of wheels in one frame, for supporting one end of a railroad car, locomotive, etc.
Brought to you by: My Dad, the train expert.
On with the show!
"Jim..."
"...Arte?"
"Shouldn't there be a train here?"
Jim nodded, licking his lower lip before chewing on it. "Yep."
Both men looked down one end of the track, then up the other; finding no Number 3, no equine car, no varnish car, not even a lost engineer or stray fireman.
Arte turned to look at the busy station twenty feet behind them. A passenger train stood under the awning of the depot, maintaining a rolling boil of steam as its passengers embarked. There was a freight train further down the track in the other direction loading cattle into specially designed cars. At least one switcher sat waiting on yet another side track in case it was needed.
But The Wanderer was nowhere to be seen.
Squirt spoke in Ute between them, both her hands clutching the seams of Arte and Jim's pant legs. While he had no idea what she had said, Jim could only assume it had to do with the current problem and he agreed, "You said it, kid."
Arte looked down the line, past the freight train to a large, circular brickwork building, noticing a jean-clad worker seated on a set of boxcar trucks just outside the structure, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. "I'll be right back, Jim." He said then crossed two sets of tracks before he headed down the line that served as entry to the roundhouse. He couldn't see into the dim building but had a suspicion that their missing transportation was somewhere within.
"Pardon me, sir, but are you familiar with the train that was sitting there on that line?"
The man leaned to the side, as if Arte were blocking his view of the broad lines of track behind him. "That track?"
"Yes."
"The 4-0-4, coal burner?" The man asked.
Closer to the worker, Arte could see that he was older, and bigger, than he had looked at a distance, wrinkles blending into the deep sunburn on his face and neck, his hair not blonde as it had first looked, but bleached white.
"Yes..." Arte nodded, vaguely familiar with the designation. It had something to do with the numbers of wheels on the engine.
"Big, colorful loco, pullin' a hopper, varnish and equine car?"
"Yes!" Arte responded, pleased, seeing his smile reflected on the face of the worker, the pleasant smell of the pipe tobacco drifting on the breeze.
"S'gone."
Arte paused, dredging up a polite tone. "Yes, I was wondering if you would happen to know where it has gone to."
"Repairs."
"Repairs..."
"Had holes."
"Yes."
"Lots of 'em."
"Yes sir, I was aware of the holes. But you see that train is government property, and as it would happen, I...we..." He said gesturing to where Jim and Squirt stood, still rooted to the spot where they had stopped. "Are government agents. No repairs should be happening on that train without our approval."
Arte was observed for a moment before the worker stood to his full height, wherein Arte learned something else about the man. He had to be at least seven feet tall.
"Government, eh?" The man asked, sending a puff of smoke well over Arte's head without effort.
Arte considered the situation carefully before he straightened his jacket. He pulled hard enough to hear the start of a tiny tear in one of the shoulder seams. The article had seen far too many fights recently.
"Yes." Arte said, forcing confidence into his tone. "Acting as special attaché to the president of the Union Pacific Railroad. That train, that you've made off with, sir, is his personal transportation loaned to him by President Ulysses Grant, himself."
The statement received a mistrusting glare from the giant man, a few thoughtful puffs on his pipe, then a decisive nod.
"Be done in five days."
"Five-!" Arte nearly squeaked at the number, then dropped his tone following the man who was suddenly walking away from him, into the roundhouse. "Five days!? This is robbery, highway robbery!" Arte had lost track of which character he was portraying at the moment, his mind reeling at the idea of being stuck in deadly Denver longer than five hours, let alone five days.
As they entered the cool darkness of the brick building Arte's protests dwindled, his jaw dropping at the sight of the half-dismantled skeleton before him. The Wanderer was in pieces. From the cow catcher to the rear gate of the varnish car there wasn't a single piece of the train left whole. The boiler was hanging from the ceiling, suspended in heavy chains. The equine car had been gutted entirely and one side of the varnish car had been completely stripped of that which gave it its name, the grain bare for all to see.
"Where are the horses?"
"Stable."
"My...our personal property?"
"Stored." The man said, pointing to a small room thirty feet away, set against the side walls of the building.
"Arte?"
Jim had finally followed him, forced to awkwardly carry Squirt across the rough stones. Setting her down on the stone surface of the roundhouse floor, West took in the sight of the stripped cars, and the gutted engine.
Arte couldn't respond, his mouth still gaping. He threw his hand at the remains of their home and turned to walk away.
He had numbly worked his way back outside, sitting on the same trucks that the worker had been resting on, wishing for a pipe or a cigar, and not realizing the time that had passed until Jim walked up beside him leading both their horses. Without a word West slapped the reigns of Arte's horse onto his partner's shoulder, then continued to walk his own animal over the shifting ballast toward the station, Squirt seated happily in the saddle.
Arte blinked in surprise, glanced to his animal to find it saddled and ready, his full saddle bags and blanket roll, stocked and secured. His rifle sat in its boot, and the animal waited, impatiently shifting its feet on the uncomfortable rocks.
As Arte finally stood and followed, Squirt turned in the saddle to watch him. She spoke to West, her tone clearly concerned, the phrase ending on an upturn, marking it as a question.
"Ah, don't worry Squirt. He'll snap out of it..." Jim said over his shoulder. "...once he finds what you put in his saddlebags.
An hour later, as Jim and Squirt packed the last of their recently bought supplies in the new saddlebags on her very own horse, both heard Arte's surprised shout. Jumping nearly three feet away from his mount, Arte had thrown something furry and gray as far away from his saddlebags and his person as he could, and watched it where it lay limply on the ground, approaching cautiously before he recognized it. A gray haired wig he had worn recently.
As he bent to snatch it up he could hear Jim guffawing and Squirt giggling at his expense. "Oh, Very funny James." He shouted angrily, before he took care to straighten the article, replacing it in his bags. In a huff Arte stepped into the saddle and kicked his animal to a trot, muttering under his breath as he passed the two hecklers, leading the way out of town.
Four hours later they had stopped for the evening. Arte had kept to himself, finding every excuse to leave their campsite; to gather wood, to set up the latrine, to watch their back trail. When Arte finally returned to the fireside for the evening meal he sat on the opposite side of the fire, ignoring Jim and Squirt.
"Arte..." Jim said finally. "Squirt remembered the disguise, I think she thought you needed it."
"I don't wish to discuss it."
Squirt looked up at Jim, her mouth full of beans and biscuits. Speaking through the mouthful of food, she asked another question. Jim thought he'd recognized a word or two, more importantly he heard his partner's name amongst the jumble. Articulated with the same halting vowels that peppered her speech, but clearly a name.
"Arte?" Jim asked her, pointing at his partner.
Squirt nodded, looking to Artemus, then back to Jim. She said the name again, effortlessly. "A'art'e."
Jim's face broke into a broad grin and he tossed a stick onto the fire, casting embers in Gordon's direction.
"There ya go, sour puss. Her first English word. Ya gonna cheer up now?"
Jim didn't get a response for the rest of the evening but he noticed the gradual look of pride on Arte's face before he left the fire circle to stand a few hours of guard duty. By the time he came back Arte was asleep, Squirt curled against him, all, apparently, forgiven.
When the sun rose the following morning the temperature had dropped unusually low for Colorado in August. No more than fifty degrees, Arte judged as he walked through the gray dawn, leaving his position atop a rocky rise from which he and Jim had been standing guard. About 40 miles south of Denver in a meadow of spruce trees that gradually rose toward a craggy hilltop in the distance, their camp had proved expertly chosen and well hidden.
"Might not be a bad place to hole up for a while." Jim said over their breakfast, consisting of a quick reheating of last night's dinner and a boiled pot of coffee. Squirt had quickly turned her nose up at the beverage, preferring the water in her brand new canteen.
The meadows they inhabited provided sufficient grazing for their three animals. A half mile away there was a small stream trickling down from the hilltop that provided fresh water and an attraction to game. Squirt, by virtue of her nature, was accustomed to and comfortable in the environment, and neither of the men were strangers to long periods of time bivouacked in the wilds.
Arte considered it but was unable to ignore the one plaguing question. "To what end, Jim?"
Blue eyes rose to meet Arte's, and in that moment, watching his partner and the young girl seated so comfortably together, both seeming oblivious to the things that had been bothering Arte for most of the morning, Gordon felt suddenly old. Older even than the hills that surrounded them. He realized that he had finally put a name to the feeling that had been with him since they found Squirt in the varnish car outside Saguache, Colorado.
He had never considered himself the 'senior' agent in their duo. Nor was he necessarily always the voice of reason or at the lead of each case. His relationship with James West had been fairly equal, each man consistently showcasing his unique strengths, balancing one another out.
Now, despite the 20+ year gap between man and girl, he felt outdated by the younger two.
He sat morosely considering his beans, pushing them about the plate while he tried to remember if he had actually celebrated his last birthday, or allowed it to pass quietly, like a rich man passing a beggar on the street.
"You alright, Arte?"
Deeply focused brown eyes rose sluggishly to meet Jim's concerned look. Out of the blue Arte gave him a sad smile, and nodded his head before he dumped his beans back into the pot sitting by the fire. Arte set his plate by the ring of stones to be washed later and swiped his hands distractedly over his pants before he mumbled something about getting firewood, and disappeared into the stand of spruce.
Jim watched his partner withdraw, and took a deep breath, thinking for a moment.
"Go on with him, Squirt." He finally said, the young girl's name catching her attention. Once she was looking at him, he gestured to her, then to where Arte had disappeared to. The girl nodded her understanding then stood, setting her plate carefully on top of Gordon's before she picked her way across the ground. They had found and purchased a pair of moccasins for her while still in Denver, and Jim watched her to make certain they wouldn't trip her up.
Once she was ensconced in the trees, Jim stood, rolling his shoulder carefully against the pull of the bandages. He bent to his saddle bags and extracted a telescoping eye-glass, extending it and scanning the horizon.
He understood Arte's concern. They couldn't remain in the wilderness indefinitely. If the depot worker's estimate had been correct they could conceivably return to Denver in five days, reclaim The Wanderer and...and then what. Find a new siding to occupy while they continued to wonder what they were going to do with Squirt, and in the meantime..take on another case?
"To what end?" He repeated to himself, turning from the open, arid plain to scan the hilltop behind their camp. Deserted but for the natural animal life, the area was something of an oasis.
Colorado Territory was proving to be one of the more peculiar parts of the nation. Comprised of surprising and unexpected elevation changes, interspersed with desert plains and soaring mountains, the area would make an exceptional, if internally corrupt, state some day.
When Arte and Squirt returned with armloads of fire wood, Jim's partner seemed returned to normal. Walking about ten feet behind her, Arte bent every few minutes to pick up the sticks that the young Ute child lost out of her bundle. He seemed entertained by the game and arrived just behind the six-year-old. Laughing he told his partner, "She's lost more than she started with..."
Both men chuckled watching as the girl dumped her small collection, then trotted back toward the wooded patch.
"Want me to go?" Jim offered.
Arte waved him off, taking off after the girl.
Jim went to the horses, digging a coil of rope out of his saddle bags and worked for an hour, creating a rope corral that would allow the animals a little more freedom. Squirt's horse, unused to the other two animals, was skittish the moment he was released from the ground hitch and Jim moved with the animal, keeping hold of the bridle and talking constantly as he walked the young male in circles around the enclosure. Once the animal was accustomed to the bigger space, and the presence of the other two within that same space, Jim pulled the bridle off completely.
He removed the tack from the other two as well, manufacturing a quick saw-horse out of five branches, that would keep the leather off the ground and within easy reach.
When he returned to the fire he was surprised to see the flames reduced to cooling coals, and neither Arte nor Squirt in sight. The pile of firewood looked unchanged. He was turning to walk into the stand of spruce trees when he noticed a flicker of movement on the horizon, slowly developing into a small cloud of dust.
Feeling a jolt of alarm flash through his chest, Jim lunged for the eyeglass, wincing at the pull in his shoulder before he focused on the distant dust trail.
Gradually he could make out a carriage, a very familiar carriage, moving at a fair clip along the road that would pass parallel to their camp, 30 yards distant. Squinting at the vehicle as it drew ever closer, Jim considered the occupants. Their departure from Denver, so quickly on the heels of the Secret Service Agents et al, felt uncomfortably wrong. Jim had the feeling that Tennyson and his wife were either fleeing, or chasing, and if the latter were true, were probably searching for West and Gordon.
He would be searching for Arte himself before too long, but the carriage would pass their camp in less than ten minutes, and there wasn't time to hunt down his partner. There was hardly time to saddle a horse either, and after another moment of consideration West ran to the corral, whistled for his horse, and swung onto its back, using only a firm grip on the mane, before he took off for the road.
It didn't take long for Tennyson to spot him. Judging the spot where their two paths would cross Walter slowed the horses, feeling his wife relax a little beside him. Her current emotional crisis aside she had been grasping his arm every few minutes with a crushing grip, a silent protest to the speed he maintained with the horses. But, time had been of the essence.
"Tennyson!" Jim shouted, eying the couple, looking over Winifred, then Walter. They were uninjured, though Winifred had been, and was clearly now, upset. They both wore traveling clothes and there were cases and bundles in the back. Supplies and extra clothing and blankets.
Jim was alarmed that they were traveling in what amounted to a town-only vehicle, and further that they appeared prepared to go a long distance.
"What happened?" He asked finally, slowing his horse with his knees and a light tug on the animal's mane.
"There's...been a development, Mr. West. We hate to intrude but we've a very big favor to ask of you and your partner." Walter said, looking over his silent wife, before turning his concerned gaze back to the man atop the horse.
Jim could still feel the sick punch in his stomach that hit him when Walter Tennyson had said, 'your partner.' Arte was missing, Squirt was missing, the gap of time had been too long for their absence to be innocent. He had a feeling that was very infrequently proven wrong, but he would have to deal with it later. "We've got a camp this way. Take it slow, Walter, your horses are pretty well spent."
The Englishman nodded and got his animals going again, guiding them off the road and onto the rough terrain that forced a slower pace, reguardless. The carriage had rocked violently twice before Winifred spoke softly. Walter pulled the carriage to a stop and Jim dismounted, slapping the haunch of his animal to send it back to camp, before he moved to help Winifred to the ground. They walked together behind the carriage back to the fire, the story of their rapid departure from Denver slowly unwinding.