"Ah, I believe it's actually stockings you're supposed to hang near the chimney," Artemus pointed out as one of their captors tugged the knot around his left wrist tight. "Ow!"

The unfriendly individual in question didn't have a sense of humor, apparently. Not that there was really anything to laugh at in their current predicament.

Artemus was glad he and Jim weren't being hanged by their necks, much as his wrists were going to hurt from circulation loss. His own feet were still supporting him firmly on the ground, if only just, and his arms hadn't been pulled out of their sockets – merely stretched uncomfortably overhead. But Jim was standing almost on tip toe as a result of their arms being bound to hooks inserted high in the wall over a fireplace. At one time those hooks would have been meant to hold cookpots, or maybe a drying rack of some kind. At the moment, though, they held two Secret Service agents and one sheriff's deputy. Frank Wilson, Sheriff Kurtz' junior deputy, had been no match for his bigger, older partner Deputy 'Andy' Anders. Now the young man, who'd proved a little too suspicious for his own good as it turned out, was going to share the captive agents' fate.

"What do you think they're going to do to us?" Wilson whispered. The poor junior deputy sounded terrified. Arte didn't blame him – he wasn't feeling any too confident himself at the moment. If only this had been a Secret Service case, he and Jim would have had more than one or two tricks up their sleeves – and in their boots, belt buckles, collars . . . . They had none of that to save them now. As it turned out, the borrowed guns he and Jim had been carrying were loaded with realistic-looking blanks, Deputy Anders had gloatingly informed them. Anders, the robber gang's second-in-command, had been very careful to take care of that little detail.

After realizing what role the older deputy had been playing, it wasn't hard to figure out who the gang's leader was.

"Mr. Timson, I presume," Jim stated as a new gloater arrived to inspect the prisoners.

Bobby Timson, the large, grizzled behemoth of a burglar chief grinned at them through his unkempt brown beard.

"And you must be the great, famous, mighty lawman, Mr. James West," the former Auction Barn security guard crowed. "Only you ain't so high and mighty now, eh?" Timson looked Artemus up and down, recognizing him too, but only snorting rather than bothering to say his name. Then the bearded man hocked up a great gobbet of spit onto the earthen floor of the old bunk house they were now in to show what he thought of his prisoners. "You're a couple'a rare ones all right. Mebbe I ought to have the boys start a fire in that fireplace and see how you like being well done instead."

"And what does that make you?" Jim threw back at their captor. "Half-baked?"

Timson scowled and landed a punch across Jim's jaw that made Arte wince in sympathy from the sound of it. But Jim wasn't stunned enough not to take advantage of Timson's proximity and use his own legs to launch a full kangaroo kick into the big man's midriff. The overconfident criminal went flying and crashed into the far wall of the shack before hitting the floor. Deputy Anders, who entered the room just in time to witness it, drew his revolver – not loaded with blanks, Arte bet – and cocked and aimed it right at Jim. Arte made a tutting, tsking sound and shook his head in a desperate bid to keep the angry deputy from firing.

"You know, that's exactly the sort of behavior that will lead to Santa Claus putting coal in your stocking," Artemus scolded.

As meagre a diversion as it was, it distracted Anders as intended long enough for Timson to get to his feet again and motion for his second to put away the gun. Not because Timson had any intention of sparing them, but rather at Artemus' earning a hateful glare from the bandit as well.

"Coal!" Timson yelled it like a swear word. "You think I ain't got enough of that on my own, old man?" He shook his fist and looked as if he was about to advance toward the fireplace again and take out his wrath on two Secret Service agents this time, but hesitated after giving Jim a glare that would have cracked ice. "Coal that's better'n what they got in Braidwood!"

The resentful hiss in Timson's voice as well as that glare made it obvious Arte had hit more of a nerve than he'd intended. But that also revealed Timson to be the thin-skinned sort of villain, so familiar to both agents, who could easily be made to spill out all of his plans to them while he thought they were helpless.

Which we might be, Arte realized. But helpless was different than hopeless. The longer they could get Timson or Anders talking, the greater the chance that they'd be able to come up with an escape plan of their own. Or maybe Sheriff Kurtz or one of his volunteers would figure out where the 'fancy pantsers' and his deputies had disappeared to and come to the rescue. Timson and his gang might be vicious thieves, but they weren't murderers yet, as far as he knew.

Jim, still unshot, decided to take the next round of poke-the-rattlesnake.

"That must be why you've stolen all those Christmas presents," the agent said. "They wouldn't have left enough room for your product."

Timson spat on the floor again.

"As if anyone in this stupid settlement deserves even that!" The big man's teeth were bared through his beard rather than grinning this time. "This whole damn town should'a belonged to me! It was my folks came here first! My folks who found and mined the coal long before some dumb farmer found the deposit down in Braidwood! My family that sold it to the railroads an' helped 'em get started! And my family that should'a been rich and making the lot of you bow an' scrape to us!"

Here was the resentment all right, the lust for revenge. But . . . .

"Until everyone found out about bigger and cheaper deposits forty miles away," Arte supplied. "But what has that got to do with the Auction Barn or Tom Shepherd? What have they ever done to you?"

When Timson didn't answer right away, Jim took another poke.

"Why ask, Arte? Isn't it obvious?" Jim nodded in Deputy Anders' direction. "That story about him getting a legacy from a wealthy uncle on the West Coast was just a cover for what really happened, wasn't it?" Like Arte's comment about coal, it was easy to see on Timson and Anders' faces that Jim's question had hit its mark. "The auctioneers fired him and gave Shepherd his job."

Timson nodded, eyes blazing fury even more.

"After all," Jim continued, "why would you still be here if you really had struck it rich? But that story did make for a convincing alibi, especially when backed up by the Sheriff's second-in-command. Much more convenient than having the entire town find out you were fired by such generous employers."

"Generous!" Timson roared. "I slave away for ten years for them in the barn my family built! Living on wages when I should'a owned it! The first time they catch me fencing an item in Chicago, they fire me and give my place and their precious annual bonus to a punk half-wit! You call that generous?" He sounded as if he wanted to spit again. "Not reportin' it to Ol' Man Kurtz was their idea of generous!"

Which it was, Arte thought, especially if it was merely the first time they'd caught Timson at theft – but maybe not the first time they'd suspected it. Even a first burglary incident would be enough to land a man in jail in most jurisdictions and bar him from respectable employment after. But such questionable generosity might doom the gang's three prisoners now. Sheriff Kurtz obviously had no suspicion of his senior deputy's activities and allies either. Speaking of whom . . . .

"What d'you think we should do with 'em?" Anders asked. The corrupt deputy didn't have to add the expected 'They know too much.' It was clear from his tone that he was asking more about murder method and disposal of bodies than whether the prisoners should be killed or not.

"Why," Timson let an ugly grin cross his snarling face, "I reckon these three deserve to have a little accident. We won't be needin' this damn shack I been hidin' in any longer. No need to waste bullets neither." The big man walked over to where a battered wooden cabinet hunched in one corner and took out an equally battered oil lamp and a small box. "Might have to waste a match or two though."

"What does that . . . ." Deputy Wilson gaped in horror and struggled against the ropes holding him as they watched Timson remove the lamp's chimney and splash oil around the small room. "Andy! Don't let him do this!"

If the junior deputy was hoping for any mercy or aid from his senior partner, he hoped in vain; Anders took his cue from Timson and began tossing bits of the sparse shack's more flammable bric-a-brac onto the floor where the kerosene puddles could soak it.

"Shame the way fire destroys so much in the wintertime," Timson observed as he and Deputy Anders finished the preparations and moved over to the doorway to make a quick getaway as soon as the stage was set. "They won't find anything left of you three except the skeletons!"

More interested in having a quick getaway than a spectator sport, Timson handed Deputy Anders the box of matches and took off. Artemus sucked in his breath and saw Anders try to light a match which sputtered out. The Secret Service agent wasn't as naively optimistic as the junior deputy, but if there was ever a juncture at which a man might change his mind before becoming a murderer . . . .

"Andy, please!" Wilson pleaded. "It's me, remember?"

Arte didn't expect any more luck than Wilson's appeal was likely to get, but for all their sakes he had to try.

"Hey," he called out to Anders, "you don't have to have deaths on your conscience – at least spare your partner!" He nodded toward Wilson. "It's Christmas, after all."

"It sure will be – for me!" Anders smirked meanly before striking a pair of matches alight with one swipe of his hand and tossing them into a far corner of the room where no breeze from the doorway would extinguish them. Then, as soon as Anders saw the matches begin to catch a kerosene-soaked rag, he vanished, as eager to be gone from the crime scene as his boss.

"No! No!" the younger deputy cried as flames began to crackle upward. All three men tugged at the thick ropes suspending them from the fireplace hooks, but without much success at loosing themselves. The knots held tight and there didn't appear to be a sharp edge or nail or other object nearby that could be used to fray the hemp.

"Any ideas, Jim?" Arte asked. "I don't want to be the briquet on the hearth!"

It looked like Jim did have a plan – he was swinging himself back and forth as far as the restraints would allow and bending his legs in an attempt to gain a foothold on the fireplace wall. The athletic agent's greenish blue eyes were staring upward, not to implore heaven, but to keep a focus on the hook he dangled from. The curved iron wasn't budging a fraction but the rope was, sliding up and down in response to Jim's movement. Arte knew at once what he was trying to accomplish. If his partner could only find that purchase and get the rope slid over the opening in the hook . . . .

But the flames were beginning to spread and with them, unbearable heat and smoke. Jim West had kept himself in superb form in spite of the passage of years, yet it wasn't enough. All three of them began to cough and choke, and Jim, closest to the fire, dropped back down spent, his exertions having used up too much oxygen. He gasped for air and tried to swing himself up again but couldn't.

"Jim? Jim!" Arte shouted as the fire and heat crept closer. The two of them had survived so many dangerous situations together. Was this really the end of the line? Was Artemus going to have to watch his best friend die first before dying himself? Were their families going to be left mourning on what should have been one of the most joyous days of the year?

Still struggling against the rope holding him, Artemus was almost ready to give in to despair when a tall, weathered and wild-eyed figure came running into the burning shack. Old Mr. Nusker appeared through the smoke like some sort of hellish vision – with a large, sharp hand axe clutched in his right fist as if ready to chop the prisoners to pieces. But instead of whacking at flesh, Nusker instead struck a mighty blow against the length of rope holding Deputy Wilson's arms tight over his head. Thick as the rope was, it proved no match for edged steel, splintering apart and releasing Wilson, who managed to keep to his feet somehow.

"Go!" Nusker commanded, pointing toward the door before turning straight at Arte, axe held high again. Nusker was as terrifying a rescuer as Arte had ever seen, but again the swinging blade hacked apart only rope, this time freeing Artemus with a force and suddenness that almost made him go down on his knees. Fortunately, Deputy Wilson hadn't yet fled as ordered and in spite of his fear had the courage to grab Arte around the shoulders and help him out of the burning building. Coughing and blurry-eyed from the smoke, Arte tried to turn back toward the shack.

Jim!

Flames were licking at the doorway Arte and Wilson had just escaped from, dark clouds obscuring any sight of what might still be happening inside. Seconds later, though, Nusker emerged, stomping straight through the conflagration with Jim slung over his shoulder in the same flour-sack carry that Nusker had used with the wounded auctioneer earlier that day. Bowed under the Secret Service agent's weight, Nusker released his big hand axe to fall to the ground before he was barely ten feet from the conflagration and stumbled to his own knees, coughing and gagging before making it more than ten feet farther. Jim tumbled down, barely conscious and coughing just as hard, but alive. Oh, thank heavens! Arte thought. Relief barely had enough time to wash over him before all of them heard a loud cracking sound and the flaming shack began to cave in on itself. Nusker and Jim were still much too close for safety, and tongues of fire leapt out toward them. Nusker, instead of shielding himself only did his best to hunch over and protect the man lying prone next to him. Then it was over and the two were still there and all right, though bits of smoldering cinder clung to their clothing. Wilson, with the energy and resiliency of the young, released his grip on Arte and dashed over to help extinguish the sparks before they could catch. Arte lurched over to help too, and as he and Wilson did their best to pull Jim and Nusker farther from the fire, he heard a familiar whining, whimpering sound.

"S'all right," Nusker coughed as his raggedy hound came limping toward him. The dog did its shuffling best to make a wide arc around Artemus and Deputy Wilson as it arrived to lick off Nusker's face. The old farmer's eyes were as teared up from smoke as Arte's had been a moment earlier, but instead of wiping them clean he reached out blindly to pat and reassure the faithful pet. "S'all right . . . ."

Jim groaned and the dog jumped back a bit as the Secret Service agent shook his head and struggled to pull himself up into a sitting position. He hadn't been fully unconscious, and now he was staring up at Nusker in astonishment as if the old man had somehow grown three extra heads and turned purple and glowing for good measure.

"You . . . you saved our lives," Jim whispered hoarsely.

That small sound and slight motion was enough to make the dog whimper again and try to hide behind its master.

"Shhh, shhhh," Nusker muttered to the hound, taking his hand away long enough to rub the water out of his eyes and fix Jim with a red-eyed glare. "He ain't gonna hurt you none," Nusker whispered to the dog. "Is he?" For a man who'd just put himself to enough exertion to make folk half his age collapse, he managed to convey plenty of implied menace for anyone who might even think about hurting his dog. It reminded Arte of the tone Jim had used when being protective of Blackjack.

Jim shook his head again, but not simply to clear it and again regarded the farmer with startled disbelief. Arte bent down to help his nonplussed partner up while Wilson did the same, with greater difficulty, for the hulking farmer. Watching them, Arte wondered if some of their misperceptions about Nusker might have been owing to his vague similarity in size and sunny disposition to Dr. Loveless' hulking henchman Voltaire. Foolish, really – and no one smaller or less strong could have pulled off such a dramatic rescue as Nusker just had.

"We owe you our thanks," Arte rasped. "And an apology. We had it wrong, Jim – exactly wrong." He looked up at the perpetually scowling farmer, important pieces having fallen into place. "You aren't the one who abused that poor mutt, are you? You're the one who rescued him."

"As if I would ever hurt one of these creatures!" Nusker snapped. He might have added a few more choice words had a coughing fit not stayed him. But he didn't glower at Arte or Jim. He leaned down to pat and reassure the dog again, and tried to shush it and calm its shivering. Standing out in the chill afternoon winter, Arte and his companions might have been shivering themselves if not for the shack-sized bonfire producing a dozen stoves' worth of heat only a short distance away.

"Think they'll come back?" Deputy Wilson asked, nervously looking around at the clearing they were standing in as if the members of the robber gang might return at any moment to check on their victims' fate – which they might.

"We'd better be away," Nusker nodded. "My place is closest. We can head there – if," he growled, "you promise not to hurt any of my animals!"

All three of them, owing their lives to this unexpected hero, gave Nusker their solemn word. As if to reinforce his seriousness, the big farmer lurched over near the burning ruins to retrieve his trusty hand axe. The long wooden handle must have been uncomfortably warm to the touch, but he gripped it in his huge, calloused fist without complaint. A good man to have on their side, Arte thought – and definitely not a good one to annoy!

Artemus didn't know Millwood Grove and its surroundings so well, for all that he'd lived in it for nearly a decade now, that he could tell precisely where they had been brought by their captors. It was evident that Nusker knew the terrain exactly, and so they followed his brisk march as best they could into the woods and toward the most forbidden farmstead of them all – his.