.

EPISODE 4: JANUARY 1, 1875

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A single gunshot echoed through the air, and Jim West somehow knew that it hadn't come from his partner's gun. Rushing towards the sound, he jumped backwards when their foe suddenly appeared before him, and threw a wild punch.

Jim and Artie had been sent to the panhandle of Texas, where, they say, 'everything is bigger'. They weren't joking when it came to Billy Bob Roberts, whose height could probably rival Voltaire, Dr. Loveless' bodyguard. He was wanted for the murder of a sheriff and his deputy, and for terrorizing each town that he hid in, leaving a growing number of victims everywhere he went. Colonel Richmond said that he had to be stopped, and Jim and Artie had readily agreed.

Jim ducked under his enemy's arm, swinging himself behind the giant and jumping onto his back, wrapping his arms around Roberts' neck.

Roberts tried to fling Jim off his back, but Jim hung on…stronger than the giant gave him credit for. What Jim didn't realize was that there was a cliff nearby…which Roberts headed straight towards.

Jim eventually saw it, and just before Roberts had a chance to flip him over his back down the cliff, Jim jumped down.

The unexpected loss of Jim's weight overbalanced Roberts, who tipped over the cliff.

Jim looked over the edge, watching as the giant disappeared from sight…and from the world of the living. Wiping an arm across his brow, he suddenly remembered Artie, and started running.

"Artie?" he called. "Artie, where are you? Artie?" It took a few minutes, but suddenly, he caught a glimpse of his friend's fringed jacket. He ran around some bushes, and there Artie lay, unconscious in the snow.

A chill shot down Jim's spine to see his friend so motionless, and he knelt, looking for a gunshot wound and not finding one. "Artie?" he said, tapping his friend's face.

Artemus groaned, wincing. He suddenly gasped and coughed, licking his lips.

Jim lost his own breath when he saw what Artie's tongue left behind.

Blood.

He must've been shot in the back, Jim realized, and the bullet pierced a lung. Realizing that the wound would prove fatal, likely within the next few minutes, Jim shakily pulled his friend onto his lap and leaned him against his chest to help him breathe better, not caring that his favorite suit was about to be ruined by all the blood.

Artie coughed again and Jim closed his eyes, resting his chin on his friend's head, trying to remain calm for Artie's sake, even while his heart was breaking at the thought of losing his best friend, a man that was like a brother to him.

"There's blood in my throat," Artie mumbled, sounding dazed. He was shivering.

Jim swallowed, trying to make sure his voice was steady. "Just…just take it easy, Artie."

"What did that guy hit me with, a brick?" Artie continued. "I hope I didn't loose a tooth."

"Don't talk, Artie," said Jim, seeing that his friend was already losing his mental faculties. His eyes burned with tears that he was holding back.

"The inside of my cheek is cut," Artie continued, as if Jim hadn't spoken.

"What?" Jim's eyes popped open, and he looked at the snow where Artemus had been laying.

There wasn't a single drop of blood.

Rougher than Jim intended, he sat Artie up the rest of the way and felt his back, finding no blood and seeing no wound.

Artie thought that Jim had helped him sit up so he could spit out the blood in his mouth. "Gah," he said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his lips. Still wobbly, he held onto Jim's arm with his other hand. Moving his tongue around in his mouth, he sighed with relief. "Thank God, I didn't loose a tooth!" Suddenly noticing how quiet Jim was, he looked at him to see that his friend was staring at him, looking shocked. "Jim? What is it?" He looked down at himself. "Am I hurt worse than I thought?"

Jim finally found his voice. "No, Artie, you're fine." He smiled. "You're fine." He helped his friend to his feet, holding onto him when he swayed.

"You have a strange idea of 'fine'," said Artie, a hand on the side of his face. "Oooh, what a headache."

Jim swung one of Artie's arms around his own shoulders. "It could've been worse, Artie." He glanced down at the bloodless ground, where he'd thought that his best friend was about to die. "It could've been a lot worse."

January 1, 1875. James West would never forget that day; it was the day that Artie hadn't been shot.

THE END