The small town of Riverton was abuzz with activity when Jim and Artie arrived. Union troops congregated around the post office, which appeared to have been commandeered as a command station. An officer stood on the steps, barking orders and moving colored pins around on a large regional map. Civilians gathered under shade trees, passively watching the soldiers as they hurried in and out of town on their missions.

"Give way, give way!" An army wagon rumbled down the street, forcing Jim and Artie off the road. Their anger quickly disappeared as they realized that the cart carried wounded –or dead—soldiers.

"What happened to them?" Jim slid down from their horse. "Are we back at war?"

"I don't know, Cousin James…" Artie gave Jim a significant look. "But since you can't talk, I'll make some inquiries."

Jim clamped his mouth shut with a scowl. He was a soldier, not a spy. He was accustomed to dealing with the enemy on the battlefield. This skulking around in shadows play-acting was not his style. He would never make a good intelligence operative.

Artie began a leisurely stroll down the street, smiling at the ladies and chatting amiably with their horse. He paused a few feet from the wagon, which had stopped by the undertaker's, and bent down to examine one of the animal's hooves. "What's this, Blackie? You've got a stone in your shoe?"

"Careful there, you ox!" The wagon driver shouted at the undertaker's assistants as they nearly dropped one of the bodies. "Show that soldier some respect. It's bad enough he died in some hell hole of a swamp. I won't have you oafs tossing him around like a bag of flour."

"Died in the swamp, did he?" Artie employed his best backwoods accent. "What was the fool doing out there? The Zakiah's no fit place for man nor beast."

"In case you haven't heard, the President's been shot. We've got orders to find his killer, no matter the cost." The driver spat tobacco juice near Artie's boots. "The damn swamp's swallowed up near a dozen men so far, but we're not giving up. Not till we track down the devil responsible for the killing and see him hanging from a tree."

"Halleluiah to that!" Artie smacked the side of the wagon for emphasis. "I think this calls for a drink. How about we go down to the saloon and share a bottle of whiskey? Your treat, of course, being as I'm a bit low on funds at the moment…"

"Get out of here, you old rummy." The driver snapped his whip in Artie's direction. "I've got work to do."

"Alright, alright. No need to get cantankerous. I can take a hint." Artie led the horse away. "Come on, Blackie. We're obviously not wanted here."

Jim shot a last glance at the officer on the post office steps before whispering to Artie. "I think that's Lafayette Baker getting things organized."

"Your double agent?"

"That's just the rumor. He might be a straight arrow."

"There's one sure way to find out." Artie gestured down the street towards a rough-looking pub. "If Baker's a sympathizer, he's probably had a drink or two at the Terrapin."

"After the day we're had, I think we're entitled to a beer."

"My thoughts exactly." Artie put a finger to his lips. "Cousin James."

Jim growled, but went mute.

Artie chuckled as he led the way to the pub. He could easily have devised another way to explain Jim's Midwestern accent, but it was so much more amusing to watch the bold soldier struggle to be meek and mild. He opened the door with a flourish and whispered: "Into the viper's nest we go."

Jim simply nodded and followed the older man to the bar. The pub grew silent as soon as the door opened, then slowly returned to normal as the regulars recognized Artie.

"Artemus." The bartender slid a tankard of beer down the bar. "What brings you to town?"

"Just passing through on the way to Virginia." Artie indicated Jim. "This is my cousin James."

"James." The bartender wiped his hands on his apron before reaching out to Jim. "Any friend of Artemus' is a friend of mine."

Jim silently shook hands.

"Cousin James doesn't speak." Artie leaned in to whisper to the bartender. "He spent six months in a Yankee prison camp and hasn't been the same since."

"Ah." The bartender nodded slowly. "That calls for a drink on the house."

"And a toast." Artie lifted his cup. "To John Wilkes Booth. The great defender of the South."

"To Booth." The bartender glanced around before toasting, was reassured when he saw only his friends. "May he make it safely to Canada."

"That's where he's off to then?" Artie asked casually. "I would have thought he'd head down South, maybe go as far as Mexico."

The bartender shook his head. "He's got friends up in Canada. Some of Jeff Davis' best men are stationed there, waiting for orders to…"

"I wouldn't say anything more, Jackson." A burly man stood inside the doorway. "Not unless you want to tell a couple of Pinkertons all the family secrets."

"Pinkertons?" The bartender laughed. "I've known Artemus for years and the quiet one's his cousin."

"Our friend outside says that one…" The newcomer pointed at Jim. "….is Grant's errand boy."

"Sir, are you accusing my cousin of being a loathsome spy?" Artie raised his voice in indignation. "I shall not spend one more moment in the company of such disreputable …" Artie paused as a gun was aimed at his heart. "On the other hand, I wouldn't want to be too hasty…"

"Alright, put the gun down and step away." Jim drew his revolver in one swift motion and fired at the burly man's feet. "I said, put it down."

"It's a miracle! You can talk!" Artie aimed his own weapon at his assailant. The burly man's gun dropped to the floor a moment later.

"I don't know about you, Artie, but I think it's time to hit the trail again." Jim turned to the bartender, gun still in hand. "Sorry, Jackson, but I'm going to have to commandeer your horse. Unless, of course, you'd like to object."

The man shook his head. "It's the buckskin out front. Help yourself."

"Very sensible." Jim paused at the exit. "Just in case any of you get any bright ideas, let me remind you that the soldiers down the street are just itching to get the reward for catching Booth and his collaborators. With $50,000 on the line, I doubt they'll be too picky about which Confederate sympathizers they round up. If I were you, I'd lie low until everything calms down."

"Nicely done, Jim." Artie unhitched his horse from the post out front and waited for Jim to locate his new mount. "I suppose this means we're not staying in town long enough for dinner and a bath."

"Sorry, but it sounds like we have at least one spy infiltrating the search party. We've got to get to Booth before he does."

Artie sighed as he swung into his saddle. It was bad enough that they were searching for a needle in a swampy haystack, but now they had to watch their backs for traitors. He'd give anything to be back in Washington with a beautiful companion, enjoying a frivolous night on the town. Just as long as they didn't end up at Ford's theatre.

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