Fingers brushed over his forehead leaving something cool and pungent behind. It wasn't a casual move, but intentional. Like an artist crafting a design on canvas. Another sweep of skin against skin and the pounding tension at his temples began to ease, sending a wave of relief through his system that was so welcome he groaned aloud. More of the cool wetness, that felt like mud mixed with something else, was smeared across his cheek bones, delicate care taken to avoid getting any of it in his eyes.
Sage. That was what it smelled of. Sage and some other mountain plant he couldn't remember.
There was only the burning in his arm that remained and he waited, knowing without a doubt that the relief would come. All he need do was be patient.
It didn't come immediately however.
First there were a hundred pricking sensations, followed by a thousand nerve endings bursting like fire works. There was warm wetness on his arm, then a terrorizing agony that tore at his mind, dragging him back from the dark safe place of no pain, and trying to force him, kicking and screaming into the harsh, horrible light of reality. He didn't want to go and he struggled amidst hands suddenly pushing against his chest and shoulders. Forcing him awake.
He begged to be allowed to rest, to go back to that place of nothing, but words that he couldn't understand were clawing at his ears, dragging their consonants like talons through his tender mind, ripping whatever they found to shreds.
He struggled until he had nothing left to struggle with, exhausting himself but still denied that blessed sleep.
Then the cooling came, that sensation that he had despaired of feeling again, and a voice softly told him, "Rest." And it sounded like West. And he wondered why that direction was so important to him.
Then he was in the black, and it didn't matter at all.
The Wanderer limped into Saguache at four in the morning, the brakes letting loose of the pent-up steam like a dying sigh.
The return trip had been delayed twice due to damage caused by the hail of bullets in Denver. While none of the projectiles could have pierced any part of the engine, they had managed to glance against and upset the seals on a number of bolts on the tank.
The first stop had been the result of several bolts on the outside of the boiler rattling loose and the steam escaping at twice the normal rate, both deteriorating the shell of the boiler, and reducing the power of the locomotive severely.
Arte left his work in the varnish car long enough to help the engineer and fireman with repairs, welding temporary patches over the holes that would see the engine through to Saguache. He spelled the exhausted fireman until they had enough steam to travel again, then trudged back to the parlor.
Most of the broken glass had been cleared, the flying stuffing corralled and countless splinters of wood picked up when the engine stopped the second time. There was a leak in the brake lines, the engineer said. He had felt the impacts of the cars against the engine on some of the down hill runs, and thought that there was far too much weight coming down on the gears.
Arte yawned endlessly over a lantern as the engineer and fireman inspected the brake lines under the cars, and stretching between the platforms. Nearly every one had been compromised.
It took over 2 hours for them to find, or manufacture, suitable replacements. By then the fireman's back was frozen in a stooped position.
Arte took over for him for good, ordering the man to his bed, and shoveling coal (something he hadn't done in decades) until the San Juan mountains and the haze of smoke in the air from the town of Saguache loomed ahead.
The engineer was sluggish but steady at the controls all the way to the siding, pulling The Wanderer to a perfect stop in exactly the same spot she had occupied 24 hours ago. Even in his mostly-not-awake state Arte was deeply impressed. More so when the engineer insisted on doing his final walk around check before he too went to sleep.
The pain that Arte had felt at seeing the varnish car torn asunder, was reflected in the engineer as he looked over the damage to his engine in the pre-dawn light.
"They're gonna pay for this, eh, Mr. Gordon?"
Arte took in a slow breath through his nose and nodded. "Yeah." He growled softly. "Through the teeth." He didn't yet know who exactly 'they' were, but...he knew there would be vindication. One way or another.
Once the engineer's wounded arm had been treated, and he and the fireman were tucked safely into their berths, Arte returned to the parlor.
He was desperately tired, fighting the hunger pains stabbing like knives in his stomach, but unable to sleep or eat. His life-saving tumble from the platform of the cavalry car in Denver had left painful bruises along his right side, and an evening of shoveling coal had given him some open blisters on his palms and stiffening muscles that made him even more sore and foul spirited. His partner was still out there, somewhere. And while the sane, reasonable part of Arte's mind kept telling him he was worrying over nothing, and that he needed to sleep and recover; the part that almost always proved to be right, was shouting that Jim was in trouble and time was of the essence.
Arte allowed himself the luxury of a change of clothes, moving through a fog as he pulled on clean underclothing, a yellow shirt, his brown and tan leather jacket, brown pants, and black boots. He barely remembered to grab his hat before he was out the door of the varnish car and lowering the ramp of the cavalry car.
Outside the morning air was still cool, the sun just barely making an appearance over the mountains to the east. Mears' town had retained 35 temporary citizens since yesterday and they were camped in bed rolls around small fires, or in tents in the shade of the mountain, dead asleep. A line of slumbering pack mules were hitched up in front of the tavern and the general store, but there was no sign of inhabitants in either of the two buildings. The shelters in front of the toll roads were occupied by the customary armed guards.
Two horses stood outside the jail, shifting under the weight of packs and saddles, but neither one was the black belonging to Jim West.
Arte led his mount out of the equine car and down the ramp, trudging up the inclined ground to the jail. The tied horses shied a little at his approach then settled when Gordon's mare whinnied to them. Arte was about to head into the jail when he caught sight of a rifle in a saddle holster on one of the mounts. The menacing weapon had a longer barrel than most, a customized stock, and extra room in the holster for a telescopic sight, though the device wasn't attached at the moment. Serious hunter, Arte wondered? Or something else.
Taking his hat from his head Arte wished briefly for a bath, a good long soak in a well-appointed hotel bathroom, attached to a room all his own. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in a hotel. Thinking about sleep at all was a bad move, he realized, and he shook it out of his head and walked into the jail.
Sheriff Bowdeen stood at the desk in his office, looking up expectantly to meet Arte's eyes with a nod of acknowledgement before he went back to packing a few things in a burlap sack.
"Mr. Gordon. Awful glad you've returned. We tried gettin' through to your rail car but somethin' must be wrong with your telegraph..."
"Yeah," Arte said, sounding and looking lost,"...something wrong with the...Are you-"
"Headin' out after your Mr. West. Seems he left the trail yesterday afternoon and never did make it back."
Feeling as though he had stepped into the tail end of an important conversation, Arte noticed the youngest of Bowdeen's deputies standing just inside the Sheriff's office. Both men left the room a moment later, Bowdeen slinging the bag he had been packing over his shoulder.
"You alright there, Mr. Gordon? Look a little rough this mornin'." The Sheriff gave Arte a once over as he passed by the Secret Serviceman. Bowdeen was outside the jail and securing the bag on his horse's hind quarters before Arte could say a word.
Wearily, ignoring the stare he was getting from the deputy still in the room, Arte popped his hat back on his head and walked back out, going straight for his horse and mounting. The sheriff joined him, ignoring the horse with the high-powered rifle, and mounting the other readied animal.
"Is that your deputy's horse?" Arte asked, pointing.
"Who, Wyatt!? Hell no, that boy can't ride a horse to save his life."
"So...who's going with us?"
"I am!" Carlos Sanderson stepped down off the boardwalk in front of the store, tugging leather gloves tight over his hands before he stepped up to the rider-less horse, took hold of the saddle horn and hopped up, catching one foot in the stirrup, and swinging the other over.
"The reporter!?" Arte demanded, his protest coming out louder than he'd intended.
"Mr. Gordon, you must go to where the news is, not wait and expect it to come to you." Sanderson declared, smirking at the sheriff before he double checked the thongs securing his rifle.
"There ain't gonna be any news on this trip, Carlos. We're lookin' for a missin' man and there ain't much time for it either." The sheriff said, clearly only a hair away from losing all patience with the man.
"I won't slow you down, Sheriff, and you can't very well keep me here." Sanderson argued, grinning.
"Well that's the funny thing about bein' Sheriff of a town. I can decide that a place is off-limits to anyone I please, iffen I feel that person might fall into danger. Until I get back that trail yonder is off-limits. Yah!" Bowdeen kicked his horse's flanks and charged across the ground with Arte at his heels, both men and their horses passing through the toll gate that had been opened for them, before Bowdeen turned. "You men have my permission to shoot any person crossing that line until Mr. Gordon and I return. You understand?"
Both guards gave acknowledgement, pointing their guns menacingly at Sanderson as he rode up.
"You'll get your story some other day, Carlos." Bowdeen called, then led the way up the toll road at a rolling canter.
The minute his horse picked up speed Arte could feel every impact in the bruises on his shoulder and thigh and in the stiff muscles of his lower back, but he gritted his teeth, the pain serving to improve his riding form by leaps and bounds. Their pace was constant for almost fifteen minutes before the Sheriff brought his animal to a full halt and waited for Gordon to pull up next to him.
Bowdeen glanced along their back trail for a moment as if expecting to be followed before he confided, "Mr. Gordon, I apologize for my abrupt behavior just now but...that fella Carlos has been gettin' on my last nerve in the past few days and I simply don't trust him not to sell his own mother for a story."
"You're not the only one, Sheriff..." Arte muttered, shifting in the saddle. "Would you mind telling me what's happened in the past twenty-four hours. I feel like I've been gone a month."
Bowdeen nodded then started his animal forward at a walk. The horse fought the bit then settled at the sound of his master's voice. "My deputy, Mr. Sumner back there, come down the mountain late yesterday afternoon with the ten men that had been assigned to him and West, claimin' your friend had started spoutin' crazy talk and took off for the head of the trail without so much as a reason why. Sumner said he waited almost two hours before he decided it was too long and he and the other miner's headed right back down the way they come with no sign of your man."
Bowdeen shifted as his horse danced a bit, shaking his head. "Sumner said he was breathin' heavy, seemed to be takin' the climb and the air harder than the rest of the men. Thought at first that he was just new to the elevation." The Sheriff shook his head, taking a breath. "When Sumner come to me I figured I'd give it til mornin' for you to come back before I headed out after him. Heard your train pullin' in early, lookin' like it'd been through a war. When I saw you leadin' your horse down the ramp I figured you were plannin' the same as me. I gotta tell ya though, after all his speechifyin' yesterday about nobody goin' anywhere alone, I sure was surprised to hear it was Mr. West that was the first to try it."
"He has to have taken ill, or been hurt..." Arte muttered before trailing off.
"Yeah well, Mr. West ain't the only one's been spendin' time alone on these trails. I've caught Carlos Sanderson more than a few times takin' the toll road for no particular reason. I suppose it started even before you fellas rolled into town. I thought he mighta been plannin' to write something about the miners maybe. Wasn't til I started talkin to your volunteers yesterday afternoon that I found out ain't none of 'em ever seen that newspaperman, on the road or at the mines."
"Could he be hunting?" Arte suggested, suddenly distracted by the feeling that he had forgotten something.
"Huntin'...in them fancy duds? Nah."
A reporter was always a sly man, Arte thought. Always intentionally pushing the boundaries of misrepresentation if it meant getting a witness to loosen up a little, or if it got him the ever illusive angle. Dishonesty on the part of a reporter didn't surprise Arte, but the rifle did. It wasn't for protection. Sanderson had been far too familiar with it, treated it too much like a tool, and not enough like a show piece.
Arte had thought Sanderson's 'good of the people' nonsense a bit heavy-handed from the start, but had figured it was the actor in him objecting, and not the observer of human behavior.
"Carlos also tried to pay a visit to our friend back in the jail," The Sheriff continued. "...demanded to see the prisoner with all that 'constitutional right' business. Packer refused to speak to him, crawled into a corner and stuck that bag over his head and wouldn't say nary a word."
"Ha! Perhaps he's not insane after all..." Arte muttered, laughing at the irony. They rode in silence for a bit before the Sheriff cleared his throat.
"You mind tellin' me..."
Arte looked up at the man and waited for him to continue.
"I suppose it ain't none of my business, but I'm a curious man by nature. How did that fancy car o' yourn get all tore up like that?"
Arte was about to answer when he saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. A piece of cloth fluttered in the breeze up ahead, stuck in a pine bough, and Arte kicked his horse to a gallop, bending to retrieve the article as he passed, only slowing once he had it in his hand. It was the sling Jim was supposed to have been wearing. Arte didn't remember his partner having it when he left the train the prior morning, but it might have been tucked into a saddle bag.
Arte stood in the stirrups as the Sheriff joined him, trying to see above the ledge that was at eye level, or through the thick treeline that ambled up the mountainside.
The Sheriff took the article from Arte's hand and Arte explained, "The doctor that treated Jim told him to wear it for a week."
"Would he?" Bowdeen asked, handing it back.
"Wear a sling. No, not likely." Arte turned the plain white cloth in his hands until something fell out of the folds, brushing against his wrist before it landed on the saddle. He caught it before it could fall to the ground and held the small intricately beaded patch of tanned deer hide in the palm of his hand, brushing his thumb over the glossy bits of bone, shell and clay.
"I don't suppose that belonged to your friend too." Bowdeen said.
Arte shook his head, squinting into the mounting morning light, scanning the trees around them. "There are natives in these mountains, yes?"
The Sheriff nodded. "A coupla Ute tribes once you get to reservation land."
"That's where he'll be." Arte said with absolute assurance.
"Mr. Gordon the nearest reservation is more 'an seventy miles away, through mostly untraveled country. Ain't nobody but the Ute's, and a few, very lost men, ever been there, cause ain't nobody ever had the need. Your friend musta just picked this little trinket up along the way is all." The Sheriff said, tossing a pointed finger at the beaded patch still resting in Arte's palm.
"He had to have gone somewhere," Arte reasoned, "And I've never seen this 'trinket' before in my life. I know he hasn't vanished into thin air, and someone, somewhere had to have left this. Now you can either help or-"
Bowdeen threw a hand up, an old military signal for silence that Arte responded to automatically. The older man's attention was suddenly focused on the trail ahead, and Arte squinted in the same direction in time to catch the rattling of leaves that defied the almost total lack of wind on the trail.
"You wanted a Ute indian, that just might be one of 'em." Bowdeen whispered quietly before he clucked his tongue, his horse moving slowly forward. Arte hung back, still watching the ledge on their left, straining his ears to hear over the sounds of their horses.
Ahead of him Bowdeen disappeared around a bend in the trail, and Arte dismounted, following the Sheriff on foot, his hand hovering over the spot where his gun normally rested. The gun, he realized, that he had completely neglected to wear. Finally figuring out what it was he had forgotten, Arte was swearing inwardly at himself when he rounded the corner.
In a small, crescent-shaped clearing the Sheriff had also dismounted and stood in the center of a well trampled patch of mountain grasses, his hat in one hand and a second hat in the other. Jim's hat.
"Looks like your partner was hurt after all. There's a puddle of dried blood over yonder." Bowdeen said, walking toward Arte and handing off the black hat with its silver band. "There's also...some tracks." The Sheriff said, grudgingly, almost as if he were admitting to a mistake.
"Tracks..."
"Travois tracks." Bowdeen added, hedging still.
Arte found himself grinning tiredly, fighting back a fit of giggles born of exhaustion. "No Ute for 70 miles..." Arte mocked sarcastically, before he mounted again, following the Sheriff as they took to the trail again at a canter.
