How many voices can he do?

West marveled at his colleague's abilities again as he pulled on a pair of boots to go with the detested uniform he was now wearing. He and Artemus hadn't had any trouble ambushing, hog-tying and stripping a couple of the Confederate sentries once they'd found an opportunely dark location to do it in. Captain Gordon could indeed scream like a little girl – or even more disturbingly sound like a saucy prostitute offering a lonely rebel a come on. Both tactics had worked to lure their targets into the trap and West's itching fists had done the rest. Now the two anti-social French laborers from Louisiana were being replaced by two much neater, uniformed and properly armed C.S.A. soldiers ready for their rounds.

And what interesting and destructive rounds those would be . . . .

West's only complaint was that their complete change of appearance necessitated Artemus' pulling off the glue strip 'scar' he'd put on West's face the day before. That had been accomplished with such a sudden, stinging bit of brutality that West's cheek still throbbed and he thought he'd be lucky not to wind up with another scar for real. But Artemus had ripped off his own fake mustache without so much as a grimace, so West couldn't begrudge the man. Friends in suffering for a cause, he thought.

West was again astonished at how lax procedures were in General Bragg's camp as he and Artemus slipped into position in place of the sentries they'd waylaid. Union gossip had it that the Confederate general was big on discipline and order, but no evidence of that showed here yet. No dogs had sniffed them out since they'd arrived here. No one had caught them ambushing the couple of regulars. He had a mind to take a closer look at how the Army of the Cumberland was running their side of things when he and Artemus got back – if they got back. Then again, West knew Major General Rosecrans and General Sheridan were at least acting like there was a war on and were more concerned with winning it than hoarding supplies or profiting off tobacco . . . .

To begin their mission of sabotage, the two Union officers made a complete circuit of the big tent, observing up close the weapons, the location of the lamps, rain barrels and fire buckets. They couldn't count on pulling off the cigar/lamp firebomb trick in more than two, perhaps three locations at most. West half-handful of cigars might not all continue to burn by themselves as he needed them to. Also, now that it was dark, a lantern not burning correctly might merit a closer inspection they couldn't afford. Sabotaging the fire buckets and rain barrels should be easier, but the rain barrels seemed to have gotten a head start on sabotaging themselves.

"Ice," Artemus observed in a whispered rendezvous with West near one of the barrels, rapping on the solid surface for effect. The barrels weren't frozen through – only the top half-inch or less had turned to ice. That would make them harder to dip buckets into, but it also complicated their plan for placing a flammable slick on top.

"I have another idea," West said. Taking out his knife and forcing it in between the planks that made up the lower half of the barrel, he sliced and twisted the blade enough at the join that the still-liquid water beneath began to trickle out onto the frozen ground below. Give it an hour of time and anyone breaking through the ice to get at the water below would find a whole lot of nothing, except for some very slick mud beneath their feet.

"I like the way you think," Artemus grinned, slicing a neat line around the bottom of the leather fire bucket. One way or another, General Bragg's secret war supply was going to have a very bad night.

The sloppy security solved the cigar/lamp problem too as Artemus had no difficulty pocketing some actual fuses that were supposed to be fuses on a second turn around the tent as he and West continued making a mess of the fire buckets and at least some of the rain barrels. Now they'd be able to do some real and reliable damage, especially to a part of the stores that contained gunpowder and dynamite. The danger for them would be real as well – a mistimed set of explosions and they could be killed or seriously injured. But done right, all hell would be breaking loose in such an impressive fashion that they'd be able to escape – on horseback if they were lucky – while Bragg's men did whatever they could to put out the fires. If they were very, very lucky they'd not only escape, they'd survive long enough to reach the safety of the Union lines too.

A fourth circuit around the main tent nearly brought trouble, as in the course of their patrol they both encountered another Confederate sentry – a real one. But he didn't appear to notice anything strange about either one of them. West breathed a sigh of relief at the next rendezvous and he and Artemus agreed that it was time to light up the town. During this fifth circuit they would have to be closely timed with one another. West was to use his cigar trick on one of the lamps near a black powder supply and a distance away, Artemus would insert and light the fuses to set off a box or two of dynamite. West had already soaked the tent material in one of the other corners with oil from a lamp while Artemus had treated an opposite corner likewise. Yes, things were about to get hot.

Moving fast, West had already lit up his cigar and was preparing to insert it into an oil lamp base when he was interrupted by an angry shout from behind.

"Hey!"

A Confederate sentry – the real one that they'd encountered on the previous go-round – was now staring at West and had lowered his rifle in West's direction. Had he been recognized?

"You know we're not allowed to smoke the cigars on duty!"

Or off duty either, West bet with chagrin, given how heavily guarded the tobacco barn and its precious contents were guarded. He pulled the offending cigar out of his mouth, held out his arms at his sides and tried to conceal the partially disassembled oil lamp with his body.

"It isn't one of the General's cigars," West explained. "It's one of the really cheap, bad ones we stole from the Yankees. Figured I'd try it just to see how awful they have it up there. Want to try for yourself?"

He offered the thin, dreadful cigar to the Confederate, who sniffed the air suspiciously and narrowed his eyes at the thin burning object in West's hand. West decided to go for the temptation that had worked with many a Union soldier he knew already.

"It tastes horrible," he said with unvarnished truth. "Worse than trying to smoke horse manure." Not that he'd ever done that, thankfully.

The gambit worked. The sentry lowered his rifle and took the cigar from West's hand, eager to see just how bad a smoke it could possibly be. It was amazing how that was a lure to some people. The sentry took one puff and his face contorted into a grimace that was entirely appropriate for meeting the fist that came flying at it. The Confederate went down without firing a shot.

West retrieved the cigar and with a grimace of his own, relit it just to be sure it was burning. He inserted it carefully into the lamp base nearest the black powder stack and tried not to think about the precious seconds that had been wasted or the greater number that were about to be lost as he dragged the unconscious sentry as far from the tent as he could without being seen. He might have to kill this man in battle someday, but he couldn't leave a knocked-out soldier to burn up or be blasted apart while helpless. The effort had thrown his escape time off by over a minute, and that meant a potential disaster for his escape as the black powder exploded and Artemus set the dynamite fuse . . . .

West ran for the slight rise of slope in the direction of the horse barn where he and Artemus had agreed to meet, ran as hard as he could, and the force of the blast still caused him to trip and fall, rifle flying loose out of his hands. He felt someone grip his arm hard and prepared to fight back when he saw that it was Artemus attempting to help him to his feet and looking a bit pale and shaken even in the darkness. A series of explosions from under the great tent was ripping through the air and creating all the chaos and running and shouting of people that they'd hoped for. Few if any noticed as he and Artemus ran in the opposite direction from everyone else.

"Afraid I'd lost you there for a minute," Artemus admitted as they hastened to the horse barn.

West told him in as few words as possible what had happened when the Confederate sentry caught him with a lit cigar.

"My Great Aunt Maude is right," Artemus said and shook his head. "Smoking really is bad for your health!"

All seemed to be going according to plan once again as they approached the stable. West should have known by now that escape wouldn't be so easy. They had anticipated that everyone in the vicinity who hadn't been stuck tumbling out of bed when the explosions and fires came would either be running toward the sounds or taking cover and cowering from them. At this hour, no one should have been near the horse barn, much less anyone who could recognize them. But someone had been planning a night time departure from the camp, and West and Gordon were no longer wearing their French laborer disguises.

"YOU!" Major Swallow spat as he saw the two Union captains step into the light of the lamps he had lit to see by while saddling his mount. The Major was fast too. Alerted by the explosions, he had been on his guard already and drew his gun to point at them before either man could make a move.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Artemus sighed, raising his hands. "My other arch-enemies are starting to suspect some-"

"SHUT UP!" Swallow yelled. His angry glare became one of narrow calculation as explosions continued to rattle the area behind West and Gordon. "I'll bet you two have something to do with this, don't you?" Swallow's finger was resting on the trigger, ready to pull it at the slightest provocation. "Yes – you must. And I intend to find out what it is. Slowly, perhaps."

West rolled his eyes. If Artemus could joke about this situation, so could he.

"Implying that you're planning to torture people to death isn't the best way to get them to surrender, you know," he said.

"Oh, I don't know," Artemus replied. "I'll bet he can get me to scream like a little girl. You remember what makes me scream like a little girl, don't you?"

Yeah. The fact that I can knock someone out with one punch.

West was almost close enough to do it, but could he be fast enough? He saw Artemus' muscles tense and knew his fellow officer was getting ready to do something. West had to be ready to spring into action too. And how he had longed to let his fists give Swallow a taste of his own medicine . . . . His muscles were wound up like a cat's – ready to pounce. He focused, wondering what Artemus was about to do this time.

Artemus suddenly gasped in sheer terror as his eyes became fixed, not on Swallow or the gun, but on a spot immediately behind the vicious Major. The actor's mouth gulped, his eyes bugged out of his head and his raised hands began to tremble. His feet shifted as though he wanted to run but was too paralyzed with fear to do so. West didn't need to wait for his cue. Major Swallow had no idea what sort of hideous or terrifying monster was lurking directly in back of him, but he couldn't resist the urge to look. He turned his head, tilted the gun away, just for a few seconds. It was long enough. West sent one fist, then the other, smashing into that hated chin with enough force to send Swallow flying a good six feet through the air before he rumpled to the ground in an inglorious and unconscious heap, the unfired revolver clattering out of his limp hand.

"Technically that was two punches," Artemus noted.

"The second one was for artistic effect," West said. "By the way, has anyone ever told you that you're one hell of an actor?"

"I do all the time," Artemus beamed. "You know, James, from the look of things, Major Swallow has already saddled and readied his own personal horse for us, and a pack mule too. Why, I'll bet quite a few of his personal belongings and maps and supplies might be in them! Of course, he could be rather put out if we take them and all his weapons and leave him here with nothing but a sore jaw."

"I'll live with that," West replied, smiling just as broadly. "It's rude of me, I know, but what can you expect from young people these days?"

Together they saddled another horse and rode out as quickly as they could in the dark with the loaded pack mule in tow. No one pursued them. Probably too busy protecting the cigar shed from the fires, West thought. He wouldn't have minded taking out the tobacco barn too, but that building at least was heavily guarded. Besides, West would be able to spend many happy hours contemplating what General Bragg might have to say to Jeff Davis and his other bosses by way of an explanation for how the weapons and ammunition had gotten torched while a luxury item was kept surrounded by sentries. Smoking might indeed be bad for Bragg's health . . . .

Both men would be able to contemplate that cheerful prospect on the ride back to Union territory. With the help of the diversion they'd created, plus Major Swallow's maps and supplies, the return to friendlier territory proved to be the most peaceful part of their entire adventure. But they had plenty of other things to talk about as soon as they were out of earshot of Murfreesboro.

"By the way, my friends call me Jim," West said.

"And mine call me Arte," Gordon nodded. "So does this mean we're friends, Jim?"

"I sure hope so, Arte."

"I do too, Jim."