DEATH MASKED
Epilogue –The Night of the Death Mask
The brown landscape dotted with sagebrush and errant trees shifted by the window of the rail car with the steady blur of modern speed. As the US Government train moved across the barren terrain the rhythmic clickety-clack of the wheels had lulled to sleep one of the occupants of the luxurious and custom carriage. The other man sat in contemplative silence, brown eyes observing the scene without noting the western topography.
Glancing over at the dozing James West, a deep sigh threading silently through his lips, Artemus Gordon's look lingered on his partner's injured leg stretched out on the sofa. A twitch of irritation caused his eyebrow to tic. It was never easy to watch Jim wounded or battered. Common, but never easy. That it was triggered – quite literally he mentally added with ironic ire - by Artie himself made his guilt and heartache much worse.
Rubbing tired eyes, Artemus shifted, dropping his stiff, bullet-wounded leg from where it had rested on a table, and quietly transferred to a straighter position. Wincing as pain lanced through his thigh and up his back, he pressed his lips together to silence a moan. Another frequent-guarded-glance was shot across the room to his companion.
Good. Jim was in a deep slumber. He needed the peace.
Yet another sigh was quietly breathed out as Artie leaned his head back against the back of the chair. In an unfocused stare his vision blurred on James West's shoeless black stocking, but within Gordon's mind thoughts drifted back three days to the dusty streets of a ghost town. To a life-and-death shoot-out in the deserted back-of-nowhere that nearly became his graveyard. And that of his partner.
Wiping a hand across his eyes and this time leaving it there to cradle his head, he shivered with residual torment. In their meeting and early friendship during the War Between the States – in the career as Secret Service partners - Jim and he had seen so much violence. Too much peril and pain. Pure hatred.
Revenge was a byword of the criminals they fought. This most recent plot of Stark's was a terrifying trap engineered by a truly deranged enemy. Brilliant in its Machiavellian cunning and surgical execution. He snorted a mute derision of his own pun.
Execution, yes. Stark contrived the sinister ploy of trapping the agents and maneuvering them into killing each other. Swallowing hard, heart twisting, he cringed at the memory of shooting instinctively at the dark-clad assassin gunning for him. Then of staring down at the body and the horrific discovery it was Jim he had just killed.
An instant. An eternity. A blackness so anguished he could not breathe or think through the pain. It had lasted only a moment, but how devastating that lifetime had been as utter despair rippled through every particle of his body and soul.
Then the salvation. The unbelievable miracle. The rabbit-out-of-the-hat. The impossible yet timely rescue characteristic from the legendary James West!
The revelation when Jim told him to play along as if he was really dead. Play along? The indescribable grief was still trembling through his every nerve! The suffering from what he had done still a heartbeat away. It had been no act when he wailed in anguish, when he clutched his friend and cried in eviscerating mourning.
As usual, West's ploy worked. Stark and his company were captured and sent away to prison. Jim and he were patched up; matching leg damage and canes. Bookend-injured partners.
There were so many layers of disturbance. Artie absorbed one horrific emotion, then quickly altered to another tragic thought, then to another. The guilt of not recognizing his friend, the abject agony of believing he had murdered Jim . . . .
Fortunately, he had been spared that ultimate torment of murder. In the errant moments of contemplation when he could not escape the dread-shadow in the back of his mind, he wondered how he could have survived that supreme torture of killing his partner. He had no answer to the horror that had nearly happened. It would have been beyond his ability to comprehend, let alone cope if the murder-trap had been successful in Jim was dead his hand.
Artemus sighed again, staring out the window to allow the mundane desert to lull his anguished, tired mind to whatever rest he could find. For there was certainly no solace to be had after this wretched snare.
II
Lightly dozing, wandering through shallow consciousness, James West was fully aware of the numerous shifts in positions, the subdued moans, the frequent, deep, heartfelt sighs drifting from his companion.
Artie was nearly as opposite in personality from West as anyone could get. Openly enthusiastic, gregarious, engaging, emotional – antithesis of West's guarded, tactical, self-contained athleticism. Artie could think his way out of almost any dire situation with cunning, wit and intelligence. James observed, pondered and acted with lightning speed and deadly force.
The contrasting methods of strategy, battle planning, war, and life had been a perfect counterpoint for the men as they worked together on occasion during the conflict between North and South. Then into the inspired partnership in the Secret Service. It enabled West to know instinctively the way Artie would approach an issue, solve a problem, or tackle an adversary/trap/threat. It facilitated his ability to read Artie's mind as it were, and even manipulate his partner. All for a good cause of course! Not to mention pretty much predict his moods, read his impatient quirks – all readily on the surface of the – to his partner- not-so-secret agent.
Since their nearly fatal encounter with Stark, Artemus had been moody and unusually guarded. So much was on his mind. He would probably be surprised to know his compatriot was sharing those regrets and nightmares.
From the moment Jim held Artie's custom .45 he knew there would be no easy way out of Stark's trap. The perfectly balanced six-shooter with the initials A G on the grip had been a present from Jim to Artie. When the wounded assailant threw it at him, all the pieces of the complex plot fell together and Jim knew it was the worst possible trap he had ever seen.
The two close friends had – unknowingly - been pitted against each other in a life and death struggle. Artie was supposed to kill him or the other way around. No torture, no pain could be worse than that!
While his mind fervently worked at a fast plot to get them both out of the ghost town alive, West ignored the haunting dread crowding in on his raw emotions. He had to shut out what Artie would feel at his heartless trick. He had to forget trying to warn his friend or doing anything but the most cruel twist to lure the enemy out.
Never far from his thoughts was a nightmare-memory. That wretched run-in with Colonel Voltrain last year in the mirror dimension. Literally, Artie had died in his arms. That scarring suffering could not be forgotten.
It had settled in a back-pocket of his mind and whispered to him during every assignment. It repulsed him so that he found himself constructing tactical plans and various maneuvers during their cases so Artie would be in less danger.
He would do anything to keep that 'death' from happening again. Anything.
A top West Point graduate, sharp and skilled cavalry officer, member of General Grant's staff, West had distinguished his young life with meritorious service. He obeyed orders and brilliantly work within the military structure. He was a loyal patriot and made many amiable acquaintances and some enemies. As his experience enhanced in life and death combat, real battle strategy, he learned his true talent was quick-thinking tactics. And counter intelligence.
When his covert observation mission had ended up behind the continually fluid skirmish lines of Confederate controlled territory, he was 'captured' by the South's illustrious 'General Gordon'. The 'General' escorted him away only to peel off fake facial additions and grey hair to reveal himself as Artemus Gordon actor, impersonator and spy extraordinaire!
Following that fortuitous and providential kismet introduction, there followed numerous missions of resounding success against the enemy. West and Gordon quickly developed a connection, even attachment through efficiency, then trust, then friendship. Bonds solidified and indestructible under fire. As opposite as the two men were in personality and even appearance, they meshed together like the workings a perfectly-wound clock. Brilliant ideas, convoluted plots, raw bravery, utilizing their separate talents and skills to accomplish the most daring assignments.
The partnership was taken for granted by West until the incident in '63 when Artemus deliberately botched an operation to save Jim. Then Captain Gordon was reassigned to a regular Army brigade. West still felt a shiver of remembered fear when he heard Artie's unit was involved in the horrific battle of Gettysburg. Then Gordon was listed as missing in the dread Battle of the Wilderness.
It was not until they were reunited again before the end of the war that West understood he had invested commitment and emotion to the man he considered his closest friend. How satisfying that reunion had been! Seeing his comrade safe and alive! It had not taken much to convince General Grant to assign Gordon on his staff. Where Artemus stayed until the end at Appomattox.
After Lincoln's assassination the Secret Service was revamped and West and Gordon selected as one of the premier teams. Since then their career had been continued series of danger, adventure, threats and a lot of fun. Artemus was like his brother. They worked well together, they got into trouble way too much, they were comfortable, easy, teasing and constantly rescuing.
Perhaps more profound than anything about the relationship was the trust. They would do anything for the partner. No risk, no danger no insane idea was out of reach to save the life of the other.
So on that dusty street in that nightmarish ghost town, Jim had held Artie's well-known revolver - as if he held his partner's life. The nimble mind plotted out the course necessary. Even if he had to cause his friend deep anguish by making Artie believe he was dead - killed at his hand. It was the only way to save their lives.
Artemus would understand. He always did.
Then why did Jim still feel so guilty?
Another sigh from across the sitting car. This had to end. Jim had to clear the air between them. Artie was upset and probably guilty and mad and most of all hurting. They couldn't go on like this. Since Gordon was not ready to face the issue West would handle it – head on—like he did everything else in life.
III
A subdued snort/snore mumbled from West's mouth before he breathed in a sharp sigh and stretched with a yawn. Opening his eyes, he scanned the room with his instinctive alertness and smiled when his eyes stopped on his partner. Usually the tightly-wound West was anxious for action, built for challenges against adversaries. Now the green/blue eyes and relaxed demeanor bespoke of an appreciation of the rest enforced on them in recuperation.
"I must have dozed off," he tranquilly stated followed by another yawn.
"I don't know how you do it, Jim," Artie replied lightly. "How do you ever get any rest with all the injuries you've acquired?"
The twinkle was in the eyes when he responded in a matching tone, "You know me. The army taught me to sleep standing up if necessary. In any conditions. No matter how I feel."
Artemus gave a sarcastic chuckle. "I learned a lot in the army, but never that."
Stiffly, slowly, West came to his feet and limped over to peer out the window nearest Gordon. Carefully lowering himself onto the table, he leaned a hand on the arm of Artie's chair. Close, when he turned to gaze at his friend, his steady eyes were intent.
"You ready to talk about it?"
The nearness held him captive. West was tenacious, stubborn and unrelenting in accomplishing a mission. The awkward silences instead of companionable camaraderie; the uncomfortable pauses in conversation, the mutual scattered moments when both seemed on the brink of a comment were over.
The answer was no. Artie would never be able to voice the reality of the tragedy they had shared. However, he knew his partner well enough to acknowledge there was no escape. Still, he tried.
"Talk about what?"
There was no humor in the expression. ""You know you can't lie to me and get away with it, Artie," he chided gently.
"Lie?" The tight dryness of his voice betrayed Gordon.
"I played a pretty rough trick on you, Artie. And you –"
"Oh, forget it, J –"
"We can't. You can't. And I won't." The intensity did not lessen the concern. "I want you to know it was the only thing –"
"No, I completely understand! Improvisation! And it was masterful, Jim, really well played–"
"Artie!"
The older agent pressed his lips tight, straightened and winced at the movement. Then rolling his eyes he surrendered, submitting to the inevitable will of a committed and serious West.
Not this conversation! To voice what had happened and relieve the pain was more than they should deal with after their suffering.
"Did it occur to you that we have no need to say anything?" Artie suggested.
He did not want to revisit any part of the horrors they experienced in that ghost town. That Jim brought it up was an unpleasant surprise. So his partner wanted to clear the past.
"We need to, Artie."
A disagreeable task he shied from like a startled horse at a rattlesnake. An inner hurt as throbbing as the bullet wounds in their legs. As a loyal friend, though, could he deny his partner any opportunity to make peace with a near-tragedy?
If he thought there could be any solace for himself he would take it! Nevertheless, there was no place he could hide. No haven of sanctuary from his betraying memories that replayed that scene of murder in the dusty streets of no-man's-land. He could find no consolation.
If Jim could come to terms then he would help him reach that reconciliation.
"Talk. Yes certainly. What do you want to say?"
"Me?" came the incredulous query.
"Mrs. Gordon's son is nothing if not a reliable listener. Go ahead."
"No need to say anything?"
The older agent shook his head negatively. Lips pressed together as if he was afraid something would inadvertently slip out.
"You don't need to," West repeated conversationally with a false tone. "Well, I do, Artie. I know how tough that must have been. I had gone through the same terrible ache just moments before when I realized I shot you!"
The older agent flinched at the recollection. He looked away to stare out the window.
West relentlessly drove on. He needed to finish this. "We've been kinda dancing around –" He nearly smiled. "Figuratively." He gently tapped Gordon's leg. "But I just wanted to apologize for making you think you killed me. It was pretty cruel. I'm sorry."
His friend's face – usually expressive and open – completely sealed to him now. A mask. Not a death mask, thankfully. A façade of closure.
"No, no, don't give it another thought, James. Bygones and all that."
James. Artie didn't usually use his full name. The false ring of acceptance echoed in the air of uncomfortable silence. Drowning out the clicking rhythm of the train wheels of the Iron Horse on the rigid track. Eating up the miles away from the purgatory of that miserable ghost town. Accentuating the distance between them.
"It did work," West added with less confidence. As clumsy as his apology, apparently, because Gordon was unreceptive.
There was too much to say, of course. A rare condition for the loquacious Gordon. It would take him too long to enumerate all the excruciating misery, the Shakespearian-worthy dramatics as he knelt in the dirt over Jim's body. He dreaded losing his friend – his only real friend not just partner - since they had become comrades-under-fire in the early years of service for the North. There had been so many narrow escapes. Too many.
Why verbalize the torturous set-up now? They had been through life, death, and everything in between. They were both alive to tell the tale. They won. Wasn't that the only important thing?
Maybe just one more particular.
"You're forgiven."
Silence.
Artemus glanced back to meet the flint-gaze of West's searing blue/green eyes. The expression was dark with warning, "Artie –"
Gordon placed a hand on his arm. "Jim . . ."
He collected his thoughts and was surprised to find them aching and scarred, but able to surface with a lessening of the pain of his solitary brooding. He looked into the close face of the man he trusted utterly and without question or condition. No one else on earth would enable him to unburden his deepest anguish.
"Jim, you saved our lives. Again. I admit it was painful." He gingerly touched his leg. "In more ways than one," he added ruefully. "But only momentarily. That you resurrected – well – that IS the important thing." He swallowed the knot in his throat at the all-too-fresh emotions.
"That's always the bottom line, Artie."
Quickly he admonished, "And just for future reference, always remember that little trick of Lazarus' so you can do it again if you find you have to rise from the grave. But – but please," he hoarsely demanded, "Just – well – just don't die anymore." He turned away from the probing eyes that had already seen his own moisten at the surfaced hurt.
West squeezed his arm and quietly promised, "I won't if you won't."
Nodding, unable to find a steady voice, Gordon silently agreed. He felt better that the rotten event had been aired. Taking a deep breath he hoarsely whispered, "Deal."
Pushing on his shoulder, West rose to his feet. "Well I think we ought to do something about dinner."
Artemus shoved the fear, the dread, the anguish of the past and the anxiety for the future from his mind. For today, death was masked behind their recent triumph, obscured by their insistence that they were – their partnership was – this time -invincible.
THE END