From the look of things, the village of Santa Bonita, or rather el Tigre's portion of it, had seen better days – or possibly even better decades. The impressive palace was still for the most part intact, with only several windows broken and a bit of singed woodwork here or there. The same could not be said for the wretched hovels of hired scum and villainy that had surrounded the palace's exterior grounds. The huts, tents and stolen slums that had made up the Tiger's party town were now piles of rubble and in some cases very levelled rubble at that. The sturdier building where Hector must have been keeping some sort of ammunition stores had been rendered into a smoking crater. The members of Colonel Enrique Leon's battalion who had not participated in the volcano vent rescue were rounding up what lawbreakers remained alive, and piling their transport wagon with the corpses or miscellaneous body parts of criminals who would be answering to a different court of justice. There had been no honor among these thieves. Jim didn't know whether to feel glad or not that Sadie Silver was still among the living, though judging by her limp and bandaged hands as she was led away, it would be a while before she was up for slaying anybody, in a saloon or anywhere else. He hoped that Ghattina had escaped unharmed, though he was still concerned with what her aim might be in hunting for Kitten Twitty. Nothing malevolent, Jim wanted to believe. Kitten might have been working for Loveless as another one of his innocent dupes, but she had suffered enough in her lifetime, he thought. But beyond the ruins of party town and the scene of so much bloodshed, the original civilian section of the village – the home to Tequila and so many others – appeared largely undamaged. Many of the townsfolk were already coming out of their homes to celebrate and laud their liberators.
"My, my, James – an impressive job!" Arte commented, viewing the spectacle. In spite of his ordeal, he'd begun to recover and return to his old self as soon as he'd been rehydrated and they'd left the searing hot heights behind. He and Jim had been swapping tales all the way back down the mountain trail, in part to spare themselves more of Loveless' diatribes and endless catalog of complaints. They'd be stuck on a too-small train with him soon enough.
"All I did was make up the piñatas and shoot Appaloosa Al's butt full of rock salt," Jim sighed. "They managed the rest by themselves."
"Nevertheless, a work of inspired genius!" Arte exclaimed. "And that clever method you came up with to save us from the volcano too! Brilliant work! Wouldn't you say so, Dr. Loveless?"
The party being addressed was doing his very best to pretend not to hear the discussion, but it was clear from his sour and appalled look that he had heard plenty.
"Careful, Arte," Jim said. "I think this town has seen enough explosions for one day."
"Well, I'm afraid I wasn't too much help after that confounded bird ratted me out," Arte admitted. He looked up and pointed to a black speck in the sky that was coming toward them. "And speaking of the devil . . . ."
The pet raven was equipped with good eyesight as well as scenting ability, and it knew its master's face, even if the rest of Dr. Loveless wasn't visible from within the backpack. It slowed as it flew within close range of them, as if confused by Loveless' lack of visible shoulders to land on. Jim raised his hands to protect his head and face, wishing he'd thought to put a gag in Miguelito's mouth, lest he issue some sort of command for it to attack. But before Loveless could do so, Arte, snapping up a bandana he'd been wearing, grabbed the startled animal out of the air by its legs and held it at enough of a distance that it couldn't easily peck him with its beak either.
"Edgar, you and I have a score to settle!" Artemus growled. But he didn't reach for the gun at his belt. Instead, he thumbed the palm-side catch of the ring he was wearing and jammed his fist right up against one of the nostrils on the bird's beak, causing the last of his concentrated stench oil to go right where it could do its worst damage. Ravens might be accustomed, and even drawn to, carrion, but the smell at this sudden, sharp intensity was too much for Loveless' 'flying bloodhound.' The bird gave a horrified, panicked squawk as Arte released it, and the raven flew off, zig-zagging, diving, banking and flying in circles before it disappeared again, trying to fly away from its own beak. "I hate to be cruel to animals." Arte shook his head as they watched it vanish, to its owner's mute astonishment. "But it was either that or destroy the poor thing." He gave Loveless a sharp look. "It isn't the bird's fault for doing as it was trained. Hopefully it won't ever want to sniff us out again."
"Or be able to," Jim shuddered, feeling a sudden pang of sympathy for the raven.
Loveless, finally growing hoarse, let loose with a rasping stream of invective in some exotic foreign language that even Arte didn't understand. The words needed no translation to make their intent clear. Jim and Arte exchanged cautious glances. This adventure was wrapping up for Santa Bonita, but not for them. Not yet.
Tequila, Enrique and his handpicked trio rode with the two Secret Service agents back to where the Wanderer was waiting for them. Loveless, still looking ready to spit nails, wasn't about to make any pleasant farewells himself, but that didn't stop his present company. Tequila made hers in the form of a slow, romantic kiss for Jim that he returned with enthusiasm.
"Goodbye, Jim West," she said as she reluctantly pulled away, running a hand through his already-ruffled hair. "You have saved my village, and for that I will be forever grateful."
Artemus cleared his throat loudly.
"You know," he coughed, giving her a puppy-eyed expression, "I, uh, did help a little."
Tequila turned toward him with her blazing white smile and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, drawing back fast and nodding to him, to his disappointment.
"Thank you also, Señor Gordon," she said. "Only-"
"Only what?" he asked. "And call me Artemus – please!"
Tequila's gorgeous, coffee-colored complexion darkened slightly with a blush.
"It is rude of me to mention, Señ . . . Ar-tem-us." She cast her eyes down at the ground rather than look at him directly. "You and Dr. Loveless were in the volcano fumes for some time. Much longer than Jim."
Arte nodded. She looked up at him again and then over to the Wanderer.
"On your train," she asked, "you have the facilities for washing the self, si?"
And Dr. Loveless got another bouncy experience in the backpack as Jim began barking with laughter.
[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]
How could so much have gone so wrong so fast?
Ghattina Dueteña laughed bitterly at herself for asking the question. It had taken not longer than this to blight her and her parents' lives so many years ago. This house her Papa had given her remained standing. She remained standing, perhaps saved by the strange beggar who had knocked her out – a man who might have come to warn her and had told her something of her sister. No one had seen her lying unconscious in this little room, and thus cruel fate had spared her once again. But the rest? Her lover's friends and supporters? Killed or captured. And worst of all – worst of all – her lover, her Hector . . . .
Ghattina put a hand over her eyes at the pain, but she would not allow herself to cry. She had sent faithful Toroloco out to Ceboruco to warn him as soon as she heard the sounds of the riot starting outside. But Toroloco had arrived too late – he had seen her Hector plunge from the cliff and go crashing down into the scrub. He could not find the Tiger's body in the dark. She would do that now in the daylight. The soldiers were leaving. She would find her man and give him the funeral he deserved, one befitting of the mighty hero he had been.
And then she would go and get her revenge . . . .
This was all the fault of that wretched, wicked little man! That . . . that Loveless! Ghattina was certain of it. Loveless he was called, and loveless he was. Why, oh why, had she and Hector ever showed that monster any mercy? Any hospitality? And he had been mean to her Paolina too, according to the beggar. Loveless had known all about her sister – oh yes, he had, just as he had hinted to her day and night since he arrived at her doorstep. She'd dreaded her Hector attempting to kill him, in case the little man's knowledge was real. Now she had learned the worst. Her precious Tiger was dead in his place and the dreadful Miguelito had somehow escaped his fate. Loveless had been seen with the soldiers, someone had told her. He could not cheat death forever though. She would find him.
In her preoccupation, Ghattina was startled by a loud thump against the ground floor window that she had been standing near. One of the few first story windows that remained intact, it had survived this event as well. She looked to see the cause of the noise and there, lying on the ground below the window, was the accursed midget's great, black bird. At that moment she was tempted to go out and stomp the enemy's pet into the dirt it lay on. But then she remembered the clever things that this particular bird could do. She might have a use for the animal herself. She went outside, but not to kill it.
When she came to where the bird remained, hunched up with an injured wing, her heart was moved from hate to pity. She had never seen a more miserable, pathetic creature, squawking weakly, flapping, eyes rheumy. It did not even struggle as she picked it up. Loveless abuses his employees, the beggar had said. She could well believe that.
"Did he mistreat you too?" she asked the wounded bird in her hands. Its only answer was a feeble cheep.
She knew then what she had to do. She was a true Dueteña. She would nurse this unhappy 'bloodhound' back to health. She would use its ability to find its way back to its cruel master. And when she found him she would force that evil little man to tell her everything he knew about her twin. She would find Loveless and then she would find her sister. She'd find them as the crow flies . . . .
[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]
"Arte, you look exhausted," Jim told his partner. "You get a couple hours of shuteye. I'll take the first shift."
If Artemus Gordon had been able to keep his eyelids open for more than a few seconds, he'd have argued the point. He knew Jim was feeling the fatigue just as much, and was sporting more than a few bruises besides. But no one could top the legendary James West for endurance, and being almost fed to a volcano had taken more out of Artemus than he'd thought.
"Ready?" Arte asked.
"As I'll ever be."
Their small prisoner had been thoroughly searched, stripped all the way down to his underwear (with no suspenders) and locked in the reinforced, triple-locked and booby-trapped cage that Jim and Arte had prepared just for this most special of all guests. They had already decided on some ground rules before they'd ever arrived in Mexico. They would work in shifts, keeping a constant watch on the malevolent genius, who was NOT going to be let out of that cage before their safe return to Los Angeles. A circular perimeter had been drawn around the cage, and neither Secret Service agent was to cross it for any reason. Loveless could make do with the deep (and non-conductive) wooden bowl they had provided in the cage to use for a chamber pot during the journey. Food and water for the doctor (boneless meat only, no utensils) would be shoved by paddle into the perimeter where Loveless would have to reach for it through the bars. The agents would avoid all physical contact with him – not that he had to know that.
Because as the Wanderer headed north on its rapid journey back to the United States, it was time for a very dangerous game to begin. Once aboard, the agents had telegraphed Colonel Richmond and learned that President Grant was still holding out against his case of Patchinson's Ague. Jim hadn't exaggerated how uncooperative Loveless might be with their ultimate goal for this mission. If they were going to get the miracle cure Grant needed out of their mortal enemy without risking the globe to Loveless' ambitions, they were going to have to trick him into cooperation with no warning of what lay in store. Time to play Good Agent, Bad Agent. Richmond, Secretary Bristow, and the Secretary of State had all been instructed in their parts of this drama too. Loveless' own fatigue might make the job a little easier, but they wouldn't be counting on that.
Let the games begin, Artemus yawned to himself.
Jim might have had less-than-altruistic motives for offering to take the first shift, Arte thought. Jim got to be the Bad Agent, and he had already been enjoying his small tormenting of Dr. Loveless as much as he dared. At this point in their relationship, Jim didn't even have to work to annoy Loveless. He could get under the little wizard's skin just by breathing. He'd do his best to frazzle their foe to a light froth anyway, and Arte supposed he couldn't blame his partner for having some fun while doing it.
Arte just wished he didn't have to put up with it too, wrapping his pillow as much around his head as he could while hearing the off-key strains of Jim plunking out Turkey In The Straw one string at a time on Arte's violin for the prisoner's entertainment . . . .
Jim had gone from mischievous to menacing when Arte, refreshed by a couple of hours of sleep (in spite of Jim's musical talents) reported for his own shift. The worse-tempered agent was moving slowly, gracefully around the exterior of the exclusion circle, silent, crouching down now and again to fix a dangerous stare on Loveless, not unlike a predator stalking its prey. From the look on Loveless' face, he was finding this performance more unnerving than his cousin's own behavior back in the palace's dining chamber. Arte, watching for a moment before stepping forward himself, found it unnerving too. But only Arte saw Jim's killer façade slip to be replaced by bone-tired weariness as the two men switched places. Now it was Arte's turn to keep Loveless company while Jim went off to sleep the sleep of the utterly spent. Arte was bemused by Loveless' attempt to hide his grudging relief at the shift change.
"Your partner Mr. West certainly doesn't appreciate having me on board," Loveless stated the obvious.
"Oh, I can't imagine why not," Arte replied, lowering himself into a chair outside the cage's safety perimeter and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Just because you've tried to kill him . . . how many times now? Seven? Eight?" He began ticking off the efforts on his fingers. "Let's see . . . . There was that time you kidnapped him and planned to replace him with an exact lookalike. You even had his tombstone made up in advance for the occasion, I believe. The time you tried to drive him mad with hallucinatory drugs and then locked him in that mental asylum. Oh! And then when you shrunk him to the size of a doll and tried feeding him to your cat! Now that was special! And as for his duels with a medieval knight and Lightning McCoy . . . ." Arte was doing a pretty good job of getting Loveless steamed with this catalog of his failed attempts, and he wasn't even half trying. "I grant you that shutting him inside a giant clown toy isn't quite the same thing as attempted murder, but it is still the sort of act a fellow can take kind of personal . . . ."
"Is there a point to this, Mr. Gordon?" Loveless growled.
Other than humiliating you?
"The point," Arte sighed, "is that you ought to consider yourself lucky you haven't met the same end a lot of other people he's fought have. Why, do you have any idea how many men he's . . . ." Arte let the sentence trail off on purpose.
"That's he's what, Mr. Gordon? Shot? Do you really think I don't know about his record of service in the War Between the States? Or as an upholder of your so-called laws?"
You sure as heck don't know about all of it! Arte thought.
"Well, yes . . . ." Arte considered. "It's true a good many of them were shot. You could say that. And I really shouldn't mention the other methods . . . . I wouldn't want you to think that all our enemies wind up, well . . . you know . . . ." Arte shrugged. "But after all, you should realize that. Somehow you've survived being electrocuted, drowned, burned . . . . Although one can't manage to keep up a perfect track record forever." Arte gave Loveless a long, contemplative look, to which he added a mixture of concern with just the slightest soupçon of pity. "Has it ever occurred to you, doctor, that constantly going after Jim and me is just not the best thing for your health? I mean, why not take up some safer hobby like Polynesian cliff diving? Joining the French Foreign Legion? Exploring the South Pole?"
"Ha ha," Loveless said mirthlessly.
"It's something to consider," Arte told him, upping the pity content slightly. "I mean, now that you've started to slip a bit . . . ."
"Slip!"
"Forget I said anything!" Arte held up both his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm sure on one of your better days you wouldn't need Jim to save you from that volcano." Arte smiled a small, sympathetic smile that he knew Loveless would find just as infuriating as anything Jim might have done. He felt like grinning wide, though, as Loveless, outraged but exhausted, turned his back and in spite of his agitation gradually fell asleep. Jim had done Arte a favor, wearing their obnoxious prisoner down to the point that Arte had the quieter shift. And the dagger was in. Now all they had to do was make it through the rest of the trip while quietly, gently swelling the rowboat-sized chip on Loveless' shoulder to the dimensions of a yacht . . . .
