5
It was shortly before dawn when West and Gordon made it back to Grundy; the small town Artie had brought West to recuperate from the insect attack; only after searching through the ruins of what was left of the Scranton farmhouse and coming away empty-handed; only finding more questions.
Gordon proceeded to the hotel to retrieve their belongings while West found the town's telegraph office and sent word to Tennyson, their manservant, that they would be returning to the train, - which was side-railed at the Denver station. His message consisted of having fresh clothing and hot baths waiting for them upon arrival that afternoon. West had also added that Tennyson and the train crew should be on guard, to activate the trains' defensive measures, and most importantly, to contact the bureau and request for someone with knowledge of insects-mainly bees- to be sent out.
Then West and Gordon convened at the sheriff's office, identifying themselves as Secret Service operatives and reported the events of the past three days. In questioning, the sheriff did not have anything good in the way of answers. There had been no unusual strangers pass through town and, "Come to think of it," the sheriff had added, "I've never had met Mrs. Scranton." Apparently only the Major or the farm hands had come into Grundy for supplies and there was 'no accountin'- the rotund sheriff had explained- for 'bein' up thar' because there, 'just wasn't any problems at the Scranton farm.'
It had been a mad three days and West felt that the worse was yet to come. The discussion during their ride back to the train leaped back and forth, each man intently listening to the other; examining each piece of the facts and placing them against every theory, hypothesis, and off the wall idea they could imagine.
The long ride to the Wanderer-the name bestowed upon their private train- depleted West and Gordon. They had become weary examining the strange happenings of past seventy-two hours and the only conclusions they could come up with was; first, that someone had discovered how to use insects; flying and stinging insects, as a murder weapon. Second, Miles Scranton was murdered with this incredible weapon, and third; Elva Scranton, with at least two accomplices, are involved, evidenced by the attempt to kill Gordon and West at the Scranton farm while trying to pass off a murdered servant as Elva Scranton, whose charred remains were to be discovered in the fire.
That is how it was supposed to be, the agents had deduced that they had stumbled in the middle of the cover up, with the arsonists' deciding that West and Gordon could be dealt with also. Gordon pointed out that it had almost worked and West kicked himself for not being as cautious as he should have been; his judgment skewed because of his closeness to the murder victim.
They also had no clue to who Elva Scranton is or where she came from; it would be useless to dig for any information about her without her maiden name. West was feeling more and more incensed as less and less of the pieces fit, while Gordon was intrigued, wanting to discover the mind behind such a vile yet interesting weapon.
6
The blue mist slowly worked its way down the rolling hills east of the Shoshone Indian village, carried by the light morning breeze. The small village consisted of a dozen teepees, a corral, and a few tents stationed next to the river; used as coverage while doing their duties from the blistering Nevada sun. The fog started weaving its way through their crops, creeping further and further toward the village. Almost lifelike, the blue cloud began to consume the empty spaces between the dwellings, filling every nook and cranny.
The horses in the corral neighed their disapproval and growing evermore impatient as the fog drew nearer, dogs ran from their homes, barking and confused, periodically looking back to check on the mists progress.
**********
Tumbleweeds bounced along the dirt street, over the mud-hardened wagon tracks that cut through town. The buildings, unkempt and looked as if a good wind would topple them over. Their paint was dry, cracked, and peeling, exposed was the yellowing, weather-abused wood underneath. A few horses, posted in front of the saloon, stood restlessly, pulling back their heads and testing their tethers, unnerved by their riders shouts of disappointment seeing that the saloon was closed.
"What the…?" Snakes Barton yelled, "Closed?! Waddya mean closed?" 'Snakes' was the name given to him for three reasons; he was cold-blooded, as fast as a rattler, and…
"It is Sunday mornin', Snakes." Young Robert Cage matter-of-factly answered. Robert was beat from the night's ride and was about to suggest finding a place to sleep when he discovered the third reason for Snakes' name; he had a venomous temper.
Frank Cage, Robert's older brother knew what was going to happen next; Snakes was going to blow his top. But before Frank could reach his partners, Snakes had all ready lashed out, slapping Robert across the jaw, "Shut yer pie-hole," Snakes spat, " I don't give a damn what day it is, I'm gonna have a drink."
Robert faced Snakes with one hand covering his chin, the other over his revolver, fed up with the abuse dished out by Snakes.
Snakes confronted the boy, "I'd rather drink than have a funeral this mornin'."
Robert knew how fast Snakes was concerning gun play, which made him hesitate just long enough for Frank to intervene, "It's been a long night Snakes," he placed a hand on his brothers shoulder, Frank knew how to handle his hot tempered colleague, "Lets find out what this rat-hole town has to offer before we do any killin'," he inched his way between the killer and his brother, "No use havin' to run off after ridin' all night."
Snakes snapped back, waving his arm as if displaying the town, "There ain't no Sheriff's office or telegraph office; no one is gonna run us outta town…"
Snakes wrapped an arm around the brothers and the trio started down the boardwalk; he looked at both brothers and stated, "Now lets find that church goin' bartender, shall we?"
**********
As the mist entered the village, the horses, now terrified, became unconcerned with their enclosure and started stampeding, frantically forcing their way through the fences to escape the cloud. Their clatter had awoken the people who emerged from their homes, unaware of the events unfolding outside. On discovering the blue mist, most were bewildered and continued rubbing their eyes long after the sleep was gone, some could hear a slight humming in the distance, while others ran to where the corral had once been, unsure of what could have frightened the horses to such an extent.
The people started milling together, wondering aloud about the scene before them.
**********
The Cage brothers and Snakes had made their way down the boardwalk to the edge of town. Every business was closed and the only life on the street was a mutty looking dog, playing with a hen, chasing it to and fro.
Snakes unholstered his revolver and took a bead on the dog, "Maybe this'll wake someone up."
"Wait," Frank waved Snakes down and continued with an ear to the air, "You hear that?"
Robert and Snakes followed Frank's example and lifted their heads, "Yeah," Robert chimed in, "sounds like singin'."
Across the way, atop a slight hill, with no other structures near, stood the church. Melodic reverberation was wafting from within its walls, full and rich with sound but oddly cold.
The trio crossed the open square and by the time they reached the church doors the hymn was over and the sermon was beginning. The cowboys stopped to listen.
**********
The haze now encompassed the village and every bit of space was covered as well as its inhabitants. The clan was interrogating the Chief, but he could not find an answer to the mysterious mist and looked to his Shaman hoping he would know.
Before the Chief could confer with the older medicine man he felt his pant legs come alive as dozens of insects stormed their way up his legs; ants and spiders, normally enemies now allies, pinched and bit his skin. He looked up and saw with astonishment that he was not the only one being attacked, screams came from his people as they tried beating the insects from their limbs. It was worse for the people that had fallen to the ground for the insects had access to the rest of their bodies to continue the assault.
**********
Snakes reholstered his weapon as the sermon inside the church began.
"When the Lord, your God, brings you into the land which you are to enter and occupy, and dislodges great nations before you," the voice was strangely menacing, "the Hittites, Girgashites, Amorites, Canaanites, Perizzites, Hivites, and Jebusities: seven nations more numerous and powerful than you…"
Snakes elbowed Frank saying, "Can you believe this load?" Snakes threw open the doors and sauntered inside, the Cage brothers followed behind.
**********
The Shoshone Chief, himself in unbearable pain, called for his people to head for the river. Young helped the old; women grabbed their children and everyone raced for the water, but was stopped by a cloud of flying death that approached from the rivers direction. The swarm of hornets, and bees descended upon the Indians, launching a furious attack, preventing any effort the people had in freeing themselves from the insect army. Havoc ensued as one by one the villagers fell, writhing and rolling on the ground as the killing swarm engulfed their bodies, with every venomous sting and bite stealing their strength, sanity, and ultimately their lives.
**********
"What do we have here?" guffawed Snakes as he made his way down the middle of the congregation.
The inside of the church mirrored the dilapidated face of the town outside. The gritty interior housed beaten pews and the windows were so dirt covered that the little light that shone through met with swirls of rising dust, creating a surreal stillness. The parishioners, twenty-five or so, men and women barely acknowledged Snakes interruption, not by gasps or words of condemnation, but by listless glances.
Snakes continued his trek to the front of the congregation, stopping near a male worshipper, looking the man up and down, Snakes pointed out, "You people are about as alive as your town," as he backhanded the man. Snakes did not notice the docile reaction of the slapped man and pressed on with his clamor, "It's time to wake up and live around here," now at the alter he turned to face the parishioners, "You can start by makin' us breakfast an' openin' the saloon for some drink."
"Pardon me," a voice came from behind Snakes.
Snakes turned to confront the interrupter only to be taken back by his appearance.
The minister was a head taller than Snakes, but much thinner; his eyes set in the dark hollows of his grizzled face. The grayish tint to his skin reinforced the deep fissures that cris-crossed his face, ever-hardening his features. Silver strands of hair hung from his balding head, draping the shoulders and back of his black jacket giving the illusion that his head was somehow floating. His dark, unmoving eyes burned a hole through Snakes as if they could read his soul.
"Happy is the man whose mouth brings him no grief…" the Preacher rasped, "…who is not stung by remorse for sin."
"What the…?" obviously shaken, Snakes tried to regain his composure and position, "I'll be a happy man…" he continued while nonchalantly waving his gun toward the congregation, "…happy, Padre, when I get a drink, so dismiss everyone already."
Frank and Robert spun around as the light from the entrance disappeared as two men of the congregation, unnoticed, had closed and bolted the doors.
A slight hum overtook the parish and it took the gunmen a few seconds to realize that it was not the parishioners making the sound, but that it was coming from above. The men adjusted their vision, trying to focus on the immense shadow pulsating amidst the dark rafters. The Cage brothers' unable to move their gaze from the gigantic hornet nest, had slowly started their retreat and was stopped short by the men that had closed the doors. Both had reached for their pistols only to find their holsters empty; two worshippers emerged from their seats brandishing the stolen guns at the stunned men.
Snakes, not knowing how to react, spun in circles, struggling to determine his greatest threat he continued training his gun on whomever crossed his vision.
"You," the preacher directed toward Snakes, "You are the undeniable evidence of the sweeping sin," he drew nearer, "the irrefutable truth," one by one, hornets began diving and buzzing closer and closer to Snakes.
"S-stop where you are, preacher!" he leveled his revolver in front of the preacher's face.
"BE SILENT!" returned the preacher, the hornets humming grew as if they felt his fury. Thin sweat-like ooze was coming from the preacher's brow, running into the cracks of his face and he continued his speech, spit and sweat flying from his lips, "The irrefutable certainty that we chosen few must rise," the hornets increased in gathering across his face as he spoke.
The sweat emitted from the preachers rant had landed upon Snakes hand; the hornets viciously attacked it, causing Snakes to recoil and drop his gun from the pain.
The preacher stood above the now cowering Snakes and looked toward his two companions, "Rise above the sinners," hornets about his neck and face, raging, "and deliver to this world; PENANCE!" The preacher reached at his face, swirling his hand to gather the most of his perspiration and heaped it upon Snakes face. In a heartbeat his head was covered, his screams muffled by the insects filling his mouth, and after clawing at his face for what seemed an eternity, Snakes Barton slumped to the dusty floor.
7
Upon their return to the train, Tennyson, and the Wanderers crew consisting of the Engineer, the Fireman and the Brakeman met West and Gordon, who retrieved their horses and started loading them in the Stable car. Tennyson gathered Jim and Artie's hats and belongings and updated the exhausted duo while entering the last car, which functioned as their office and dining quarters, "Sirs, I have two hot baths awaiting you," he continued as West and Gordon, seemingly inattentive, piled their clothes and belongings into his arms, "A Doctor Welling will soon be calling, as per your request." Tennyson, who, with a shudder from handling such repugnant attire, inquired further, "Should I distribute evening wear, Sirs?"
"Yes, thank you Tennyson." West answered, lighting a cigar while lowering himself into his tub. The hot water along with the confection of spring soap and dandelion wine enlivened his skin and started to relax his tired and abused muscles.
Artemus, groaned with immense relief as he entered his tub stating, "I am dirty upon dirty and as 'My Great-Aunt Maude always used to say-One way to heaven-on-earth is surely through a proper bath.'" Stopping the manservant from leaving the car Gordon acknowledged him with a smile, "Tennyson, many thanks as always."
Gordon had never understood Jim's attitude toward Tennyson but suspected that Jim was afraid to get close to anybody for fear that he would not be able to do his job effectively if he had to worry about constantly protecting those around him. Gordon settled in and let the steaming water open his pours, letting the soap dissolve the grit from his body. He also considered the fact that West had just lost another friend, again. Gordon tried counting how many unnecessary losses they both had experienced; it was too many to remember. He abandoned the thought and began scrubbing the grime from his body.
West was deep in analysis, while stripping the dirt from his back using a long handled brush, couldn't help focusing on why the Major was murdered. He felt that if he knew the answer to that question all of the other holes would be filled, or at least he would have something solid to go on. He drew a puff from his cigar and reached over to the desk flipping a secret switch on a set of books revealing the telegraph.
"Who are you contacting?" asked Gordon.
West answered while tapping out his message, "The bureau, I'm requesting a Telefile on Scranton."
After he was finished West housed the telegraph, dipped his head into the water, then rested on the edge of the tub, putting the investigating aside for the moment.
* *******
Dr. T. S. Welling, on the last and at least to her, the most important day of the North American Entomology Conference, was highly disappointed that she had been basically ordered to leave the seminar at its most interesting segment; the mating rites of the Stagmomantis Carolina, the Carolina Mantis. Mainly she wanted to hear the newest theories regarding the mantis' cannibalistic behavior during reproduction. With the help of a doorman, Dr. Welling left the theatre that housed this year's convention, and was obviously put out by the message she had received before the last presentation.
Some of her charts and supplies slipped from her hands and scattered in the doorway. She groaned 'Just one more thing to go wrong today' and with that thought she then pored over her day so far; this morning the restaurant served her a Denver Omelet instead of the omelet she had ordered, the delay cost her a good seat at the seminar. The only available seat was next to Dr. Cartland who does not appreciate bathing as much as the unfortunate people around him, he was more offensive than the last time she had seen him. Now, he had just returned from a two-month arachnid study in the Amazon basin; the thought of Dr. Cartland's present odor made Dr. Welling's stomach turn and she decidedly continued her day's recall. She was lucky enough to acquire a new seat after the intermission and was growing evermore elated for the upcoming presentation, that is until she received word from her superior, Mr. Hendricks, insisting she meet with a Mr. West and a Mr. Gordon at the request of a Col. Richmond a senior officer in the Secret Service. Mr., Mr., Mr.
A male dominated world, at times she felt trapped by her intellect and curiosity; in regard to her scientific colleagues, most of whom she felt, did not take her seriously and were obviously threatened by someone not of their gender with half a brain.
She replaced her glasses upon her face as with the charts falling they had been pushed askew; she and the doorman gathered the last of her belongings. Dr. Welling was trying to remain oblivious to the doorman's reaction to her beauty; her rich and deep brown eyes struggled to hide behind her glasses, a faint mole rested between her faintly upturned nose and her full lips, accentuated due to her slight overbite.
She, graciously as she could, thanked him and headed for the street, fighting to maintain her charts as her boot heels clacked on the sidewalk.
Insects had always fascinated her, how they are immersed in a totally different social plane; the female is dominant in most insect species; insect females are the larger and stronger, as opposed to the diminutive male, baring the responsibility of being impregnated and ensuring the propagation of the species. She pondered on how different the world would be if humans had the same social and class behavior of insects. How would conflict be handled? What would the leadership of nations look like?
Dr. Welling pulled herself from thought and hailed a taxi. The driver asked for her destination while helping her into the carriage, he took his place on the driver seat, flicked the reins and headed for the train station.
* *******
"Sirs," Tennyson entered asking, "The Stationmaster is inquiring to about our departure."
Gordon replied while straightening out the lapel of his smoking jacket, "As soon as Dr. Welling joins us."
"Within the hour." West added as he fastened the hook of his ascot.
"Just in time for dinner." Tennyson joyfully pointed out. He had always welcomed the opportunity to serve new visitors, but he also wanted to impart the importance of having the table free from their maps, magnifying glasses, and pencils by the time dinner is to be served.
Gordon was already within the maps while West made his way to the table as he finished buttoning his vest, "Where do we start?"
"Presently," Artie spun the map around so Jim could see, "the only town connected to the railroad is Trapper's Bend, of where two of the letters came from," he continued, tracing the route with a pencil, "Twenty miles south and two miles off the rail-line south-east is the town of Pleasanton, one letter sent."
West picked it up from there, "Eighteen miles south-west of Trapper's Bend is Coopersville, possible location."
"And last but not least," Artie interjected, "Briggsby, twelve miles south of Coopersville and fifteen miles to the west of Pleasanton," looking up from the map, "also a possible location."
There was a knock at the door and since Tennyson had exited to the galley to prepare dinner West took it upon himself to answer. To his amazement, a ravishing but befuddled lady was on the other side, doing her best to maintain her belongings.
"Mister West? … Gordon?" she inquired.
Jim answered and attempted to relieve her from the burden of her things, "James West and you are?"
"Dr. Welling, San Francisco Entomological Society, I was told to report here on the request of Colonel Richmond." She responded.
"Please come in," West stepped from the doorway, "This is my associate, Artemus Gordon."
From Mr. West' reaction, evidenced by the elated expression on Mr. West' face, Dr. Welling knew all too well what was coming next, the undignified reaction that a female would hold such a position.
As she entered the cabin Gordon let out a drawn, "Well…"
"Mr. Gordon, I assume you are Mr. Gordon," Dr. Welling started to address Artie's reaction.
"Please, call me Artemus," he jumped in, an ingratiating smile spilled across his face.
"Mr. Gordon," she had angrily passed off her entire load to West and now was well into the car, "if you wanted a flighty showgirl you are in for a rude awakening," she pushed her glasses further upon her nose, "I am here strictly on business and that does not include being looked upon in a manner that does not acknowledge my intelligence or importance."
Artemus deflated and what was originally behind his smile disappeared, what did remain was only a mask of the excitement that was there just the moment before.
Jim, setting the doctor's belongings on the couch, intervened, "It has been a bizarre three days for Artie and I, Doctor," he escorted her up to the table, "believe me the last thing we want to do is offend you."
Artie added, "We really do need your help."
Dr. Welling was silent for a moment and could not help but to lose her animosity when she looked into their puppy-dog eyes. And as the gentlemen recounted their tale, her frustration and anger slowly was replaced with curiosity and intrigue.
The crew of the Wanderer had the engine to full steam and ready for departure; Tennyson sounded the whistle twice to alert the passengers of the train's start and then returned to the kitchen to finish dinner. The wheels spun frantically on the rails, short, deliberate bursts until they gripped the steel underneath them and from within clouds of steam they departed the station taking Dr. Tabitha Welling on an adventure she would never forget.
8
The Wanderer pressed on southward, the small breakwater town of Trapper's Bend its destination; the wheels pounded a monolithic tune upon the rails that gradually pulsed throughout the train and its cabins. All of its passengers were in the last car; Tennyson was in the kitchen preparing the evening's dinner with some difficulty, due to the occasional shift and bump of the car, Tennyson would combat against the occasional spillage; James West, Dr. Welling, and Artemus Gordon was in the rear compartment; the trio continued brainstorming on the best way to handle this new and unusual weapon.
"From your story it sounds as if something had been used to not only to attract the insects but to also enrage them to the point of attacking," Dr. Welling stated, placing her delicate fingers to her lips.
"Not only attacking," said West, "but furiously, viciously, and endlessly."
"Instinctually they would go on the offensive only to protect or defend their hive and their community," she sat back in her chair, her flawless skin seemed to shimmer by the light of the sconces as she continued, "Something has been introduced to the bees that overrides their normal instincts, amazing."
Gordon and West thought so to, but not entirely on the same subject; both men noticed the doctor's repressed beauty slowly pushing through her protective barrier. She seemed to grow evermore comfortable the deeper she slipped into her world of insects.
"Doctor, is there anything you could think of that could do this?" Artie asked.
She drifted back to the edge of the table, "There have been some theories that communication between some genus consists of instinctual mapping," she saw the men's empty expressions, "that behavior is handed from one generation to another," she paused momentarily, "another theory is that group or communal behavior, such as you witnessed, is chemical."
West and Gordon exchanged glances as Dr. Welling continued, "That could explain the sustained, prolonged attack…"
Tennyson entered the room with the table settings and cleared his throat, announcing, "Dinner shall be served in ten minutes."
West and Gordon began to clear the table of their notes when the telegraph sprang to life, sliding from its hidden compartment.
West handed off his notes to Artie and headed over to the desk and after tapping out an acknowledgement, he took a seat, gathered a pad and pencil and deciphered the next series of clicks. Once finished he returned the telegraph, went to the fireplace and activated a switch under the mantle and slowly it detached from the wall, coming to a rest in front of West. Dr. Welling couldn't help but watch as two table legs fell into place for its support and affixed to the tabletop was a box with gears and sprockets that started to whir and purr. To the right of the box was one of those new mechanisms she had seen before. A typewriter except that this one was different, wiring ran from the box to the typewriter and there were levers and cogs where the finger keys normally sat.
Artemus, while setting the table leaned over the astonished doctor, "It's called a Telefile," he caught her attention and continued to explain while working on the dining table, "A message is received via telegraph to that box to Jim's left, which creates a scroll with various sized punches in it," he sat next to her and started to use a fork to diagram the machine, "From there the scroll feeds into that typewriter looking thing, each hole in the parchment represents a letter in which tiny fingers run across the holes activating the typewriter and in turn types out a readable file." Smiling he added, "Hence the name Telefile."
Just as Artie had finished his description the box roared to life, the levers and gears started moving to and fro, the arms of the typewriter began flaying about, pounding out the message on a sheet of paper that gradually emerged from the top of the machine.
Tennyson appeared from the kitchen with the first course, a freshly made salad consisting of romaine lettuce, spinach, and dandelion leaves, a small dollop of his special sour cream dressing adorned the plate. Shortly he presented a fresh loaf of bread, presliced, and a bottle of red wine and proceeded to fill his guests glasses, Dr. Welling first.
She replied after her glass was filled, "Our taxes at work?"
"Trust me Doctor, Jim and I would trade all this in if there wasn't a need for what we do." Artie offered his glass to toast hers.
Jim sat across from Artemus and placed his napkin in his lap, "That file will take some time to print," noticing the doctors and Arties toast he asked, "Did I miss something?"
Artie turned to Jim, "We were toasting to the day when all is great in the world."
"Here, here," West raised his glass in agreement.
**********
Dr. Welling was becoming more and more impressed with West and Gordon, after what they had experienced both men retained their humor and was quite charming. West, bright eyed and pleasing to the eye, had an air of danger about him, yet she felt completely safe with him. Gordon, a silver tongued captivator, his tone and mannerisms was very calming and enduring. She felt something that she had never felt before, but she could not define it. Dr. Welling couldn't believe that only hours ago she was having one of her usually disappointing days and now she was traveling across the country in a private train, dining on a wonderful pheasant dinner, with two surprising and stimulating companions.
West left the table to gather the telefile and return the equipment as Tennyson brought dessert; a scrumptious pecan pie a la mode, coupled with freshly roasted coffee.
He returned to his chair and neatly shuffled the paper into place, took a bite of pie and a sip of his coffee before getting into the documents.
Jim quietly skimmed over the identifying information and passed along the sheets to Artemus when he was through. Within the papers and words, Jim relived some of the Civil War operations he and Scranton had shared, he discovered that the Major was assigned to evaluate some discrepancies within the Bureau of Indian Affairs after the war and that he had played a significant role in settling some land rights issues between a colony of settlers and a tribe of Shoshone Indians. The outcome was not well received as Scranton had sided with the Shoshone and the vast farmland in question was returned to the Indians. He remained with the Bureau of Indian Affairs for another two years, then had transferred to Fort Benson in New Orleans until he retired his commission.
Artie had slid his chair closer to Dr. Welling, both intensely pouring over the files. West' heart skipped a beat as he came across the location of Scranton's wedding, "Artie," Jim read aloud from the file, "Married once, in Coopersville, Nevada."
"Very encouraging," Artie responded.
West pointed out the town on the map and explained its significance to Dr. Welling. The secret bookcase on the desk shifted and the false book-spines swung open, the telegraph slid out, rattling away. Gordon sprang from his seat, already translating the Morse code in his head and using the notepad that Jim had used earlier, began writing the message where his mind had left off. West had gathered some of the message, a habit that he acquired, subconsciously over the years, he raised his head when he realized the importance of the wire.
Gordon tapped off an acknowledgement and returned the device to its secret dwelling. He brought the pad with him; not truly believing what he had written, " 'From Colonel Richmond – Investigate recent incident at Coyote Creek, Nevada – 36th Army Platoon dispatched to Shoshone Indian Village,'" There's another word that made West' heart skip for a second time, 'Shoshone', he let Artemus read on, " 'From last count, fifty-six dead from unusual circumstances – god speed boys."
"I'll speak with the Engineer regarding our current location," West announced and disappeared from the cabin, heading to the front of the train.
I'll ready the horses," Gordon called out behind Jim.
"What's going on?" Dr. Welling, unsettled by the sudden commotion, inquired.
Without a word, Artemus spun the map around for her to see. She adjusted her glasses trying to focus on where his finger came to rest. Dr. Welling recognized the implication of the message for just below Gordon's finger lay 'Coyote Creek', it was north of and on the way to their current destination, Trapper's Bend.