Hello, all! Yes, after a bit of a break, I'm back with the next instalment of this continuing series.

For all sorts of reasons, Mild Mild West is one of my favourite overall episodes. Most of the scenes which make it such a favourite are included in this chapter. I hope you enjoy it!

Partners In Crime - Chapter Four

Wild Wild Murdoch

Ah, blissful quiet. For Thomas Brackenreid's thudding head, it was a rare moment, to gratefully savour. Even Crabtree had recognized his Inspector's delicate state, and was keeping sensibly out of his way. Instead, he'd tucked himself away in Murdoch's office, following his mentor's latest orders with the same puppyish delight with which he'd accepted… that.

Studying the 'that' in question, where it sat proudly on his desk, his Inspector couldn't help but smile. Only Crabtree could take such delight in wearing such a ridiculous hat, that was far too big for him. And only Crabtree could believe his mentor's explanation that it was a really early birthday present. Two months early, in fact, but… no, he'd still taken Murdoch's word as gospel, and worn the daft thing for the rest of the day.

If he was ever given such a ridiculously stupid hat, he'd try the same thing. But he'd wait until early March, so he didn't arouse the lad's suspicions. Not even Crabtree's exploitable innocence would fall for the same trick twice.

He also had his reasons, no doubt, for covering Murdoch's office with sheets of muddied paper. But trying to follow the method to his latest madness was just too much of an effort for his suffering Inspector. Instead, he turned his chair around and closed his eyes, so that he could reflect more comfortably on the latest surprising discoveries he'd made about his ever surprising detective.

He could toss a rope as well as any ranch-hand. Put glue to all sorts of unlikely uses. And the next time some ruffian tried to outrun him, he'd just call for Murdoch, and the nearest horse.

Still not much of a sense of humour, though. And no appreciation at all for the art of mimicry.

'Any place the killer came in contact with will yield evidence, no matter how slight.'

He was about to discover, though, that William Murdoch did have a sense of humour after all. He hadn't seen Margaret confront him, or heard him take the flak for his latest fall off the wagon. But he was going to feel its consequences. And it started with the head-splitting crash of his door.

BANG!

Startled out of his seat, Brackenreid landed back into it with a force that squeezed the breath out of his lungs in a groaning whisper.

"Murdoch? What is it?"

"I've just received this," Murdoch explained, brandishing a telegram that swam in front of his Inspector's eyes. When blinking at it only made the room spin even harder, Brackenreid waved a hand in suffering defeat.

"Just – Just read it."

With no directions on how to read it, the evil streak of Murdoch's humour grew wider. And louder.

"It's a telegram from the Marshal in Rio Grande, confirming…"

Bloody hell, was Murdoch trying for Toronto's next Town Crier? For his aching, pounding head, bugger that.

"Shhh… sssshhhh…"

Deserved or otherwise, this plea finally found mercy from his unlikely tormentor. Murdoch's voice thankfully dropped to a more bearable level.

"…confirming a suspicion I had, about Lightning Wilcox. His real name is Harry 'The Gun' Bowler, partner of One Tooth Ackerson."

Despite his suffering, Brackenreid still felt his curiosity pique into a puzzled question.

"Two dead gunmen?"

"It would seem their pasts are coming back to haunt them," Murdoch agreed, frowning slightly at his next point.

"Yeah, but which part of it? They did a lot of bad things in their day."

That was the most obvious reason, of course. But Murdoch had already taken it to the next, most logical conclusion.

"I suspect it has something to do with killing Chester McGee."

In far too delicate a state to follow such mercurial leaps of deduction, Brackenreid just grunted.

"Mm, just another one of Buffalo Bill's legends."

If he was hoping that Murdoch would just let this go, though, he was sorely disappointed. And, he had to admit, his detective had a valid point.

"Every myth has a basis in reality."

"True enough," Brackenreid conceded, forcing himself to concentrate on that enviably sharp mind's next feat of logical brilliance.

"I suggest we contact Carson City, where the event allegedly took place."

We? As in his good old, long suffering Inspector? Sod that. And since his rank held the privilege of delegation, he was going to use it. Right now.

"I'll get the desk sergeant to send a telegram."

"Right, then," Murdoch nodded, thankfully taking the hint that his Inspector had far better things to do with his time than listen to more of his crazy theories. Like trying to keep his head from exploding.

As he headed for the door, Brackenreid rested his head on the back of his chair, and closed his eyes once more. Tomorrow, he would, he really would, cut down on his drinking. Just one a day, from now on. Swear to God, and hope to -

BANG!

- die. Which right now felt like a merciful option. And the drinking? Bugger that, he'd stop completely.