"So, captain. Do you have any recommendations?"

James West pushed back his black Stetson. "I do, sir."

"And those are?"

"Let the Pawnee be the Pawnee. We've interfered enough."

General Eagen, tipped back in his chair behind his desk, lowered his paper and sat forward. "Say that again?

"Our Pawnee Scouts have been loyal. We owe them independence."

The General raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" He tapped his fingers on his desk. "You know what I think, captain? You've gotten too close, in too deep. I don't deny the trust you've built has been invaluable, but you have to remember who you are and who they are."

You mean human? James retorted internally, keeping the snide question from escaping his lips. He'd learned how to navigate both the wild terrain of the West and the stuffy, isolated officers who sat around in its forts. The less he'd antagonized, the more leeway he'd been given.

"Do you have any practical recommendations?"

The chair set in front of the general's desk creaked when James settled into it. "Further gestures of good will would go a long way."

The general sighed. "What more do we have to give them?"

"I mean, general," James spoke slowly, trying to keep the hotness out of his voice, "speaking to our scouts man to man, inviting them to important meetings, sharing in their traditions."

The general smiled and sat back. "That kind of thing was for you to carry out and you've done your job well. So well, we don't really need you anymore."

"Sir?"

"This came for you today. I have instructions that no eyes but yours are to see it." He handed an envelope over to James who broke the seal and read:

Captain James West,

You have come to our attention via a distinguished and mutual compatriot. We are assured that your disposition, talents, and experience are a perfect fit for our current endeavor. Your disengagement from your current duty has been arranged. Once you have been relieved, take the train leaving Kansas City on April the 11th. When you reach Washington, do as you will. We will approach you on our own terms. Do not be late. And confide in no one.

Signed, Erasmus Gregor Tillington

James looked up at the general.

"That envelope came along with a note for me." The general held up another piece of paper. "You've been released from my service forthwith. You're to pack up your things and make your way to Kansas City immediately."

Artemus Gordon stared intently across the street, his right-hand brushing strokes with his drawing pencil, up, down, sideways. He paused, concentrating on the cheeks and the bushy sideburns flowing in generous wisps. The mustache was delightful, drooping long and spry like a flourishing vine longing to reach the ground. His subject guffawed, slapping his knee and pitching his head back in a raucous laugh. Artemus paused to scribble a note next to the drawing: loud and abrasive laugh, life viewed as a ridiculous obstacle. He moved onto the hat, wide brimmed though the front turned up above the forehead.

"Don't you ever give up working?" a soft voice asked suddenly; long slender fingertips pushed his sketchbook down, garnering Artemus' attention. He sighed.

"Hey, Annie."

"Come with me, Artemus. To the after party." Annie batted her wide, dark eyelashes. "I'll sing just for you."

For a moment, he considered. He'd been performing with Annie, what, almost a year now? They hadn't known each other before they were hired on by the head of a local troop. Their voices were perfectly matched. And when they were on stage it was nothing short of a transportation to heaven, and Artemus knew an escape for him even more than the audience.

Go with her. It'll do you more good than moping about. Aunt Maude's voice as always, the woman who would forever be his inner conscience. Maybe some would have thought it an obsession to constantly think in the voice of your great-aunt. Artemus didn't dare give it up; he couldn't ever believe his vivacious aunt was just a dead corpse in a grave. She lived on in him.

Staring at Annie's dark beauty, Artemus knew he should listen to Aunt Maude, jump at the chance to waltz down the street with such a woman on his arm, but he couldn't dredge up the desire, not even a little bit.

"I'm sorry, Annie," Artemus spoke gently. "There's a journal waiting for an article and I have to…"

Annie shut his mouth with a finger to his lips. She perched up on her tiptoes and brushed his cheek with a kiss. "You're always welcome whenever you want to come." She backed away and turned from him, flouncing down the street in her lavender organdy.

Artemus let out an aching breath. He tightened his hold on his drawing pencil and almost shattered it before he realized what he was doing. Angrily, he flipped closed the sketchbook and stuffed both it and the pencil back into the bag at his feet, then he swung the bag over his shoulder and made a beeline for his most recent residence, a small room at the back of a weary saloon.

He shut the door, tossed the bag in a rickety wooden chair, and bowed his head over the washbasin. Slowly he let his hand sink into the water and splashed at his face, then lifted his head and glanced into the tilted mirror on the wall. The man looking back at him was haggard inside, worn to the depths of his soul. Disconcerted, he pushed up, turning away to a long table littered with beakers and test tubes.

He hadn't lied to Annie, but the article wasn't as pressing as he'd made out. They would wait on the conclusion of his experiments if they had to. Still, he took a deep breath, pushed all thoughts of Annie and troubled souls out of his mind, and prepared to plunge into the exhausting world of chemical reactions…until something caught his eye.

Artemus frowned, moving to the door and peering down at the unmarked envelope just inside the door resting on his floor. He must have stomped right passed it when he entered. He reached down, wondering who had slipped it inside. The barkeeper usually handed him his mail.

He picked it up, retrieved a letter opener, slit the envelope open, and withdrew a thick, silky paper that was clearly too fine for its own good. He read:

Dear Artemus Gordon,

You have come to our attention via a distinguished and mutual compatriot. We are aware of your activities over the last few years. After keen observation, we have concluded that your disposition, talents, and experience are a perfect fit for our current endeavor. Remain in Washington. We will approach you on our own terms in due time. Do not reveal the contents of this letter to anyone under any circumstances. In fact, it is best if you burn it the moment you finish reading it.

Signed, Erasmus Gregor Tillington

Artemus paced backwards to the chair in front of his table and sank into its seat. What in tarnation? For a brief moment he wondered if Charlie was at it again. After all, the lieutenant had approached him multiple times over the last year about a return to spying. Artemus made it clear he had washed his hands of such an occupation for the rest of his life. Charlie had finally left him alone with a solemn promise he wouldn't ask again.

Or maybe this was something from his past, Artemus suddenly thought, someone who knew he'd been a union spy and wanted some kind of revenge? But it didn't read like a letter with that kind of intent.

Or maybe…Artemus let out a breath and huffed a laugh. Annie. That's what it probably was. Just Annie and some of her friends. Probably in the next week they'd find him and drag him off unwillingly to one of their after parties.

Artemus dropped the letter onto a side table and turned back to his chemicals, the summons for the time forgotten.

James stepped off the train just as the sun began to set. The willowy woman he'd been chatting with sidled up next to him.

"Going to be here long?"

"I don't know," James said, skimming the platform. He'd half expected someone to meet him.

"Well, look me up if you get bored, cowboy. You'll find me at the Orchid." She smiled sweetly. James tipped his hat to her and she swished away followed by a porter carting her luggage.

Maybe he would look her up…if he wasn't approached by whoever sent the summons soon and if he struck out when visiting the saloon on the advertisement in his pocket.

James strode down the platform, wrinkling his nose at an acrid scent. Good old Washington D.C. It couldn't hold a candle to the fresh, open air of the central plains. Well, he'd brought something back, something that would always remind him of wild, cloudless days on the sweeping grassy ocean.

He made his way to the back of the train, to the last car being unloaded. The ramp was just swinging down and he heard a familiar squeal.

"Whoa! Settle down! Settle down!" a voice pleaded.

Another called out, "Whip it, Billy! Get it under control!"

James dropped his leather bag in less than a second, charging up the ramp, rushing into the car, and slamming right into the youth brandishing a crop. The kid went flying, sliding across the floor.

"What the devil?" a portly man cried out from the other side of a midnight black steed pitching its head up and down, stepping every which way, and huffing in distress.

"Get your hands off him!" James commanded.

The man dashed towards the horse. "He's out of control! Billy!" Billy was back up again and waving the crop around.

"He doesn't need that," James said. He shushed quietly and the horse's head swung round. It clipped-clopped directly over to him. James laid gentle hands along either side of its neck. "There, boy. There."

The portly groom shook his head in surprise. Billy lowered the crop.

"See?" James said, eyeing each of them with a pointed gaze.

"We were just trying to get him out," the portly man contended.

"Next time, don't try," James spat. He grasped the horse's reins and headed down the ramp. The horse followed obediently.

James walked the horse away from the train station and paused in front of a quiet street. He squinted at the sun closing in on the horizon. He reached into the inner pocket of his brown jacket trimmed with dangling fringe. Two folded pieces of paper came forth. One of them he'd read multiple times along the journey, the oddly secretive one that had ordered him back to Washington. This he stuffed back into his pocket. The other one he unfolded and perused with the hint of a smile. The small, thin advertisement bore the poor likeness of a man and boasted supposedly riveting descriptions such as "Sweetest voice on the North Side!" and "Comedy like you've never seen before!" and "Scintillating ditties during unholy hours!"

James noted the address on the advertisement, then mounted up, patting his horse's neck, then pulling it onto the road, trotting at a good pace. Two years may have passed, but he still recalled the streets, easily navigating. He even knew the saloon the advertisement boasted, though he hadn't frequented it much. It was a middling saloon, but certainly not high end. Not exactly a place he expected the man in the advertisement to end up. But then, he could guess why, though they had never talked about the event that had precipitated his situation in the letters they sent each other.

After about thirty minutes of riding, James caught sight of a garish yellow swinging sign lit by waxing streetlight. A painted beer glass overflowed onto faded brown wording that declared, "Whiskey Junction." James dismounted and slung his horse's reins round a hitching post. Such security wasn't really necessary. His horse wouldn't wander and if someone tried to steal him, heaven help the thief.

James moved towards the doors of the saloon, but hesitated when a baritone voice lilted through them. The current song wasn't comedy and certainly not a scintillating ditty. It sounded mournful, sad…and actually more beautiful than any he'd heard in years. James rarely found himself moved by much in the way of music, but this—he recognized the heartache that lay behind it as surely as his own.

James pushed one of the hinged doors aside and took in the saloon: a dozen round tables, most occupied by typical drunks and men seeking a haven away from the workaday life. But near the back stage, a fair number of the opposite sex, attention riveted on the baritone, their glasses forgotten in front of them. James slowly paced up to the bar on his left, though his own attention was honed in on the black suited man singing on the small, dilapidated stage.

"What would you like?" the bartender asked.

James glanced at the gray-haired man. "What's the best whiskey you own?"

"My own concoction: Flaming Joy."

James lifted an eyebrow.

"Promise you've never tasted anything like it before."

James considered the bartender a moment then nodded, though he doubted this establishment could surprise him with anything more unique than the offerings he'd been handed out West.

He turned his attention back to the song emanating from the stage—and it actually hurt to look at the man he'd come here to see. Still, he looked and listened. He'd never heard the song before, a ballad about two lovers who found themselves in early graves. Probably an original, he guessed. The man had gone off to war. He'd come home but was shot by happenstance in a dark alley. The woman died of a broken heart. It was sappy, not too creative…and yet the ladies nearest the stage were dabbing their eyes and a few of the men ran surreptitious sleeves across their faces.

The bartender set the whiskey next to James' elbow. He reached out for it, sniffed it carefully, then took a swig. Not bad. Particular taste. Probably watered down a bit to stretch it further, but acceptable.

The baritone held one last long note. Clapping ensued afterwards. No, it wasn't the best song, but it hit the current mood like an arrow pinning a bull's eye. It spoke to the pains of the hour and the day and the year.

"Does he live here?" James asked, nodding to the man on stage taking several bows.

The bartender nodded.

"How long has he been here?"

The bartender tilted his head. "Year and a half."

"Any friends?"

The bartender placed his hands on the bar. "Why do you care, mister?"

"I'm a friend."

"And you don't know he performs at The Grand twice a week?"

James took another swig. "He didn't tell me that in his last letter. Only sent me this." He pushed the advertisement towards the bartender.

The bartender glanced at the creased paper, then back to James. Then he looked at the man still on stage, clearing his throat to begin another song, though considering piano's upbeat tune, it would have a different feel. "You really his friend?"

James nodded.

"How come I've never seen you before?"

"I've been stationed out West."

The bartender raised his brows in surprise. "That explains it then. Well, that one"—he nodded at the man on stage—"he ain't doing well. There's those that want to be his friends, but he just performs then comes back here, sings to earn his keep, and squirrels away in his room."

James felt a hole open in his stomach. Such a description sounded way too familiar, like it could also describe a man who ran away to the wild west, to Indian country, where he made a friend here or there but moved on to another territory before he got too entangled.

"He needs someone to take care of him," the bartender spoke under his breath. James met his eyes. The man's eyes slid to the left. "His room's back there."

James tilted his head with his hand to the brim of his hat, picked up his drink, and slipped into the saloon's backrooms.

Artemus breathed deeply after he managed to extricate himself from the ladies that always plied him for autographs. Most of them followed him here after they saw him perform at The Grand. Bryce loved it: filled the man's saloon as the men inevitably followed after the women. Artemus wished he'd never agreed to trade singing for a room. For those one to two hours he performed at The Grand, Artemus embodied his roles fully, forgetting any life outside of the stage, but here, in Whiskey Junction, the dregs and the trauma of humanity rolled in. He sang but also watched so many drink themselves away, sunk low by an emptiness he empathized with too well.

Artemus headed to the backrooms, rubbing at his forehead. He felt worn down, too tired of trying to forget what day it was, though that danged melancholy song had bubbled out of his mouth anyway. He passed peeling wall paper in a dimly lit hallway to reach the room at the end. He put his hand to the door handle but suddenly froze. He'd left a lantern lit and he could see a shadow moving back and forth from under the door. Someone was in his room.

Could be Annie, though she didn't pace like that. She sat prim and proper, eyeing him with those long lashes and a coquettish grin. No one else bothered to come by. He figured they assumed Artemus Gordon a solitary clam and didn't care to pry him open.

The strange letter he'd received two weeks ago shot straight through his mind. He hadn't thought much of it after nothing had happened, but now all the threat he could read in it came back to mind. What if someone from his spying days had caught up to him? Artemus shoved his hand into his pocket, fumbling for a small knife he kept on his person. The shadow abruptly halted and the door careened open.

"That's not going to hurt anyone."

Artemus blinked, hardly registering the knife he brandished was still housed in its sheath. "James. James West."

James smiled and reached out to pull the knife out of Artemus' grip. "You were going to fight me with this little thing?"

A guffaw burst out of Artemus' mouth and he stepped inside the room and heartily slapped James on the shoulder. "What are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

James set the knife down on a side table and answered as he slowly circled round the room. "I didn't know I was. They recalled me to Washington. New assignment."

"Here," Artemus said, shutting the door and hurrying over to a chair piled with scientific journals. He transferred them to the floor. "Have a seat. I'll get you a drink."

James held up a hand. "I just had one out there."

Artemus stilled, staring at him. "So you heard me…out there."

James nodded.

Artemus found his own seat, at his desk in front of his numerous beakers and lab equipment. He ran his hand through his hair. "I, uh, actually only do that to help out the owner of this place. I'm performing at The Grand."

"You didn't mention that in your last letter."

"Well…I mean, there's not much to say about that. It's a job."

"And all this?" James said, gesturing at the desk and its scientific materials.

"I'm doing some experimenting. Mainly simple tinkering."

James leaned down to pick up a journal from the discarded stack next to his chair. He opened it to the table of contents, then looked back up and turned it around, finger laid underneath Artemus' name. "Publishing in journals isn't just tinkering."

"It passes the time." Artemus stared at James who stared back. The blood was rushing into Artemus' ears. James looked all right, a bit sun scorched as should be expected, wearing clothes more suited to the western grasses than Washington. It was good to see him. It was. But the man in his presence brought the event of two years ago flooding back all the harder. Maybe they should talk about it, confess that a six-ton elephant occupied the room. After all, they'd written letters over the last two years but avoided any mention of the day each of their lives had irrevocably changed. They'd simply related the news, his concerning Washington and James' concerning the growing West. And yet they'd kept writing anyway. It didn't seem to matter they didn't say much; the bond forged between them went unspoken.

"So…" James started, but Artemus blurted a question out before he hesitated any longer.

"You know what today is?"

James firmed his jaw before answering. "I know."

Artemus pulled at a drawer in his desk, withdrawing a dark bottle of wine. "You sure you don't care to drink anything?"

James stared wide-eyed. "How did you…"

Artemus smiled. "Elderly widowed admirer. Comes to see me perform monthly. It's your favorite, right?"

James shook his head in awe, reaching out to take the bottle of Chateau Rothchild 1846.

"I know you only mentioned it in passing, but I thought if I ever happened upon some and then if we met up again on this day…" He shrugged.

James stared at the bottle, then looked up at Artemus. "I have a horse."

Artemus' brow creased quizzically. "You do…That's…good."

James held up the bottle. "You want to take a ride?"

Artemus swallowed hard and drew in a laborious breath. Want to? No. Need to… "Yes."

James pulled his horse to a halt next to a dark, foreboding building. Not a light shined within. James turned in the saddle, reaching back to steady Artemus as he dismounted. He followed, sliding out of the saddle and plunking his boots on the hard street.

"Is he really Pawnee?" Artemus asked, gesturing at the horse. "A trade?"

James, who had explained the horse's origin as they rode, patted the steed's neck. "A gift."

"You really did well for yourself out there."

James tightened his grip on the horse's reins. "And you've done well here."

Artemus rubbed at his neck and looked away. James heard his reply even though he said nothing. They'd done well in their respective fields and yet neither felt he'd done a dang thing to atone. James glanced at the dark building, at the place that two years ago had been called Ford's Theater.

Artemus pulled the bottle of Chateau Rothchild 1846 out of the bag slung across his shoulder. He twisted a corkscrew into the cork until it popped out with a hiss. Then he held it out to James. "April 14th."

James took the neck of the bottle in his right hand. "April 14th."
"To the Great Emancipator."

"To Uncle Abe." James lifted the bottle to his lips, tipped it back, and sipped. It should have been delightful. It burned down his throat. He passed the bottle to Artemus. Artemus took his own sip, licking his lips as he passed the bottle back over. James gestured with the bottle to the dark theater. "What have they done with it?"

Artemus slowly backed up, settling down on a low stone wall. James followed suit, joining him.

"I wrote you it's not a theater," Artemus said.

James nodded.

"The War Department's storing records in it. I think the Surgeon General uses it, too."

James took a pull on the bottle. It tasted a little bit better on a second go. There was silence for a minute or two until Artemus spoke up again.

"I was surprised when your first letter came."

James huffed a chuckle. "I was surprised I wrote it. I meant to write my father. Wrote to you instead. It was…easier."

"Ah," Artemus said quietly. "So I was just a fall back."

James shrugged a shoulder and they lapsed into silence again. James wasn't one to get sentimental, but he wondered if Artemus was thinking of the same thing he was—of that week they had spent together after Lincoln's assassination. How many saloons and bars had they toured? They'd drowned themselves, trying to forget how close they had been, how they had missed the signs. How they hadn't been there when it mattered.

"We don't know we could have changed anything," Artemus spoke quietly.

James' jaw went taut. That was the problem, wasn't it? They couldn't really be certain if they could have changed anything or not. They had been in the theater that very night. If James had been sitting in the audience…if Artemus had been in the dressing rooms…

"Do you know why I wrote back?"

James looked to Artemus. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear an answer. This conversation was getting too uncomfortable.

"Because you knew. And only you knew."

James sipped at the bottle again, then passed it back to Artemus. He understood. He watched Artemus take a drink. "Do you always analyze your life like this?"

Artemus grinned. "All the time. Don't you?"

"What do you think?"

Artemus passed the bottle back. "I think you bury yourself in action instead of self-reflection."

James agitatedly fingered the bottle, annoyed at Artemus' pinpoint accuracy. "I think I prefer your letters."

Artemus chuckled again. "I'm sure you do. They didn't say anything."

No, James admitted internally, they didn't, and that made them all the more valuable. He hadn't wanted to do any analyzing. Artemus was right. He knew why he was here sitting here with the man next to him rather than spending an evening with the first woman who'd offered herself to him in two years. He knew what he'd done: accepted an assignment as far away from Washington as possible in Indian territory, worked with said Indians who held him at arm's length, at least at first, and spent more time with horses than humanity. He'd thought he'd find some kind of solace out there, and he had to an extent: those times where the untamed sun stretched its fingers across nature barely disturbed by human hands and those moments when he had gotten to know those who'd lived here before his people ever did, resting in their traditions and simple living. And he'd written to Artemus and kept on writing. There was something cathartic about conversing with the man even though nothing important was ever said.

James looked up at the former theater. It was just too bad any peace he had gained had dissipated the moment memories of that weighty night came rushing back.

"I'm wrong," Artemus said quietly.

James turned to him and found the man meeting his eyes with a too-knowing stare.

"You are self-reflective…when you want to be." Artemus stretched his arms over his head, then settled them in his lap, his contemplative gaze studying the building across from them. He sighed. "We're not supposed to be broken this young."

James sat up a bit straighter. Broken. He didn't like that word. He didn't like it one bit. He eyed Artemus and spoke lightly. "You're twelve years older than me."

Artemus stared at him wide-eyed then let lose a boisterous laugh. "Rub it, why don't you, James." He broke into a wide grin.

James smiled back. It was nice to smile. It was nice to sit next to someone who understood exactly how he felt without having to say too much about it.

Artemus clapped him on the back. "So, what assignment have they foisted on your shoulders now?"

James could feel the folded letter inside his right breast pocket and could see its instruction without rereading: confide in no one. But this was Artemus, a man he trusted even though they hardly had spent any real time together. Still, he was army trained and disciplined… "I haven't received an assignment yet."

"So you're sticking around Washington for a while?"

"Maybe."

"I hope you do."

James smiled again. "Me, too." If whoever sent him the cryptic letter didn't appear too soon, maybe he and Artemus would have time to reconnect, and maybe he could get the actor out of that weary saloon and into a place more worthy of his…

James sat up straight. A figure had appeared on the road, stooping over and shuffling their direction.

Artemus followed his line of sight. "Probably homeless," he said under his breath. "There are more these days."

James scoped the man out as he drew nearer. His hair appeared to be white and his beard long and gleaming in the moonlight. He wore a faded union cap and he walked with a limp. Victim of the war, most likely. There were too many like him.

The man stopped when he was a few steps away. His eyes shined as he looked at them. He coughed and spoke in a high voice. "You got any coins?"

Artemus was already digging in his pocket. James watched the old man hobble closer, eager. He held out a stick of some kind.

"I can give you this in exchange. Watch what it can do."

James narrowed his eyes. Was the man loony in the head? Maybe another war wound?

Artemus held out his coins at the same time the man thrust out the stick and snapped it in half.

James had only a couple seconds warning to register the green gas that flooded the air around them. The man threw a kerchief over his own nose and mouth and started to back away. James lunged for him, dropping the bottle of wine that shattered against the ground. He managed three steps before his legs turned to jelly.

James collapsed to the ground, rolling to his back even as he went. The last thing he heard were Artemus' coins pinging against the pavement beside him.

Author's Note: This fic is back in action, finally! It's been almost two years and I apologize for the long delay. I hit some writer's block and then life went a bit awry for a time but things are doing better now and I'm finally writing again. Thank you to anyone who has stuck with this fic even with the delay. I have always said I will never not finish a fic, so this fic will get finished come hell or high water! I'm so looking forward to writing the journey Jim and Artie are about to take together!