1865

He couldn't believe it! He just couldn't believe it! He hadn't seen the captain with the fist of steel since Vicksburg, and of all days and hours, he appeared here only six days since the war's end? Artemus dove into the basement when he reached the bottom of the stairs, shoving up against a row of women's costumes and getting a face full of feathers. He pinched his tickled nose and listened closely. Bootsteps. Hang it all. Captain West had made it into the basement.

Artemus stepped gingerly, backing deeper into the underground space through rows of costumes and into prop storage, cursing his luck. Just this morning he'd been bragging to Aunt Maude how great it was to be alive and acting again, and she'd grumbled back he should keep his head what with all the new fillies flitting round him, and Artemus reminded her he was still undercover, and she harrumphed he needed a good kick in the pants to keep his head straight.

Is this the kick? he grumbled to his angel of an aunt as he slipped behind a large wardrobe. Had to be. How in the world could the captain recognize him if not with supernatural aid? Elias Tucker had died, after all!

Tucker had done his duty most of the war until he'd perished in an unfortunate encounter. Charlie had predicted the war's end and Tucker didn't really have a plantation to claim. Artemus had to give it to the Lieutenant. He'd managed to a get ahold of a corpse that equaled Artemus in proportion. Its mangled features when found concealed any particular differences. Then he and his boys captured most of The Crimson Stream in the course of two days. The majority were tried and hung for treason.

The big man, Alexander Baskin, had escaped, though. Word was he'd buried himself somewhere else—Washington—and become part of something big, even bigger than The Stream. So this time Artemus had been commissioned as himself, the great Chicago actor making a comeback. Word was Ford's Theatre was a possible center point for activity. In the last week, Artemus had sensed a tension building. He was still trying to track down the guilty parties, but they were careful these days. So very careful. And of course, this captain from his past would show up right when he didn't need him. He was an absolute genius at getting in Artemus' way at the worst times possible.

"I know you're in here," West's strident voice rang out.

Artemus crouched low behind the wardrobe as booted steps moved farther into the prop room.

"I know who you are. You won't get out of here alive unless you show yourself."

A tickle roared up in the back of Artemus' throat. Dang theater dust! Most of these props had sat around unused, especially during the war. Artemus massaged his throat. The bootsteps inched closer, closer. The wardrobe suddenly toppled backwards. Artemus just managed to leap aside and sprint around a set of artificial trees. The back stairs were only a few yards away. He could reach them, he could…

The most violent sneezing cough he'd ever known jettisoned from his nose and mouth. Artemus went momentarily blind as his eyes reflexively closed. When he opened them again, the captain was blocking his exit. He redirected, bolting backwards. He made a left turn…and hit a wall. The running steps behind him skidded to a stop. Artemus whipped round. West's fists were clenching and unclenching at his side and those fiery eyes of justice Artemus remembered so well were itching to send a world of hurt his way.

Artemus raised his hands, palms outward. "Hey. Let me explain. My real name is Artemus Gordon. I'm…"

"A liar," West spat out.

"I'm telling you the truth. I couldn't tell you back then, but I can now. I work for…"

West swiped up a gun that had been lying on a chest and aimed it at Artemus' head.

"That's not gonna help you."

West jerked the gun to the side, probably intending to fire a warning shot. The gun clacked ineffectively.

Artemus smirked. "That there's a prop, that is," he spoke in the voice of Elias before slipping back to his own baritone. "You see, it was just a part. I'm not Elias. He was simply a creation."

The gun clattered across the floor when West tossed it aside. "Likely story." He yanked a sabre off the shelf closest to him.

Artemus rolled his eyes. "You have an overdeveloped sense of honor, my friend."

"I'm not your friend."

"Okay. Pompous ass, then. That's a prop, too."

"I bet it still hurts if it hits hard enough."

The corners of Artemus' mouth curved upwards. If the kid only knew who he was asking to have a go at him. Well, then. Artemus approached, reaching out to pick up the sabre's twin, recalling old aches and stings he owed this whippersnapper of a captain for. This isn't a kick, Aunt Maude. It's revenge. Fine by me.

Artemus brandished his sabre, falling easily into a familiar stance, one leg forward and his left arm curled behind his back. "I suppose I could apply a whack or two if you so desire, sir."

West didn't respond, just surged forwards like a tidal wave, slashing with his sword. Artemus easily caught the blade and grinned at the solid ring of steel against steel. West tried three successive thrusts and Artemus met each one. From the time he was six years old he'd been trading blows with crew members hired to teach such things for the plays that required them. Artemus' natural skill had earned him multiple roles back in the day.

Still, Artemus found as he took the offense that Captain James West was no greenhorn. The man kept up with him even if his form left much to be desired. He didn't seem to care a wit about style or finesse, hefting the sabre as if every slash came at the cost of his own life. Even so, Artemus easily achieved the upper hand, eventually backing West up into a clearer section of the prop room.

Artemus slowed his assault just a hair, dropped a few opportunities. He let West get closer…closer. He kicked out, taking West in the knee. The captain lurched awkwardly to his side and Artemus took his chance, swatting the sabre hard across West's backside. The captain snapped straight up, red flames sparking in his eyes. Artemus laughed.

"Look. I don't really want to hurt you. We're on the same side."

West responded by leaping forward, his sabre arcing right for Artemus' neck. Artemus slammed his own blade into West's, a burst of anger powering his heft. Blasted Blue Belly! West made Artemus work for the next few minutes, as if a can of kerosene had been flung into his fiery soul. Artemus' arm began to ache. This couldn't go on. It had to end. In his favor.

Artemus glanced behind West at the piles of props and barely stifled a smug grin. He redirected his efforts, letting West come on and supposedly get the better of him until he maneuvered West where he wanted him. Artemus abruptly took the offense, making a sweeping thrusting slash; West took a step back as he predicted. Artemus swiped to West's right, but when the captain made to meet his blade, Artemus let it fall away. West stumbled forwards with nothing to catch his momentum. Artemus rammed into him with his shoulder, sending the captain careening into a suit of armor. Pieces flew everywhere as the captain became entangled in the mess on the floor.

Artemus bowed his head and saluted. "Good day, sir." He jogged towards the stairs. West yelled from behind him.

"Coward! Fight me!"

Artemus responded without looking back. "He who fights and runs away may live to fight another day." He'd almost reached the stairs when something bashed into his back. He cried out and swung round to see another piece of armor winging his way. He jerked his arm up and blocked the hit just in time. "What the devil?" he shouted. He dashed up the stairs when a third piece hit him in the shin. A fourth piece clanged into the steps just as he reached the top. This kid could make a weapon out of anything!

Artemus exited into a back hall. He barreled passed cast members frowning and calling out to him. He flung himself through the backdoor and rushed into the streets, hardly daring to listen for bootsteps behind him.

Finally, when he thought he'd outrun the captain, he slowed and craned his neck over his shoulder. No one. He leaned into a support outside a printer's shop, heaving to catch his breath. Dang it. Dang and dang and dagnabbit, as Elias would have said. West had ruined everything again! If Artemus went back to the theater, there'd be questions and most likely authorities waiting that the captain dredged up.

Artemus shuffled along the street. First, he'd go back to his boarding house, grab a few things. The captain would surely trace him there. Then he'd find a quiet place to hunker down and think his next steps through. He'd salvage this. He'd…

A hand shot out of an alley, yanking him into its darkness.

Artemus moaned when he was thrown into a brick wall and his legs knocked out from under him. He knelt on the ground, aware of hands locking him in place by each shoulder and arm. He squinted, trying to make out the men holding onto him. Other dim figures backlit by what light a streetlamp provided outside the alley hovered in front of him. Oh great. What had West done? Brought a whole posse along with him?

"Hey!" Artemus cried out. "I was trying to explain who I am to the captain back there. I'm…"

"Artemus Gordon."

Artemus blinked and his mouth fell closed as his heart jammed straight into his throat. Oh no. He knew that voice and by its tone, it wasn't in any way happy.

"Spy. Liar. Deceiver. Squealer…Traitor. What do you say to that?"

Artemus swallowed hard. "I suppose, if the description fits…" Too insolent. Stupid. But he was facing his last moments on earth here and now. Aunt Maude, if you're really listening, do something. Or ask the good Lord to. Or at least be waiting at the gates for me.

A large shadow emerged, stalking up to Artemus. When it was close enough, lantern light flickered into existence. The man it illuminated leaned close and met Artemus eye to eye. "Elias Tucker, was it?" Artemus tried to ignore the wild pounding in his chest. Alexander Baskin, leader of The Crimson Stream, a villain no sane man would trifle with. And Artemus had trifled way too much.

Artemus cleared his throat. "It was war. Every side does what it has to in war. The war's over."

Baskin stared a moment, then his mouth twisted into a feral grin. "The war isn't over until I say it's over. We've got to clear out some rats first."

"So…um…I'd like to oblige," Artemus stammered, "but I have a performance coming up in a week and…" A backhand snapped Artemus' neck to the side. He gasped to suck in air and shook his head to dislodge the stars crossing his vision.

"Boys," Baskin drawled. "He's yours."

The moment the hands let go, Artemus crumbled into the ground, curling round with his arms locked around his knees. Protect the vital organs. Gotta protect the vital organs. Not that it would do any good in the end. A flurry of slaps, punches, and kicks laid into him. Irony of ironies, Artemus thought. He'd run right out of the frying pan into the fire.

Just when Artemus thought he couldn't endure another blow, the pummeling lessened then stopped altogether. Artemus hardly dared breathe. He ached from two dozen well aimed blows, probably more. He lifted his head an inch to stare out at the alley flickering in the lantern light a few feet away. Was the punishment over? Bile burned up his throat. Time for the execution?

He'd expected to see Baskin looming over him with his shining Bowie knife. Instead, the shadowed figures of the boys who'd been making him pay were rushing forwards and falling back, some tumbling end over end, and not a one paying him any heed. As he watched several went down, and one even slid to a stop right next to him completely unconscious. What in all the heavens and earth? A wiry body, tight and taut, came into view, exploding with all the energy of a dynamite blast. This had to be a joke. A grand cosmic joke.

Artemus gaped in awe…and winced more than once. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of that solid fist. Back in the theater, he'd thought James West didn't have an ounce of art in his body. Now, watching him take on half a dozen men by himself and punch them out one by one, Artemus felt party to a choreographed dance. James West knew his body, and he wielded it like Artemus wielded a sabre.

Baskin was the last to challenge the captain, and the one Artemus guaranteed would give West the most trouble. But a couple feints and two hard punches later, it was over. Then that capable, wiry man whose whole body was one quivering muscle advanced on him.

Artemus tried to roll to his knees and attempt to raise his own fists, but he ached too much and West reached him before he'd managed to push himself up on his elbows. A hand gripped his arm, lifted him up, and set him on his backside. Artemus couldn't do much more than cover his face to ward off any blows.

"You're a spy," West said, but without any anger.

Artemus lowered his hands from his face. Those eyes, they didn't exude flames or ice but concern. Artemus couldn't help a short laugh. "You're a genius."

"You're a union spy."

"A blessed prodigy to mankind." Artemus tried to smile, but it hurt. He grimaced instead. Once more, he tried to push himself to his feet.

"Take it easy," West said, a hand like lead pressing into Artemus' shoulder to keep him on the ground.

"I may not be able to take on men 12 to 1, but I'm no invalid," Artemus grumped.

"Your lip is bleeding," West said. He was suddenly crouching before Artemus, a handkerchief in his hand. He dabbed at Artemus' lip and Artemus was surprised at the gentleness in the touch. "You've got to be hurting from the pounding they gave you. Who are they?"

Artemus scanned the still bodies in the alley. "The Crimson Stream. Southern Sympathizers."

"So when you were in the union army…"

"I was ordered to act as one of them until we knew their names and locations. We got most of them." Artemus nodded his head towards the bodies. "These escaped the net."

West's hand moved to Artemus' chin. He tipped it up, staring into Artemus' face. "You've got some good welts. You'll be black and blue for a while."

West let go and Artemus began to laugh, quiet at first and then loudly. When he managed to wrest control of himself, he noticed West had fixed him with a frown. "It's just"—a residual chuckle wracked his chest—"every time you're involved, I end up walloped." He laughed again.

West's lips hinted at the barest of smiles before his Adam's apple bobbed. "Speaking of that, I have the uncomfortable feeling I owe you an apology."

Artemus blew out a breath. "Just an uncomfortable feeling, huh? What about a drink?"

West cracked a grin. "I do know a place."

Artemus put a hand to the ground, pushing himself up. West aided him with a hand under his arm. Artemus took several deep breaths. "Well, then, what are you waiting for, mighty Heracles?"

West furrowed his brow. "Heracles?"

Of course. The captain was more body than mind. "Heracles is a mythological…"

"Or Hercules," West interrupted. "The Roman name for the Greek hero, son of Jupiter and Alcmene, whose greatest accomplishment was successfully completing the twelve labors set him by Eurystheus."

Artemus stared at the man, blinking several times.

"I understood the reference," West said. "I just don't think I fit the description." When Artemus continued to stare, West perched his hands on his hips. "Why is it people tend to assume I don't have anything up here?" He tapped the side of his head.

Artemus coughed to hide his embarrassment. "It might be because you let your body do most of the talking."

West stared at him then huffed a laugh. "Maybe."

"So, that drink?" Artemus prompted.

West waved his hand down the alley. "This way."

The table the two men occupied was silent. Each had been brought a drink and imbibed quietly. Artemus used the moment free from chaos to scrutinize the room. The saloon was a rougher sort of place, exactly as Elias Tucker would have liked. But Artemus had fallen back into his old Chicago habits of recent days. He relished the more upscale establishments and a woman on each arm if he was lucky. Eventually, he turned his attention back to West and managed not to smile in amusement. The man sat as stiff-backed here as he had on a horse back in Vicksburg.

Artemus cleared his throat. "So, you come here often?"

"Just got into town."

"Right," Artemus said, reminding himself West was attached to General Grant. "You're a soldier, and the war's over."

"You're an actor?" West asked. "An actual actor?"

Artemus nodded.

West shook his head and gulped at his drink.

"What?"

"I've always thought actors were shams."

Artemus sipped his own drink. "I suppose in essence that's who we are, though you seem to hate the thought."

"You can't trust shams."

"Oh, you can't, hum?"

"Usually," West added. "Look how well you deceived me. I thought you were a Reb."

"Well, then," Artemus said, sitting back and puffing out his chest. "I did my job perfectly, didn't I?"

West smiled behind his glass. "Except for getting caught."

Artemus' chest deflated. "Except for that."

"Mrs. Gordon's son?" West asked.

"My moniker. When I had to tell someone who I really was."

"And Grant knew it."

Artemus nodded.

"Why wasn't I told?"

Artemus shrugged a shoulder. "Need to know basis only."

West sat back in his chair. "So I've ruined your game, then, haven't I?"

Artemus chuckled. "I think you've made me obsolete!" Before they'd headed to the saloon, Artemus had sent word to his contact and soldiers had appeared to arrest the remnants of The Crimson Stream.

"You won't keep on spying?"

"Oh, they might find a place for me even if the war's over. But I've gotten a taste of the theater again."

"So you're going to keep on being a sham." West smiled.

"That might turn into the plan anyway." Artemus smiled back. He tilted his head. The top of a book was sticking out of West's jacket pocket. "You brought a book to a play?"

West glanced down at his pocket and pulled the book out. "If I got bored." Artemus rolled his eyes as West dropped the book onto the table. He read the title: The Conduct of Life.

"Emerson? You were going to read philosophy during the performance?"

"Felt like something good to pick up."

Artemus pulled the book over and thumbed a few pages, then read. "Providence has a wild, rough, incalculable road to its end, and it is of no use to try to whitewash its huge, mixed instrumentalities, or to dress up that terrific benefactor in a clean shirt and white neckcloth of a student in divinity.

"Will you say, the disasters which threaten mankind are exceptional, and one need not lay his account for cataclysms every day? Aye, but what happens once, may happen again, and so long as these strokes are not to be parried by us, they must be feared."

Artemus looked up. "And what are you going to do to parry the strokes?" Certainly, a man like West wasn't going to sit around and do nothing.

West readjusted in his seat. "I'm not sure."

"No prospects?"

West dug into another pocket and then held out a folded sheet of paper. Artemus took it and unfolded it. It appeared to be a list of positions and places.

"You're going to do all of this? You'll definitely be busy."

"I get to choose."

"Which one?"

"I don't know yet."

Artemus studied West. "You don't look happy."

"I am."

"Then what's with the long face?"

West looked away into the saloon. Artemus refolded the list. He'd hit a nerve, just like he had at Vicksburg. "What is it?"

"I don't know. Everything's just different. There's no strategy or maps or rifles shooting about." West's hands gripped the armrests of his chair.

Realization dawned on Artemus. "You like war."

West's attention snapped back to him. "Of course I don't."

"Well," Artemus said, pushing the list back over to the man. "Maybe not war perse, but the thrill. You like it. You crave it."

West stared at him. His jaw was clenching and unclenching. Artemus sat very still, quietly picking up his glass to take another sip. That man right there, right now, he was in a war with himself. And now that Artemus saw it, he knew he'd missed something in that chiseled face back in Vicksburg. Those bright blue eyes, they were thoughtful, intelligent. He'd neglected that bit when he'd sketched them into "The Catalogue of Souls, Good and Bad, Ugly and Sweet." All he'd got was the fire of the moment when the body they belonged to burned bright.

West finally drew in a deep breath. "You're right." He took a long swig from his glass before setting it down again. "You remind me of someone. He was always able to get in my head, too."

"Another actor?" Artemus smiled.

"No. A father. Father Thomas."

"I remind you of a priest?"

"It's a compliment. He's the best man I've ever known. Aside from the other man who raised me as well."

Artemus turned his glass round between his fingers as he ran an eye up and down the stolid captain. "So what's your story? What turned Captain James West into Captain James West?"

West lifted his glass. "Hold your friends close and your enemies closer."

Artemus raised a brow. "And which am I?"

West's blue eyes gleamed when he answered. "I'm not sure. Maybe I'll get the chance to find out."

Artemus didn't know why his stomach did a little flip at that response. Maybe it was the thought of parting ways. Felt wrong for some reason not to get answers to the puzzle of James West.

"James West!" A shrill shout echoed the last name in Artemus' own thoughts, yanking his attention to a woman all gussied up in purple silk and tassels flying across the room.

"Clara," West exclaimed, jumping to a stand. "I meant to return. I saw Artemus here and—"

Artemus started at the sharp slap that resounded across the bar. Patrons had turned, staring at the altercation.

"Don't you ever, ever come see me again!" The woman stomped through the room to the stairs at the back and flounced up them with her chin in the air.

James slowly sank back into his seat. His cheek flamed red. He speared Artemus with a testy countenance when Artemus failed to stifle a laugh.

"Not good with women are you." Artemus chuckled. "At least Captain West doesn't excel at everything."

"I'm just fine with women," West retorted and jabbed his finger to the back of the saloon. "Just not that woman."

Artemus raised his brow. "So, you're telling me that's the first time you've been slapped by a woman?"

West ground his jaw. Artemus laughed all the more. Until someone tapped his shoulder. He looked up. Oh no.

"Uh…Jennie."

The woman in yellow with a feathered hat to match had her hands planted on her hips and her expression screwed up in rage. Artemus hated how West was brightening in his peripheral vision. Confound that satisfied Cheshire cat grin.

"You said to meet you in my dressing room. That you'd escort me to the reception after the play. That you'd get me close to the president."

"Um…" Artemus glanced at West who nodded at Jennie.

"Well, explain it to her, Artemus."

"Uh…Jennie. You see. I'm a…well, I guess the only word for it is 'spy.' For the union. My real job is to…" A sharp sting crossed Artemus' left cheek. He gasped at the reignited pain from his earlier backhand in the alley.

"The least you could do is tell me the truth! Spy! I don't think so, Artemus Gordon. You want to go out and play with your friends"—she indicated West with a flick of her hand—"fine by me. But don't you ever darken my door again." Jennie's heels tip tapped in rapid staccato against the wooden floor as she left. The patrons of the saloon mumbled amongst themselves and pointed at their table.

Artemus lay a hand to his throbbing cheek as he looked back at West.

"What were you saying about not being good with women?"

Artemus picked up his drink and pressed the cool glass against his cheek. "Okay. So we have one thing in common." He slowly stood, setting down his glass. "And on that glorious note, I suppose I've kept you long enough."

West and Artemus exited the saloon into the dark streets. Artemus stuck out his hand and West took it. Goodness. Even his handshake felt like iron. When West let go, Artemus ran a hand through his hair. "Hey. Um, I can't believe I'm saying this, but if you're going to be in town for any length of time, we could meet up again. Maybe I could show you around. Introduce you to some friends. We could…"

Artemus didn't get any more of his suggestion out. Shouting sounded down the lane. West whirled round, hands balling into fists at his sides, always ready for action. A man ran past shouting.

"Ford's Theatre! The president's been shot at Ford's Theatre!"

Chaos erupted on the streets as those who had been passing began to chatter or run in the direction of the theatre. Artemus' own stomach turned to lead. He locked eyes with West and met the same horror churning in his gut etched on that sharp, angular face.

"We were there," Artemus whispered. "We were right there."

Characteristic flames flashed alight in West's eyes. "I've got to go." He marched off in the direction of the Theatre like a soldier trumpeted back to war.

"Wait!" Artemus called, hurrying up to his side. "I'll come with you."

West glanced at him. "If you can keep up." He began to run.

Artemus ran, sticking tight to West's heels.