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Jim West was a survivor. Artie knew it and was reminded with every dangerous assignment that they took on. They were agents of the President’s secret service, of course they both knew that this was a job you probably won’t grow old in. Maybe Artie was the dreamer and the romantic to think that they could, in fact, grow old. Together. It was a reason to survive, at the very least.
Jim had been on his assignment for four months, tracking a criminal cell across the Sierras to thwart their plans of stealing government plates to print counterfeit money to purchase weapons for their terrorist plans. Basically another Wednesday.
Usually in this sort of long operation, Artie would be planted in the criminal cell in disguise to feed information to Jim, but Artie had been pulled away for other smaller assignments that were related, but very much far removed from the Sierras. Grant had him going all over the western coast, from Ventura to San Francisco, following leads of information related to the criminal cell.
It all came to a head when they finally had enough evidence to corner the key members of the organization and arrest them. Artie led a few men in San Francisco, Jim was on his own in the Sierras. It was two days after the crackdown that Artie received word on Jim’s success.
He killed the leader, broke up the cell, but had taken a few bullets in the firefight.
Artie had never left a city so fast in his life. He took the Wanderer to the station nearest to the city where he was told Jim was being cared for by a doctor and it wasn’t long before he found the hospital. There were cavalrymen as guards at the door by order of the President, just in case if any of the stragglers of the crime ring wanted revenge. Artie rushed past them and into the small room with the singular bed, a lithe figure on top of it.
Jim was shirtless, but wrapped in so many bandages he looked like a mummy from the neck down, the blood spots soaked through. There was a blanket over his legs, his head lulled to the side as he slept, face shadowed with a couple days’ beard growth. He was pale, his brow damp, his face bruised from a fist fight, knuckles cut with reciprocated violence. In a brawl, Jim was a hurricane but not invincible… especially not against bullets.
Artie took a breath to calm himself enough to move slowly, so as not to wake his friend who undoubtedly needed to rest. But his hands were shaking and he carefully sat in a chair nearby. He hadn’t seen Jim in months. He planned a grand reunion where they would drink champagne, enjoy a fine meal, maybe go see a show, and spend a quiet evening at the Wanderer. It was all he ever looked forward to, but now…
The doctor told him it was a waiting game to see if the wounds would heal without taking on infection or bleeding internally. The sutures and bandages needed constant changing, and to the best of the doctor’s expert knowledge, it didn’t seem as though there were any fragments from the shots, but he could never be 100% certain.
Artie had been watching vigilantly for three, long hours before Jim’s eyes cracked open, and Artie’s hear pounded eagerly to see life in him at last with cautious optimism. Slowly, Jim turned his head and looked at him, eyes bleary, not immediately recognizing. Then, a smile.
“Hiya, Artie.”
“Hello, James,” Artie replied coolly, as if he wasn’t in agony. “You know, there are easier ways to go on leave.”
“Really? Haven’t found one yet,” Jim’s voice was hoarse, but the fact that he was joking was comforting.
Artie took the pitcher of water from the nearby table and poured a glass. “Can you drink?”
Jim carefully positioned his arms, to attempt to push himself into a sitting position, but the slightest flex of any torso muscles contorted his face with pain and he sank back into the bed.
“Here…” Artie said softly, one hand holding his head up, the other bringing the glass of water to his lips. “Drink as much as you can… Easy…”
Artie set the glass aside and stood close to the side of the bed, the urge to take Jim’s hand where it rested atop the bandages was powerful.
“So, I have our next vacation all planned out,” Artie talked as though nothing in the world had changed. “St. Louis for a few days, then we can skip on over to Kansas City for a show. Then, another week in New Orleans for as much food, drink, and debauchery as we can manage.”
A weak smile touched at Jim’s fine lips, his eyes closing for a moment, as if he was there already. The smile was gone as quickly as it came and he opened his eyes again. The color was dimmed in a way that made Artie shiver.
“Sounds great, Artie… Might be a while before we get that vacation.”
“Who’s rushing?” Artie said nonchalantly, though his breath trembled.
“Artie…” Jim’s voice was low, serious. “I made a mistake. I didn’t see the other two men in the room. They shot me in the back, the cowards…”
“That’s why you need me there to watch it,” said Artie. “You never should have been sent in there alone. You’re just one man, Jim. You’re not an army.”
“The President trusted me to get a job done, and I did… Didn’t I?”
There was a flash of fear in Jim’s eyes, the fear of failing his assignment worse than any fear of death. For once, Artie wished Jim cared more about his life than his service.
“Yeah, you did. It’s all done, we got them.”
Jim managed an infinitesimal nod. His eyes were closed again, his brow knotted as he breathed steadily through his nose. Finally, his lips parted and he spoke through his teeth. “I took a lot of bullets, Artie… Not just in the back…”
“I know,” Artie whispered. “But the doc said he got them all out.”
“Maybe so… The damage has been done, though.”
Artie shook his head at that, denying. “Nothing you can’t heal from as you always have.”
“It hurts like hell.”
“I know… Did they give you anything for it?”
“They offered some laudanum.”
“And?”
“I didn’t take it.”
“Don’t be a stubborn ass,” Artie was frowning now. “If you think I’m going to bring you in some brandy to dull the pain, you got another thing coming. That’s an emergency reserve. You’re in a hospital, you’d better take advantage of their stock while you can.”
“I don’t like to take that stuff, you know that.”
“I’m going to get you something to help with the pain. Suffering doesn’t make you any more impressive, I hope you know that.”
“I’m fine, Artie…”
But Jim was helpless in stopping his partner from walking out of the room to track down a doctor or nurse. He returned with bottle, which he held up between two fingers and wiggled tantalizingly. Jim remained reclined, looking down his nose to where Artie stood at the foot of the bed, frowning.
“Just a drop of laudanum, that’s all I’m asking,” Artie said. “You’ll be glad of it, I promise. Just enough to help you get a good night’s sleep without your wounds waking you up.”
“Artie…” Jim whined.
Artie was already beside his bed now, measuring the dosage carefully, keeping it as small as possible as a compromise. “It’s not even the full prescribed dosage, James, now open up.”
Jim kept his mouth firmly shut.
“I can always lace your brandy.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Well… no. I wouldn’t want to spoil the brandy.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
Artie smiled sweetly. “Come on. Bottom’s up.”
Jim turned his head away, but the small movement wracked him with pain again, defeating his defiance. He grunted, breathed through the pain, then relented.
“Fine…” he said tersely. “Give it here. Just this once.”
Artie handed him the glass with the measured tincture, and Jim downed it the same as any shot of tequila.
“You’re welcome.” Artie closed the bottle and sat beside him in the chair again. “You know believe it or not, I don’t enjoy watching you suffer.”
“Then why do you always insist on cooking dinner?”
“Oh, ha ha.” Artie suppressed a genuine laugh.
In spite of everything, he was thrilled to be here with his friend again. Separation was a slow death, he realized, and they were always stronger together than apart. It crossed his mind to use this incident as an argument the next time President Grant decides to send them on separate assignments. If Jim pulled through this. The dark thought made his blood run cold.
“The train’s been awfully quiet without you,” Artie said after a moment. “It’ll be good to have you home.”
Jim almost smiled, his eye lids heavy. The laudanum was working already. “I’ll be good to be home… I missed you, Artie.”
“I missed you too, Jim.”
The hand that Jim had flat on his stomach turned, his palm opening up, his eyes on Artie in a silent invitation. Artie didn’t hesitate and took Jim’s hand, squeezing it and wondering at how well their palms and fingers interlocked like two halves of a whole.
“Artie…” Jim said dreamily. “I’m sorry if I don’t make it home…”
“Of course you will,” Artie forced a smile. “You’re a lot of things, James my boy, but most of all, you’re a survivor.”