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His head hurt, a strange throbbing pain - he reached up his hand to his temple and found blood there when he drew it back. He didn't remember falling from the horse that stood some twenty yards away grazing on low brush, but the fact he was lying on the ground demonstrated that was clearly what must have happened. Nothing seemed broken, though, and he cautiously moved his limbs to check that was the case. He'd heard, though he couldn't remember where, of people being paralyzed by falls and dying of thirst where they lay, their backs broken. Where had he heard that? The effort of thought made his head throb, each wave of pain coming in time with the pounding of his heart as nausea swept his body. He rolled over onto his side, retching. What little stomach contents he had soon decorated the ground nearby, a vibrant splash of color across the arid land around him. He got to his feet slowly, stomach still churning a little despite the lack of anything to expel, and stood, swaying, for a moment. The horizon dipped and swam, then steadied. The sun was low in the sky, barely visible above the low range of hills lying westwards, and it cast long shadows from the few sparse trees that decorated the landscape. It was a brown land, dry and parched-looking, and his mouth felt the same way. "Come on," he said to his horse, approaching it slowly, hand outstretched. He assumed it was his horse, anyway, since there was nobody else out here; it was black, forequarters and neck specked with the white of dried sweat. It eyed him without concern, not wheeling away as he came closer, but allowed him to reach out and take hold of the dangling rein. The horse took a step back then for no apparent reason, eyes rolling a little, as he raised a hand to stroke down the dark neck. He looked around, wondering just where he was and how far he was from civilization. There was only an hour or so left of good light, after which he'd be forced to camp out, an option he didn't welcome too much considering the crack on the head he'd received at some point in the recent past. There was a hat in the dust nearby, a fancy low-crowned black affair, and he walked over to it. He bent gingerly to pick it up, then smacked the hat against his thigh to remove the worst of the dust. No name inside, just a label from the maker that gave an address in Denver. When had he ever been to Colorado? Nothing about this situation was familiar, though when he tried on the hat it fit and he automatically tilted it to a particular angle, as if his hands were used to doing that. Come to think of it, his clothes were all fancy; the suit he wore was dark blue under the coating of dust, the material and the cut both speaking of its cost. The coat strapped behind the saddle was good quality too, the heavy sheepskin of the collar soft to the touch. Whatever he did for a living, whoever he was, he made money at it. He turned the horse, inspecting the other things attached to the well-worn saddle. There was a rifle, of course, a well-used Winchester in a scabbard as he'd expected there would be, the saddlebags also showing signs of wear. He traveled then, enough to show the marks of his journeys on the good quality leather of the horse's tack. Water sloshed in a canteen as the horse shifted its weight - he reached for it gratefully, glad of something to wash the taste of bile from his mouth. He couldn't afford to waste any of it on the wound to his head, not until he knew where he'd be sleeping tonight. The landscape around him was dry and uninviting; and it could be a while before he'd be able to replenish the canteen if he drained it dry. There were tracks, at least, so other horses had traveled this way in recent days, and that was a hopeful sign. North or south? He considered that for a moment, and then noted the fact that the freshest tracks - his own, he had little doubt of that - came from the south. He was heading north then, from somewhere to somewhere else, and should probably continue on that way. In time, he hoped he would remember where he was heading and who he was, but that might take a while... ---------------------------------------------------- The horse proved to have a smooth and easy gait. It was almost hypnotic as the shadows grew longer and he wondered whether to call it quits for the night. There was a bedroll tied beneath the coat, saddlebags full enough to reassure him that he had food for the night, but water was another matter. He'd need it, and the horse would too, so that had to be his first priority. As if in answer to his prayers, though he was certain he wasn't a religious man, the horse crested a low rise and paused there, looking down into the valley below. There was a house, half-burned and tumbledown at best, but it was shelter and there might be water - that looked like a well out behind what was left of the shack. The framework that had once stood over it was pulled to one side, broken beyond repair, but when he dropped a rock into the hole and listened, there was a distant splash. A rope trailed over the edge and he pulled at it, pleased to feel the weight of a bucket and hopefully water as well at the end of it. The horse drank first, slurping thirstily at the contents, as he watched. By the time he'd got the horse unsaddled, his head had begun to spin a little once more, and it was almost dark. There was enough half-charred wood around what was left of the shack to provide him with firewood, anyway, so he wouldn't have to worry about freezing overnight. He searched the saddlebags then, pulling out dried meat with a sigh of relief, even as he'd wished for something more substantial - he could hunt tomorrow, or maybe his trail would cross some small town in the middle of this nothing. His fingers touched something else then, something squashed into the bottom of the saddlebag. It was paper, crumpled into a ball, as if forgotten. He pulled it out, suddenly curious, and flattened it out on his knee. The light from the fire wasn't the best to read by, but the word at the top was still legible and he tilted the page to try and decipher the rest of it. There was a picture too, the man in it a familiar face - someone he'd once known, maybe? Whoever it was, he was clearly a bad sort. The wanted poster said robbery and murder, the name familiar too. "Robert Crandell," he read out loud, a little surprised at the sound of his voice. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but that wasn't it. "Escaped from Yuma Prison." ---------------------------------------------------- "Shave, mister?" He paused on the wooden boardwalk and rubbed his jaw speculatively, feeling the scrape of stubble against his palm. After a moment, he nodded. It wouldn't do to look too much the scoundrel, not in a small town like this, and besides if he had a fancy suit, he needed to show it off to its best effect. He probably looked like he'd been dragged through a mesquite bush for all he knew. The trail he'd been following had hit a larger one the previous day, and he'd found himself here - a small town that didn't seem to have much to recommend itself, but it would do for now. His memory wasn't coming back, that much was certain. In his sleep, he knew that the face of another man had appeared, familiar as the one on the wanted poster had been, but still without a name attached, and it had faded as he woke. What he did remember was brief, flashes of recollection as transitory as something lit by lightning in a summer storm. Not enough to tell him who he was or what he was doing here. "Take a seat," the barber said. The barbershop was empty, apart from the two of them, he noted almost automatically. Once it must have been a sight to see, all shining wood and gleaming metal, but the years and the desert had taken its toll on both - the mirrors that hung on the wall the chairs faced were flyspecked; the leather of the chairs was cracked and scarred. He took the seat indicated by the barber, the least damaged of the two chairs, then froze as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. It was no wonder he'd recognized the face on the wanted poster - it was his own. "Just passing through, mister?" the barber asked, as he swirled the brush in the soap. A few deft strokes and Crandell's face was lathered up. He watched the barber work the strop, the regular movements almost hypnotic. "I can tell you ain't from around these parts." He didn't answer but took the opportunity to examine the barber as he finished stropping the razor and came round to stand behind him. He was a heavily built man with a shock of white hair, his own face badly needing a shave and broken veins on his nose proclaiming how he liked to spend his free time. Regardless of that, the barber's hands were steady, their touch confident and sure as he started to work. "Cut me and you'll know it." The words came out anyway, even though the barber had given no indication he planned to do anything of the sort. It seemed the right thing to say, somehow. The barber laughed, a hoarse choking sound. "Ain't cut nobody since I was a boy," he said. "Don't aim to start now." In a matter of minutes he was done, the shave completed and another man taking his place in the chair. The barber offered him a towel to wipe the remnants of the soap from his face. Crandell felt something in the towel, a small piece of paper that he palmed with surprising facility, but said nothing. "Here." He flipped a coin in the direction of the barber, who snatched it from midair with deceptive ease. --------------------------------------------------- He hadn't opened the paper till he was back in his hotel room, remembering the impassive face of the barber as he'd handed the towel back. There was no indication in the man's expression that anything had happened, and he wondered what it meant. The paper held a terse message, printed in rough capitals in grease pencil: Stables, 10pm. He'd turned the paper over, looking for a clue to its origins, but found none. Now, as he waited in the shadows overlooking the entrance to the livery stable, Crandell wondered if he was doing the right thing. He might be a cold-blooded killer, if the wanted poster was anything to go by, but he had no idea what he was getting into here. Who knew he was even in town? While he'd been waiting for the sun to set, the idea of going and shaking the relevant information out of the barber had been almost too tempting an idea to overlook. But it was possible that would be a pointless exercise; the barber had probably just been given a message to pass on and that would be all he knew. He'd reserve his energies for bigger game than one old lush. Down the street, from the saloon, Crandell could hear the jingle of the badly tuned piano, the rumble of conversation punctuated with the occasional laughter of the girls who worked there. When he'd gone in earlier, to pass the time, one of them had made a beeline for him but he'd brushed her away with a few terse words. He didn't want company, he knew that with an unspoken certainty, and she hadn't pressed him to change his mind. Good thing too, for both of them. It was well past ten now, he was sure of that, and still no sign of anyone. Either it was a trap or a joke, no middle ground between those two possibilities - he wasn't sure which of those ideas he liked the least. "There you are," a quiet voice said, almost in his ear. Crandell spun, instinct taking over, one arm coming up to slam across the throat of the man who'd spoken, all of his weight slamming the other back against the nearest wall. A satisfying gasp of expelled breath showed the maneuver had worked as he'd planned. "Who are you?" He kept his weight against the newcomer, but relaxed the pressure of his arm a little. "What..." "Wrong answer." With the other hand, Crandell pulled his pistol from its holster, thumbing the hammer back in one practiced movement before pressing the barrel hard into the stomach of the man he'd captured. "Try again." He took a step backwards, freeing the man but keeping the pistol steady. There was no doubt he'd pressed harder than he might have intended to, from the rasping sound the other man's voice made when he finally caught his breath and spoke. "This isn't funny." The newcomer raised his hands, a pale blur in the half-light. "You said it," Crandell replied. "So start talking before I lose what little patience I've got." The stranger didn't speak, just stood there and looked at him - he didn't even know who this man was and yet he was already frustrating the hell out of him. "Get out there," he said, gesturing towards the street with his gun. The stranger moved slowly, as if keeping a wary eye on him, so at least he had some sense, even if sneaking up on an armed man in a dark alley had made him wonder. Out in the street, the lights from the saloon made it possible to see the stranger's face for the first time and there was something familiar about it. "Who are you?" Crandell asked. "You know who I am." The stranger lowered his hands but kept them away from his own gun belt. Considering Crandell's response , the stranger would have been better to draw on him than sneaking around in a way that could have got him shot. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Jim, but give it a rest." "My name's Crandell," he said. "Robert Crandell." The stranger laughed at that, but then stopped almost as soon as he'd started. "My god, you really mean it." The stranger took a half step towards him, only stopping when he saw the resulting twitch of a gun barrel. "What's happened to you, Jim?" "I don't know any 'Jim'." Crandell eyed the stranger, taking in his well-made clothes and fancy boots in a glance. "And I don't know you." "Put the gun down," the stranger said. "You might not know who you are, but you know you don't want to shoot me." The pressure to prove the stranger wrong was almost overwhelming, so much so that Crandell felt his trigger finger twitch with the effort of not firing. Maybe he did know the man after all, but he had no idea how that could be the case - despite the fanciness of his own clothes, he doubted that a man on the run from Yuma would know that many folks whose clothing was that fancy. There was something about those dark eyes, the knowing way the stranger looked at him, that reassured and unsettled him in equal doses. "I don't know you," Crandell repeated but thumbed the hammer on his pistol anyway. There was something not right about this situation, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. The smile the stranger gave when he saw the pistol being holstered was familiar too, a little too familiar for someone he'd just met. Even if the stranger insisted that wasn’t the case. "But I'm Crandell. Got the wanted poster to prove it." He saw the stranger's eyes widen at that statement. "I knew that was a bad idea." He studied the way the stranger stood, the comfortable solidity, hands resting on his gun belt now, and wondered that he didn't feel threatened at all. If he was a gunslinger, shouldn't his nerves be on edge, everything ready to leap into action at a moment's notice? He didn't feel that way at all around this man, and he had no idea why that was. "But I guess I should introduce myself," the stranger continued, extending a hand. "The name's Gordon, Artemus Gordon." --------------------------------------------------- After he'd reluctantly shaken the man's hand, Gordon had spun him a tale, one which seemed so unlikely that Crandell wondered if it was true. Except for the part where he wasn't Crandell but was really one James West, that is. That seemed ridiculous, the wanted poster explained away in just as unlikely a manner as a prop for some mission they'd been on, since they both worked for the government, of course. In the end, Crandell had come to the conclusion that Gordon was a lunatic. A well-dressed one, but crazy none the less. He'd made some excuse, and they'd gone their separate ways, though Gordon had made him promise to meet up the following morning - Gordon to who knew where, Crandell back to a small room in the town's one run-down boarding house. He couldn't forget how Gordon's hand had felt on his own, though, the grasp of those long fingers as he'd held on just a little too long to be a casual acquaintance. Crandell was up and gone before dawn; he left the town behind in a cloud of dust as he cantered away, heading further north. He didn't really care where he was going, as long as it was away from Gordon. The other man had haunted his dreams the previous night, to the point where Crandell wasn't sure if he knew Gordon or not, or indeed if he was going crazy too. All he knew was that he didn't want to be anywhere where Artemus Gordon was, and that meant a speedy exit. He was running out of money as well, so Crandell knew he'd have to do something about that and soon. The trail he followed was a well-worn one, so there was a chance of getting somewhere more civilized soon - somewhere that a man with a gun could make, if not an honest day's work, at least a well-paid one. And then he could start to figure out what he was going to do with himself next; as long as that didn't involve a return to Yuma, Crandell decided, he didn't really care what his future held. --------------------------------------------------- He'd worked his way through a couple of small towns, each resembling the last in so many ways that they became a blur of weather-beaten buildings and tired looking people. He didn't stay more than a couple of hours anywhere, even though that meant camping out some nights, concerned that his face would be recognized - that would lead to more trouble than Crandell wanted to deal with anytime soon. When he rode into town, he'd find himself scanning the faces of the people he passed, in search of that unwelcome spark of recognition, but so far he'd been fortunate enough not to find it. The trail he followed was a winding one, but he didn't have anywhere to be so that was fine with him. In this particular town, which so much resembled the last he'd visited, to the point where he didn't even bother to enquire after its name, he could see that the journey was starting to take its toll. His clothes were starting to look a little travel worn. And he was already tired of traveling from place to place, as rootless as a tumbleweed. He couldn't remember living anywhere, of course, since he didn't remember much of anything. Not even his time in Yuma, though that ought to have been bad enough to fix in his mind. Instead, he was stuck with the memories of his journey and the people he'd met along the way, Gordon included. It was crazy, but he couldn't stop thinking about Gordon, wondering what would have happened if he hadn't left town the next morning. He was the only person Crandell had met on his travels who seemed at all familiar, and that lack of contact with the rest of the world worried him more than the fact Gordon had seemed to know him as someone else. Was he really such a loner? In some ways, the past didn't matter at all, since the future was not looking particularly bright for one Robert Crandell. He might be wearing a sharp suit, but he was down to a couple of dollars now. After the money ran out, he'd have to find work, stuck wherever he could get employment till he'd saved enough to leave again. Mind made up, Crandell left the stables and headed towards the small store that was the only shop in town. It didn't take long to equip himself there, picking through a meager selection of clothes in the hope of finding something that wasn't too worn - he couldn't afford new, not if he wanted somewhere to sleep for the next couple of nights, and besides he didn't want to look like a greenhorn. "Looking for work?" the wizened man behind the counter asked. "I hear the Watsons are hiring - their eldest broke his leg last week, and they need someone to help out." By the time he was ready to leave, purchases carefully wrapped as if they'd come from some fancy shop, he'd been given directions to a nearby farm, as well as being told to come back if the clothes failed to meet satisfaction. Even as Crandell picked up the package, the man behind the counter had already busied himself with his inventory again, as if no customer had ever been there. --------------------------------------------------- The Watsons had indeed been happy to give him a job, especially considering the fact they didn't know Crandell from Adam, and he settled into the business of helping to run a small farm with unexpected ease. He didn't talk much, and they didn't ask him many questions, but he discovered an odd familiarity to many of the tasks that surprised him. Had he grown up somewhere like this, long before he'd fallen into bad company? That seemed a possibility, though it was hard to tell what his life had been like before Yuma, or whether he'd even done the things the wanted poster said he had. Work on the farm kept him busy enough, and Mrs. Watson kept him fed, so there was little need to go into town. He didn't miss it, except for the occasional night when the idea of a glass of whiskey and a card game seemed tempting, but mostly he ignored the impulse and it went away. "There was a man in town asking 'bout you," the younger Watson brother said, then climbed down from the wagon beside the shed where Crandell was fixing some shingles. "Asked about you by name too." Crandell paused, then wiped an arm across his sweaty forehead as he considered the news. It didn't come as much of a surprise, since he'd made little effort to cover his tracks, but he'd hoped for more respite than this. "Did he give a name?" he asked. "Nope," Watson replied, paying more attention to unhitching the team despite the fact he must have seen how Crandell had reacted. "Didn't ask either." He considered that, deciding after a moment that there were two possibilities: either it was Gordon, or someone keen to collect the reward on his head. Hell, for all he knew that was Gordon's reason for bugging him too. "You expecting someone?" Watson continued, as he led the horses over to the trough. "Maybe," Crandell said, then turned his attention back to the shingles. --------------------------------------------------- Because of the warning Watson gave him, when someone did come round the farm looking for him, Crandell was ready for him. He was working his way through the buildings that day, checking the condition of each roof in turn, and so he had a good vantage point to see the rider coming from far off. Gordon had started as a speck in the distance, heading steadily towards the farm until there was little doubt where he was going. Crandell didn't get down from the roof of the barn for a while, almost mesmerized by the steady approach of the rider. It could be anyone, he told himself, some small town sheriff just as easy as Gordon. But some instinct told him it was Gordon all right, and as the rider drew closer somehow he could tell he was right. Gordon sat the horse like he wasn't really comfortable with the idea of riding, but still with the ease of someone who rode a lot. He paused at the brow of the small hill that lay to the north of the farm itself, and the small hairs on the back of Crandell's neck rose. He couldn't have said how, but he knew he'd been seen and so he didn't climb down, but instead waited for Gordon. "You did a good job of giving me the slip," Gordon said, as he reined in his horse at a distance which gave him a good line of sight to where Crandell sat. "I've been looking for you." "I heard." He'd left his gun belt in the bunkhouse and now he felt almost naked under Gordon's inspection, only the comfortable weight of the hammer in his hand giving him any confidence. "Maybe I didn't want to be found." Gordon took off his hat, then slapped it against his thigh to shake the trail dust that had settled on it. He didn't look up, but somehow Crandell knew what he was thinking, could read the mixture of frustration and relief in the other man though he couldn't have said how that was possible. "You still calling yourself Crandell?" Gordon asked, looking up once more. He looked tired, more tired than a few days ride should have made him seem, though the fineness of his clothes suggested he didn’t sleep rough all that often. "Or have you recovered your senses?" "I'm not crazy," Crandell said. He might have lost his memory but he had to cling to something and Gordon, this man he knew nothing about, was trying to take away what little he had. He felt his hand tighten on the hammer, looked down and saw the way his skin whitened across the knuckles. "No," Gordon said. "You're not." He looked around then, looking like a prospective buyer eyeing up the worth of the farmstead. "Can I water my horse, at least?" "Go ahead," Crandell said, watching Gordon carefully from his vantage point as the other man dismounted and then led his unprepossessing bay over to the trough. "And then you can get the hell out of here." "Whose place is this?" Gordon asked, as he watched his horse drink. Crandell watched him for a few moments, taking in the gun belt and the saddle scabbard, neither of which looked particularly new. "Are you some kind of lawman?" he asked, ignoring Gordon's question. He hadn't seen a badge, and Gordon sure as hell danced round the subject of how they might know one another with some skill, but that didn't mean he wasn't after a substantial reward. He didn’t believe that government story - who'd really get paid for traveling round the country the way Gordon had described, even for the Treasury Department? "Some kind," Gordon said, turning his attention back to where Crandell still sat above his eye line. He had to take a step back to do it, the half-smile on his lips again teasingly familiar. "Or so you keep telling me." He looked at Gordon for a moment, watching the expression shift from amusement to concern, a shift he could read so easily that he almost believed the other man's stories that they knew one another. "I knew it," he said. "It's a good-sized reward, so I guess I should get used to the idea." "Reward?" Gordon's expression was puzzled. "Damn it, Jim," he continued, "is this still about that wanted poster?" The words made him wish he had his gun belt, since a hammer would be a poor substitute if Gordon drew on him, and he wondered whether the other man would figure it was easier to take him back dead than try and take him alive. The thought made him move, dropping the hammer on the slope of the roof and sliding down the other side himself, twisting to catch hold of the edge and swing himself down to the ground. It was still quite a drop, even if that side of the roof sloped further than the front did - from the other side of the building he heard Gordon curse, even as he ran for the bunkhouse. Gordon was faster than he looked, or he must have been ready for his prize to try and make a run for it - Crandell heard him following, even as he concentrated on getting to the bunkhouse and his gun. He'd reached the doorway, even grabbed the gun belt, his fingers wrapping round the familiar butt of the revolver when Gordon slammed into him, and the two of them hit the floor together. The other man's weight knocked the breath from his lungs, the two of them struggling for the handgun as Gordon's fingers wrapped around his wrist and tried to break Crandell's grip. A twisting move and Crandell's wrist cracked against the leg of the bunk, loosening his grasp and sending the revolver spinning away across the floor and under one of the other bunks. Gordon was a warm, all-encompassing weight, one hand still gripping Crandell's wrist while the other arm was wrapped across his chest, pinning the two of them together. Struggle as he might, Crandell found it impossible to break free, no chance of leverage to throw the other man off. Gordon's breath was hoarse and hot along the side of his face and he seemed to have no plans to let go any time soon. "I can't believe you were going to shoot me," Gordon rasped, when he got his breath back. "Me, of all people." Crandell tried to relax, in the hope he could lull the other man into a false sense of security then dislodge his captor. "If I thought you knew what you were doing," Gordon continued, "I'd be worried." He hadn't relaxed his embrace, though, Crandell realized - even as he continued to speak, Gordon's arm was tight across his chest, his fingers still in a vice-like grip of Crandell's wrist. It was as though he thought Crandell would run again if he let him loose and it seemed Gordon had no intention of moving any time soon. He could feel something else too, something so unexpected that for a moment Crandell thought he was imagining things. Gordon's body was heavy, like a living blanket draped across him as the heat of his body seeped through their clothing, but there was something else. Something even hotter, pressing hard against Crandell's ass. "Let me go," he gritted out, realization starting to sink in. There was something about this too, something familiar and not completely unwelcome. And his own body, treacherous and out of control, was reacting to Gordon's embrace in ways he couldn’t have expected. "Damn it," Crandell said, as he began to struggle again in earnest. "Damn you, Gordon." "What?" An elbow caught Gordon in the stomach, making his breath whuff from his body. His arm moved, hand slipping from Crandell's waist as he began to struggle free, fingers brushing over Crandell's groin and the unmistakable evidence of what was happening. "Oh god." Gordon backed off then, letting go even as Crandell broke free. The two of them faced one another, then Gordon shook his head and backed out of the bunkhouse, leaving Crandell alone. --------------------------------------------------- He hadn't moved from the bunk, even when he heard the sound of Gordon's horse heading away from the farm. The idea that he'd reacted that way, to another man no less, had struck him like a blow. But if Gordon knew him, then surely he knew he would have reacted that way? Why then had he turned and fled, leaving Crandell alone when he could have taken advantage of being armed and forced Crandell to accompany him into town and to the sheriff's office? None of this made sense. If he'd been in Yuma, reacting that way to another man would have been suicide, and yet Crandell couldn't deny how he'd reacted to Gordon's embrace. And how Gordon had reacted to it as well, even if he'd been horrified enough to leave. "Are you in there, Mr. Crandell?" Mrs. Watson's voice broke through the miasma of Crandell's thoughts. He wasn't ready to deal with her, but he couldn't be rude - she'd taken him on when he had little to recommend him, and he owed her gratitude at least. "I'm here, Mrs. Watson," he said, glad to see that the evidence of what had happened before wasn't there when he stood and headed for the bunkhouse door. "Did you want something?" "Who was that man?" She wasn't stupid, or deaf, Crandell knew that. There was no way she could really have missed that some kind of confrontation had happened, even if she didn't know the finer details of it. "Some friend of yours?" The idea was ludicrous, even if it gained strength in Crandell's mind minute by minute. Gordon had claimed to know him, though he'd called him by another name, and he hadn't drawn on him, but did that make him a friend? "Not exactly," he said, finally. "I don't really know." Mrs. Watson shook her head at that. "Well, he certainly left in a hurry," she continued. "I was going to ask him to supper, but I guess that'll have to wait for another day." She looked at him then, as if she hadn't really been paying attention before. "You should wash up, Mr. Crandell. You look as though you've been rolling around in the dirt." --------------------------------------------------- By the time Sunday came around, Gordon still hadn't reappeared and Crandell was starting to wonder what was going on. The Watsons had gone into town, heading for the ramshackle church that stood on the end of the small row of stores that made up the settlement, and had left him alone at the farmstead. He was glad of that, glad of the fact that they didn't seem to mind that he wasn't all that talkative over breakfast either, since he wasn't sure where to begin with what he was thinking about and he no intention of telling them anyway. It was all Gordon's fault, he was certain of that, for who else could he blame it on? The dreams had started again, with Gordon playing a starring role in them as he had done before, but this time they were subtly altered. It was odd - the dreams were all about the two of them, exclusively, with little outside the universe they shared. There were no dreams of childhood sweethearts, no feminine presences at all within what he dreamed about, though the detail and the substance of those dreams eluded him once he woke. His own reaction to them didn't fade quite so easily, to his embarrassment. It was frustrating to think that if Gordon held the answers, he was nowhere to be seen. Crandell hadn't expected him to give up so easily, not after tracking him for days on end, even though the purpose behind his pursuit was still unclear. If it was the reward for his capture, he was the most ineffectual bounty hunter Crandell had ever seen, so somehow he was certain that wasn't what it was all about. Not that he was sure what was going on, not any more. He'd been certain he understood how things worked, despite the fact he didn't really know where he fitted into all of this, and now he wasn't so certain. For all he knew, Gordon might be right - he might not be Robert Crandell, despite the evidence of his own eyes and the wanted poster. The only person who could answer that, of course, was Gordon. He was saddling his own horse when he heard the sound of another horse approaching. It was too early for the Watsons to be back, and besides they'd left in the wagon. Crandell walked out of the barn and found that it was Gordon, who pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted without saying a word. It was odd, really - he'd wanted to see Gordon again, because there was so much the other man could tell him, but now they were face to face again he didn't know how to begin. "How do I know you?" he asked, finally, figuring he needed to start somewhere. That he knew Gordon was hardly in doubt, even if he didn't remember meeting him. "And don't give me any of that 'Jim' business." "I told you before, we work for the government," Gordon said, leading his horse over to the trough without asking this time. "We've been partners for a while now." "And the wanted poster?" He'd lost it, somewhere between the first town he remembered and here, but he could recall it perfectly - Robert Crandell, wanted for robbery and murder, reward $500. "Fake." It was a relief to hear the word, because of what it meant about himself, if not about what Gordon had said before. He'd been certain he wasn't a killer, no matter what the poster bearing his picture had said, certain that he'd been wrongly convicted, and now there was nothing to worry about after all. "Thank god," he said, and knew that he meant it. He could tell that Gordon knew it too. "You were incensed the reward was so low," Gordon said, from his position by the trough. He'd sat on its edge, holding the horse's reins loosely, and now he was watching Crandell intently. The scrutiny made him uncomfortable, except that there was something fond about it as well, so much so that he didn't know what to think. "The one before was $10,000..." "You said I wasn't Crandell. I don't doubt that you know me and I know you, though I can't remember anything much..." Gordon didn't move, but seemed somehow more attentive. "What happened before, when you took off like you'd been burned..." "Just adrenaline, my boy," Gordon said, his tone effusive. "Think nothing of it." He wasn't convinced by that answer, but it seemed clear that Gordon had no intention of saying anything more, or at least not right now and possibly never without some persuasion. Crandell wondered about this, thinking that adrenaline was an unlikely explanation for both of them reacting like that at the same time, but he didn't have much to base an alternate theory on. He had to admit to himself, even if Gordon felt differently, that he didn't mind how Gordon had reacted to him as much as he probably ought. "Can you prove any of what you're saying?" He watched Gordon's face carefully as he spoke, looking for any sign of deception, but there was none - all he saw was relief, which he could only assume was because he hadn't pursued the previous subject any further. "Or do you just expect me to take this all on faith?" Gordon looked down at the ground for a moment, as if he hoped to find the answer there. "I think you know whether I'm telling the truth. Isn't that so, Jim?" "I don't know what to think," he said, though the use of the name Gordon kept insisting was his had struck some kind of chord this time. "But I want proof. Something black and white, not these stories of yours." --------------------------------------------------- In the end, Gordon persuaded him they should leave together, though Crandell was certain afterwards that he hadn't put up much of an argument. The chance of getting back his past was too tempting to pass up, no matter what the price of that might be. He said his goodbyes to the Watsons, who were sorry to see him go, then changed back into his fancy suit, saddled his horse and headed into town. Gordon met him at the saloon, and there was no mistaking the fact that his eyes lit up at the sight of Crandell dressed that way. Then again, he was probably also relieved that Crandell had shown up this time, instead of leaving town. "That's more like it, my boy," Gordon said. "I hadn't seen you that poorly dressed for a long time." Crandell couldn't help the visceral reaction to those words or the tone in which they were spoken. More evidence, he supposed, that there was something between them even if his only proof was the way he responded to Gordon and the things he dreamed about at night. They were headed east now, the two of them riding slowly towards the rising sun, and it felt comfortable and right. Gordon didn't say much as they traveled, though Crandell could tell without knowing how that the other man was itching to say all sorts of things. He'd heard enough from Gordon, though - enough to know he wasn’t completely sure what he believed any more, since what he'd thought he'd known and what Gordon told him didn’t sit comfortably together. "Where are we going?" he asked, after they'd ridden for a couple of hours. He'd trusted Gordon, following him without question even though he had no idea about their destination, but there were limits. "You'll see," Gordon said. "We're just going where you were headed before you led me on a wild goose chase." That was all he would say, an obstinate expression taking the place of his usual placid gaze, and Crandell didn't push him. Night was falling as they headed over a small rise, the land dropping to an expansive vista ahead of them. A couple of miles away lay railway tracks, snaking across the barren landscape, and standing in a siding off those tracks was an engine and carriages. "A train?" "Not just any train," Gordon said. "Home." He turned his horse, allowed it to pick its way carefully down the slope in the fading light and Crandell followed suit, trusting his horse not to put a foot wrong. --------------------------------------------------- Like his suit, the train was fancy when they got up close, and a warm and welcoming light was shining through the carriage windows at the rear. "Go on in," Gordon said, holding out a hand for Crandell's reins. "I'll stable your horse." He handed over his reins, dismounted and then watched for a moment as Gordon led his horse away, disappearing into the twilight round the back of the train. Crandell found himself looking at the train itself - like Gordon, it seemed familiar, so he had to believe he had been here before. Maybe it wasn't home, like Gordon said it was, but it was certainly somewhere he knew. When he eventually mounted the small steps at the back of the last carriage, the door handle turned under his hand and he let the door swing open of its own accord. Inside, the carriage was plushly upholstered in a style that seemed to underline that this was somewhere inhabited solely by men. It was all familiar, even the smell of the place, and he stepped forward into the carriage almost instinctively. "Anything look familiar?" That was Gordon's voice, and when Crandell looked around he saw Gordon standing in a doorway at the other end of the carriage. "All of it," he admitted, surprised at himself that the words came so easy. Gordon smiled, a slow and lazy smile, one that made Crandell's heart lurch though he couldn't have said why. "You said this was home." That was a statement, definitely, and he didn't need to see Gordon nod in response to know it was true. "I guess I should give you the tour," Gordon said, stepping into the small parlor and beckoning Crandell forward. "I should warn you though," he continued, "be careful what you touch." Gordon reached out towards the billiards table that took up a large part of the room and picked up one of the white balls. When he feinted throwing the ball, Crandell flinched. "Don't," he said, though he couldn't have said why. Gordon looked at him, then replaced the ball carefully on the baize. There was a crazy jumble of images in his head, but they made no sense at all. "What is it?" Gordon asked, taking a step forward. He looked concerned. Crandell held up his hand, and the gesture stopped Gordon in his tracks. "It's kind of crazy, but I think I remember being here before," he said, looking round at the room. "There was a Chinaman...?" Crandell reached out and picked up one of the billiards cues, hefting it in his hand, before a swift movement made the end of the cue slide off, revealing the blade below. "Now I know I'm not imagining things," he concluded. "You're not," Gordon said, as he came over and took the blade from his hand. "Let me put this somewhere safe, and I'll show you the rest of the train." --------------------------------------------------- By the time the ten cent tour was over, he was starting to feel more than a little uncomfortable despite how solicitous Gordon was being. It took a little persuasion, but eventually he was able to shut himself up in the room that Gordon swore was his own, though he was certain that Gordon expected him to wake up the next morning knowing that he was whoever it was Gordon thought he was. Now, as he stretched out on the bed in West's quarters, he wasn't really sure what to think. That he was James West seemed to be almost beyond argument, though he had no idea who that man was - still, he'd had little enough idea who Robert Crandell was either, except for the little the wanted poster had told him. And that had been wrong, though he hadn't known it at the time, except instinctively. Before lying down, he'd inspected the contents of the wardrobe carefully, seeing the companions to the fancy suit he'd been wearing and more besides. Whoever this West was, he liked the good things in life and there was nothing wrong with that. He seemed to be remembering things, odd snippets of his life before, flashing into his mind like images in a zoetrope. They told him little enough about who West really was as he had no context for much of what he saw, though he was certain Gordon wanted him to be West, to remember being West, more than he wanted anything else. And he had to admit that he liked what he saw - a man of action, not afraid to take a chance - not to mention liking what Gordon saw in him. Would it be so bad, he wondered, to try and convince Gordon he remembered more than he really did? That he accepted he was James West, with all that entailed, and wanted to know everything Gordon had to tell him? Or would the other man see through that and refuse to play along? He couldn't help thinking about what had happened in the bunkhouse, either. He ran his fingers over the bruise that circled his wrist, evidence of the tightness of Gordon's grip as they'd struggled. He remembered the other sensation too, the feeling of heat against his ass, the response of his own body to Gordon's proximity, as if he was accustomed to that closeness. Was that part of why Gordon wanted West back so badly? Because he was used to that kind of relationship with the other man? It probably should have repelled him, but he didn't think it did. At least the response of his body had been an honest one, as far as he knew, so clearly West didn't have a problem with Gordon that way. He closed his eyes, brought his hand up to rest on the fly of his trousers and thought about what Gordon's embrace had reminded him of, the odd sense of security it had given him even at its most claustrophobic. He felt himself stir a little at the memory, a subtle movement beneath his palm, and smiled. He didn't know what it all meant, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that this all felt very much like home. --------------------------------------------------- He slept for a couple of hours then, unexpectedly dropping off to sleep when he hadn't been expecting to relax enough, and woke up completely disoriented by the almost-familiar surroundings. It was the middle of the night, or at least he thought it was. A glance out of the shuttered window told him little, as the sky was overcast with clouds that loomed heavy with rain - a good night to be indoors. He lay down again, in the darkness, and considered what to do next. As much as he might like to go back to sleep, all the things that crowded his mind gave little chance of that, the sensations of recent dreams vying with what seemed like memories. This room was full of them, as was the train itself, if only he could reach out and reclaim them. But could he do that unaided? He swung his legs off the bed and sat on its edge for a moment, considering his options. A part of him didn't want to disturb Gordon, but another part, its voice stronger by the moment, told him Gordon wasn't far away, and his treacherous body responded to that thought. He had no certainty of how he'd be received, of course, but the mix of dream and memory convinced him that he wouldn't be rebuffed. His feet were quiet, boots now left behind in his room, as he opened the door from his compartment into the corridor. Gordon's room was the next one along, and he closed the door to his own room quietly behind him. A thin bar of light illuminated one end of the corridor, coming from the parlor rather than from where he knew Gordon's room lay. He headed in that direction, cat-footed, pausing just this side of the door as he listened intently. There was no sound from the other side, nothing that would indicate whether Gordon was really in there, though it was hard to believe he'd go to bed and leave a light burning in an uninhabited room. The door opened noiselessly under his hand, and even the muted light of the lamp made him squint a little as he entered the parlor. Gordon was there, stretched out on the nearby couch, nodding a little over the book he'd been reading. It was a comfortable, domestic scene and one which struck an incredible chord within him - if he'd ever had any doubts that he was James West, the familiarity of this scenario banished them forever. He crossed closer to where Gordon sat, but though he was still as quiet as before, the other man's head jerked up as he approached. "Jim." He seemed to regret the name even as he spoke it. "I'm sorry," Gordon continued. "I know you don't think you're James West." "I don't know about that." He wasn't sure what he knew any more. From when he'd first lost his memory, to his time as Robert Crandell, he'd been looking for certainty and it had eluded him. He'd been sure he wasn't the kind of person Crandell's wanted poster made him out to be, but he wasn't sure he was the kind of person Gordon thought West was either. "I don't know what I think any more." Gordon cocked his head at that, curiosity taking over, then swung his legs off the couch to make room. "Sit," he said. "You look like you're about to drop." The couch wasn't all that large, but he did as he was bid, finding that when he sat his thigh was pressed against Gordon's - he could have reached round and draped an arm across the other man's shoulders without difficulty. Was that what he wanted to do? He couldn't be sure. "Tell me about James West," he said, amused by the way Gordon's head jerked round at that. "And you. I don't call you 'Gordon', do I?" "Artemus. Artie." Gordon paused for a moment, his expression still curious. "I'm not sure what to tell you, Jim. Did you remember something else?" Gordon looked worried and he wondered what that meant, unsurprised by now that he could recognize the other man's moods so easily, even if he didn't know what caused them to change. "Nothing substantial." He shifted in his seat, pressing his leg against Artie's. "But you could convince me." "Convince you?" "That I'm James West." Artie's leg was still pressed against his, warm and real through the layers of silk dressing gown and cotton trouser that separated the two of them. "Or of anything else you want." Artie laughed then, the laugh a warm shadow of the hoarse bark he'd had as the small town barber and he took that as his cue to move, leaning over to plant his hand firmly on the arm of the couch and trap Gordon beneath himself. "Anything?" Gordon asked, both curiosity and puzzlement long fled from his face. He seemed, if anything, relieved - that was a cue for boldness if ever he saw one. "Anything, Artie," Jim said. "Anything at all." It was simplicity itself for him to straddle Artie's leg in one smooth movement, a knee pressing into the cushion so that Artie's thigh was solid between his own, the pressure of it against his groin reminding Jim just how quickly his erection had come to life. He leaned over a little further, free hand slipping underneath Artie's dressing gown where it draped across his groin. The book had slipped from Artie's grasp, falling to the floor, and his hands rested on Jim's hips now, not urging him to move or pushing him away but just there, steady and reassuring, as if they'd always been there. "I should have dragged you back here," Artie said. He sounded a little breathless, but that might have had something to do with where Jim had his hand. "When I caught up with you that day and you pulled a gun on me." "I'd like to have seen you try," Jim said. Artie moved his leg a little, shifting in his seat to let it slide between Jim's and brush his erection in its path. "Oh god, Artie." "Do you remember this?" Artie asked. He shifted again, fingers tightening on Jim's hips as he held the other man in place, the movement a torment. "Do you know who I am now? Who you are?" "Sure," Jim said, going with the movement, though it made his voice a little breathless too, as he tried to make his brain work enough to form coherent words. "Artie. My partner. And I'm James West." "I'm convinced," Artie said, laughter in his voice, as Jim felt himself harden in response to the movement. He could tell Artie felt it too, and this time he didn't have the opportunity to run away. Neither of them did. "Welcome back."
~ fin ~
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