Wild Wild West Fans! A Songfic for Ross Martin's Birthday, March 22
The days after The Night Of The Pistoleros, James West is still recovering from his shock at the death and resurrection of his partner Artemus Gordon.
A songfic inspired by Love Is A Rose by Neil Young
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Drw_LGvl1n0
Love Is A Rose
Love is a rose
but you better not pick it
It only grows when it's on the vine.
A handful of thorns and
you'll know you've missed it
You lose your love
when you say the word "mine".
~Neil Young~
The Wanderer was impatiently waiting on a roundabout, ready for its engine to be stoked and its wheels set in motion. It was eager to head out on its next assignment for President Grant and the Secret Service. The Wanderer’s favorite passengers, James West and Artemus Gordon, unfortunately, were three day’s ride south, tying up loose ends with Colonel Roper at Fort Challenge.
James West would not soon forget this last assignment. Artemus Gordon had died in his arms. Shot in the back. He had tried to hear his last heartbeat, but had failed. There was no heartfelt goodbye or promise to meet again beyond the veil. James had buried his partner, avenged his death. Yet had only begun to mourn him.
James would mourn Artemus for all the days of his life. He knew this. He had deep regrets. Things he never told his partner. If only he had a second chance.
Four tortuous days later, the real Artie had escaped and returned to Jim’s side. Smiling and joking as always. As if Jim’s heart had not stopped with Artie’s. Jim had been given a second chance and all he could say was “Thanks, Artie.” But he meant every word.
Now they were together again. Heading home to the The Wanderer, which was home to both men these days. Jim watched Artie, his chestnut horse slightly ahead and to the right of Jim’s faithful steed. It had rained here and the thirsty plants of the chaparral were sending up blooms to light their way.
It was the late afternoon hour when the sun’s waning light gave the green earth a wondrous glow. Artie stopped his horse with a quiet, “Whoa, there,” and turned to smile at Jim whose horse had sidled up next to him.
“Look at that old abandoned leanto, James my boy. It’s covered in red roses run wild.” Artie put a hand to his heart and recited. “Of all flowres, methinks a rose is best.”
“I put a red rose on your coffin, Artie. I...I don’t much favor them right now.”
“ I’m sorry, Jim. We haven’t had a chance to talk about… my death. I’m quite tired and hungry, aren’t you? How about we make camp here. There’s a stream running along that ridge, see?.”
“Sure, Artie. This is as good a place as any.”
Artie smiled and nodded. He dismounted and walked his horse to the stream for water . Jim just stared at the red roses. He didn’t see beauty, he saw blood. Artie’s blood on his hands.
He closed his eyes. He loved Artie. He knew it now. He had been given a second chance. He knew that too. What he did not know was what to do with it. Jim dismounted and followed Artie.
Love is a rose
but you better not pick it
It only grows when it's on the vine.
A handful of thorns and
you'll know you've missed it
You lose your love
when you say the word "mine".
It was pretty country. The sun was setting behind the small hills in the distance, its last rays bringing out the brilliant colors that hid during the day in brown rocks and sandy soil. Jim found plenty of dead wood among new green growth for a modest fire.
It wasn’t cold, but Jim was concerned that Artie was worn out by his ordeal. He seemed fine, but the rope burns on his wrists were still raw and soft moans were coming from the figure sprawled in front of the fire as he ate Jim’s stew and cornbread without complaint. That in itself made Jim worry.
“Artie? You okay? You do realize you're eating my cooking don’t you?”
“Your cooking tastes delectable tonight. I’ve been looking forward to something hot and homey. Even your stew fits that bill.”
“Artie.”
“I’m fine, Jim. Just sore from hanging from a pipe for four days. Really. There’s no need for concern…”
Suddenly, Jim jumped to his feet, spilling some of his coffee from his tin cup. “You were dead, Artie!” He exclaimed. “For four days! I have a right to be concerned about… I… I have a right! Artie?”
Artie put his plate down and rose slowly. “I’m sorry, Jim.”
Artie came to stand in front of Jim. He took the cup from his hand and placed it by the fire to keep it warm. Then he turned and placed both hands lightly on Jim’s arms.
“I should have done this at the Fort, James, my boy.”
Artie pulled Jim into a comforting embrace. “I’m alive. I was never dead. You mourned me and I can never tell you how much that means to me. For who in this whole wide world, would mourn for Artemus Gordon except for his dearest friend James West. Thank you. I love you, Jim.”
Jim held Artie as close as he could and let the tears fall. He never cried a tear for Artie’s death, because he had died, too. The dead don’t cry or even feel pain. But now he would cry with painful joy for Artie’s life, that had been given back to him.
They stood that way till the dark took over the night and Jim’s tears had been spent. Artie held him and spoke soft words to end the sorrow, gently petting his neck and back and placing barely there kisses on his hair and cheek.
Jim didn’t say a word. He had never been so afraid of speaking his mind. Artie was his rose. Thorns and beauty, all his. But if he plucked him from the vine, all they had together would wither.
Artie settled Jim before the fire and threw on some more wood, poking the embers with a long stick to renew their glowing life. Finally Jim spoke causing Artie to look up.
“Artie, when you were dead. It occurred to me I didn’t know all that much about you.”
“What? You know me inside and out, my boy. You know me better than…”
“I know, Artie. I know you, but your childhood…”
Artie sighed. “Ah, yes. Even the great Gordon must have had a mother.”
“Artie?”
“My mother was an actress in New York. I never knew my father. My mother abandoned me when I was five and the acting troupe she’d been in at the time sort of took me on as part of the cast and crew.
When I was old enough, I spent my days reading or, if I was lucky, hiding in a corner of the New York City Library. To this day I have a fondness for lions. I spent my nights on or behind the stage.
I have memories of many kindnesses and much pain. But The Wanderer is the first place I ever called home in my heart. That’s because you live there, Jim. I’m happy with my life, by your side. You show me the best of this old world.”
I wanna see what's never been seen,
I wanna live that age old dream.
Come on, lad, we can go together
Let's take the best right now,
Take the best right now.
Jim smiled and put a tentative arm around Artie’s shoulder. Artie took his hand.
“My mother died after giving birth to my little brother, Joseph. Joe and my Pa died in the War. I was a farm boy. Hay, horses, cows and chickens. Pure and simple. Till the War. You know Artie, I wish I had known you then. You would have come to town to give a show and I would have given you a lift in my wagon.”
“Sounds like heaven, Jim.”
I wanna go to an old hoe-down
Long ago in a western town.
Pick me up cause my feet are draggin'
Give me a lift and I'll hay your wagon.
Jim pulled Artie closer. “You look done in, Artie. Maybe we should turn in, huh?”
Artie nodded and rose. He settled into his bed roll as Jim checked on the horses and firewood.
“Jim, you know I’m not going anywhere without you,” Artie said softly as he watched Jim make his evening rounds. Always meticulous, Jim seemed even more cautious tonight with Artie’s well being obviously on his mind.
“Sure, Artie.” Jim sat and pulled out his gun, counting the cartridges.
“You know you can tell me anything and I’ll accept it. I’ll stand by you no matter what.” Artie stretched out, pillowing his head with his hands.
“Of course, Artie. I know that.” He slipped the gun back in its holster.
“Jim, you know I’m an actor. I’ve seen it all… and done most of it.”
“Artie?” Jim turned and looked at him questioningly.
“I’m just saying, Jim. If you ever want to make sure I’m alive… well…”
Artie smiled, then turned and opened his bed roll in a welcoming gesture.
Jim smiled, pulled off his boots and got in next to Artie, being careful of thorns.
Love is a rose
but you better not pick it
It only grows when it's on the vine.
A handful of thorns and
you'll know you've missed it
You lose your love
when you say the word "mine".
Mine, mine.