Special Secret Service Agent James West was just putting on his form-fitting, tailored blue suit as the special 4-4-0 train named Lyro was on its way to a yet-unknown mission that would make use of the dual agents and friends, Mr. West and Artemus Gordon.
Aretemus Gordon was already sitting at a table, eating a very tantalizing gormet breakfast, and drinking lightly sweetened-and-creamed hot cup of coffee.
"Good morning, Artemus," said a smiling, exceptionally handsome Jim West as he sat on the other side of the table, pouring himself a black cup of coffee. Waiting patiently for Artemus to wash down the thoroughly chewed food in his mouth, before answering in a friendly manner only reserved for the best of buddies.
"Good morning, Jim," replied Artemus Gordon, while gesturing toward the collection of comestibles on silver platters, with equally silver domed covers helping to keep all the food warm and delectible. "Want some Eggs Florentine. The added spinach is at just the right amount. And the Cumberland sausages are an 85-percent balance, with absolutely delicious spices and herbs making up the rest. Mm-mm."
"Yeah, sure, Artie," replied Jim West with a smile still adorning his exceedingly handsome, and tanned, face. "Any word on what our next assignment happens to be...and where?"
"No," answered Artemus Gordon, in-between bites washed down by incredibly tasty coffee. "The telegraph's been exeptionally quiet so far."
"Maybe, this one time," responded Jim, even as he spooned over, onto his clean plate, some Eggs Florentine, and a cut-off hunk of Cumberland sausage, "we'll arrive in a town that's not in the throes of some sort of villainy that the local authorities can't take care of."
"Maybe," replied Artemus, as he spooned himself over some more Eggs Florentine and cut-off Cumberland sausage. "Maybe not. That's why I'm going to enjoy this breakfast, while I can."
Just then, as if the gods were mocking them and their hopes for a peaceful rest in the next town, the hidden-in-fake-books, on a desk closer to the entrance/exit from this special train car, began tick-tacking in a manner to gain immediate attention.
"Guess we both spoke a little too soon, Artie."
"Guess so, Jim."
Jim West gives a little self-amused chuckle, even as both of them dabbed their mouths with the fine linen lap-cloths, before tossing them onto the table, and making their way to the desk in question.
After opening up the fake books, and exposing, fully, the still tick-tacking wireless telegraph device, used to tell them about some sort of dire situation for them to solve, Artemus Gordon, after seating himself at that self-same desk, tick-tacked back for those at the other end to proceed with their message.
The tick-tacking now took on a more readable, and understandable, pace, as Artemus wrote down the letters and words it related. Until, at last, the entire message was fully formed and understood...
"Come on, Artie," asked Jim West of his longtime friend and colleague. "What's the bad news?"
"Well," heavily sighed Artemus Gordon, "it seems that a small town a few more minutes up the rails, called Devil's Pitchfork, has fallen silent for the past several days. We're supposed to stop and check it out. Take whatever steps are necessary to help out whomever is still there...if anyone at all...then file our report via the telegraph here in this train car."
"Well," also sighed, more heavily than Artemus moments before, Jim as he walked over to retrieve his favored hand gun, already in its holster, which he put on and tied down for quick-draw action, should such become necessary, "time to gear up and, once we stop, get the horses off their traveling car in order to make our way into the Devil's Pitchfork."
Having closed the fake books about their wireless telegraph, Artemus also retrieved his holstered weapon in order to put it on and tie it down, much as Jim had just done...
"Let's just hope that the town doesn't live up to his nefarious name, my friend."