The Last Stand
Chapter 1
by
Four of Hearts

The night was cold and black, and the stars were scattered across the endless sky like a million twinkling diamonds. The tall man lit a small fire to heat some coffee and warm his raw hands. He was grateful that the biting wind had stilled at last and the prairie had grown quiet except for a few yipping coyotes in the distance. It had been a long trip, and, surprisingly enough, he had come through it unscathed. If only he'd pushed on tonight he might have made Dodge City by morning, but the bitter temperatures and the fact that the big buckskin he was riding was tired forced him to at least take a short rest.

It was a miserable night, the double tendrils of dark and cold invading his bones, trying to take him prisoner in their grasp and hoping to lull him into a sleep from which he might never wake. By habit he could never totally relax enough to sleep when on the trail so when he huddled as close as possible to the small fire he had built, it was not with the intention of sleeping, just resting for an hour or two until it was safe to continue.

As he crouched near the heat, he could not help but picture the face of the young cowboy he'd shared a drink with last night. Sharing a drink was hardly a good way to describe what happened, but the face continued to haunt him as he thought back to the previous evening. The town in which he'd found himself wasn't much to write home about. It had consisted of about six saloons, half of which were little more than tents with whiskey bottles and beer barrels balanced on long trestle tables. The rest of the town consisted of one boarding house, a livery stable and no law. Nevertheless, he had been tired and cold after spending four nights on the trail, and decided that any form of bed and hot food would be welcome. After finding a room, he headed to the least seedy-looking saloon and ordered a beer and a bowl of the hot stew they were serving up.

While the warm food slid comfortingly down his gullet, he spotted a strange sandy-haired young man mumbling to himself at the end of the bar. He couldn't help but notice the expression on his face, a kind of glazed stare into the distance. Matt had seen it many times before during the war when young men – barely more than boys really – experienced their first battle. The gunfire, the blood, the screams, and then the dead; the horror of it all left them like that. It was not something men were supposed to experience. Matt attempted to strike up a conversation with the young cowboy. He asked him where his home was.

"There is no home now," came the murmured reply, but it was not really a response to the Marshal's question. He was repeating the same words over and over, like a litany. "There is no home anymore, no Akinsville, no Molly, no baby... It's all gone. They took her away..." There were tears on the man's face, tears that coursed their way from reddened, dark-rimmed eyes and down dirt-stained cheeks. He would wipe them away with a tattered shirtsleeve and then stare silently into the distance for a while. Then the words would come again, followed once more by tears. Matt looked around but none of the other occupants of the saloon seemed to even notice, much less care about the young cowboy.

He ordered another bowl of stew and placed it in front of the man.

"What's your name, son?"

The young cowboy looked towards him with those hollow eyes, but Matt knew he wasn't seeing anything. His mind was lost in a world of horror and misery.

"Here, try to eat something." He picked up the spoon and placed it in the man's hand, "C'mon, it'll help you feel better."

"No, no, I can't live without Molly." He threw the spoon to the floor and staggered out through the crowded barroom.

Matt watched him go. Something unspeakable had happened to that boy but he had no way of knowing what. Matt left the saloon and looked up and down the street. There was no sign of him and although he was worried about the young cowboy, there was not much else he could do. He walked up and down the only street in town, looking in all the saloons but could not find him again. Finally he gave up and went back to his room at the boarding house.

Now he was back out on the trail, only a few hours from Dodge. The first light of dawn was barely visible and he was up, making coffee and preparing to move on for those last few miles.

As he saddled the buckskin he began to shiver. The cold was beginning to win out over his determination. He had about four hours to go before he would see the welcome sight of Dodge City, and he was beginning to wish he had pushed ahead last night. Feeling chilled to the bone and utterly miserable he urged the animal into a jog. Once Buck was warmed up he would get him into a gentle lope.

The lawman was making good time-another hour or so and he would see Dodge ahead. The image of the stove in the jail being stacked high and glowing hot filled his mind. Maybe Festus would have a pot of fresh coffee brewing. Then it seemed that the bubble of luck that had accompanied him on this trip burst open and everything went bad. The worst that could happen, the buckskin pulled up lame.

Hoping the animal had just picked up a rock, he kneeled down and one at a time inspected the animal's feet. No rocks, just a swollen tendon over his left front pastern. To ride him further would cause permanent damage. The only thing the big man could do was walk the rest of the way. Picking up both reins he gently led the animal on. It would be a long, cold trip on foot now. He would be lucky to make it home before dark.

As the afternoon progressed the temperature dropped even further. He had no feeling in the fingers of his right hand now; he could see the reins lying there, but was no longer able to feel them. Maybe it would be a good idea to stop for a while. He could light a fire and warm up a little. The idea was tempting - but he knew it was just the cold trying to take over his mind. The only way to fight it was to keep going, just keep putting one foot in front of the other. The horse would stiffen up if he stopped and he did not want to have to abandon him out here on the cold prairie. Somehow he kept going, one foot in front of the other, each step bringing him closer to the warmth and comfort he needed.

It had been more than three weeks now since he had left home. Finally there ahead, just as the light was fading he saw the first outline of the city in the distance.

Even though he pulled the collar of his coat as tightly around him as possible, the cold biting air invaded the very core of his body. He stumbled several times, and once he even fell to the ground. He could willingly have stayed there he was so completely exhausted. This can't be happening. Get up, keep moving... Kitty... She's waiting for you. Think of Kitty...

Eventually he was there at the end of Front Street and pure determination got him to the livery. The big door was closed against the weather so he kicked at it and called for Moss. The old man finally appeared, wrapped in a well-patched horse blanket and rubbing his hands trying to keep warm.

"Marshal, I'm glad you finally made it home. Festus has been looking for you every day for the last week. I think there is something bad headed towards Dodge. He's getting real nervous."

Matt was not too concerned. Festus could stretch things all out of proportion at times.

"I need to wrap his front left," Matt said, indicating the horse's leg. "He's got a swollen tendon. I had to walk him for the last three hours."

"You go on down and check with Festus. I'll take care of the buckskin for you."

Matt took his rifle, canteen and bedroll from the saddle and turned to leave. There were only a few people he would trust to care for his horse – fortunately Moss was one of them.

"Oh, and Marshal," Moss continued. "You look like you could do with a little care yourself."

Matt said nothing. He had been thinking approximately the same thing, although he was quite sure that what he had in mind was not quite the same thing that Moss was recommending.

He walked wearily along to the Marshal's office. It was dark by now and lamps were lit in most of the buildings. Not many people had ventured out in this cold wind that came from the north and cut through however much clothing a man could wear.

He opened the door to the office and Festus, who had been lying on the cot, jumped up.

"Well, Matthew, if you ain't a sight fer sore eyes." Festus went on spilling words out all over the place.

Dillon had no hope of keeping up with the story he was trying to tell. "Festus, you have to slow down. I am cold, tired and hungry and before I can listen to anything else, I need some hot coffee."

"I'll fetch it fer ya', Matthew, but first you have to read this here telegram."

He dug around through a pile of papers on the desk as Matt removed his trail coat and tried to get warm by the heat from the old potbelly stove in the corner. He sat on the cot with a grunt and removed his boots so his feet could thaw out.

Festus finally found the telegram he was looking for; apparently, it had been marked it with a red "X" so he knew it was the important one. He brought it over to where the marshal was sitting trying to get some circulation back in his feet and carefully handed it to him. "Here, you read this, Matthew, whilst I heat ya up some coffee."

Dillon opened the envelope. It was from the Attorney General's Office and it was addressed specifically to him, not just to U.S. Marshals in general. It read:

Large group of Comancheros thought to be heading towards Dodge City. Leader Pancho Morales Santiago led the group that totally demolished town of Akinsville. Details to follow.

The marshal sat thinking a minute. His brain seemed to have suffered from the cold along with the rest of his body. He could not recall where the town of Akinsville was located, but one thing he did remember – that name – Pancho Morales Santiago. Matt had a good memory for names and faces-it was essential in his job-but this name he could never forget.

Matt was the first to admit that his youth had been wild at times. There were five of them all together, five boys who liked to think of themselves as men. They became as close as brothers. Having no other family or place to call home, they ended up riding together. That spring they had worked for Sam Hoppington, a cattleman with a big spread down near the Mexican border. There were several accounts of rustling going on in the region and Hoppington had hired all five of them to ride protection for his herd.

One evening a band of rustlers appeared. There was a fight. One of the five "brothers" was shot and killed. Matt had chased after the rustler in a fit of rage and eventually caught up with one, a Mexican with cruel eyes, watering his horse at a small creek.

He could not remember how, but they had finished up fighting hand to hand. Then the rustler drew a knife. Matt thought he was going to die right there, but somehow he got control of the weapon and, in the following struggle, a deep, angry cut was slashed across the rustler's face. In horror the rustler raised his hand to the wound and Matt watched as blood poured out from between the man's fingers. "You watch out for me, boy. I know your name. Dillon, is it? I am Pancho Morales Santiago and one day I will find you and settle this score. Just remember that." The man had ridden away leaving a stunned Matt Dillon and a trail of blood. That vivid picture had remained in Matt's mind and, yes, he would always remember the name.

Matt shook his head to clear it and asked, "Festus, is there anything else? An official envelope that came by regular mail, maybe?"

"There's a whole heap o'official lookin' mail right here, Matthew. I jest piled it up so's you could go through it when you got back."

Dillon went to the desk and started flipping through the mail. Most of it was routine – wanted posters and reports on trials. One envelope was different. He tore it open and sat down to read it.

Akinsville had been a small town in the Dakota Territory. The inhabitants consisted of fur traders, a few ranchers and the occasional miner. It was not a rich town, but the population had been growing at a steady rate. Early one morning when the sun had barely risen over the horizon, the Comancheros came riding into town. They ransacked, raped and finally set fire to the small town leaving every man, child and every animal dead in their wake. They mercilessly killed the older women, but the young ones had been taken with them, their fate unknown.

One man had survived, a young cowboy, who had been riding towards Akinsville from the opposite direction. He had been resting on top of a small rise outside of town and had watched with horror as the town was totally obliterated from the face of the earth. The town had been his home, and there was nothing he could do to stop the destruction. He had ridden to the nearest town with a sheriff's office and reported what he saw, and then disappeared from sight. Matt knew, now, that he had met that young cowboy just two nights ago.

The department was sending Matt a warning – it looked like these outlaws had been getting more ambitious and had taken several bigger towns. Now it seemed likely that they were headed for Dodge. Matt knew for certain that they were.

tbc

FoH