A Gunsmoke Story
By Amanda
Chapter One: The Hope of UncertaintyPOV: FestusFestus Haggen pushed through the battered saloon doors, eyes squinted, glancing around the small, rough room until his gaze rested on the lone barkeeper playing solitaire on the counter. Ignoring the few patrons who watched him, he approached the bar, spurs jingling, a small cloud of dust puffing up from his trail-worn clothes. Leaning against the counter, he waited for a few seconds until the barkeeper raised his head, playing two more cards before he pushed away from his game and stepped closer, eyes flickering briefly to the U.S. Deputy Marshal's badge.
"Howdy."
Festus nodded wearily. "Howdy. How 'bout a beer?"
"Sure. It's ten cents."
Ten cents! How could this hole-in-the-wall-sorry-excuse-for-a-town charge more than a fine establishment like the Long Branch? He muttered as much under his breath.
"Somethin' wrong, Mister?"
Well, since the man asked. "Why, in Dodge we onliest pay five cents fer a beer."
Unmoved, the man shrugged. "You ain't in Dodge, are ya'?"
Since he was thirsty enough to drink ditch water, Festus fished out the required coins and tossed them on the counter, but he grumbled about it. "Whoever heerd a' sich – "
The barkeeper handed over a foamy headed glass of beer. "So, you from Dodge, are ya'?"
"Uh huh."
"That's a far piece from here. Whatcha doin' in Jeddo?"
Jeddo? He had wondered if the place even had a name. What was he doing in Jeddo? He pressed back the worry that grew heavier and heavier each time he came and went through these places. He'd lost count of how many dead ends he'd run up against, of how many frustrations and disappointments he'd encountered. How could he go back to Dodge empty-handed? How could he face Miss Kitty when the best he could offer was the uncertainty that comes with not knowing?
But his face was carefully blank when took a swallow of watered-down beer and answered. "Lookin' fer somethin'."
The barkeeper smiled. "Most folks lookin' fer somethin' are really lookin' fer someone."
Festus supposed that even barkeepers in places like Jeddo had seen enough to know things like that, but he didn't respond to that comment. Instead, he observed simply, "Seems like ya' got yerseffs a quiet town." More like comatose, Doc might say.
"Mostly," the other man agreed. "'Course, if you'd been here coupla days ago, you'd a got yer fill of excitement."
"Thet a fact?"
"Had us a shootout, just like ya' do in Dodge."
"A shootout?" Festus felt his heart skip a beat.
Aware that he had gained the stranger's interest, the barkeeper let his chest swell as he told his tale. "Yep. Lawman come inta town lookin' fer Ouincey Nagle. Sed he wuz gonna take him in fer shootin' up a freight office in Wichita."
Swallowing hard, Festus set down his beer. "Lawman?" he asked, mouth suddenly dry. After all these weeks, was it possible?
"Big fella. I told him Quince was fast, fastest I ever seen, but he didn't listen. 'Bout that time ol' Quince come in and before I knowed it they wuz drawed and done."
Heart pounding now, Festus licked his lips, not sure he wanted to hear more. "Whut – whut happened?"
"Like we figgered, ol' Quince plugged him good, kilt him. Shame, but I told him Quince was fast."
The blood drained from his face as Festus rasped, "The lawman's – dead?" Dear God.
"Deader'n my Aint Maisey," the bartender confirmed.
The words rushed through his body and down his legs, weakening his knees. Fighting to keep his feet, the deputy took two deep breaths to steady himself and asked quietly, "Where – where's the – the body?"
"Oh, he's over in th' churchyard. Him bein' a lawman and all, we felt the Christian thing ta' do wuz see him buried proper." The barkeeper seemed proud of their charity. Digging into his vest pocket, he held out a badge. "This is his. Weren't sure where ta' send it."
Staring at the familiar shining silver, Festus felt the tears burn his eyes as he held the metal in his hand, his fingers slowly closing around the words "U.S. Marshal."
XXXX
They stood in the small, unkempt cemetery, the wind blowing tumbleweeds past the crude crosses and marks, only some of which had rough, hand-carved lettering. Hat in hand, head bowed, Festus stared at the jagged piece of wood protruding from the ground at the head of the grave before him, grief stark on his craggy features, heart bleeding for his dear, dear friend.
"Oh, Matthew," he groaned.
"I told 'im."
He turned abruptly to see the barkeeper shaking his head as he gazed down at the sad grave.
If he had been less stunned, Festus might have felt anger at that remark. As it was, he just managed to ask, "Did Matth – did the lawman hev ennythang on him? Enny personal items?"
A sheepish look crossed the other man's face. "Well, he had three twenty-dollar gold pieces, a few ten-dollar pieces, and a watch. Didn't figure he'd be needin' them, so we – uh – we divided up the money – "
Festus' head snapped around to glare at the barkeeper. What kind of men lived here, anyway?
Seeing his reaction, the barkeeper hurried to explain. "We didn't know he wuz somebody – "
The grief of the moment, the frustration of helpless had built until it exploded. Festus snarled and grabbed the man's shirtfront. "Somebody? Somebody! Listen 'chere ya thickheaded, thievin' no 'count – "
Startled, the barkeeper pulled away. "Hey, now. I ain't no thief. Didn't take none a thet money. It was the others." His voice softened a bit. "Look, I kin tell he was a friend of yours, and I'm sorry about that." He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a long folded wallet and handed it to Festus. "He had this, too. I reckon they're his papers. Has a picture in there of a pretty woman I figger's his wife." He shook his head sympathetically. "Shame."
Shaken, Festus took the wallet and looked inside, already knowing he would find a photograph of Kitty Russell. As if a knife had sliced right through his heart, he closed his eyes, unable to look any more. After a moment, he closed the wallet and swung angrily toward the barkeeper.
"You had this chere wallet all along and didn't send no wire er nothin' ta let nobody know about him?"
The other man shrugged defensively. "Ain't many folks 'round here kin read. Nobody know'd what his name was."
"Nobody in this chere town kin read?"
"Town ain't that big, mister. We ain't educated like you folks from the city."
A chagrined flush colored the wizened cheeks. "Yeah, wael – "
His tone eagerly helpful, the bartender added, "Now, the Wider Miller can read and cipher and everything, but she lives more'n fifteen miles out. Don't git inta town much. Hadn't seen her in a couple of months, I suppose."
What did it matter, anyway, now? All the energy drained down his body until Festus felt as if he would just melt into the hard dirt. His voice no more than a croak, he asked, "You got a telegraph office?"
"Used to. Ain't nobody kin operate it no more. Closest operator's 'bout thirty miles."
As much as he wanted to get out of the hell-hole, Festus knew his body needed sleep. Exhaustion and misery weighed him down. "How 'bout a place fer th' nite?"
"Ol' Grady Buckhorn'll bed ya down at his place. Next to th' stables. Not fancy, but – " He looked Festus up and down. " – I don't figure you much for fancy, anyway."
Ignoring the insult, the deputy summoned a burst of anger toward the act that had taken the best man he had ever known. "Whut about th' feller whut done this?"
"Quincey Neagle? Ain't seen him since the' shootin'. He's a restless one. Comes and goes. He'll come back through someday." His eyes narrow at Festus. "I wouldn't wait fer him unless you wanna join yer friend, here."
Festus looked down at the grave again, grief anew on his face. "Jest show me th' way ta' Buckhorn's place."
"Shore. I think ol' Grady's got rid of most of them bedbugs by now."
Festus shook his head, shooting the barkeeper a wary look as they walked away from Matt Dillon's final resting place.
XXXX
Morning dawned just about as hot as evening had ended. Festus planned to make the journey back to Dodge, one he knew would be longer and harder than any other he had made before. But at least he was determined before he abandoned this place to find out more about what happened, to get some leads on this Quincey Neagle so he could track him down to the last spot on earth and make him pay for killing Matthew.
The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil told him that the town's blacksmith was hard at work. Stepping inside the shop, he dragged off his hat and wiped his face as the sweltering heat blasted him. Even though he knew he must have been noticed, he saw that the smithy didn't look up. When he asked who the undertaker was, the barkeeper had directed him here for some reason. Now he stood waiting for the burly man to stop long enough to talk with him.
After a moment, a deep voice asked, "Can I help you?"
Festus gritted his teeth at the painful answer. "I'm lookin' fer th' undertaker. Some feller over ta th' saloon sent me chere, but – "
"That's right. I'm the undertaker."
Eyes widening in surprise, Festus exclaimed, "Yer th' undertaker? I ain't never seed no undertaker 'at looked as healthy as you." He was used to Percy Crump's long, lean, and almost skeletal form, and every other undertaker he'd seen seemed to adopt the same appearance.
The big man looked up briefly, then bent back over his work. "Well, now you have. Name's Pickens. Claude Pickens. You got somebody needs burying?"
Anguish ripped anew at Festus' heart before he could stop it. "Naw. You done that fer me arreddy."
This time, Pickens regarded him with more interest. "You mean the lawman?"
The lawman. "Kin ya tell me much about whut happened?"
After a moment's consideration, Pickens laid down his hammer and stepped back. "It was pretty fast. Lawman said he had come for Quince. Quince said he wasn't going. The lawman went for his gun, Quince outdrew him, and that was that."
A frown crossed Festus' face. Not that Matthew had never been outdrawn, but even then he usually was the better shot. "Did th' – the lawman say ennythang before – well, wuz there enny last words?"
Pickens shook his head. "Quince's bullet hit him square through the heart. Didn't have time to blink, much less say anything. He was warned."
That just couldn't be. "And ya' say the lawman drawed first?"
"That's what I said. He must not have been a very good lawman judging from all the scars on his body. It appears like he got hit more than he hit."
Teeth bared and almost snarling, Festus stepped close to the blacksmith. "Mister, if I wasn't in a hurry, I'd take a bullwhip to ya fer sayin' sich. That thar lawman yer a talkin' about is the best lawman this chere country's ever seen."
Even though he had a good thirty pounds on Festus, the man flinched slightly. "Was."
"Whut?"
"He was the best lawman, maybe. Not anymore." Then, as if he decided to switch from blacksmith to mortician, his voice softened. "Look, I'm sorry about your friend. I gave him a decent, Christian burial. I figured maybe you'd thank me for that."
It took considerable effort for Festus to keep himself from throttling the man. "Yeah. Much obliged." Glaring at Pickens once more, he slammed the battered hat back on his head and strode from the shop.
XXXX
One hour and two beers later found him back in the sorry excuse for a saloon, propped wearily at the bar. Nobody in Jeddo seemed to know anything, except that Quincey Neagle had done for a tall lawman who was now buried in the churchyard. No one knew where Neagle had gone or when he might be back. And no one much seemed to care. A saloon girl leaned next to him, her heavy make-up and worn look telling of someone whose beauty days – if there had ever been any – were long passed.
"Like I said," she continued in a West Texas twang, "I noticed yer marshal becuz he wuz a good lookin' man. And there ain't too many of them 'round here no more."
"Miss – uh – "
"I'm jest Betsy. That's all."
Despite the alcohol – or maybe with the assistance of the alcohol – Festus had conducted a sort of inquiry with the woman. Something just wasn't right about this whole thing. Matthew wouldn't draw first, for one thing, but if he had, he surely wouldn't have been the one to die. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that perhaps his best friend had been the victim of an ambush. "Wael, Betsy, whut kin ya tell me 'bout Quincey Neagle?"
Betsy rolled her dark eyes. "He don't like ta pay. Thinks he's pretty enough to git it fer free, but I told him – "
Flushing, Festus interrupted her. "Fergit that. Jest tell me 'bout him shootin' Matth – the marshal."
Betsy frowned in disappointment at having her story cut short, but sighed and nodded. "Arrite. That lawman come in here askin' after Quince. He wuz a big, good-lookin' feller, and I declared to him how I'd be rite partial to a beer, but he wuz set on Quince. No sooner'n Fred told him – "
"Fred?"
She nodded toward the bar. "Fred – the barkeeper. Figured you knowed his name, much as ye've talked at him."
"Go on."
"Wael, no sooner'n Fred told him he ain't seen Quince, Quince come rite on in. They looked at each other fer a minute. Then the lawman told Quince he'd come ta' take him in fer somethin' – I don't remember. They looked at each other fer another minute. Then they drawed, and next thing I knowed, that lawman was on th' floor. Quince got 'im rite through th' heart." She smiled wistfully. "Shame. I think I coulda got ta' know that marshal rite well."
A slight bit of dark humor nudged at Festus as he thought about what Miss Kitty might think of this woman's designs on Matthew, but it vanished almost before it started. Teeth gritted, he mumbled, "Don't you count on it."
She heard him and scowled. "Wael, don't matter none now, does it?"
It mattered. It surely did matter. "Where did Neagle go after th' shootin'?"
"Don't know. He comes an' goes as he pleases. Some folks say he spends time with a Mulatto girl down near El Paso. He kin have her fer all I care."
El Paso. That was an awful long way away, and even if he went there the odds that Neagle would hang around long enough to get himself shot by a U.S. deputy marshal weren't too good. He'd had enough of Betsy and decided he'd just about had enough of Jeddo, too. "Wael, thank ye fer yer time. If ya see or hear ennythang, I'll be around jest a hair longer."
Apparently forgiving him any insults, Betsy sidled up to him and gave him her best smile. "I won't, but you kin come around enny time."
Nodding, Festus quickly extricated himself from her grip and stepped to the bar where Fred seemed involved in another game of solitaire. After a moment, he glanced up at the deputy.
"Find ennything?" he asked without real interest.
"Not much," Festus had to admit. One more thought occurred to him, even though he didn't figure it was much help. "Whut about this Wider Miller ya' talked on before?"
"Wider Miller? Oh, she ain't bin in town fer a coupla months. She wouldn't know nothin'. Her place is 'bout fifteen miles north, if ya' got a mind. Be a waste of time, though."
Dead ends all around. "I don't reckon it'd do much good at that."
"You gonna stay in Jeddo long? Ol' Quince might not be back for weeks or even months."
"Naw, I'm headin' back ta' Dodge. Miz Kitty's bin worried sick – " He stopped suddenly, already haunted by the image of her lovely face contorted in grief when he told her. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again. "I – uh – I thank ya' fer yer hep. An' fer seein' Matthew – the marshal – buried. I'll be a comin' back sometime later." Eyes hardening, he said, "You see Quincey Neagle, you kin tell him Festus Haggen is a lookin' fer him."
Fred lifted a brow. "I'll do it. Agin, I'm sorry 'bout yer friend."
Suddenly, all the air seemed to leave him, and Festus nodded sadly. Now he couldn't even offer Miss Kitty the hope of uncertainty.
TBC