Hired Gun
First thing noticed – the taste of dirt.
Lying face down,
small puffs of dust with each breath.
Slight head turn, an eye
able to scan across the flat ground.
One man, eyes open, motionless.
Man number two
Dead.
His plan was to make the trip a fast one. Take the prisoner to Bucklin. Turn around. Head home.
The trip there was easy. A threat of rain, but none fell.
His prisoner, dejected. Silent the whole way. A poor soddy trying to escape the punishing reality of prairie life. Helped himself to a few dollars out of the till. Didn't intend any harm, the store keeper surprised him. Arrived in Dodge the same time a telegraphed description did.
His job to drag the poor fool back. Nine dollars. And a murder charge.
Bucklin was its usual uninspiring self. Thunderheads looming, he took a room for the night. An early breakfast. The sun's first rays creating a warm-colored glow as he headed out of town.
There was a freshness to the early morning air. It must have rained somewhere nearby, the breeze carrying a bit of cool moisture with it. In a few hours it would add humidity to the anticipated heat of late July in Kansas.
Almost eight years since he put on the U.S. Marshall's badge. Trying to civilize a town could be a discouraging, thankless job. Sometimes a wretched job. Then there were times like this, doing something he really enjoyed. Traveling out on the open prairie.
Mid-morning. Dark silhouettes against the clear blue sky. Turkey buzzards riding the heat currents. Circling above a landscape of dried grasses, noticing little except for the solitary rider.
He slowed his pace, wiping off sweat as the temperature climbed towards its mid-afternoon mark. Stopping, he poured water into his hat. A drink for his horse, one for himself before continuing on.
Joining him on his journey, small dust devils kicked up by the late afternoon wind. The high pitched call of a red tailed hawk off to his left. Looking towards the sun, impossible to see. A second call followed, fainter, farther off. Its mate, paired for life.
The ache in his knee insisting it was nearing time to stop for the day. Remembering how he reinjured it. Smiling.
He got to her room early that night. Extra time and they were being frisky. Teasing, tickling, wrestling . . . things got pretty wild. He even had a few bite marks, bruises now, to show for it.
He had called it round one.
Kitty was up getting a drink of water. Cooling off. He followed with mischief in mind when she snapped a towel across his backside and ordered him back to bed.
Stretched out, spread-eagled, he waited and watched while she took her time. Randomly moving around the room. Tormenting him. Suddenly she made a running leap, one knee landing between his thighs, the other on top of his bad knee.
He let out a loud howl and instantly curled up. On his right side, in a tight ball.
"Oh my god! Matt! What did I do? Matt?"
Hands anxiously roaming over him. Pulling. Pushing. Struggling to turn him over.
Through clenched teeth he forced out, "It's my knee you landed on . . ." Her shriek stopped him.
His startled look, priceless. A scream as she flung herself backwards. Naked woman lying across the end of the bed, hands covering her face, laughing hysterically.
Between his groans and her screams and laughter it was a wonder no one came pounding on their door. Sam was sleeping at the Long Branch that night, an early morning delivery expected. The window was open wide, he was sure Doc heard them. Anyone out on the street probably heard them, too.
Chuckling. Glad he was able to sneak out of town early the next morning. Best let Kitty deal with the raised eyebrows, knowing looks, and Doc's comments. She had her good poker face. He had none when it came to situations like that.
Still smiling, he muttered to himself, "You better be ready for round two, woman."
Reaching a passable spot he proceeded to set up camp. Beans and coffee.
A fitful night's sleep, aching knee keeping him awake. The sliver of a new moon his nighttime companion. Finally drifting off right before dawn.
He mounted up. A late start. Should arrive in Dodge by early evening.
Traveling at an easy pace, heat waves dancing in the distance. He headed down off a rise towards a small stream. The canopy of a few trees promising relief from the hot sun.
Dismounting, he led Buck to the cut bank. A three foot drop, evidence of the surge of spring rains.
The ground gave way.
The big horse swinging his head.
Trying to jump out of the way, hit and thrown backwards, landing hard on his left shoulder. Watching his horse slide into the water. Frantic splashing. Regaining footing. Standing. Trembling.
Cheek scratched and bleeding, he stumbled to the creek. Buck eyed him nervously, shying away slightly as he came near.
Taking inventory, his horse first. Injured, favoring his left foreleg. Running a hand along it, not too serious he hoped. Him next. Collarbone not broken, shoulder not dislocated. Will be sore and bruised.
He kept Buck standing in the creek. Soothing talk. The cool water flowing around his injured leg to help keep any swelling down.
Forced to stop for the day. Tomorrow was soon enough to get back to town.
The sun was beginning to set when he started a fire.
He studied the two riders heading his way.
Calling out from a short distance, "Howdy, mister. Saw the smoke from your fire. Mind if we come water our horses?"
"Go right ahead." His eyes measuring them. Two young cowboys. Fresh faces, early twenties. Leading their horses, talking together quietly. An occasional glance back his way.
He watched cautiously as they came over to the fire.
"Coffee sure smells good. Got enough to share?"
"Help yourselves."
"Thanks. Name's Hansen. This here's Granger."
"Dillon."
Noticing his badge. "Lawman," the one named Hansen stated.
"Marshal out of Dodge," watching for reactions.
"Ain't never been there. You Granger?"
"Nah. Heard a lot about it though."
"Don't mean no offence, Marshal, but you look a mite worse for wear."
"Horse took a spill. Didn't get out of the way in time."
"See you still got your horse over there. Lucky."
"Came out of it a little lame. Should be able to travel by morning."
The two added comments about the weather – "Hot enough to melt the shoes off your horse if you don't keep movin'." The prairie – "Empty as a cowboy's wallet." Farming – "Tryin' to tame dirt." Cowpunchin' . . .
"Say, Marshal, if you don't mind company tonight, we got some meal fixins. And Granger here makes some pretty good biscuits. Be glad to share."
Relaxing a bit, "Sounds good."
Conversation stopped as they focused on cooking, then eating. The sounds of utensils scraping against tin plates.
Grabbing his coffee cup, "Where are you two headed?"
"We're gonna get us jobs out in Colorado."
"You boys got a long ride ahead of you. Where'd you leave from?" he asked in casual conversation.
"Valeda, heard of it?"
Head shake.
"Due east of Coffeyville. A couple rickety buildings standin' together, not much to speak of."
"There ain't no work 'round there. Leastwise me and Hansen had no luck. Then we seen somethin' in a paper 'bout jobs out west."
"Yeah, now we're tryin' to get out to Colorado fast as we can. Money's waitin'."
"You ever been to Colorado, Marshal?"
"Time or two."
"Me and Granger here, neither of us been west before. Hell, I ain't even been this far west in Kansas before."
He spent the rest of the evening listening to tales of youthful adventures. Telling a few of his own. Sharing laughter.
They finished off the last of the coffee and called it a night.
A horse whinnied in the dark.
He came to sprawled face down in the dirt. The sun's heat on his back.
Slowly turning his head, eyes trying to focus. Hansen leaning back against his saddle, a red stain on his chest. Granger still in a sleeping position, shot in the head.
Forcing himself up on hands and knees. He tried to stand. Quickly dropping back down on all fours, head hanging low, breathing deeply. Staying still for a few minutes before crawling to the broken bank, sliding down to the water's edge.
Throwing water in his face, rinsing out his mouth. Fingers gently examining the side of his head. Collapsing onto his back he laid there and rested.
He wasn't sure how much time passed; judging by the direction and shortness of shadows it was nearing noon. Keeping his eyes closed, he managed to climb to his feet.
His hand brushed against an empty holster. Scanning the ground along the edge of the creek, moving to the middle of camp, expanding the search area until he caught sight of the light-colored handle at the base of a tree. Blowing off dust. It hadn't been fired.
Walking over and dropping to a knee he reached out and closed Hansen's eyes. Moving to Granger he felt for a pulse, not sure why, he knew there wouldn't be one.
Checking. Their saddle bags untouched, money in their wallets. His untouched as well. He turned. The horses, all three still there.
In an area beyond the tree roots he worked on digging the graves. The prairie reluctant to cooperate. The sun stretching his shadow as he worked. First one then the other carried over and placed in the ground. Four sticks collected, he tied together two crosses.
Sitting in the shade at the edge of the creek, shirt open, late afternoon breeze drying his sweat. Trying to piece together what might have happened. A fish rolled at the surface, then another, big, feeding on a swarm of things newly hatched. He still had work to do.
Searching the area. Searching again. Downstream he found a torn off branch. Discarded. Its leaves a broom.
Cursing to himself. No signs. No answers. Already late in the day, he would be spending another night on the prairie.
Still awake in the middle of the night, mind racing. No chance for sleep. Fire going. Coffee hot.
The hoo-hoo-hoooo of an owl.
Recalling time spent in a Pawnee camp, a legend learned – the owl, a protector.
"Were you here for me last night?" he asked in a whisper.
Hearing it call again, remembering a different legend – owls contain the spirits of the dead.
"There's only one of you, so which one are you?" his voice traveling upward amidst sparks from the fire.
Starting off shortly before dawn, darkness matching his mood. A slow ride, leading Buck plus one. Back in Dodge before noon.
"Welcome back, Marshal."
"Moss."
"Looks like Buck's favoring his leg."
"Took a spill. Appreciate it if you'd check him."
"Don't worry Marshal, I'll see to him. What about these two?"
"Just stable 'em for now. I need to send a telegram before I can tell you more." Stomping off dust. Swatting off more with his hat. "Let you know as soon as I get an answer." He headed off towards his office.
Chester. Sitting out front whittling on a stick. Tunelessly singing something about being in Kansas.
"Howdy, Chester."
"Mister Dillon!" Jumping up. "I didn't see you ride in. 'Course you'd be comin' in from the other direction. Didn't ride past me a'tall."
"Any excitement around here while I was gone?"
"It's been real quiet. Not much of anything doin'."
"Good, I guess you were able to handle it alright, then." A sly smile.
"There was one thing. You got a telegram from the sheriff in Coffeyville." Brushing wood shavings off his shirt. Twisting it, turning it, carefully examining the half carved stick.
Waiting for him to continue, "Well?"
"Hmm? Oh. He said that two cowboys in Valeda," scratching his head, "had to look on the map, but it weren't . . ."
"I know where it's at."
Sliding his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, "You know, Mister Dillon, some men are just purely evil."
"What did the telegram say, Chester!"
"Well now I was jist comin' to that. It seems two cowboys over there in Valeda, they abused then murdered a young woman . . . not more than a girl, really. Terrible. Just terrible." Using the toe of his boot to scrape wood chips into the street, "Sent you their descriptions."
His reaction – silence. Staring off at nothing.
Chester focused on cleaning up.
Doc headed towards them unobserved.
"You're finally back!"
With a start, he returned to his surroundings. "Appears like it."
"You're looking a bit rough, Mister Marshal."
"Had a couple of mishaps coming home."
"You OK?"
"Yeah."
Eyes scanning him up and down. "You sure?"
"I'm fine, Doc."
Heads turning, their attention caught by a rider coming up the street. Black hat, vest. Fancy gun belt.
"Who's that, Mister Dillon?"
"Ben Dixon. Hired gun."
Tipped his hat as he rode past, heading straight through town.
"What was that all about?"
Frowning, "Givin' me a message, Doc."
"You have to go after him?"
Eyes never leaving Dixon, he hooked his thumbs and index fingers in the pockets of his vest, "Got nothin' on him."
"Come on then, let's go over to Kitty's and get a cup of coffee. Doctor's orders!"
"Doc, I just made a fresh pot."
"Chester, your coffee is a danger to a person's health." He started to cross the street, Chester following.
"Well if it's so dangerous, I don't see why you keep helpin' yourself . . . " now halfway across.
Matt, still standing in front of the office. Eyes still fixed on Dixon.
His horse slows. Turning in his saddle he looks back and gives a slow deliberate nod.
"Matt! You coming?"
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the street, "Yeah, Doc. I'm comin'."