the
Ring
without beginning - without end
a
Gunsmoke
fanfiction
Not for profit and with no intent to infringe on the rights of Viacom and any and all holders of the Gunsmoke copyright and characters.
"Parting is all we know of heaven
And all we need of hell."
― Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Charming man that he was, Wayne Russell had wooed the Widow Hawkins, married her and moved into that lady's large stylish abode located in the Garden District of New Orleans. Shortly after, the widow was diagnosed with a cancer of her stomach and passed less than a year later. Mr. Russell, her only heir, was left with a small fortune and a home that was the envy of many. He was able to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle for several years. In January of 1882 he became ill. His daughter, although estranged from him for most of her life returned to comfort him in his final days.
xxx
It was a quiet summer night, the air steamy and still. The streets were empty, except for Dr. Fletcher's buggy and the clippity-clop of his horse's shod feet as they trotted across the dew damp cobblestones. The good physician, on his way to deliver a baby, nevertheless glanced up at the light in the window of the large Greek Revival home near the corner of Carondelet and Foucher Streets. The middle-aged daughter of a former patient had taken residence there. The woman was a mystery to him. Beautiful, even though she was no longer young, there was a sadness to her, that had more than her father's death, at the root. He would stop by to see her in the next couple days, he resolved. Perhaps, to offer her some sleeping powders to alleviate the insomnia. The problem settled, his mind like the pony's feet moved on to more pressing matters.
xxx
Her room was large, with floor to ceiling windows, dressed in burgundy colored, velvet draperies and trimmed by golden tassels. Fine millwork, and elaborate crown moldings with ornate cornices highlighted the angles. French doors led to a balcony, which featured wrought iron railings in a scrolled filigree design. The furnishings were elegant and classic, yet her surroundings held no charm for Kitty Russell. Void of sentiment, for no nights of passion, laughter and love, nor intimate conversations had occurred here, it was as sterile an environment as she had ever occupied.
Though this was her choice in life, she felt forsaken; bereft of friends and lover. Alone in the small hours of the morning, Kitty Russell gave rein to the phantom of her past. Years of memories and the man she held dear, came in kaleidoscopic images; a look, a smile, a touch, hand in hand, lips to mouth, body pressed to body and the ecstasy of fulfillment. His rugged face dominated the mind pictures, bringing a measure of balm to her self-enforced solitude. Oh, how she missed him, his grin, his laugh, his tenderness. A regretful smile lifted her countenance. She missed his bullheaded stubbornness too, his pure cussedness that made him more loyal to a badge and what it represented than to those who loved and cared about him.
She glanced down and caught sight of the old fashioned ring on her right hand. A symbol, in it's own right, as much as any lawman's badge. She fingered it, moving the band until the sapphire facets caught the reflection of the gaslit lamp. He had given it to her in the aftermath of the Ad Bellum affair.
They had just made love with a passion so powerful, for that brief moment in time all else in the world ceased to exist. The power of emotion left her trembling in it's wake and she'd moved from him to sit on the side of the bed. Her shoulders shook in silent sobs. He'd watched her cry and then left the bed to retrieve something from the pocket of his pants which still lay in the middle of her bedroom floor. Returning, he sat on the bed next to her. His voice was gentle but firm, "I want you to forget all about this Ad Bellum thing. It wasn't your fault you know. Doc said he was sick in the head."
His words only added to her guilt. She wasn't worthy of him. Her eyes were downcast unable to meet his gaze. Her face flushed with the shame that she'd been the reason there was one more dead man at the receiving end of Matt Dillon's bullet; knowing, it could just as easily have been Matt's body, stiff and cold in a wooden coffin at Percy Crump's place.
He dropped to a knee in front of her. "Kitty," He said with the tenderest of voice. His thumb lifted her chin until their eyes met. She saw no judgement there, she never did. He was the one person in all her life who accepted her as she was. He opened his clasped hand and held the ring out for her inspection, "My mother's." His voice was hushed, just a whisper really. "She told me, 'put it on the finger of the woman you want to spend the your life with'." He took her right hand and slid the ring on her finger. "I can't promise to take you to the next Ford County Sociable … can't give you a home, a family. Kitty, I can't even promise tomorrow … only thing I can give you is my mother's ring as a pledge to what I feel, will feel forever — like this circle, without beginning - without end."
Her eyes filled at the long ago memory. She blinked hard, willing them dry and wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand. She stood and poured herself a drink from the bottle of whiskey sitting atop her dresser. With glass in hand, she walked to the ornate Victorian secretary that occupied a corner of the room, she opened a drawer and pulled out the stack of letters she'd accumulated over the past eight months. There were several from Doc, regaling her with stories regarding friends and acquaintances, some happy and bringing a smile to her face, others, sad and filling her with the melancholy, that more and more often was her companion. Newly O'Brien had written her as well, his letters shorter with less attention to detail, just outlines of day to day life, often ending with a plea from Festus for her to return home to Dodge City. Most cherished to her were the letters from Dillon. Briefest of all, they were filled with nothing more than a stolen moment, like his visits to see her at the Long Branch, when the cattle drives brought hordes of rambunctious cowpokes to town. They were a connection to his day. There were no salutations of endearment, no closing words of love, just "Matt' scrawled in his bold masculine hand. He entreated no pleas to return, nor promises to change what was and had to be, but his letters came to her faithfully, everyday. She had written back, striving to sound happy and satisfied with her decision to remain in Louisiana after her father had died and she'd settled his estate. If there was an occasional blot from a fallen tear hitting and smearing the ink, she was certain he wouldn't notice.
She took a sip of the liquor, savoring the taste and the memories of nightcaps shared together in the quiet at the end of a long day. Without thought, she sighed. On this day, no letter had arrived from Dillon. The only correspondence she'd received had been from Doc Adams. As she had done many times since the postman had delivered it, she removed the half-page from it's envelope. It was dated seven days prior to her receiving it and written with the haste of one who has more important business than letter writing to attend to.
Wednesday
August 23, 1882
My dear Kitty,
It is with regret that I relay to you, the Dodge City Bank was robbed today. During the course of the hold-up, Matt took a bullet to the right shoulder and another to his left thigh. Both were successfully removed. He's lost a lot of blood, but prognosis is good. He asked me to tell you not to worry if you don't hear from him for a few days. If his condition worsens I will telegraph. Otherwise, I will keep you updated.
with deepest regards, your friend,
"Doc"
She replaced the letter and it was then she saw the faint rusty hued smudge on the back of the envelope, like a soiled finger had left behind residue. She hadn't noticed it before and the thought occurred to her now, with the constant handling on her part she must of dirtied it somehow and then the truth hit her and she realized the one thing she had been so desperate to escape was here in her hand. This was Matt Dillon's blood.
This was the stuff her nightmares were made of and the true reason she had not returned to Dodge City; the all too real image, replayed again and again in life and dream of Matt Dillon face down in the street, his life blood pouring from his body and mixing with the cow town dirt. New Orleans was an escape, a chance to live life without that fear. With cold clarity she realized, life without Dillon was not living, but just existing, life without fear had no meaning if it was a life without love.
In that heartbeat she knew, as surely as she knew anything, she must return to Dodge City. She would face whatever life held in store and she would hold tight to the pledge of his mother's ring, tomorrow is not promised, but love is forever, without beginning — without end.