Footsteps on Hallowed Ground

Chapter 1 – Train to Oblivion

The telegram had come out of nowhere, when he'd been up for almost forty-eight hours with only an hours sleep here and there. He'd left instructions not to be disturbed, but when a telegram like that comes in you don't wait until later to deliver it. Matt Dowling had the unenviable task of taking it up to Bart Maverick's room, and it took a long time to rouse the gambler out of the deep sleep he'd finally fallen into.

"Mr. Maverick. Mr. Maverick. Please answer, Mr. Maverick."

Matt kept knocking at the door. He knew its occupant was in the room, and he had to wake him up. "Please, Mr. Maverick. I have an urgent telegram for you."

Finally a sleepy voice called "minute," and in just about that time a man answered the door. Unshaven, rumpled, no socks or boots, he looked like the last person in the world you wanted to disturb.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Maverick, but this is marked 'Extremely Urgent.' I had to get it to you right away. "

Even though he was still more asleep than awake, he pulled a coin out of his pocket and handed it to Matt. "Thanks," or something like that was mumbled, and Matt gave him the telegram and fled. He'd peeked at the message on the paper and had no desire to be anywhere in the vicinity when the gambler read it.

Bart was still so wrapped up in the throes of sleep that he couldn't focus on the wire in front of him. He closed and locked the hotel door, then slumped back down on the bed. Maybe he should just leave the telegram unread until he'd had a few more hours sleep. Whatever it was would wait that long, wouldn't it?

Something told him the answer to that question was no, so against his better judgement he opened the wire and read it. Then he shook his head to make both his eyes and his mind read it again. And again. And again. Then he threw the paper on the floor and hurried to get dressed. Sleep was forgotten. He grabbed his travel bag and stuffed his clothes in it, not bothering to fold anything, just shoving it in as quickly as it would go. In less than five minutes the whole bag was packed and he was dressed and running down all twenty-six of the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him.

He stopped at the front desk long enough to scribble a note to George down at the livery stable and left it, along with ten dollars, in an envelope to be delivered as soon as possible. He ran for the train station, knowing there was a train headed east at eight thirty, and he had to be on it. He bought a ticket that would take him all the way through to Dodge City, Kansas. He boarded and found a seat, and knew that he could go back to sleep; he had a long train trip in front of him. He couldn't have been more wide awake.

The telegram lay on the floor of the room he'd so hastily vacated until his almost business partner came looking for him at six o'clock that evening. The man, a well-known local business owner and a good friend of Mavericks, convinced Matt to give him the key to the gamblers room and he climbed the stairs to see if he could determine why Bart left in such a hurry, without a word to anyone other than George. Everything was in disarray, just as it was left that morning, and the mystery deepened until the discarded telegram was discovered on the floor. The businessman picked it up and read it, and everything was immediately clear. The telegram said:

Bret Maverick killed in gunfight

Burying him today

Chris Hillis, U.S. Marshal

Dodge City, Kansas

He folded the message and put it in his pocket, then went downstairs and paid Bart's bill and checked him out of the hotel. The last thing he did was leave instructions that any and all communications coming in for or from Bart Maverick were to be forwarded to him. Then he went home and told his fiancé, and they prayed it wasn't true.

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Bart sat on the train, mile after mile, hour after hour, and did nothing. The telegram had to be wrong. Bret would never allow himself to end up in a gunfight with anybody, much less someone in Dodge City, where you were either a card sharp, gunfighter, outlaw or lawman. Or some combination of the above.

His mind was empty, devoid of all rational thought, and drifted in and out of all topics, but he kept coming back to one – the absurdity of it all. Bret wouldn't draw against anybody if there were any other way out of it. He hated using a gun and was the self-professed second slowest gun in the West.

And what was his brother doing in Dodge City, anyway? Last time he'd heard, Bret was in El Paso, and that was less than a month ago. What lured him to Kansas? Bart wasn't aware of any big poker games, and as far as he knew Bret wasn't chasing or following a particular woman. Last time that happened he was home in Texas – but that was water under the bridge, finished months ago when she found someone willing to risk marriage. Bret wasn't. Back to the problem at hand.

Finally he drifted off to sleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. Then the nightmares started. One after another, always ending with his brother lying dead in the street. He woke every time he got to that point but kept going back to sleep because there simply wasn't anything else he was capable of doing. The delusions of death ceased at long last and he simply drifted in a haze of doubt and uncertainty.

The trip was endless. He couldn't eat, and once he'd slept more than a few hours there was no more of that available to him. For once in his life there was no desire to touch a deck of cards, not even to play Maverick solitaire. Reading anything was out of the question. He had no interest in looking like anything other than a saddle tramp, not even bothering to shave. The only thing left for him was to stare out the train window, day and night, and reflect on his brother. And there was so much to think about. How many times had the older of the two saved his hide? What if Bret hadn't come to drag him and Doralice Medina back from probable starvation? How long would he have wondered around Arizona thinking he was Doc Holliday if not for Bret? What if Bret hadn't been there to carry him out of a burning house in New Mexico?

And even earlier than that – what about all the times Bret reassured him at night during his nightmares, holding and comforting like a father would have, should have? Or tended to him when he had a fever and got sick, like a mother, if they still had one? Or coaxed him off the sunken log he'd gotten trapped on, floating in the river and headed downstream with nothing to stop it?

For days on end, he sat at the window and watched the landscape change. Plains and deserts and hills and mountains. Then there was no more change, and it was Kansas, and flat was the only thing that existed. Land so level you could have eaten off of it. When the train finally pulled into Dodge City he resembled so many others that had arrived via horse or train or stagecoach – dirty, unshaven, bleary eyed, and thoroughly miserable. The difference was Bart Maverick had a dead man to contend with: his mother, father, and best friend. The news that had finally broken his heart.