Shades of Kimbro

Without Beginning - Without End

a short Gunsmoke fan-fiction

littlegreenlake

He'd been on the lookout for the grave since they'd pulled out of Buelah, Kansas. He knew about where it was; but with the fresh snow cover, he figured the marker was hidden from view. Several times, he thought he'd found the grove of trees where he'd buried the lawman. He had dismounted and trudged around in the snow, but each time found nothing. Nearly two years had passed, it was possible, likely, for that matter, the crudely hewn cross was gone. He decided to give up the quest and just when he did, he came to the final resting place of Adam Kimbro. The snow had drifted across the mound leaving the marker in plain sight. Matt Dillon swung down from the saddle and walked to the grave of his old mentor. Despite the wind and snow, he removed his hat and gave quiet thought to the memory of the man who'd taken a green young kid, all knees and elbows, under his wing and molded him into a lawman.

XOXO

The beast was in a foul mood, if horses can be that. Six hard weeks on the trail and the buckskin was near played out. He ignored the spurs nudging his flanks, and the cussed words of reprimand. Despite the lazy wet flakes falling and melting on his hide, he plodded in a slow jerky walk. His usual even gait absent, making the rider feel every bump on the trail.

They rode all day, taking short breaks that only served to make the horse more ornery. That all changed about ten miles from Dodge. The gelding perked up. His ears twitched; his hooves danced on the snow. He tossed his head and the hardware of his bridle jingled. With nose to the wind, his nostrils quivered in anticipation of familiar scents. He shook his head and pulled at the reins with quickened pace. The end of the trail was near. Warm stall, fresh oats, stable mates whose nicker and whinny he recognized, smells that offered comfort and rest. This and not the rider's spurs urged him on.

Matt Dillon shifted his weight, gave firm pressure to the reins and uttered a low soothing litany in the buckskin's ears in effort to hold him in check. It wasn't common knowledge that he had conversations with his horse or that he held any affection for the animal. A horse was nothing more than a necessity, a mode of transportation, and not a very comfortable one at that. A fast gun and a fast horse — tools of the lawman's trade. So, despite the fact they were alone on the prairie, he voiced his thoughts in soft words meant only for the gelding to hear, "You're not the only one who wants to get home, ol'Son. Stopping at Kimbro's grave yesterday kinda put things in a different light. We've been gone too long." He was quiet for a beat, reflecting on the sight of the weathered cross that still marked the grave. In the same beat he thought of Kitty. A longing rushed over him. He missed her, he needed her, not just the bedding part, but her quiet common sense, her good humor and unfailing belief in him. By God, he even missed her temper, that fire in her eye and grit to her voice that put fear in the heart of any man it was directed at.

The horse tossed his head again. "Easy." He soothed. "So you want me to keep talking?" As if understanding the question, the horse whiffled a reply. Dillon smiled. "Alright then … I'm guessing you're thinking about that stall of yours, and Kitty's mare Isabella's, next to you. Not that you can do anything about it … but sometimes lookin's a passable substitute for the real thing."

His gloved hand gave a pat to the buckskin's neck, as he continued his ramblings, "I wonder if Kitty had that fancy water closet and soaking tub put in. A hot bath'd feel mighty good to my cold aching bones — a roaring fire crackling in the fireplace, home cooking on the table and some of that fancy sipping brandy she's so partial to." He thought of the soft bed and the woman who would warm it. With a tap of his spurs he said, "Come on Buck, let's go home."

He sighed and it was a contented sound. "Home." He repeated. Was there ever such a comforting thought as that? No place on heaven or earth offered as much to his way of thinking; rest for the weary, balm for the sore of heart and cheer for the brave and valiant spirit.

XOXO

It was past 12:00 A.M., and the town was quiet; saloon doors and sporting parlors locked up for the night. Gas street lamps flickered in the wind illuminating the way as the buckskin's clip-clop echoed through the empty night. At the livery stable, Matt Dillon climbed wearily from the saddle. There was a painful hitch to his lower spine and his legs felt as wobbly as India rubber bands, after so many hours in the saddle. He had a decided limp, walking the horse through the double doors. His regular stall, next to Isabella, was already occupied, the only vacant cubicle was the last one — next to the manure pile. The horse gave a nicker of disgust. "Could be worse," Dillon murmured. He gave a slap to the rump and the horse plodded into the enclosure, the lawman followed.

There, he pulled off the saddle and blanket and slipped off the bridle. He grabbed an empty grain sack to rub some of the moisture from the buckskin's hide. Twenty minutes later the horse had been watered and was munching on oats.

Time to take care of his own needs. Dillon left the stable, with rifle, saddlebags and bed-roll in tow; he headed for the jailhouse.

He stopped to peer in the window before opening the door. The low lit wall lamp provided enough light that he could see Festus sprawled out on the cot. Even, standing outside on the boardwalk, he could hear the cacophonous tones of the deputies deep sleep snore. After weeks on the trail, Matt Dillon had no wish to face a night of that.

He turned around and looked at the Long Branch, his eyes traveling up to Kitty's room. A soft glow warmed her window. He smiled. She'd kept the light burning for him.

He righted his load and headed across the street. He had a key to the saloon, to be used for just such a purpose. He dug it out now and plied it to the door. He tried to be as quiet as he could, but with his saddle bags and the door slamming open in the wind, he made his presence known. He shut the door behind him still trying to be quiet, but making a ruckus anyway.

He was facing the door when a woman's voice rang out from the second floor balcony. "Stop right there mister. Got my gun pointed at your heart. Drop your plunder, put your hands up and turn around … real slow like."

He did as ordered, turned and looked up. A woman he didn't recognize stood outside Kitty's open door, the light from within the room, lit her face. She held a rifle pointed in his direction. Another door, further down the hall opened and Lulu stuck her head out.

His heart hammered in confusion, "Where's Kitty Russell?" He asked.

The woman stood as a statue, not flinching a muscle, "She's not here, how'd you get in?"

"Where is she?" He made a move forward.

"I told you to stay put." Her voice was hard. "I don't know how you got in, but, you better get the hell out of my place or I'll get the Marshal."

Lulu finally spoke up, "Miss Hannah, that IS the Marshal."

The woman slowly lowered the rifle, squinting her eyes, to try to get a better look at the big man in the dim light. "You Matt Dillon?"

He nodded and asked, "Who are you?"

"Hannah Cobb. I bought the place from Kitty."

"Where's Kitty?"

Lulu answered. "She left Dodge two weeks ago Marshal — went to New Orleans to stay with her Pa."

He stared in disbelief. His mouth open, yet no air coming in or going out. He wasn't sure he had wind enough to speak. He swallowed hard, ran a tongue over dry lips, and finally found voice to reply, "Sorry to have bothered you, Miss … Hannah … you said?", then, Matt Dillon picked up his things, turned and left the Long Branch Saloon.

So, she was gone, just like that, not even a good-bye. For a full minute he stood in the middle of the street while the snow swirled around him. Would a good-bye have made her leaving any easier? No, nothing would make it easier. Finally, he walked to the Dodge House. The doors were locked. A hand-written sign hung in the window. "Full up, try again tomorrow."

It was too late to bother Doc, or Ma Smalley at the boarding house, besides he didn't want to talk to anyone, and both of those kindly souls would offer whiskey or tea and expect to be rewarded with some fashion of soul rendering. He wanted to be alone, needed to be alone, to make some sense out of things and try to figure out how to go on with his life. He turned and walked back to the livery stable. His limp more pronounced; his shoulders weighed down and weary.

The buckskin gave a whinny of welcome when he entered the building, and then a snort of objection as though afraid he was going to be called back into service at this early hour. Dillon ignored the animal. He made his way to the fresh straw across from the manure pile and here he spread out his bed roll and lay down to sleep. Dead tired though he was, sleep wouldn't come. He sat up and reached for his saddlebag, unlashed the flap and extracted a bottle of whiskey. After all the time on the trail, it was nearly empty. He finished off the last couple swigs, then wrapped himself in the blanket and allowed the hay to close around him. The last thing he remembered before the abyss of exhaustion claimed him was Kitty's voice, as she talked about the similarities between him and Adam Kimbro. He'd discover the old vagrant lawman cleaning out this very stable and had told Kitty that night. The soft tones of her slight drawl hit a dissonant chord, "Maybe you can see yourself in him …" Maybe, he could.

XOXO

It was Hank, his broken arm still supported by a sling, who found Dillon the next morning. His first thought was, a derelict was sleeping off a night with the bottle. As proof of his suspicion, the empty bottle lay next to the drunken bum. He gave a not-so-gentle prod with the toe of his boot to the backside of the intruder. "This ain't no hotel here, mister. You want to sleep it off, get a room."

Not fully awake, Matt slowly rolled over to face the surprised stable owner. "Marshal Dillon! When did you get home?"

Home? Without Kitty connected to it, the word was hollow and meaningless. "After midnight I guess, Hank. No place else to sleep." He sat up, letting the straw fall from his hair and clothes. Through the open livery doors, Matt Dillon could see the first light of sun shining off the second story windows of the Long Branch Saloon. Home, there was no such place on heaven or earth for Matt Dillon. Like Adam Kimbro, years before, he'd given up the right to call any place home, given it up for an oath and a badge.

The End