Of Nightmares and Daydreams

MM/ATC to "Bloody Hands"

Disclaimer: No ownership, no profit...just fond memories of these wonderful characters.

Chapter 1

Note: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Bloody Hands," season 2, episode 21, written by John Meston, directed by Andrew V. McLaglen, air date February 16, 1957.

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"Warm up the frying pan. I got `em all cleaned and ready to go."

"That didn't take long."

"Yeah, I'm a devil when it comes to cleanin' fish. Look, you fry `em. I did my job." He grinned when he saw her roll her eyes at his slightly cocky male attitude.

"Oh, that's what I love, a man who needs waiting on. Maybe you'd like a cup of coffee to keep you awake while you watch me cook dinner."

Matt chuckled."Fine, as long as it's good and hot."

"Well, now, if it isn't just exactly right, Matt, I want you to let me know, and I'll fix it for you."

He laughed at her teasing sarcasm, stretched his back, and settled his long frame under the low-hanging branches of an old cottonwood tree. He leaned back, feeling relaxed and free in the vast outdoors. This was the life he loved. The marshal's job kept him confined within the four walls of an office more than he liked, but that was all in the past now. He had taken off his gunbelt, sent his letter of resignation to Washington, and tossed the big silver badge on the desk to await the next man. It felt good to be through with killing.

Through half-closed eyes he lazily watched Kitty line the catfish they had caught in a neat row in the cast iron skillet. He had laughed when he picked her up in the alley behind the Long Branch early that morning, frying pan in hand, but the pretty redhead had insisted on bringing it along. Women, always wanting to be domestic. Didn't she know the way to cook fish was to stick 'em with a twig and hold them over the fire?

Still, this particular woman was pretty cute. Cute? By golly, she's downright beautiful, he thought to himself, especially today, not rouged and painted, but fresh and freckled and feminine in a…well…in an innocent sort of way with that mane of flaming red hair cascading across her shoulders. And he liked the dress, too, not one of her feathery or sequined work dresses that revealed both her bosom and her knees, but a soft white cotton with splashes of blue flowers that danced before his eyes when she knelt to hand him his coffee cup.

He clasped his hands behind his head, his eyes growing heavy as he watched her. He had known Kitty Russell for about a year, and, in that time, they had become good friends. In fact, along with Doc and Chester, they formed a close little group, frequently sharing morning coffee and evening meals. He sometimes thought he'd like Kitty to be more than just a friend, and on those rare occasions when he had openly flirted with her, she didn't seem at all opposed to the idea. But he always held back, remembering the words of his mentor. "Never take on nothin' personal that you can't give up easy. There's no place in a lawman's life for a woman."

Yeah, but, I haven't worn a badge for almost a week now. I'm not a lawman anymore…and it's been a very long time since I've courted a girl, he mused as his eyes fell shut.

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After settling the skillet into the fire and glancing at her sleeping friend, Kitty wandered off toward the creek. She was picking wildflowers and humming to herself when a shout of "NO, DON'T DO IT!" reached her ears, causing her to drop the colorful bunch of daisies and prairie grasses she had gathered. As she started back up the creek bank, she could hear Matt's voice, oddly strangled and strange. "Drop…gun...don't make m'shoot...don't make me kill..." When she crested the bank, she saw him—still asleep where she had left him, but thrashing about and mumbling. Many of his words were indistinct, but "T'much blood... bodies...not murderer," came clearly to her ears.

She quickly covered the short distance, knelt beside the sleeping man and placed a gentle hand on his chest. "Matt, Matt, wake up..." Before she could say another word, he bolted up, instinctively reaching for the gun he no longer wore and simultaneously knocking her over backward. "Matt, it's Kitty...wake up. You're having a bad dream," she managed to say as she gasped for air. His eyes were open now, but wild and unfocused. His face was dripping with sweat, and his big body was trembling as he pinned her against the ground.

"Matt, it's all right. It's Kitty. You're safe. It's just a bad dream. Please let me up." Her voice was quiet, soothing, and as she spoke, his flailing stopped. She felt his arms wrap around her, and he burrowed his face against her breast like a frightened child. Still unable to escape from beneath his huge frame, she stroked his back and the sweat-dampened curls at the nape of his neck, whispering, "Relax, Matt. Everything's all right. That must have been some dream you were having—want to tell me about it?"

His only response was to shake his head from side to side and to press even closer against her. She held him in her arms, gently coaxing him back to reality. Slowly, his breathing evened out, and the trembling ceased. He once again became aware of his surroundings and of the beautiful woman lying beneath him. "My God, Kitty, what have I done?" he asked as he rolled off of her and onto the ground. "Did I hurt you?"

"You kinda knocked the wind out of me, but you didn't hurt me." She sat up. "I'm fine, and you have nothing to apologize for." She straightened her skirt and brushed a few escaped curls back from her forehead. "How 'bout you...are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm all right," he answered, staring at a distant spot where the sky touched the vast Kansas prairie.

"I'm not so sure," she whispered under her breath. "Matt..." she began tentatively, "Chester…Chester told me about your nightmare."

"He had no business…"

"Please don't be angry with him. You really scared him the other night at the jail. He had to talk about it to someone, and I think, well, I think you should, too. Talk to someone, I mean. Maybe if you told Doc he could…"

"Oh, sure, I'm gonna tell Doc I'm having bad dreams like a...like a six-year old," he answered scornfully.

Kitty turned so that she was face to face with the big man and folded her legs beneath her full skirts. "Matt, we are friends, aren't we?"

"Of course we're friends, Kitty, we're good friends. Why would you ask something like that?"

"Because friends talk to each other, friends—well, they help each other. One friend doesn't just sit by and do nothing when the other one is hurting. You're having nightmares, you quit your job—what's going on? Talk to me, Matt, don't keep everything bottled up inside. Please. You don't have to go through this alone—whatever it is."

He reached out and plucked a seed husk from her skirt. "Maybe you're right, Kitty...maybe I do need..."

The not-too-distant sound of hooves could be heard, and they had just enough time to jump to their feet and brush the burs from Kitty's skirt before they heard the unmistakable sound of Chester's voice calling, "Mister Dillon! Mister Dillon!"

"Damn," Matt swore softly under his breath. They stood staring as Chester climbed breathlessly down from the saddle.

"What's that for?" Matt asked, motioning toward his familiar gunbelt now strapped loosely around his assistant's hips.

"It's for you. Joe Stanger's back in town."

"I don't care about Stanger anymore."

"I don't think you understand, Mister Dillon. He insulted one of the girls at the Long Branch again, and when she slapped him, he shot her. Nobody dared stand up to him. So I got one of the horses out at the hitch rail and I come for you."

"I'm not Marshal any more, Chester. I quit." A flash of anger crept into his tone.

"That don't matter. You can't let him get by with this, you just can't."

"I told you, Chester, I'm through with fighting and killing."

"Mister Dillon, you're the only one in Dodge who can stand up agin him, and you know it."

"Well...maybe so, but I'm still not gonna do it. That girl's dead. I can't help her."

"Mister Dillon, I've been thinkin' and you've been forgittin' something. Men like Stanger and Brandt...they gotta be stopped. They just gotta. I'd do it if I could, but I can't. I just ain't good enough. Most men aren't." Chester's chocolate brown eyes were practically pleading now. "But you are. It's kind of too bad for you that you are, but that's the way it is and there's not a thing you can do about it, not now. It's too late, Mister Dillon. It's way too late."

Recognizing the sincerity in the younger man's voice and eyes, Matt reached for the gunbelt and, with a look of sad resignation in his own eyes, strapped it into place around his hips. With a quiet, "Maybe you'll help Kitty take the fish back," he mounted the borrowed horse and rode away in the direction of Dodge.

As Chester helped Kitty gather up the fishing gear and picnic basket, he couldn't help but notice the charred lump in the cold fire. "What happened to them fish, Miss Kitty?"

"It's a long story, Chester," she sighed. "Let's just say it's way too late for them, too."

TBC