THUNDER ON THE FOURTH
FOURTH OF JULY, 1876
Chester Goode followed Doc Adams through the batwing doors of the Long Branch Saloon. "It ever git to you, Doc? Mr. Dillon? What we did—what we had to do back then? Durin' the war, I mean."
U.S. Marshal Matt Dillon strode to one of the round tables and lowered his long frame into a chair without answering. The physician sat down beside him, his eyes sweeping the busy barroom. "It gets to all of us, Chester. Nearly every man in this room had his life changed by the war. Women, too, for that matter."
"D'ya ever wonder why we did it? What it was all about? I mean, really."
Before anyone could reply, Kitty Russell rounded the corner of the bar and wended her way to the table, carrying two mugs of cold beer in each hand. As she settled into the chair Matt held out for her, she glanced at their sober faces and raised her glass. "To the Centennial." The men nodded and followed suit. Kitty swallowed and set her glass down on the green felt. "What has you boys looking so serious this morning?"
With his lips poised on the rim of his glass, Chester answered. "It's the war, Miss Kitty."
"Oh? What on earth brought that up?"
Doc swiped at his mustache, and his somber mood lightened a bit. "We just passed Jerry Jacobs and the Clayton twins practicing their fife and drum routine for the parade tomorrow."
"But we ain't talkin' about that Revolutionary War, Miss Kitty. We're talkin' 'bout the War between the States. You know, the big one where the states in the south left the union, and they was all fightin' each other."
Kitty smiled and nodded. "Yes, I've heard of it, Chester."
"Mister Dillon was in it, you know—and Doc. And I was, too. Most everyone was. It's like Doc just said, almost every man in this here room—pert near every man in Dodge City—had his life changed by that war. I know I did." A loud clap of thunder rattled overhead, and Chester rubbed his knee and shifted his stiff leg to a more comfortable position. "I coulda told you there's storms a–brewin'.
"Oh, I hope not," Kitty said. "But if it has to rain, I hope it does it today so it doesn't spoil the parade and picnic tomorrow."
Doc looked at the two younger men. "Tomorrow. You know, I think Kitty's on to something there. Maybe that's what we were fighting for. For the right to wake up again tomorrow—and all the tomorrows after that—in a land where all men are free and equal, living under one flag, one country, where there's fairness and justice for everyone." He took a long swig of beer, and his wise old eyes looked beyond the barroom. "'Breathes there the man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, this is my own, my native land.'" He gave a satisfied nod. "By golly, I think maybe that's what we were fighting for, Chester—that's what it was all about."
xxxxxx
Despite Kitty's concern, there was only a spattering of rain during the night, and the Fourth of July dawned hot and dry and beautiful, a perfect day for parades and picnics and patriotic programs. The entire town was swathed in red, white and blue bunting, and all along Front Street miniature American flags waved proudly in the breeze that swept across the sun-baked earth. Down at the schoolhouse, a large crowd gathered about the makeshift stage in front of the white clapboard building—elderly ladies and gentlemen seated on wooden chairs fanned themselves in the morning heat, freshly scrubbed children hopped excitedly from foot to foot, young couples smiled shyly at each other as they looked forward to a day of courting, and, from the stage, the familiar words of "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean" washed over the crowd:
Oh, thy mandates make heroes assemble
When Liberty's form stands in view;
Thy banners make tyranny tremble
When borne by the red, white and blue!
Oh, they banners make tyranny tremble
When borne by the red, white and blue!
xxxxxx
By noon the sun was high overhead, and families and friends made their way to Spring Creek, arranging themselves in small groups along the bank of the bubbling water. Quilts and tablecloths were spread on the ground, and when the big wicker baskets were opened, it became evident that cold fried chicken and cold baked ham were the picnic staples of choice,but each family added its own touch to the feast with a variety of favorite dishes reflecting the amalgam of heritages that made up this fledgling United States of America—German potato salad and tangy pepper slaw, Mexican tortillas and corn cakes, and a plethora of other ethnic delights. Earlier in the day, the men had placed bottles of sarsaparilla in the creek to chill, and Kitty contributed kegs of cold beer and several pitchers of an old New Orleans favorite, iced blackberry lemonade. Each family brought more than enough for themselves, and friends and neighbors moved back and forth across the picnic grounds, sampling a pickled egg here, a wedge of strawberry pie there.
When no one could eat any more, everything was packed back into the baskets. Sleepy young children nestled against each other for short naps, while their parents stretched out for a brief rest before the afternoon games and the evening's special activities began. The Businessmen's Association had engaged a master pyrotechnician all the way from St. Louis and promised a sound and light spectacular the likes of which the little prairie town had never seen.
As dusk descended, the band struck up "Yankee Doodle" and a repertoire of other patriotic songs and western favorites. Somewhat apart from the crowd, at a point where the ground rose to a knoll that provided a sweeping view of the water, Matt threw a ragged army blanket onto the ground, and Kitty placed an old quilt on top of it. In this semi-secluded spot, Matt stretched out on his side, facing the creek, and Kitty spread her green and white sprigged muslin skirts around her and sank down perpendicular to his long body, using his muscular chest for a back rest. The warm night air bathed the lovers in drowsy contentment as they listened to the music and luxuriated in the simple pleasure of being together.
When, at last, full darkness descended over the creek, skyrockets soared upward trailing coils of red, white and blue smoke, and the acrid aroma of brimstone and gunpowder filled the air. A thunderous roar shook the very creek bank, startling the crowd and sending children into their parents' arms as the dark night was illuminated with a kaleidoscopic display of bursting, shattering shells and spiraling torpedoes that raced to the sky and mingled with the twinkling stars overhead before descending into the inky water below.
As the first reverberations shook the earth, Matt jerked alert, cringing and reflexively pushing Kitty flat on the ground, covering her body with his own. His arms trembled as he drew her close in an effort to make the two of them as flat as possible.
"What are you doing, Matt? What's wrong?" Her voice was all but drowned out by the mounting series of concussions.
"Cannon…gotta keep low." He was panting now, and his entire body shuddered as he pinned her tighter against the ground.
She struggled beneath him, turning her head to the side in an effort to take a deep breath. "Please, get off of me, Matt. It's not cannon. It's just fireworks."
"No…stay down!"
Kitty gasped for air. Suddenly aware that, for the moment, the man she loved was some place other than beside her on the grassy knoll above Spring Creek, she spoke softly. "Matt, it's Kitty. We're safe, Cowboy. We're fine. It's just Fourth of July fireworks. We're at the creek."
"Creek…blood…fighting…all day…creek dark…blood. Bodies…" He extended one long arm in front of him in a sweeping arc. "Everywhere."
With her chin scraping the dirt, she peered upward into the darkness. The shadowy figures of men and women relaxing on the ground did, in some bizarre way, resemble photographs she had seen of bodies littered across a battlefield.
"They're not bodies, Matt." She worked to keep her voice quiet, soothing. "They're our friends, enjoying the centennial celebration. Look over there." She pointed to the right, not sure if he could follow her line of vision or not. "It's Wilbur and Addie Jonas." She moved her arm straight ahead to where a tall figure stood with a child perched on his shoulders. "And there's Percy Crump with his little boy. And I can see Burke and Chester under the tree, flirting with some of the pretty farm girls. Everything's fine, Matt. No one's hurt here. People are having a good time."
"Tree…rebs in bushes. Rifle…can't reach…"
"You don't need your gun, Matt. It's all right. These are our friends. We're safe. Please let me up." It was several moments before she felt his iron grip begin to loosen. When it did, she immediately scrambled out from beneath his massive frame, lacing her fingers into the damp curls at the nape of his neck and turning his face toward hers. Even in the dim light, she could see that his eyes were wild and unfocused, and she could feel the sweat soaking his face and shirt. Murmuring reassurances, she tenderly stroked his back and neck. "Just relax, Cowboy." She whispered into his tousled curls. "Everything's all right."
Reality slowly returned, and he once again became aware of his surroundings and of the beautiful redhead sitting next to him. "My God, Kitty, what have I done? Did I hurt you?" His voice was hoarse, shaken.
"You kinda knocked the wind out of me, but you didn't hurt me. I'm fine. How 'bout you...are you all right?"
For a moment he sat staring at a distant spot far beyond the creek where the sky touched the vast Kansas prairie. "I think I should go." He unfolded his long body and stood.
Kitty jumped to her feet. "Not without me, you're not," she said as she gathered the old quilt and blanket into her arms and handed them to him. As they walked silently to the buggy, the deafening crescendo ceased, and in the quiet aftermath, a brilliant red, white and blue American flag crackled and shimmered over the water behind them. The sound of a fiddle came from somewhere deep in the crowd, piercing the darkness with the first wistful strains of the hauntingly beautiful song that traditionally marked the end of a special evening.
Come and sit by side if you love me...
Do not hasten to bid me adieu.
But remember the Red River Valley,
And the cowboy who loves you so true.
Without speaking, Matt helped her into the buggy and then passed in front of it to climb onto the seat beside her. Keeping his eyes on the little mare's neck, he said, "I'm sorry, Kitty. I didn't mean to ruin your evening."
"You didn't ruin it, Matt." She slipped her arm through his. "Let's just go home."
xxxxxx
Later that night in the privacy of the bedroom above the Long Branch Saloon, Kitty turned to the big lawman, love and concern coloring her voice. "What happened out there, Matt?"
"I…I'm not sure. For a moment there, it was like…like being on the battlefield all over again. Chickamauga. Shiloh." He gently took her chin in his huge hand, grimacing at the raw flesh he saw there. "I'm sorry, Kitty, so sorry. What other damage did I do to you?"
"None. I'm fine, it's nothing a bit of paint won't hide. The real question is how are you?"
He didn't respond at first, then finally offered a low, "I don't know." His big body shuddered again at the memory. "It was all so real…the noise, the smell of powder. I've heard stories of things like this happening, but…" He shrugged. "I don't know, Kitty. I just don't know."
"I wish Doc hadn't been called out to the Winslow place. He'd know what to do."
"I don't think I have to do anything. Except put it out of my mind." He shrugged again. "The war ended more'n ten years ago, and nothing like this ever happened before."
She wrapped her arms around his waist. "Maybe Chester's question yesterday morning triggered something. Still, I hope you'll tell Doc about it when he gets back."
He frowned. "Kitty, can we…uh, just forget about it?"
"If that's what you want." And then she flashed him a devilish grin. "It wasn't all bad, you know."
"How's that?"
"Well, I did kind of like the part where you pinned me to the ground and were writhing on top of me."
"Kitty, I…" Then he stopped and grinned back at her, sliding his hands down her arms and allowing his thumbs to brush against the sides of her breasts. "Well, since this is a day for re-enactments, how 'bout we stage a re-enactment of our own right here?"
And this time, the fireworks, explosions, and reverberations that shook the earth beneath the little prairie town had nothing to do with either pyrotechnics or cannon fire.
The End