THE FACE IN THE MIRROR
The characters of Matt, Kitty, Doc, Chester, and Sam are not my creation. They belong solely to the CBS Broadcasting Corporation.
Kitty
Part One
The Long Branch Saloon, morning
"Ma'am,"
Kitty looks up from the ledger she is working on to see a well dressed, paunchy man standing next to her.
She takes a moment, hearing the stiff bristles of Sam's broom as they pass over the gritty remnants of last night's crowd.
"My bartender will take care of you." She nods in Sam's direction.
The man does not leave; instead, he searches the curve of her cheek, studies the deep blue shade of her eyes, the soft rusty curls, and the long, slender fingers.
"I'm sorry," he takes off his hat, exposing the sickly white dome of his bald head, "may I join you?"
Another moment passes before she gives a subtle nod of permission to this new man in town.
He puts his bowler hat on the table then sits down. He places his right hand on the table very close to Kitty's left. "You don't recognize me. I met you in San Francisco."
Kitty feels a quivering in the pit of her stomach, the rising of the heat that spreads throughout her body. The quickening of her pulse.
"I'm afraid," she speaks as smoothly as she is able, "you are quite mistaken."
"But I'm sure it's you. Eight years ago. You're," he stammers for the correct words, "a might older. But it's you, alright."
His eyes drop to the fullness beneath the bodice of her dress.
"I took you to the Jenny Lind Theater. Caroline Chapman was on stage. You loved it. Later we…," he leaves that part to dangle in the still morning air of the Long Branch.
"Mister, I've never been to San Francisco let alone to the Jenny Lind. And I do not care at all for what you are implying."
She does not blink. Keeps her stare of displeasure aimed right at this impertinent man.
"I..I'm sorry if I've offended you," he picks up his hat, stands, then walks across Sam's many piles of dirt as he threads his way toward the door. He stops on the landing, turns, and looks at her once again before leaving the building.
The stranger is gone but his presence lingers.
So do Kitty's doubts.
There are two things she knows about this man. He has a deep rose-colored birthmark just left of his belly button and when they'd first met, in San Francisco, he'd had a fair amount of money to his name. By the end of their last meeting, he'd had much, much less.
Kitty
Part two
The End of the Day
Kitty cherishes this time of night. The saloon is empty. The doors locked from the inside. She is in the quiet of her own suite of rooms.
Tonight, and best of all, Matt is here.
She sits before the large oval mirror. She has filled out in eight year's time. She is no longer a skinny seventeen-year-old. She is a woman.
She's grown in other ways as well. She looks around the room admiring the fine furniture, the quality of the rugs and wall coverings, closets filled with stylish clothing. With a certain degree of pride, she acknowledges the fact that she owns this whole building right down to the last drop of cheap rye whiskey in the cellar.
She's done well for herself.
She shifts her gaze from her self to the image of Matt Dillon reflected in the mirror just over her left shoulder.
He rests, stretched out, in the center of her double bed unbuttoning his dark plum colored shirt. With deliberate languor. His blue eyes, the shade of a milky summer sky, are teasing her.
He is so sure of himself.
His boots, upright and touching, stand on the floor at the foot of the brass bed. His stocking feet are crossed casually at the ankles.
He has the audacity to give her that crooked little smile as he pulls his shirt aside to expose a good portion of his broad, naked chest.
He takes her breath away. This man who knows how to entice her. How to set her blood to a frenzied boil that only he can extinguish.
He is perfect.
He brags of his wild youth and how mentors were there to keep him on the correct path.
While she tells him only small bits and pieces of her own story, she keeps mum on the vast majority of her past life.
He knows what she does for a living. Now. What she did when she first came to Dodge City.
But Matt Dillon does not know all of her secrets.
She thinks about the life she's made in the last eight years only because a threat to this peace stepped through the doors of the Long Branch this morning. She's been accosted with uncomfortable memories ever since.
If Matt were to find out about this one specific period in her life he would be disappointed.
Appalled.
But worse, he would be conflicted between the love he feels for her and respect for the badge he wears with such pride and honesty of purpose.
She stares at her own reflection one more time. It is the youthful Flame McKestry who glares back, the willful, ambitious, yet beaten down part of her.
What would Kitty Russell, older, wiser, do if the truth of this younger version of herself ever surfaced in Dodge City?
"Are you coming to bed or are you gonna stare at yourself all night?"
Matt.
She goes to the security of his arms and replaces her melancholy with physical warmth and love.
Kitty
Part 3
2 months later
"A beer, pretty lady."
The cowboy's silly grin is a respite from the majority of drunks.
Kitty likes a happy drunk.
She grabs his nickel in midair.
The greasy man cackles.
Two seconds later she places a frothing stein of beer in front of him and nods her thanks.
He is going to say something but has no chance. Another, younger man, abruptly weaves his way between him and the standing room only bar.
Another coin flies in the air. This time it's a dime.
Kitty allows the coin to clatter, unimpeded, on the bar. The coin lands, face up.
"Whiskey, Mister?"
And so it went from late afternoon till now, pushing ten o'clock. Kitty Russell does not pull beer and pour whiskey, not usually. But it's Saturday night; the saloon is packed with two crews, one from Texas, and the other from Oklahoma. But Harry, her extra bartender, is home in his bed with a terrible toothache. Sam cannot handle the crowd by himself. Thirst, money, and heat make for a good evening of business even if she has to help behind the bar to make it happen.
In the calm between clamorous men, she looks toward the far corner needing to see her sedate friends, Doc and Chester. They, as on most Saturday nights, are seated at 'their' table holding up severely depleted steins of beer for her to see. Chester is most unhappy, his being less full then Doc's. So come the soft, sad, puppy dog eyes so full of hurt. He is in competition with the older, but definitely more savvy, man on his left, for her attention.
Doc simply winks.
Friends.
"You," Sam stands elbow to her shoulder, "Get their beers then take a rest."
At this moment, those who do not know better, will think that Sam is the boss and she an employee.
Kitty thinks the world of this tall man with the furrows plowing contrary swaths across his face. She leans into him. It is a subtle gesture but one that Sam will take as thanks.
She threads her way, a beer in each hand, between the intoxicated, the exaggerated of libido, and the anesthetized customers.
She almost makes it.
One leering cow pusher blocks her path. Annoying and loathsome, he is the grit beneath the soles of her shoes.
But he is a paying customer.
Using her best poker face, or, she chuckles on the inside, the one she thinks this cowboy's mother would fall back on to get his attention, the weather beaten man moves aside. His face reddens at the guffaws of those of his friends still sober enough to observe the wordless confrontation.
"Handled that cowpoke real fine, Miss Kitty," Chester's words plod in extra slow motion.
"Years of experience," she answers with a short, crisp edge to her three words.
"By golly, Kitty," Doc Adams says as he reaches for the beer in her left hand, "you gotta be making lots of money tonight."
"Oh, yeah. Free beers," she gives each her friends a wink, knowing from past history that no coin would be forthcoming from either of these two, "and broken furniture. Not to mention the liquor that keeps going up in price. Salaries. Oh yeah, I'm just raking it in in bushels."
Chester takes his beer. "You feeling a might peckish, are ya?"
"Yeah, I'm tired."
The slender man jumps to his feet and motions for her to sit as he moves to the side.
"I kin drink my beer a standin'."
Only two of the usual six chairs are at this table, the other four having disappeared.
Her feet ache; her shoulders feel the tightness of unused muscles. She sits without any hesitation.
Doc is the first to notice the stranger as he steps confidently into the Long Branch. Kitty follows the direction of her old friend's attention.
The crisp tinkling of glass on glass; the guttural shouts of poker winners; the cursing of the losers; giggling girls; chairs scuffing on the gritty wooden floor, all cease vying for her attention, and are replaced with a deafening soundlessness.
The barrel chest. The rounded dandy hat topping a ruddy face full of bristly salt and pepper pork chop whiskers.
His gleam of anticipation. A hunter ready to pounce on his grounded prey.
The world as Kitty Russell knows it, is standing absolutely still.
Bill Atworth has finally found her.
Then he smiles down at her, lips moving in some distorted pattern, no noise escaping them.
She comprehends neither the smile nor the words.
Slowly…
The noise…
Movement…..
Her breathing.
"…so glad to finally meet up with you again. I have truly missed your company."
Doc nudges her arm with his elbow.
"Aren't you going to introduce us to your friend, here?"
Friend?
No!
She wants to take Doc and Chester by their hands, whisk them out of the saloon before Bill has a chance to poison them with his talk.
More than that, she wants to disappear herself.
Vanish.
Again.
But….
"Doc, Chester," she hears the practiced composure of her own voice; a contradiction to the thunderous beating of her heart, "this is William Atworth."
The shaking of hands over the round table completed, the three men move on to pleasant, though impersonal small talk about weather, place of residence.
"If you gentlemen will excuse me," Kitty interrupts as she slides her chair backwards," Sam needs help behind the bar."
"But I thought," Bill pouts out his words, "we might find someplace quiet and have a talk. It's been eight years. So much to catch up on."
She nods and walks away. Her steps are small. Ladylike.
She hopes.
She prays.
That she is sleeping and this is all a very, very bad dream.
Kathleen
Part 4
The New Orleans Belle, 1874
Kathleen watches and listens as Madame Salisbury reads the letter aloud, but for the rotund woman's scarlet painted lips, not another part of her body moves in the process.
"Dear Miss Russell,
Your reputation as a gambling professional has reached all the way to San Francisco by way of some mutual patrons of ours. These fine gentlemen spoke highly of you in a number of ways. They tell me that your dexterity with a deck of cards is nothing short of amazing. These men are seasoned gamblers and quick to value, shall we say, discretely, any subtle slight of hand that may benefit one's hand over another's.
They assure me that you are very good at what you do.
They also tell me that you converse in an intelligent manner about current events both in politics and the price of a bale of cotton. To state it more bluntly, you are no dim-witted female.
I save this comment for last. They were most impressed with your fresh and youthful beauty. They assure me you possess a gracefulness in your manner of working with a vast variety of men from the gentle to the rough, from the old to the young.
These same gentlemen were very observant of your every move and I trust them implicitly.
Now that I have related to you what I have heard from reliable sources, you must know that I am in a business that requires your many fine qualities. And you, Miss Russell, should you accept my offer of employment, will make a fine addition to my gambling establishment. The Fool's Gold is one of the most reputable and stable places on the Gold Coast of California.
I am prepared to offer you a position with the following benefits: a substantial percentage of any winnings funded by house money; an adequate place of residence above The Fool's Gold; and, as is usual for my sophisticated house, a liberal stipend for the purchase of the fashionable attire that is a necessity for my female dealers.
My sincere wish is that you are at a stage in your young life where you would like to make a change in the way you live. I can assure you that San Francisco is a vibrant and wealthy city with many opportunities for a smart young woman like yourself.
I can only ask that you give my offer serious consideration and should you have further questions, please contact me by wire.
Whether you accept or decline, I ask that you notify me of your decision.
Enclosed are clippings concerning The Fool's Gold, my status as a businessman of San Francisco, a one-way train ticket, and a draft for sundry traveling expenses. The draft is to be used only if you accept my offer.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
William Atworth."
Kathleen holds herself as motionless as a marble statue. Not a muscle quivers in any part of her body; a skill her mentor, the Madame Maria Salisbury has taught her well. In the game of poker a hand may be rendered useless by a simple gesture, dilation of the pupils, a fleeting smile, a tapping of the fingers. Kathleen will entertain no such calamity with her future plans.
Mr. Atworth wants her. She will leave. Her reasons are legion, but foremost, it is because of the woman sitting before her.
The thought of becoming a plump, aging whore with no future other than more late nights in a riverboat saloon dealing cards is abhorrent. So, also, are the effects to be suffered because of the clouds of cigar smoke while trapped inside this stifling saloon night after night. Kathleen hears the rebellion of Maria's body racked by coughing fits so violent the dainty, lace-bordered handkerchief she carries cannot discretely contain the yellow phlegm. She watches the woman as she makes her way to the outside deck of The Belle and to the warm, moist air that clings to the Mississippi River like a shroud. Even then, the racking of her body is not covered by the noise of the engine or the churning of the paddlewheel.
Today Kathleen observes no blemishes on the rotund adventuress. On many other days, however, the powder fails to cover a dark bruise on the cheek, or the lipstick, the tear on the lip.
Maria calls these hazards.
The saloon may be a place for flirting with fragile men, chatting, playing a game of poker, and giving them a hint of what could be theirs lying in wait beneath her low cut bodice. But in the privacy of her room she entertains only those who pay for other, more personal, services.
Kathleen understands only too well that a man among other men might appear meek. But, alone, with a woman, that same man can easily become a master while she becomes a slave. Bought and paid for, Maria endures the risk and the abuse that frequently accompanies the extra coin.
"I see,"
Maria's rich contralto breaks Kathleen's memories of her own experiences with brutal gentlemen callers. Her employer is embracing the first class train ticket and the two hundred dollar draft as if she were caressing the face of a lover.
"He even provides for your travel and some expenses."
A genuine hint of astonishment follows the skepticism in her words.
Only then does the lady look up to gather Kathleen's reaction. Those violet eyes are cognizant of every expression no matter how small. Kathleen accepts the deep scrutiny without divulging any unspoken emotion.
"You have," Maria still holds the ticket and the draft, "checked on what else this William Atworth may expect of you?"
Kathleen nods.
They both understand what that 'other expectation' involves.
"He assures me that I will not be required to entertain men in addition to dealing."
Entertain. Such a nice word for giving and having to take what the boors demand for an extra dollar.
"And you believe him?"
Quickly delivered, Maria's question is almost enough to crack Kathleen's rigid exterior.
With her chin slightly elevated, Kathleen replies, "The newspaper clippings attest to his being nothing more than the owner of The Fool's Gold, a gaming establishment. There is no mention of ladies for sale. So, yes, I do believe him."
Maria's lips thin to a sad smile. "I will miss you, Kathleen. But I do know that you will not miss some of the work I require of you. I've taught you well, you've been an excellent student. And now, you have a wonderful opportunity."
Maria folds the letter and tucks it, along with the clippings, the draft, and the ticket, inside the envelope.
"I only hope," Maria hands the letter to Kathleen but as Kathleen reaches out to take it, Maria does not release her end, "that everything is as it appears to be."
It is another few seconds before the Madame relinquishes possession of the letter.
"Thank you for teaching me," Kathleen manages to say despite the lump in her throat.
Kathleen Russell walks off The New Orleans Belle leaving the relative security the Madame has provided for the past couple of years.
And just as she did when she left Panacea's, Kathleen does not look back.
Kitty
Part 5
The Morning After Atworth Comes to Dodge
She hears his heels dig into the wooden floor of the saloon. He is coming fast and furious. She prays his anger will be somewhat abated by the punishment he is inflicting on the grit beneath his feet.
"Kathleen,"
It is not to be. There is an edge to his voice, one, she knows, that will not be easily distracted from his singular purpose.
His bulk hovers over her, one hand on the back of her chair, the other, knuckles down, on the newspaper she's been reading. She smells the acrid heat emanating from beneath his clothes. The blood boiling heat of rage.
She keeps her attention on the newspaper. She does not need to see the sunken pools of black menace that accompanied the icy edge to the beginning letter of her name.
"We need to talk. Now."
It is inevitable.
"Some place private. For your sake. Your room."
"Not my room," she speaks firmly. "My office."
He barely allows her the room to slide her chair back, and then follows closely behind. It is Atworth who closes the door between the saloon and the hall. With a slam.
A barrier.
It is Bill, who closes, then locks, the door that finally traps her in a hell that is her own office.
"Always figured you'd land on your feet. Now," he pulls out the armless chair that stands next to her desk and sets it in the middle of the small room. He sits, leaning heavily against the backrest, eyeing her from toe to head. "You know what you gotta do."
She knows but keeps it to herself.
He plies a fake smile. "Alright, then, I'll just have to tell you. You're gonna pay back all that money you owe me."
"I owe you nothing!"
Venom. She wants her words to inflict poison enough to kill the man.
Bill does not reply, simply sits like a judge and jury all wrapped up in his one pompous self.
"You forget a lot of things. Sweetheart."
"Don't call me sweetheart."
"There's," he begins a slow perusal of the room taking in the tall cast iron floor safe, the tidy desk top, the dimly burning lamp with the decorated the chimney, "that contract you signed."
"That won't hold up in a court of law."
He sees the partially full bottle of Old Henry Clay sitting atop a high shelf next to two turned down shot glasses.
"True. But if I mention the name Flame McKestry, I'm sure everyone will listen."
He is uncompromising.
"Especially those friends of yours. They'll start asking all sorts of questions."
He smiles once more. There is no sincerity behind those up-curved lips.
"Then you'll have to tell them what you did eight years ago."
He commits his words to float across the still air in the office.
"Oh, I know," he interrupts himself, "you can pay off that piddly little sum. Then those people of yours won't have to know a thing about your true self. Better," he gloats, his eyes devouring the shape of her body, "they don't. Might just ruin this going thing you got here. But,"
She waits.
"There is that other thing."
No sound. Just like last night. Except for her own wildly beating heart.
"The state of California still wants you." He reaches into his coat pocket to retrieve a folded piece of paper. He is in no hurry.
Kitty knows what is on this worn bill.
Fully unfolded, Bill holds it up by the right corner for her to see.
WANTED FOR MURDERFlame McKestry. A woman of loose morals.
Natural red hair. Deep blue eyes. Fair complexion. Five feet seven inches tall. 125 pounds. Thin build.
San Francisco Police Department October 1875
It is her face, even though crudely drawn.
He gives her only a short time to see the words and picture before he refold it and places it back into his pocket.
Bill stands and gets the bottle of liquor off the high shelf. He checks the label. Nods his approval.
"Always did go for the expensive stuff, Sweetheart." He uncorks the Clay with the swagger of a man who holds all the winning cards. He pours the potent spirits into the two glasses. The bottle is empty now; each of the plain glasses filled to the brim.
He hands her a glass.
An amber drop falls to the floor.
"You know,"
He is so smug. So superior.
"I just can't let you get off easy, Kathleen. After you took off I had one hell of a mess to clean up. I paid out a lot of cash to keep my credibility. That little scene of yours cost me plenty."
Audacity. To blame her. For something he started. To make money.
"Then I had to wait eight years to see you again. Paid for that information, too."
"Just say it and get over with!"
"Now, now, Kathleen, remember your sweet poker face. Never let on you got a rotten hand."
He takes a couple swallows.
"Oh, I don't want too much, really. I'm not greedy."
She does not fake the laugh that escapes her.
"You're gonna go on just like before. With me. But I'm in charge."
A pause.
To let his words register.
"Sweetheart."
Then his confident smile, "Till I get all the money I could have made with you these past eight years. Now that's a whole lot more than what's in that bank account of yours."
He sits once again, and aims his glass at her in mock salute. "You got a lot to lose, you fight me on this. Like that marshal I hear you're so taken with," he drank the last of the whiskey, "that old doctor who thinks the world of you. Seems like a lot of fine people here in Dodge got a healthy respect for you."
He lets his dark eyes wander from her head to her toes.
"Buck me in anyway, Sweetheart, and I'll tell that marshal just what kind of woman you really are."
Kathleen
Part 6
San Francisco
Kathleen tastes the salty tang as the wind buffets her lips. She smells the slightly fishy odor as she watches the opposite shore, the San Francisco side, of the bay, as it grows closer. The sun is bright and warm and she does not care if her freckles explode. She is enjoying being on the top deck of the ferry.
The long trip behind her, she anticipates the beginning of her new life.
She unwillingly makes a scene in the ferry building. Three trunks, all her worldly possessions, and four valises are stacked on a trolley being pushed by a gigantic black porter. Everyone in this place of transfer knows she is here to stay.
She and the porter wait only a few minutes on the cobbled stone plaza before a small, two passenger carriage pulls up in front of her.
The coachman leans toward her with his stained teeth showing in an attempted smile.
"Miss Russell?"
She nods.
"Freight wagon's coming along ta takes yer baggage ta Mr. Bill's."
The man's outfit was once a bright color and in style. But now, the epaulettes are a faded dusty gold on the man's drooping thin shoulders. The trousers are bunched a good four extra inches on the ground around his ankles.
The sleek dapple-gray gelding is immaculately groomed. The well-oiled tack and the black calash glisten in the bright sun.
Mr. Bill. She wonders if her vision of the man will be accurate. She sees him as tall with a gentle smile. He will be well dressed, of course, in the style of the day. His hands will be soft and his eyes a soothing pastel.
"S'posta," the driver spits on the cobblestone street, "take ya da long ways, and show yous da city fer I drops yas ta Mr. Bill."
Thirty minutes into her tour, Kathleen comes to a conclusion. From the overpowering smells of the fisheries, the spotlessness and wealth of Nob Hill, the blinding white exterior of the Jenny Lind Theater, the Grand Opera House where Adah Menken's name blazes across the huge marquee, to the mansions and broad patches of green, she is going to like it here.
"Dis is da Fool's Gold."
The driver stops but makes no effort to get down.
The Fool's Gold is more impressive than she imagined, enveloped as it is, within a bronzy yellow exterior and two full stories tall. It takes up a good portion of the block.
She does not move.
From inside the building comes a woman's voice.
Singing. Low. Husky.
In French.
Kathleen understands the words. Knows immediately why there are guttural responses from the men inside complete with their own set of vulgarities.
The woman's words are those only a certain kind of woman would sing.
Kathleen's opinion of The Fool's Gold and Bill Atworth falls from its high place on the pedestal.
The driver urges the horse forward.
"Wait a minute," Kathleen shouts, "I thought I was to be staying here."
The driver leans back.
"Na, change of plans fer ya. Goin to da udder place. You liff wid Mr. Bill."
Kathleen
Part 7
The Awakening
Four story houses line both sides of Buchanan Street. Narrow on the street side, the huge houses run deep making the whole house a long rectangle. What Kathleen notices most is that there is very little room between the houses.
The old man pulls up in front of a white house, the only one of this color Kathleen notices. A square cupola dominates the very top of the house.
It is quiet. No one, other than the driver and herself, take up space on the brick lined street.
He jumps from the seat to the ground, a quick limberness to his movements he's kept hidden until now. He opens the door of the shallow carriage and waits, placing weight from one foot to the other and looking between Kathleen and the tall white front door under the shade of the wrap around porch.
He exhales relief as a tall, thin man with a clean-shaven face and a crisp black suit comes from inside.
"Miss Russell," the long faced gentleman offers a hand totally gloved within white.
He waits.
She hesitates.
"Are you….?"
"No, ma'am. I am Robert, Mr. Atworth's man servant."
Robert's hand remains suspended in mid air.
"I…I understood I was to be meeting Mr. Atworth at The Fool's Gold."
With a delicate dip of his head, Robert replies in a soft monotone, "A change of plans. Mr. Atworth waits inside."
Kitty
Part 8
The Long Branch
She peers from the balcony to the floor of the Long Branch. The crowd is good. For a moment she forgets her situation and basks in the rewards of hard work.
Matt and Bill are down there. Matt, his head bent low to catch Doc Adams' words, sits in the far corner. Atworth, only a deck of cards for company, takes up a whole table in the center of the room.
These two men are on opposite sides.
Bill seeks to use her for her skill. To dominate her and bend her to his will. And much worse, to punish her for past deeds.
Matt has never, nor ever will, use her for his own gain. He will always allow her the freedom to do what she thinks is correct.
Control.
She feels it slipping away.
Sees, in the future, all her work of building the Long Branch going down the backhouse pit. She embraces the rising of resentment and for an instant plans a revolt.
She forgets it when she looks at Matt. To do such a thing will be too great a risk.
She descends the familiar steps to the main floor, ignores Bill with a swish of her satin dress and petticoats as she passes his table on her way to the sidebar.
"You don't look so good, Miss Kitty."
Sam. A giant hovering over her.
"I'm alright, Sam."
She makes the effort to look up at the man.
"Really, I am."
Those sad, soft eyes of his say it all. He does not believe her.
Matt
Part 9
The Long Branch
"Just look at her, Matt. She's not smiling. Not even at Sam. Ya know how she feels about Sam."
Doc takes a break and draws the stubby fingers of his right hand through the brush on his upper lip.
"Now you tell me you don't think there's something wrong."
Matt lets his gray haired mentor ramble while he stares into his shell of beer. Doc is right. There is a problem. And it is not just because Kitty has avoided him and her friends for two days.
Matt knows something Doc does not, something of a much more personal nature. Kitty leaves a light burning in her window as a welcome for Matt to join her for the night. It hasn't burned for the last two evenings.
"You talk to Sam about it?" Doc keeps his voice low as if he does not want anyone but Matt to hear his concern.
"Ya."
"Well?"
Matt nods in the direction of Bill Atworth. "Sam says Atworth's got something on Kitty."
They both watch Kitty as they stew about Sam's opinion.
Matt gets up and walks toward Kitty, his attention focused on her and her alone.
She sees him coming.
"Kitty," he hopes his silly grin will make the apprehension in her eyes disappear.
He is wrong.
"M..Matt."
"Ah," Bill Atworth wedges himself between Matt and Kitty, his big cigar creating a cloud of haze as he speaks, "I finally get to meet the marshal of Dodge City."
The fat man breaks into a wide smile that spans from one ear to the other.
It is a false, contrived smile. Matt sees the lie behind the words.
"Bill Atworth, here."
Matt sees the yellow stained right hand dart toward him and considers the long-term effects of not shaking that corpulent flesh.
"Got a nice little town here, Marshal. Kathleen," he tilts his head toward the agitated Kitty on his left, "you know her as Kitty, I believe, sure has done real well here."
Matt wants to say any number of things to this squatty gent. One of them being that he is not as ingratiating as he thinks he is with that grease stain on his jacket.
"We're partners now."
Perplexed does not come close to what those three words imply to Matt.
"Kitty's gonna have a poker game later on, why don't you come join in."
Matt takes that as a very odd kind of invitation and puts up his hands in mock surrender.
"I don't make that kind of money." He forces his own chuckle. "Don't have it to loose, Bill."
Levity.
"Can I have," Matt ignores Bill and stares at Kitty, "a word with you, Kitty?"
Atworth puts his thick arm around Kitty's slender waist.
"You can say anything in front of me and her. We don't keep secrets from each other."
When Atworth squeezes Kitty into his body Matt cringes.
But not nearly as much as Kitty does.
Kathleen
Part 10
The Gauntlet
"Miss Russell,"
Another voice, male, comes echoing from within that brilliant white house.
A shorter, blockier figure steps onto the porch.
"Come, we have much to discuss."
The voice displays impatience. He is adept at giving orders and having them followed immediately.
That same figure stands motionless until she takes the proffered hand of Robert.
Bill Atworth sits on a heavy, dark burgundy divan. Kathleen notices in the dimness of light in this front parlor, that the divan's arms are worn and stained a darker color. Atworth, a tall glass in one hand and a cigar in the other, looks very much like a king sitting on his throne.
"Mr. Atworth will see you now," Robert announces.
Atworth looks up and Kathleen feels she is being appraised. She permits herself to do the same. This man is broad and has the appearance of one who does very little or no physical work.
"Sit."
Again she hears that tone.
He points to a straight-backed chair three feet from himself. The seat is unpadded wood, the tall backrest five thin wooden spindles.
"You," he puffs, "have papers to sign."
Bill sits back, crosses his right leg with his left as he watches her move toward the chair.
Dark pits for eyes, his complexion is ruddy with deep pockmarks.
Kathleen sits on the edge of the chair with her back straight and her chin held high.
And her heart racing.
"I believe we have a problem, Mr. Atworth."
He takes another drag and blows the smoke in her direction.
"Oh?"
He enjoys Kathleen's rapidly blinking eyes and the stifling of a cough.
"And what might that be, Kathleen?"
"I..I understood that I was to be staying at The Fool's Gold."
He laughs, yellow teeth exposed in a feral grin.
"Is that all? What's the matter, think people will talk if you stay here with me?"
She feels she is being toyed with.
"Then," she continues, "there was that woman singing."
"Oh, you mean Cossette? Like what she sang?"
"No. I speak French. That song is horrible. You said there would be no prostitution at The Fool's Gold. That song," she is bolstered by her own embarrassment, "is not one to be sung at a respectable, high class establishment, as you say The Fool's Gold is."
He takes his time to respond while letting his eyes traverse her body once again.
"Well, my dear," he begins with another laugh, "I lied."
Kathleen hears those two words. The meaning does not sink in. For a moment.
"Cossette brings in some good money. Oh come on," he is almost laughing.
Kathleen is aghast. Is he saying that this woman is an adventuress? A sporting woman?
"Don't be so shocked. She don't do anything you haven't done before. I even let her keep some of her trick money."
He moves his fat cigar until it is perpendicular to the floor.
"You'll be staying here. You're different. Not gonna use you that way, well, not too much."
In that way. Too much.
"Robert is here and Milly, my maid. And me. That's who stays here. Your virtue will not be compromised."
"I want out of this deal," she blurts out.
"Oh?" He expresses honest surprise before his tone shifts to silky sweet, "I don't think so. How much of the $200 do you have left?"
Kathleen swallows. Hard.
A few coins.
"Thought so. I can count on certain things with your kind." Atworth hoists his bulk from the divan and lumbers, stiffly, to a cabinet. He pulls out a full bottle of bourbon.
"Buffalo Trace, ever had it?"
She knows it for standard high-end liquor served on the riverboats. Cheap only because it comes from Kentucky and shipped by river freight.
She nods.
He fills his own glass and then another smaller one.
"Here," he thrusts the smaller glass toward her.
She cringes as his fat fingers glide across her own as she grasps the glass.
She contemplates the idea of pitching the alcohol into his face.
"That's a good girl."
Could he read her mind?
"So," he sits down again, slowly, "the way I see it you got none of the $200 left and you spent all of your savings on new gowns," he aims an accusatory finger her way, "even though I specifically said I'd give you a stipend for that."
Kathleen cannot keep eye contact.
"Yup, I got the right of it."
His chest puffs out.
Kathleen feels like a willfull child shamed into admitting her transgression.
"But if you really want to back out on this deal, all you gotta to do is give back the $200 and the value of the train ticket. If you can't…."
He lets those words hang in the air like a hammer suspended over a nail.
"You're mine from the top of your pretty red hair right down to your dainty little toes. Got me copies of everything I sent you, all your replies. You complain to the law you won't get far. Guaranteed. I dealt with women like you before. Now," he downs the bourbon with out the slightest flinch, "you're gonna sign this here agreement and then we'll get down to the real reason I bought your pretty poker face."
Boxed in.
Trapped.
Not but a few coins in her pocket.
"After dinner tonight I'm gonna take you for a little walk through Barbary. Just in case you get some wild idea you can get away from me."
The Barbary Coast.
Kathleen's heard stories.
None of them good.
Maria Salisbury's parting words reverberate inside Kathleen's head. I hope everything is as it appears.
Atworth hands her a pen and a piece of paper filled from top to bottom with fine print.
"Don't look so sad, Sweetheart, I'm still gonna give you everything I said I was."
The real reason?
Kathleen tries to focus on the print. One line stands out from all the rest.
Repayment of debt plus interest may buy release from said duties.
She begins to calculate just how long it will take to be free.
She signs it in her fine, flourished hand.
Bill takes the paper, holds it by one corner, and blows on the wet ink.
"I lied about another thing." He has no remorse.
"You'll have to give service to some men. Won't be near as many as on that riverboat, can promise you. But those you do, well,"
He licks his lips and greedily devours her physical assets one more time.
"Well, they're gonna pay dearly to get between those legs of yours. They'll be dieing to see if that snatch of yours is as red as the hair on top of your head. And I won't let you out of this deal until I say it's alright."
The trap springs shut.
"Oh, come on," he makes an attempt at frivolity. "You'll get this done in short order just to be rid of me, Sweetheart."
Gullible.
Greedy.
"Got my maid, Milly, heating up water for your bath. Room is on the second floor, end of the hall. You get to look over the street. Nice big room. We'll talk more over dinner then we'll take that stroll to Barbary. Wear one of your pretty gowns."
Her own dreams are smashed beneath the soles of her own stupidity.
Kathleen
Part 11
The Quiet of Her Room
The street just below her window is quiet, a far cry from the din of drunks, opium dens, and cheap whorehouses. Kathleen finds it hard to imagine that just three streets over exists the infamous area known as The Barbary Coast.
Bill was quick to point out which of the women he'd specifically put in that place. And for what misdeed. Bill expects his girls to give one hundred percent in whatever he assigns them to do. He will abide no back talk. No defiance. Only submission.
Kathleen Russell does not want to be a whore with lifeless eyes that speak of being beaten down, bent, and abused. Worse, addicted to a drug that numbs who and what she is. Trapped in a world of jayhawkers and rounders. The life of one woman does not matter.
She continues brushing her hair in front of the mirror. The pink flowered oil lamp casts a bright light. This room, as Bill said, is spacious. Large enough for a dressing table with attached mirror, a wide chest of drawers, a four-poster bed with a coverlet in a pink and blue flower pattern, and a huge walk in closet.
Her riverboat room could fit into this one room five times over.
She knows that the whores in Barbary do not have this kind of luxury. Nor, she recalls the dinner of rich sea foods –crab from the Bay, scallops sautéed in butter- this quality of food.
There is a soft rap on her door.
It is William Atworth come to sample the goods as he said he would.
Kathleen
Part 12
Six Months Later
Four men are seated and waiting inside the small, perfectly square room. This room is separated from the main floor of The Fool's Gold by a heavy brocade curtain. Only one of the men appears at ease with his situation. The others are casting quick glances among themselves, careful never to meet each other eye to eye.
Just outside this room, Bill has his fleshy hand on Kathleen's shoulder. She is now known as Flame McKestry. Bill is speaking as quietly as he can, he does not want the men to hear him.
Flame knows this routine well. Bill points out each man, gives his name if she does not already know it. He points out a small man seated next to where she will be sitting. Daniel Wilson. Not to be of any concern. Neither would Horatio Selmacher or Alastair Cramer. These men merely fill out the game.
"Obediah Witherspoon Samuelson. Jesus, name's as big as the man who throws it around. You take all he's got, understand?"
She doesn't need Bill to point out Samuelson. She already knows him. She despises him and hates having the man seated across the table from her. It gives her a perfect view of muttonchops the color of dirty snow and his sickly yellow fingers that forever hold a cigar. His eyes are gray.
An important part of Atworth's master plan is the simple fact that she is the bait.
"Down to his last nickel, Sweetheart. You got twenty thousand to work with. I'll get you more if you need it."
Bill watches the men, a wide sneer spreading across his own hairy face, before he turns back to Flame. He looks down the deep valley between her high, rounded breasts.
"You pull that dress down just a little farther. Let that son of a bitch Samuelson see those tits of yours jiggle when you deal the cards."
Meat.
"Git."
Bill holds back the dark curtain with the raised gold and green threads as she slips into the room.
Wilson, Cramer, and Selmacher stand. Samuelson eases back in his chair and delights in the contrast of The Flame's dark blue dress against pale, exposed flesh.
"Gentlemen." She exhibits a friendly smile. Every inch of her discomfort hides behind it as she nods to each man. Including Samuelson.
"This is a no limit game," she says the mantra that has become so commonplace during the last six months, as she takes the deck of cards between her supple fingers. She feels each card as it slides from her right hand to her left.
Samuelson waves a hand over his multicolored stacks of chips. "Got enough here to last a good long time."
"Only if you do it right, Obediah," Danny Wilson lectures to man to his left.
"Open your mouth again, loser, and I'll fill it with this," Samuelson holds up a pulpy fist.
"I will say," Danny turns his attention to The Flame, a bright glimmer in his ashy eyes, "I am pleased to be a part of this game."
"Thank you, Mr. Wilson."
The Flame deals one card face down to each player, including herself. Then a round of cards face up. She alternates until all players have five cards.
Kathleen's persona gives way to Flame McKestry, a baptismal name Atworth bestowed upon her at dinner her very first day in San Francisco. She is positive the moniker has everything to do with her rusty red blond hair. No woman, Atworth lectured that evening over a lavish seafood dinner, ever works in his place under her real name.
Whether that is to Bill's benefit or the woman's, Kathleen has not yet decided.
She picks up her cards, aware that Samuelson is staring at the deep cleft exposed above her low cut bodice, or, more truthfully, what hides hidden beneath it. This ogre of a man had done the same thing three days previous.
Samuelson had paid a tidy sum to Atworth for the privilege of taking her to dinner at the Falcon's Roost and then a show at the Jenny Lind Theater. Bill refused to take the extra cash that would have allowed Samuelson the added privilege of being intimately entertained by Flame McKestry.
But Adah Menken, the star of the show, entertained with the risqué scene where she, though actually fully clothed in a flesh toned body sock, appeared to be naked while tied to a real live horse. Samuelson had been so aroused Flame had been severely taxed trying to hold him off while in the small space of their private side box. It had taken all her strength in one perfectly executed knee to the groin to incapacitate this man so she could escape the theater.
Perhaps, Flame reflects on that situation, this is why the man has a particularly vicious quality when he looks at her now.
But, according to Bill Atworth's carefully calculated plan, Samuelson is primed and ripe for the fleecing.
Contrary to the other men she's played a part in relieving of their money, she feels no remorse in doing it to Samuelson.
A braggart, Obediah openly talks about how rich he is; how he got that wealth by buying up properties on the American River from financially challenged gold miners; how he turned high pressure hydraulics on those steep banks to wash out the gold.
The man continues telling how he'd been a wraith of skin and bone. Now, being wealthy, he dines well. Constantly.
That he has a wife. A bitch of a woman. How he holds no desire for her.
Neither Flame McKestry nor Kathleen Russell will waste one second of contrition for this hulk of a man.
The gambling continues.
"You've backed yourself into a pretty deep hole there, Flame."
Samuelson's tone is one of pure delight.
The man is ignorant as well as a fool. Flame appears to be loosing; but that is all part of the master plan.
She feigns discomfort as she assesses the remaining chips.
"Gonna raise you $10,000." Smug, Samuelson has the gloat of a winner.
Flo slips back into the intimate little room with Bill Atworth close behind.
"I need," Bill announces with no apologies, "to speak to The Flame."
The plan.
Flame lays the five cards face down only a moment before Bill grips her arm. She allows herself to be pulled from the room.
Whispering and well out of earshot, Bill gets in her face. "He ready?"
The pools of Bill's eyes seethe with avarice. Bill has her pinned against the wall. The combination of liquor and cigar breath does not assault her nearly as much as the contact with his body.
She nods.
He sends Flo away, an errand the wraith of a woman also knows only too well.
Bill still lingers.
He enjoys the power he holds over her even as she visibly shows how much she hates him.
Flo returns carrying a tray of chips.
Only then does Bill back off.
The Flame is allowed to return to the small room only after Flo has replenished her stack of chips.
"Don't think," Danny addresses Atworth, "this is kosher, Bill."
The Flame does not need to see the scathing glance Danny receives from Bill. She can feel it.
"This is my place. My rules." Bill puts his half burned cigar between his lips and puffs before leaving the room. A cloud of stench and smoke linger in his wake.
"You alright?"
Caught off guard, The Flame does not know what to make of Danny's concern. The man has only one chip left. Perhaps he is sweet-talking for a loan.
"Yes," she silently chastises herself for thinking negatively of the man, "I'm fine."
The Flame, her business façade returning, says curtly, "I'll see your $10,000."
The chips clash together in the center of the table.
"And raise you $15,000."
A flutter of surprise, a sharp intake a breath and the sudden onset of beads of sweat, Flame enjoys them all but mostly relishes the breach in Samuelson's bravado.
Peripheral vision lets her see Danny looking from Samuelson to herself. Concern. Worry. A touch of fear. A mix of pleasure.
"By rights," Samuelson begins as if he is an attorney addressing a jury of twelve men, "that influx of cash shouldn't be allowed. I had you beat."
Flame keeps her perfectly made-up face a rigid mask. Expressionless.
"Don't you think so, boys?"
Those bulbous beads of sweat loose their hold and meander down his broad forehead only to be swallowed in the thick bush of his unkempt facial hair. His hand shows a noticeable tremor.
"No different," Danny accosts Obediah with a fake smile, "than writing out an I.O.U. Excepting she's got the cash."
"Have to talk with that boss of yours. Set him straight on rules."
"Rules?" Danny smirks. "What do you know about rules? Or honesty for that matter."
"Shut up you worthless drunk."
No one in the room is breathing.
"I may be a drunk. I certainly don't win all the time. But I don't cheat people out of their gold claims."
Flame wonders if Bill has enlisted Danny Wilson's aid in bringing Samuelson down.
Samuelson's lips work violently.
"Plain to see what you do with all that money you got." Danny disdains the tightness of Obediah's coat and the strained material of his vest as well as the old greasy stains on his dingy white shirt.
"Don't know why Atworth let you in here with people who got money."
Discolored and crooked teeth showing, Danny grins at Samuelson. "Obediah, you're stalling. I'm not drunk enough to miss that. You got the cards, you play this out. You don't, then have the decency to fold."
A huff.
Flame knows there are more bets being made right now than those lying on the table.
"I got you beat," Samuelson states one more time. "Gonna put something in this here pot."
An evil smile.
Obediah Witherspoon Samuelson pulls a blank piece of paper from his breast pocket along with a pen and begins to write. Finished, he gives the paper to the man on his left.
Selmacher's eyebrow rises.
Selmacher passes it to Danny.
The small man whistles through his lips as he passes the note to The Flame.
The Flame holds her poker face as she passes the paper with a steady hand to the man on her right.
Alastair Cramer swallows, the juice of his wad of chew catching in his throat and making him cough as he throws the note on the pile of chips in the center of the table.
"There's more. You," Samuelson challenges The Flame with a fat yellowed finger, "anytime, anyplace I want you."
"Don't you think," Danny speaks, "you ought to clear that one with Bill. She works for him. He calls the shots."
The Flame puts her free hand on Danny's sleeve and shakes her head.
Danny backs down but not without some clouds of confusion.
The Flame shows no emotion. Only an icy blue stare.
"How much," she sees her freedom from Bill within this one transaction, "is that worth to you?"
For spite she keeps her voice low. Sultry.
"Another $20,000," Samuelson blurts out.
"Mr. Samuelson," The Flame speaks, all business once again, "I call."
Obediah lays each card down: first, a Queen of Spades, then a Queen of Diamonds, followed by a Queen of Clubs and two Jacks, one a Spade, the other a Club.
Mutterings of a full house spread like wildfire among the men at the table.
Except for The Flame and Samuelson.
Samuelson sits back, puffing on his cigar. He is very confident.
"Now," cigar smoke trickles out of his mouth, "here. On the table."
"You haven't won," she speaks calmly, a softness to her retort.
The other three men lean in to catch her words.
"I did."
Deliberately slow, the Flame lays out her hand in one swoop.
Danny is the first to shout, "Royal Flush." His admiration pours out as if the beautiful run of red is his own.
Obediah Witherspoon Samuelson stands. His chair tips backward and crashes into the exotic wall scene of a pan copulating with a blond haired woman with large pink tipped breasts.
A fast rising swath of purple and red flood across his neck to the bare spots of his cheeks and his forehead.
Muscles work beneath the heavy muttonchops. The veins in his neck bulge as much as his eyes.
The Flame waits a full minute before gathering the mound of chips and the crisp piece of paper to herself.
"My house," she reads the note aloud, "valued at $10,000. My claim on the west slope of the Sierras, value indeterminate."
Samuelson aims a fat menacing lance of a finger at her. "Gonna get you. Promise you that."
He reaches across the table, gets in her face and slams the table with his clenched fist.
"Gonna," his voice is a throaty scream, "fix it so's you can't smile so pretty anymore. Can't deal cards."
"Time for you to go." Danny.
The Flame can't take her eyes off the huge man. She is seeing his brutal true self. She knows him well enough to understand that he will follow through on every word he says.
"Go to hell, Wilson."
Danny snickers. "Been there. Didn't want me. Now go."
Bill Atworth hustles into the room followed by three men. Broad shoulders and bulging upper arms deem the three as bouncers.
The anger in Samuelson recedes as rage meets a brick wall.
"I'll get you both."
Samuelson pushes his way between the burly men and into the main saloon.
The air in the room starts to move again.
Kathleen
Part 13
The Game's Over
"Game's over," Atworth announces to the remaining three men. "She's," his chin points in The Flame's direction, "done for the night."
Kathleen feels she is being dismissed like a servant who is no longer needed.
Everyone clears out of the room except The Flame, Danny Wilson, and Bill.
Bill rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet scowling at Wilson. After ten seconds Bill gives in and plucks the written note off the pile of chips. He reads, smiles, then deposits it in his pocket and finally leaves.
"Mind if I speak my mind?" Danny puts his hand on top of Kathleen's.
For the kindness in the man's ashy gray eyes, she does not pull away from his touch.
"You don't belong here. Not with Atworth. Certainly not with the likes of Samuelson."
She takes her time in forming a reply. How can she put into words the fact that she is the one at fault or that she is bound to Atworth out of fear her worst nightmare may come true with herself as one of the many glassy eyed whores in the Barbary.
"Yeah, well, I don't have much choice."
She tries to hide the frustration and the sadness of her situation.
"There's always choices. Will Atworth get you back to his place tonight?"
She hopes so.
Meeting Samuelson on a dark street will be disastrous.
One of the bouncers comes back into the side room. "I'm s'posta take ya home. Let's go."
"Well, that answers my question," Danny eyes the rough man taking up nearly all the space within the doorway. "You feel," he whispers, "comfortable with this man."
Danny does not know that if this man touches her in any way he'll find himself floating, face down, in the Bay.
No one touches The Flame unless Atworth allows it. A couple men already found that out the hard way.
"Ya, I do. Thanks, Danny."
"You take care of yourself."
Kitty
Part 14
The Long Branch
Matt balls his fists for ten very long seconds before unclenching them as he walks back to Doc's table. He wants to take that fat pompous Arworth by the arms and break them for violating Kitty. Next he would snap each of the man's fingers. Only then would he squash the man under the heels of his boots.
Doc allows Matt the time to sit, to steady the anger that seethes from his every pore.
"There's something else, Doc."
Matt speaks in a soft voice, almost a whisper, only loud enough for Doc to hear.
"This Atworth won't let her talk about it."
Doc is deciding if he should say what he really thinks.
"If she'd just talk to me I could help her."
"Well," Doc plunges in, "there in lays the problem. You know Kitty's a proud woman, maybe she doesn't want you to know what this Bill Atworth is to her."
It hurt the old Doctor to say what he did. He also knows that it does not reflect positively on Kitty.
"You don't suppose she and this Atworth…."
"Come on, Matt, you're not thinking straight. And anyway, whenever that man is close to her you can see her skin crawl."
Doc nods to raven haired Sue and with in a short time two fresh beers are on the table.
"I didn't think anything about the way she introduced him to me and Chester the other night. But, now, it was like she was in shock. Almost couldn't speak she was so startled. Think she was scared."
"Kitty's not scared of anything. Anyone."
Doc sips the foam off the beer.
"You know how she was when she first came here. She wasn't shy but she still didn't exactly trust anybody." Doc chuckles as he looks at the somber marshal. "Well, maybe she kind of trusted you."
"Hm. Think I'm gonna do some checking on this Bill Atworth."
Matt drinks half his beer.
"Did he say where he was from?"
"California. San Francisco."
Matt throws twenty cents on the table as he stands up.
"Wait a minute, Matt."
Matt leans close to Doc.
"Ever consider you might find out something you'd rather not know about Kitty?"
Matt's color drains.
"She had a life before she came here," Doc says.
"It's all I can do if she won't talk to me." Matt leaves.
Kathleen
Part 15
After Effects
Kathleen, safely delivered to Bill's house by the usual route through Barbary's Pacific Avenue, changes from the deep blue sateen gown to a plain shirtwaist and skirt. She begins to wash the paint from her face. This is when the walls of her room begin to close in on her, amplifying once again that she is trapped in a life she does not want.
She allows herself a glimmer of hope. Bill is a much richer man now than he was at the beginning of the evening. It was all her doing. Her skill at palming the correct cards. Her entrapment of the salacious Samuelson.
She should be freed of her obligation.
But is this new source of money enough to satisfy Bill's greed?
The sound of splintering wood breaks the silence along with the bellow of a bull-voiced man.
"Where is she?"
Milly screams.
Kathleen hears the sharp crack of a hand hitting a face.
"I beg your pardon," Robert speaks with high indignation.
"Where is she?"
Again.
Samuelson.
"I'm sure…." Robert's words are cut off by a blast of gunfire.
Milly shrieks again.
Kathleen hears footsteps tramping through the downstairs hall, then one final yell cut short with another bullet. Not a sound after that.
Kathleen does not dare open her door but she does reach into her drawstring purse to pull out the Derringer. The gun feels cold and hard in her hand. Awkward. But there is security in those two bullets lodged in the chamber.
She hears hollow footfalls on the stairs.
He is coming for her.
"I'm gonna find you, bitch."
Kathleen douses the lamp. It is after that she realizes he's no doubt seen that light, the only one on the second floor, from the street. She pads softly to the walk-in closet, hides herself, crouching behind the fancy dresses so neatly arranged on hangers. She does not latch the door for fear it will make too much noise.
And he will know exactly where she is.
Samuelson beats the walls with his fist. Thunder coming ever closer.
Faster and faster.
Her heart beats so stridently she is sure he must hear it through the walls.
He does not bother to turn the knob to get into her room, he kicks in the door. The nails pull out of the metal hinges with a clang, the wood shatters.
"I know you're in here."
Kathleen clutches the Derringer with both hands, aiming at the center of the closed door.
Feral. Her only thought is survival.
He stops moving.
She hears his dry, throaty panting.
"I told you what I'd do to you."
A shuffling of feet.
A light tap on the closet door.
"Time to come out."
Sickly sweet.
The door flies open and Kathleen fires two shots at the hulking man.
He roars as he falls backward clutching his chest with both hands.
"Son of a …"
Time gets lost.
Samuelson's leaking blood travels toward the closet. Toward her in a stream of guilt. The thick, red finger of accusation.
"Hey,"
Another male voice shouts from downstairs. She finds it vaguely familiar.
"Where are you, Flame?"
More feet. Lighter steps.
Muttered words.
"Don't even know your real name."
The smallish man appears in the battered doorway, the light from the hallway making his face a darkened shadow.
"Oh, gracious."
Kathleen watches the ill-defined silhouette step over the bulk that lies on the floor. She feels a gentle hand pull her to her feet, take the hot gun from her shaking hands and lead her out.
"I followed you," Danny Wilson. "Didn't trust this one," he casts a quick glance at the body on the floor, "or that boss of yours."
"D..Danny."
"I told you you don't belong here. Now…," he grimaces once again, "do you believe me? Gonna have Bill coming at you for this."
"B..but it isn't my fault."
"Don't matter."
Danny is lost in thought.
"You got any money?" A quick question.
She manages a negative.
"Ya, I thought so. Atworth likes to keep his ladies penniless."
He reflects one more time.
"We gotta," his tone is firm, resolved, "get you out of here before Bill and the police get here. Take a little bag. Only necessary stuff….Go!"
No fancy gowns?
No jewelry?
A simple change of clothes. Another pair of functional shoes. A hair brush, a comb. Her reticule.
It is a fair price to pay for freedom.
Bill Atworth will kill her if he ever finds her.
She thinks she is shaking as she follows Danny down the stairs.
Until she hears a dull cracking sound.
"That's all we need," Danny laments. "Come on, gotta get out of the house."
The plaster above the doorway splits and runs toward the ceiling. A fine stream of dust floats down.
Kathleen finds it hard to walk. The ground is not where her feet expect it to be.
"This," he pants, "might just work out. This whole city is gonna be a shambles."
Another, longer, shifting of ground occurs with sliding noises as if someone is moving furniture on a wooden floor.
The walls of Bill's house wave and sway in the air before the solid walls become pliant, the windows brake, and the glass sheets outwards in large shards.
Somewhere a bell rings. A random clang.
Then it is quiet.
Six days later Kathleen is on a stagecoach headed east.
She reveres Danny Wilson as her savior.
Kitty
Part 16
The Long Branch
Bill Atworth is watching the tall marshal thread his way back to the old doctor's table. He only releases Kitty from his heated grip when the marshal sits down.
"Yup," he notices the shininess of Kitty's eyes, "you sure wouldn't want him to know what you did. Proud man like that."
Kitty presses her lips tightly together. She wants to scream a multitude of curses at Bill. Tell him his threats do not matter.
But she can't.
And she knows it.
"I'm gonna be moving in here, Sweetheart."
Bill exhales a cloud of reeking smoke in her face.
"The room that adjoins yours."
She sees Matt walk out of the saloon.
Decisions.
Hard ones.
Need to be made.
Soon.
Kitty
Part 17
The Solace of Her Room
Dear Matt,
I must leave Dodge City and you.
Please understand that this decision has nothing to do with loving you less but everything to do with loving you too much to put you through what I know will happen if I stay.
I cannot divulge the whole sordid story. Suffice it to say that in my younger days I did something both willful and rash. I was forced to pay the consequences for those actions. And from that stemmed something much worse.
Coming to Dodge City was the best thing that ever happened to me. I will treasure, always, your friendship and your love. You taught my bruised soul to believe in myself once again.
But if I stay here, it will be you who will be forced to choose and I can not bear to see you struggle with that decision. I will not put you through the torment.
I love you too much.
Kitty.
She thinks about wiping the salty drops from the stationary. The tears have already smudged some of the words. Blurred them.
But she leaves them.
She folds the heavy stationary into three even sections then places the letter inside the envelope along with a lock of her hair.
Her motions feel slow.
Laborious.
Forced.
She does not want to do this.
She pens Matt's name with her large, florid hand, puts a daub of her perfume on the envelope and dreads what is yet to come.
Kitty Russell places the letter on the left pillow. Matt's pillow. Then steps back to admire the bed.
In this bed she came to know Matt Dillon in every way that was possible from the physical to the emotional. To the playful.
She recognizes she will never find that depth of happiness ever again.
With only a lightly packed valise in hand, she mourns the leaving of her comfortable rooms, the pretty dresses. The memories. And for the second time in her life leaves under the cover of darkness out of fear.
The rational runs beside the emotional. She has the means to start over. This time she has the bank draft, all of her savings, tucked inside her reticule. It is more than enough to live comfortably.
The emotional wins out. Without Matt's presence in her life, she doubts she'll be able to live at all. Or want to.
She moves down the hall and stands, one last time, at the head of the stairs. Her domain lies below, one she's surveyed many times with Matt at her side.
Each step, taken in full darkness, holds a memory so bright she does not need a light to guide her steps. The brawls. The gunslingers. Doc and morning coffee. Chester and his flirting with her and every other girl she employs. The sting of the bullet she took in her own back. Matt's old girlfriends. Doc's many proposals of marriage.
Matt.
She sees him as he was when she first came to Dodge City. Shy. Intriguing. Always respectful. Polite. Those blue eyes drawing her in and telling her how he felt without ever using a word.
She weaves her way through the forest of tables and chairs, thinking of Sam, her bartender.
The door of her office is unlocked, as usual. The windowless room holds the understated flame of the oil lamp sitting on her desk. It smells of ledgers and hard work, her own efforts to succeed in a man's business.
She shuffles to the tall floor safe and with deft familiarity grasps the dial beneath her fingers.
62. 49. 16.
The click of the tumblers shatters the stillness like a slamming door.
She turns the L-shaped handle and the heavy door swings open.
She puts two letters on the top shelf. One is addressed to Doc and the other to Sam. Sam's holds the signed off deed to the Long Branch.
Doc's has the words she labored to write, those of a wounded soul. She gives him orders to look after Matt. Keep him from searching for her.
She takes five hundred dollars in cash but leaves the remaining five hundred for Sam. He will need the cash flow.
Matt
Part 18
His Office
The weaving flame of the oil lamp casts shadows on the cold brick walls in a solitary dance for one. Matt holds the folded telegram in his hands.
His gut tells him not to open it. Not to read what may be inside.
His marshal self says he must.
Doc's words are the reason he feels this way. Ignorance could be better in the long run than knowledge of the truth.
He holds no illusions about this redhead who stole his heart and with whom he's shared an intimate relationship these past eight years. Her life before he came into it has always been her own business. And only hers.
There is no question concerning her love for him or the depth of his own feelings for her.
The telegram should tell him about William Atworth, nothing more.
Just the thought of this man angers him. More so, the picture of Atworth with his fat, grubby hands on Kitty makes his heart beat in rage.
This man, this Atworth, is at the center of the problem. Kitty's problem.
He does what he must.
What duty calls for.
He unfolds the telegram.
Kitty
Part 19
Her Office
Heavy steps thunder down the hall.
They stop at the closed door of her office.
Kitty reaches inside her drawstring purse and pulls out the silver two shot Derringer even as she fights the reality that the back door was left unlocked by Sam. Or herself.
Or maybe not.
The door opens a crack.
She faces whoever it is.
A foot. A knee. A hand.
Kitty Russell greets Bill Atworth with the business end of a tit gun.
"You come," she speaks with words as brittle as ice, "to rob me on top of ruining my life?"
Bill cannot take his piggish black eyes from the gun she holds.
"Just protecting my investment…"
He hesitates.
She knows he wants to say sweetheart.
"You runnin' out again?" He forces a laugh. "Aren't gonna be so lucky this time, sure ain't gonna be an earthquake here in Dodge."
"You don't give me any choice."
"There's always a choice."
Bill lunges forward.
Kitty fires.
Matt and Kitty
Part 20
Her Office
More footsteps in the hall. A familiar cadense to the fast moving pace.
Matt's.
He sees the blood on Kitty's shirt.
She sees his concern.
"Kitty," near breathless, he casts aside Atworth's bulk, kneels beside her, "are you…"
"I'm alright. Is he…?"
Matt does not bother to check farther than looking at Atworth's frozen look of surprise and disbelief. Two bullets are lodged between his eyes.
"Yeah."
He helps her to her feet and only then takes in the pants she wears, the valise with bills partially exposed, the wide-brimmed hat that hangs by a string from her neck.
Kitty sees the beginnings of a question.
The shadow of doubt.
Over ridden by the calm.
"Did he try to rob you?"
A way out. A crack. Salvation.
If she says yes, Matt will let it go. If she says no, her life will be changed even though the offending man lay dead at her feet.
Matt does not say anything more. His eyes convey what words remain unspoken. A pleading lies behind those pale blue pools of emotion. A pain that does not want the truth.
"I can see," Matt morphs into his marshal stance, "that you were defending your property. I'll put that in my report."
Relief.
"This Atworth is a swindler."
Kitty is startled.
"I sent to San Francisco for information on him."
She is fearful.
"He was involved in a lot of dirty deals. Used women to help him. Business went sour after one of his women, a Flame McKestry, killed a gambler."
She waits. Uneasy.
"He," Matt aims a quick and disgusted look at the corpse on the floor, "said that this McKestry woman killed the man out of spite. But O\other men came foreword and said it had to be self-defense. Woman had no idea she was cleared of the crime. Already ran."
He knows, Kitty realizes as Matt puts his hand on her shoulder with a gentle, reassuring touch.
"He ruined a lot of lives, Kitty."
He pursues it no farther.
"You go on up to your room. I'll take care of this mess and be up later. We'll talk some more about this."
This time her savior is Matt Dillon.