Love Letters
without beginning - without end
Gunsmoke fanfiction
littlegreenlake
He never considered them as such … love letters that is, but, when all was said and done, he realized that's exactly what they were.
His friends soon learned the topic of Kitty Russell was to be avoided, as they strove to make peace with the one, without the other. He seldom smiled anymore, rarely laughed; his countenance often stoic and hardened. If there was a chink in his armor, it was in his eyes. His unguarded gaze showed such depth of hurt, that it was painful for them to observe.
He strapped on his gun, wore his badge and performed his duty to God and Country. He was Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshall, and no one doubted the fact. But, at night, alone in his office he struggled to find words to fill a blank sheet of paper, in effort to tell her just how much he missed her. He had no words in his vocabulary for longing, for love, for broken heart. He was Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshall.
Her absence was a burden to bear; always a load to carry. It dragged him down and made the simplest of tasks more difficult to perform. During the course of a day, the thought of her was often on his mind. As before she left Dodge City, something would happen and he would think, I have to remember to tell Kitty.
Yet, at day's glooming, he would stare at the barren paper and make feeble attempts, finally balling the unwritten letter in a wad and tossing it in the stove where it would flame and dissolve to ashes. He'd pull out the whiskey bottle and take several good swigs before kicking off his boots and going to bed.
One melancholy night, after his first swig from the bottle, it came to him with sudden clarity; how at the end of his nightly rounds, he would stop by the Long Branch and she'd be waiting up for him. They'd sit at a back table, side by side, thigh touching thigh, and talk about their day, while Sam shut down the saloon. Most times it wasn't anything serious, just little commentaries on the comings and goings of the citizens of Dodge. It was this realization that finally put him on the path to writing the letters that soon became as much a part of his day as those nightcaps at the Long Branch had been.
They were awkward attempts at first, for he was used writing detailed reports on the business of keeping the law - in terms of facts; concise and true.
Dear Kitty,
It was warm out today, snow's completely melted. Town's been quiet.
Newly's got a new girl. She's a school marm. Came to town about a week ago. She's a few years older than he is, but they seem to get along. Newly introduced us all to her tonight at supper at Delmonico's.
Had venison stew. The meat was tough as cowhide.
Her name is Eunice.
Matt
P.S. She's got brown hair.
He added the last part about the color of her hair, because he could almost hear Kitty asking him, "Well, what does she look like?"
His little epistle spoke nothing of the loneliness he felt without her near, but the words provided a connection, a starting point. In the morning he took the letter to the post office, and paid the two cents to send it to New Orleans. That night he followed the same ritual. He sat with a glass of whiskey at hand, and related something of his day. He tried to imagine her sitting right there across from him, smiling at him, ready to reach out to touch his arm with a soft and tender stroke.
Dear Kitty,
Rained some today. Streets are muddy. Town quiet.
I heard that the whole Roniger family came down with chicken pox, even Bessie. Doc says that's not good since she's expecting again. What I can't figure out is how come it took so long for that family, with all those kids, to get the chicken pox in the first place.
Matt
P.S. Did you get the stockings?
Once again, he signed his name too quickly and had to add the postscript, for the thought had come to him, if he asked her a question he might be more likely to get a letter in reply. Oh, how he wanted that! Needed that, needed to know she was okay and that she knew he was thinking of her.
He was more comfortable with his letter writing by the next evening, he even looked forward to the process.
Dear Kitty,
Still raining and it's getting on folks' nerves. There was a brawl at the Bull's Head and the Lady Gay. Long Branch was quiet.
Arrested Jimmie Taylor for stealing two of Russ Pritchard's chickens today. I offered to pay Pritchard for them, but he insisted Taylor spend the night in jail since Jimmie didn't have the money to pay for them himself. So right now Jimmie and Festus are back in the cell, playing their 15th game of checkers. If Festus had the money to pay Jimmie what he owes for each game he lost, Jimmie'd be able to buy Prichard's entire flock.
Do you recall that time we took supper with the Taylors? If I remember right, Mrs. Taylor served chicken and dumplings. Now, I wonder if Russ Pritchard contributed to that meal by way of pilfered poultry.
Matt
He smiled when he signed his name, knowing she'd be smiling back. The image of her pretty face so keen in his mind, that the light of her eyes reflected in that sad lonesome place of his soul and he felt a small relief from the burden.
Each night as he wrote a note, he imagined her next to him as he spun his little tales. The letters became easier to write. Gradually they grew longer, sometimes, even giving small way to true emotion of his heart. While phrases of romance were as foreign to him as saying the name of her French perfume, he learned there was a power to painting pictures with words. What was it Dottie Bender had said? 'Give her reason to remember the good times and how much you care, that's what will bring her back to Dodge City.'
Dear Kitty,
It snowed today. Snowing still. Everyone thought spring was here, but about noon the wind changed direction and picked up steam, by supper time it was coming down in big wet flakes. There's four inches or more on the ground tonight and the wind is blowing it around pretty good. I don't imagine it will last more than a day or so. Before you know it the trees will be leafing out and the wildflowers will be in bloom down by Silver Creek.
The wind sure is howling out there. It'd be a good night to be holed up somewhere with a warm fire, a bottle of that fancy Napolean brandy and a warm and friendly bed to crawl into.
I miss you.
Matt
Maybe he was getting too good at this word picture thing, he reflected, for his heartache was as deep and cutting as if it were a fresh wound. He folded the letter and stuck it in an envelope, before he had a chance to change the last sentence.
The following morning on his way back from the post office, Matt stopped at the Long Branch to buy a bottle of Kitty's Napoleon Brandy. The price was dear, but he seemed to have more spare change in his pocket these days and had nothing better to spend it on. When he got back to the jailhouse, he placed it in the bottom drawer of his desk, next to the half-full bottle of whiskey.
There the brandy would remain, untouched, until Kitty wrote him back.