April 2014

Lawman

Prologue

The life of a lawman was not an easy existence; Matt Dillon would be the first to admit that. Sometimes he had to get away from the noise and violence of the town and ride the short distance to the cemetery known as Boot Hill. Here the earthly remains of gunfighters, bank robbers and other outcasts of society, found a final resting place and sometimes even he could find a brief moment of peace.

Walking among the ragged grave markers usually allowed his mind a brief respite from the burdens that the badge imposed, but not today. He stood there for a while feeling the soft breeze coming in off the prairie then looked down at the cluster of wooden buildings spreading out on the plain beneath him. They made up Dodge City and for better or worse that was very much his town. Oh he didn't own any of it, not financially that is, but without him being there to enforce some degree of law and order, it would soon become just another lawless blight on the landscape. Somehow he felt a pride in that. He looked down at the tin star on his faded red shirt, the badge of a US Marshal. Not many men would want the job that went with it, goodness knows the pay wasn't good and risk to life and limb was a daily occurrence. Sometimes he didn't want the job either but every time he had unpinned that badge something had made him take it up again, more often than not it was one of those dregs of humanity whose resting place was here on Boot Hill. By now the badge was so much a part of him that he couldn't go back, even though the telegram he had received that morning made him wish he could. He had seriously thought about it for an hour or so, even going so far as to take the badge from his shirt and sit holding it in his hands. Just a piece of metal, he thought, but it held a power over him like nothing else could. He sighed, his breath riding away on the slow moving air to fall somewhere out there among the grasses, rocks and creeks that made up the pairie. He knew that soon he would be following it.

xxx

Chapter 1

That morning had started much like many others. He had risen early, almost before the first streaks of dawn forced their way through the dust and grime of Front Street. The night before had been peaceful enough. A series of fights at the Lady Gay and one crooked Gambler at the Texas Trail had resulted in two drunken cowboys being locked in the cells and one dead body being delivered to Percy Crump's funeral parlor. He could almost laugh at the thought that he had come to consider that a quiet night – but compared with how things were during the cattle drive season it was quiet indeed.

He had a sense of purpose as he made his way through the streets and alleyways that surrounded the many saloons of Dodge City. Oil lamps from the night before were still burning in a few windows and appeared like dimming stars in the ever-increasing light of dawn. The city was definitely his at this hour. His were the only footsteps that echoed along the boardwalks as he tried to avoid pieces of scrap paper stirred up by the breeze and other refuse scattered on the ground. These were the sad remains of the revelries of the night before. A few stray dogs took cover as he came their way, but the occasional chicken, pecking hungrily in the gritty dirt, barely moved away from the large leather boots that strode rhythmically by. He continued on into the darkness of alleyways, where light had not yet penetrated, and awakened the occasional drifter who had fallen asleep in a quiet corner. He needed to hurry them on their way before the rest of the population came out to investigate the new day. People in general were suspicious of these homeless pilgrims and he had found over the years that much trouble could be avoided if they were not around when the more permanent residents of the town awoke. He had come to know many of the regular visitors who sought shelter in the nooks and crannies of Dodge City. For the most part they weren't bad people but, for some reason or another, many were unable to hold down a steady job and live in accordance with the rules of city life. Others just wanted to pass through on a seasonal basis like the trappers and skinners who came in only to sell hides and then rejected the confines of a hotel room or boarding house. Of course there were always those who drifted through merely to fill up on whisky and talk to a pretty salon girl and then just slept where they fell, but there were also a few who came to cause trouble and those were the ones he had to be on the look out for.

Once back on Front Street he encountered several of the town's business owners who had arisen early. They were now outside their establishments with brooms, sweeping the boardwalk in front of their stores or with buckets and rags washing the windows so that potential customers could see the goods they displayed for sale. They all stopped what they were doing to wish a good morning to the tall figure with the distinctive walk as he passed by.

Dillon had arrived in front of his own office and stopped to open the door. Chester should be up by now with a pot of coffee ready on the stove, but before he could even turn the knob to enter, a breathless grey haired man came up behind him waving a pale green envelope.

"Marshal, this came in for you late last night. I …er couldn't find you so I thought it would keep till this morning."

Barney had been the telegraph operator in Dodge for many years, he well knew where the Marshal slept when he was in town and the street was quiet, but felt unsure of knocking on that particular door. Besides which the wire had not been marked 'Urgent' so he convinced himself that it could well wait until morning.

Matt took the dirt-smudged envelope and thanked the messenger. Somehow telegrams hardly ever brought good news and he wondered what he would find when he opened this one.

Putting off the evil moment he opened the door and went inside the brick building that was as close as anything he had to a home. He looked around for his assistant, who also acted as jailer, and as usual located him by the old stove, completely occupied concocting his latest recipe for coffee.

"How are the prisoners this morning, Chester?" "A little more awake than they were last night, Mr. Dillon." The young man with the stiff leg turned to face his boss. "They're asking for breakfast and complaining about the coffee."

Matt was fairly certain that he understood the reason behind their complaint, but allowed only the slightest look of amusement show on his face.

"Go get them and I'll turn them lose."

"Yes Sir." The young man immediately set the abused coffee pot down and with his unique gait hastened across the small office to where the big key ring hung on a peg by the entrance to the cells.

Matt could hear the clanging of metal against metal as his assistant unlocked the cells and, after delivering his own brand of verbal admonishment, turned the two drunks from last night out into the main office.

The men stood dejected and forlorn in front of the Marshal's desk. They were indeed a sorry looking pair. The after effects of the whisky they had consumed the night before still showed in their eyes and he knew their heads were pounding like Indian war drums. He reached into the desk drawer and retrieved their guns.

"Next time you come to Dodge, I want you to be a little more careful about how much liquor you drink. I locked you up last night for your own safety and for the safety of others." He handed them their guns, "Next time I might not be so lenient, so I suggest you leave town now and think about that before you come back again."

Somewhat sheepishly the two men retrieved their weapons and headed for the door.

The Marshal returned to his desk and opened the faded green envelope. He couldn't put off reading the contents much longer.

Chester went back to the coffee pot and after a short while placed a mug of the latest brew in front of his boss.

Dillon read the few lines that had been carefully hand-written by the telegraph clerk, and his heart sank. This was an assignment he had no desire to accept. He took one mouthful of the coffee – it was hot but that was about all it had going for it. Suddenly he stood up and pushed the message roughly down into the pocket of his vest. This was something he would have to think about.

"I'll see you later Chester," he said absently as he headed for the door. He walked down to the livery, ignoring everyone. Without saying a word he saddled his horse and rode up to Boot Hill. He needed time and a place to think.

xxx

It was two hours later that the tall lawman on the buckskin horse headed back to town and stopped outside Moss Grimmick's stable.

"Everything alright Marshal?" the old man enquired. The lawman had not spoken a word earlier when he'd left, not even a simple greeting, and Moss was experienced enough to know that meant that Dillon had something heavy on his mind and so purposely left him alone.

"Here, I'll take care of your horse."

"Thanks Moss," came the simple reply as the rider handed the reins to the livery owner. Nothing else, no explanation, 'I'm glad I don't have his job' thought Moss as he led the horse back inside to its stall. He removed the saddle and made sure the animal had water and hay. "I wouldn't be surprised if you ain't headin' out soon, son," he said patting the animal's neck.

Kitty Russell, owner of the Long Branch Saloon, was assisting the bar help clear away the breakfast foods when the Marshal approached the batwing doors. Almost instinctively she looked up and saw him standing there.

"If you're looking for breakfast you almost missed it." She smiled at him for an instant but then noticed the look on his face and knew there was something on his mind.

"Come and sit down," she indicated the table she had recently vacated, "I'll find you some coffee."

"That'd be good." He took a seat and removed his hat, placing it thoughtfully on the table next to him and sat looking at it as if waiting for something to happen. She brought one of her china cups filled with the fresh brew and set it carefully in front of him, then seated herself beside the man she had loved since she first met him six years ago. She could read his expressions as if words were printed on his forehead.

"Wanna talk about it?" she asked quietly – for his hearing alone. She didn't really have to worry about being overheard because at this time of the morning there was a lull in business. It was the hour or so between the time when a few stragglers wandered in for a free breakfast after the indulgences of the night before and when the lunchtime rush would begin in earnest.

Sullenly he pulled the stained telegraph envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

"This arrived late last night."

She removed the notepaper and unfolded it, only half aware of the clink of beer mugs and the heavier sounds of beer barrels being rolled around, going on behind her. Those were normal events for this time of day and she automatically tuned them out. He sat still and quiet, deep in thought while she turned her focus to the note. It was from the Marshal's Service in Washington and addressed to Marshal Mathew Dillon, Dodge City Kansas – no mistake there. She continued reading.

Request you proceed to Garden City and arrest Douglas Hamilton, City Marshal, on charge of murder. Warrant and details to follow.

The red head looked into the troubled eyes of the man sitting next to her.

"Well I guess it is a little unusual asking you to go arrest another lawman. I never even knew there was another Marshal in Kansas."

"He's a city marshal, his job is much like that of a sheriff."

He said nothing more, just picked up the note and forced it back in the pocket he had taken it from.

"Tell me about Douglas Hamilton. You know him don't you?" Somehow she could tell.

He nodded slowly then said simply, "We were friends at one time." There was a long pause during which she gently laid her hand on his arm, but didn't hurry him. " I haven't seen him since the war. I know that he became a Deputy Marshal in Colorado, and worked in and around Pueblo for a year or two, then moved on to Garden City to take up the post of City Marshal."

"You think he's innocent?"

"I don't know, but I'd need a lot of convincing to believe he's guilty of murder."

"Oh Matt," she sighed, hating to see him so troubled, "why are they asking you to do this?"

"He's a tough man, good with a gun. I guess they figure I'd have a better chance than anyone of bringing him in."

"You could say no Matt. It is not an order – just a request."

He had considered that possibility while walking among the permanent residents of Boot Hill. It wouldn't work.

"They'd only send someone else, maybe someone who would kill him right there, intend of going to the trouble of bringing him in. I'm probably the only one who would try to keep him alive."

"You think he murdered someone?"

"I doubt it. Doug is a good lawman, he always hated killing and tried to prevent it where he could. I can't see him murdering anyone." Dillon had finished his coffee and she noticed how small the delicate cup seemed in relation to the big hand that held it. Apparently there was something fascinating at the bottom of that particular piece of porcelain because he sat staring at it in silence for several minutes. The clear blue eyes that were used to scanning the vastness of the prairie saw nothing; the mind that controlled them was miles and years away.

xxx

It was a cold night on the Canadian River where it flowed through the Texas panhandle. A young man, still in his teenage years, was trying to survive a ferocious storm. The thunder and lightning had been raging for an hour or more. He had tried to find shelter amongst some rocks beneath an overhang. His horse had been scared early on and run off, now he was stuck here for sure and probably at the mercy of any passing bandit or Indian hunting party. Worse was yet to happen, the next loud cacophony of thunder caused the rock he was trying to shelter behind shift and a second smaller rock fell, pinning his leg between them. Could his luck get any worse? The storm went on till it finally blew itself out just before dawn. It left the lanky blue eyed youngster, cold, trapped and a little scared. For the first time in his life he could not figure a way out of his predicament. As the hours went by he became hungry and thirsty and when the next night fell he began to shiver from the cold. He hardly slept, which was just as well, because shortly after daylight a group of men were riding his way. He watched as they stopped to water their horses by the river and build a fire to warm coffee. The smell wafted up through the rocks till it finally reached his nostrils. Unable to endure the discomfort any longer he called out to attract someone's attention. It was a move he lived to regret. His rescuers were nothing less than a group of outlaws who made a living holding up stage coaches or banks or any weary traveler who looked like he might have a dollar or two.

They could not let him go, fearing that he heard too much so they took him along with them. He was virtually a prisoner. Even though young in years, he had a wealth of experience in tracking and living on the prairie. By himself he could not get away from his captors, but he soon became aware that they were being followed. The outlaws seemed oblivious, but young Matt Dillon had seen the movement of someone following their trail close by. He stayed alert – ready to escape under cover of any confusion. He had been sent to gather wood for the evening fire. Purposely he strayed from the man who was supposed to be helping and guarding him and headed towards whoever it was who had been following them. He worked his way between a patch of bushes and scrubby trees until he could cross the narrow creek. He had seen movement over there and moved slowly towards it.

Surprisingly he found someone only a little older than himself, but the boy had a gun and a horse – his horse, the one he had lost during the storm. He made his way towards the animal hoping to mount up and be on his way before anyone could stop him.

"What you doing here?" The voice was a loud whisper. He turned around to look at the owner of the sounds. There was a gun pointed at him.

Matt looked at the other man.

"I wondered what you were doing with my horse."

Matt smiled to himself at the memory. The young man was the son of the farmer the gang had robbed. The man had been shot dead and Doug – the boy he stood facing had been following the outlaws ever since.

The two young men joined forces and having only one horse and one gun between them and a lot more courage than sense, managed to outwit the gang one by one until two were dead and the third surrendered. After a long discussion they took their outlaw and money from a bank robbery to the sheriff in the nearest town. Luckily there was a reward and the boys shared $1000.00 dollars before going their own ways.

Fate brought them together one more time. It was during the war, both serving in the same platoon for a while, but like so many friends they became separated and Matt had not heard, personally, from the man since. He knew from reading official circularss that Hamilton had joined the Marshal's service and became a Deputy under the Marshal in Colorado. About a year or so ago he had been notified that Garden City wanted to hire him as city Marshal for that town and he had approved the appointment.

xxx

"Matt," the sound of his name and the touch on his arm brought him back to the present. He shook his head to clear the old memories and looked back at Kitty, trying to make light of his mood.

"Matt, what are you going to do?"

The deep concern showed in her eyes and he looked away from her for a moment to avoid the emotion, at the same time, knowing in his heart what he was going to do. Like always he would do what he had to, uphold the law as he had sworn to do many years ago.

He picked up his hat and got up from the table.

"I'll see you later Kitty," he mumbled as he took his leave and headed back through the batwing doors to the turmoil of Front Street.

TBC

A/N: I want to thank LostCowgirl for her efforts in explaining to me the roles of US Marshals, City Marshals and other lawmen who were responsible for bringing peace and order to the old west.