Hard Promises to Keep

Author's Note: The events in this story are an elaboration of events in the episode "A Quiet Day in Dodge", which first aired during season eighteen on January 29, 1973. It's a cross between a "what if?" moment and a bit of explanation because I think Matt looks truly awful in that episode. Furthermore, I don't believe Kitty would just walk off and leave him like that without making sure he was okay…eventually. This is my first Gunsmoke fan-fic so be kind.

All characters are copyright to CBS, I'm just borrowing them.

"I'm trying to believe in forever

I'm trying to believe in the little jewel box life we lead

Babe, I get so close sometimes

But all I really know is

I believe that we've been making hard promises to keep"

-- "Hard Promises to Keep" performed by Trisha Yearwood

Chapter 1

Two Days Earlier

The Marshal's innards were griping him a bit; he ignored it and concentrated on his quarry. It wasn't all that unusual for a man's belly to go sour before a skirmish and he was used to it. He pulled Buck up behind an outcropping of rock and dismounted.

The dry barren plain sloped gently below into a wash through which a trickle of water passed. Cottonwoods and scrub oak had taken advantage of its proximity and grown up to shade the faint trail which led down to the stream's edge. The trail meandered back onto the high plains but not before it passed a draw at the bend in the stream. Once there had been a mining encampment there but not much remained: the tumbledown shell of the company store, a windmill connected to a now dry well, and a few weathered posts where the corrals had been.

Matt Dillon had tracked lawbreakers to this area before and he dreaded each encounter. It offered scant coverage once he left the relative safety of the outcropping but offenders could blend into the shadows of the shacks and they had a clear shot at anyone coming down the trail. He and other lawmen had tried several times to clear this hide-out in the badlands but it never seemed to stay cleaned out.

He sighed; it was just the way his luck had been running lately that Job Snelling would have decided to flee here of all places. Not only was Job an accomplished gunman who had murdered two families and a sheriff but he also had a habit of resisting arrest. Twice he'd been caught by other marshals and both times he had escaped. Matt didn't intend for him to do it a third time.

A thin plume of barely visible smoke rose above the remains of the mining camp. His keen sight also caught the flare of a tiny ember, quickly shielded. Good, that meant Job Snelling was not only in the area but fixing to bunk for the night. Matt weighed the options. A twilight attack would decrease his ability to see the target but would afford him some measure of cover as he approached. Going in while the sun was still high overhead would increase his chances of being seen and taking fire but would guarantee him a clearly visualized shot.

After careful consideration, Matt decided on a compromise which would give him the best of both advantages while minimizing the danger. He waited until the sun had moved low on the horizon and the draw was in shadow. Drawing his Colt .45 Peacemaker, he checked his rounds and then spun the cylinder back into place. It closed with a satisfying click. Cocking the hammer on the gun, Matt slunk forward. Leaving the safety of the boulder, he sprinted between outcroppings until he reached the stream's bank. This would be the most dangerous part of the approach, for there was no cover at all between here and the draw. He chose not to follow the trail but slithered through the muddy water.

Exiting on the opposite bank, Matt used the scant cover of the scrub oaks to catch his breath and reassess the situation. The campfire was clearly visible now. He dug for the warrant and the wanted poster in his pocket to check it against the man laying the fire. No doubt about it, it was Job Snelling. He stuffed the paperwork back into the pocket of his vest and buttoned up his overcoat. A wind had sprung up, cutting through his damp clothes and while the day had been sweltering the nights were often downright chilly.

His throat tickled, making him want to cough. He stifled it and wished he hadn't left his canteen looped over Buck's saddle. He sure could use a drink to clear the dust right about now. What Matt really needed most was a decent night's sleep and a cold beer, not necessarily in that order. More importantly, he relished the company of a certain redhead while he drank that beer. He wondered if he'd get back in time to go on that picnic with Kitty. Matt usually never promised anything but this time he'd told her nothing would keep him. She'd been increasingly irritated with their broken or interrupted plans and he felt he had to do something to appease her. Well, he couldn't have known he'd be chasing a murderer half way to the Texas border.

Matt put those thoughts away as distracting and returned his attention to Snelling's camp site. The sun was almost down and if Matt was going to make his move, he needed to do it quick. The marshal began to move forward but a fit of coughing caught him unaware. He muffled it as best he could but Snelling had been alerted. He saw the wanted man reach under the bedroll and draw up a rifle.

Snelling held his weapon with the attitude of a man who is desperate, dangerous, and scared. The man, missing the marshal by mere inches, fired randomly in the direction of the noise. "Who's out there? Y'better c'mon out or I'm gunna put a hole in ya so wide folk'll be able to see next week."

"Dang it!" Matt had lost the element of surprise. He called out, "Matt Dillon, US Marshal for Dodge City. Drop the rifle, you're under arrest!" Snelling answered with a burst of shot which zinged off the rocks just above Matt's head. He twisted away and scuttled up the other side of the stream bed where a large lightning blackened cottonwood offered scant cover.

"I ain't a-goin' peaceably!" Snelling hollered. "You come an' take me, Marshal, if'n you can."

"I didn't figure so," Matt muttered. He knew that, with this particular man, he shouldn't have thought differently but he was cold, wet, tired, and thirsty. Unfortunately, it didn't look like things would be going his way this time. "Drop it, Snelling," he repeated. "I don't want to have to shoot you, but I will."

"Go ahead, Marshal," he taunted. "it won't do you any good 'cause you'll be dead afore you git off a shot."

Instinct took over and Matt found himself rolling to one side. Shot chewed off a chunk of the cottonwood's bark; if he had waited a few seconds longer, Snelling would have had him. As it was, he'd still been grazed by flying splinters. He winced; some of those would likely need Doc Adams' attention when and if he made it back to Dodge. Matt realized he was too tired to keep this up; he had to end it quickly before Snelling got the better of him.

Pulling himself up from a belly crawl into a crouch, the marshal rolled forward. As he came up, he took aim at Snelling. The bullet smacked into the rifle stock and knocked the weapon from the man's hand. Before the outlaw could recover, Matt launched himself at him and knocked him into the dust. "It's over," he said, using his height to advantage and pinning the other to the ground. Snelling kept fighting him, but Matt finally wrestled him into submission with a good clip to the side of the jaw. "Down on the ground," he growled, thrusting his knee into the outlaw's back. "I don't want a move out of you." He fastened the handcuffs around Snelling's wrists and then hauled him to his feet. "Get on the horse."

"I ain't a-gonna," Job Snelling responded sullenly.

Matt lost his temper. The big man, maintaining his hold on the outlaw's jacket collar, hauled him clear of the ground and pinned him roughly against a tree. "I'm through messing around." He smiled and it wasn't a nice one. "Now, you got two choices: you can ride the horse face up or I can haul you back to town face down. Which will it be?"

"Leggo," he rasped. "I'll git on the dang horse. You don't gotta be so rough."

The marshal waited for Snelling to mount and then tethered the man's hands to the saddle horn as an extra precaution against escape. He grabbed the horse's reins and led it back across the stream to the outcropping where he had left Buck. The big buckskin, unimpressed by all the fuss, stood there placidly chomping on a few stems of prairie grass. Matt tossed the reins over the other horse's neck where they would be well out of reach of Snelling's bound hands, and then grabbed his canteen. The water, though tepid, did much to relieve his flagging senses. He nearly drained the canteen, knowing they'd pass at least one watering hole and several streams on the way back to Dodge, and looped it back over Buck's saddle. Matt could still feel the fatigue dragging at him as he mounted up. His stiffened leg didn't want to cooperate and he nearly fell from the horse.

"A bit knackered, are ya?" Snelling said. "Best sleep with one eye open, Marshal, if'n ya don't wanna wake up with a hole in ya." He laughed mirthlessly at his own joke. "A' course if'n I shoot ya, ya won't wake up a-tall."

"Shut up, Snelling," Matt snarled and nudged Buck into a ground eating gallop. He pushed himself and the horses hard over the next hours because he wanted to get as much distance between the place in which he'd captured Job Snelling and their current position. Snelling had no known associates but that didn't mean other lawbreakers wouldn't try to free him from the marshal's custody on principle.

The other horse was played out; its head hung low with exhaustion and its sides, frothy with sweat, heaved. Matt didn't want to be any closer to Snelling than necessary and he would have to haul him back on Buck if the other horse collapsed. He elected to make camp in a hollow beside one of the streams. It had the advantage of being somewhat secluded but offering a clear view of anyone approaching.

Matt's knees buckled as he dismounted and he grabbed at Buck's reins to keep himself upright. Fortunately the bulk of the big buckskin's body kept his prisoner from noticing the mishap. He straightened with effort and then removed his rifle from its scabbard. Training it on Job Snelling, he walked over to the other horse and untied the man's hands. "Get down from there. We're stopping for the night."

Snelling had the unmitigated gall to try kicking the rifle out of Matt's hands. Once more, the marshal's instincts kept him from harm. He yanked the rifle back and blocked the kick with his forearm. Snapping the gun into position, he jacked a shell into the barrel. "Don't try anything else, Snelling. Nothing in the warrant says I have to bring you back alive."

That seemed to momentarily quell his prisoner. He made no effort to help make camp but slouched against a tree stump while Matt gathered firewood, laid his bedroll, and refilled his canteen from the stream. Deep weariness settled upon the lawman as he did so. His throat was dry again; he drank deeply from the stream and then decided a quick wash might be beneficial. At least it would keep the worst of the nicks and cuts from becoming infected before Doc could tend to them. As he straightened, his vision blurred. Matt rubbed a hand across his eyes to clear them and then struggled back up the stream bank. Supplies were running short, as he hadn't planned on being gone from Dodge this long. It didn't matter since Matt discovered he wasn't hungry. The thought of eating gave his stomach an unpleasant turn. He didn't push the issue but brewed up the last ration of coffee for himself and tossed a trail ration of dried meat and hardtack at the prisoner.

"Got no stomach fer yer vittles?" Snelling taunted. "Whassa matter, Marshal, all that chasin' around put you off'n yer feed? Or is ya so afraid o' pore ole bound Job here that yer belly's turned yeller?"

With a long suffering sigh, Matt drained his coffee cup and tossed the dregs into the fire. "Now look here, Job, I told you once before to shut that mouth of yours," he snapped.

"Why should I?"

"Because if you don't, I'm going to gag you with your own socks. Now shut up and go to sleep."

Settling his back against a tree stump as comfortably as he could, Matt retired to his bedroll but he didn't go to sleep. He couldn't take the chance that Snelling would either slip away or kill him. Instead Matt kept watch until false dawn, when he kicked the prisoner awake, scuffed out the remains of their campfire, and pointed Buck toward Dodge.