6.
Guilt is an unforgiving companion. It dwells in the region between sternum and gut and there, it incessantly nags thoughts and haunts dreams. It becomes all consuming and life defining. This was Margarette's plight. She was in possession of two letters, which were neither written to her or by her. She was aware of the unlawfulness of her actions, and knew full well, she could be sent to prison for interfering with the U.S. Mail. At the heart of it, she knew two lives balanced precariously on the fulcrum of her actions. After reading and rereading the second letter again and again, Margarette, convinced herself, she was following the only course which might lead to a happy ending for the gallant Mademoiselle Kitty. Although, the young woman fretted over what to do, even considered admitting to her sins; in the end, she stuck both letters in a new envelope and mailed them off to Kansas.
"You feel'n poorly, chil'?" Hattie asked, when she noted the younger woman's uncharacteristic moodiness.
Margarete responded, "Je vais bien, I'm fine." She offered a weak smile to confirm her words.
Hattie, was no fool, especially, when meals were left untouched and it was clear Margarete wasn't getting the sleep she needed; for she grew thin and hollowed-eyed. The older woman worried over the girl, dosed her with tonic and finally asked, "What is you so moony eyed 'bout Honey chil'?" Then, it came to her suddenly, the realization; spring was in the air and the young man who saw to the gardening, was spending a lot of time, hanging around the back door and asking after Margarette "Is you hankerin' after some no-count boy?"
"Excusez-moi?" Margarette asked, the symptoms of an ill conscience written all over her face.
"See! That's just what I mean, you doan know if you is coming or you is goin'."
Margarette thought of the envelope she'd mailed off to the U.S. Marshall in Dodge City, Kansas. She swallowed hard and forced a smile. It occurred to her that was not exactly an accurate statement, for she figured there was strong likelihood she was coming to a bad end and going to straight to jail. Any lawman worth his salt would figure out her transgression, and to top it off she'd enclosed what amounted to a letter of confession.
^..^
The lawman had been gone on routine business for ten days and had sent letters to Kitty Russell, from four different locations; three from Kingman, Kansas, three from Wichita, three from Squaw Creek and one from Hutchinson. Even out on the trail, he'd kept up the practice of writing one letter a night. He addressed and sealed the envelopes and on the back side in the left hand corner he wrote the date of his writing, acknowledging the erratic nature of the postal system; so she would have some sense of continuity should it matter to her. It did occur to him, that perhaps she didn't care and found the daily flow of correspondence a nuisance. However, the letter writing had become more than a habit by this time, it was therapy to his bruised spirit.
He returned to Dodge, at dusk on a quiet night. He dropped the buckskin off at Hank's noting that Kitty's horse, Isabella's stall was marked with a 'for sale' sign tacked to the door.
Hank saw the direction of Dillon's gaze and answered the question before it could be asked. "Miss Kitty sent me a note with her boarding fee, asked me to sell the mare to a good home."
"How much?" Matt asked.
Hank named the price. It was a small sum, but took every last bit of cash Matt had left in his wallet. Without much thought, he paid the money and Isabella was his. He thought ruefully this was the second time he'd bought the horse, the first time had been 15 years earlier for Kitty's birthday. A grateful rancher had offered to pay him a reward for settling a potential range war before blood was shed. Dillon had declined, saying it was all part of his job. Then, he'd seen the strawberry roan filly, trotting daintily around the corral. He'd asked about her and the rancher had replied. "Too small for breeding, ain't strong enough to pull a farm wagon or act as a pack horse … only thing a horse like that is good for is fancy ladies. N,case you haven't noticed, ain't nary a one of 'em around here."
"How much?" Matt had asked.
The rancher gave him the snake eye. "What's a big Marshal like you gonna do with a scawny filly like that'n?"
A crooked smile worked it's way across Dillon's features, "Could be I know a fancy lady, who might just take a shine to her."
She had cost him his favorite bowie knife. The price had been well worth the cost, for the joy he felt every time he saw Kitty ride the horse, was compensation enough. What a sight they had made, Kitty's pony tail a near perfect match for that of her horse; she, in stylish riding habit, sitting sidesaddle on the pretty little filly. He was lost in that memory for a beat, until Hank interrupted him.
"Board's paid up till the end of the month, Marshal." Hank told him.
Dillon nodded, and then grabbed his saddle bags and rifle and left the stable without further word. The walk to his office was not a long one, but it involved passing the Long Branch, that haven he'd considered a home for so many years. Most days in Dodge, since she'd left, he'd hardened his mindset into thinking the saloon was just another business on Front Street. Yet, on this evening, walking past the batwing doors, he couldn't help but pause to look. The piano player in the corner was plinking out the melody to some worn out tune, through a cigar-smoke filled haze, he caught the sparkle of sequins on a black gown, the flash of red hair, as a saloon gal sashayed between the customers, working her way back to the bar and his mind was propelled to another time, not so long ago, when he'd returned to Dodge.
He'd left her, left the town, the badge, left everything he'd held dear in an effort to protect them, from defending him. His gun arm was little more than a useless appendage and his body weak from blood loss and pain. Of course, she'd been there when he left. He'd pulled himself up into the saddle using more grit than strength. She stood watch. Eloquently silent. "I'll keep in touch." He'd promised. The sight of her beautiful sad face was one that cut deep to his soul; for in that moment of departure, a bond so sure held him to her, a bond that time and place could never sever.
In due course, he'd returned, stronger and infinitely wiser in the things that mattered. He'd sent no advanced warning, and on a night very much like this one, he'd walked to the batwing doors of the Long Branch, to see her sitting alone at a table doing end-of-the-day book work. A vision of her, had ever shadowed his dreams, but seeing her in the flesh, rise to stand before him, brought dreams to life, and life to his heart and soul.
"Hello, Kitty." He'd said, his words hardly romantic. It was his heart, which spoke through the love in his eyes.
"Oh, Matt …" She'd replied, acknowledging she'd heard every word his heart had uttered.
A rickety wagon with plodding mules and jiggling harness passed by; jarring him from his thoughts. "Howdy Marshal, good to see you back in town." Farmer Wentz called out, from the buckboard bench.
Dillon nodded his head in return. "Good to be back, Wilber." He replied, with little heart. He righted his load and continued down the boardwalk. The badge on his chest weighed heavy. Once again, the star and shield, a bitter reminder of his allegiance to a job and the price of duty and honor.