7
Matt Dillon stood on the boardwalk in front of the jail house, as he had so many times before. Even with brick, mortar and glass to separate him from the interior, the discordant grate of his deputy's snores were a cheerless reminder, there was no glad heart, soft bed and loving arms to welcome him home. But, then this wasn't exactly what he'd call home anymore. It was time he came to terms with that fact of life. He wasn't pleased with his melancholy mood of late. Self pity had never been part of his constitution and he objected to it's presence now. He gave himself a mental kick in the ass, and opened the door.
^..^
Festus was dozing in Matt Dillon's office chair. Hands braced behind his neck, supporting lolling head and leaning back so far, he was nearly fully reclined. His scuffed booted legs were crossed and propped on the desk, spurs digging into the already scarred surface. The jailhouse cat, Ol'scudder was sprawled belly up, in his lap and snoring as well.
Dillon's entrance so startled the pair, that Festus jumped to his feet, grabbed for his pistol, while ol'Scudder shot straight up in the air, back arched, tail plumed and voiced a loud yowl of distress.
Hagen reholstered his weapon, his rough voice gravelly from sleep, "Matthew, how many times do I hafta tell ya, not to sneak up on a feller like that?"
Dillon set his rifle and bags on the work table and hung up his coat and hat, ignoring his deputy's admonishment. "Things been quiet?" He asked.
Hagen nodded, "Mostly, onliest thing that happened was Arnie Raether went an'broke his leg, after jumpin' off the bar at the Bull's Head."
"What was he doing on the bar?"
"Chasing ol' Harry Larsen."
Arnie was fifty-five and Harry a good ten years older, neither man belonged on top of a saloon bar. "Why, was he chasing Harry Larsen?"
"Cause he was after Miss Lou Lou's pet chicken, Eunice May. You know how Miss Lou Lou feels about that red hen of hers. Everyone knows, you ain't agonna git on Miss Lou Lou's good side, if'n you ain't being nice to that cranky ol' bird."
Dillon shook his head, trying to dislodge the image. He changed the subject. "Any mail?"
"It's in your desk drawer, like I always put it." His claim only true, half the time. Hagen opened the drawer and Matt removed the mail. He shuffled through the lot, stopping when he came to the one post marked New Orleans. He was puzzled for the flowery handwriting was unfamiliar and there was no return address. Still, his heart picked up pace. He wanted to rip open the envelope, but not with Festus there.
Ol'Scudder jumped on top of the desk and rubbed his head against Dillon's side. Matt stepped back. He scowled at his deputy, "Do something with that cat would you?"
Hagen picked up the old tom. Cat hair filled the air. The deputy gave him a scratch between the ears and the cat responded with a loud purr. "Did you git yourself some supper, Mathew? You want me to go on down to Delmonico's n' fetch you somethin' to eat?. Prairie dog stew was plumb larapin tonight."
"Yeah, thanks 'n take that cat out with you." Dillon's affirmative reply had nothing to do with filling an empty belly. His full thought was on the contents of the letter.
He waited, back turned, listening to Hagen's spurs jingling and his boot heels tapping a rhythm, as he walked out the building. The muffled chink and tap continued, even after the door was closed, slowly fading away. A slight tremor marked Matt's normal steady hand as he began to rip open the envelope, with the first tear the door opened again.
"Heard you were back in town. Did you have a good trip Marshal?" Nathan Burke, Freight Office Manager, walked right in the building to stand next to Dillon.
"It went fine Burke. Was there something you needed?"
"No, no, I just thought I'd welcome you back to town, fill you in on the latest comings and goings. Festus isn't always as observant as he ought to be, you know."
Dillon waited for Burke to continue, but he could tell the busybody had spied the letter from New Orleans. "Well?" Matt prodded.
Burke moved closer for a better angle, "Um, there was this big ruckus at the Bull's Head the other night."
"I heard about Arnie Raether's leg and Miss Lou Lou's chicken, Eunice May."
"Oh, you did …" Burke sounded disappointed.
The letter in Matt's hand seemed to have a pulse of it's own, he had to get rid of Burke. He scowled and then winced. "Speaking of the Bull's Head … I'm a … kind of thirsty, you think you could head on down there and bring me back a pail of beer, tell Lou Lou, I'll even up with her, tomorrow."
"Sure thing." Burke replied obligingly, figuring when he returned, he'd be offered a fair share of the brew and some inside information regarding that letter from New Orleans.
Alone again, with the letter for dubious company, he made his move, aware somewhere in the back of his brain, he would likely be interrupted again. He was, it was Doc Adams who entered the jailhouse next. This time the Marshal made no excuse to be rid of the other man.
"I just got back from the Schneider place, I saw your horse in his stall. Saw Esmeralda's 'for sale' sign was down, I figured I'd find you here. You buy the mare?"
"Yeah." He held the envelope out for the old man to see. "What do you make of this?"
"It's from New Orleans, but that's not Kitty's handwriting. For heaven's sake, why haven't you opened it up?"
"I was about to, but Festus and Burke got in the way, I've got one headed to Delmonicos for supper and the other, to Bull's for beer, I don't figure they'll be gone long."
"You want me to leave, too?" Adams asked.
"No." Dillon replied, for he had few secrets from the old man. With a purpose, he ripped off the end of the envelope and slid out the enclosed papers.