A Gunsmoke Story
By Amanda (MAHC)
"O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes."
Percy Bysshe Shelley
"Ode to the West Wind"
1819
Chapter Nine: Compliments of The Constitution
POV: Matt
Spoilers: None
Rating: T (PG)
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters (but I wish I did).
"So, what can you do about it?"
Matt sighed lightly, laying his head back against the pillows on Kitty's bed and contemplating Doc's simple question about Solana's article. What could he do about it? There were laws to protect journalists, laws to allow freedom of the press. Good laws, he believed usually. But this time –
"Don't know," he admitted, hating it.
"Well, it's – it's libel, that's what it is!" Doc exclaimed, and Matt had to smile a bit at the older man's ire on his behalf – and Kitty's, of course.
"Hard to prove."
"Hard? Anybody who knows you knows that stuff is rubbish."
"Not the stuff about Kitty being – " He let his sentence fall unfinished. Doc knew.
Adams sighed. They hadn't heard back from Solana since yesterday, nor had they seen any more flyers, but Matt had no doubt she intended to follow through with her threat. Being tied to a sick bed, unable to get out and investigate for himself frustrated him even further.
Just as the older man opened his mouth to speak again, an urgent knock at Kitty's door stopped him. Exchanging a wary glance with Matt, he stepped across the room and let his hand rest on the knob.
"Who is it?" Doc called, and the marshal wondered if he was being protected from Solana or outlaws. Or maybe they weren't much different.
"Barney. Got a telegram for th' marshal."
Matt winced. If Barney knew where he was, everyone else in town did, too. Still, he nodded toward Doc's questioning look to let the telegraph operator in.
The old man hurried inside, his eyes widening a bit as he allowed himself to take in the opulent surroundings. At Matt's frown, though, he cleared his throat and turned his attention on the marshal.
"Sorry ta' disturb ya', Marshal, but I been thinkin' on this a while, and I figure you really need ta' know about it." The tone of his voice dispelled any irritation Matt might have felt at the intrusion.
"What is it, Barney?" he prompted.
"That female that come in on the stage a few days ago – "
"Miss Satterfield?" Doc asked.
"That's the one."
Matt felt the short hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "What about her?"
"Well, couple of days back she come into the office lookin' for a telegram from Saint Louie. Now, you know I try ta' be all confidential with the messages that come across my desk."
Doc snorted.
"Well, anyways, I can't help but know what's in them, seein' as how I'm the one taking down the words – "
"What'd it say, Barney?" Matt asked, his patience wearing thin.
"That's why I'm here. Just didn't seem like I should keep that to myself."
"Barney!" Doc snapped.
He pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. "When I wrote it down for her, it made an imprint on the page beneath, so I know exactly what it said."
"And – "
"'Waiting on Lede. STOP. Have to kill if not received three days. STOP. Counting on you. STOP. Paul.'"
Alarm flashed across Doc's worn features. "Barney, why the hell haven't you brought this to Matt sooner?"
"Well, telegrams are confidential – "
But Matt wasn't listening anymore. Waiting on Lede. Who was Lede? And who was going to kill or be killed? And there was the name Paul again. Looking up, he asked Barney, "Did she send a return telegram?"
"Oh, yeah, she did. Thought you might be interested in it, too."
"You thought right. What's it say?"
"'Message received. Stop. Do not kill yet. Stop. Lede will come soon. Stop.' And she sent it with her name."
"Who'd she send it to?"
"Fella named Hill."
And there it was in an instant. Matt pressed his lips together and swore softly, drawing surprised looks from both of the other men.
"What is it?" Doc asked.
"I should have figured it out sooner."
"Figured what out?"
Matt gritted his teeth and tried to push up from the bed, completely ignoring Doc's sudden frown. "I gotta get up."
"No you don't."
"I've gotta send a telegram."
"Telegram?" Doc stood and laid a hand on Matt's shoulder. "Barney's standing right here. You just write it out and give it to him. I don't want you movin' around."
"I have other things to check on too, Doc. Besides, it's been five days, and I feel fine." Of course, he was lying through his teeth, and they both knew it.
"It's only been two days since you pulled that stunt at the Oasis – " The furrowed brow came down suddenly, then Adams shrugged. "All right."
"What?"
The physician swept an arm in front of him. "Be my guest. Get on up and do what you've gotta do."
The blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Really?"
"Sure."
Gingerly, the lawman threw his long legs over the side of the bed and started to sit, but something got in his way. Something like a bayonet plowing straight through him. When the stars stopped flashing before his eyes, he found himself flat on the bed again with an unsympathetic Doc shaking his head.
"Now, stay there and don't move."
"I'll take care of that telegram, Marshal," Barney offered helpfully, his face grimacing in empathy.
"Thanks," Matt breathed. "Just send a message to – chief of police in – Saint Louis. Get – any information on – Paul Hill – and Solana Satterfield."
The old man's eyes widened as he scribbled down the requested message. "Sure thing, Marshal. I'll get right on it." Without another word, he rushed from the room, the importance of his job hurrying his pace.
"Listen, Doc," Matt managed tightly after Barney left, "you remember – Newly O'Brien mentioning that he worked – for a newspaper when he was – back in Philadelphia?"
The physician ran a hand over his mustache. "Seems like maybe I do."
"Get him – for me, okay? I need to – ask him something."
The pale eyes softened a bit, but the voice remained firm. "If you promise you'll stay right there and not move while I'm gone."
He ran a hand over the throbbing ribs, closed his eyes against the pounding in his head, and decided that Doc didn't need to worry about his patient trying to escape, at least not anytime soon.
XXXXThe sun's rays cast long shadows in the room the next time Matt was aware of anything. Blinking awake, he glanced about, noting that he seemed to have been left to himself, at least for a while. He had no doubt Kitty wasn't far away. With a bit of surprise, he noticed that a fresh set of clothes lay folded neatly in one of the chairs near the fireplace. A smile touched his lips when he saw the blue shirt in place of his usual bugger-red one. He knew Kitty preferred the blue, said it brought out the color of his eyes. And while having his clothing match his eyes meant very little to the lawman, the fact that Kitty liked it was reason enough to wear it occasionally. Of course, he had never told her that he usually stuck with the red one because dirt and blood didn't seem to draw attention so easily on the darker color. No need for Kitty to know that. Still, he didn't anticipate any rough and tumble activities this afternoon, so he was glad to oblige her.
Certainly, it was not Doc's intention that his patient drag himself out of his sick bed anytime soon, but Matt had things to do. Find out about Solana Satterfield, for one. And solidify the connection he suspected she had with Paul Hill. Bracing the ribs, he eased upright, pleased to discover the pain wasn't nearly as bad as it had been just that morning. He gave himself a moment to adjust to sitting, then made the final move to stand, his hand automatically grasping the bed post as his head swam suddenly. After a beat, though, he was able to take a few cautious steps toward the chair. As he struggled into the clothes, he let his mind filter back through the years – five years, he figured – to his encounter with Hill.
It had started with a trip to Kansas City, prompted by the desire of Senator McGovern to do away with marshals west of the Mississippi, a move Matt knew was strictly for political purposes. In the process, he had met Hill, a journalist who apparently believed that gunfighters were all bluff and no bite. Hill virtually created a legend from a man – hardly more than a boy – and played out a bet, which led to two men dead and Senator McGovern almost killed.
He shook his head at the waste. Hill had gotten probation from a lenient judge and left Dodge as quickly as he could. Matt hadn't heard what happened to him since, but apparently the journalist wasn't through with him, yet. Barney's revelation about the telegram Solana had sent and Newly O'Brien's clarifying information had helped the puzzle pieces come together. Still, he wasn't completely sure how Solana was involved, wasn't certain about what her true motives were. Maybe it was time to find out.
XXXXHe considered himself fortunate that he had made it to the Dodge House without being spotted by either Kitty or Doc, and wondered how long it would take one of them to figure out he had sneaked out. It wasn't that he sneaked out – exactly. He had just been careful not to be seen. Of course, all his stealth wouldn't do him much good if he ended up face-down in the middle of Front Street for some cowhands to have to lug up to Doc's. As the hard wind buffeted him, his own body warned him with each step that he'd already passed the point of needing to return to bed, but he had a few things to settle with one Miss Solana Satterfield.
Howie's long face dropped in surprise when he looked up to see Matt enter the hotel lobby. "Marshal! Well, I sure didn't expect to see you anytime soon. Burke said – "
"Thanks, Howie," Matt cut through, completely uninterested in what Burke had said. "Miss Satterfield in?"
The clerk's eyes widened, as if that was the last person he would have expected the marshal to come looking for. "Uh, yes, sir. I think she is. Want me to get her?"
Matt let his gaze trail up the stairs and winced, thinking they hadn't seemed quite so steep the last time he had climbed them. "No thanks."
"Room Eight," Howie offered helpfully.
Matt could feel his curious stare at his back as he took the first step, clenching his teeth together to push back the groan that threatened. Somehow, he managed to gain the top without having to stop to rest halfway up. That wouldn't have inspired much confidence from anyone – especially from himself.
Fortunately, Room Eight was just past the banister. Sucking in a fortifying – but careful – breath, he rapped firmly on the door.
"Yes?" The reply was guarded.
"It's Matt Dillon."
There was an audible gasp from behind the closed door, then a rustle of clothing. After a moment, he heard the lock click and Solana appeared before him, a bemused half-smile on her full lips.
"Why, Marshal," she declared, pushing a strand of hair back into place, "I certainly didn't expect to see you here."
"May I come in, Miss Satterfield?" he asked, his tone courteous but formal.
Her brow rose, and he thought he saw a light pink flush her cheeks. "Oh, well, of – of course." Sweeping an arm back, she nodded him into the room. "What can I do for you?"
No need to draw it out. "Miss Satterfield, I came to talk to you about those flyers you posted."
"Oh, but I didn't – "
"You might not have posted them, but you wrote them. Didn't you?"
"Well, why do you – " But his steady gaze cut through any pretense at innocence, and her demeanor hardened. "What of it? It's a free press, Marshal, is it not? Compliments of The Constitution you are sworn to protect."
"How do you know Paul Hill?" he challenged, rewarded by the shock on her pretty face.
"What – I – I don't – "
"I don't have time to play games with you, Miss Satterfield," he said, the throbbing of his side and his head alerting him that he was overreaching his endurance. "You said something about Paul. You were talking about Paul Hill, weren't you? I just sent a telegram to Saint Louis, and I expect to hear back that you and Hill are working together somehow, for some reason."
To his surprise, anger flashed in her eyes, and she took a deep breath. "All right, Marshal. Doesn't matter anyway, now. I haven't done anything wrong. Truth is, I'm a newspaper woman."
That was no scoop. "You don't say."
"I do. And I'm out here to do a story for my paper."
"A story about me," he summarized.
She held his gaze boldly. "About you. Marshal Matt Dillon. Champion of Law in the Wicked West."
He grimaced. "I don't seem like much of a champion in those flyers."
"That just sells papers, Marshal."
"Uh huh. What about your threat that I'd be sorry – "
"Oh, I was simply – hurt that you spurned my affections. I didn't mean –
"I think you did. And I think this is more than just getting back at me for turning you down."
"Turning me down!" she snapped before she could stop herself. With a calming breath, though, she amended, "Of course, that's all it is. The finished article – "
"Will probably be much worse. The telegraph operator came to see me earlier. Seems you got a telegram a couple of days ago from Saint Louis. Talked about what Barney thought was a fellow named Lede coming to kill me. He figured I should know."
"Kill you? Oh, no, Marshal, lede's not a person. You see, in the newspaper business, that means – "
"I know what it means."
"You do?"
"Yes. And you've sent your 'lede' to Saint Louis, haven't you? You've sent it, and maybe the rest of your article, to Hill so that he can ruin my reputation as a marshal and somehow get revenge for what he thinks was a wrong against him."
"But it was," she said, not denying his theory.
"Paul Hill caused the deaths of two men and almost got a United States Senator killed. He played with people's lives – on a bet. He was fortunate to get away with just probation. Any other judge probably would have given him much worse."
"He did get worse," she snapped. "No paper will hire him anymore. He was ruined because of you."
"No, he did that to himself. Hill was a fool, and you're a fool to be involved with him."
Her eyes narrowed coldly. "I don't think that's what's really bothering you, Marshal. I think you're worried about what that article will reveal about you." She paused, then added, "And about her."
He tugged off his hat, fighting a grimace at the discomfort that move caused. "Miss Satterfield, you can write whatever you want about me, but – leave Kitty out of it."
"Kitty? Miss Russell, you mean? Worried about your reputation, Marshal? Or perhaps hers?"
Anger gathered between his brows. "I don't care about any reputation. And Kitty Russell is too strong a woman to let something like that bother her. It has nothing to do with – propriety."
"No? What, then?"
He took a breath and lowered his gaze for a moment. After a hard exhalation, which he cut short as soon as his ribs protested, he looked up again. "Miss Satterfield, a lawman lives a dangerous life, an uncertain life. At any moment, any place, a two-bit thief could pull the trigger of a cheap pistol and I'd be history. I chose that way. I accept that way. Most lawmen do, or they wouldn't be lawmen. But a lawman's family – that's a different thing altogether."
"Family, Marshal? Are you saying you and Miss Kitty – "
"I'm saying that she didn't choose that life, but my line of work puts her at risk. I have enemies, Miss Satterfield. Enemies that are constantly looking for any weakness. Any vulnerability."
"And is Kitty Russell your weakness, Marshal?"
His head snapped up, eyes burning. "If certain people found out she was my – " He hesitated, gritting his teeth.
Damn.
"Your woman?" Satterfield supplied.
Matt didn't confirm it, but he didn't deny it, either. "She would be in danger, and I can't – " He stopped suddenly, calming the emotions he had almost allowed to surface. When he spoke again, it was with absolute conviction. "I can't allow that, Miss Satterfield. I can't allow that."
She stared at him for a long moment, her beautiful eyes open wide and knowing. After several seconds of silence, she tilted her head toward him and smiled coldly. "I thank you for your hospitality, Marshal. I'll be headed back to Saint Louis tomorrow. I hope you'll read my article. I'll make sure you get a copy. Now, I'm going to check my messages. When I return, I will expect you to be out of my room."
She stormed out into the hallway, leaving him staring after her, his stomach clenched with both pain and the prospect of what her public revelations about him – and about Kitty – would bring. The embarrassment wouldn't matter. He figured most of Dodge knew anyway. But those beyond, those who might be searching for anything to get him for –
A wave of dizziness swept through him, and he caught the bedpost to keep from pitching forward onto the floor. Blinking back the black spots that threatened to merge into complete darkness, he found himself on his knees by the bed. He had to get out of there, had to stop her some way. Through sheer willpower, he dragged himself to his feet and stumbled to the door, bracing against the frame for an agonizing moment before thrusting his body forward again. It would be a miracle if he made it back to Kitty's without help, but the vision of being carried across Front Street gave him renewed strength to try.
TBC