The West Wind
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 Ten: Death Packs a Powerful Punch
POV: Solana
Spoilers: None
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters (but I wish I did).
Solana Satterfield flounced out the doors of the Dodge House and onto the rough boardwalk, not even pausing to ask for her messages or even to acknowledge the clerk's meek but hopeful greeting. Normally, she would be the epitome of courtesy, whether she meant it or not, but this time that infuriating marshal had inflamed her with rage – and, if she admitted it, uncertainty.
It had been easy to be caught up in Paul's encompassing bitterness toward the lawman, had been simple to create in her mind the picture of a swaggering, hardened, dictatorial, self-serving braggart who twisted the law to fit his needs. That had been the Matt Dillon she had expected when she headed out from St. Louis. That had been the Matt Dillon she had prepared to help Paul ruin.
That had not been the Matt Dillon she met on the stage from Ellsworth. That had not been the Matt Dillon who practically pleaded with her – in his own way – to spare not him but the woman he so obviously, and exclusively, loved.
Damn it.
Things had seemed so clear before, but now they were jumbled around in her head. Solana had been many things in her life, but very rarely had she been uncertain. She prided herself on independence, on her powers of observation and deduction, on her ability to manipulate most men – and a few women.
But Matt Dillon hadn't bent to her desires. And she wasn't sure if she was madder at him or at herself.
She drew in a deep breath before she remembered about the wind, choking on the gulp of dirt that impulse earned her. A drink would be welcome – for more than one reason. Now that she knew exactly how her little announcement had affected the marshal, it might prove interesting to see Miss Kitty Russell's reaction – from a safe distance, anyway. Besides, on a practical note, it hadn't taken Solana long to realize that the redhead did run the best place in town.
By the time she had crossed Front Street, headed toward the Long Branch, the dust had managed to clog her nose and throat, forcing a harsh cough from her lungs in a futile attempt to clear them. As a result, she didn't hear the man who called to her until he was just a few feet away.
"Ma'am," he greeted, his head ducked slightly as a deterrent to the dust.
He was of average height, but not bad looking, if you didn't study his clothing too closely. The smile he gave her might have been pleasant, if it didn't possess the slightest leer.
"Sir," she returned, forcing her manners to the surface.
"Couldn't help noticin' yer fightin' th' dust. Can I help ya' inta' th' Long Branch?" His hand extended toward her.
"Well, now, that's exactly where I was headed. You're right about the dust. Some folks just might be in need of a little – refreshment."
He laughed. "Yes, indeed, they might. Good fer business, too, huh?"
A puzzled frown drew down Solana's smooth forehead. "I – suppose."
But he didn't seem to notice. "I'd be right proud, ma'am, if you'd join me fer a beer." The leer pushed on through to dominate the smile.
Solana relaxed. This type of man she could handle. "I'd be so appreciative."
"Well, it's jest that I'm – new in town," he confided, taking her arm. "Don't know many folks."
Solana fell easily into the conversation as they neared to saloon. "Are you, now?"
"Yes'm. Been meanin' ta' come over to th' Long Branch before now. Heard it's the best in town."
She gave him a grudging nod. "That's what they say."
He smiled knowingly. "'Course, I guess you'd have to say that, wouldn't you? They told me the owner was the prettiest woman in town."
It took effort to maintain pleasantries. "Really?"
His smile stretched into a grin. "Yes, ma'am. 'Course I also heard there might be a U.S. Marshal in between her an' a lowly ol' cowpoke like me. Ennythang to that?"
"Marshal Dillon," she confirmed, pleased that her flyer had apparently been noticed by the newcomer. Smiling coyly, she started to add that Miss Kitty might have some competition, but she never completed her sentence.
To her irritation, she realized that he was staring past her shoulder to something behind her. Turning, she saw the marshal himself walking – or trying to walk – across the dusty street. He was none too steady, though, his gait halting, his steps faltering. Solana stared at him, shocked. In her hotel room, she had noticed that he still appeared rather drained, but now the man looked like he had just run a horse race – without a horse. Sweat darkened the front of his shirt and curled his hair against his neck. The blood had drained from his face. Where before he had been pale, now he was downright ashen. She opened her mouth to speak, but the other man beat her to it.
"Well, well, well. The great Marshal Dillon," the man sneered. "Shore don't look sa' great now, do ya'?"
Dillon's head snapped up, despite his condition, and he squinted at them through the dust. "Kendall," he ground out, his tone full of disgust.
Kendall? The blood iced in her veins.
Before she could move, Kendall's arm whipped around her and jerked her against him so that her body acted as a shield as his gun snapped up, the barrel pointed against her temple. With a cry, she realized who this man was, and why he was there.
He snarled back at Dillon, his words vengeful, malicious. "From th' looks of ya', I can tell ya' still remember ol' Joe."
"Kendall," the marshal began, somehow finding the strength to drop the hand that braced his side, straighten, and square up with the outlaw.
Solana's eyes were white around the irises.
"Drop yer gun, Dillon, or I'll kill her. You know I'll do it."
His teeth clenched. "Don't be a fool, Kendall. Let her go." He drew in a ragged breath, and Solana wondered what was keeping him on his feet.
"I would be a fool if I did that."
"Kendall – "
"I mean it, Dillon. Drop it or yer woman gits it."
Shocked comprehension slammed into Solana. She raised her eyes to meet Dillon's, saw the mirrored shock in them.
Heart pounding, Solana stared at the marshal, conjectures racing through her mind. She wondered if he would give in to Kendall. She wondered if he even cared what happened to her. She would probably understand if he didn't. If Kendall thought she was Dillon's woman, maybe Dillon would let him kill her to protect Kitty Russell.
But after a quick breath, he merely shook his head. They stood there, all three of them, for a good ten seconds, no one moving.
"How'd you get loose, Kendall?" Dillon asked finally, his body swaying noticeably.
"Good to have friends," the outlaw allowed. "Don't look like you got none right now." His head nodded to indicate the deserted street, the whipping wind the only sound other than them.
Dillon didn't answer. Kendall lost his patience.
"Arrite, enough stonewallin'. Drop yer gun or I swear I'll kill her."
Raw terror clawed through Solana. For the first time in her life, she felt genuine fear. This man wasn't a character in a novel, he wasn't the topic of a feature story for her paper. He was real, and he was going to kill her because he thought she was Matt Dillon's woman.
She watched the marshal consider his choice another few seconds, then saw reluctant confirmation cross his face, and sighed both in relief and despair as he slowly drew the Colt from his holster and tossed it to the ground a few feet in front of him.
Breath held, Solana let her eyes dart between the two men, the wind whistling past her ears until the sudden squeak of saloon doors jarred them all.
"Matt! There you are! Oh, for Pete's sake, what do you think you're – "
All eyes swung to the interruption, and Solana saw the beautiful, redheaded Kitty Russell step from the Long Branch onto the boardwalk. Her fiery hair whipped from its combs, flying about her smooth face like silken ribbons. Kendall's jaw dropped.
"Get back inside," Dillon barked immediately, his gaze quickly returning to its lock on the outlaw.
The woman stopped short, suddenly seeing the gun in Kendall's hand. Her eyes widened, but she didn't react otherwise. Solana allowed a grudging bit of admiration.
"Who are you?" Kendall asked, his eyes flashing.
Carefully, Dillon repeated his command. "Get – back – in."
But the other woman didn't budge. "Who are you?" she demanded of Kendall, who stared at her for a minute, then laughed.
"Red, I'm a man who'd like to buy you a drink after I take care of this marshal and his woman."
Solana saw Kitty look askance at the marshal.
"He doesn't want you," Dillon emphasized pointedly. "He wants Kitty."
The outlaw grinned, squeezing harder around Solana's waist. She fought not to be sick. "Yep. I want Kitty."
Her expression guarded, the redhead allowed only her eyes to betray the shock. Solana thought Kitty was about to say something, but once again the swinging doors intruded onto the moment and Doc Adams emerged, his face screwed up in clear consternation.
"Stubborn fool," he was muttering, his head bowed to shield against the wind. Lifting his chin just enough to see the saloon owner standing on the boards, he added, "Kitty, you stay here while I'll check the jail. That big oaf of a civil servant is probably – "
"What the hell?"
The doctor's head came up at Kendall's voice, alarm wiping the irritation from his eyes. "Matt?" he asked, trying to take in the scene.
"Get back, Doc," Dillon ground out through gritted teeth, then added with a jerk of his chin toward Kitty, "and take her with you."
But Kendall had already heard the name, had seen whom Doc addressed. Solana wasn't sure if she was elated or devastated by his dawning revelation.
"Kitty?" he breathed, looking back and forth between Solana and Kitty. "Kitty? But I thought – " Fury darkened his face. "Damn you, Dillon!" Whipping the gun from her head, he swung it toward the marshal.
Solana saw the whole scene go by as if she were an innocent onlooker. He would kill Dillon for sure, and she realized suddenly that she would very much hate for that to happen. Besides, he'd probably kill them all after Dillon was dead. Without contemplating the possible consequences, she sank her teeth into Kendall's wrist just as he pulled the trigger, drawing a yelp and curse from him. The bullet plowed harmlessly into the dirt.
"Solana, move!" the marshal yelled.
Pushing away from Kendall, she twisted to see Dillon dive forward, a deep cry ripping from him as his ribs slammed against the ground. Still, somehow, he managed to slap his hand over the butt of the pistol and snap it up with one motion. Turning onto his side, he took only a half second to aim at Kendall before he fired twice in quick succession.
The outlaw's gun fired again, but his bullets veered wide as he jolted with the impact of Matt's shots, his body contorting almost as if it were caught in the wind before it dropped to the ground, its final seconds of life flowing out to wet the dust with a crimson pool.
Stunned, Solana stared at the dead man, then let her eyes shift to the other figure that lay face-down twenty yards away.
"Matt!" Kitty cried, rushing into the street to fall down beside him.
Solana heard him try to take a breath, but he managed only a rasping gasp that didn't sound as if it provided any air at all.
"Oh my God!" the redhead yelled. "Doc! Doc!"
Then Adams was there, his own expression alarmed. "Matt? Here, help me turn him over," the doctor ordered to Festus, who had run from the jail as soon as the shooting started.
Dirt clung to the marshal's face as they eased him onto his back. His breathing was labored, his eyes unfocused. Solana's heart pounded when she saw the flecks of pinkish blood on his lips.
"Get him into the Long Branch," Doc instructed the larger crowd of men that had gathered.
"Why not yer office, Doc?" Festus asked.
But Doc shook his head. "Not sure he'd make it that far."
"What – what's happening to him?" Kitty's hand closed around the physician's arm as six men hauled the long, limp frame toward the saloon.
Solana stepped closer, her newspaper instincts blaring that she could be witnessing history here – a terrible, tragic history, of course, but wasn't that the best kind in her business? Somehow, though, she couldn't muster the enthusiasm to pull out pencil and paper and record the moment. Until a few minutes before, she had never seen a man die. Now she was beginning to realize she might very well see another.
Doc's answer was muttered while he hurried after his patient. "Pneumothorax. Collapsed lung. I was afraid of this."
"Doc," Festus asked, struggling with his share of the heavy load, "whut does thet mean, actual?"
"Air accumulates in the pleural cavity and – " Adams turned suddenly, his expression furious, but at whom or what Solana couldn't tell. "It means he's gonna die if I can't fix it."
"Doc!" Kitty choked.
His pained eyes turned to her. "Kitty," he said, unable to soften the news much, "I'm gonna do my best, but – "
At the moment, Dillon made a horrible, gasping attempt at breath, his broad chest heaving with the futile effort to draw in enough vital oxygen.
"Stop! Stop!" the doctor yelled. "Just put him on a table. We can't wait."
Obediently, their eyes wide with fear, the men placed the marshal as gently as they could on one of the green felt gaming tables. His long legs hung off the end, and someone dragged over another table to stretch them out. He tried to cough, the nominal success speckling reddish-pink across the front of his blue shirt.
Kitty bent over him, tears streaming down her face, one hand wiping his lips, the other hand tearing at the buttons of his shirt, as if the material was somehow restricting the airflow. "He can't breathe!"
Doc shook his head, looking helpless. Somehow, Solana understood it was a rare expression on him. "There's air in the pleural cavity, so he can't – "
"Do something!" Kitty snapped, and Solana knew she was seeing this strong woman as close to breaking as she had ever been.
"I don't know – there's just nothing I can – " He ran a hand over his mouth and looked down at the marshal, tightening his jaw. "Unless – "
Kitty pounced on the glimmer of hope. "Unless what?"
"Something I read about a few months ago. A new technique, experimental. Theoretically, you can re-inflate the lung by inserting a syringe into the cavity between the third and fourth ribs to remove the air."
Festus frowned. "Doc, that sounds dangerous."
"It is. I wouldn't even attempt something like that unless – "
"Unless what?"
Dillon's body bucked up, forcing the men nearby to hang onto him wildly. Just as suddenly, he went limp again, and Solana saw that his lips had begun to turn blue.
"Doc!" Kitty urged. "Hurry!"
Solana glanced at the people gathered around the prone man. It seemed that all of Dodge hovered, equally worried expressions from the affluent to the bum. The bank president stood next to the chatty saloon girl Delia. Both wore wrinkles of genuine concern. It was apparent to every one of them that Dillon was dying. Doc's treatment couldn't make it any worse.
"Kitty?" Adams asked gently, touching her shoulder. Solana saw the deference to her relationship with the marshal. Adams was clearly asking her permission.
"Yes," she breathed. "Do it."
And with the decision made, the doctor snapped into action. "Get his shirt out of the way," he ordered as he turned and thrust a hand into his bag, extracting a glass syringe.
As the broad chest was bared, Solana stared at the array of scars that slashed and puckered the skin. She had first noticed them when she had brought the marshal soup in Kitty's room, but their meaning hadn't seemed as relevant then. Now she clearly saw the years of duty, of pain, of sacrifice etched into his flesh.
Still, somehow, even their ugliness couldn't diminish the physical beauty of his strong body. If it had been any other moment, Solana might have enjoyed the view. But this wasn't any other moment.
This was the only moment Dillon had. Perhaps the last moment he had.
The marshal's ragged breathing suddenly stopped completely, and Kitty cried out. At the same time, Doc ran a hand along Dillon's side, then shoved the needle of the syringe into him, pulling the plunger back with agonizing slowness, murmuring the entire time.
"Come on, Matt. Come on, son, you can do it. Breathe boy. Breathe."
The room froze as they waited for several tense seconds, then several more.
The soft, sad twang of the deputy joined the doctor. "Come on, Matthew," he urged. "Git back in th' buggy."
"Matt," Kitty pleaded, her tortured voice painful for all of them to hear. "Please, Matt. Please."
And still they waited, every eye on the formidable figure that lay in unaccustomed vulnerability before them. More seconds ticked by. Doc sighed heavily and withdrew the needle.
Finally, Solana let her gaze fall from the beautiful, scarred, unmoving chest and turned away, tears stinging her eyes, nausea bubbling in her throat.
Death, she realized with a soft sob, packed a powerful punch.
TBC