"By the clock 'tis day; And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp"
William Shakespeare. Macbeth, Act 2, Scene 4
Chapter 10: Peripeteia
The first night out on the trail also passed uneventfully, and Matt got his prisoner up and headed out before first light. Matt knew the trail to Hays very well and was satisfied with the progress they had made the previous day. Despite the early hour it was already a blistering day, and his shirt was already stuck to his back and chest with sweat. Before long, a strong breeze kicked up out of the west. It was a hot, dry wind that provided no relief from the sweltering heat, the kind of wind that seemed to suck the moisture right of a man. Matt was already anticipating the relative coolness of the evening, but that was a long way off.
They were passing a small grove of trees, and he motioned to Dunbart to halt. Both men dismounted enjoying the shade. Matt handed one of the canteens to Dunbart and took a long drink out of the other one. There was a small cluster of rocks and a watering hole about two hours ahead. Matt planned to stop and water the horses there and eat a little jerky while the horses rested and grazed. Matt wasn't a man that liked to count his chickens before they hatched, but he couldn't help but think that he was over a third of the way to making Dunbart somebody else's responsibility. He was just about to order Dunbart back in the saddle when the man decided to start talking again.
"So, Dillon, you got a girl?"
"Nope." Damn, Matt knew he had responded too quickly, hoped Dunbart hadn't noticed, decided to add a little convincing. "I range free." Matt wasn't sure why he was so worried about Dunbart thinking he had a girl. The man was scheduled to hang day after the next. But Matt was still unnerved by him, and he just didn't want to take the remotest chance that if he got away from him, he might find Kitty.
"Let's go, Dunbart."
"Sure, Dillon. I just was hoping that if you did, you gave her a real nice good bye, seeing as you won't be seeing her again."
This time Matt chose to not respond. Instead he mounted up and motioned to Dunbart to do the same.
The two men rode silently across the prairie, a silence for which Matt was immensely grateful. The trail was sloping downhill, and they had just passed the unique rock formation that marked the location of the water hole—just off the trail to the west. He knew the horses needed water and he was looking forward to the opportunity to get out of the saddle and rest a little in the shade of the surrounding rocks, a thought that coincided with the staccato sound of a rifle shot and white-hot pain coursing through his back and side. Slumped over Buck's neck, Matt tried to both make a break for safety and get to his gun. He failed at both as his prisoner launched himself from his saddle dragging him to the ground.
Matt pulled himself to his knees despite the burning fire radiating from his side and again tried to reach his gun. This time his hand closed around it, and he pulled it from the holster only to have it kicked from his hand by Dunbart who made it to his feet first. Matt briefly clutched his hand to his wounded side, the pain in both intense, then again tried to clamber to his feet in a last ditch effort to defend himself. He had just succeeded when he felt the impact of Dunbart's iron clad wrists striking his injured side. Bolts of sharp agony slammed though his body driving him back to his knees. He collapsed forward as he attempted to shelter his injured side.
Nearly incapacitated by the pain pulsating through his body, he tried to lift his head to see his opponent, could feel his chances for getting back to Kitty slipping away. Then he saw his gun, nearly obscured in the prairie grass, and made a desperate lunge towards it, reaching out with his injured hand. His fingers closed on the grip just as Dunbart's booted foot pinned his hand to the ground. Ignoring the pain, he tried and failed to pull free. Then Dunbart laughed evilly, ground the heel of his boot down on Matt's hand, reached over, and yanked the gun from Matt's damaged fingers.
"Well, Dillon, I told you I was gonna kill ya, and now I am. Get up. I want you on your feet when I shoot ya. Get up."
It wasn't in Matt to give up, and despite his injury and pain, he wasn't planning on going down without a fight. He took his time dragging himself to his feet, tried to measure his opponent. He'd promised Kitty he would do everything in his power to get home to her, and if he didn't make it back to her, it wouldn't be because he gave up. He made it to his knees and was considering trying to climb to his feet, but he was hurt, and he definitely needed time to marshal his strength. He looked up into the hate-filled eyes of Floyd Dunbart, could see the gun clutched in his manacled hands, saw that it was pointed directly at his chest. He had the slightly crazy notion that he had just given his heart to Kitty, and now, Dunbart was going to ruin it. He swallowed, tried to control the pain that was making it hard for him to think, tried to stay focused. "Dunbart, who are you, and why do you want me dead?"
"I told you, you gotta die because you're a traitor."
Matt was vaguely aware of more men on horses arriving. The bullet wound in his side told him they weren't here to help, but so far they hadn't done anything but ride up. He decided to just stick to the only plan he had. "Yeah, but how do you know me? How do you know I fought for the Union? What's your personal grudge against me? Doncha think I ought to know that before I die?" He waited, as Dunbart seemed to consider his barrage of questions, tried to use the time to regain his strength.
"I dunno, Dillon. I guess I do wancha to know just why it's me that's killing ya, why I'm the one that's gotta do it. But I think I'll go ahead and shoot you first, and I'll tell ya all about it while you're dying. I just need to decide where to shoot ya. Now! Get. Up. I'm not gonna say it again."
Matt was still on his knees and contemplating a response when he noticed the other men closing in on him. He was having trouble focusing. They seemed to be wavering in the light, and he couldn't tell whether there were three of them or four. He distractedly wondered how a man like Dunbart had any friends at all.
Then he heard one of them yell, "Floyd, put that gun away. We ain't killing him just now. Seeing as he ain't dead, we're gonna sell him."
The immediate threat to his survival seemingly postponed, Matt lost his grip on consciousness and collapsed to the ground. His last thought was that he didn't think they'd find a buyer. Fortunately, he never felt the pain when a frustrated Floyd Dunbart kicked him in the ribs as he lay helpless in the dust.
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"That's enough, Floyd," ordered the oldest man in the group. "Be hard to sell him if he's dead." He walked over and looked down on the unconscious lawman. "You're sure this is the man? "
"Yeah, Pa, it's him for sure. I ain't never gonna forget him, the size of him if nothing else. When he caught up to me down in the Indian Territories, I knowed him right off. Even before he said his name, I was sure."
"But he didn't know you?"
"No, Pa. Even when I told him I was gonna kill him for what he done in the war, he didn't know me. It was like it was nuthin to him, and it made me hate him more than I already done."
"Well son, the way I figure it, this traitor owes us a good bit more than his life. We got money owed us for what he took from us, so that's why I figure to sell him first, and then we'll kill him."
"But Pa, I didn't see nobody in that town that cared enough to buy him. He don't even have a girl. I axed him, and he told me he didn't have one. There was a jailer fella name of Chester that didn't much like me making threats, but I can tell you, he sure ain't got no money to be doin no buyin. We oughta just kill him and get outta here."
Ignoring Floyd, the older man turned to one of the other men in the group. "Jeb, take Floyd and get the horses watered and the canteens filled."
Then he addressed the youngest member of the group. "Caleb, as soon as Floyd and Jeb get the horses watered and the canteens filled, see if you can't get him up. If he can't ride, we'll pack him over his saddle. We gotta be gone and well-hidden before they come looking for him." He looked around and smiled. "With a little luck, this wind'll wipe out any trace we were ever here."
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Caleb rolled the big lawman over and dumped half a canteen of water on his face and head, relieved to see him open his eyes and show some awareness of his surroundings. "Look, you got two choices, you either get on that horse or we'll toss you across the saddle and tie you on."
Matt blinked, trying to process the request. Not sure if it was true, he finally mumbled, "I can ride." He turned back over and carefully pushed himself to his hands and knees. Supporting his wounded side, he dropped back onto his haunches. "Can ya give me a hand up?"
"I dunno, it don't look to me like you're gonna be able to ride. I ain't real sure you're even gonna live."
Matt looked up to measure the man addressing him, was surprised to see he was more boy than man. "Just get me up, and I'll ride." Matt wasn't sure what was going on, but at the moment nobody was pointing a gun at him and nobody was threatening to kill him.
"All right, Dillon, ain't it? I got a hold of your arm. Let's see if you can get up. Ready?"
Matt was about to signal his readiness when Floyd shouldered Caleb out of the way. "Gimme the key, Dillon."
Matt blinked, his thoughts were fuzzy and he was still trying to parse through the words when Floyd bent over and started rifling through his pockets. Matt weakly tried to push him away. He finally realized what the man wanted. "Wait, I'll give it to you." He quickly retrieved the key and handed it over.
"I told you, you wasn't gonna be so high and mighty when I was done with you. Fact is you're looking kind of low and puny right now if you ask me." Floyd unlocked the cuffs and then grinned maliciously. "How bout I let you wear these now?"
Caleb interrupted, "Leave em be, Floyd. Pa wants me to get him on his horse. That ain't happening if you put those on him. Now just get out a the way."
An angry Floyd, stormed off mumbling, "Later, Dillon, later."
Matt was relieved that the key to Kitty's room was still safely hidden. It meant home and safety to him, and he couldn't bear the thought of Floyd even touching it. Matt grasped Caleb's offered arm and struggled to his feet. He held on to the boy with one hand and supported his side with the other as he swayed precariously. He could feel the blood slowly leaking between his fingers, glad it wasn't worse. The boy gave him a few minutes to adjust to his new position. "Ok, let's get you over to your horse and into the saddle."
With considerable help from Caleb, Matt was able to reach his horse. He leaned against Buck, glad that he would be able to depend on his steady gait. He took a moment to catch his breath and then, with Caleb's continued help, somehow managed to drag himself into his saddle. He hated showing so much weakness, but there was no way he would have even made it to his feet without the boy's wiry strength. As it was, he wasn't at all sure he could stay in the saddle.
He was lucky the bullet had gone through. It had hit him low on his side, towards his back and come out under his ribs. The shooter must have been hidden in the rocks they had just passed.
He reached around to pull his handkerchief from his pocket and gritted his teeth as he stuffed it into the exit wound, hoping to staunch the bleeding. The entry wound didn't seem to be bleeding much and, as bullet wounds went, this one didn't seem too bad, but bad enough to make riding a definite challenge. Already, he was unable to remain upright and was crumpled over Buck's neck, holding the reins in his injured hand and clinging to the saddle horn with the other. His hands were slick with blood and he paused to wipe the blood off the left one before grasping the horn a second time.
He was surprised by Caleb's steady assistance and the care he took to not add to his pain. Matt filed that information away in his brain. The boy definitely lacked the cruelness he had seen in Floyd. He had to admit that the more he saw of Floyd, the more he thought there was something very wrong with him. A miasma of sickness surrounded the man.
Too be continued…