Thirty-four
The sun was big in the sky as the posse left Dodge City that day. The heady thrill of danger spurring them on. Most of the riders were inexperienced and impatient to get started on their adventure. Chasing down the outlaws was the stuff legends were made from and each was eager to leave a mark. The thought they were riding into danger hadn't sunk in yet. Dillon knew. He knew some of these men wouldn't be coming back the same way they were leaving.
He took one backward glance at his wife and child before giving the buckskin a nudge with his spurs. For the first time since he was a boy he had a family to call his own - something to live for, something to die for.
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The air was hot, heavy and ominously still. The heat was taking a toll on them, already their horses were throwing lather and sucking in air. For that matter, so were the riders. Untested, yet eager for action, the posse was comprised mainly of Dodge City merchants, local farmers who'd happened to be in town that day, and a few schoolboy volunteers for good measure. They numbered, including Festus, Newly, Nathan Burke and Sinclair just under twenty.
Festus had offered no apologies for the raw recruits he'd delivered to Matt for deputizing, and Dillon, had been around enough years to be satisfied with whatever he got. This lot was worse than some, but better than most.
Moon Bar was fourteen miles south of Dodge, with a well worn road to lead them there. This was the easy part. The terrain further south of Moon Bar was vast and treacherous. There, the prairie gave way to rugged outcroppings of red rock granite and shale, and the only trail was that which you made along the way.
About a mile from Moon Bar he pulled the buckskin to a stop and held up his right arm. The men behind him followed suite. He spoke in a commanding voice, "Hold it right here! Festus, Sinclair, and I are going to ride on in. You men stay here with Newly until you get the signal."
He had debated with Festus and Newly about what to do with Susan's ranch hand Homer Sinclair, in the end he'd decided it was best to keep him in sight. As Festus had put it, "A snake in the grass ain't agonna strike at ya if you're a'standing on 'is head."
Moon Bar had an unnatural quiet as they rode through the gate. Only Susan's horse and a pair of mules occupied the corral. A once thriving flock of chickens had been diminished to a half dozen and the hog pen was empty. At the far side of the house Cookie Hays was hanging laundry on the line, at his feet a mangy mutt was doing his best to trip the old codger up. As the riders neared, Hays voiced his annoyance at the dust they caused, when he saw the glint of Dillon's badge in the sunlight he changed his tune, His voice was raspy, "Oh, it's you Marshal, How's Miss Susan?"
"She's dead Cookie." He spoke the harsh words with a measure of compassion for he knew a long history linked the hired hand and the dead woman.
Cookie's grey beard dropped until his chin rested against his chest, when he looked up again, Dillon could see moisture rimming his rheumy eyes. The shirt he was hanging slipped to the ground but he made no effort to pick it up. He shook head back and forth, "I told her," he growled hoarsely, "I said, them Sharlows was nothing but trouble."
"Shut up Cookie." Sinclair interjected heatedly from atop his horse. "Shut up old man, you don't know what the hell you're talking about. He just a crazy old man Marshal, don't listen to him."
Dillon ignored Sinclair. He swung a leg over the saddle to the ground, and then walked to Cookie, "You got coffee on the stove?" he asked.
"… reckon I do."
Matt turned to look at Festus and ordered, "Keep an eye on Sinclair, Cookie and I are going to have a little talk."
Cookie Hays had worked for Moon Bar for more than thirty years. A fall from a horse early on had ended his days as a cowboy and in the years since he'd been relegated to the kitchen and laundry. He was past sixty, grizzled and crippled by arthritis.
Numb with shock, Hays lead the way, his back to Dillon, "She's dead." he mumbled in his gravelly voice, as if in effort to drive home the truth, "Miss Susan's dead, I told her, no good would come from it. Told her them Sharlows was nothing but trouble. She wouldn't listen to me. Said she knew what she was doing."
They entered the kitchen, which seemed dark after the bright sun of mid- afternoon. Hays headed to the cook stove.
"Did you see Sharlow yesterday?" Matt asked.
Cookie shook his head and turned back to Dillon with an old enamel coffee pot in hand. "Set down Marshal. I'll give you that coffee you was after." Cookie poured the mucky brew in two chipped blue willow teacups. From the sideboard he took a half empty bottle of Gold Barrel Whiskey from the shelf. He held it up for Matt's direction.
"No thanks."
"Suit yourself." And Cookie Hayes all but emptied the bottle in his cup. He moved slowly to the table, and eased his frame onto a chair. He took a drink and then sat staring into the cup. Dillon didn't say a word, allowing the old man a chance gather his wits.
Outside the screen door, Susan's dog was raising a ruckus. "Damn mutt, I oughta put a bullet through his head." Cookie pushed himself back to his feet, the arthritis apparent in his stiff movements. He went to the door and let the dog inside. He poured some water in a china bowl, set it on the floor and the dog lapped it up. Cookie returned to his chair and the dog followed plopping down on the floor beside the old man's feet. "He don't like to be left by hisself. I reckon he's lonesome for Miss Susie too."
Finally Matt said, "Tell me about Sharlow."
"They first come to Moon Bar looking fer a place to hideout. Miss Susan agreed to let 'em stay here. I reckon she figured she was getting back at you some. You always stuck in her gullet like a chicken bone in a coyote's throat. Later, they started in rustlin' and moved on out to the south range, Sharlow brung in his own men to work out of the ranch. Told Miss Susan to let go most of her hands, 'cept me 'n Homer. Left his boy Bates here to run things …" he took a long drink from the chipped cup, and then backhanded his mouth, "The far south range - room enough for 10,000 head in the valley - canyon walls all around - only one way in - leastways running a herd that is. No one bothered 'em there - nor suspected, not even you Marshal, and it was a goin' on right under your nose so to speak. Sharlow paid Miss Susan to begin with, he paid her right well, and she needed the money, though that ain't all the reason she done it."
"What about Homer Sinclair, was he in on it?"
Cookie wiped his nose on the grimy apron he wore, and then dabbed at his eyes, "Homer knew what was goin' on same as me, but I don't reckon he was in cohoots or nothing like that with Sharlow." The old man took a drink, and then snorted a wry laugh, "Sinclair ain't got that much gumption."
"Could he lead us to the hideout?"
"I reckon he could, he's the one that totes supplies out there."
Dillon set down the cup, he hadn't taken a drink, he rose to his feet. "Thanks for the information Cookie." He moved toward the door.
"Marshal."
Dillon stopped and turned back to look at the old man, "What is it?"
"She weren't bad. Don't go blamin' Miss Susie - it just ain't no good when a woman goes lovin' after a man she can't have. It eats away at her - ends up … it ends up destroying her."
Dillon's face tightened in a wince, his words echoed bitterness, "She knew right from wrong, Cookie." He squared his hat and headed back outside. He squinted in the strong sunlight looking in the direction of the graveyard. He figured he'd learned what he needed to know, no reason to hike up the hill to see Susan's spilled blood.
He walked with a menacing stride as he moved toward Homer Sinclair. When he stood beside his horse he asked, "Those supplies you were picking up in town yesterday, were they for Sharlow's men?"
"Maybe … maybe not." Sinclair replied smugly.
Dillon's face turned to cold stone, he reached up and jerked Sinclair from his horse, Homer's knees buckled under him, but Dillon held him upright, his voice was low and hard, "We're going to take those supplies in to Sharlow's hideout, Sinclair."
Homer's voice quaked, "Won't work, Dillon. They got sharp shooters watching from the hilltops, they'll kill us sure."
"You better make it work - otherwise, the way I see it, you'll be the first to go."
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Not much was known about Kingston Sharlow, save that he had grown up a Southern farm boy, he'd fought for the Confederacy during the War between the States. When the war ended he returned to his Georgia home to find it burned to the ground, his family gone and his fields turned to wasteland. Disillusioned, he headed west and turned to a life outside the law. From a small time thief, through cunning and daring, he'd become a force. He was known to have dozens of men working for him and under his direction they rustled cattle, stole horses, robbed stage coaches and preyed on unsuspecting freight caravans. They plied their trade throughout Colorado and south to the territory known as New Mexico. Always steering clear of the law, they were legendary; a band of ruthless, cold blooded killers.
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The vast landscape was blanketed with rugged hills and green valleys. The Dodge City posse rode until nightfall and made good time despite the fact they traveled with the supply wagon. Two sturdy mules pulled the ten foot long conveyance. The canvas cover was in place and both ends were secured tightly to shield the fact the wagon was nearly empty. They made camp along the rocky banks of a muddy stream bed with the jagged hills crowding them close in the narrows. Dillon took first watch, and pondered the day as he listened for any harbinger of trouble. He kept a close eye on Sinclair, whose bed roll was but a short distance from Dillon's feet. They'd formed a shaky alliance at best. If Sinclair was being straight with him, they'd hit the canyon region leading to Sharlow's hideout sometime before sundown tomorrow. He had spent the better part of the afternoon riding beside Homer, and it hadn't taken long before Sinclair's tongue loosened up a bit. "Sharlow's got between twenty- five and forty men in there, always coming and going - some rustlin', some thievin,' robbing banks, stage coaches, anything they can steal from, they'll take. Sharlow sits there on the mountain, like a man running a puppet show, pulling all the strings. He's got enough ammunition to take on the U.S. Cavalry if need be. Like I told you, he's got guns standing lookout, you won't see 'em, but they're there, aimed at your heart, ain't no way you can get these men through there alive."
Dillon had set his jaw at an odd angle and nodded his head, "There's always a way Sinclair, if you're willing to take a risk."
"Might be I ain't interested in taking no risk - I got no shame admitting to being a coward. I don't wanna die. Don't you ever get scared Dillon?"
Fear had never been a part of Matt Dillon's thinking, but now the image of Matilda standing next to Miss Tuttwell came to his mind and for a moment he acknowledged the fact that he didn't want to die either. However, he relied on bravado in the hopes his words could bolster both Sinclair's courage and his own. "Sharlow and men like him, have to be stopped. I'm willing to face what comes for the good that might come after."
Homer had chuckled then, as if the lawman had just told him a joke, "You're a better man than I am Dillon, or maybe you just ain't as smart."