Dark Reflection
by
Lilyjack
Chapter 2
"Arriving in Dodge"
Matt trudged down Front Street, feeling like he'd been rode hard and put away wet. He was leading poor, flagging Buck by the reins, and he noticed that people seemed to stop and stare as they passed. Course, he chalked that up to the fact that he and Buck just had the misfortune of passing through a black blizzard and were both wearing enough dirt to plant a sizeable potato patch. From the appearance of things around here, the storm hadn't hit Dodge at all, which was pretty peculiar, but Matt imagined he and Buck were looking strangely out of place right about now.
He was itching to see Kitty, but he realized that first he required a good soaking in a tub full of steaming hot water at Frank Teeters' tonsorial parlor. He was still sweating some from the ague, but he'd see Doc, too, for some powders, after he cleaned up, of course. Doc would fix him up right as rain. Matt was thankful when he caught sight at last of Moss Grimmick's livery stable where he could turn Buck over to capable hands and then go for that much-needed bath. He saw his old friend Hank head out to meet him. "Here ya' go, Hank," he sighed, handing him the reins with relief. "Take care a' Buck for me, will ya? He's been through a dust storm."
"I can see that, and it'll cost ya' extra," the old man's resonant voice announced matter-of-factly as he suspiciously eyed Matt.
"Extra? Well...sure, Hank." He chuffed out a half-hearted laugh, wiping his sweaty forehead on a dirty sleeve. "I'm too beat t' argue."
The old man squinted at him, "How'd you know my name, anyhow?"
Matt's mouth dropped open. "How'd I know your name? I've known you for years, Hank... It's a little bit early for you to be hittin' the scamper juice, isn't it?" He was starting to feel a little lightheaded. He hadn't eaten or gotten much sleep and now this fever - maybe his head wasn't on straight, and he was hearing things wrong. He gave it a little shake for good measure, taking off his hat and beating it on his pants leg until a cloud of dust puffed out. "I'm goin' over to Mr. Teeters' for a bath and shave. Maybe my ears are full a' dirt. Besides, I can't go anywhere looking like somethin' that just popped outta' a prairie dog hole."
Hank's grizzled face gave him a once over. "You got that right. And I don't know about any Teeters, but Selden runs the tonsorial parlor in town. Head down the street thataways. He'll take care of you, young man. Tell 'im Hank sent you."
"Young man?" Matt's dark brows shot toward his hairline. "Hank, if I didn't know you any better, I'd say you were gettin' old and senile!"
The weathered old man curled a lip at him as he turned on his heel and led Buck toward the stable, too busy to be bothered, but muttering under his breath about uppity young whippersnappers who didn't know their place.
Matt just scratched his head, replaced his dusty gray hat atop his filthy pate and headed down the street, his fatigued body aching for a tub of hot water and a bar of sweet-smelling soap. Then he could face Kitty and go about making amends. Perhaps they could even reschedule their trip to St. Louie. It was the least he could do to go about salvaging anything from the catastrophe of the past couple of weeks.
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Matt sank slowly into the steaming water, sucking air through his gritted teeth at the burning sensation. By golly, that hot water sure did hurt so good. He let his nether regions become accustomed to the temperature, then sank down a little lower into the huge circular wooden tub, allowing his back and shoulders to get used to the heat.
Puffing out a loud breath, Matt closed his eyes and contemplated the disastrous events of late. Who would have dreamed the Hawk Freight robbery case would end in the murder of a fine young man, one who had his whole future ahead of him? What would Matt say to Lafe Whitcomb's mother when he went to pay his respects? His heart sank at the prospect, for Matt had failed her boy utterly, had failed to protect him when, for all intents and purposes, Lafe was under the employ of the U. S. Marshal's Office.
Not only had Matt failed Lafe Whitcomb, but he had failed the citizens of Dodge whom he had sworn to serve and protect. He had not protected their property from thieves of the worse kind, those who masqueraded as honest businessmen—predatory wolves in sheep's clothing. Thieves who walked innocently amongst them and foiled Matt's every effort at catching them at their own game. Yes, Matt had surely failed.
It wasn't the first time he had failed at his job. All too often Matt's job panned out this way-the spoilers, the killers and robbers coming out ahead…blameless citizens killed under his watch. Matt remembered all the innocents' names and faces. They haunted him, robbed him of sleep and overtook his thoughts, beat him down whenever he was tired or lonely or discouraged.
Young Jesse Hill, taunted and outgunned by overbearing bully Crego, shot dead before Matt figured out how to beat the killer at his own game.
Dane Shaw, shot in the back in a case of mistaken identity, misjudged to be Matt himself. Dane would be alive today if it hadn't been for Matt—Dane had died in Matt's place and he could never forgive himself for that.
In truth, U.S. Marshal Matt Dillon hated killing. He'd even tried quitting his job quite recently, after being forced to gun down Jack Brand's outlaw gang in a lethal showdown. He'd had no choice in the killings; it was self-defense, but the lone survivor, Jack Brand himself, had called Matt a butcher…and the killings plagued Matt's nightmares. The outlaws' associate Joe Stanger came to town, bent on revenge, and forced Matt to put an end to his brief retirement when Stanger murdered Linda in the Long Branch. Linda, the naive, beautiful young saloon girl fresh off the farm, struck down by Stanger just to get Matt's attention, to draw him out. More innocent blood on Matt's conscience.
And finally, perhaps worst of all, was the accidental killing of his old friend and mentor Zel, by Matt's very own hand. Zel showed up in Dodge one day, volunteering to take an injured Chester's place as deputy during a particularly rowdy round-up. Matt was facing down some gunslinging cowboys in the Long Branch when Zel came up behind Matt unannounced. The awful result was that Matt shot his old friend in the chest. Zel had died quickly, although not before he had a chance to forgive Matt's honest mistake with his last breaths. But Matt would never absolve himself of this crime. Alone, he'd buried his friend, notching the handle of his gun with his pocketknife so he'd carry the memory close by his side always.
The senseless deaths were too numerous to count. What the hell was he trying to prove? What difference was he making in this town anyway? The spoilers simply kept coming, day after day. Innocent people continued to pay with their lives. Matt seemed to be getting nowhere.
And what about Kitty? Sometimes he thought she'd just be better off without him. Yes, he was a man and he had needs. The truth of the matter was he'd never needed any woman the way he needed Kitty Russell. But he really didn't feel their relationship was fair to her at times even though she'd known from the get-go how things would be between them. Because of the unpredictable nature of his job, he had regularly stood her up for weddings and dances, parties and picnics. He realized that she'd been aware of his occupational complications when they began their relationship, but that didn't actually make matters any easier. He never got used to seeing her put on her brave face when he had to back out on their social plans. Truth be told, he actually preferred it when Kitty got mad and slammed a door or yelled at him a little, fire in those blue eyes of hers. He felt better, as if he were paying a small penance for letting her down.
He realized that she also suffered greatly when he went out chasing outlaws or faced down a desperado in the street. She didn't have to tell him with words. He could see it in her eyes and the way she held her body. He and Kitty just knew how the other felt without speaking.
If all that bad business wasn't enough to make Kitty better off without his sorry hide, none of it took into account the time she spent at his bedside when he'd been injured by some outlaw's bullet or knife. She never made a big fuss when he was hurt like some women would, crying and fainting at the sight of blood. No, that just wasn't Kitty's style, not to mention the fact that Matt had sort of asked her to keep their relationship quiet, so making a big scene would never do. But after Doc and Chester had left the room and they were alone, she'd give him sweet, healing kisses to make a man feel a heap better, giving him a reason to get well a whole lot quicker.
His beautiful girl couldn't even hold his hand in public or make a fuss when he was hurt. Matt was indeed a sorry excuse for a beau. Yes, as much as Matt Dillon needed Kitty Russell, when he was thinking clearly like right now, he realized she would actually be better off without him.
Matt suddenly became aware that he'd been absently scrubbing at a spot on his arm that wasn't dirt. It was actually a scar from a bullet wound Doc had stitched up months ago. Finally, heaving a sigh of resignation, he ducked his head under, scrubbing at his sandy, dirty hair and then slowly came back to the surface. A young man who'd filled his tub for him earlier was waiting to dump another bucket of clean, hot water over his head.
"Hey!" Matt sputtered and coughed, raking the hair from his eyes. "I wasn't ready for that!"
"Sorry, mister," the carrot-top kid apologized, backing away.
"That's okay... I expect I needed it." The sight of the red-headed young man reminded Matt of Lafe Whitcomb, fresh in his grave thanks to Matt's negligence, and his gut twisted with renewed guilt and sadness.
The carrot-top boy interrupted his musings matter-of-factly, "Yer mighty dirty, mister."
He sighed, "You're right about that." Dillon grabbed the soap and a large sponge and began scrubbing his skin and hair in earnest. "You new around here, son?"
The gangly boy, who looked to be about sixteen, was heading for the door with his now-empty bucket. He called back, "Naw, mister, I been workin' here ever since this place opened. I'll bring you some clean towels now."
"Thanks, kid." Rinsing the soap from his chest, he absently thought that Teeters must've had the boy working in the back the whole time or perhaps just on a part-time basis, so perhaps that's why Matt had never laid eyes on him. Funny though, he'd never even seen him around town, and Matt had always prided himself on knowing pretty much every citizen in Dodge.
But right then, an unfamiliar kid in town was the least of his worries. The only thing on his mind was getting clean again. He'd never been so glad to see anything as the familiar, fancy "Tonsorial Parlor" sign out in front of the building. He could smell the shaving soap before he even walked through the front door. Matt felt like he had sand and grit caught in every dadgum crevice of his body. The red-headed boy had been the one to greet him politely and usher him straight into the bath. He'd explained the boss was in the back and would give him a shave as soon as Matt got cleaned up. Yep, after Frank gave him a shave, he would feel almost human again. If only he could wipe away the problems he'd encountered in the Hawk Freight Company case as easily as he could wash away the filth from the storm, his life would be so much easier.
Matt dunked his head below water one last time, coming up shaking water droplets in every direction just as the boy came back inside.
"Here's yer towels, mister." He laid them on a table nearby.
"Thanks, uh, what's your name, son?"
"Tucker, sir."
"Thanks for your help, Tucker. Will you hand me those clean clothes in my saddle bags there on the chair? I say they're clean, but you may need to shake a little sand out of 'em. I just went through a whale of a storm a while back, and some of it might have gotten into my bags."
"Sure, mister." The boy got out a clean union suit, tan pants, and a blue denim shirt, worn soft from many washings. He unfolded them and shook them a bit. "They ain't bad. Not too much sand."
Matt pitched aside his wet towel and began dressing. "Could you send my dirty clothes to the laundry? Oh, wait..." He paused after shrugging his union suit over his shoulders. In his haste to get undressed, he'd forgotten his badge. He couldn't recall removing it from his shirt. He picked up the garment, but the badge wasn't there. He felt in his pants pockets, his shirt pockets, rummaged around in his saddlebags, even though he was sure he hadn't removed it and dropped it inside there either.
"Whatcha' lookin' for, mister?" the boy asked curiously, scratching his freckled nose as he watched Matt search the floor and even turn his boots upside down.
"My badge," Matt explained in exasperation, hands on hips, wondering if he'd lost it in the storm.
"Badge? You a lawman?"
Matt eyed the kid warily, thinning his lips. He had to be stringing a whizzer about working here since this place was opened. No one could live in Dodge and not know who the marshal was. Matt knew he himself was hard to miss. He wondered why Tucker was lying to him, but he didn't have time to argue. He had better things to do. Matt could get a replacement badge pretty easily. Maybe he could even ride out tomorrow and find the one he'd lost in the storm. He spoke up in resignation, "Think I can get that shave from Mr. Teeters now?"
"Mr. Teeters?" The boy scratched his red head this time. "Not Teeters, but you can get a shave from Mr. Selden."
"Selden?" That was the name Hank had mentioned earlier. Matt had thought Hank was a little drunk or maybe that he himself had misunderstood in his own feverish state. Perhaps Teeters had hired someone to work alongside him. He sighed and shook his head tiredly. "Listen, son, I don't care who does it, as long as I get rid of these whiskers."
Kitty wouldn't care too much for his kisses with all this stubble. She complained that he rubbed her skin raw, and he couldn't blame her much for that. One time he'd seen the results the next day of a particularly bad case of whisker burn on her tender white skin, and he'd promised himself then and there he'd never repeat that unfortunate mistake again. At that memory, he said with renewed vigor, "Let's go, Tucker."
He followed the boy into the other room, but Selden was nowhere in sight.
"Have a seat, mister. I'll put some warm towels on yer face and you'll be ready when Mr. Selden comes out." The boy retrieved the towels from a pan of warm water on a small stove in the back room. Matt stretched out in the barber chair, sighing appreciatively when Tucker carefully wrapped the warm, damp towels around his face to soften his rough whiskers. He closed his eyes and heard the boy say, "Be back in a minute. I'll go get the boss."
Matt must've dozed off for a few minutes because he jumped slightly when an unfamiliar voice startled him from sleep. "Sir? Tucker says you'd like a shave now?"
"Yeah, sure would." Matt widened his eyes and rubbed at them with the heels of his hands. "Selden, is it?"
"Yes, sir, Ed Selden is my name. I'll just take these towels now, get you lathered up, and we'll have you out of here in a jiffy."
Matt closed his eyes again and leaned his head back so that Selden could shave his neck. "So, have you been in Dodge long, Selden?"
"Oh, going on five years now, sir."
Matt couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. "Five years?" He ruminated on that statement silently, trying to keep still while the man wielded his straight razor around Matt's mouth and nose. Why hadn't he seen this fellow around town before? Or Tucker for that matter? Especially since Tucker said he'd worked here for so long. Matt finally ventured to ask him, "So did Teeters just hire you on to help out? It's been a while since I've been in here to get a haircut so I guess that's why I haven't seen you yet." Matt was starting to sweat again. He could feel the droplets forming at his temples. He couldn't seem to shake this ague.
"Teeters, sir?"
"Mr. Teeters, the owner?" The razor slowly and efficiently scraped over Matt's jawline.
"But I am the owner, sir."
Matt's eyes slowly opened to stare straight at Selden. "Did Frank Teeters sell out to you? He didn't say anything to me about it."
"I...I don't know a Frank Teeters, Mr., uh..."
"Dillon."
"Mr. Dillon. I'm afraid I don't know who you're talking about, sir."
"Frank Teeters is the owner of this establishment, Selden. I come here regularly. I was just here a few weeks ago for a haircut."
Selden stood at attention, laying his razor aside. "I'm afraid I've never seen you in here before, Mr. Dillon." He added diplomatically, "I assure you I would remember such a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman such as yourself."
"But Teeters runs this place."
"I assure you there is no Mr. Teeters here."
Matt sat up straight, grabbing a towel to wipe away the remaining smears of shaving soap. His brow was beetled in consternation. "But there has to be."
Selden was backing away slowly, his expression confused. "Mr. Dillon, I would know. I've owned and operated this establishment for the last four years."
Matt felt a little dizzy at the barber's words. He held tight to the chair and closed his eyes again. He was sick, that was it. It was the fever. He just needed to go see Doc and get some medicine and then everything would be alright again. "How...how much do I owe ya'?"
"That'll be four dollars, sir."
"Four dollars? What for?" He swiped at the perspiration on his forehead. "Did ya' give me liquid gold to bathe in?"
"Now, Mr. Dillon, you know how expensive it is to do business in Dodge City."
"Expensive? Dodge?"
"Don't you live here? You should know how things work in this town."
"Right... How things work..." He was really starting to feel strange. He had to get some of that medicine from Doc before his head got any crazier. He dug in his pocket. "Here's your money, Selden." Matt stumbled a little when he stood up.
"Hey, be careful there." Selden grabbed his arm. "Are you alright? You want Tucker to walk you to your place?"
"No, I'm okay." Matt straightened up tall and retrieved his hat. "I'm gonna see an old friend."
"Are you sure?" Selden's eyes darted around, sizing up the big man before him.
"I'm sure. I think I've just got the ague. Doc'll fix me up."
"Doc Adams?" Selden cocked an eyebrow at him. "I wouldn't count on it."
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Matt strode down the street and hurried up the steep stairs to Doc's office, contemplating the barber's last words to him. Selden wouldn't count on Doc helping Matt? What had he meant by that? And who was Selden and where had he come from? Where in blue blazes was Frank Teeters? And why on earth hadn't Hank recognized Matt when he'd come into town earlier? Matt wiped the sweat beading on his forehead again with a handkerchief from his back pocket. Was he having hallucinations from this ague he'd been suffering since before the sandstorm he'd gone through?
Matt was surprised to see a crudely lettered "closed" sign hanging on Doc's door. Closed? Doc's office was never closed. What the hell did that mean? Suddenly Matt heard someone stirring inside and then glass clinking against glass. That old codger. He was drinking in there. Matt knocked insistently on the door. "Doc, it's me, Matt. Lemme in."
Silence.
"Doc, I know you're in there. You can't fool me. I need to talk to you. And I need some medicine. I've got the ague."
More silence.
Matt leaned against the door. "Please, Doc. I think I'm real sick this time. I think I'm...seein' things...hearin' things maybe..."
The latch clicked and Matt stood upright before the door opened. He was shocked at the face that greeted him on the other side of the door. Doc had never been a snappy dresser, but he was unkempt, his shirt stained, no vest or jacket, his eyes darkly circled, his cheeks sunken, his skin gray.
Matt didn't know what to say. What had happened to Doc? It had been only a few days since he had seen him last-how could he have changed so much in such a short time? "Doc...are you all...?"
"Sit down..." Doc snapped, then walked to a cabinet to retrieve some powders from a glass container.
Matt felt swimmy-headed, as his friend Chester would say, so he leaned over and planted his elbows on his knees. He eyed the half-empty bottle of whiskey and the full glass that Doc must have just poured himself. "Startin' pretty early today, aren't ya', Doc?"
"What business is it of yours what I do?" Doc retorted angrily as he mixed the medicinal powders with water, then measured some more powder into a small brown envelope.
Matt looked around the office. It was unkempt as well. He noticed a couple more empty whiskey bottles lying about, dirty coffee cups and other dishes, and the floor looked like it needed a good sweeping. Doc's office was usually fastidiously clean. What in the world was going on around here?
"Here, drink this," Doc unceremoniously stated. He shoved the small envelope at him. "Mix a little of this in water every day for the next week. You should start feeling better soon. That'll be seven dollars."
"Seven dollars?" Matt exclaimed, choking on his medicine. "That's highway robbery!"
Doc frowned as he answered, "Dodge is an expensive town. That's just the way it is."
"An expensive town? Since when?" Matt asked incredulously.
"Since you-know-who came to town and made it expensive. And that's all I can say about that. You know how things work around here."
Matt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed in exasperation. "You're the second person who's said that t' me today. I don't know what you mean by 'how things work around here.'"
"Son, if you don't know what I'm talkin' about, I can't explain it. The walls have ears, and it can be dangerous to discuss it. So let's just leave it at that, alright?" He dropped heavily into another chair and took a deep draw from his whiskey glass, grimacing as the burn made its way down his gullet.
The hair on the back of Matt's neck was standing on end. Something was not right. In spite of Doc's powders, things were not getting any better. In fact, they were getting worse. The way Doc looked, the way he was acting, what he was saying... It was all wrong. Nothing fit, just like nothing had fit since he had walked into town after the sandstorm. "Doc, why did you call me 'son'?"
"Well, what did you say your name was again? And then I won't hafta call you 'son'." Doc threw back his head and neatly tossed down the rest of his drink, closing his eyes after he swallowed.
Matt's heart sank in his chest. What the hell was going on? "My name is Matt, Doc. Matt Dillon. Don't you know me?" Matt held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. This was all like a terrible nightmare.
"Nice to meet you, Matt Dillon. No, I don't believe we've ever met before. But I'm getting old, so if we did meet and I just don't recall, I apologize. Drink?" Doc poured himself another whiskey.
Matt shook his head, his skin prickling with fear at the thought that no one in town knew him anymore, but another thought instantly sent him into a panic. "Doc, what about Kitty?"
"Kitty?" Doc's eyes were starting to look glazed.
"Kitty Russell, one of the owners of the Long Branch."
"Oh, yeah, I know who you're talkin' about - Miss Russell, the redheaded, female saloon owner. Lovely lady, but too bad about her, if what they say is true..."
The blood in Matt's veins turned to ice water. He could barely speak. He swallowed hard. "Tell me, Doc."
"It's just a rumor, ya' see..."
Matt stood up and grabbed the old man by the shirt front. "Tell me!"
"Alright! Alright!" He placed his hands on Matt's chest. "Let me go! I'll tell you!"
Matt let go of his shirt but gripped the old physician's shoulders.
Doc frowned and cast his eyes downward as he explained, "They say Blackthorne and his men have her back upstairs at the Long Branch again. You can imagine why. It's a shame, after she worked so hard to buy into the busin..."
But Matt had already run out the door, leaving it wide open in his wake, pounding down the steps, heading straight for the Long Branch Saloon.
tbc
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