Dark Reflection

Chapter 16

"Going Underground"

by Lilyjack

With the double distractions of a bone-jarring wagon ride to torture Matt's injured body plus the overwhelming stench of decomposing squirrel hanging over him like a sickening fog, he soon became somewhat disoriented in his hiding place beneath the canvas tarp. Lying uncomfortably in Percy Crump's hastily constructed yet custom-made, extra-long, pinewood coffin, Dillon understandably lost count of how many times the creaky conveyance twisted and turned through Dodge City's badly rutted back streets. During the interminable ride, his mind was fixated on two thoughts only: 1) a soft bed to rest his pounding head, nauseated stomach and aching ribs a little while so he could breathe a mite easier and 2) how soon they would be able to get Kitty the hell out of the Long Branch and therefore away from the clutches of that bastard Silas Blackthorne. To Matt's immense relief, he finally heard Doc signal softly, "Whoa…" to the beleaguered old mare, and the antiquated wagon shuddered at last to a halt.

He heard voices, but friendly ones this time. With difficulty given his tight quarters, Matt shifted his weight in order to roll to his side, biting his lip so as not to cry out in pain. He lifted the canvas just a smidgen, only high enough to steal a tiny glimpse. He squinted his bad eye shut so he could focus on their faces. Doc was speaking in a hushed voice to an unfamiliar man holding a lantern, who in turn was instructing the physician to drive the wagon inside the warehouse ahead. Then the stranger with the lantern surveyed the wind-whipped street carefully before opening wide the large cargo doors for the horse and wagon to enter. The dimly lit warehouse seemed to be in disuse – its only illumination was another lantern placed on an empty wooden desk on the other side of the room, but there were dusty crates and barrels, some broken, stacked haphazardly everywhere.

Only after the man had scrutinized the surrounding street again and began to bolt the lock back into place over the large cargo doors did Doc turn around and yank the canvas tarp away from Matt's unholy stinking hiding place. Dillon blinked in the light of the lanterns they held over him after being in near pitch black for so long.

Doc quietly instructed Lafe and Ocie, "Boys, help him up! He doesn't need to be straining those muscles yet. He's got a lot of healing left to do and I don't want all my handiwork undone."

Matt used the sides of the pinewood to haul himself to a sitting position. "Aw, Doc…" he protested in a whisper, the best he could do with limited lung capacity, his sentences broken and halting. "I'm not…dead yet."

The old doctor harrumphed. "Yeah, well, you almost were. Count your lucky stars…" He climbed to the back of the wagon to supervise the boys. "…and excellent medical care, if I do say so myself, that you're still alive to tell the tale. Don't you dare try and jump down from here."

"I'm not..crazy, Doc."

"I didn't say you were; I'm just not taking any chances. Boys, don't let go of him. He's been cramped up in that box quite a while. Hasn't got his sea legs back yet. Now sit down on the edge. That's good."

An unfamiliar voice spoke from the door of the warehouse where the fellow who had spoken to Doc outside locked it up tightly. Matt looked up from his seat on the back of the wagon, Ocie and Lafe protectively on either side of him. The stranger spoke quietly in a slightly lilting tone from across the shifting shadows of the dingy, unused building. "I believe I can take over from here. Between Doc Adams and meself, I think we can get him to bed in a jiffy." This was no scruffy cowpuncher—he was of medium build but broad-shouldered, wearing a fairly nice suit of brown tweed. He retrieved his lantern from the floor, and Matt could see he had a wide, honest face with ruddy cheeks and faded reddish brown, wavy hair, streaks of gray at the temples sweeping their way to the back. The man smiled across at Matt warmly, and the greeting reached all the way up to his green eyes, crinkling the skin deeply at the corners. The stranger was older than he had first appeared because he was still strong and sure-footed. Matt couldn't estimate his age, but he was certainly no spring chicken.

Doc quickly explained, "Jack, this is Charlie Fitz. He works for Harry Botkin who's agreed to hide you until you're well."

Charlie Fitz smiled earnestly again, striding close and holding the lantern up to get a better look at the big man who had just climbed out of a coffin. At his first well-lit glance of Dillon's face, the unprepared Charlie Fitz took a startled step backward. It appeared to him that Jack Mathias did indeed need to be heading straight for Boot Hill and a long dirt nap. "Goodness gracious, sir!" He placed a hand upon his chest and blurted out, "Forgive an old soul, but your appearance is quite convincing! That shook me, it did!"

Matt breathed a hoarse reply, "That's all…Doc's doing. He mixed…black charcoal and white ashes…with grease and painted my face…around my eyes…even my hands." Matt held out his hands, palms down, with their unhealthy ashen complexion for Charlie Fitz to inspect.

Ocie shuddered, "Looks downright dead, don't he, Mister?"

The older gentleman peered more closely with the aid of his lantern. He could now make out the ashen streaks on Mathias' skin. Uttering a sigh of relief, he congratulated the doctor on his clever handiwork. He then looked the counterfeit corpse square in the eye and readily stuck out his hand. Matt accepted it. Charlie Fitz explained, "Mr. Botkin himself would be here to greet you...if it were at all possible, you see."

Doc braced himself on Lafe's shoulder as he clambered down from the wagon bed, explaining, "Remember I told you Blackthorne's men did the same thing to Botkin as they did to you. I didn't think Harry would make it. Charlie Fitz has been staying here with Mr. Botkin ever since… Well, ever since."

Charlie nodded his head gravely. "I came as a personal favor to my dear cousin. She asked me and I couldn't say no."

Doc hastily clarified, "Mr. Botkin wouldn't be able to get along without you, Charlie Fitz. You've been a lifesaver, you know."

Charlie Fitz waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, I help out where I'm needed, I do."

Doc continued, "Oh, he helps out plenty. Botkin's…still not doing as well as I would like." Doc's eyes clouded over for a moment as he spoke, but then he seemed to come back to the present. "But Charlie Fitz here will take good care of you, too, Jack."

Charlie Fitz replied firmly, "Yes, I most certainly will. Mr. Botkin has just the place where you'll never be discovered. Only a couple of people besides himself knows of its existence…" Fitz placed his hands on his chest, his green eyes twinkling, "and one of them is meself, so it's ideal."

Matt nodded silently, a feeling of relief washing over him that he seemed to be among friends.

With that, a clap of thunder sounded, startling them all. Doc admonished, "Boys, you'd better get started on the double. Charlie Fitz, you have something we can pack this pine box with, now that our body has been resurrected?"

Matt started to roll his eyes, but it hurt, so he settled for shaking his head. Just a little. Every single part of his body hurt after that wagon ride.

Charlie Fitz nodded enthusiastically. "My cousin outdid herself. Look here…" With that he retrieved a large crate which he dragged across the floor with some effort and removed the lid. Ocie and Lafe crowded round to see what was inside. At that moment a flash of lightning illuminated the warehouse and the interior of the box. It seemed to contain a body, arms and legs akimbo. The boys hastily took a step back, but drew a sigh of relief when their new friend held the lantern overhead to show them it was only a stuffed facsimile of a man wearing old pants and a shirt. After their initial shock had worn off, they crowded closer again to examine the head, which had been stitched together using old scraps of material. Doc and Matt watched with quiet interest. Charlie Fitz explained with admiration in his voice, "It's actually got a lot of heft to it. She stuffed it with bags of sand. Made me go out and dig it up from the prairie!"

Together, Ocie, Lafe and Charlie Fitz picked up the "dead man" and carried it awkwardly to the wagon. They added it to the odiferous, deceased squirrel lying in the foot of the coffin. Then Charlie Fitz exclaimed, "Oh, wait a minute!" and went back to the box for a battered hat and bandana. He tied the red bandana around the dummy's neck and placed the hat so that it partially covered the "dead man's" face. He added, "It wouldn't pass close inspection, but it's better than naught. Besides, hopefully no one will want t' get near it with that awful stench."

Doc declared, "See! My thoughts exactly! And it worked like a charm before. Let's just hope it doesn't have to work again. Let's get it nailed shut and you boys need to get it buried quick before the storm hits. Lafe, did you find anyone to help out?"

"Yessir. I'm hoping the grave's nearly dug by the time we get there. I hired a couple of out-of-work cowpokes I know."

Doc nodded, satisfied. "Good work, son. That's just some more witnesses to the fact that Jack Mathias is dead and buried. Where's Ocie?"

"Here, sir." Ocie had scooted across the warehouse, and was busily wrapping packing twine around two broken slats from a wooden crate, fashioning a cross. "Jack Mathias needs a marker, don't he?" The boy reached in his pocket and then flipped open his pocket knife, the light from the lantern reflecting off the sharp blade.

Doc stammered, "Don't you go carving an inscription in that jostling wagon on the way up to Boot Hill. You'll cut off a finger, Ocie Bleeker!"

"Aw, Doc, I'm always careful. Jack, whatta you want yer marker t' say?"

Matt carefully pushed himself off the edge of the wagon to a standing position. It was time for the boys to leave and bury the body. And if he didn't lie down pretty soon, he might just fall down. The day's activities were beginning to catch up with him and he was feeling lower than a snake's belly. "Charlie Fitz…you ready… to show me my hidey hole? I think…Lafe and Ocie…best get movin'." He looked at Ocie. "Whatever…you think, kid. I'll leave…my posterity up to you. I think…my name's…good enough though."

Charlie Fitz placed a reassuring hand on Matt's shoulder and answered, "Jack, just let me check and make sure the streets are clear before I open the door and send the boys on their way. Then we'll get you bunked down for the night. I'm sure you're exhausted."

Doc lamented, "He should never have gotten out of bed, but we had no choice. Blackthorne wanted him dead. We just had no choice, Charlie Fitz."

Matt reached into his pocket, pulled out a wadded handkerchief and began wiping away the gray soot Doc had so painstakingly applied to his features. He gazed at Charlie Fitz's kind face and then at Doc's concerned expression, quickly making a decision. "You know… since we're burying Jack Mathias…tonight, maybe we'd better…bury the name, too. Whatta you think, Doc?"

The elderly physician got a knowing look in his eye as he recalled their original conversation that now seemed so very long ago. He answered casually, "Well, I don't know, Jack, what do you think? What would you change it to?"

A streak of lighting lit up the interior of the derelict warehouse as Ocie and Lafe climbed aboard the old wagon, preparing to take Jack Mathias' coffin for burial on Boot Hill. And with the answering roll of thunder, the tall young man who'd suffered so much and yet had so far to go firmly answered, "Dillon." He nodded firmly to both men. "You can call me 'Matt Dillon'."

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