Dark Reflection

Chapter 20

"The Best Laid Plans"

by Lilyjack

"Huzza for the prairies wide and free; Ho for the Kansas plains," Chester Goode steadfastly sang under his breath inside the bawdy and brimming Long Branch Saloon. He swept the floor with seemingly singular intent, fleetly dodging drunken revelers in spite of his stiff leg, making certain that no refuse escaped his attention. But his dark, determined eyes were also surreptitiously sweeping the room. Watching. Waiting. Steeling his nerves for the proper time. His corn broom kept pace with the quiet, determined anthem he intoned, "Where men shall live in liberty; free from a tyrant's chains…"

Tobacco smoke swirled in noxious clouds over the raucous patrons' heads as they gorged on drink, gambling, and fancy women. Chester swept his rubbish pile inside a dustpan, then stood upright, using the opportunity to rest and take stock of the situation. He noticed several of Blackthorne's trusted cronies here tonight – Phoebe Von Vleck, dressed in red satin and spangles, was dealing a game of faro with Linwood Chaney, Judas Grundy and several other men crowded around her table. The huge and intimidating half-breed Comanche Dan, long, shining, black-brown hair hanging loosely down his back, was armed to the teeth as usual while he tried to cozy up and make nice with one of the girls, Phoebe's roommate Ada Hardyboke. Chester snorted to himself that if Dan thought he was gonna get anything free offa Ada, he better think again. That girl didn't even give free advice.

An old codger, drunk on scamper juice, burst through the batwing doors squinting faded blue, bleary eyes, holding unsteadily to the open doors for support, hiccupping and grinning as he hollered if anyone had seen his buddy Dink whom he'd somehow lost perhaps two saloons back. Chester smoothed his thick, straight hair off his wide forehead, quickly glancing outside past the wavering rascal.

Across Front Street, Chester caught sight of a shadowy figure, just beyond the ring of yellow light cast by a lantern on the boardwalk. He was small and skinny, only a kid, leaning against a building…just waiting. Chester's eyes darted around the saloon first to make sure no one was watching. He then gave a surreptitious nod to the dark-haired shadow, who bobbed his head to Chester in return. Chester exhaled deeply the breath he'd been holding. All was well so far. It was just a matter of time. They only had to wait until it was right. He just hoped everything would go as they had planned, shuddering to think of all that could possibly go wrong...

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A Few Days Earlier

Seven highly disparate individuals crowded around a small table in the corner of Botkin's little wine cellar, their intense expressions illuminated by a kerosene-burning lantern in their midst. They sat or stood examining a large paper where Matt Dillon, seated in a chair, was gesturing with a pencil to a sketch he'd made of the Long Branch floor plan and the surrounding streets between it and their ultimate destination, a place of safety for Kitty Russell. They were wrapping up their plans, deciding on when to execute them.

"On a Monday, Mister Dillon," Chester was saying, his mouth turned down at the corners. He couldn't meet any of his companions' eyes as he explained. "That's yer best bet. He, uh, he don't stay too awful long on those nights fer some reason or t'other. The man is strange, and that's a fact. Miss Kitty, she says on Mondays he just lights his smelly lamps and spouts his crazy prayers, then up and leaves. Beats all I ever seen or heard of." Chester shook his head as he glanced across the table at his new friend. He could see the muscles working in the big man's bruised jaw and his still swollen lips press into an angry line. "Yep, a Monday is merciful short, especially for Miss Kitty. And since he's gone so quick I think it might be the best night t' strike."

Matt shook off the mental images Chester had burned into his mind's eye and hastily found his tongue. "Chester, I…I think you're exactly right." He still had to take shallow breaths in the middle of his sentences thanks to lingering pain from his broken ribs.

Chester added, scratching his head, "The man sticks to his peculiar habits like clockwork, too. I just plain ol' don't understand him a'tall."

Matt countered, "We may not understand him…but the fact that he does stick to his habits will definitely…work in our favor in this instance."

"Doc, yer gonna be close by, ain't ya'? Miss Kitty has been feelin' awful poorly lately. They've been givin' her even more of that stuff. Upped her dose, she says. I don't like it one bit. She's in powerful bad shape." Chester locked eyes with the old physician across the table. "Doc, she'll need yer help."

Doc nodded affirmatively. "You can count on it, Chester. You're gonna find out for me what it is they've been giving her, right?"

"Yessir, I'll sneak one of them empty little glass bottles outta the trash."

The physician scrubbed at his mustache. "Perfect…" He gazed thoughtfully at Chester. "…that'll work just fine. I'll need to know what I'm up against."

"He wants t' keep her his prisoner, no matter what it takes, Doc. Even if it hurts 'er givin' too much of that stuff. It don't make no sense a'tall. Has a' armed guard outside 'er door, won't even let nobody touch her 'cept hisself anymore. Not like he used to when he even let some of his men…" Chester blushed as he trailed off and cast his eyes down. He whispered hollowly, "That Blackthorne devil is just plain ol' bewitched, if ya' ask me. He don't…he don't deserve to live after what he done…"

Matt had to grip his hands together under the table to stop their angry shaking at Chester's words. Soft swears and irate mutterings were heard round the table. Promises of "We'll get her outta that hellhole, Chester," and "Don't you worry, Matt," served to help bolster the young men's hopes.

Then Matt earnestly stared at the youngest members of their group, Lafe Whitcomb and Ocie Bleeker. "Are you two very certain…you wanna get mixed up in all this? It's gonna be dangerous, boys. This is a rough bunch…we're dealin' with."

Lafe looked down studiously at his fingernails. "We know how rough, sir. We used to work with 'em, but we don't wanna, not no more." Then he shyly looked Matt in the eye. "It ain't right. Ain't that so, Ocie?" He gently elbowed his small friend.

Ocie nodded and added, "We'd druther work with you, sir. And help Miss Kitty get outta that place." His dark eyes hardened as he stated matter-of-factly, "It ain't fittin' what they done to a nice lady like her." The boy crossed his arms tightly around his thin body. "She helped me out when I come to Dodge and didn't have no family livin' nor a roof over my head. Now I wanna pay back the favor, help her out in her hour a' need."

Matt reserved a grim smile for the skinny boy with soulful black eyes. "I know what you mean, son. And I'm glad you two fellas wanna see this through. Miss Kitty will be mighty grateful to you both."

Charlie Fitz was beaming with quiet pride at the youngest members of their "rebel band." He stated, "Now that only leaves me to rendezvous with our horseman Mr. Woodall in a neutral location and inform him of his instructions."

Chester's new friend, young rancher Deke Bowman, spoke up just then. "Charlie Fitz, compadre, I realize you have your own connections with this mysterious feller and all, and you cain't tell us…"

Charlie nodded his head gravely. "That's t' keep my family safe, you understand."

Deke continued, "I do understand, Charlie, but I reckon I might need t' be the one who meets up with Mr. Woodall, if ya' don't mind my sayin'."

Charlie started to protest, "But, don't y'see, I'm the one responsible for securing him. I don't wish any of you fellows to have to come in contact with this apparent outlaw type person…"

Deke interrupted, "Beggin' yer pardon, Charlie Fitz, but you already took a big gamble, contactin' yer family about this. I don't want you to put yerself at risk no more. If somethin' was to go wrong…say, Mr. Woodall was to get apprehended by Blackthorne's men and they beat the ever livin' daylights outta him and make 'im spill 'is guts about who his contacts was…" His intense green eyes looked meaningfully at each and every face around the table. "That would lead those sons a' bitches… Straight. Back. Here." He punctuated each word with a labor-calloused finger thumping on the table. "And they'd git you, Charlie. And Mr. Botkin by association." He swiped a hand over his tanned, freckled face. "And they might find Matt. And git their dirty goddam hands on Miss Kitty agi'n." He shook his wavy, golden-brown head emphatically as everyone around the table stirred at the truthfulness of his words. "And it'd all be fer naught."

Doc asked, "But what about you, Deke? If you're the one to meet with Woodall, you might just get caught." Doc pointed a finger at him and asked quietly, "Did you think about that, son?"

Deke Bowman answered flippantly, "Aw, Doc. Do the cipherin'. I figger losin' one little ol' scallywag ranch hand is better than a whole buncha you fine folks!" Deke winked playfully at the old man, but no one could argue with him when he pointed out the painful logic of the decision.

Matt wordlessly offered his hand across the table to the young rancher's son who would risk his life when he didn't even have a dog in this particular fight. And once again, even in this unfortunate set of circumstances, Matt Dillon was deeply grateful for friends "old" and new who were backing him up throughout a terrible ordeal. He could not have gotten this far without them, each and every one.

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Meanwhile, Back at the Long Branch…

Chester hauled a small barrel of trash into the back alley, spotting a sizeable young man with pale strawberry hair lurking in the shadows a ways down the rutted road. Chester only saw him because the tall young man had emerged from the darkness to surreptitiously tip the brim of his hat at him. Chester had circumspectly nodded in return and then hurried back inside, relieved that things were still on track and running smoothly.

When he stepped back over the rear threshold, he noticed an eerie lull had fallen over the place. Chester figured he knew why, and it made the hackles rise on the back of his neck. That devil Blackthorne was stalking methodically across the floor; tables filled with men previously raucous and drunk with liquor and sin had suddenly gone sober as judges. Chester heard Blackthorne's boots thumping up the stair steps, every bloodshot eye in the smoky saloon following as the duster clad man headed to Kitty Russell's room as was his now nightly habit.

The rest of the events, as they came to pass over the next half hour or so, both surprised Chester Goode and made the bile rise up and burn sickeningly in the back of his throat. It was surprising because Chester knew Silas Blackthorne to be a creature of habit without fail…except for this one unfortunate Monday night. But Chester was helpless to stop the events to which he was ear- and eyewitness, though it pained him greatly, for he knew he must stick to the plan they'd made in order to secure Miss Kitty's rescue. Still, he'd have done anything, anything in the whole wide world, to have put a stop to it.

It all started with the angry voice of Blackthorne from Miss Kitty's room. Even though the man's voice was a ruin of nature, he could still be heard all the way downstairs. And though Chester could not make out what Blackthorne was saying, he could tell the man was irate. There was a crash of breaking glass and a faint feminine voice answering. Chester's gut tightened and he prayed like wildfire for Miss Kitty's safety, his heart thumping in his narrow chest.

But he knew from painful personal experience there was not a blessed thing he could do. He glared up at the armed guard at the top of the stairs, touching the ugly scar across his cheek from long habit as he did. Chester didn't have a chance of even getting close to her. There was no helping Miss Kitty right now. Chester must hold onto hope…and wait.

By this time, the saloon's patrons had come to life again, reassured they were not to be the latest victims of Blackthorne's ire. Their rollicking celebrations drowned out Blackthorne's mutterings a few minutes later when he burst out of Miss Kitty's room, stomped down the hall and burst into another room.

Chester swallowed hard, suddenly remembering to appear busy, and he began to methodically sweep, sweep, sweep the wooden floor with his corn broom, his heart stuck in his bone-dry throat. He casually swept his way closer, beneath the railing so he could better hear any noise or voices that escaped the rooms above.

Before too awful long, Blackthorne emerged like a steam engine, and Chester scooted back quick so he could watch. He saw the incensed man with the leather mask notice the guard was dozing, viciously kicking the sleeping rascal's feet which were casually crossed at the ankles. The guard jumped with a yelp and Blackthorne hovered in his face, hissing threats and pointing. Evidently, Chester thought, the guard had not been performing his duties quite up to standard. Then Blackthorne whipped out his pistol, cocked the trigger and pointed it at the unfortunate guard's temple. Slowly, the saloon's patrons drifted into silence again as they noticed the deadly confrontation at the top of the stairs.

Comanche Dan strode to the bottom of the landing, calling up in his deep booming voice, "You need some help, Boss?"

Silas Blackthorne was sweating bullets. He replied in a voice shaking with anger, "No, I believe I've got it all under control. Isn't that right, Mr. Dangler?"

Earl Dangler, the negligent guard, nodded his head and audibly swallowed. "Yessir, Sheriff," he breathed.

Blackthorne released the hammer and a deep breath simultaneously, then stalked back to Kitty's room, slamming the door behind him. Chester immediately began worrying again for Miss Kitty's safety, what with Blackthorne going in there with her, and him in such a state. He began half-heartedly sweeping the already spotless floor. The saloon remained somewhat subdued after that.

Suddenly, he heard the distinct and unmistakably rhythmic sounds of a headboard pounding the wall, bed springs squeaking hard and fast… He realized with a sinking heart it was coming from Miss Kitty's room. Chester tasted sour bile rising in his throat. Blackthorne's men heard the illicit sounds, too, and they cheered and whistled like wild animals. Chester felt as if he were going to be sick and hurried to the batwing doors to feel the fresh air on his burning face. He kept reminding himself that this nightmare was indeed going to end, and it was going to end tonight.

At least he hoped and prayed it would. Silas Blackthorne had heretofore been a creature of habit, but he had surely strayed from his usual path on this particular hellish night. Chester was not certain if this evening was going to end as they had hoped after all. So he gulped a few more lungsful of fresh air, straightened his spine, and pretended to sweep the floor again as he waited patiently, comforting himself by singing whisper-soft but heart-full of conviction, "Where men shall live in liberty; free from a tyrant's chains…"

The old song seemed to strengthen his resolve, and he murmured, a sound so low no one could hear it but him, "Just hold on, Miss Kitty. We're comin' t' git ya', I promise." He had to quickly turn his back to the crowd, gripping his broom handle fiercely as he choked back a hurtful sob. "Real soon, Miss Kitty, cross my heart and hope t' die. We'll git you outta there if it's the last thing I do."

tbc

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