Dark Reflection
Chapter 21
"Falling into Place"
by Lilyjack
Chester dropped his broom to the floor with a clatter as the sudden appearance of a lone figure startled him to attention. Silas Blackthorne emerged at last from Miss Kitty's room, hurriedly shrugging his trailing duster over powerful shoulders, jamming his hat impatiently atop long, dark, wavy hair, stuffing his shirttail into the waistband of his trousers. Slamming the door behind him, he stalked past the now fully alert guard, Dangler, ignoring the man's contrite greeting. Blackthorne's boots pounded a steady beat on the creaking hardwood floor.
Chester casually retrieved his broom, his skin prickling in nervous anticipation as Blackthorne strode past and exited the saloon, dark coat fanning out behind him. Chester noticed the hush that had washed over the Long Branch Saloon at Blackthorne's appearance trickled away nearly as quickly with his hasty exit. A nervous cough, then clinking glassware, and finally card game chatter welled up again cautiously in the man's wake.
He shot a look over at the bar, where Bill Pence was drawing a beer and surreptitiously leaning down where Chester realized he was adding in a little extra ingredient, something Doc had given Chester to pass along to a fellow conspirator who might be interested in helping Kitty escape. The ingredient would make a fellow pretty sleepy and maybe not as observant on his post. Bill handed the beer to one of the saloon girls, motioning for her to take it to the upstairs guard. Then he gave a nearly imperceptible nod to Chester whose mouth turned up just a tiny bit at the corners. Things were falling into place.
Chester took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, warily glancing around to make sure no one was observing him. Then he quickly hitch-stepped to the batwing doors, peering out to make sure that Silas Blackthorne was heading safely down the street, far away from the Long Branch. Chester could feel rather than actually see the presence of the person across the street in the shadows, those black eyes also keeping tabs on Blackthorne's retreat down the boardwalk. When the man in the leather mask was out of sight, Chester pushed one batwing door open, staring across Front Street until young Ocie Bleeker emerged from the darkness wearing an oversized jacket around his small frame and a large bandanna tied loosely around his thin neck. Chester nodded intently at the young man, touching his index finger to his temple. Silently, Ocie nodded back, his fingers brushing the brim of the hat he wore pulled down low over his forehead. Then quick as a wink, the boy disappeared down a pitch-black alley and off to deliver word to the others who were waiting.
It was time.
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Not for the first occasion in recent days, Matt Dillon sat in a wagon bed, this one thankfully in better shape than the previous model procured by Doc because it came courtesy of banker and co-conspirator Harry Botkin. Deke Bowman perched leaning forward on the bench seat, tensely gripping the reins of a team of strong, swift horses, also supplied through Mr. Botkin's generosity. Doc Adams was next to him, nervously checking the time on a silver watch at the end of a chain which he then slipped into a small pocket in his threadbare vest. They all sat silently waiting, waiting for the signal. Charlie Fitz held their only lantern against the pitch darkness of the underground tunnel. He stood at the broad wooden doors near the top of a relatively short, steep, bricked ramp leading to the aboveground world, ready to unlatch them at a special knock. The doors would open onto an alley reasonably close to their destination. To an innocent bystander, the entrance to the tunnel appeared to be a small abandoned building, overgrown with weeds, not a gateway to a labyrinth beneath the city of Dodge.
Matt fretted - this was taking way too damn long; something was wrong. It was eating away at him worrying what Kitty was going through at that moment. It had taken them entirely too much time to get this rescue attempt in motion to begin with as far as he was concerned. In spite of Matt's impatience, Doc had been reluctant to let Matt participate at all when the time came.
The old physician had sputtered, "Just because you can limp around without a cane some now, you think you can go gallivantin' off to save this girl? Why don't you leave the rescuing to these other hearty fellows? For pity's sake, you've only got one good eye, son!"
Matt had gripped a hand on the physician's shoulder and narrowed that one good eye, locking it with the old man's concerned gaze. "Doc, I guess I can't…explain it to ya' like I should, but I've gotta go. I've got no choice."
Doc had stared at him, searching his new friend's earnest expression, mottled with slowly fading bruises and cuts. The perceptive old man must have seen the determination writ there and something more. The look in his own faded blue eyes softened a touch, perhaps with fond romantic memories of his own lovelorn youth. He said not another word because he knew he was defeated. In the short time he'd known this young man, he'd come to realize Matt Dillon was a fighter, stubborn to his last breath, and if he said he was going to rescue that female saloon owner, then that's what he was going to do, even if it killed him. There wasn't a thing Doc could do about it short of hitting him over the head and tying him down, and that'd be against his Hippocratic oath now, wouldn't it?
Matt had eyed Doc curiously when he'd chuffed out a laugh and shook his wiry head, then walked away without a fight. The young man had assumed he'd have to argue with Doc all afternoon long to get the old physician to consent, and a slow, crooked, somewhat perplexed grin stole over his swollen jaw as he allowed himself to celebrate this small victory.
But now here he was, stiffly sitting in the back of the conspirators' borrowed wagon feeling powerless, horrifying images of what might possibly be happening on the second floor of the Long Branch at this very moment ricocheting around in his head. Chester had told them Mondays were always mercifully short for Kitty and that Blackthorne never stayed long. So Matt knew something was not right, and his gut churned as he tried to find a more comfortable position on the lumpy mattress. Doc had placed it in the bed of the wagon, not so much for him, he realized, but for Kitty. He knew she might need a place to rest when they rescued her, if Doc's assessment of her situation turned out to be accurate…
True to his word, a couple days ago Chester had located a small, glass vial in a trash bin, still containing a few drops of the bitter-tasting medicine that Blackthorne was forcing Kitty to take on a daily basis. He'd quickly smuggled it to Doc Adams for his examination, and the old physician had angrily shaken his head even as he had thanked Chester. "That…that is a very great help to me, Chester. I now know what to expect, how I might help your Miss Kitty once we get her out of there, away from the vile…monsters…who are doing this to her."
Doc had pulled out the stopper, sniffed it, held the small brown bottle aloft, and Chester had stood beside him, squinting as he read the paper label haltingly, having difficulty wrapping his tongue around a word or two, "Dr. Delacroix's…Pure Brand…Finest Medicine…Poison…" Chester stopped for a moment, shoving his hands in his pockets, and looked at the physician thoughtfully. "Doc, kin you explain t' me how they kin print the words 'finest medicine' and 'poison' on the same dadgum bottle? It just don't make no sense t' me a'tall."
Doc had tiredly scrubbed a hand over his face and answered, "Chester, you can buy this poison over the counter at any drugstore! Why, right over at Hetzel's Pharmacy you can get it! Anyone can purchase it, including Sheriff Blackthorne. I'm… Well, I'm afraid we're gonna have a very sick girl on our hands, gentlemen..." And Doc had worriedly shaken his head, muttering to himself, and then turned and walked away slowly, his shoulders slumped.
Matt had been listening to Doc and Chester's entire conversation wordlessly. The blood in his veins had turned to ice water at Doc's words. If Matt had been in a hurry to get Kitty out of the Long Branch before, he was in a fever pitch to get her out of Blackthorne's hands now…
Matt kept replaying Doc's words in his head as he sat in the wagon bed on the mattress meant for Kitty. "We're gonna have a very sick girl on our hands…very sick girl…sick girl…" Where was that blasted signal? What the hell was the matter? Chester said Mondays were the best days. So what was taking so long? The air was getting close in this tunnel. His breathing was always a little short, but now he was having pains in his side and his head was starting to throb under his eyepatch. Dammit, he had to get ahold of himself, relax and get his worries and his aches and pains under control. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he hoarsely whispered, "Doc, what…time is it?"
Doc dropped his hands in his lap in exasperation. "You…" he quietly muttered, "young man, had best quieten down back there. Right on the other side of that door in front of us could be one of Blackthorne's cronies, and…"
"Doc…" Deke Bowman removed his hat, scratched his head, and whispered back irritably, "Just… just put the man out of his misery and tell 'im what time it is, won'tcha, please? You've made enough racket to give us all away just by arguin' with him. Come on now, fellas."
Doc frowned and began digging again in his vest pocket for his watch, "Alright, have it your way, but don't blame me if…"
"Shh..." Charlie Fitz held his finger to his lips, although no one noticed him in the murky light from the single lantern.
Doc squinted at his watch, "I don't know as I can even make out the time, it's so dark…"
"I hear it…" Charlie hissed insistently, his normally ruddy cheeks even brighter with excitement. "Everyone listen!"
Three slow knocks. A brief pause. Three slow knocks again. A long pause. The signal repeated.
Doc froze, watch in hand, and exclaimed quietly, "It's Ocie! Open the doors!"
Matt sat up straight and raked a shirt sleeve over his sweaty face. His heart pounded in his chest as he strained to see the boy in the dim tunnel with his limited vision.
Charlie Fitz peered cautiously out, then opened the door sufficiently for a wide-eyed Ocie Bleeker to burst in and announce, "Chester give me the all clear. I seen Sheriff leave with my own eyes." The boy spotted Matt and rushed to clutch the edge of the wagon where the big man sat. "It's time, Mr. Dillon, it's time!"
Matt gripped the boy's shoulder and repeated quietly, "It's time." Then he ordered, "Charlie Fitz, open those doors wide." He quickly hunkered down and neatly began tying off the final tarp corner from a special hook below to conceal his hiding place. "Deke, let's go," Matt Dillon called out as best he could with diminished lung capacity. He thumped on the side of the wagon with his fist, "Now. Let's roll out!"
Deke slapped the horses' reins and urged them on with a quick shout as Ocie and Charlie Fitz scrambled out of the way. Charlie then hurried to secure the wide doors behind them, checking to make sure no one was watching. He instructed Ocie, "You get back to your post, young man, and keep a sharp eye out. You've done well."
Ocie nodded grimly, "Thank ya', sir. But we've gotta lot to do, still. Miss Kitty ain't safe yet." And then he hightailed it for Front Street, one hand on top of his big hat, his oversized coat flapping behind him.
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Bill Pence poured two whiskeys, placing them in front of a couple of unfamiliar scruffy cowhands who probably should have considered stopping by the tonsorial parlor for a bath and a shave before they'd ambled inside the saloon. He wondered if these fellows knew what kind of a powder keg town they'd ridden into, watching as they tossed their whiskey back with a practiced hitch of the wrist, grimacing at the fire as it burned its way down their gullets.
The original owner of the Long Branch Saloon anxiously sighed and began polishing the bar for the umpteenth time that evening, trying not to catch Chester's eye more than what was normal so as not to draw suspicion from big ol' Comanche Dan or any other of Blackthorne's outlaw bunch. Lordy, why had so many of them shown up tonight? But thankfully Dan was otherwise engrossed in trying to sweettalk his way into Ada's bloomers for gratis, although Bill coulda told him he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of that. And the rest of 'em were rallied round tryin' to buck the tiger, only they were so busy admiring Phoebe's amply displayed décolletage and drinking all the booze she was pushing at them, since she got a decent cut of the profits, that they weren't paying much attention to the faro dealing, let alone any big rescue conspiracy going on right under their noses, thank the Maker Above. Pence did steal a look up at the balcony to check on the guard who had nearly sucked down that whole doctored beer already, while the girl who had delivered it to him, Cross-Eyed Cora, perched in his lap. She attempted to wipe the foam from his upper lip with an index finger, but succeeded only in poking him in the nose instead. Dangler just lazily tittered and then stretched, yawning broadly.
Pence should have simply been glad that Doc's secret ingredient seemed to be taking effect, but he was just too anxious for this all to be over. He took some glasses from the washpan behind the bar and dried and polished them to a shine, distracting himself with thoughts of the brave young man standing guard in the alley running behind the saloon. Lafe Whitcomb was wearing a wide-brimmed hat to disguise his bright strawberry blonde hair, a bandanna round his neck and a new coat purchased with a little cash Bill Pence had slid unobtrusively under his palm across the bar to the overgrown boy one afternoon not long ago.
It'd been eating away at Kitty's business partner that she was being kept prisoner upstairs, and anything he could do to help he was eager to, but a man had to be careful in these dangerous times in Dodge City. There was nothing to be done to camouflage Lafe's brawny physique, but Bill had murmured to him perhaps it would help to get a new suit of clothes for when the group planned to make their move. Then maybe he'd be less recognizable if he were spotted, especially by Blackthorne's men with whom Lafe had worked some.
A while back, Bill had noticed the marked change in Lafe since he'd stopped hanging out with those old friends of his, rowdy young men who were trouble makers and always drank to excess when they were here in the saloon. Ever since that stranger Jack Mathias had blown into town and made a big ruckus over Kitty, beating up Linwood Chaney and getting himself all stove up and killed in the process, why, that seemed to be about the time Lafe started changing his ways; he stopped hanging out with those good-for-nothing friends.
Bill found out later that Lafe and Doc and Chester and some others decided to bust Kitty out of this place. And for that Bill was grateful and would do what little he could to help. Even if it was just to drug the guard at the top of the stairs or buy Lafe new clothes so he might not be spotted firsthand. Besides, the young man's sleeves and pants were a little too short for his large frame and were getting a mite worn and tattered. His ma could only turn the hems and patch the holes so many times, after all.
Bill had felt awful bad when he'd heard that fella Mathias had died after he'd been beaten up by Blackthorne's men. No, Bill hadn't even known the young stranger, just spoke to him once when he'd come in the saloon searching, desperate-like, for Kitty. And when Mathias found out she was upstairs, well, Bill had never seen such a look on a man's face. He'd raced straight up to her room and got in the biggest knockdown dragout with that bastard Chaney. As far as Bill was concerned, Chaney deserved every lick. He only wished it could have been Silas Blackthorne himself instead. But poor Jack Mathias didn't stand a chance against all of Blackthorne's men at once, and he'd paid the ultimate price with his life. But perhaps Mathias hadn't died in vain if Lafe Whitcomb had been inspired to change his ways and join up with Doc Adams and Chester to try and finally get Kitty out of this horrible predicament.
Bill allowed himself a glance across the room at Chester who in turn was squinting up at the guard. Cross-Eyed Cora was strutting away from Dangler in disgust as he beckoned to her sleepily, nearly falling off his chair. He grabbed his rifle to steady himself and straightened his cock-eyed hat. Finally giving up when she ignored his efforts, he waved a dismissive hand at the girl and flopped back against the wall. Bill watched with satisfaction as Dangler scrubbed both hands over his face and forced his droopy eyes open wide as saucers, obviously forcing himself to concentrate on staying awake as he pressed his lips into a thin line and crossed his arms tightly.
Bill noticed Chester then hazarding a steely glance back at him. Things were finally starting to go as planned.
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Lafe Whitcomb stepped out of the alley shadows a couple of blocks from the Long Branch to flag down the wagonful of Kitty's rescuers. He was glad he knew what they'd all be wearing tonight or he never would have recognized them decked out the way they were. Deke Bowman at the reins was dressed a mite like a card sharp, with a fancy green vest and black bowler, but wearing a bandanna tied round his neck same as Lafe in case they had to pull them up over their faces at a moment's notice to help disguise their identity. Doc, on the other hand, sitting on the bench seat beside the young rancher's son, was dressed head to toe as a cowboy, from the sweat-stained hat pulled low on his brow to his brown canvas jeans and worn leather boots. Lafe reckoned he'd borrowed the clothes from Deke. As long as Doc hid his face, Lafe didn't think anyone would ever in a blue moon recognize the old physician.
"Whoa," Deke called softly to the team of horses as they pulled alongside Lafe in the dark alley just a short ways from their destination. "All clear?"
"All clear," Lafe whispered. "I ain't seen a soul back here in the past fifteen…twenty minutes. Streets're dead tonight."
Lafe heard a rustling from beneath the tarpaulin, and Mr. Dillon sat up in the back of the wagon, holding his injured side. The big man took a shallow breath or two and offered a quiet explanation, "It's Monday. Most hard-working folk…are back at the grindstone or else nursing a hangover…after the weekend. We're lucky this outlaw sheriff of yours chose the first day after the weekend to make a…" Dillon's eyes hardened. "…quick getaway. It's cleaner…and quieter for us."
Mr. Dillon, Lafe reflected, didn't have much choice in what to wear since the clothing he'd worn in the fight had been torn and bloodied beyond repair. Unfortunately, a man his size didn't have such an easy time finding clothes to fit just any place. Being a pretty big guy himself, Lafe could sympathize.
But back when Mr. Dillon had first woken from his injuries in Doc's office, he'd demanded his clothes returned right off the bat, told them he had to go back and rescue Miss Kitty. Course he wasn't able, was way too bad hurt and Doc told him so. But Mr. Dillon, or Jack Mathias as they had known him then, had told them he'd sent his dirty ones to be washed while he was taking a bath at the Tonsorial Parlor, Eddie Selden's place.
Just so happened that Lafe's ma did all the laundry for Selden, had run her own place of business ever since Lafe's pa was killed working on the Santa Fe Railroad. So it was easy as pie gettin' Mr. Dillon's own duds back for him, clean and ironed to boot. Lafe didn't know what they would've done for clothes for the big, tall man on such short notice otherwise. Especially since, bein' officially dead and all, he couldn't just mosey into a store and have new ones made to order.
Matt's quiet voice shook Lafe from his reverie, "You boys ready?"
Doc was the first to chime in, "You bet we're ready."
"Is Chester ready, Lafe?" Matt asked.
"Yessir, he give me the signal down the alley not long ago. The guard is takin' another little siesta, so Chester should be able to move pretty freely."
Deke patted Doc on the back and quietly crowed, "Right on schedule – good work, old timer!"
Doc tipped his Stetson and replied, "Don't thank me. Thank Dr. Delacroix. I figured it would be…well, a little bit of poetic justice."
Matt made a humorless noise deep in his throat, then pulled his bandanna from around his neck and quickly wiped his perspiring brow. "Well, men, it's now…or never. I'm ready to get Kitty the hell outta there. Lafe, you keep a watch out…here in the alley. Just give us the signal if you…see anybody coming."
"Yessir."
"Let's go, slow and easy, Deke – don't wanna…draw any attention now."
"Headin' that way," Deke answered. "Gittup, hosses, easy does it." He slapped the reins on their backs gently and the wagon rolled down the deserted alleyway, stopping directly below Kitty Russell's bedroom window.
tbc
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