The Marshal and his acting Deputy fired their pistols simultaneously, each hitting and killing his target. The two bank robbers crashed to the dirt street outside of the building they had just run from, silver dollars scattering around them, glinting in the sunlight.
Festus quickly kicked the gun out of the right hand of each dead man while Matt fired after the three other men spurring their horses towards the prairie.
"Festus, gather up that money. I'm going inside." The frustrated lawman spoke tersely as he strode inside the bank, pistol drawn.
The first thing he saw was middle-aged banker Mr. Botkin leaning against the tellers' counter, pale and shaking. At his feet lay the body of his oldest employee, John Sharp. The sixty-five year old man had been a bank employee for thirty-five years now, and had been looking forward to his retirement at the end of the week. He had transferred from a large bank in St. Louis to Dodge ten years ago, and had quickly become a favorite of Mr. Botkin and of the town folk. Now his blood and brain matter formed a puddle on the floor, staining his handsome, full head of white hair.
Matt silently looked down at the dead teller, and as he scanned the room, he saw a woman's foot sticking out from behind the long counter.
Hurrying over, he quickly knelt by the body of an older woman wearing a satiny royal blue dress embroidered with hundreds of tiny, delicate white flowers. But the material over her abdomen was now a damp, sticky, purple-red, with a scattering of little red-stained flowers.
The lunch pail she brought to her husband every day was lying nearby on the floor, along with the shoe she was blasted out of.
"Mrs. Sharp?" he quietly asked, gently touching her soft, wrinkled cheek.
Her still bright blue eyes fluttered open and tried to focus on the concerned face of the handsome Marshal.
"John? Where's my John?" she asked in an imploring voice as she tried to sit up.
"Whoa now, please lie still, Mrs. Sharp." He put one big hand on her shoulder while looking back towards the door.
"FESTUS! GET DOC!" he yelled, but the quick-witted hill man had already looked inside after gathering up the coins, and sent a gawking townsman for the doctor.
"He's acomin' Matthew! Money's all there, accordin' to Mr. Botkins." He stood nearby, ready to usher the doctor in, looking from the dead husband back to the dying wife.
"Mrs. Sharp. Doc's on the way. Can you tell me anything about what the robbers looked like? It's important. We can't let them get away with this."
The old woman knew she was dying and felt in her heart that her husband was already dead. Nothing mattered to her now, but she didn't want anyone else to be killed by these ruthless men.
"So young…all of them…so young! All wearing bandanas." She shuddered and shut her eyes for a moment, then re-opened them. "He looked like our Jerry. The one who shot John and me. Hair like corn silk. Eyes like cornflowers…but cold as ice."
"Let me through here, get out of the way!" Doc pushed his way through the gawkers on the boardwalk near the open door, and Festus rushed over to clear the way.
"Go ON! Git outta here now! There's nothin' to be astarin' at!" Festus used his strong, lean arms to push back the crowd.
The town doctor put his bag on the floor and knelt by the old woman, rapidly assessing her with his eyes and already knowing she was beyond his help.
"Amy. Let me take a look," he said softly as he moved her right hand that she had placed atop the gaping hole in her abdomen. Then he took the small, bloody hand in his right hand and gazed deeply into her startling blue eyes.
"Doc. I know. It's all right. John is waiting for me. My John…and…our JERRY!" Her eyes glistened, and as she focused on a spot above Doc's head, she smiled in delighted recognition. Her eyes closed and her hand went limp.
Matt looked down at the dignified old woman, Doc kneeling beside her with bowed head, and put his hand on Doc's shoulder.
"Doc. She said the one who shot John and her looked like their Jerry. The cruelty of it all."
Doc tenderly crossed Amy Sharp's hands over the ugly wound in her abdomen and stood up slowly. He was thinking of young Jerry Sharp, a beautiful tow-headed, always-grinning boy with eyes the color of Spring cornflowers. He had drowned in the Arkansas River at age ten.
"You GET them Matt! You GET them!"