A/N: Hello! I haven't written anything in a good while, and this is my first GS fanfic ever. I hope you enjoy it :). Leave some love in the reviews if you did, any and all criticism welcome on my writing. Set in the radio universe, but there aren't huge differences. This story is based heavily on the radio episode "Nettie Sitton" which was never adapted for television. All credit goes to Gunsmoke and the writer Kathleen Hite. All mistakes and grammatical errors are wholly my own.
Chester looked at his friend and felt worry knot in his stomach. Mr. Dillon was propped up against the smooth bark of a beech tree, breathing kinda hard and looking awful pindlin'. It had started with a peaceable ride to Pueblo for some time away from Dodge. Everything had been going alright, and then this.
"How's your leg feel? Were you hit bad, Mr. Dillon?" he asked anxiously.
"Bad enough, Chester," the marshal answered in a strained tone.
"Your leg's bleedin' some." Chester noticed the blood seeping through his friend's pant leg and fought the urge to curse aloud.
"Yeah, I know," Matt acquiesced quietly, leaning his head back against the tree to blink at the sky.
"Can't imagine what got into them Indians, anyway," Chester muttered darkly, taking out a handkerchief from his pocket. "We was just ridin' through peaceful-like."
"Well, I guess they're wary of people here. This is still Ute country, Chester. They drove out settlers a long time ago." Matt murmured, feeling his pulse throb in his leg.
"That's no reason to go around shooting at people who weren't doin' nothin' in the first place," his assistant replied, tying the handkerchief tightly around the bullet wound in the marshal's calf.
Matt jolted a little when Chester cinched it down but didn't make a sound.
"I guess they got tired of us. Or think they killed us," Matt said, sounding almost normal. Chester's mouth pulled down at the corners in a slight frown.
"Can you bear weight on that leg?" he asked after a pause.
"I don't know," the marshal said, looking down at his leg. "Let's try."
Chester went to his side and began pulling him up slowly, using the tree to take some of Matt's weight.
"Easy now," he muttered. "Hold onto me, Mr. Dillon, I've got you."
"I think I can make it to my horse," Matt said through gritted teeth, fighting the twisting pain that clawed through his left leg.
Matt's horse was grazing nearby, and Chester helped the marshal drag himself over to it. Approaching the animal, Matt clung to the saddle to keep himself upright.
With growing alarm, Chester noted that his friend's forehead was beaded with cold sweat and he'd lost some color in his face.
"Maybe you'd better rest some before you try to mount," Chester suggested uneasily.
"No, let's get it over with," Matt forced out. His hands were in a white-knuckled grip on the saddle. "You'll have to guide my leg when it swings over. I'll try not to kick your teeth out in the process."
"Yessir," the assistant answered, not in any mood to be trifling with jokes.
He hurried to the other side of the horse as Matt hauled himself up into the saddle. He lifted his wounded leg with a pained grunt and Chester grabbed hold and guided it as carefully as he could into the stirrup.
When he looked up, his friend's face was white as a sheet now and his whole frame was trembling.
"You alright, Mr. Dillon?" he asked nervously. If he fell off, Chester knew he wasn't strong enough to put him back.
"Yeah, I'm alright," Matt answered hoarsely. "Let's go." With that. he gently nudged his horse in the ribs with his good foot. The faithful animal began to walk along, and Chester swung himself onto his own horse and followed.
They rode for some distance. Chester wasn't really sure how far. It seemed like forever, but it probably wasn't more than a few miles, since Mr. Dillon couldn't ride any faster than a walk. When he glanced over, his friend's eyes shone out dully from the gray of his face. Every so often, his eyes closed and his head bobbed to the rhythm of the horse.
"You're not lookin' too good, Mr. Dillon," Chester said, spurring his horse closer to his friends. "Just 'bout played out, ain't ya?"
"There's water ahead, to the left in those trees," Matt croaked, sounding exhausted.
"You can't go on just water alone!" Chester exclaimed, feeling the tension play on his nerves.
"It'll help, and we can water the horses, too," the marshal answered calmly, too tired for anger.
Chester glanced around at the sky. "Not too much daylight left. I think we ought to stop and get you settled for the night, Mr. Dillon."
"There's good grass by the stream," Matt said, peering up ahead. "We can bed down there."
They trotted along and passed between the willow trees on the riverbank. Chester could sense, rather than see, their limbs above his head, and shivered a little. He led the way slowly, until they reached a thick mat of grass about twenty feet from the stream's edge.
"Don't move yet, Mr. Dillon," Chester told him, hurrying to dismount from his own horse. "I'll help you."
"You'll have to steady me," the marshal answered. "My leg won't bear any weight. Not now."
"Yeah," Chester said reflexively, swallowing his disappointment. He had been hoping the ride would keep his leg from getting worse.
He went to the left side of the horse and placed his hands near Mr. Dillon's waist.
"Alright, real easy now. Just bring it up and fall free again' me, that's it."
With a pained grunt, Matt managed to swing his wounded leg free and found he couldn't do much more than sag against Chester. His head swam, and he clumsily tried to right himself.
Fortunately, Chester had been prepared for it, and caught the extra weight fully although his arms trembled under the strain. Together, they staggered a few steps away where a rock jutted from the thick grass. Chester deposited his friend as gently as he could on the ground.
"There you go, now you just stretch out there," Chester said, panting a little. "How's that, Mr. Dillon?"
Matt's eyes were scrunched closed and the corners of his mouth trembled. His breath came in little gasps; Chester could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest through the thin shirt.
"Better, Chester. Thanks," he answered in between ragged breaths.
"I'll get you some water," Chester said tremulously, hurrying away towards the water's edge. "I declare, you look a fright!" He was badly shaken by how terrible his friend looked, and it showed in his voice, noticeably higher than usual.
"I just need to catch my breath. Rest a little bit," Matt slurred back, hearing the blood rush in his ears.
"I wish I could make you more comfortable," Chester fretted. "In a bed, with some warm food."
"I know. Tend to the horses, will you?" Matt muttered, feeling his eyes slip shut.
"I will," Chester's voice said from nearby. Matt opened his eyes when the canteen edge touched his lip and cool water flowed into his dry mouth. He swallowed a few times, then coughed when it was taken away. He heard a high-pitched, ringing sound and wanted to ask Chester what it was, but his mouth wouldn't work. It was only then that he dimly realized he was passing out.
Chester watched his friend struggle to stay awake and sighed as the marshal slumped against the rock behind his back. Even unconscious, he was breathing hard. Sweat still flowed freely from his too-white face, and the handkerchief had long been saturated with his blood. Chester fixed it as best he could, then made sure he wouldn't fall over before going to tend to the horses.
The creek bed was sure a welcome sight, no doubt about it. I don't know what we would have done if we hadn't come upon the water just then. Mr. Dillon wasn't in no shape to travel, and we couldn't have gone through Ute country in the dark anyways. After he passed out, I stayed a few minutes to make sure he'd be alright for a little while, then went to hobble the horses. He'd given me the order, after all.
When I finished tying the horses, I stretched out a kink in my back and decided to scout around our makeshift camp a little. There was the scrubby land we'd come through to get here, and a denser forest in front of us. Even though it was getting nigh on twilight now, I thought I could make out the rough shape of a cabin slightly through the trees. It couldn't have been more than three hundred yards away. The porch was half-collapsed on the one side, and I could even see a shutter hanging askew on the window. It gave the house an odd, one-eyed look, kinda starey-like. Tell you the truth, it made me feel a bit jumpy, so I didn't look at it long. Awful unsettling thing, feelin' like a house is watchin'.
About then, I heard Mr. Dillon say my name once, then again. I went back to him.
"Oh, you awake, Mr. Dillon?" I asked, coming up close.
"Yeah," he answered, swallowing hard. "I shouldn't have gone to sleep, I guess." He looked muddled and fuzzy, like focusin' was too hard, and that made me feel worse'n anything so far. Mr. Dillon rarely drank and never got drunk; he was always in control. Seein' him this way hurt real bad.
"You didn't have no choice," I answered wryly. "Once you swallowed that cool water, you was just plumb—"
"What is that?" Mr. Dillon asked, interrupting me mid-sentence. "Is that horses?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Dillon. I hobbled 'em 'fore I set out; they ain't makin' a sound," I answered reassuringly.
He hushed me, frowning slightly. "Wait a minute. That's horses alright. They're comin' this way."
I hushed and listened. Nothing, 'ceptin some grasshoppers and some quiet birds cheepin' through the trees to each other.
"I sure don't hear a thing," I said. A thought struck me then, and I reached out my hand to touch his forehead. The skin under my hand burned, and I sighed. "You—you're fevered, Mr. Dillon. You just might be 'magining things," I told him, trying to say it gently.
"No, you keep listenin', you'll hear 'em," he insisted, sure like always.
"Yessir," I answered, fighting the urge to sigh again. "Mr. Dillon, while you was resting, I set out and took a look around. There's a cabin not more than a couple hundred yards away—"
"Shh!" he said again impatiently, and I felt my own frustration rising again. "They're coming from the north.
I sat quiet, only this time, I thought I did heard somethin'. At the edges of my hearing, I could pick up the faint sound of hoofbeats hittin' the duff.
"By golly, I think you're right, Mr. Dillon," I said, unable to deny it.
"Look through the trees, there," he murmured. I followed the path of his gaze through the trees and spotted a few moving shapes on horseback.
"Indians," I whispered, feeling cold ice seep back into my blood. "Could be them same ones shot you."
"Maybe," he answered quietly, noncommittal.
"We'd better make for that cabin," I told him, watching the Indians pass in front of us.
"No, we're better off staying put," he replied, looking hard at them. "The trees will hide us, unless they already know we're here."
Now that was a right comforting thought. I couldn't keep my face from twisting a little at the idea of being walked up on like a timid mouse.
"Lie flat," he ordered. "If they start through the trees, fire."
"Can you handle a gun?" I asked him anxiously, eyeing his pale face again.
"I'm ready for 'em," he said calmly, not looking at me.
I felt a small shudder ripple across my back. He didn't know how cold he could be sometimes, and how much it scared me and Kitty and Doc when we saw it. He had gone into that other place now, that place in his head he went when he had to be a killer. If we told him, I'm not sure he'd really understand. Because even on the sunniest days I've seen that coldness peekin' out through his eyes, and it scares me more than anythin'. It's kinder that he don't know.
We waited, just watching.
"They're makin' right for us, sure enough," I murmured to him, watching them approach through the blades of grass at eye level. "They're right at the trees." I fiddled with the shotgun, my finger wanting to cock the hammer.
"Take it easy," he said, still not looking at me. "They're ridin' right along the tree line, goin' south."
The hooves beating the ground slowly began to dissipate further away, until I couldn't hardly hear no more. As slowly as I could, I raised my head a little. "I can't see 'em no more, can you?"
"They're down past the thicket," he said, watchin' em go where my eyes couldn't follow.
I breathed out all my air in one big whoosh, feeling my arms go trembly in relief.
"I swear, that was close," I muttered to myself.
"It's still close," he replied. "Sounds like they stopped."
"I counted six," I said, looking towards their direction in vain.
His small hum told me that my count was accurate. "Where's that cabin?"
"It's where they are; that direction, leastways," I said, looking at him a little surprised. "No more than a couple hundred yards."
"It's a deserted cabin, Chester?" he asked me. I could see the dark circles rimmed around his eyes.
"I didn't see no signs on life. Likely been that way for years, from the look of it," I said, rememberin' the shutters and the half-collapsed porch.
"Well, you'll have to drag me, Chester," he sighed, looking down at his leg. "I can't mount again."
"I'll get you there, Mr. Dillon," I told him. "Don't you fret yourself." I sounded tired even to my own ears, but I wasn't lyin', an' he knew it.
Slowly and carefully, I helped him to his knees form the prone position. From there, he gripped onto my arms as I hauled him upright. He clung hard, and I felt my own legs quivering, holding his weight steady. He shot his good leg out to the side for balance, all wobbly and funny like a new-born colt, but he stayed up. I glanced down and saw with fright that the ground underneath where he'd been a-layin' was covered in blood. Wasn't nothin' to be done for it though, so after his breathin' settled down a little, we began staggerin' towards the cabin.
With every step, his leg dragged a little more and his face grew a little paler until I was practically carrying him. I kept goin', but Mr. Dillon's a clear half a foot taller than me and a goodish amount heavier. Reaching the cabin took longer than I had thought. Mr. Dillon didn't make a sound, although his breathing was getting harsher. I knew he was still listenin' for the Indians over yonder.
"Alright, about ten more steps, Mr. Dillon," I panted. "You can make it."
"I—I don't know, Chester," he got out, sounding weak and unsure.
"Just lean heavy on me, you'll make out fine," I grunted, pulling him up more surely. My arms were screaming in protest, but I couldn't very well stop or we'd both end up eating dirt.
"You come no closer," an old voice said from close by and I near jumped clean out of my skin. Mr. Dillon stiffened up from the jolt, and we stood there, him swayin' again' me. There in the dingy doorway of the cabin stood the small figure of a ratty woman, holding a shotgun. My heart hammered in my chest, and I didn't want to show how badly she'd frightened me.
"Wha-what?" I stammered. "Ma'am, you can just put that shotgun away right now." I was trying to sound tough, but I was scared and she knew it.
"I'll decide about the shooting," she said in a scoffing tone.
She took a few scuttering steps closer, and I could hear her bare feet rasping on the rough boards of the porch.
"What ails him?" she demanded, not lowering the gun.
"Well, he's shot, a-and weak!" I exclaimed, struggling to keep Mr. Dillon upright now. "Ma'am, I gotta put down inside!
"I never laid eyes on you before," she said suspiciously. Her black eyes glittered like beetles out from under a rat's nest of gray wiry hair, and she was lookin' at us awful close. Funny enough thing to notice right then, but she had a bright green ribbon tied in her hair, like a young girl would.
I felt my ire rising, but I fought to keep my tongue civil.
"No, ma'am, we're clean from Dodge City, we—" I began to explain, but Mr. Dillon stiffened in my arms right then.
"Chester," he got out, before I watched his eyes slip shut. All his weight came crashing down, and I went down to my knees, trying to keep him from smackin' his head an' all. I caught his upper half awkwardly and eased him down. His head lolled on his shoulders; he was out.
"You alright, Mr. Dillon?" I asked, and I hated that my voice was so high and that I was so scared and that she was still watchin'. I found his shoulders, feelin' the fever radiate through his damp shirt. "Mr. Dillon?" He didn't stir in the slightest.
"He dead?" the old woman asked, creeping closer.
"No, ma'am, not yet," I answered, looking at his still face and feeling my dander heat up again. "Would you just try to help? Set that shotgun aside and help a body?"
I was bein' rude and I didn't care. Here was Mr. Dillon lyin' on the ground bleedin' and all she could do was stand there.
"How are you on food?"
I looked up in complete shock. The old crone watched me shrewdly and her sharp voice pierced the air.
"We got precious little, I'll tell you that!" I snapped at her.
"Blankets?" she demanded. Her mouth twisted around the word so it sounded like brankets. "Shells? You got anything?"
"What I got is a mighty sick friend, and I'm liftin' him up right now and takin' him inside—" I began forcefully.
She raised the shotgun again and I went quiet. "How much money have you got?" she asked dangerously. I could see her gnarled finger resting on the trigger.
"I don't know," I said miserably. "A little."
"Hand it over," she said.
I huffed in annoyance. "Fine, after we're inside."
"I tell you, boy, I'd sooner shoot the both of you than jaw with you," she told me. "I want your money and your guns!"
"Oh, forevermore," I muttered to myself, digging angrily into my pocket and pulling out the small purse I kept. "There." Her gnarled hand reached out and snatched it from mine. I could see how bad her fingernails were and how every inch of her hand was dirty except the palm, where it had rubbed clean into the lines and made it look smooth somehow.
"His too." She motioned to Mr. Dillon. I knew it wouldn't do no good to argue and said a quiet apology to Mr. Dillon for rummaging through his things while he couldn't do nothin' about it.
"I'm bringing him inside now," I told her, tired of being pushed around and not takin' no for an answer.
"Alright," she surprised me by agreeing. "But for this little money, he won't be there for long."
I pulled Mr. Dillon up by his arms and tried to get to my feet. At first I thought it was no use; Mr. Dillon's big, and he was dead to the world. She just sat and watched for a moment, then put the shotgun down and scurried over. She was near enough for me to see the stains on her threadbare clothing even in the last light of day and see the mites crawling in her hair. My skin crawled when she got all close to Mr. Dillon and helped me pull him upright, but I couldn't do it by my lonesome, so I kept on walkin', and together we got Mr. Dillon over the threshold of the cabin.
The inside was even worse than I imagined: dark shapes scampered in the corners, filthy dishes were piled up every which way among soiled clothing. If it had a floor, it hadn't been seen in a good number of years. She was right at home. The second we got in, she started giving orders and brandishing that blasted shotgun of hers so's I had no choice but to do what she said.
"Put him over there," she said, motioning to the kitchen table. "I gotta work on 'im."
I gratefully hobbled over and set Mr. Dillon down on the table, the only clear surface in the entire place, I imagine. He was still completely out of it.
"Now go get some wood for the fire, boy," the old crone ordered me, stepping closer to Mr. Dillon. "Needs to be nice and hot so's I can take care of him. After that, you get every scrap you can find for bandages and draw lots of water from the well. He'll need it."
"Ma'am, I think I'd better see to it and—" I began.
"Blasted fool, you ain't the only one ever seen a bullet wound!" she hissed at me, startling me. "Now git, before I decide to shoot you and put another shot into him! And don't you come back without enough to last the night, either!"
I stomped out the door as fast as I could and began the list by collecting some wood. The trees nearest the cabin had already been chopped down and the grass was waist high, so I had to walk some way to get to any. While I worked, the sun went down quietly behind the hills.
She was workin', too. After the first time I came back in with logs, she shooed me out with a hundred other little tasks while she worked on Mister Dillon. It makes you bristle, bein' told what to do, but with her threatenin' to blow me in half, there weren't much I could do except what I was told.
It took me a while until I thought she might be satisfied with what I had and started hauling it up into her cabin.
"You're another weak one, are ye?" she asked me snidely as I passed through the doorway.
"Well, I'm carryin' my weight in logs!" I snapped back. Every muscle ached, first from toting around Mr. Dillon and then from all this. There was only so much a body could take.
"Put 'em by the stove, and quit whimpering!" she said back, not sounding too impressed. "Soft bellies, the lot of you!"
I got near the stove, my legs shaking, and dropped the logs right on the floor. It made a tremendous racket, but she didn't even flinch, just kept watchin' me, the way a cat watches a mouse in a corner. After that, I walked through the cabin, taking a candle with me. Even that didn't help much. I knocked into scattered objects with every step, and once or twice I felt things crunch under my boots. I didn't stop to see what had made the noise, but tried to do my best to finish the chores she'd given me. Mr. Dillon depended on me bein' there to watch him.
Eventually when everything was finished, I sat down heavily on a stool and looked at her through tired eyes. She didn't seem weary a'tall, just kept the shotgun close and looked at me right back.
I glanced over to the table, where she'd put a filthy horse blanket over Mr. Dillon after she'd finished working him over. He'd been layin' quiet for most of the night now. It was nigh on four or five in the mornin' by how the stars looked.
"How is he?" I asked anxiously.
"Ask him," she cackled. "He's only makin' out he's sleepin'."
I hauled myself up and walked over to the table. "Mr. Dillon?"
His eyes opened then, clear and present. My head went swimmy from relief. "You can't fool her, Chester, don't try."
"You sure did give me a fright," I declared, trying to keep my voice steady. "I wasn't sure you was gonna make it."
"I'm alright," he said, giving me a tight smile.
"She get the bullet out?" I asked, looking at the grimy bandage now wrapped around his leg. Nasty thing would probably get it infected.
"Yeah," he answered quietly. "And about half of my leg, I think." He grimaced a little, and I could see how pale he still looked.
The old crone made a mocking noise from the corner. "I've seen new cubs with tougher hide."
I rounded on her. I'd never been so angry in my life.
"You told me you knew what you was about!" I exclaimed angrily.
"Now, you mind your tongue!" she shouted back. She wasn't afraid a'tall, and that me madder. "I've no mind to hear you baller like a cow!"
"There's no cause to go at her, Chester, she did alright," Mr. Dillon said, sounding tired.
"Well, she took everything we had, Mr. Dillon, our guns, our money," I said, glaring hatefully at her while I spoke to him. I could have hit her right then, I really could have.
"You'd best quiet him," she spoke to Mr. Dillon now, warning him. I could see the shotgun clenched in her left hand. "I buried four husbands, twenty children. Coupla strangers wouldn't bother me none!"
I was so mad I was shaking. My hands were balled up at my sides and she just stared at me, but in her eyes was a nasty, piggish light what meant she was laughin' at us. Mr. Dillon spoke then.
"You'd better get some sleep, Chester," he said to me, calm as ever. "She says you watched over me all night."
I uncurled my hands. He was right, I was bone tired. I knew I wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer under my own steam anyways, but I didn't want to leave him alone with her.
"If you need me, Mr. Dillon, you just call out," I said firmly, looking her straight in the eyes. Unless she slit his throat while I slept, I didn't think there was much she could do without my knowing about it.
"No, I'm fine," he answered, watching me. "You go and get some sleep."
"Yessir," I muttered, and hauled myself up from the stool. I found a corner that didn't have a small animal nesting in it and snagged an old blanket that smelled of hay on the way. It wasn't really comfortable by any means, layin' on that dirt floor, but I was half-asleep by that point and past caring. The last thing I remembered was the look on her face when she had bent over Mr. Dillon with that long, serrated knife in one hand, ready to cut on him.
Matt watched Chester limp away to find the softest patch of dirt to sleep on for the night. His leg was starting to bother him badly, but he wanted to talk with the old woman.
"Four husbands, ma'am?"
"Four," she agreed tersely, jerking her head up and down. "I outlived 'em. They was men. Regular men."
"I can believe that," the marshal commented dryly.
"We didn't trifle with marshals or army folk in those days. Mister Sitton and me lived peaceable as could be with Indian folk. We come here peaceable, me and Mister Sitton," she added, picking at her knotted hair. Her fingers came to the green ribbon, stroked it gently once, then rested in her lap.
"When was that?" Matt asked.
She hummed speculatively. "The thirties."
"Well, things were different then," he commented, shifting a little. His leg was starting to feel like the muscle had been replaced by crushed glass.
"No different than with Mister Griffith!" she exclaimed. "Mister Allbright! Even with Mister Netterson. There were lessons to learn in the west in those days."
She stomped over to the side of the room by Matt's left near the stove. The marshal idly wondered if she would kill him with the butcher knife he could see sitting on the countertop.
When she turned back around, she was holding a wooden spoon in one hand and an earthen bowl in the other.
"Eat the porridge," she said curtly. Matt noted her tone, but her hands were gentle as they helped him ease into a sitting position.
"Much obliged, ma'am," the marshal said, looking down into a thick bowl of porridge. His spoon could hardly move through it and it smelled like spoiled potatoes.
"Nettie," she muttered back, drawing her arms around herself.
"How's that?" he asked, looking up at her.
"Nettie!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms out, startling him. "Nettie, I said! Nettie Sitton. I go by that. I can't abide bein' called ma'am."
The marshal watched her close. She hadn't been violent, but she was sure unpredictable.
"Nettie?" he asked, waiting for her nod. "You live alone in the middle of Ute country. How do you manage?"
"Well, I come by your guns, such little money you had," she remarked, fiddling with the corner of the blanket.
"Sometimes it's food, sometimes robes. I take what I can get. Doesn't matter to me if its settlers or scouts or… US marshals." At this last, she began to take on a sly look that set Matt's teeth on edge.
"Or Utes?" he questioned, keeping his tone civil. This woman may well have been driven insane or at least half-crazy with all the time out here.
"Folks don't find Nettie," she fretted. "Not lessin' they're lost or half-dead. It'd open your eyes to see what they'll part with."
"Do you always greet them with shotguns?" he asked, tone sardonic.
"If need be," she nodded to herself, not looking at him much.
"Before we came here yesterday, a band of Ute braves came here," he commented, remembering the renegades.
"I got good arrows, strong bows and rifles. Even a coupla buffalo guns off a mountain man what broke his leg in the canyon." Matt felt a chill run down his spine, trying not to think of having to chance crawling away on a broken leg while this old crone crept up on you with a shotgun.
"They got a camp near here?" he asked steadily. Her black eyes swam upwards to meet his, and he felt an uncomfortable twinge as her oily gaze slid over him.
"You got something more to give me?" she questioned slyly. He didn't like the look, not one bit.
"Chester says you cleaned us out already," he answered.
"Then that's as good as you're gettin'," she returned, spinning around abruptly. She slammed the bowl down on the countertop so hard it almost broke. The noise made him jump, then wince as his leg sent a bright twinge of pain up into his thigh. However, she stomped away again in a swirl of filthy skirts, leaving Matt to wonder exactly what kind of trouble they had gotten themselves into and what kind of woman they had to contend with.
Nettie crept up on the young man, noiseless as her shadow which slipped across the wall. He was asleep, twitching and dead to the world. The bigger man was asleep now too, but she knew it was a light sleep likely to be disturbed by anything. This other man was a different story. She thought the bigger man, Dillon, had called this one Chester. Not that names mattered much to her. She was long past thinkin' on such things for too long.
She came to his side and watched as he slept. Chester jerked suddenly, and his brow furrowed before smoothing out again. She wondered what he was dreaming about, then reached her bony hands towards him. He turned a little, muttering, and she slipped her fingers about his hands.
He came awake with a jolt, yelling, and she pulled harder. Matt flinched awake on the table and rose up on his elbows, looking around blearily.
"Here, now, no! You can't have my ring!" Chester hollered, pulling painfully back on his hand. She had worked her fingers around his wrist in an iron grip and was trying to twist it off his finger. She cackled as he kicked out, trying to get her off.
"I ain't had a pretty for a spell, that's a fact!" she declared, wrenching it from his grasp and holding it up with both hands.
"I bought that ring myself in St. Louis! A man's not safe sleepin' here!" Chester cried, rubbing his sore knuckle.
"It'll fit just fine once I wrap some twine around it; a body's fingers thin with age," she mused to herself after slipping it over her own bony hand and realizing it was too large.
"I declare, next thing I know, you'll be pickin' my bones!" Chester snapped at her, angry again.
"Mind your tongue!" her hand lashed out and slapped him. He recoiled and brought his hands up reflexively.
"Give him his ring back, Nettie," the marshal's voice rang through the darkness strong and true.
"Oh, not likely, no" she cackled back, feeling tears of hilarity course down her withered cheeks. She laughed until she rocked back and forth at the idea.
"Mister Dillon, what say you can't hit a old woman when she's so mean and contrary?" Chester demanded, glaring daggers at Nettie's shaking form.
"Well, for one thing, her shotgun," he pointed out. It was propped up in the corner, within easy arm's reach of Nettie.
"I'd as soon use it as have a ruckus with you," Nettie said, regaining control of herself and wiping the tears away.
"You take his ring, you give us something, Nettie," Matt said to her quietly.
"Oh, I do admire a pretty!" she exclaimed to herself, again turning to admire the jewelry. "I clean forgot the bright feeling they give ya."
"Our guns for the ring, Nettie," Matt told her patiently, acting like she had acknowledged him. "That's fair."
She spun to him and squinted suspiciously. "I come by your horses down by the crick this morning. They're grazing on my grass and swillin' my water. The pretty is to pay for that."
"Mister Dillon, I better go to see to them horses," Chester said nervously, standing up stiffly from the floor.
"You'll stay with the sick and ailin'," Nettie hissed at him, reaching swiftly for the shotgun. In a flash it was in her hands again and Chester made a disbelieving sound. Even the marshal was impressed with her speed. "I'll see to the horses."
"You're sayin' he can't leave the cabin?" Matt asked in a resigned tone, starting to understand.
"Not alive, he can't," she snorted.
"Why, you doggone mean, old—" Chester began furiously.
"She means it, Chester," the marshal told him, cutting his tirade short.
Nettie cackled again, and slowly backed away from the both of them, still holding the shotgun at the ready.
"Now. I got tendin' to do outside. And there's no need to peer around for your guns whilst I'm gone; you won't find 'em."
The door closed behind her and Chester breathed out a frustrated sigh.
"Mister Dillon, we have got to get out of here," he said imploringly.
"Yeah, but we'll need horses to do it," Matt said, running a hand over his face. "Come over here."
Chester obeyed.
"Now steady me." The marshal began hauling himself up from the table painfully slowly, his face a study in concentration.
"You're not fit to stand yet!" Chester exclaimed in dismay. Matt grunted in pain and tried harder.
"Just stand to steady me."
After a few tense moments, the marshal was upright although shaky and leaning heavy on Chester.
"Now, we'll have to crawl once we're outside anyway. I can manage to the door," Matt said, angling himself towards the doorway.
"Like as not she's just crouched out there waitin' for us," Chester said darkly, helping him hobble over.
"We might not get another chance," the marshal replied, willing to risk it. As they reached the doorframe, he leaned heavily on the wood and focused on breathing for a few moments.
"Alright. Get on your belly. Move small through the brush toward the stream," he ordered quietly.
Chester helped him to the ground and then quickly followed suit. Matt began to drag himself slowly across the ground, thankful that the grass was waist high. Although privately he wished it hadn't been wiregrass; he could feel it slicing the backs of his hands and his face as he pushed through it.
"Can you see her?" he grunted out. The pain in his leg was getting bad again.
"No, I can't," came Chester's quiet reply to his right. "The stream's still a good hundred yards away, maybe more."
The marshal weighed his options and removed his hat. Ever so slowly, he raised himself up so that only his eyes stuck out of the grass. It rustled all around him, and he saw the creek shimmering in the distance.
"I don't see our horses," he said. Chester's head joined his above the grass line cautiously. They looked around for a moment, then Matt pushed Chester's shoulder down hard.
"Flatten, Chester," he hissed. A moment later, the voices carried on the breeze over to them. "It's Ute."
The marshal's assistant listened, heart hammering in his chest. The old woman's voice carried over to him. "Why, she's talkin' to them Indians!" he declared.
"We're gonna have to go back to the cabin, Chester," Matt said, swallowing disappointment.
"To the cabin?" his friend asked incredulously.
"Without guns or horses, we're no good out here." The marshal sighed, obviously defeated.
Chester huffed quietly but began to pull himself back towards the cabin.
"What do you reckon she's done with our guns, Mister Dillon?" he asked as they carefully crawled along.
"Her? She might've eaten them," was the reply he got. Chester guessed the marshal was feeling poorly again, if the tone of his voice was any indication.
When they got to the porch, Chester stuck his head above the grass and looked around. After being satisfied that the old woman couldn't see them, he stooped to help his friend up again.
The marshal was sweating heavily and the tightened lines around his eyes told Chester how much he was hurting, but the bandage wasn't bloody so the wound had stayed closed.
"I'd give a lot for some of her strength right now," he admitted, swaying in the doorway. Chester quickly hauled him back through the cabin's interior and set him down on the table again. Matt's hands trembled as he rested them on his legs.
"You reckon I could find them guns alone?" Chester asked him quietly once the marshal had gotten his breath back.
"And get yourself killed doing it?" Matt asked him, looking up sharply. "No good. We're just gonna have to wait."
Footsteps on the wooden porch startled them and they froze. The door opened and slammed harshly behind Nettie as she strode right over to them. One look at her face and Matt's heart sank. She knew.
"You're just about as foolish as can be, ain't you?" she demanded, looking bemused and angry at the same time. "Crawlin' around in the brush out there. What's the idea?"
"Fresh air," Chester said, not looking at her.
"No guns, no food, there's Utes all around," she continued, pulling a face. "You don't think too good of your hides, do you?"
"Where are the horses, Nettie?" the marshal asked quietly.
"Your color's comin' back some," she observed, looking at his face sharply.
"You heard him," Chester snapped at her. "What about them horses?"
"They bring a good price in these parts," she declared, shaking out her rat's nest of hair. "I could get me a passel of things, trading horses."
"You're real friendly with the Ute, huh?" Matt asked her, still watching close.
She nodded slowly. "They treat me good. A'course, they know Mister Sitton and me come peaceable to their country, not to run 'em off what rightly is their land."
"You ever seen them at their killin'? Chester asked, angry again. "Women, babies, no matter to them."
"Ever ask yourself who started it all?" she shot back, whirling on him. Her face was contorted in hard lines of hatred and decades old suffering.
"Well, I've seen it happen! The whites and their guns movin' in. It wasn't pretty work they did. Women and children, too, that's a fact!"
"They let you live here," Matt broke in, calm as ever. "There's gotta be a reason."
She was quiet for a minute, and she gave him the side-eyed, shrew glance. He thought she wasn't going to tell him, then she spoke.
"He come here. Like you. Full of shot, ailin', white man's doin'. Mister Sitton and me, we took him in and tended him. He was a young chief then, but White Bear never forgot, not in all these years."
Matt was silent for a moment. "White Bear's the oldest chief among the Ute now."
"He don't forget Nettie Sitton," she said, looking down at her hands. "He's nearest to a relation I got."
"You're from another age, Nettie," the marshal spoke softly. "You and White Bear."
Chester watched her, his gaze softening a little. As much as this old woman had tormented them, he was starting to feel sorry for her all alone out here.
She hummed a little as if in agreement. "Maybe you got someone. A wife?" She watched him closely.
"No," the marshal answered. "No wife." She could tell by his face it was a hard thing for him to talk about.
"A mother, then?" Nettie asked, almost gently.
"I got her memory," the big man said quietly. "A pair of earrings she always wore. That's all."
Chester drew in a breath. Mister Dillon never talked about his parents.
"Not on ya," Nettie said crassly, ruining the quiet moment. "I'd a come on 'em."
The marshal breathed out, almost unbelievingly. "They're back in Dodge City."
She clicked her tongue. "Pity."
The old woman's snores filled the cabin. Chester and Matt both sat awake, listening to them and hardly daring to breathe.
"You think you can get the guns without waking her?" the marshal asked, putting his mouth up close to Chester's ear in the dark.
"Well, I can't make out good with no light, but I can fight an old woman in the dark," Chester murmured back, trying to peer through the darkness.
"It's not long until sunup, this may be our last chance," Matt said. Chester didn't reply, but only stepped away into the darkness to search for their guns.
Every step seemed like thunder to him in the quiet space and the blood rushed in his ears. He focused on stepping with the outsides of his feet, in the way Mister Dillon had once shown him that was quieter than walking on your toes.
He stepped easy across the floor and tried to pierce the darkness with his gaze. The old woman had a hitch in her breathing as Chester got closer, and he started looking through the items on her nightstand. He was just reaching for something when a hand reached out and snatched at his wrist. He jumped a mile high and barely stopped himself from shouting.
"Now, that's just close enough!" she hollered, not letting go of him despite his best efforts to pull away. "I don't mind shootin' one bit. Stealin' upon an old woman; what kind of man are you?!"
"You're a doggone witch, that's what you are!" Chester shouted right back, finally succeeding in extricating himself from her grip. "Seein' in the dark, hearin' in the dark, you ain't no kind of woman a'tall!"
"Maybe not now, boy, but I was once!" she hissed at him. "More woman than you could imagine!"
"Alright, shut up, both of you," the marshal ordered from across the room. "Somebody's coming."
They stopped to listen to the horse hooves beat the ground outside.
"They come earlier than I said," Nettie remarked, getting up out of her bed.
"It's them same Indians, Mister Dillon," Chester said quietly, feeling all the hope drain out of him.
"Now you stand still, the pair of you!" Nettie ordered over her shoulder, going outside the door.
"I'm sorry, Mister Dillon," the marshal heard Chester say forlornly. "If I had my rifle, I'd blow us up before I'd let them take us."
"Maybe I'd help you, Chester," Matt replied back, feeling his heart sink as the sound of Nettie talking with the Ute outside came over to them.
"She's out there right now trading for us," the marshal's assistant said. Matt froze.
"Get ready, someone's coming." They waited tensely while the footsteps on the porch sounded again.
The door opened and Nettie came back in, hauling a big cut of meat perhaps thirty pounds with her. She carried it over to the kitchen and put it down, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. "There! That cut of beef will last me a good long time," she remarked, sounding pleased. "It was a gift from my friend, White Bear."
"For us?" Matt asked, dreading the answer.
"No," the old woman scoffed. "You're worth a sight more than that."
"Mister Dillon, they're ridin' off!" Chester exclaimed as he spied the moving shapes through the window.
"Why are you sparin' us, Nettie?" the marshal asked, confused.
"Sparin' you?" She sounded even more bewildered than him.
"You didn't tell them about us," he reminded her.
"They didn't ask," she said belligerently, as if baffled that he would even suggest such a thing.
"How come you're acting human all of a sudden after scarin' us near to death?" Chester demanded suspiciously.
"I ain't gonna miss this boy!" she announced loudly. She sounded annoyed. "That's the truth of it. One ballin' big mouth."
"We'll be glad to get out of your way," Matt said, watching Chester's face get redder with anger. "We'll trade for our guns, our horses, and a cut of your new beef."
"I've been thinking 'bout them ear-bobs," she said in a carefully casual tone.
"I've been thinking about our guns," the marshal said back, not fooled.
"Under my bed," she told him wearily. "Your two horses, saddled up by the spring. Now, them ear-bobs?"
"They're in a strongbox back in Dodge City," Mister Dillon replied. "Do you mean to ride back with us?"
She made a scoffing noise. "I wouldn't be seen in daylight with you," she said haughtily, absently scratching at some lice in her hair.
"Yeah," Chester muttered.
"Well, I might get back this way someday," Matt said. "If I do, I'll bring 'em to you."
"For these old ears?" she asked, suddenly sounding very old and very sad. She hauled herself to her feet and walked over to Chester. Looking down at her hand, she pulled off the glittering band of tarnished silver and held it out in her palm. "Here, boy. Take your ring."
Chester looked bewildered and didn't move.
"Pretties ain't for me," she continued, looking at the jewelry. "Not anymore."
Something in Chester's face changed. "I'll take it," he said quietly, reaching out.
"I declare, I don't understand you at all," he said after slipping the ring back on his finger.
She shuffled back a little to give him space and to turn away.
"If you was regular men, you'd find yourself a woman," she declared. "Pretties don't belong on a man's hand, or in no strongbox. Us womenfolk, it gives us that bright feelin', havin' a pretty."
She was quiet after that and seemed much smaller.
Chester fetched the horses and then helped the marshal mount up. Nettie gave them a generous cut of her meat, then went back into her cabin without saying goodbye.
The ride back to Dodge was quiet and uneventful.
Next spring, Matt decided to go back to visit. His mother's earrings were tucked safely in his pocket. Chester had protested vehemently against returning to any rickety cabin's owned by crazy witches but had eventually accompanied his friend saying he couldn't let him ride back to it without going with.
They went slow, keeping their eyes peeled for Utes this time and being careful. However, their trip was quiet and they weren't stopped by anything.
The cabin still stood where it had been, silent and with a shutter hanging askew. Chester shivered but followed Matt down to the porch. There hadn't been a sign of a single Ute anywhere near.
"Nettie?" the marshal called, stepping over the threshold. He lit a kerosene lamp for the dark interior and walked through the rooms.
"She ain't here," Chester said, looking about.
"She's been gone for some time," Matt remarked, noting the thick untouched layer of dust accumulated over everything.
"But where could she have gone?" Chester asked, spinning around. "There's nothing else around here for a hundred miles."
Matt suddenly had a hunch and walked out behind the cabin. Chester followed.
A raised pile of earth, covered with half-melted snow and a sprinkling of green sprouts lay silent behind the cabin. It would have been mistaken for a regular Ute burial if not for the shotgun sticking straight up out of the ground with a tattered green ribbon tied around the top like a flag. It seemed that White Bear had done the last act possible for him to repay her for saving his life before moving on.
"Golly, Mister Dillon." Chester breathed out, feeling unsettled in a way he couldn't quite explain.
"I know," the marshal said, bending down to the grave.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his mother's earrings and looked at them for a long moment before setting them down top of the soil. He stood up and turned away. Chester stayed behind for a moment. He felt unaccountably sad all of a sudden. Making up his mind, he pulled his ring off and set it down gently atop the sod next to the earrings before turning to follow Mister Dillon back to their horses.