Of all the bank robbers Matt Dillon loaded in prison wagons bound for Lansing Penitentiary, Cade Winton was the last one the lawman figured would return to Dodge, gunning for him. Neither violent, forceful or fast with a gun, Winton was a somber shell of a man scarcely gratified by the $300,000 in gold coins stolen over fourteen years and never recovered by the Justice Department. A Pinkerton agent discovered when Cade needed money, he wired older brother Sim. The brother would withdraw a sack of gold from a vault in his name at The Bank of New York, travel with an armed bodyguard to wherever little brother set his boots and pass the loot to Cade's waiting hands.
No witness ever saw Cade first rob a bank, then give the gold to Sim to deposit. Though Sim held no job and the brothers' dead father left them only a fifty-acre farm, the law couldn't prove Cade stole the $300,000. It belonged to Sim Winton, who shared it with his brother. The gold secured Cade a leisurely life on his release from the penitentiary if he saw one hundred years or more, so Matt was stunned when two years after he rode away in the prison wagon, Cade appeared at the jailhouse one winter morning and called the marshal out.
More than frolicsome summer with its picnics, buggy rides and fishing trips, winter in Dodge was restful—a hibernating hush in the wake of sunup-to-sunup harvesttime bustle with the trail drives and usual eruption of lawbreaking. The last team of drovers had left town some weeks ago, the jail cells were empty and the cold streets quiet. Matt sat at his desk with his chair tilted against the wall, long legs on the desktop and crossed at the ankles. He read the Leavenworth Times, a steaming cup of coffee at his elbow. Chester sat on his bunk, braiding a riata of multicolored rawhide strips, his coffee cup on the floor near his boots. He hummed softly, making up a running tune as he braided.
Matt at first thought the visitor in the long wool coat was a stranger. He wore his collar pulled up around his ears and the brim of his costly hat lowered over his eyes. Of middling height and build, he had a lean, trim form. He took off his hat, uncovering glossy black hair, and Matt righted his chair with a thud, dropped his paper on the desk and rose, stepping close to the man.
"Hello, Winton." The marshal curiously regarded the chiseled upturned face, searched the large black eyes. The eyes looked haunted, with a confounded torment which Matt did not recollect when he captured Winton and sent him to prison two years ago. He did not look sick or lunatic, nor well and sound of mind. His clear buff skin was grayish, his face a bit wan. Winton's complexion browned in summer, and with his black hair and eyes, he had to pay extra to stay at fine hotels and eat in the best restaurants. His maternal grandmother was Osage.
He met Matt's greeting with silence, his neat smallish features strained as he stared up at the lawman. Winton's manner meant trouble. "You were sentenced to five years for bank robbery. It's just been two years."
"They turned me loose early before I died on them," Winton said bitterly. "I caught lung fever in the mines from the coal dust, then a fortnight after I mended, encephalitis near killed me and I can't heal all the way. I'm thirty-four years old and weary as an old man."
"Lansing prison's a hard place. You're out now, Winton. You can leave it behind."
"You done time?"
"No. I never felt what it's like," Matt said.
"It's the closest thing to the pit for a body still breathing." Winton's eyes burned into Matt's. "I have nightmares if I let the lamps go out. The kind that make you scream. I couldn't keep up with the work at Lansing. Did everything wrong in the guards' eyes, and the other prisoners. The guards whipped me and the prisoners beat me."
"It's over now, Cade."
"I held people up and stole money but I never shot anyone. I didn't deserve what they did to me. You knew I never shot a man, Dillon. It was in the reports. You could have dropped charges, let me go."
"There was no pleasure taking you to court, Winton. I had to do my job."
Winton shook his head. "It's not over 'til I fight you."
"Wahl forevermore." Chester set his lariat aside and stood. Winton glanced at him and turned his gaze back to the marshal.
"A fistfight?" said Matt.
"Gunfight."
"Why'd you wanna git yaself kilt drawin' on Mr. Dillon? You got a mountain of stolen gold salted away in that fancy eastern bank, don't haveta work rest a yer life. You kin do anythin', go anywheres."
"No amount of money can wipe away those memories," said Winton.
Matt sat on his desk. "Wearin' a gunbelt under that coat, are ya?" he said easily.
Winton looked flustered, then with quivering fingers unbuttoned his coat and took it off. He wore a slate suit of fine wool, a white linen shirt and dark-blue silk cravat, and a gun belt.
"Hang your coat and hat on the peg by the door there and set, Cade," Matt invited.
"This is not a social call, Marshal."
"Chester." Matt inclined his head at Winton. Chester took the man's hat and coat and hung them up.
"I should hit you for that," Winton said to Matt.
"Go ahead."
"I won't wear myself out swinging at you. Get out in the street if you have the gizzard."
"Set, Winton," Matt said. "Have some coffee."
"No."
"You're no gunman," said Matt. "And I wouldn't fight you if you were."
"You will fight me, Dillon, and you'll draw first. That way it'll be self-defense. I won't have a killing on my conscience and I won't hang."
"Mr. Dillon ain't gonna draw on you."
"He'll draw first, alright," said Winton, his eyes fixed on Matt's face. "I will hound him to it. He'll be so riled, he'll want to kill me."
Matt rose from his seat on the desk. "You want to die, don't you. You haven't the nerve to kill yourself, so you want me to do it. I'll never fight you." Winton swallowed hard, paling a little. "Do yourself a favor and leave Dodge, Cade. Start enjoying your ill-gotten gains."
Shaken, Winton put on his coat and hat. "Where're you goin'," said Matt.
"Change your mind about fighting me already?" Winton quavered, his eyes narrowing. He looked at once scared and hopeful. "That's alright, Marshal, take your time and think on it. I won't leave you be 'til we fight, but right now I need a drink. I am going to the Long Branch."
Matt and Chester watched him walk past the window. "He's surely one pitiful addled soul, Mr. Dillon. Sunk worse from before he went to prison. Them two years at Lansing done it. Ain't abidin' with 'im troublin' you, but I cain't help feelin' sorry for 'im."
"I know. He likely didn't get a glimpse of a woman at the penitentiary," Matt said pensively. "Will you go to the Long Branch, Chester? Let Kitty know Winton's houndin' me for a fight and ask her to chat with him. I'd go, but he'll get distressed all over again if he sees me now. Kitty might bring 'im to his senses, make him realize he wants to live."
"Think Winton wants ta live an' dun know it, Mr. Dillon?"
"With all that money in gold, who wouldn't? Even after splitting it with his brother, that still leaves Winton more than $100,000 to fill his wildest fancies the rest of his life."
"Winton don't seem the kind to dream up wild fancies," Chester said doubtfully, putting on his jacket.
Two or so hours before noon, the Long Branch was empty of patrons save for the forlorn man in the wool coat who sat brooding over his beer. Kitty sat near the stove, sipping hot apple cider. She hadn't approached the lone customer, not that she was wary of him. His quiet manner raised no warning signs, but maybe he wanted to be alone.
The player piano was silent, the sky above the batwings a pallid ice-blue. Broken only by glass clinking as Sam worked behind the bar, the cold drab stillness unsettled Kitty. In her sixth winter at the Long Branch, she was practiced at masking the inertness which clouded her head and dragged at her bones. At once restless and enervating, her discomfort showed only in a slight droopiness cloaking her exquisite face and slender graceful figure.
Her ennui ebbed away when Chester pushed through the batwings. His company amused Kitty, and though he couldn't make her forget her glum surroundings, he pleasantly distracted her. She liked his open artless face with its soulful brown eyes reflecting his admiration of her charms. When she troubled herself to think about it, Kitty found her fondness for Chester's looks a little curious, given her fastidiousness regarding men. Though not at all homely, his features lacked the symmetry of a classically handsome man. Yet he had no lack of lady friends, young and old. Kitty suspected those women also wondered why they thought his looks arresting. If women or men liked him at all, their affection for him was great. Kitty knew of no one who hated Chester. If people disliked him, they simply held him in contempt.
He stared a moment at the gloomy man in the wool coat before limping to Kitty's table by the stove. He tipped his hat and they greeted each other with smiles, and Sam served him a beer on the house. Chester lowered his voice and asked Kitty if she recollected the feller at the table yonder.
"Think I've seen him before," she said in a hushed tone, frowning in puzzlement at the man. "I can't see much of his face with his collar turned up and his hat brim pulled down."
"He's Cade Winton. Mr. Dillon jailed 'im for bank robbery two years past. He jest got outa prison, come to the office 'n called Mr. Dillon out."
"What?"
Sam paused in his work to look at Kitty, and Winton likewise turned his gaze on her. Their eyes briefly met before he attended once more to his beer. His large black eyes were haunted. "He doesn't look like a match for Matt," Kitty's heart eased after its sudden thrill.
"Oh ain't no worry thar, Miss Kitty. Winton ain't no gunman. He had a real hard time in prison, an' he wants Mr. Dillon to draw on 'im cuz he wants ta die. He dint say so but Mr. Dillon knows, an' he tole Winton that straight out. Mr. Dillon asked for you to chat with 'im."
"Me. What on earth for? Chester, I wouldn't know what to say to a man like that."
"Wahl, he ain't seed no women to the penitentiary, an' Mr. Dillon figgers talkin' with you might make Winton see he wants ta live in truth, so's he'll quit houndin' for a gunfight."
"But you said he wanted to die."
"He jest thinks he does on account of he's addled 'n peaked from what they done to 'im at Lansing. What man with $300,000 in gold at the New York Bank wants to die? The money's in 'is brother's name so the law cain't prove it's the gold Winton stole. It's his'n."
"Oh Chester, I don't know about this. Winton doesn't look like he's up for a chat."
"Miss Kitty, iffen you don't try to bring 'im roun', he'll keep plaguing Mr. Dillon to draw on 'im."
"Well sure I'll try. I just don't know why Matt thinks anything I say will make a difference." Kitty rose and moved to Winton's table. He gave her a searching look, nodded gravely and shifted his hat above his hairline. "Mr. Winton. Mind if I sit down?" He nodded again and Kitty pulled out a chair.
"Chester told you my name," said Winton. "You are the marshal's friend. I remember you from when he jailed me, before I went to prison. I recall a beautiful redhaired woman, fashionably dressed. An exotic flower among the ladies in their modest calico, hair buns and bonnets."
"Thank you," Kitty wondered if he meant to compliment or insult her. Maybe neither. He spoke impassively as though stating fact, his sober face neither scornful or admiring. "I'm Kitty Russell. I own this place."
"I figured something of the sort. Your dress is too tasteful and your bearing too poised for a saloon worker."
Sam appeared at the table with another cup of steaming apple cider for Kitty and cold beer for Winton. "First drink's on the house," Kitty said as Winton reached in his pocket. "You paid for your first, so this one's on me." Winton nodded again. He seemed either a man of few words, or poor health and low spirits wouldn't let him be sociable. Likely both.
"Chester told me about your visit to Marshal Dillon," said Kitty.
"I thought as much."
Naturally truthful and direct, Kitty saw no other way to help Matt with this man. She wasn't clever at womanly wiles, though most men with criminal pasts like Winton's were quickly taken in when Matt needed her to trick them. Winton was different. Kitty saw at once he was perceptive and smart. He'd know what she was about if she tried to charm him out of hounding Matt for a gunfight.
"Matt will never draw on you first. He's not that kind of man, so you can forget about dying by his hand. You wanna die, you'll haveta kill yourself, and rich as you are, you're a fool if you do."
"He will draw first. I intend to hound him 'til he's ready to rend me in pieces with his bare hands."
"Ask anyone in town and they'll tell you the same thing," said Kitty. "Matt Dillon never shoots a man unless he has to, no matter how mad he gets."
"He won't just be angry," said Winton. "I will drive him crazy."
"You're the crazy one. Matt oughta have you hauled in chains to the asylum at Osawatomie." Winton blanched and froze still, eyes narrowing in fear. He wouldn't fall for womanly wiles, but the threat of the Kansas Insane Asylum scared him to silence. He'd clearly suffered cruelties in prison, as Chester said, and much as Kitty wanted to help Matt, she hadn't the heart to let Winton believe the marshal would send him to Osawatomie. She gentled her expression and softened her voice. "He won't, though. Matt's too merciful to do that," Kitty soothed. "He doesn't deserve to be hounded, Cade."
Winton lifted his beer mug in trembling fingers and gulped from it. Kitty knew Matt wanted her to make friendly with him and lift him out of his melancholy so he'd see the foolishness of his plan to rile Matt into drawing on him. She meant to be chatty and cheerful when she sat at Winton's table, but hard words somehow tumbled out of her mouth. Kitty helplessly regarded the shocked man beside her, wondering if Chester heard what she said and if he would tell Matt.
"He left soon as you came to my table. Chester did," Winton said faintly.
Kitty gaped at him. She was private about her feelings except with Matt, to whom she spilled her heart whenever they were alone. Winton seemed to know not only her feelings but her thoughts as well.
"I saw from your manner that my distress concerned you, when you said that about the asylum. Then you looked at the table where you were sitting with Chester," Winton explained. His sad, weary eyes met hers, and Kitty was surprised to see in them a mild warmth and sympathy. "It's not that I read people better than the next man, Miss Kitty. You are so pretty and elegant, your eyes are like sparkling blue jewels. I can't recollect when I last saw a woman who is lovely and gracious, so I observe you with an attention I don't give to men or plain sedate ladies. Your face and figure are so animated."
"Thank you, Mr. Winton." Kitty prided herself on being a woman of the world, hiding and protecting in her heart the sensitive little girl who was very much part of her. Even alone with Matt, she only let the little girl's playful side show. Now in Winton's company, Kitty stayed cool and composed with an effort, not blushing, smiling or fidgeting. Though she was accustomed to the admiration of men, Winton spoke earnestly, showing none of the usual gushing male coquetry with its underlying lust.
"I should like us to be friendly, Miss Kitty. I'd like your approval, but it isn't to be," he said sorrowfully. "You're the marshal's friend and you shall hate me."
Kitty shook her head. "I won't hate you cause I know you're no danger to Matt. You're just a pesky nuisance, Winton. Matt can handle you."
Winton took no offense. Kitty imagined he sucked her barbs into himself, building on the crushing burden of hurt he carried inside. "You are very kind, Miss Kitty."
"Kind."
"For feeling sorry for me," said Winton. "Pardon me." He rose, tipped his hat and left the Long Branch.
"Well." Kitty turned in her chair to look at Sam behind the bar. "I sure mucked that up."
"Looked to me like you had a good affect on that fella, Miss Kitty," said Sam. Kitty's eyes widened in bewilderment, drawing a smile from the bartender.
While Kitty and Sam talked about Winton, the marshal sat at his desk in the overly warm office with the windows closed and the fire crackling high in the stove, thinking he needed to take the frigid winter air, stretch his legs and clear his head. Chester lay soundly sleeping on his bunk, an open Wild West magazine resting on his face. He either forgot to go to the post and telegraph office, or was overcome by one of his frequent bouts of drowsiness, likely brought on by the trouble with Winton.
Matt strapped on his gun belt, put on his jacket and hat and went out. He'd fetch the mail and check if any wires came in. No better reason for a walk. A desolate pall descended on the town with the onset of winter, yet Matt found Dodge and the surrounding plains peaceful this time of year. The cold refreshed him, and he looked forward to the snow and long nights, which let him reflect on life.
As he headed down Front Street with his unhurried tread, the marshal saw a trim man in a wool coat coming his way. Cade Winton. Matt hoped Kitty managed to talk some sense into him, maybe cheer him a little. As Winton approached, he unbuttoned his coat and tucked the right-side flap behind the gun at his hip. He halted on the boardwalk some ten paces from Matt. "That's far enough, Marshal." Matt kept walking.
Winton's voice shook. "I said stop." He looked nine inches up into the steady sky-blue eyes gazing down on him.
"Winton. Goin' to your room to rest before lunch? Looks like you could use a rest."
"You know what I'm after, Dillon." Winton stiffened and smacked his hand on his gun, his eyes fixed on Matt's. The marshal didn't startle a bit or reach for his six-shooter. No tension disturbed his easy expression.
Winton's fingers gripped his revolver. "Draw that Peacemaker now or I'll shoot you through the heart."
"Alright, Winton. Shoot."
Winton drew, aimed at Matt's chest and cocked his gun. Matt's gun stayed in the holster, his hands in his jacket pockets. "What now?" said the marshal.
Winton's brow furrowed and his eyes flamed in anger. "You are playing me for a fool." He un-cocked his gun and holstered it.
"Cade, why are you so dead set on making me kill you," said Matt. Scowling, Winton was silent. "Where're you stayin'?"
Winton's eyes blinked hard and he gave a slight start, looking muddled. "Dodge House. That ass of a clerk flat ordered me to leave soon as he saw me. Know what he said? 'We have no rooms for Indians. Don't matter if you're a breed.' I told him I was just one-quarter Osage, and he shook his head and said, 'Don't matter. Your skin ain't white and you got black eyes and hair, so you can't stay here.' I gave him a double eagle over the room price, to stay long as I want with the best service."
"Then why let it bother you more than a minute?" said Matt. "With your riches, you can buy your way anywhere, and it shouldn't hurt paying twenty-dollar gold coins to do it. Since you didn't earn the money, particular. You stole every cent and get to keep it. If you'd quit wallowing in misery, Winton, you'd see how lucky you are and want to live."
"You don't understand," said Winton. "People look at you, they see a white man. Maybe the Osage would let me live among them, but I'd never fit in there, either. Miss Kitty understands better than you, Marshal. On account of being a woman, and even though she's more ladylike and well-bred than a lot of real ladies, she is not one herself. I mean no offense by that, I want to speak well of her. She was most kind to me."
"Why don't you go to your room and take it easy awhile, Cade."
"I am not giving up, Marshal. Come what may, I shall fight you, but now I must lie in my room a spell. I must see the doctor, first, though. I've run out of headache powders and laudanum. And chloral hydrate so I can sleep without bad dreams. When the brain fever almost killed me, the doctor at the prison infirmary said I'd go mad without chloral."
"I'll walk you to Doc's," said Matt.
"No. I don't want to walk with you. Just tell me where the doctor's office is."
"Winton, I'm going with you and there's nothin' you can do about it." Matt walked a few steps and turned. "Let's go."
"No. Your company is loathsome to me."
Matt stepped close to Winton and took hold of his arm. "I'm giving you some of your own back, Winton. You'll get a taste of how it feels."
"But I am ill."
"Then I can help you if you faint away before we get there," Matt said wryly. He strong-armed the struggling man to Doc's. Winton sucked in a chest full of cold air to holler. Matt clapped a hand over his mouth.