A/N: Hello! Another story, based on the radio episode "Kitty's Quandary." Couple of things here: some light swearing because I'm still trying to rein in my dirty mouth, and mostly gore-free descriptions of a few bullet wounds.
I made Kitty and Matt talk about stuff, but without actually solving anything. I've noticed Matt can be pretty possessive over Kitty despite not making a move towards a committed relationship and while knowing (at least in the radio program) that she's occasionally going out with other men. I'm still trying to wrap my head around that one. I haven't seen a lot of the episodes of GS yet, because I tend to gravitate toward the radio show instead, so maybe the true "canon" is different.
Anyways. All mistakes are my own since I don't have a beta reader. I don't own any of this, I'm just a poor college student. Leave a review if you feel like it, even if you thought it needed work (it probably does). Hope everyone out there is doing well.
Matt Dillon's face hurt. Well, more accurately, it was a tooth, way in the back on the left side that hurt. But it had radiated and spread through the past few days, like a living thing digging around in there until he was so miserable he couldn't sleep.
He glanced in the mirror in the office, grimacing at his too-pale complexion and tired eyes. He noticed with a flash of annoyance that the left side of his face was a little swollen. The marshal experimentally pushed his thumb into his jaw and instantly regretted it. It felt like someone had driven a railroad spike right through the back of his mouth. Clapping his hat on his head, Matt trudged miserably up the stairs to Doc's office and went in.
"Ah, Matt," Doc greeted him. "You here for a game of checkers? Because when I'm through with you, you're gonna be so beat you'll never be able to–"
"No, Doc, I need you to take care of a tooth for me," Matt mumbled, feeling slightly dizzy standing there. It was so hot up in Doc's office.
"Well, here, sit down," Doc said quickly, pushing him down onto a chair and gently turning the marshal's head so he could look at the inflamed side. "You know you've got a fever?"
"It's just the tooth," Matt replied irritably.
"Alright, alright," Doc muttered placatingly as he bent lower.
The lantern in Doc Adam's office was always burning bright, but Matt found it almost intolerable as he leaned way back in the chair and squinted up into it. Doc's face was so close they were almost touching and he peered into Matt's mouth with concern. He reached for a metal instrument, and then adjusted his glasses.
"Does this hurt?" he asked just before blinding pain lanced through Matt's mouth and made him jerk away.
"Stop poking around, Doc," Matt snapped testily. The rotten tooth was sending jolts through his jaw and up into his head. Matt had been set on ignoring the problem to avoid the inevitable treatment, he was finally in too much pain to stay stubborn about it.
"Yup, it's pretty bad," Doc declared, backing away. "Gone abscess. It'll have to be pulled. You should've come to me sooner."
Matt's face screwed up sourly. "And have you nagging at me like an old woman the whole time? Just pull it."
"Oh, no," Doc shook his head, setting the lantern down. "Not without some anesthetic. We're gonna have to get you good and drunk before I'm getting anywhere near that tooth. If I don't, you're liable to kick me through the wall before I ever get my pliers on it."
Matt felt a cold shudder ripple up his back at the word 'pliers' but kept his face set. "Alright. We'll take care of it tonight."
"Why not start now?" Doc asked. "It's gotta be hurting you."
"I'm not getting blind drunk in the middle of the day," Matt bristled.
"Well, it's hardly the middle of the day, it's gotta be going on five now and–"
"No, Doc. Later. I want to be able to get up in the morning."
"With the amount of liquor you're gonna need? I doubt it. You want something for your fever?"
"No. Are we still getting dinner?"
"Sure, Matt, but I think we should get Chester up here to help tonight."
"Alright, you stop by the office and tell him. I'll get Kitty and we'll meet you in Delmonico's."
It was half past five and the midsummer sun was streaming through the windows with cheerful abandon, not heeding the growing hour. The Long Branch wasn't yet crowded, but it was on its way. Glasses clinked, people chatted, and the crinoline skirts of the women swished as they glided across wooden floorboards. Two men sat at the bar, one drinking and one staring moodily at the scarred surface of the bar. The one drinking was a cheerful-looking young man with a shock of tawny hair that tumbled in careless waves over his forehead. The sea-green eyes underneath sparked with fierce intelligence. His partner was an older, less fetching man with bad teeth and an anxious, simpering look.
"Push that bottle down this way, Larson," the partner said waspishly. "You aimin' to drink it all yourself?"
"I'd have a fat chance with you in the same county, " the tawny-headed man said wryly but pushed the bottle over all the same. "Here."
"Nothin' better to do in this forsaken town. I thought we'd be shut of it by now."
"We'll be movin' along directly, Grogan," Larson said evenly. It was evident from his tone that he would brook no argument, and though he was younger, he was in charge of their joint decisions.
"We ain't never lolly-gagged around like this before," Grogan griped, pouring himself four fingers.
"We got a reason now," Larson remarked patiently. He finished his own drink, then pushed back from the bar. "I'll be back in a little bit."
"Where are you off to now?" his partner asked irritably.
"Just over to that table."
Across the room, a pretty redhead wearing small sparkling stones and a deep emerald dress that complimented her hair laughed prettily and flushed with joy. She was far and away the most attractive woman in the place with her natural assurance and grace that was evident in her movements.
"Oh, I see," Grogan mused. "Ain't that nice."
"You got any objections?" Larson asked a tad stiffly.
"Well, sure I have! You ain't got no business wastin' time on a saloon gal."
"I'm not wastin' my time."
"Aint' no woman livin' ain't a waste of time when there's work to be done." Grogan addressed his misogynistic remark to the whiskey-soaked bar, not quite daring to look his partner in the face.
"I'll see you later," came the cold reply, and then he was alone.
"Blasted fool," Grogan muttered darkly and helped himself to the bottle Larson had left behind.
Larson stepped lightly over to the table where the pretty redhead sat with a few other men. When they saw him approaching, they gave up their seats more than a little resentfully. It was an unspoken rule, a holdover from more civilized parties in the East, and a sign that no one was itching for a fight that particular instant. If you were sitting with a pretty girl or any other kind of entertainment and another man came up, you gave up your seat instantly to him. In turn, you could expect the same to be done for you when you wanted to see the night's attractions.
Of course, the whiskey flowed too abundantly and tempers flared too hot to allow this particular social practice to be honored often. This was one of the luckier times.
"Evenin', ma'am," the young man said warmly to the redhead. She turned, and he felt the force of her pretty gaze land squarely on him. It felt like someone had taken a hot iron to his spine and he didn't altogether despise the sensation.
"Evenin'," she said courteously.
"Larson. Tom Larson," he said, offering a hand. She took it, he noticed, with a firm grip.
"I'm Kitty," she offered lightly. "Larson. Sounds like you're from up north."
He laughed, and Kitty couldn't help but notice how white and straight his teeth were. "Not too far north, Miss Kitty. My folks were homesteaders and settled down in the Iowa territory. I joined the first cattle drive I could, been a trail hand ever since."
"Nothin' wrong with that," Kitty replied. "I've seen you in here a few times these past couple of days. You've been here about a week, is that right? What brings you to Dodge?"
"Oh, just passin' through," he said casually, waving a hand. "Maybe some of my time here can be spent talkin' with you."
She smiled back and gestured to the chair next to her. "Care for a drink?"
"No, I figure I've done enough drinkin' for now."
"Most people that come through here don't have much on their minds except whiskey." Her tone was a touch sardonic, but his reply remained cheerful.
"Yeah, well, they don't know what they're missing."
His sea-green eyes met her blue ones easily and she felt a glow of warmth in her belly from genuine good feeling. But she carefully kept her tone slightly admonishing.
"Larson, I've been around noisy trail hands too long to be taken in by soft soap."
He grinned at her words. "I ain't usin' none, Miss Kitty. That's for true."
The sincerity in his voice couldn't be sincere but damned if she could tell. The warm feeling spread and she felt her mouth edging upwards into a smile.
"You say things pretty nice, Larson," she said quietly.
"I'll bet the marshal has some pretty nice things to say," Larson remarked easily, but it stung Kitty unexpectedly.
"Matt?" she asked. "He wastes about as many compliments as he wastes bullets." It was meant to be light-hearted, but it came out a little dour and Kitty instantly wished she hadn't said it, hating that she truly felt that way.
"You seem to be pretty good friends, you and the marshal," Larson replied gently, seeming to sense her ambivalence. "I've scarce been in Dodge a week, but any fool with eyes could see that."
"We've–known each other a long time," Kitty said, trying not to sound uncomfortable. Matt hadn't been exactly avoiding her, but he hadn't been eager to see her as of late. The drovers up from Texas running summer herds were in town again and he was busy. She was playing second fiddle to the lawman's badge, and he wasn't doing anything to make her feel otherwise.
When she asked him about it, he simply shrugged and said in a detached sort of way that he was a lawman before anything else. It made her want to shake him and scream at him that he was a person and not just an extension of his gun hand, but she knew she may as well spend her time yelling at the hitching post outside for all the good it would do.
Matt could be wonderfully receptive and tactful, but when it came to the law he shut down and became the living embodiment of unconditional peacekeeping. He treated everyone like a human being except himself. Worse than that, he didn't seem to have a problem with it. It made Kitty mad enough to see red, and lonely enough every time it happened to consider leaving Dodge. But she always stayed.
"It's plain to see he thinks you're smart enough to talk to," Larson said, a little wryness slipping into his grin. "Sure have seen him do it often enough."
"Well, sure," Kitty acquiesced. "He has to talk to somebody. I'm handy."
And there it was. A little self-deprecating statement, loaded with too much truth. The words were bitter in her mouth but Kitty said them anyway.
"The way I look at it, he's a lucky man," Larson said softly, but with conviction. "Sure, I mean it!" he protested when he saw her arched eyebrow. "I wish I was gonna be around, permanent-like. I'd give him a run for his money."
Kitty swallowed the instinctive response that he just might, and asked instead, "Are you leaving so soon?"
"Yeah, pushin' on to Texas in a day or two soon as I get a little job done here in town," he said peacefully.
"I'm kinda sorry to hear that. I'd gotten used to seein' you, the past few days."
"Well, I'd admire to see as much of you as I can, while I'm here, Miss Kitty," Larson drawled, and this time his gaze traveled up and down, real slow, resting around the low cut of the bodice on her dress.
Kitty didn't blush, but she could have, ridiculous as it was.
"Is that what you've been admirin'?" she asked in soft amusement.
"I been admirin' you, ma'am," he replied calmly, looking her straight in the face now. For all his rough ways, Kitty found the boyish mix of crudeness, polite manners, and calm demeanor appealing. She was about to reply when footsteps sounded behind her, spurs ringing.
"Hi, Kitty. You ready?"
She turned, and there was Matt, standing behind her respectfully.
"Oh, hello, Matt," she said. "Ready–for what?"
"Well, I told you I'd come by and take you along to supper tonight, didn't I?"
"Oh! Yeah, you did," she replied, wondering why she wasn't feeling more pleased. "Matt, do you know Tom Larson?"
"Hullo, Larson," Matt greeted him with a nod. "I've seen you around the past few days."
"Yeah, I've been here all right, Marshal."
Kitty thought there might have been a challenge coiled up somewhere in that statement like a riled rattlesnake, but she wasn't sure.
"Alright, Kitty," Matt continued after an awkward pause. "Let's go."
"Well, I'm sorry to run off this way, Larson," Kitty said regretfully. "But I'll see you before you go, won't I?"
"Sure you will," Larson answered easily, smiling wide. "You'll be comin' back here tonight, won't you? I'll be waitin'."
Kitty smiled gratefully, standing up. "Goodbye, Larson."
"Miss Kitty," Larson said, pinching the brim of his hat and ducking his head.
Matt followed Kitty out of the Long Branch, and the quiet swish of her skirt against the boardwalk sounded in time with his confident strides. He waited until they'd gone some up the street before he spoke.
"You sounded like you were saying your last earthly goodbyes in there," he said, trying to make it sound like a joke and failing miserably. His jaw was thumping nastily in time with his heart, bringing pain with each pulse. It was hard to be cheery.
"Well, it might sound strange to you, but there are folks who like to do things in a nice way," Kitty replied, a little archly and sounding hurt. Matt felt the barbs sink in from her words and looked at her sideways as they kept walking.
"Who? That drifter?"
"He's no drifter; he's in town on business. And he's a very nice fella."
"Alright, Kitty, alright," Matt cajoled, not willing to risk an argument. His mouth just hurt too much. "Let's go eat."
Delmonico's was having a quiet night too; it was only about half full. Doc glanced up from his newspaper when they entered the restaurant, and they joined him at the table. They all ordered, then Doc chatted with Kitty about small, unimportant things. His calm demeanor was a balm to her somewhat unsettled nerves, and she found herself relaxing.
"I'm surprised Chester didn't join us tonight," Kitty said lightly.
"I stopped by the office and invited him, but he said he was busy. Writin' some letters tonight, he is," Doc replied.
"I hope it's nothing too serious," Kitty said, eyes sparkling with good humor.
"Not hardly. Just writing some cousins. More likely than not they're hill-folk who can't read anyways."
Matt was quiet for most of the time, and when the food came, he seemed to concentrate on that.
"I'm surprised you're able to eat at all, Matt," Doc remarked, watching the marshal's careful bites. "The way that tooth looks."
"I'm chewin' on the other side," Matt replied shortly, glaring at the doctor.
"You have a bad tooth, Matt?" Kitty asked with quick concern.
"One of the worst I've ever seen," Doc butted in, nodding to his coffee. "Gonna be a pretty painful job, getting that out."
Kitty's soft blue eyes found Matt's face, scowling down at his plate.
"You might have mentioned it," she said softly.
"You had other things on your mind, remember?" he answered without thinking and instantly wished he could take it back.
Doc cleared his throat uncomfortably and Kitty squashed the quick flash of resentment.
"You gonna pull it, Doc?" she asked, choosing to remain diplomatic.
"Yes, tonight. Around midnight, I expect," he answered nonchalantly.
"Midnight?" Kitty said disbelievingly, startled into smiling a little. "That's a fancy hour for tooth pulling, isn't it?"
"It's a foolish hour if you ask me," Doc remarked. "More than a touch dramatic. But Matt's a stubborn man."
"What does he mean?" Kitty implored, gently trying to reinclude Matt in the conversation.
"Doc's the one making a story out of it, ask him," Matt replied tersely. He was feeling worse every minute; the fever was pulsing up into his head again, making him woozy and uncomfortable.
Kitty sighed quietly, then resigned herself to the rest of the conversation.
"Well, what about it, Doc?"
"Matt's gonna need a lot of liquorin' up to deaden the pain before I start," Doc began. "And he won't do it like a normal person; he's insistin' on going through it at night so that he can sleep it off by morning. Stubborn as a Missouri mule."
"The liquor won't taste as good in the morning, Doc," Matt offered quietly from his place.
"Alright, we've agreed to do it your way," Doc said, not sounding the least bit ruffled. He glanced at his pocketwatch."But you'd better start gettin' some liquor down you pretty soon. You're so stiff-necked it's gonna take a while to get any effect."
"Well, if we run out of whiskey, Kitty will just send us up some more, won't you, Kitty?" the marshal asked. Kitty met his gaze, which wasn't quite apologetic but coming close, and smiled warmly.
"Sure, Matt. Do you want me to stay around, Doc? Maybe I can help hold him down."
"Maybe you could, at that," Doc mused, tickled at the idea of the small-framed redhead holding down the well-over six-foot marshal.
Last summer, an absurd rumor floated around Dodge when a drunken drover claimed he'd seen the lawman punch out a donkey with a single blow for being ornery. Doc had gleefully brought it up every time he could for a while, but he'd never been able to dispel the private thought that Matt was perfectly capable of doing it.
"No, you go along, Kitty," Matt said.
"I'd be glad to help."
"No, you don't want to keep that nice fella waiting." There was no heat behind the harsh words; Matt just sounded a little lonesome after saying them and scrubbed a hand over his too-hot face.
Doc saw the gesture, and frowned, reaching over to palm his forehead. Matt swiped it away, but not before Doc clicked his tongue. "Fever's comin' back some. It's time for you to start drinkin', Matt."
"Alright," the marshal muttered, loathe to get up from the table.
"We'd better go up to the office," Doc said, getting up and putting on his hat. "We'll see you later, Kitty."
"Goodbye, Doc," Kitty answered. "If you need anything, just send someone over to get me. Goodbye, Matt."
"Bye, Kitty," Matt said without looking at her, and started making his way for the door.
Kitty walked in through the swinging doors of the Long Branch and went to the bar.
"Things going alright, Sam?" she asked the kindly-faced bartender.
"Oh, they're fine, Miss Kitty," he replied. "Not much business, though. Kinda quiet."
Soft footsteps sounded and she turned her head to find Larson's beaming countenance.
"Oh, back so soon, Miss Kitty?" he asked, sounding delighted.
"Yeah, I'm back," she said in a droll, self-mocking way.
"I got a table over there," he gestured to one with his hat sitting atop it. "Care to sit down?"
"Might as well."
He pulled out the chair for her, then took his seat opposite her.
"You sure do run a nice place here, Miss Kitty. I ain't expectin' to run into nothin' like this in Texas. Leastways, I ain't expectin' to run into anybody like you down there. You suppose I will?"
This last was said with a hint of coyness, but Kitty's brow was slightly creased as she thought of Matt's pale face when he picked at his food.
"Miss Kitty?" Larson said gently, prompting her back into the present.
"I'm sorry, Larson. What'd you say?"
"Just talkin' about how I'm headed for Texas. I sort of expected the marshal to walk you back here."
"Well, he would've, but Doc thought that he should go right on up to his place," Kitty replied.
Larson's brow furrowed. "Is there somethin' the matter with the marshal?"
Kitty smiled a little. "Even lawmen get toothaches."
"And the doc's gonna pull it tonight, is that right?" Larson's gaze had taken on a disquieting keenness; the intensity was off-putting. But Kitty's own eyes loped around the room, jumping from table to table and she didn't notice.
"Yeah. It's sure making him miserable," Kitty answered.
"I'll bet," Larson remarked. "One of my brothers had a bad tooth once; Ma and Pa had to hold him down and pour corn whiskey mash down his throat til he was in a stupor. And he still hollered somethin' fierce when they finally yanked it."
"Well, Doc knows what he's doing," Kitty said with more confidence than she felt. It wasn't life-threatening, but Matt was going to be hurting for a while yet.
"I'm sure he does; wouldn't be much of a doctor if he didn't. The marshal's lucky he's got someone like Doc to look out for him," Larson said easily.
The piano began a slow tune, unlike the frantic hilarity of rollicking songs it usually pumped out. This one had a melancholy feel that made Kitty's chest ache for something she couldn't name, something she'd forgotten a long time ago.
"Miss Kitty, I'd be much obliged if you'd dance with me a spell," Larson said, looking her full in the face again. All trace of his earlier, dangerous look had gone. He was all charm and gentle ease again.
"I'd love to," Kitty murmured, slipping her hand into his cool one.
They swayed together across the floor, and Kitty danced close to him like he'd hoped. Kitty was quietly delighted when he was careful not to step on her feet, and she very gently placed her chin on his shoulder. He smelled of soap and oats and clean alfalfa. Kitty closed her eyes and rocked with Larson slowly, back and forth.
The town had settled down for the night and decided the timing wasn't good for a ruckus. It was lucky too because the marshal wasn't in any shape to deal with trouble if it came. Chester hopped up the stairs to Doc's office again. He held a whiskey bottle, and the liquor sloshed around as he opened the door and limped in.
"Here's another bottle, Doc," Chester announced, passing it to the doctor.
Doc was standing near the marshal, who sat kinda slumped down on the table. Matt's head bobbed up to take a look at what was happening, then slowly drooped back down towards his chest.
"Thanks, Chester," Doc replied. "Here, Matt. Start to work on this one."
Matt looked at the bottle and blinked for a long moment.
"Yeah," he said thickly and took it.
The glass felt cool under his fingers, and he marveled at the sensation. The room was hotter than ever to him, but it was probably the first bottle he'd downed that was making him feel so dizzy.
Matt hated drinking to excess; he avoided it whenever he could. A glass of rye after a long time on the trail was one thing, but drinking in a numbing show of gluttony just for someone to hand you another bottle was another thing. If his mouth wasn't killing him so badly, he'd have ripped the tooth out days ago and have done with it. But he admitted he couldn't do this alone, so he drank. The ache was still there, but it had settled back into his jaw and was beating quietly there in some distant, unimportant part of his mind.
"Sure does take a lot to fill him up, don't it?" Chester asked dispassionately, watching the marshal sway a little on the tabletop.
"Well, it's takin' a lot tonight, but you never can tell with whiskey," Doc replied. "Some nights you can just take two drinks and–well, you'll do things you'll wish you hadn't."
Chester chuckled. "Well, I've seen that happen."
"I've seen it happen, too," the marshal slurred, too loud in the small space. "To you."
"Well. Yessir, I guess you have," Chester grinned ruefully.
"Oh, go on, now," Doc said. "Stop talking and drink it down. This isn't a social gathering."
"Alright," Matt muttered. He tilted the bottle up to his lips and swallowed a fiery mouthful. It made him cough, and he squinted at the label. The letters were dancing around.
"This stuff isn't good enough to drink like that," he slurred.
"You'll feel just as bad tomorrow as if it was," Doc replied cynically. "Come on. Drink it."
Matt sighed but pulled from the bottle again. Regardless of what he personally thought, the marshal could get broody in his darker moods. Drinking seemed to exacerbate it if he was feeling low to begin with until he was downright mean. This didn't seem to be one of his more maudlin times, though. As the marshal steadily got drunker, his good humor didn't disappear. He was even a little chatty.
Matt took a deep breath. The floorboards were churning, making him feel giddy. He thought about long grass waving out on the prairie in a gentle wind and felt a little better. "Chester?" he slurred without opening his eyes.
"Yessir?"
"How's–how's the town?"
"Oh, it's jes' fine, Mr. Dillon," Chester replied airily.
"That's good," Matt drawled thickly. "Real good. You wanna be sure and keep it–just like that. That way."
"I sure will," Chester told him consolingly.
"Cause you're gonna be in charge now, for a while, you know that…you know that?"
"Yessir, I know that."
"Good. Cause you gotta 'member…remember that Dobey and folks like him wanna marshal that's in charge ev–every minute."
"Yessir, I understand, don't you fret about–"
"'Course it doesn't take much to be a marshal," Matt continued sententiously. "All you gotta do is…care about certain things, and–and not care about…certain other things."
Doc shook his head while the marshal tried to explain the subtle intricacies of peacekeeping after he'd downed two bottles of whiskey.
"You understand that, don't you, Chester?"
"I certainly do," the assistant replied, looking troubled. "Well. I mean, I don't–exactly understand, Mr. Dillon, but the way you say it…Well, makes it seem like I understand."
"Alright, Chester, that's enough," Doc rolled his eyes. "Help me get him over to that big chair."
They each grabbed one of Matt's arms and hauled him up. Matt swayed the second his boots touched the floor, but he kept his feet. They slowly guided him towards the chair in the corner, and Matt clumsily tried to help.
"Just gotta care about certain things," Matt muttered drowsily.
"Don't you worry none," Chester grunted out; the marshal was heavier than he looked and that was going some. "Don't you worry about nothin', Mr. Dillon."
They dragged the marshal over to the chair, and then Doc set to work.
The next morning dawned gray and cheerless. The overcast of clouds made the day seem more like a holdover of the night before, and the town seemed to slink through it, save for Chester. The marshal's assistant was up early and tending to the office before dawn had a chance to lighten everything up. He whistled shrilly as he swept up, and a harmless old drifter came and relaxed near the hitching post. Chester chatted happily away while the drifter rolled a quirly slowly.
"Well, I'll tell ya, Ben, there ain't nothin' so hard about runnin' a marshal's office."
"That so," the drifter returned, noncommittal.
"Why, sure! Mr. Dillon and me was talkin' about it just last night," Chester boasted confidently. "All you gotta have is a town to watch out for. And you gotta have the kind of mind to watch out for it."
Ben rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "That's what it takes to be a successful marshal, huh? Looks to me like a broom might come in handy, too."
Chester stopped sweeping. "Now, there aint' no call to make a remark like that," he said coldly.
Another set of footsteps clattered up the boardwalk. A middle-aged man in suspenders walked up to them, nodding politely at them both.
"Morning, Chester. Ben."
"Hello, Leander," Chester said happily. Leander's face was somewhat troubled as he craned his head to peek inside the office.
"Where's the marshal?"
"He ain't here right now, but I'd be pleased to help–" Chester started, eager to be of service.
"You'd better find him, and quick," Leander said firmly, cutting him off.
"Well, I can't rightly just–"
"Do you know where he is?"
Chester stood tall, chest puffed out with pride. "Sure, I know where he is."
"Well, you tell him to come on down to the bank, it's been robbed."
"What?"
"Yeah, Dave Andrews was shot while he was on guard."
"Goodness, I–I better get on down there and see about it," Chester said more to himself, mind whirling with everything that needed to be done.
"There ain't nothin' for you to see, Chester," Leander said contemptuously. "The bank's been robbed. The fellas who done it are off scot-free. The safe was blowed right open. You'd better go get the marshal, Chester. This is gonna take more than a broom."
Chester's eyes narrowed with dislike, and he began with, "Now, you see here, there ain't–"
"You'd better go get him, Chester," Leander warned as he began walking away. "They're gonna be sendin' out a posse without him."
"Alright," Chester didn't quite yell after the retreating back. He began stomping over to Doc's place, muttering under his breath. "It sure don't mean much gettin' left in charge of a town."
He made it to Doc's and burst through the door. "Doc?" he called, not seeing him immediately.
Doc came out of the back room. "Well, Chester, you're out early."
"Where is he?" Chester asked anxiously.
"Who?"
"Mr. Dillon, of course!"
"Oh, he's in there, sleepin' it off."
Chester's face hardened in grim determination. "I gotta see him."
"Now, Chester, there's nothin' to worry about," Doc told him, watching his tense face. "Everything's going fine."
"Well, I know that, Doc," Chester said in exasperation. "But I gotta–"
"Pretty good job of it, if I do say so myself," Doc mused. "It took a little–"
"Doc, I gotta go in there!"
"Alright, Chester, for Heaven's sake. Go in there, he won't know anything about it. He'll be asleep for some time, yet."
"You don't understand, Doc!" Chester cried despairingly. "We gotta wake him up!"
"We're gonna do no such thing," Doc replied an undercurrent of threat in his voice now.
"We got to, Doc! The bank's been robbed! Dave Andrews has been shot, and–and this just ain't the kind of thing I can be in charge of." Chester's eyes dropped to the floor in shame.
"I'd do it for him if I could, Doc. The town just won't stand still for nobody but Mr. Dillon takin' care of it."
"Alright, come on," Doc said quietly, motioning him into the back room. "We'll wake him, but it's an awful shame. He's gonna be hurtin' for sure."
They approached the bed, where Matt was sprawled out on his side. Doc had removed his boots and gunbelt to make him more comfortable while he slept off the booze. One arm was tucked under his head, the other draped carelessly over the side of the bed. He snored quietly. Chester could tell from his slack face that he was sleepin' harder than he usually did, maybe harder than he ever had before.
"Matt," Doc said, patting his face. No reaction. "Matt, wake up. Come on, now. Wake up." He shook him, and Matt still didn't move except to mumble a little.
Doc sighed. "You'd better get me some water, Chester. See that little bucket?"
Chester did as he was bid, and brought the bucket over.
"By golly, I hate to do this," Doc mused, before pouring about half the bucket over Matt's head. It streamed down over his face and Matt jolted a little, swiping clumsily at his face. His eyes blinked open a few times, but Doc could tell he wasn't all the way awake yet.
"Whatsa matter?" Matt slurred, blinking heavily.
"Come on, Matt, gotta wake up," Doc said loudly, grabbing his arm. "I'll help you sit up, here."
"What's wrong?" he asked again, only vaguely aware of what was happening.
"Chester, get his feet on the floor," Doc ordered, and Chester swung his legs out onto the floor and forced the marshal into a sitting position.
"Alright, Doc," Matt muttered drowsily. "Just get that tooth outta there."
"It's all over, Matt," Doc answered grimly. "The tooth's out."
"Well then don't bother me," Matt murmured, eyes flickering shut. "Lemme go back to sleep…"
"Don't let him stretch out again, Chester," Doc ordered as Matt's body sagged against the wall. He picked up the bucket again and dumped the rest of the water over Matt's head.
This time, Matt's eyes flew open and glared like chips of blue ice set in a pale face. His voice was getting a little clearer. "Doggone it, Doc! Leave me alone, will you?"
"Sorry, Matt, but you've got to get up."
"Why?" the marshal asked fuzzily, scrubbing at his eyes.
"The bank's been robbed," Doc answered reluctantly. "Dave Andrews was shot."
"What?" Matt asked, struggling to force his head awake. "Well–where's Chester?"
"I'm right here," Chester piped up.
"Oh," Matt said, sounding relieved. "Do you know what happened?"
"Sure I do, Mr. Dillon, I found out about it alright. It was my job, after all. You see, them two fellas–you know the ones been hangin' around the Long Branch, the friend of Miss Kitty's and that other one? Well, they broke into the bank early this morning, they–they blowed the door clean off the safe!"
Matt's head pounded and swirled; it was difficult to even form a thought. "What happened to Dave Andrews?"
"He seen 'em ridin' off and he started hollerin', and they shot him. He's dead, Mr. Dillon," Chester supplied morosely.
"Alright, Chester," Matt replied with resignation. "Let's go. Where's my gun?"
The marshal hauled himself up off the bed and had to lean against the wall to stay upright. After his clumsy fingers tightened the gunbelt around his hips, he took a few wobbling, unsteady steps toward the door and grabbed his hat.
"Doc, can–can you do something for him?" Chester asked in a low undertone. "Coffee, or somethin'? He's still actin' all liquored up. My gracious, he ain't got no color to him a'tall."
"You want a headache powder before you go, Matt?" Doc asked quietly, eyeing the marshal's frightfully pale face.
"No thanks, Doc," Matt answered wearily. "I'll make it alright."
"It'll make you feel better."
"I'm not gonna feel better until I catch up with those men," Matt said shortly. He walked out the door, and Doc listened to them slowly descend the stairs until the sound faded away.
Their horses were saddled in fifteen minutes, and another fifteen minutes had them out of Dodge's limits and headed out on the prairie, following the trail of two outlaws. The lack of wind made everything feel stale and used up. Since it was so cloudy, Matt felt as though the sky was about three feet above his head. The ride helped to sober him up, but he felt worse the further they got from town.
With the horse swaying and rolling underneath him, he kept his mouth gritted tightly shut, mindful of the pulsing hole in the left side. Even still, it didn't help for long. Half an hour later, they weren't quite to the bank of the Arkansas when Matt dismounted abruptly and went behind some bushes. It happened again, and after the third time, Chester cautiously approached him with a canteen of cold water.
"It can't last much longer, Mr. Dillon," Chester consoled him as the marshal took a mouthful and spit to get the nasty taste out of his mouth.
"You want I should do anything for ya?" he asked as he watched the sick lawman stagger back towards his horse.
"I'll be alright, Chester," Matt deadpanned, mounting back up slowly.
"You want a snakeskin to bind around your head?"
Matt turned his pounding head deliberately towards his assistant. "A what?"
"A snakeskin, sir. My ma used to swear by it for headaches. I'd be glad to get you one; I'd be able to chase up a snake most anytime out here, no trouble a'tall in that."
"No thanks, Chester. The faster we catch up to these two, the better I'll feel."
"Alright, Mr. Dillon, I was only tryin' to help," Chester replied easily, and spurred his horse into a trot again.
It was quiet for about thirty seconds, and then Chester spoke again.
"Mr. Dillon?"
Matt sighed. "Yes, Chester."
"It sure was a lucky thing that Miss Kitty and that Larson was friends, wasn't it?"
"Yeah. A murderin' bank robber's a nice a friend to have."
"No, Mr. Dillon, I didn't mean it like that. What I mean is, if Miss Kitty hadn't been so friendly-like with him, we wouldn't a knowed which way to come."
"They were seen ridin' out of town this way," Matt offered stubbornly.
"Well, sure they was, but what that Larson fella told Miss Kitty kinda…confirmed it, you might say," Chester continued, not sounding the least bit perturbed.
"What did he tell her?" Matt asked dully, wondering if his head would hurt less if someone cut it off.
"Well," Chester launched into his story with gleeful abandon. "She told me that this fella Larson kept telling her about how he was headin' for Texas as soon as he pulled off a big deal. I stopped in at the Long Branch last night after Doc pulled your tooth; Miss Kitty wanted me to be sure and tell you about that."
"You sure waited a while to mention it, didn't you?" Matt asked irritably.
"Yessir, but with the rush and bustle an' all, I kindly forgot, I guess. But anyway, it don't matter so much at that; they left us a clear trail."
"It might matter," Matt said, frowning as he looked down at the ground. "The trail leads over to the stream, alright."
"Maybe they just got thirsty," Chester remarked.
"You look over on that side, I'll look over here," Matt ordered.
Chester obediently leaped across the smallest part of the stream and began looking through the grass for clues.
Matt walked up to the stream's edge and clearly saw the trail leading into the water, but nothing on the other side.
"Anything over there?" he asked Chester.
"No, sir, nothing."
"The trail leads up to the stream, but it doesn't lead out again," Matt mused. "If they were really going to Texas, they'd have gone straight through, but they didn't. They must be trying to trick us. They probably doubled back."
Chester's warm brown eyes met his. "You reckon all that Texas talk was just meant to fool Miss Kitty?"
"I think it was meant to fool somebody," Matt answered darkly. "Let's start doublin' back. Be on the lookout. You brought a shotgun, right, Chester?"
"Yessir, I did."
"Good. We may need it yet."
Tom Larson let his horse pick its way along the rocks, still glowing with the pride of having pulled off the bank robbery without a hitch. His terse partner Grogan was hunched over the neck of a swaybacked nag, not particularly pleased.
"I still think we should've lit out for Wyoming or someplace, Larson," he finally said. "Leastways, then we'd be shut of Dodge and in the opposite direction the marshal thinks we're goin'."
"I already told you, I'm sure we lost him at the river," Larson replied irritably, tired of his partner's griping. "He thinks we're headed to Texas, there's no reason why he won't stop until he gets there. While he's out shaking burs out of his bedroll, we'll be sleeping on soft beds back in Dodge. Might not even be sleeping alone," he mused, thinking of Kitty.
"Alright, loverboy," Grogan sneered. "Go on back to that hussy. She'll give it to you, just like she gives it to everyone. And when the marshal catches you, he'll have a reason to shoot you twice."
"I ain't afraid of that lawman," Larson snapped. "I'm surprised you are. He's probably sitting around someplace, nursing his headache."
Grogan shook his head disdainfully.
"I thought you'd have more common sense than that. The lawman ain't nursing nothin'. He's more like than not to be out here, just behind us. He'll do his damnedest to catch up, and he won't stop, neither."
Larson yawned, unimpressed. "Let's stop for a minute, give these horses a chance to breathe. Mine picked up a stone a few days back, don't want it goin' lame."
Grogan set his jaw mulishly.
"I ain't stoppin' afore we're on the Santa Fe away from Dodge. That lawman ain't so far behind as you think."
"You're worse than an old woman," Larson replied waspishly.
Grogan was about to reply when a flicker of movement caught his eye up on top of the hill behind Larson. He drew his rifle from its holster in the saddle almost faster than Larson could see but it was already too late. A shot rang out and Grogan fell bonelessly from his saddle, a bloody hole in his chest.
Larson drew his pistol and wheeled the horse around when his hand felt like he'd plunged it into a bed of coals. A second later he heard the gun's report and realized his own pistol had been shot out of his hand. Thundering hoofbeats sounded and Larson saw two riders galloping towards him from the top of the hill. He looked at his ruined hand. The bullet had torn through the webbing between his thumb and forefinger and bled freely. The actual wound hurt like hell, but he couldn't feel his fingers. He wrapped a bandanna around his hand and wiped sweat from his brow, feeling a little dizzy.
"Don't move there, Larson," Chester warned, keeping his rifle trained on the outlaw as he skidded to a stop.
"It's a clear 150 yards from yonder hilltop," Larson smiled casually like they were discussing the weather. "I'm surprised you got my gun."
To his dismay, Chester grinned.
"You got it wrong, Larson. I didn't shoot this here rifle once. That was Mr. Dillon."
Larson's smile dropped from his face and he paled a little. Matt's eyes blazed hatefully at him, and Larson thought giddily that Grogan had been right.
"We're going back to Dodge," Matt said tersely. "You're gonna spend the night in jail, and then you'll be tried for robbery and murder. If you try to escape, I'll tie you across your horse."
"Might be best," Larson murmured, feeling the sky slide around above his head. Chester watched him closely.
"Mr. Dillon, he's gonna–"
The outlaw thumped to the ground, pale and unmoving. "Pass out," Chester finished, shaking his head ruefully.
Chester dismounted and went to help push Larson back across the saddle. He left the marshal to tie him onto the horse, while Chester dug a grave for Grogan near the side of the trail. When everything was done, Matt rubbed the back of his head and sighed.
"Let's go. We've got a long ride back to Dodge."
They got back into town after dark. By that time, Larson was awake and complaining about his hand. Chester took their horses down to the stable, and Matt shook Doc out of bed to get Larson's hand cleaned and dressed. By the time Matt had shoved him into a cell and locked the door, he was so tired he was beginning to see double. Matt shuffled back into the office, pulled off his gunbelt, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. When Chester walked in, the marshal was snoring lightly. He pulled off Matt's boots for him and blew out the lamp before curling up on his own cot.
The next morning, Kitty came down to the office, looking wan and distressed. She entered the building and found Matt sitting behind the desk, looking through the paperwork. He still looked a little tired, but his hair was combed and he had shaved.
"Hi, Kitty," he smiled at her. "Come on in."
She stepped into the office uncertainly and looked around uncomfortably.
"Something on your mind?" he asked, looking at her closely.
"Well, yes," she answered haltingly. "There's something I want to talk to you about."
"Officially?" he questioned.
She looked down. "In a way, I guess it is."
"I'd be glad to help you," he said gently, standing up.
"Oh, Matt, I was a fool," she said quietly, voice filled with shame. "It's all my fault."
"What's all your fault?"
"Everything! Gettin' taken in by that Tom Larson."
"It's alright, Kitty," he consoled her.
"I just kept listenin' to him talk," she cried, getting more agitated. "And I–Well, I'm the one who told him about your tooth, Matt. That's how he knew he could get away with robbing the bank."
"Yeah," he answered calmly. "I figured it might have been you."
"I believed him when he said he was going to Texas, I sent you off on a wild goose chase," she said bitterly. "They must be safe home by now. I'm sorry, Matt. I truly am. All he wanted with me was to find out about you, and I told him. I even helped him get away."
The catch in Kitty's voice told him she was close to tears, and he took her small hand in his.
"It's alright, Kitty. To tell you the truth, I was suspicious of that Texas talk from the beginning."
"It's too late now," she said, squeezing his hand gratefully.
"I wouldn't say that," Matt replied, smiling.
"What do you mean?"
"Larson's back there in the cell. We caught up with them yesterday. The other one we buried out on the trail. They led us on for a while, but then doubled back."
She looked up at him, eyes bright with unshed tears. "How did–"
"It doesn't matter much," he replied lightly. "He's here now. It's all over."
"Oh, Matt," she murmured, feeling a pang of sadness build in her chest. "I'm ashamed of myself. I shouldn't have listened to Larson. I just–he said nice things, and I was lonely."
Silence fell over the office, and Kitty's heart constricted, thinking she'd said too much. In the next moment, Matt had closed the distance between them and pulled her close to his chest. He hated Larson for using her and felt a sharp pang of guilt at having played a part in her dilemma.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he said, tilting his head down so she could see his lips moving. "I'm sorry I made you feel lonely, Kitty."
"I just miss you so much sometimes," she said, brushing a tear away impatiently. "I understand that Dodge needs the law, only I wish it wasn't you enforcing it."
He pulled back gently to look her full in the face. A lopsided smile filled with more regret than happiness played across his lips. "Sometimes I wish that too, Kitty. You're important to me, more than you know. But I can't walk away from the badge."
She sighed, against his chest, comforted by the steady beat beneath her ear. "I know."
