GUNSMOKE
"The Uninvited"
The repercussions of bullets bouncing off the walls of the canyon rock rang in his ears, the outcry of an angry battle waged by two opposing sides. And then it was deathly silent. The acrid air of sulphur carried on the gentle afternoon breeze, brought the distinct odor of gunsmoke to his nostrils, and he fought the urge to sneeze. He hadn't been able to count how many of them there were, but the last thing he wanted to do was give away his location. Several moments ticked by, and he heard not a sound. It could be a trap. Every instinct in his body told him the blessed silence was staged for the benefit of luring him out into the open. He remained still. And yet there was nothing.
He quietly reached over for a loose stone. He hoisted it into the air with all his might, sending it careening down the rocks several yards from his shelter; but other than the cascading sounds of rock upon rock tumbling down the canyons, it was only silence that greeted him. He waited for what felt like an eternity, and then he could wait no longer. It would be dark soon, and he needed the last vestiges of light to navigate through the treacherous canyons. He was out of food, water, and patience. Slowly he crept from his hiding place and down the rocks to a better vantage point. The stillness was almost stifling, and he could feel his heart pounding hard against his chest. He took a slow, calming breath, held his six-shooter steady, and moved stealthily toward the area he had pinpointed as his enemy's protection.
His hand clenched his colt peacemaker tightly as he approached the last set of rocks between him and those who had been firing upon him. He removed his hat, and carefully peered around a large boulder, not ready for the sight which greeted him. Swallowing hard, he put his hat back on and stood up, walking toward the carnage lying before him. In all his years as a U.S. Marshal, Matt Dillon had never witnessed such a scene: the four men whom he recognized as members of the Kendall gang, were lying dead about the rocks, and it looked like they had killed each other. Eli Kendall was not among them, but his younger brother was only a few feet from Matt's position. Dillon sat down on a nearby boulder, dumbstruck at the vista before him. It didn't make sense. They outnumbered him by far, and yet instead of killing him, they had killed each other. Matt shook his head, unable to fathom what had sent such a spree of self-inflicted violence through these men.
He looked down at Eli Kendall's younger brother, and spotted his canteen a few feet away from the boy. After two days without water, Matt swallowed several long gulps before forcing himself to ration the amount left in the container; at least he wouldn't die of thirst before finding his way back to Dodge. Dillon looked around the rocks and wasn't surprised that there wasn't a horse in sight, including his own. Gathering up whatever rations he could find, including a few more canteens of water, the marshal began the arduous process of climbing out of the canyon, and the search for his horse; without Buck, it would be a long walk home.
The dust from his horse pounding along the trail had parched his throat so dry, he could barely swallow, yet Eli Kendall continued at his furious pace. The bloodbath he had seen back in the canyon left him with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, and a shiver running through him the likes of which he'd never experienced. The memory of his kid brother, Joey, lying in a pool of blood, would remain with him for the rest of his days. Kendall had visited immediate retribution upon the man who had pulled the trigger, but he couldn't understand what had caused it in the first place. Yet the action of his once right-hand-man, Beau Davis, had unleashed a massacre among his own men from which Kendall himself had barely escaped. The thought of it sent another shiver up his spine, and for a moment, he felt like he couldn't catch his breath. It could have been the fact that the law had been hounding them through the scorching heat for two days, but somewhere in the back of his mind, that didn't seem possible.
Marshal Matt Dillon, the scourge of the plains, at least to any outlaws within striking distance, had tailed Kendall's gang from Colorado and halfway across Kansas. Kendall smiled to himself: Dillon would have a helluva time finding his horse, for Eli had chased him all the way out of the canyons and onto the prairie. It would take the marshal at least a day to find the gelding, and by then, Kendall would be in Dodge, exacting revenge for what Dillon had cost him.