Dry Route to Dodge
A Gunsmoke Story
by MAHC (Amanda)
Chapter Seven: One More Step
POV: Angus Skinner, Dry Route Stage Stop Manager
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters, but I love them.
Angus Skinner led a life of solitude ninety percent of the time. But the ten percent left over filled his days with enough adventure to make him yearn for the lonelier times. In the two years he had run the Dry Route Stop between Larned and Dodge City, he had seen every manner of man and woman to see in the state of Kansas – possibly in the country: cowboys, saloon girls, dudes, outlaws, sodbusters, ranchers, genteel ladies – he'd seen them all. But as different as each group was, they all shared certain things when they got to his place: fatigue, dust, thirst, and hunger. Social class took a back seat to basic human needs on the lonely prairie.
It was edging toward dark when he checked the old timepiece that had been his father's sole possession after he left the bluegrasses of Kentucky 25 years before for the gold fields of California. But Charlie Skinner's luck had run out far from the Bear Flag Republic, somewhere between what later became Great Bend and Lyons, and all his son had left of him was a bit of memorabilia that kept moderately good time and served as a reminder of foolish dreams.
Gaunt, and looking much older than his years, Angus figured life was as good as you made it. And he contented himself with long hours of quiet punctuated by moments of excitement and surprise. He glanced again at the watch and frowned. The stage from Larned was overdue by a good two hours. Another glance toward the stove brought some mutterings about the efforts he had taken to cook for folks who weren't showing up. What was the point of having a schedule if it wasn't going to be kept?
With a grunt, he allowed himself a final glare out toward the rough prairie desert, one more chance for the stage to show and redeem itself. Practice had given him the skill of picking up the stage's dust while it was still two miles out, and now he peered hard up the line, wondering if he really saw something or if the heat had gotten to him.
Yes. Definitely something. But not a stage, not enough dust.
After a few more minutes, he was able to discern movement, uneven and sporadic, but movement, nevertheless. Men. On foot. Not a good sign.
Either they were drifters – or bandits, even – or something dire had happened to the stage. Tucking the watch back into his pocket, Skinner pulled his hat over his eyes and grabbed the old Henry rifle from its customary position by the stove. No telling what he faced, and he hadn't survived in that desolate place without using his head and some cartridges a time or two.
He waited outside the building, rifle cocked and ready – if necessary. But the closer the group drew to him, the easier he felt. These men, even if they were bandits, would be in no shape to cause him trouble. In fact, he wondered if they would make it at all. There were three, he could tell after a while, one of them so tall he stretched over the heads of the others by a good foot and a half. He carried something that looked like blankets, or curtains maybe, even though that didn't make sense.
No, Skinner saw suddenly, not curtains. A dress. A woman's dress, and – doggone if the woman wasn't still in it.
The man struggled, stumbling along and limping so badly that it didn't look as if he could take one more step. But he did somehow – again and again. His companions walked with him, their gaits straighter but just as slow. When they drew within a few hundred yards, Skinner decided to take the risk and headed out to meet them, certain now that they had been on the stage.
As he moved, he saw the fatigue and pain twisting the big man's features, watched his boots fight for purchase on the uneven ground. He wondered why the others didn't help, tried to use his experience to assess who they were and what had occurred among them. But at that moment, the man's endurance gave out, and his long legs buckled beneath him. Skinner was close enough to sprint forward, dropping the rifle and spreading his arms in an attempt to catch the woman as her rescuer succumbed to whatever ills had befallen him and fell onto his knees, a harsh cry ripped from him when he hit the hard earth.
Skinner's arms reached for her head and shoulders, even though he knew he couldn't shield her completely, but to his surprise, another set of arms joined his and took her legs, cushioning her fall as they pulled her away from the collapsing man. She groaned, but didn't open her eyes. Skinner saw that she was sick, felt her heat even over the temperature around them.
The big man lay, face down, in the dirt, his shirt – which had probably once been white, but was now caked in dust and grime – plastered to his broad shoulders. His dark pants were in much the same state, but Skinner thought he saw the tell-tale stickiness of blood on the right leg.
"Git her in the house," he ordered the other two men.
The one who had helped catch her nodded and looked toward the remaining man, dark clothes grey with the trail. He looked on, eyes hard. Skinner had seen eyes like that before, and he didn't like them. But after a moment, the man moved to take the woman on one side, and they lifted her and headed toward the shelter.
Skinner turned his attention toward the man who had sacrificed so much to carry her to safety. "Hey, Mister."
The man groaned and tried to push up on his elbows. Skinner placed a hand on his back, felt the knot of muscles straining.
"Stay still thar a minute," he advised.
"Kitty," the man rasped, ignoring the caution.
"She's in th' house. We got 'er. Ya jest lie still now."
But the man's eyes opened, light blue and intelligent – and determined. "No. Got to help her – "
"Mister, you ain't gonna hep nobody the condition yer in. Now what's yer name?"
"Kitty – " he groaned again.
Skinner sighed and tugged a little at the man's shoulder, enough to push him partially over. Papers peeked out of his shirt pocket – stage tickets, Skinner recognized instantly. He slid them out and opened them: passage for Wayne and Kitty Russell. Origin – Kansas City: Destination – Dodge City.
Well, that explained why he had been so adamant about carrying her. His wife. Unfortunately, Skinner feared the odds were that one or the other of them would be widowed before dawn.
Letting his gaze scan down the long body, he considered how he might get the man inside. Certainly not by himself. The fellow was a good six and a half feet tall – maybe more.
"Hey! In the house!"
The thin man who had helped earlier stuck his head outside.
"Hep me git this 'un in thar. I'll need both of ya."
After a moment, during which Skinner thought he could hear some minor arguing going on, both men emerged and approached him.
"He's a big un," Skinner told them unnecessarily. "Won't be easy. What're yer names?"
"Dooley Higgins," the skinny one supplied.
The man in black leveled his gaze, considered the question, and said finally, "Smith."
Skinner nodded. He'd met many "Smiths" at the stop.
Smith took the big man's shoulders, leaving the legs to Higgins and Skinner. Even then, they struggled with their load, dropping him once before they got to the stage shelter.
"Sorry," Skinner muttered at the man's tortured moan.
After they had wrestled him through the door, they all sank to the floor and worked on catching their breath. "What – happened?" Skinner managed to ask between gasps.
Higgins coughed a couple of times, then volunteered the story, relaying how the axel on the stage had broken, cracking the hitch, flipping the coach, and separating from the team. The woman had been thrown clear – which actually turned out to be fortunate for her. The man had been battered around pretty badly. The driver was dead, left back at the site of the accident for a later burial. Without any other choices, they had set out toward the stage stop, positive that the big man would not make it even a mile with his burden. But he had surprised the hell out of them. And – there they were.
"He gonna make it?" Higgins wondered.
"Maybe." Skinner glanced over to where the man lay on the floor next to the bed his wife was in.
"What about her?" Smith asked, his eyes disturbingly interested in the woman's still form.
Skinner shrugged. "Don't know. She got a fever fer shore. May be too late fer her.""
"He shore weren't gonna leave her behind," Higgins said, shaking his head. "I still don't know how he done it. We figured him fer dead three miles back, but he jest kept movin'."
Breathing normally again, Skinner pried himself off the floor and moved to the stove. "I'll git some vittles fer ya. Kin one of ya give them some water? They could probably use it."
"They ain't the only ones," Smith noted.
He'd keep an eye on that one, Skinner decided. A good eye.
XXXX
It took the better part of two hours, but Skinner managed to coax some stew into the man before he lost consciousness again. The woman refused all but a little water. He had just begun dozing off when a low groan drew him back. Amazingly, the man had pushed up onto his elbows and now was trying to sit upright. In the dim light of the lantern, Skinner could barely see his expression, but he heard the urgency in his voice with no problem at all.
"Kitty?"
"Next to ya." He watched as the man jerked around to his left and tried to stand, only to fall back with a heavy groan.
"Yer leg's in pretty bad shape. I'd advise ya stay sittin'."
Without acknowledging, Wayne Russell curved one big hand around the bedpost and pulled himself to sit on the mattress next to his wife.
"She's mighty sick," Skinner said, figuring he wasn't telling the man anything he didn't already know. "I give her some water, but she wouldn't take no food."
"I'm obliged," Russell answered absently, not taking his eyes off her.
"Them others told me 'bout the stage wreck. I reckon they'll miss ya at Dodge and be sendin' out a search party come mornin'."
The man didn't answer. Skinner took the time to study him, to evaluate what manner of man this was who had trekked five miles, injured and weak and laden with the physical and emotional burden of a sick wife. His frame was broad and tall – the biggest man Skinner had ever seen – and he had seen many men. But he was no brute, that was sure. In those eyes burned strength and steel – but when he looked at her, they softened with tenderness and worry. There was an air about him, a confidence, a ring of authority. Skinner didn't know who Wayne Russell was, or what he did, but he was somebody. That was certain.
"You got a rag or a washcloth?" Russell asked suddenly.
Skinner nodded. "Shore."
"Bring me one, please, and a basin of water, as cold as you can get it."
The stage stop manager took only a minute to bring the requested items, and watched as the man dipped the rag in the water – not cold, really, but cool enough to make a difference. He wiped her face gently, whispering to her words that Skinner tried to hear, but couldn't. He wondered if the effort was worth it, wondered if the woman would make it, even with her husband's loving ministrations.
Looking at her, he shook his head sadly. A beauty, for sure, even in sickness. It'd be a shame for her to die, a pure shame.
He just hoped whoever was waiting for them in Dodge had the sense to realize they needed help.