Dry Route to Dodge

A Gunsmoke Story

by MAHC (Amanda)

Chapter Eight: The Question Is – How Well

POV: Deke Crocker

Spoilers: None, yet

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I did not create these characters, but I love them.

The temporary reprieve the night had brought them retreated quickly with the coming of dawn, leaving the weary survivors of the late-Larned stage sticky with dry sweat and grime. Angus Skinner's meager water supply had been rationed further to try to provide some relief for the dying woman. Deke Crocker didn't know why they bothered. She'd be gone by noon.

Lifting his hat and wiping his forehead, he studied the two figures in the corner for at least the tenth time since they had arrived at the pitiful excuse for a stage stop at dusk the day before. Wayne and Kitty Russell, the stage manifest had noted. Husband and wife obviously. He could have told that without the confirmation.

In his line of work, Crocker didn't leave much to chance. He watched people. It was a hobby that had more than once saved his life. So he watched people. He had been watching the couple since he boarded the stage at Council Grove. The way they sat close to each other, touching even when they didn't mean to. The way the woman looked up into the man's face, the way her eyes sparkled when he spoke. The intensity of his gaze, the way he shielded her with his body. Even before they knew she was sick, he had been attentive.

Crocker's mind noted these things, but not with the pleasure of a fond observer, or with the amusement of a voyeur. He noted them with the slyness of a manipulator. This woman was Russell's weakness, and while Crocker didn't know if that bit of information would ever become valuable, in his line of work it didn't hurt to hang onto it for a while.

Russell was an enigma. His physical stature was imposing, to say the least. His shoulders and back spoke of daily activity, tough and demanding. As the coach had jolted along the trail, his legs braced against the floorboard, muscles tightening to keep his balance. Those were the legs of a horseman. But he didn't talk much about a business. He didn't talk much about an investment. He didn't talk much at all.

There was something about him, though. Something that Crocker didn't like. He just couldn't put his finger on it. The name didn't ring a bell. Wayne Russell. Sounded more like a banker than anything else. But this one was no banker. That was one thing Crocker would bet on.

He stepped back into the shack, seeing Russell's head cock his way just a bit as he heard his approach. The man was accustomed to paying attention to details.

"Dust over yonder," Crocker said. "Must be the Larned stage." He wondered if that fool Higgins had made it in time – or at all.

The man nodded absently.

"How's Miz Russell?" he asked, attempting to convey concern, but really just trying to get a better read on him. Russell interested him – or bothered him.

The big man glanced up sharply, obviously on edge. Crocker logged that reaction and shrugged. "The manifest. Wayne and Kitty Russell. You boarded in Kansas City." He smiled. "Besides, Ol' Skinner called you by name earlier." He pointed to Kitty. "And it don't take a educated man to see she belongs to you."

Another troubled glare from the man. Crocker narrowed his eyes. "I like to know who I travel with. You, ah, you in business in Kansas City?"

Those broad shoulders relaxed a bit. "No. My – wife's – father was sick. Died, as a matter of fact."

Was that a hesitation? But she was his wife; anyone could see that. "Sorry. And now she's got what he had?"

"Apparently."

"Tough luck."

Deke Crocker was so much of an observer that he recognized when he became the observed. Oh, the man was smooth, but Crocker didn't miss the hard assessment those blue eyes gave him. Most people wouldn't have suspected a thing, but Crocker had seen that look before, usually from behind the barrel of a lawman's Colt.

Jaw tightening, he braced himself and prodded, "Listen Russell, I don't know if you've noticed, but we're fairly stranded here until they realize that stage is overdue and send another for us."

"I've noticed."

"Well, I figure we're pretty near sittin' ducks for the Indians – or the animals."

"Maybe."

"You're wearin' a gun," he pointed out. "Can you use it?"

Somehow, he got the feeling he might find out sooner or later. Russell shrugged casually – too casually. "Most men can use a gun. The question is – how well."

Damn. Crocker pressed down the hammering in his chest, fought to maintain the calm on his face. Fortunately, the man didn't look at him, couldn't see the sudden panic in his eyes. This man wasn't what he seemed. Not at all. Whatever Wayne Russell was, he was no city slicker. "Fair enough, then. All right – how well?"

"Well enough."

He could take him, Crocker figured. The man was injured, worried, exhausted from their ordeal across the prairie and a night of tending to his wife. Yeah, he could take him. But it would be at a time of his choosing, and not before.

"Hope we don't have to find out," he commented finally.

Russell regarded him for a moment, then turned back to the woman, unbuttoning her dress from neck to cleavage and pressing a fresh, cool cloth against the hot skin. It was an extremely intimate move, and even Crocker had to look down in deference to their privacy. Maybe he was wrong, maybe this man really was what he seemed. Suddenly unsure of himself, the outlaw stepped back outside, both to spare them embarrassment, and to give himself time to think things through.

The sun beat down on the hard earth. If Higgins made it to the Wet Route, he'd be on that stage by now, headed back to Larned to bring help, help that might or might not be what Deke Crocker needed. If the Larned sheriff happened to be the one to rescue them –

Of course, he wasn't going to fair much better with the law in Dodge City. The prospect was both a deterrent and a challenge. Crocker hadn't yet decided which one he'd let influence him.

In the house, a low moan drew his attention back to the woman. She was pretty; he could see that even through the dust of the trail and sweat of the fever. And Russell was certainly devoted to her. Maybe that was his key. Maybe –

The name was whispered, but loud enough to reach the door. Crocker froze when he heard it. "Matt."

Squaring up with the bed, he stared at the man's wide shoulders, took in the gun belt at his hips, eyed the smooth, well-used handle. Why the hell hadn't he noticed it before? What had he let his brain assume –

Then it all came together and he dropped his hand to his gun and uttered the name in disbelief of his own idiocy. "Matt?"

The big man spun around. Crocker knew with heart-pounding certainty who he was. Knew his destiny had met him there in the middle of desolation.

"Matt who?" he prodded, unnecessarily. He knew.

Their eyes met, blue against black, and for a moment neither moved. In the few seconds Crocker had to run ideas through his brain, he remembered a drawing he had seen of Matt Dillon once in Harper's Weekly. It was an idealistic rendition that showed the arch-typical hero, square jaw, hard eyes. But the man's face before him was more pliable, more expressive, more human than the stone mask of the illustration.

And more human meant more vulnerable.

These thoughts pulsed through his mind in the space of an eye blink. That was all the time he had, but that was all the time he needed. His hand, already on his gun, jerked the weapon up, finger squeezing the trigger just after it cleared the holster. He smiled as the gun fired, satisfied that his shot was true, that he could actually hear the slug tear through flesh and muscle and bone.

"Matt!" The woman's agonized cry punctuated the moment, crowned his triumph with perfect timing.

He turned to her, standing over the big man whose body now lay sprawled on the floor, and drew aim toward that pretty face. A shame to destroy such beauty, he thought fleetingly before the gun fired again.

A shame.