Chapter Eight

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"Blow wind your ice an' snow, blow your du-hust an' on you go...an' all the we-eds grow aroun'...an' dad-dy lies a-lone…" The song was flowing easily from Chester's lips, mingling with the sizzling of the eggs frying in a skillet on the small pot-bellied stove. Outside, in the east, the first hint of light had just begun to touch the sky, too early for most of Dodge to be stirring yet, but the jailer was already up and about, had even brewed a fresh pot of coffee in anticipation of the Marshal's return.

Chester had no sooner finished the last note, than he heard the familiar clacking of boots outside on the floor planks of the porch. A short moment later, the door to the jail swung open.

He looked up.

"Oh, howdy, Mister Dillon," he said cheerfully as he watched the Marshal enter. "Sure's good to have you back."

Matt closed the door behind himself, the signs of a long, sleepless night etched on his face.

"Well, it's good to be back, Chester," he muttered tiredly. He hung his dusty Stetson on its customary peg by the door and then went to restore the Winchester to the rifle rack.

Chester's gaze followed him. "How'd things go over at Anderson's?" he wondered. "Did you finally get them fellas?"

At the question, Matt's fingers ceased fumbling with the buckle of his gunbelt. "Well, we stayed on their trail for about fifteen miles then we lost their tracks somewhere around Turkey Bend an' had to turn around." He paused to hang the holster by his cot and then finished, now sounding a little annoyed, "and as always...no sign of the missin' cattle and nobody's seen or heard anything."

Chester shook his head as he poked at the eggs. "Well, I swear, that just don't make no sense at all."

Matt laced a hand through his dust-streaked hair and expelled a frustrated sigh. "Tell me about it."

Deciding that the eggs were done, Chester exchanged the skillet for the chipped coffee pot.

"Ya know, Mister Dillon, it sure wouldn't surprise me none if that Callum-fella's the one that's doin' all the rustlin'. I mean ev'ry time he's in town he's throwin' around his money, an' that's gotta be more than a man could make with just workin' cattle."

Matt nodded. "Yeah, I noticed that, too, but that sure doesn't help me any-unless I have proof. " He scrubbed a hand over his face, realizing how dirty he was. A day's worth of grime and sweat had congealed to a scale-like crust on his skin. He was filthy and hungry, not to mention extremely tired.

"Well, I s'pose that's true," muttered Chester thoughtfully as he checked the coffee.

Matt trudged over to the wash basin and poured some fresh water from the pitcher. The cool liquid felt good on his skin as he began to scrub the gritty layer of dust and sweat from his arms and face. Bending over the bowl, he then lowered his cupped hands into the water and rubbed a few more handfuls into his hair in an attempt to rid it of the dust that seemed to be clinging to it rather stubbornly.

Feeling and looking at least somewhat cleaner, he bent his knees a little to get a glimpse of himself in the small mirror that was mounted above the wash basin. He frowned at his reflection and made himself a mental note that a haircut was definitely in order. With swift strokes of his comb, he began to coax the damp curls into submission.

"Why don't you just sit down an' make yourself comfortable," suggested Chester when he saw that the Marshal was finished. "You sure look all wore out there."

Matt managed a tired smile as he eased himself down into the chair behind his battered oak desk. "Well, let me tell ya, that's just about how I feel."

He picked up yesterday's mail and began to leaf through it without much interest. He already knew his paycheck hadn't come again-if it had, Chester would have mentioned it by now. "I don't s'pose we got anything from Washington?" he then wondered anyway.

Chester shook his head. "No, sir...not a thing."

Matt sighed. "Figures." He tossed the stack of mail onto the desktop. Hooking his left ankle over his right knee, he leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers behind his head and, for a moment, allowed his tired eyes to close.

Maybe it was about time he send a telegram to the War Department, reminding them that a certain Marshal in Dodge City hadn't been paid in over a month.

"Oh, Mister Dillon," Chester suddenly broke into his musings. "I wanna show you a circular that come in yesterday."

He quickly began to flip through the stack of wanted posters and pulled out a particular one. "Here, take a look at that."

Matt took the sheet from Chester's outstretched hand and quickly glanced at it, immediately recognizing the man pictured on it. "Well, I s'pose we better send the Sheriff in Pueblo a telegram to let him know that we got Jim Biggs here on Boot Hill." He dropped the circular back down onto the desk and rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. One gone, two to take his place, he found himself thinking wearily. Sometimes it seemed to him that Dodge was drawing the likes of Biggs like a mudhole the mosquito.

"I'll do it for you," offered Chester helpfully. "You just sit there and relax, I'll get you some coffee here right aways."

The Marshal stretched out his long legs to cross his booted feet.

"Good...I sure could use some," he murmured as he relaxed back in his chair again. He watched as his assistant poured coffee for them both and then handed him one of the chipped china mugs.

Tired as he was, the strong, hot brew tasted all the better to Matt. "A fresh pot, huh," he remarked pleasantly surprised after the first sip. Palming the cup in a callused hand, he regarded its inky black contents appreciatively.

Chester had the interesting habit of re-using the coffee grounds, making the coffee taste worse with each passing day to the point of eventually being undrinkable. Of course, that wasn't how Chester saw it; he was quite proud of his method and never hesitated to share it with anybody-whether they wanted to hear it or not.

"Made it freshly this mornin'," the young man volunteered proudly, happy that the Marshal had noticed.

Outside, the sun had finally risen and Dodge was slowly coming to life. A lone wagon rattled down a still deserted Front Street, the clomping of hooves and rattling of wheels carrying loudly on the crisp morning air.

"Say," Matt wondered, feeling somewhat revived after a couple more sips. "How did Doc an' Kitty make out at the Crandalls yesterday?"

Chester lowered his cup, suddenly realizing that he hadn't seen either one of them since they had left yesterday morning."Well...to tell you the truth...I don't rightly know, Mister Dillon," he said thoughtfully.

Surprise flickered in the Marshal's eyes. "Weren't you over at the Long Branch last night?"

"Well, yeah, but I ain't seen Miss Kitty there."

Matt straightened in his chair. "What do you mean, you didn't see her?"

"Well, I reckon she could've been there," the young man relented with a shrug. "It was kinda crowded there last night an' I didn't stay around for very long...you know, on account of havin' to make the rounds an' all."

"How about Doc?"

Chester thought on it briefly and then shook his head. "No...I ain't seen him either."

The words brought a slight frown to the Marshal's face. Shoving the battered cup onto the edge of the desk, he leaned forward in his chair, and splayed his palms onto the desk. His chair scraped against the plank boards, screeching in protest as he rose to his feet. "Well, I guess, I better go an' see about it."

Just then, the door opened. The bright rays of the early morning sun spilled into the office and painted a square of yellow light onto the worn plank flooring which was swallowed up seconds later by a large shadow as it now filled the doorway.

It was Bill Pence. "Mornin', Marshal...Chester," the co-owner of the Long Branch greeted the two men with an acknowledging tip of his head after he had closed the door behind himself.

Pence was a capable-looking man in his forties with a friendly face that was set off by a handlebar mustache, thick sideburns and a shock of bristly brown hair that was mottled liberally with streaks of gray.

The concerned expression on his face immediately drew Matt's attention."Somethin' wrong, Bill?"

Pence hesitated, cupping his chin as if searching for the proper words. "Well," he began, "frankly...I'm gettin' to be a little worried about Kitty."

"About Kitty?" Matt's relaxed manner was suddenly gone. He stepped out from behind the desk.

Pence nodded, his concerned gaze moving between Matt and Chester. "I haven't seen her since she left town with Doc yesterday. I thought one of you might know where she is."

Matt didn't like what he was hearing. The tightening in the pit of his stomach got worse. "Well, did you think to check her room?" he wondered. "Maybe they just came in late."

Pence shrugged, his mouth scrunching to the side. "I knocked a couple of times," he said, "but I didn't try to go in when there was no answer."

Chester looked from Pence to the Marshal, his own face now creased with worry. "You know, Mister Dillon, that sure don't seem like Miss Kitty at all."

Matt shook his head slowly, pressing his lips together. "No. No, it sure doesn't."

"Chester," he said as he reached for his gunbelt. "I want you to go an' see if you can't find Doc. I'm goin' over to the Long Branch with Bill here. I'll meet you there."

Chester nodded and, wasting no time, hastily snatched his hat and hurried out the door.

Matt snagged his own hat off its peg with a sharp, swift movement and jammed it on. "Let's go," he said tightly as he held the door, ushering Pence outside.

He was extremely anxious to find out where Kitty and Doc were.

x

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A painful stiffness, as she tried turning her head, brought Kitty abruptly out of a dreamless sleep. For a few drowsy moments she believed that she was in her room back at the Long Branch.

Safe, secure.

She raised her head off her forearms, immediately stifling a groan as her neck muscles protested the shift in position. What was she doing, sleeping at a table?

She blinked and then glanced around in momentary confusion. The memory didn't elude her for very long, reality quickly shattering the comforting illusion.

The night had been a long one. Biggs had allowed her to put the children down in one of the bedrooms and then had claimed the remaining bedroom for himself, leaving her and Doc to spent the night sitting at the table. With the other two men taking turns guarding her and the doctor, Kitty had been reluctant to close her eyes. But now she realized that she must have dozed off after all.

Slowly, she straightened in her chair. Her body felt sore from the uncomfortable sleeping position and she took a moment to coax the stiffness from her muscles. There was a crick in her shoulder that spread roots halfway down her back. Splaying her fingers beneath the collar of her blouse, she carefully massaged the corded skin and twisted her neck to the side.

Gentle snores coming from across the table caused her to glance over at Doc; apparently, he, too had finally succumbed to sleep.

Slouched in his chair, he had his arms crossed over his chest, his chin dipped forward. She turned her gaze to the window. Outside, the weak light of the predawn was painting the gray sky in pale shades of pink and orange along the horizon, indicating that the sunrise wasn't too far off.

Sitting in a high-backed rocking chair by the fireplace, the cowboy, Biggs had referred to as Stanton yesterday, grinned when he saw that she was awake. "You up early, red," he snickered. "What's the matter? Not used to sleepin' at a table? Miss that Marshal friend of yours?"

Kitty face darkened at his words, but she afforded him no more than a quick, cold glance and didn't bother with an answer.

But that didn't seem to deter Stanton any. "Don't worry, you'll see him soon enough. Dead." He chuckled at his joke and then began to pat down his pockets in search of his tobacco pouch.

Kitty fought down the temptation to retort, knowing that it would most likely only provoke him, something that could potentially endanger the children. So far, the men hadn't bothered much with Rory and Carrie, and she wanted to keep it that way if possible. Her thoughts now turned to the two youngsters. Listening for any sounds coming from the bedroom, she assured herself that they were still asleep.

With a soft sigh, she rubbed her aching temples, wondering and fearing what the new day would bring.

Although she wasn't exactly afraid of him, Dan Biggs was definitely a force to be reckoned with. He had made it very clear last night that he wanted Matt. He had also made very clear that he would use whatever means necessary to accomplish his goal.

Doc had pointed out that the Marshal had left Dodge, might not even be back for several days, but it had fallen on deaf ears.

Kill him. Kill Matt.

The thought sent a sudden surge of anger flashing through her. Dodge City was a better place because of Matt, it was a safer place because he put his life on the line day after day to protect it from men like Biggs and his brother.

No, Dan Biggs had to be stopped.

She couldn't allow Matt to walk into Biggs' trap; she'd never be able to live with the guilt if anything were to happen to him because of her. Kitty's face firmed with resolve. She wasn't quite sure how to go about it yet, but she would think of something. She pushed the chair back and rose to her feet.

Right away, Stanton straightened in the rocker. He leveled his colt on her, regarding her suspiciously. "Hey,...what d'you think you're doin'?" he demanded.

Kitty met his gaze completely unflustered. "I'm gonna check on the children," she replied calmly. "I thought I heard one of them."

The cowboy's forehead creased as he listened for a moment. Not hearing anything, he shrugged at last.

"Well, go on, red," he said, jerking his head towards the door. "But don't you try nothin' on me now..."

Kitty arched a brow. "I wouldn't dare," she replied dryly.

Luckily, her tone went straight over Stanton's head. Had Doc been awake, he would have known immediately that she was up to something.

Quietly, so as not to wake the youngsters, Kitty entered the bedroom. It was the one the Crandalls used. Carrie and Rory were still sound asleep on the big brass bed, wrapped up snugly in a colorful quilt.

Kitty's eyes began to scan the neat but plainly decorated room. She wasn't sure what she was looking for-all she knew was that she couldn't take too much time or Stanton would become suspicious.

Her gaze fell on the big chest of drawers. People were known to keep all kinds of things in dressers; linen, clothing, personal effects and sometimes, even guns.

Much to her disappointment, the first drawer contained nothing more than several stacks of crisply starched linens and pillow slips. Kitty closed it carefully and turned her attention to the second one. She determined quickly that it held only some neatly folded shirts and unionsuits-no doubt, Mr. Crandall's.

Carefully, she pushed the drawer shut.

Two more to go.

Kitty pulled open the third one. More stacks of folded linens greeted her. A wave of disappointment washed over her. She was about to close the drawer again, when her eyes suddenly noticed the strange bulge underneath one of the smaller stacks in the back.

After stealing a quick glance towards the doorway to assure herself that Stanton wasn't watching, she reached inside the drawer. Her heart was thumping with anticipation as her fingers curved around something cool, metallic. When her hand emerged seconds later, she couldn't believe her luck; it was an old army pistol.

She was no expert when it came to guns, but the .36 caliber army colt, although clean and free of rust, looked as if it hadn't been fired in a number of years. It didn't matter though, it would have to do, Kitty decided. It would be risky, but she also knew that her life, as well as Doc's and the children's wouldn't be worth a plug nickel once Biggs had Matt. She didn't believe for one minute that those men would allow four witnesses to go free. Quickly, she shoved the gun beneath her blouse, securing it in the waistband of her skirt.

When she returned to the main room moments later, she found Doc awake at the table. He glanced up at her inquiringly but Kitty shook her head ever so slightly.

Luckily, the physician caught on and maintained, albeit reluctantly, his silence.

Kitty gave Stanton her most innocent smile.

"Do you mind if I make some coffee?" she ventured.

Doc regarded her with a puzzled frown. He had known Kitty too long not to notice when she was up to something.

But Stanton didn't see anything wrong with her query. One foot perched on the seat of the rocker, he had his gun hand casually draped across his thigh. "Why, sure," he said with a grin. "Just so's long you don't poison it." He didn't mind a good cup of coffee-especially after the long night of keeping watch.

Kitty graced him with a smile that didn't quite make it to her eyes.

Now there's an idea, she thought to herself, at the same time seriously wondering what the Crandalls had stashed away in their kitchen cabinets that might possibly qualify as poison.

Soon, a fresh pot of coffee was brewing on the big cast-iron stove, its enticing aroma wafting through the house. Dan Biggs and the other man, Kiley were still asleep in the adjoining bedroom.

Tired of sitting, the physician pushed his chair back. The chair legs scraped across the waxed plank floor, startling Stanton into jerking his gun up.

"Hey, what're fixin' to do?" he demanded immediately as he trained the colt squarely at the doctor's chest.

Doc sniffed in annoyance, rubbing at his bristly mustache. "I'm gettin' a drink of water," he replied irascibly and then added, fixing the cowboy with a dark look, "providin' that's all right with you." Figuring himself too old to be intimidated by this young man, he didn't bother waiting for permission and commenced to shuffle towards the kitchen nook. In truth, he wasn't really all that thirsty-he wanted to know what Kitty was up to. He had recognized her expression at once as her particular brand of dangerous inspiration.

Stanton didn't make any attempts at stopping him and a moment later, the doctor was standing beside Kitty at the stove, helping himself to a slow drink of lukewarm water from the dipper.

"Doc."

Kitty's whisper was laced with enough urgency to make him glance over at her inquiringly.

His eyes slowly followed her hand as it partially slipped beneath the waistband of her skirt. He snorted into the dipper, almost choking on the water when he saw what her hand was holding as she pulled it out again seconds later.

He cast her an uncomprehending glance, wanting to know where she had gotten the pistol from, but he knew better than to ask her. There was no need to take a guess as to what she was going to do with it either-it was quite obvious.

Kitty stole a quick, cautious glance at Stanton. Apparently not too concerned with his two prisoners, he had begun to roll himself a smoke and wasn't paying much attention to Doc and Kitty.

Before the startled doctor could say anything, Kitty had inched closer to him and pressed the gun into his hand.

Doc's own eyes darted over to the outlaw and he hastily stuffed the gun underneath his vest.

"Hmm, that sure smells good, red," remarked Stanton now as he came strolling over to the stove, the lit shuck dangling from his lip. "I didn't think one like you knew how to make a decent cup of coffee."

Ignoring the insulting remark, Kitty pulled away from Doc. "Oh, there are a lotta thing that you don't know," she said meaningfully and then raised a brow, smiling sweetly as she lifted the coffee pot. "How about some?"

Stanton grinned. "Don't mind if I do."

Encouraged by her smile, he holstered up his gun and came closer. A little too close for Kitty's comfort as she felt his rough palm slide down her arm. She flinched but bit back the urge to pull away when she realized that Doc had already moved behind him.

"Get those hands up, mister," the doctor hissed a split-second later, "and don't you make a sound, or, by golly, I swear, I'm gonna shot!"

For moment, it appeared as if Stanton was complying. Slowly he raised his hands until they were suspended in mid-air. The next second, he was suddenly twisting around, grabbing hold of the physician's gun hand. His strong grip forced the doctor's hand aside while he used the other to pry the pistol from his grasp. A savage grin split his lips as he stared Doc straight in the eye. "Nice try, old man," he hissed, spittle spraying from his lips, "but not good enough!"

Kitty quickly overcame her initial shock and wasn't one to stand by idly. Her eyes spied the big cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove. Without hesitation, she picked it up and two-handedly, sent it crashing down onto Stanton's head.

The blow felled him in an instant and he crumpled to the floor.

For the briefest of moments, Doc and Kitty's gazes locked, then they simultaneously moved their eyes down to Stanton, now sprawled motionless, face down on the kitchen floor. Their eyes met again.

"Get the children, Kitty...hurry," whispered Doc urgently as he bent down to reach for Stanton's colt.

There was no way back now; they had to get out of here before the others woke up.

"Better stay where you are, Kitty." They both froze at the sound of Biggs' coldly spoken words.

to be continued...