Chapter Ten

x

An hour and a half later, the Marshal reined the buckskin to a halt and sat for a moment to let the animal blow. He hadn't been pushing him terribly hard, but the horse was shaking and sweating; his hide was wet and white patches of whipped-up foam lay on his neck and chest.

Although it was still quite early, the day was already warming up quickly, promising to be even hotter than the previous one. The sunlight was not of the bright pleasant kind-it was dull and sullen, and it pulled the sweat right out of the skin.

Matt lifted his Stetson and dragged his forearm across his brow, mopping up beads of perspiration, leaving a streak of dust standing in its place. Sweat trickled uncomfortably inside his shirt and ran down his back, glueing the coarse, light blue fabric close against his skin. Trail dust not only clung to his clothes but had also settled inside his mouth, sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He retrieved his canteen from the saddle horn. Wrenching the cork free, he took a measured sip, swishing the lukewarm liquid around in his mouth before allowing it to trickle down his throat.

There hadn't been a single sign nor trace of Doc's buggy anywhere. The only tracks he had found had appeared to be at least a day old and had led directly towards Cross Creek. Matt wasn't entirely sure what to make of it and began to wonder whether maybe Pence had been right after all. Maybe Doc and Kitty were still out at the Crandalls. He had a feeling that he would find out soon enough.

With a slap of his hand, he drove the cork back into the canteen and gathered up the reins. Urging the animal forward with his heels, he directed him up the incline that stretched before them.

Moments later, they had topped the rise. Before him lay Cross Creek and, a good two-hundred yards ahead, tucked away amongst the cottonwoods sat what surely had to be the Crandall homestead.

Matt stretched himself tall in the saddle. The leather creaked with the movement as his intent gaze began to scan the terrain below.

At first glance, nothing seemed amiss; it was like any other homestead upon the Kansas prairie: simple and efficient. A plain board and batten house with a small front porch, surrounded by a number of outbuildings, a corral and a barn. Chickens were scratching about in the yard and a thin curl of wood smoke was rising from the stovepipe, indicating that the occupants were up and about.

Matt nudged the buckskin into a slightly different position to observe the farm from a different angle. As he did so, he now noticed the little black buggy sitting beside the barn. It was unhitched.

He recognized it at once as being Doc's. But the fact didn't put his mind at ease-on the contrary. Matt suddenly felt himself grow tense, instinctively sensing something wasn't right down there.

The notion raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

He continued to move his eyes around the yard until they settled on the corral. It was occupied by several horses-four, to be exact he determined after a quick count.

Too many for Matt's taste. According to Doc, Luke Crandall didn't seem like a man who owned more than a team of horses.

Unable to shake the tightening sense of unease, his gaze wandered back to the house. Something told him that he had better be careful and that it wouldn't be wise to ride down the incline in plain view.

He dismounted and led the buckskin a little ways off the trail where he ground-tied him in a small clearing amongst the cottonwoods.

Matt slipped the Winchester from the rifle boot and, using the dense growth of trees as cover, started down the slope.

Unfortunately, his arrival hadn't gone unnoticed.

The Marshal was within a two-hundred yards of the house, when the door suddenly swung outwards with a sharp creak.

In a flash, Matt had flattened himself against the trunk of the nearest tree, the rifle clutched readily to his chest.

"DILLON!"

The unexpected, sharp summons sent a cold, rippling sensation through him.

Carefully, Matt eased his head around the tree trunk. There, standing on the small front porch, was Doc Adams. But it wasn't he who had spoken; behind him, concealed in the shadow of the doorway, Matt could feel the presence of another man. A bright gleam of sunlight reflected off something metallic behind the doctor. It was a revolver, leveled squarely at his friend's back.

"Dillon, I know you're out there!" the other yelled again and Matt could hear the intense agitation in his voice.

He cursed himself for not having been more careful. But now it was too late and there was no sense in not responding. He inched his head around the trunk again. "Who are you, mister?"

There was no immediate reply, but he saw that the doctor took a step forward.

"Matt...it's Doc," the physician's voice carried across the yard. "They've got Kitty and the children."

Matt let a heavy breath falter between his parted lips. He could hear the strain and tension in his friend's voice, and he felt a shiver of cold dread begin to work its way down his spine. A dark expression moved over his face like a coming storm cloud.

Damn it. That was exactly what he had been afraid of.

He collected himself quickly. "Doc," he called back after taking a deep breath. "Are they all right?"

"They're fine, Dillon," the stranger suddenly cut in harshly. "And they're gonna stay that way as long as you do as I say."

"Who are you, mister and what do you want?" Matt tried again, more than anxious to know who he was up against.

It quickly became apparent though that the other had no intentions of revealing his identity just yet.

"You'll find out when you get down here," came the impatient reply. "Now throw your guns down an' come out...but do it slow an' don't you try nothin' or the doc here's gonna get it!"

That wasn't really what Matt had hoped to hear. He exhaled slowly. Sweat was trickling down his back and from his brow, and he knew it wasn't just from the heat. It didn't help any that he hadn't gotten any sleep the night before either. The adrenaline rushing through his veins combined with the fatigue made his head throb dully. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose to clear his mind.

He had to do some quick thinking here and couldn't afford to lose his edge. "S'pose I do as you say...how about the others?" he ventured. "How do I know you're not gonna harm them?"

An uncomfortable pause lengthened and grew. Matt didn't like that the other had to think on it.

"All right, I ain't got no squabble with them. They can go if you take their place," the stranger called back at last. "You got my word, Dillon!"

That wasn't much. He had the word of a man he didn't know, much less trusted. "I don't know if that's good enough!" Matt decided to push just a little further. He realized quickly though that the other had arrived at the end of his patience.

"Damn it, Dillon!" came the angry response. "I'm gonna give you five seconds to make up your mind! Either you come out or I'm gonna pump this no-good sawbones here full of lead!"

The distinct and unmistakable click of a hammer being pulled back followed his threateningly spoken words.

"All right, just take it easy...there's no need for that," Matt called back quickly to calm the irate stranger, at the same time hoping to buy himself some time.

He considered his options, but quickly realized that he didn't have too many. He swore softly under his breath. There wasn't a thing he could do without risking Kitty's or Doc's life. As a matter of fact, he wouldn't put it past the stranger to harm the children in order to get what he wanted. It seemed that this man, whoever he was, had him whipped every which way there was.

He set the rifle down against the tree trunk and began to undo his gunbelt. Seconds later, it dropped down into the grass with a soft thud. "All right, I'm comin' out now. I'm unarmed."

Raising his hands to signal compliance, Matt slowly emerged from behind the tree. The realization, that the other could just simply gun him down the moment he stepped out into the open, sent cold ripples down his spine. But he squared himself and kept his face trained in a carefully schooled mask that didn't reveal his unsettling emotions.

"Start movin', Dillon!"

Matt obliged and started to make his way down the slope. Sweat was prickling uncomfortably on his brow, stinging as it ran into his eyes, but he dared not wipe it away, afraid that the other might mistake his action.

"Keep comin, slow an' easy-like."

Moments later, Matt had reached the edge of the yard. His boots crunched softly against the stony ground as he crossed the flat stretch of ground leading to the house.

"That's far enough," the stranger's voice instructed him sharply when he was within a few paces of the front porch.

Chickens clucked loudly and scattered before him as Matt came to a halt at the foot of the stairs. He squinted into the glare of sunlight. The warm haze of the mid-morning sun cast the porch and the physician in a halo of marigold light, but the stranger remained hidden in the concealing shadows of the doorway.

As the Marshal's eyes tracked over the doctor, he couldn't help but notice the slovenly appearance of the older man. His curly salt and pepper hair was disheveled, his black string tie hung undone around an unbuttoned shirt collar, and his face bore the tell tale signs of an altercation. One side was swollen and the corner of his mouth was crusted with dried blood.

The sight caused Matt's jaw to tighten. Inwardly, he boiled but no visible measure of expression crossed his face.

Doc's blue eyes that had seen every aspect of birth and death and every malady that could come to man in between now looked down at him, tired and deeply shadowed by worry. "Matt...I'm sorry, I-" he began to say but a hard shove from Biggs abruptly silenced him.

"Shut up, old man!"

Doc stumbled forward out onto the porch.

Right away, Matt's angry gaze slid past the doctor to the broad-shouldered figure that now detached from the shadows, and he was finally able to get his first good look at him.

The man was tall, a lot taller than Doc and built rather solidly with a big chest, reminding Matt a little of Emil Wolheter, the German blacksmith back in Dodge. His eyes were beetle-black, staring down at him with a gaze that was both calculating and dispassionate. The huge scar that disfigured his face was impossible to ignore and Matt automatically called to memory some of the circulars he had looked at this morning. But he couldn't remember having seen this man on any of them.

Matt pinned him with a hard gaze, a growing sense of irritation burgeoning in his mind. "I s'pose you tell me now what this is all about, mister…" The words, so calmly spoken belied the quiet anger seething within him. He stood tense, waiting, deep inside afraid that he already knew the answer, but having to ask just the same.

Biggs regarded him speculatively, his eyes glittering coldly. "Seems you an' I have a little score to settle, Dillon," he said, speaking through the stubby remains his cold cheroot. "I was on my way to see you, but me an' my partners ran into your friends here yesterday an' we decided on a little change of plans."

That's what Matt had already figured.

The mere notion of Kitty and the Crandall-children in the hands of this man made his stomach churn. He prayed that he hadn't treated them the way he had treated Doc. He drew a deep breath, trying to keep his mounting anger in check and out of his voice. "All right, if it's me you're after then let the rest of them go."

"All in good time, Dillon."

"What's wrong with right now?" asked Matt flatly.

The other's face darkened immediately. "You go on talkin' like that, I'm gonna put a bullet in you right now."

Doc raised his bushy brows in warning. "Matt, that's Dan Biggs you're talkin' to.

"I said for you to shut up, Doc!"

Another hard shove from Biggs quickly silenced him again.

Matt nodded calmly, but the expression in his eyes was anything but that. "I see," he said, remembering at once Chester's warning. There was no need to ask what Biggs wanted.

The outlaw grinned.

It was not a very pleasant grin, Matt decided.

"Like I said, you an' I have a little unfinished business, Marshal."

"Not as far as I'm concerned," countered Matt evenly.

"Well, I don't give a damn what you think," snapped Biggs with a flare of rising aggravation. "You killed my li'l brother! You think I'm just gonna let you get away with that?"

Matt's eyes held Biggs' firmly. "Your brother was a fool, Biggs."

"Don't you dare talk about him like that!" the outlaw thundered immediately.

Matt's voice remained calm, his tone low with an edge of hardness. "Look, maybe you understand this," he said. "Your brother drew on me first...he didn't give me a choice."

But the other was clearly tired of arguing. "We're through talkin', Dillon! Another word outta you an' the doc here's gonna get a bullet!"

There was a lethal hostility in Biggs' voice as he shoved the barrel of his colt hard into Doc's back and thumbed back the hammer.

The action signaled an abrupt end to their conversation.

Matt hesitated, his indecision brief before he bit down on his lip, refraining from saying anything else. He had learned all he needed to know anyway and figured that it was safer not to provoke Biggs any further.

The outlaw stepped away from the door and swung his colt on the lawman. "All right, get up here, Dillon," he growled. "From now on there ain't gonna be no more talkin'."

x

x

"Excuse me, is this the Marshal's office?"

Chester jerked into wakefulness with a startled snort, almost slipping from his chair as he was unceremoniously roused from his mid-morning nap by the inquiring voice.

Stifling a yawn, he straightened from his dozing position and began to rub his sleepy eyes with his knuckles. He blinked several times until his vision cleared. His gaze now settled on a middle-aged man standing directly in front of him on the small porch of the jail, peering down at him from curious, steel-gray eyes. He was of average height and build, his features weathered and sun-beaten, his large hands callused. An old cavalry slouch hat sat atop a shock of thick, brown hair that was laced with streaks of gray. But despite his common appearance, he carried himself in a manner that hinted at him being more than just a simple homesteader.

Chester couldn't remember having seen him in Dodge before, but he seemed like a nice enough fellow; his face was honest and open, his gaze direct.

"I reckon, it is," the jailer replied lazily through another yawn as he began to stretch himself.

Even though it wasn't even noon yet, Front Street had grown quiet as most people had retreated indoors to escape the heat. Several horses stood dozing at the hitching rails and a lone buckboard was sitting in front of the mercantile across the street.

The stranger crossed his arms over his chest. "I reckon you're the Marshal then?"

Chester grinned, not able to help himself from being a little flattered by the false assumption. "Oh, I ain't the Marshal," he replied through another yawn as he awkwardly clambered to his feet, stretching some more. "Mister Dillon's the Marshal, but he ain't here...he's-" he paused, suddenly remembering that the lawman had set out to find Miss Kitty and Doc. Right away, his face clouded with worry as the full memory came back to him. "Well, to tell you the truth, I don't rightly know when he'll be gettin' back," he finished lamely.

At Chester's words, an expression of disappointment began to settle over the other's face. "Well, that's too bad," he said, shaking his head sadly. "I was hopin', he could help us out. The wife and I just got into town...drove here all the way from Wichita."

Chester scraped his thumbnail along the back of his neck.

"Well, what's it that you need help with, mister?" he then wondered, curious. "I work for the Marshal. My name's Chester Goode." He quickly ran his hand up and down his pant leg to wipe it clean and then held it out in a greeting.

The older man's lips curved into a smile beneath his droopy mustache. "Crandall-Luke Crandall's the name," he introduced himself.

He took the proffered hand in a firm grip and pumped it, oblivious to the astonished expression that had spread across Chester's face.

to be continued...