Chapter Thirteen
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Neither one of them had spoken a single word since their forced departure from the Crandall-homestead. Even the two children had joined in and maintained the troubled silence that had settled over them. The jingling of the harness and the incessant rattle of the buggy's wheels as the vehicle bounced over the uneven surface of the rutted dirt road were the only sounds that interrupted the quiet.
Kitty wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed. With Matt's fate dominating her weary thoughts, it seemed that she had lost track of all time.
Over the last four years, she had learned to live with the uncertainties that came with his job, the times when she didn't know where he was or when he'd be back, the nightmares that sometimes haunted him afterwards. But none of it compared to the way she felt now after having to leave him behind in the hands of those men, not knowing whether she would see him again alive.
Her heart squeezed within her. How did everything go so wrong? Only yesterday morning had they been sitting at Delmonico's, enjoying each other's company; today, it seemed like a lifetime ago.
It was well past noon by now, with the sun sitting directly above their heads and the heat pouring down hotly onto their shoulders. The temperature had soared since the early hours of the morning and the heat was boiling back off the dusty ground with a vengeance.
But despite it all, Kitty was shivering. There was a strange tightness in her stomach, a gnawing sense of fear that made her contemplate a life without Matt.
The roar of a gunshot suddenly pierced the hot and humid summer air, putting an abrupt end to her bleak thoughts. The report rolled slowly across the open prairie, fading at last to a distant rumble on the far horizon.
Frightened by the sudden noise, the horse bolted forward, jerking the reins from the doctor's hands.
Carrie began to cry in fear as she was jostled roughly in Kitty's lap. Right away, Kitty's arms came around her, securing the child safely against her body.
"Whoa...whoa there!" Doc attempted to calm the frightened animal. Half-toppling from the seat, he lurched forward and grappled for the leathers as the horse continued in a headlong dash for freedom from the lumbering vehicle he was pulling behind him.
The doctor almost had them, could touch them with his fingertips. Just then, the buggy hit a particularly nasty rut; the reins slid down over the front and disappeared from sight.
Her arms tightly around the frightened children, Kitty watched anxiously as the doctor, in a rather daring maneuver, leaned dangerously far over the front of the buggy and managed to get hold of the leathers seconds before they slipped to the ground.
Rocks and dirt sprayed from the pounding hooves as the horse continued to recklessly speed on, spittle foaming at its mouth as it fought against the bit. Sweat darkened his hide and frothed into white foam where it rubbed against the harness.
Doc tugged sharply on the reins, all the while calling out soothingly to the spooked animal.
The sound of the doctor's familiar voice, combined with the firm pull on the leathers, eventually coaxed the horse into submission and a moment later, the buggy came to a shuddering halt. The animal's sides were heaving and his nostrils flaring but he obeyed the pressure of the reins and stood still.
Several more shots now followed in close succession, rolling explosions that shattered the quiet.
The bay backed a step and threw his head, snorting, but this time, Doc maintained firm control of the horse.
He straightened in the seat and listened, aware of the distinct difference in the sound of the shots. Where the first couple had been short and heavy, the rolling bark of a handgun, a colt perhaps, the others had been lighter with a tell-tale echo that betrayed their origin as coming from a rifle. There were several possible explanations, none of them exactly comforting.
"Doc?" Kitty queried from beside him.
He could feel the weight of her gaze pressing down upon him, and he knew that she was expecting some kind of response.
He slowly turned and meet her gaze. Her pretty blue eyes were filled with unspoken fear and he realized at once that they were sharing the same frightening thought.
Matt.
The doctor blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching as if searching for something to say. But the right words wouldn't come and the silence that ensued, weighed heavily between them for a moment. He lowered his gaze, helplessly staring at the reins in his hand. His face was set into ridged lines of self-recrimination and he suddenly couldn't help feel like a coward, ashamed at being safe while Matt was at the mercy of Dan Biggs and his cronies. Part of his mind reasoned that he hadn't had much of a choice, knew that Matt wouldn't have wanted it any other way, but it did little to ease how he felt.
More than once had Matt saved his life.
He remembered the time when Jed Butler had kidnapped him in order to tend to the outlaw's injured partner. Without thinking twice, Matt had risked his own life by putting himself willingly into Butler's hands. Then there was the time when Ben Pitcher had stabbed him and Matt had kept him from bleeding to death by sewing up the knife wound.
And how many times had the Marshal saved the lives of others without regard for his own?
No, there was simply now way he could just drive away and leave his friend. His thoughts settled into a single, clear focus. He had to do something. He wasn't exactly sure what. He had no gun, no weapon of any kind-all he knew was that he had to get back down there.
His features firmed with grim resolve. The laugh lines that usually crinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth were barely visible now, making the fine lines of disappointment and disillusion that life had etched into his face, grow more pronounced.
"Kitty, I want you to listen to me." There was a faint flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, but his voice was firm and uncompromising as he spoke. "I know, you're not gonna like this, but I want you to high-tail it back into Dodge just as fast as you can and get Chester. Have him round up a dozen men, or so to bring with him."
Kitty stared down at the reins that he had pressed into her hands and then lifted her gaze to his as the implication in his words struck her. "What about you?"
Doc sniffed and rubbed his mustache. He hesitated, knowing that she wouldn't like what he was about to say. "I'm goin' back down there."
His eyes were glittering determined and Kitty knew at once that he meant it. It brought a look of distress to her face. "Doc...you can't do that," she at once protested. "You don't even have a gun. What if they-"
"By golly, Kitty," he cut her off, "I can't just stand by and let those thugs-" His voice suddenly faltered and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep a tight rein on his emotions. The shots still rang in his mind.
What if he already was too late?
He felt a cold slither of dread work its way down his spine to settle in the pit of his stomach.
No, it can't be, he firmly told himself, not prepared to admit to the sinister possibility.
Their gazes met again and the doctor's expression softened a little at the anguish he saw reflected in the depths of her eyes. He gently cupped her hand that was impassively holding the reins with both of his, squeezing it reassuringly. "You go on and do as I say...don't you worry about me. I ain't gonna let anybody take shots at me."
Kitty felt his fingers close tightly around her own and she squeezed them back, finding her own small measure of comfort in the gesture. She knew that there was nothing that she could do or say that would change his mind.
Silently, she nodded her head in reluctant acceptance.
Doc squeezed her hands one more time. "That-a girl, Kitty," he said and began to climb off the buggy.
"Doc."
He paused and looked up at her, one foot on the ground, the other still on the floorboard. There was nothing but undisguised fear in her eyes now.
"Promise me you'll be careful-"
He gave a curt nod. "I will."
Shuffling around the horse, he stopped on the other side where Rory was sitting, his arm protectively around his little sister. The badge, pinned to the rough, homespun fabric of his patched shirt, gleamed brightly with reflected sunlight. Doc stared at it for some seconds, once more painfully reminded of its owner's unselfish willingness to put the lives of others before his own.
His mustache twitched. "You keep an eye on those two for me, son," he said, pointing at Kitty and Carrie.
Rory swallowed. Though he looked pale and shaken, he acknowledged the doctor with a solemn, "yes, sir."
Doc pursed his lips, allowing the ghost of a smile to surface. "Good boy."
He gave Rory's leg an encouraging pat. Then he turned to Kitty once more and for a moment, his eyes lingered on her anxious face. "Go...go on now, Kitty," he urged her softly.
Kitty gnawed on her bottom lip in indecision, the leathers heavy in her hand. She stared at him uncertain, suddenly not so sure anymore whether she wanted to leave him, too. His pale blue eyes were set with determination, but she could also see the fear reflected in them.
Sensing her hesitation, Rory gently touched her arm. "Miz Kitty, we better do as Doc Adams says an' hurry," he pleaded anxiously, instinctively sensing that time was of the essence right now.
The boy's words accomplished what Doc's couldn't. She squared herself and her face, though still pale, firmed with resolve. With a sharp cluck at the horse, she snapped the reins and the buggy lurched forward into motion as the bay broke into a jog, leaving Doc behind to watch its departure with mixed emotions.
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He was running. Matt managed to make it halfway across the yard when Biggs' shout suddenly rose from behind him.
"Time's up, Dillon!"
Then the shooting started. The ground exploded in a shower of sand and small rocks as a bullet struck the dirt a few feet to his left. Undeterred, Matt swerved to the right and continued to zigzag his way across the flat stretch of ground towards the safety of the cottonwood trees ahead.
"Better run, Marshal!"
Biggs' wild and crazy laugh was followed by several more hastily squeezed off shots into his direction. It seemed that the outlaw was just toying with him, none of the bullets coming very close to their mark, but Matt wouldn't have bet his life on it at the moment.
Another bullet seared past him with a whine; it was followed by the ominous click of a firing pin hitting on an empty chamber.
Matt heard a swiftly spoken string of curses erupting from the outlaw's lips when he realized that his gun was empty. Taking full advantage of the few precious extra seconds he had just been given, his boots pounded the dust even faster. Behind him, he heard Biggs work the action of a Winchester, jacking a round into the chamber. The sound only spurred Matt on.
Clutching his limp arm close to his side, he continued to run low to the ground across the open expanse of the yard.
Sweat trickled from his hair, slanting thin trails across his cheek and jaw. He could feel a similar wetness on his back, but had no idea whether it was blood or sweat.
With no time to stop, his desperate gaze scanned his surroundings. For a moment, his vision swam in a sickly haze; blue sky and green trees coalescing into a riotous swirl of color. Desperately, he shook his head clear, fighting against the disorientation. If he was to survive, he was going to need his wits about him. He felt the warm, slick blood oozing out between his fingers, tracking wetly down his hand and dribbling to the ground where it was leaving a grisly trail in the dust.
The bulky silhouette of the cottonwood grove with its thick undergrowth rose around him, promising protection.
A bullet burned its path through the air and he felt its distinctive whisper as it brushed past his head, followed closely by the whine and crack of the rifle report. Apparently, Biggs' aim wasn't any more accurate with a rifle, a distracted part of Matt's mind realized. Either that, or the other actually wanted him to reach the grove. Given the fact that Biggs intended for Matt to suffer as much as possible, he guessed the latter.
The tangle of trees loomed large ahead. Only a few more yards.
His breath was rasping in his lungs, his heart hammering loudly in his chest as he struggled towards the thicket. His boot tip suddenly slammed into a rock, almost tripping him, but he managed to catch himself.
Another shot rang out. It singed past his hip with a whine, splintering the bark off a tree to his right. Matt dropped to the ground, his injured shoulder yielding beneath him as he rolled into the dense growth of underbrush that bordered the yard.
He cried aloud at the impact, unprepared as a staggering explosion of pain knifed through his chest and back, knocking the breath upward through his lungs. For a moment, granulated light danced before his eyes as the world reeled at a sickening angle, spiraling out of control around him.
A ricochet bounced from another tree, then the bullets stopped suddenly, as though choked short.
Behind him, he could hear shouts and didn't bother looking to see if the men followed; he knew that they would.
His senses still reeling from the intense pain, Matt fought his way back to his feet and continued to stagger on, blindly plowing deeper and deeper into the shadows of the grove.
Only when he thought that he couldn't take another step, did he finally stop. Panting, he stumbled towards a huge cottonwood and sagged against the gnarled expanse of its trunk. His chest was heaving from his recent exertions, his breath coming in short, choppy gasps.
Sunlight filtered mutely through the canopy of green above and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his rampant breathing.
As his breathing settled, the pain suddenly registered, fully and completely. His left arm hung useless at his side, refusing to move, but fire bracketed the bones all the way to his fingertips. Grimacing, he opened his eyes and glanced down at his shoulder. The amount of blood that was seeping through his fingers, staining the front and sleeve of his shirt a dark, shiny garnet hue was alarming and brought a worried frown to his face.
Definitely not good, he thought to himself. He'd have to try and stop the flow quickly if he wanted to stay clear-headed. Using his right, Matt carefully turned his left arm slightly to inspect the injury more closely. But all he could see was a small hole in the blood-soaked fabric. Hooking his fingers into it, he tore the fabric open some more to reveal the jagged entry wound. As he had feared, the bullet had entered his shoulder right at the joint. But rather than going clean through, it seemed that it had lodged itself deep against the bone.
Matt swept the back of his hand across his brow, mopping up the glistening sweat, leaving a smear of blood in its place.
No, this wasn't good at all. Lifting his head, he directed an anxious glance into the direction he had come from for any sign of movement. So far, there was neither sign nor sound of his pursuers.
The thicket was peaceful and bright with filtered sunlight, but Matt didn't like the absolute and sudden silence that had fallen; he knew that Biggs and the other two were close on his trail. He realized that he didn't have much time if he wanted to stay ahead of Biggs, but the most important thing at the moment was to stop the bleeding. He pulled the bandanna from his back pocket and began to awkwardly wrap it around his shoulder. His left arm was tingling with the onset of numbness, the fingers refusing to obey and he had to use his teeth to aid him in tightening and knotting the cloth. Although he succeeded in slowing down the bleeding slightly, the pressure of the make-shift bandage also caused the wound to throb even worse.
Matt winced and sucked in a sharp breath though clenched teeth.
This was definitely a nice mess he had gotten himself into and he fleetingly wondered how he was going to get himself out of it on his own. Even if Doc and Kitty made it back to Dodge in under two hours, it would take Chester at least another hour and a half to get here. He doubted whether he could last that long.
What he needed were his guns.
His gaze darted up the slope, trying to remember where exactly he had left his weapons, but not knowing where he was, it was impossible to tell. Matt forced down a surge of disappointment and glanced around the tree trunk again.
Shadows slid in and out between the closely intertwined trees surrounding him, the branches above swaying ever so slightly as if moved by invisible hands.
Except for the loud cawing of a black crow coming from somewhere above, everything was still and quiet. He figured that Biggs, convinced that his injury would prevent him from getting very far, was most likely taking his time, tracking him slowly, stealthily like a hunter.
Whether he was a willing participant or not-the game had begun, and all he could do now was keep moving and try and stay a step ahead of Biggs.
His blood-covered palm splayed over the bark of the cottonwood as he pushed himself off its coarse trunk, a look of grim determination etched into his rugged features.
to be continued...