Chapter Twenty
x
A first lightening in the eastern sky heralded the beginning of a new day. Around him, the men had begun to move about, some already saddling up their horses while others, like Chester, were still nursing their coffee. A cup of the jailer's freshly made brew in his own hand, Luke Crandall watched as the arc of the sky paled and turned from blue, to gray, to a sudden, startling pink. Then the edge of the sun appeared, turning the long, flat line of the horizon to fire. As often as he had seen it in his forty-some odd years, it was a display of such unrivaled magnificence that it never failed to stir his soul.
The ex-lawman gazed across the solid expanse of the prairie, wondering if the new day would bring with it any sign of Dan Biggs. Together with the twelve men that had rode out from Dodge yesterday, he and Chester had tirelessly combed the entire area surrounding Cross Creek, leaving not a stone unturned. When the daylight had inevitably given way to night, they had lit lanterns and continued the search by their feeble light. But try as they might, their efforts had proved unsuccessful and they had finally decided to call the search off until morning and make camp in the Crandall's yard.
The night hadn't cooled off much and the new day was dawning bright and clear without the slightest breeze and a promise of more heat to come.
He swallowed another mouthful of bitter coffee and pulled a face. One thing was for sure, he couldn't help but think as he ruefully eyed the contents of his battered tin cup, Chester could definitely learn a thing or two from Millie about making coffee.
He tipped the rest of the brew into the flames of the small cook-fire, effectively dousing them and creating a hissing cloud of steam.
"Better get movin' soon," he explained across the smoldering remains of the fire when Chester threw him a rather startled look. It wasn't a lie and beat insulting the young jailer's coffee.
After a quick briefing, he divided the men up into groups of three and pointed out the areas to be covered by each with the help of a crude map he had drawn into the sandy soil. Nobody had any objections and soon, the men were mounted up and ready to move out.
Dust and small rocks scattered beneath the horses' hooves as the twelve riders rode from the yard a short moment later to make their way up the sloping hillside.
x
It didn't take them long to reach the fork in the dirt trail where they had left off the previous night. Luke reined his mount to a halt and raised his hand, signaling the others to do the same.
He turned the roan so that he was facing the small group.
"All right, men, this is where we split up," he said as he leaned forward and rested one forearm over the saddle horn. "Calhoun, you and Wales take the east side of Miller's Bend down to the old Thorpe place." A sweep of his hand indicated the direction. "Trimble and Latham, you take your men down the wash towards the Becker's. There are a lotta places a man can hide, be sure to look everywhere. "Jeff, Chester...we'll cover the area from here to the west edge of Miller's Bend."
Rance Trimble regarded the ex-lawman doubtfully as he used his neckerchief to mop perspiration and trail dust off his face. His eyes, a faded brown in a heavily tanned, leather-skinned face, were squinted almost closed against the brightness of the sun. The rancher had never been exactly the most patient of men and a long night with very little sleep had done little to improve his disposition. "You really reckon he could've walked that far if he's got a bullet in him?" he wondered.
Luke turned his steel-gray eyes on Trimble, meeting the other's gaze levelly. "I don't know," he answered truthfully, "but we can't rule out anythin'. Truth is, I don't know how badly he's wounded."
Scratching the dark stubble on his cheek, the rancher seemed to consider this. "All right," he said at last, but it was obvious that he still wasn't very enthusiastic. "We'll do it, but I gotta feelin' we're only wastin' our time." He jerked his horse's head around with unnecessary vigor and a moment later, the three riders set off in the opposite direction, leaving a lingering cloud of dust in their wake long after their horses' hoofbeats had died away.
Luke tugged the brim of his old slouch hat down lower over his bushy, graying brows as his eyes lingered on the quickly disappearing riders for a moment longer.
Every posse had to have its Trimble, he thought with an imperceptible sigh. He had certainly seen his share of them in his twenty-four years as a lawman.
Shifting gears, he gathered up his reins and then addressed the two remaining men. "Well, let's spread out some more. Chester, you keep to the middle, Jeff, you check among those trees over there an' I'll take the left."
Jeff Worth and Chester moved out and the next half hour passed uneventful as they rode in silence, their alert eyes searching the terrain for any sign or trace of Dan Biggs.
Suddenly, Luke sat up straight in the saddle, tensing. The back of his neck itched, dead-square center, just below the hair line. It was a sign he had learned to pay heed to a very long time ago. Some sense, finer than hearing or sight had picked up an indication that something wasn't right. Luke had been an upholder of the law, in one guise or another, for more years than he chose to think about. Though officially retired now, all his senses were still fine-tuned to the job, and that included his sixth, seventh and eighth senses. They were the vital instincts that had enabled him to reach a ripe age in a perilous profession. His attention became needle-sharp, and with a slight shift of his weight and a tug on the reins, he brought the roan to a stop.
Surprised, Chester reined his chestnut in when he saw the other's sudden alert stance. He brought his horse abreast with Luke's. "What's the matter? Somethin' wrong?" he wondered.
The ex-lawman's eyes were fixed on some point off in the distance, his voice slow, considering as he spoke. "I'm not sure-" He pulled himself more erect in the saddle and stood up in his stir-ups. His sharp gray eyes narrowed and began to slowly, intently scan the rugged terrain of the surrounding prairie.
Something wasn't right, he could sense it.
Beside him, Chester and Jeff Worth followed suit and let their eyes travel over the area Luke seemed to be staring at.
Suddenly, Jeff thrust out an arm over his horse's head. Something dark, lying against the paler, stone-colored ground had attracted his attention. "Over there!" he shouted as he pointed a good forty yards to his left where the dried-out trails gave way to green buffalo grass and a loose scattering of trees.
Squinting against the brightness of the sunlight, Luke glimpsed the dark bulk of a man's body, lying huddled up on the ground. Immediately, he kicked his horse into a swift canter and headed straight for it, Jeff and Chester following after him.
Moments later, Luke pulled up his mount with a jerk on the reins that made the gelding toss his head in protest. Quickly, he swung down out of his saddle, dropping the ends of the reins to the ground and slipped his rifle from the scabbard.
As he cautiously neared, he could see that the man was on his side, half curled. He also saw the blood that had seeped from a deep gash at the back of his head and turned to a dark paste on the ground where it had mingled with the sand and dust.
The ex-Sheriff set his rifle aside and hunkered down beside him and carefully turned him over.
"Oh, my goodness," exclaimed Chester immediately before he even had dismounted. "That's Sam Parker there!"
He climbed from his saddle in a hurry and joined Luke, crouching next to him on the rocky ground. The two men exchanged a glance and the ex-lawman responded with a nod upon seeing the query in Chester's eyes.
"He's still alive."
Chester swallowed hard, his expression stricken as his eyes trailed back to Parker's waxen face. "Sam," he said as he carefully touched the man on the shoulder. "It's Chester Goode, can you hear me?"
Sam Parker groaned. His chest heaved. He blinked a few times and then slowly raised gritty eyelids. Hazel eyes, now dull and already glazed over by impending death, were seeking Chester's face but couldn't find it.
"Sam," Chester tried again. "Who did this to you?"
The rancher's hand came up, blood-stained fingers feebly clutching at Chester's shirt front as his lips mouthed senseless, soundless words.
Chester leaned close but couldn't hear. He looked up and shot Luke a desperate look. The ex-Sheriff shook his head ever so slightly. There was nothing he could do, the man was dying.
"Sam." Chester's eyes were searching the other's face. "You gotta tell us...who did this to you?"
Sam's mouth moved again. The last breath bubbled in his throat. His eyes fixed and glazed, he struggled to muster up the strength to utter one final word.
Scar.
x
x
Back at the Crandall's house, the Marshal's condition remained unchanged. Thanks to Chester, Doc now at least had an ample supply of laudanum at his disposal to keep Matt as much sedated as he dared. Together with Kitty and Millie Crandall, he took turns to tirelessly bathe the lawman's fevered body in hopes of breaking the high fever that had set in the previous night.
As one hour ran seamlessly into the next, a heavy silence had descended over the house. It was broken only by the doctor's occasional murmur of gentle reassurance whenever Matt grew too restless beneath the painful procedure of cleaning and draining the wound-something which the doctor had to repeat several more times during the course of the day.
Presently, Kitty sat with Matt while Doc was in the main room of the Crandall's house, mixing another batch of laudanum. Suddenly, the tell tale rattle of wagon wheels outside in the yard caught his attention. It was soon followed by the clomping of hurried footsteps on the porch.
Curious, the doctor raised his head as the door was flung open a short moment later.
It was Chester.
He looked out of breath and clearly hassled as he quickly glanced around the room and then settled his eyes on the physician. "How's Mister Dillon, Doc?" he wondered as he stepped inside with several long, limping strides. "He feelin' any better this mornin'?"
Doc looked at him, surprised by his unexpected presence. "He's about the same, Chester...no change at all."
Chester nodded thoughtfully. "Well, leastways he ain't any worse," he reasoned.
A slight frown began to pucker the doctor's brow. "Golly, is that why you came back? To see how Matt was doin'? I thought you was s'posed to be out there lookin' for that Biggs-fella."
Chester scratched the nape of his neck, not quite sure how to put it. "Well, I was, but then we-what I 's gonna say is-" he fumbled his words, pointing over his shoulder. "Doc, there's somethin' outside I think you oughtta take a look at."
Doc raised a bushy brow in surprise. "Oh?" he wondered. "Well, can it wait? I gotta give Matt his medicine here.
Chester shuffled his feet. "Well, Luke wanted me to make sure you take a look at him right aways."
"Take a look at him?" wondered the doctor, puzzled. "Well, who's it he wants me to look at?"
"It's Sam Parker, Doc."
Undisguised confusion rippled across Doc's face. "Sam Parker? Why, what, in tarnation's he doin' here?" He scratched his ear, sure that he hadn't seen Parker with the rest of the posse last night. Maybe the rancher had joined up with them this morning, he reasoned with himself. "Well, all right, bring him in here, I s'pose," he then relented.
Chester began to shift nervously. "I don't think you'd want me to do that-"
Doc looked at him, now even more confused. "I don't? Well, why, in thunder's, that?"
"Because-" Chester quickly looked around to make sure neither Kitty nor Millie were nearby and then lowered his voice. "Because he's dead."
"DEAD?" Doc's voice rose several levels. "What do you mean, he's dead?"
Chester winced, a painful expression on his face. "For goodness sakes, just keep it down, Doc, will ya," he pleaded as he patted the air with his hands. "The ladies might hear you."
Immediately, Doc waved him off, slapping the air in front of him. "Oh, pshaw," he groused. But neither the gesture nor the words bore a lot of conviction. "You mind explainin' to me what happened?"
"Well," Chester began, "we's found him about three miles west from here on the way to Miller's Bend...Biggs musta clubbered him on the head by the looks of it. His gun's gone an' so's his horse."
Doc sniffed and swiped at his mustache again. "Clubbered on the head by Biggs, huh?" he softly repeated to himself as he absorbed the bad news.
Chester's face was dark, his expression troubled. "Yeah, an' I gotta feelin' it ain't botherin' him too much...killin' a man, I mean. I tell ya another thing, too, Doc. That Rance Trimble an' them other fellas ain't likin' it to much either...they's just about ready to shoot that Biggs on sight an' then string up what's left of him."
Doc wasn't too surprised. "Well, let me tell ya, I can't say I'd feel too sorry for Biggs if that were to happen. Golly, not after what he's done."
"No, neither do I, Doc. I swan-that fella's just plump outta his head."
Doc nodded gravely. "Yeah, that sure's one way of puttin' it."
"Ya know, Doc," said Chester, another, rather unsettling thought suddenly striking him. "I just thought of somethin'...you reckon he's gonna come after Mister Dillon now?"
Doc scrubbed a hand across his chin without looking at Chester. The thought had been troubling him ever since he had found out that Biggs was gone. "I'm afraid there's a good chance of that, Chester," he said at last. "You can never tell with a man like that. He slipped his moorings, he's off-balance...that makes him unpredictable."
The doctor's words did little to ease Chester's mind-if anything, they made him worry even more.
It wasn't lost on Doc. He picked up the glass with Matt's medication from the table. "Well, why don't you just go outside an' wait. Let me give this to Matt here an' I'll be right with you."
Chester nodded. He turned and hobbled from the room to wait for the doctor to officially confirm what everybody already knew-that Sam Parker was murdered, murdered by Dan Biggs.
x
x
The subsequent examination of the rancher's fatal injury indicated that a rather forceful blow to his head had fractured his skull, the shape of the head wound suggesting the possible use of the butt end of a rifle or pistol.
This new turn of events left everybody extremely uneasy, lending the matter a whole new sense of urgency. Not only did it confirm beyond doubt that Dan Biggs hadn't been as badly injured as everyone had thought at firs. To matter worse, the outlaw was now armed, and since Sam' horse hadn't turned up anywhere as of yet, most likely had a mount as well.
The question as to what needed to be done next, left everyone divided.
Most of the men from Dodge, outraged by the gruesome murder, were eager to get on with the search, more than ready to find and string Biggs up rather than turn him over to the law. This wasn't just about Marshal Dillon anymore-this was now about the murder of one of their own.
It didn't take much for Rance Trimble, who had been a friend of Sam's, to convince the others that the outlaw had made a run for it. The angry rancher stubbornly refused to acknowledge Doc's argument that Biggs wasn't thinking and acting like a normal man; instead, he urged for action, arguing that the outlaw already had a head start of several hours on them. Trimble's belief was backed by the fact that the posse had searched virtually everywhere in the surrounding area, had left no stone unturned without finding even the smallest trace of Biggs.
Luke and Chester, along with Doc on the other hand, were more inclined to believe that Biggs was anything but gone, most likely still lurking somewhere, waiting to finish Matt off. Unfortunately, they had little proof to support their suspicion, and argue as they might, most of the men remained unconvinced. After talking back and forth for almost ten minutes, they finally decided upon allowing two men to remain behind to keep watch at the farm while Luke would lead the rest of the posse in search of Biggs. None of the men were eager to stay behind and glad when Chester and Jeff Worth volunteered.
x
A good half hour later, the horses rested up and outfitted with supplies, the men were ready to move out again.
Chester threw a rather disgusted glance towards Rance Trimble, watching as the rancher mounted his big bay. He turned to the ex-lawman who was tightening the cinch strap on his saddle. "I still think they're wrong, Luke," he grumbled frustrated. "You'll see, they ain't gonna find Biggs 'cause he's still hidin' out here somewhere. I just know he is."
With a final tug, Luke pulled the cinch strap tight and lowered the stirrup. His face was wary, his expression grim. "I know how you feel, Chester," he said. His usually mellow voice was now sharpened by a distinct edge. "But there's always a good chance that we're wrong and if that's the case, I can't allow those fellas to lynch Biggs if they happen to find him. They'll all make themselves just as guilty of murder."
Chester could only reluctantly agree, still thinking that he was right and the others were wrong. He watched dejectedly as the ex-lawman backed the roan away from the hitch rail and gathered the reins in his left.
"You know, Chester," said Luke as he toed the stirrup, "I hope you're wrong. I really do. But no matter what...make sure you and Jeff are on the guard at all times-especially tonight. Remember, Biggs is armed now." He hoped, almost against hope, that Trimble was right and that Biggs had made a run for it, but deep down, he doubted it.
The jailer looked grimly determined. "Oh I ain't gonna forget...don't you worry none, I ain't gonna let Mister Dillon outta my sight."
"Neither will I, Crandall," added Jeff Worth as he stepped up alongside Chester.
Luke swung up into the saddle. "Well, good luck to the two of you," he said.
Chester raised a hand. "Good luck to you, too, Luke."
"Come on, Crandall," growled Rance Trimble impatiently. "We're wastin' time." The big bay horse was restlessly milling beneath him, its hooves scratching impatiently at the rocky soil.
Chester's face darkened immediately. He scowled. "Oh, that Trimble-"
Luke glanced down at the jailer as he laced the reins between his hands. "It's all right, Chester, just remember what I said."
The young man nodded, sending a look of worry after him as Luke nudged the roan into an easy jog and rode from the yard, eleven angrily determined men in tow. He had a bad feeling. A very, very bad feeling about it all. But despite his notion, the remainder of the day passed rather uneventful. Chester had taken up residence on the small front porch, fiercely determined to protect the lawman from Biggs at all cost, while Jeff Worth was walking the perimeter of the yard, watching closely for anything amiss beyond the boundary of the crude split-log fence.
Slowly but surely, the day began to ease into evening as the sun sank beneath the cradle of the treeline, turning the sky a deep cobalt blue. Inside the house, the lamps had been lit, their light glowing brightly in the gathering darkness.
x
Kitty set the cloth aside and looked across the bed at the physician as he was listening to Matt's heartbeat. "Doc?"
At the query, he straightened and removed the ear pieces, sliding the stethoscope down around his neck. He raised his head and met her gaze over Matt's chest.
Her hands were loosely folded over the lawman's limp arm. "How much longer could this go on?" she wondered. "What if his fever doesn't break soon?
The same question had been on the doctor's mind as well. His hand came up and slowly brushed over his mustache and chin as he gave her a long, considering look. Although she was making every effort not to show it, he could tell that she was clearly exhausted, physically and emotionally. There was a visible, tangible fear lurking in the depths of those usually sparkling blue eyes of hers that he couldn't deny. It stabbed at his heart and he wished he could give her the answers she wanted to hear. But all he could do was shake his head, at a loss. "Kitty, I wish I could tell you. It could be another day, maybe another two, three days...I just can't say."
His own weary eyes strayed to the tall lawman who lay sprawled on the bed, the quilt neatly tucked around his lower body from the waist down. His face, still flushed by fever and stippled with tiny beads of sweat was twitching now and then, the muscles beneath the skin contracting on their own accord as he tossed his head on the pillow, muttering incomprehensible strings of words.
Doc laid the back of his hand against the side of the Marshal's face to find the fever's intensity unchanged. "Matt's young and strong, Kitty," he reassured her. "As long as his body continues to fight the fever, there's hope."
Hope. It wasn't much, but it was the only thing they had left to hold on to.
An unexpected turn came sometime in the early hours of the next morning as dawn was just appearing at the edges of the eastern horizon. Without warning, the tossing and murmuring abruptly stilled as Matt fell into an exhausted sleep. Encouraged, Doc examined him while Kitty and Millie anxiously looked on. Moments later, the examination completed, he straightened, offering an encouraging smile.
"Well, by golly, it's hard to believe but his fever's down," he informed the two women as he pulled his wire-rimmed spectacles off. "And by the looks of it, there's no excessive fluid in the wound. It seems we beat the infection."
At his words, the tension began to slip from Kitty's face. "Oh, thank God." She let go the breath she'd been holding and unwound her hands.
Millie and Doc exchanged a quick glance, smiling tentative smiles.
"We'll let him sleep for a while," Doc continued as he folded up the spectacles and replaced them to their case. "But I want you two to try an' get some broth into him when he wakes up. He's probably gonna be awful weak."
Doc's words had in fact been an understatement; Matt barely had the strength to lift his head when he awoke several hours later.
It was thirst that tugged him awake. His mouth wasn't just dry, it felt stuffed with cotton thistles. He swallowed with difficulty. His eyelids scrunched then began to blink rapidly as he forced them up to make sense of his surroundings. The vaguely familiar sight of a raw wood ceiling and the neat, but plainly decorated walls of his borrowed bedroom slowly cleared. The room was dusted by the muted glow of mid-morning sunlight streaming through the dust-streaked windowpanes. It laid across his bed, making the old quilt take on a jeweled radiance. Black, spidery shadows of the big cottonwood outside by the window fluttered across the wall opposite and Matt managed a flicker of a smile upon noticing an addition to the scenery.
"Kitty?" He winced as his voice came out as little more than a scratchy hiss.
But though the word had held no strength, she had heard the soft inquiry nonetheless as it penetrated her light slumber. Kitty came instantly awake.
Matt's face was turned towards her, his expressive blue eyes, now free and clear of the feverish glaze, looking straight at her.
Surprise gave way to joy, instantly erasing the lines of exhaustion from her face. She rose from the chair and moved to sit beside his shoulder. For one brief moment, she feared she would try to fling herself into his arms and embrace him, but she managed to fight down the urge.
Tenderly, she brushed her thumb across the back of his broad hand that lay draped across his stomach instead. "Hey, cowboy," she said softly.
"Kitty...water," he whispered, unable to muster the strength needed to speak any louder.
Right away, Kitty retrieved the pitcher from the bedside table. She partially filled a glass with the cool liquid and then gently cupped a hand behind his neck to support his head. "Here, Matt." Carefully, she tipped the glass to his lips.
Though he managed only a few swallows, it was enough to strengthen his voice. When he was finished, his head fell back against the pillow. "Thanks," he murmured thickly.
Kitty set the glass aside. A warm smile brightened her tired features as she studied his face. The face of the man she loved. Though his complexion was still pale beneath his tan, the flush of fever was now gone. A heavy growth of reddish stubble, the result of not having shaved in four days, clothed his cheek and jawline, making him look rather rugged. Her fingers reached up and brushed over his forehead, fondly stroking back an errant lock of hair. "How do you feel?"
Matt licked at dry lips, still finding it rather difficult to speak. "I-I've...felt better...to tell ya the truth."
Kitty offered a sympathetic smile and patted his hand, thinking that he undoubtedly had looked better, too. But she wisely kept that observation to herself.
The touch of her hand on his, brought his gunshot wound to the forefront of his, still somewhat sluggish thoughts. Matt craned his neck in an attempt to get a good look at his left shoulder. He could feel that his left arm had been bandaged firmly against his body to prevent him from trying to use it, but the wound itself was too well covered in bandages and gauze to gauge how it looked. He shifted his eyes back to Kitty. "How long-" he paused trying to clear a throat that still felt hoarse and scratchy. "How long...have I-"
Her fingers tightened their clasp on his at the daunting memory of the last couple of days. "It's been three days since Doc took that bullet out."
He raised his brows in weak surprise as Kitty's statement registered.
She nodded and Matt closed his eyes again for a moment as weariness washed over him.
"Three days," he repeated softly. He drew a breath, and flinched immediately as the expanding of his lungs send a stab of pain through his chest and back. Then another thought came to him. "Doc. How's...Doc?"
Kitty smiled gently; Matt's growing inquisitiveness was a sure testament to his recovery. It was apparent that he didn't recollect too much of what had happened in the last two days though. "Doc's just fine," she reassured him. "I'm sure he'll be glad to see you awake."
"How-how about...Biggs?" he then asked, his voice now holding a bit more of its usual timbre as unsettling memories began to slowly resurface in his mind.
Kitty hesitated, not sure whether she wanted to tell him of Biggs' escape just yet. "Chester and Luke Crandall have dealt with him," she said at last. "There's nothing for you to worry about. Now why don't you just lie back and rest easy for a while, I'll be back later with something to eat for you." It wasn't a lie, Kitty told herself, it was true; the two men were dealing with Biggs.
Matt glanced at her, puzzled. "Luke...Crandall?" The name was just a faint memory fragment, a piece of a puzzle that left him struggling to place it.
"Doc'll explain it all to you later, Matt. Now why don't you try and get some more sleep." Her thumb began the familiar track across the back of his hand, gently stroking over scabbed knuckles.
Though his head was still heavy and thinking was still difficult with the lingering effect of the laudanum, he recognized her unwillingness to discuss the subject right away. Matt focused his sleep-heavy eyes on her, a shadow of his so familiar smile flickering over his face. His fingers folded over hers, securing them briefly in the warm, possessive cup of his palm. "All right...I s'pose...It can...wait," he mumbled, his attention already slowly drifting away.
From somewhere beyond the door, the soft din of dishes clicking together and the muffled clamor of voices-Chester's and another woman's, he thought-brought a measure of comfort that was like a drug, slowly coaxing him to close his eyes again. Exhausted, he surrendered to the darkness, allowing it to gradually pull him under once again.
Kitty sat beside him for a moment longer. Tears began to mist the corners of her eyes as it finally dawned on her that he was truly going to be all right. They were tears of gratitude, tears of relief, and she didn't bother holding them back as they trailed wetly down her cheeks. He was going to be all right. Once again, had he beaten the odds that always seemed so unfavorably stacked against him. Once again, had he eluded death that always seemed to be lurking, ready to claim him at any given moment. She waited until his breathing had evened once again into the rhythmic cadence of slumber. Only then did Kitty carefully extricate her hand from beneath his and rose to stand.
For another moment, she stood, just looking at him. His face was quiet now, the lines of pain that had marked it for the last couple of days, smooth. With a gentle smile, she reached down to pull the colorful quilt up higher to cover his chest, securely tucking it under.
The soft scuffle of footsteps floated across the room, telling her that Doc had entered. He shuffled around the other side of the bed and glanced down at the sleeping lawman. "How's our patient doin'?"
Kitty raised her eyes at the softly spoken query. "He was asking about you."
Doc tugged at his earlobe, pleased with the news. "He was, was he?"
Kitty nodded and her face turned serious. "He also asked about Biggs."
The doctor swiped a hand across his mustache, the gesture one of slow contemplation. "And? Did you tell him?"
Kitty shook her head slightly, her gaze once again on Matt's face. "No, Doc," she said softly. "I didn't tell him."
"Good. Then let's try an' keep it that way. I'm afraid, he'll find out soon enough." He pulled the pocket watch from his vest and then stooped to take hold of Matt's wrist to check his pulse.
A short moment later, he released the Marshal's wrist with a satisfied grunt. As he straightened back up, he couldn't help but notice how exhausted Kitty looked. "Kitty, why don't you go an' let me spell you here for a while? Go get somethin' to eat and then get yourself some rest. I let you know when Matt comes to again."
Kitty responded with a tired smile that only served to confirm the doctor's observation. She smiled and nodded agreeably. "All right, Doc, maybe I think I will." She reached across the bed, giving his hand a brief, thankful squeeze and then slipped quietly from the room.
x
x
Millie looked up from the basin where she had been absorbed in the task of scrubbing the dinner dishes when she saw Kitty step out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.
Dragging her arm across her forehead to brush a stray strand of graying hair from her face that had come undone from the plait, she turned. "How's Matt?"
Kitty used her handkerchief to dab a few remaining tears from her face and lifted her gaze. Her eyes, now bright with relief, met the older woman's. "He came to for a little while and talked some," she said and then paused, once again feeling overwhelmed with joy. "Oh, Millie, he's really gonna be all right," she added, smiling.
A big smile tugged at Millie's lips as she wiped her hands dry on her apron. "Of course, he's going to be all right, Kitty. What else did you expect? A big strappin' fella like Matt?" She chuckled. "What he needs to do now is start eatin' to regain his strength. I made some broth you can take to him when he wakes up again."
Kitty was deeply touched by the other woman's thoughtfulness. Millie Crandall, with her always positive, no-nonsense ways had definitely grown on her over the course of the past few days. "Thank you, that's very kind of you, Millie."
The older woman waved her off. "Oh, don't mention it. You just see to it that Matt eats and gets plenty of rest."
Kitty pulled a face as she absently pleated the small, lacy handkerchief through her fingers. "Well, good luck on that last one. I've never known Matt Dillon to lie in bed for any longer than he absolutely has to. When it comes to minding Doc's orders, he can be downright stubborn."
Millie chuckled softly. "Matt's a fine man, Kitty. S'matter of fact, he reminds me a lot of Luke when he was younger. So committed to his badge and dedicated to upholding the law, never afraid to stand up for and defend what he believed was right."
Kitty recognized these particular traits at once. She sighed. "Well, that's Matt all right."
Millie studied the pretty redhead thoughtfully and suddenly couldn't help seeing herself so many years ago. She placed a hand upon Kitty's forearm, gently patting it. "Kitty, I know how you feel, believe me, I've been there...more than once." She shook her head. "Oh, I couldn't tell you all the times I nursed Luke back to health and sat with him, not knowin' whether he'd live or die. There were times when I thought I just couldn't take it any more and I promised myself that I would leave as soon as I knew he was goin' to be all right."
"But you never did," ventured Kitty, already knowing the answer.
Millie smiled to herself. "No, I never did," she conceded. "I knew that he needed me. Even though he had a hard time saying it out sometimes, I knew that it would've hurt him terribly if I left."
For a moment, Kitty pondered Millie's words, but before she had a chance to respond, the other woman's mind had already shifted gears. "But enough of that...you go an' sit down now. It's about time you had somethin' to eat yourself."
Kitty tucked the handkerchief back into her sleeve and shook her head slightly. "Maybe later, I'm not all that hungry right now."
But Millie, always a practical woman, wouldn't have any of it. "Oh, nonsense, I don't wanna to hear it," she declared firmly as she pulled a clean bowl from the shelf above the stove. "You need to keep up your own strength. What do you think Matt's going to want to see when he wakes up again? You won't be any good to him if you make yourself sick, young lady." Without further ado, she began to fill the bowl with a stew, thick with tender bits of beef, carrots and potatoes and handed it to the pretty redhead.
Kitty had no choice but to accept it. "Well, all right," she relented, secretly thankful for Millie's persistence. Deep down, she couldn't deny the hollow feeling that had begun to spread in the pit of her stomach.
Satisfied, Millie proceeded to fill a mug with freshly brewed coffee. Then she picked up a plate of skillet corn bread and followed Kitty over to the table.
For a while, neither one of the two women said a word and the only sounds that could be heard were the clatter of the dishes and Millie's soft humming. Suddenly, Millie grew still. Setting aside the dish rag, she turned. "Kitty, do you really think that this Biggs is still around?"
Kitty replaced the coffee cup on the table. Her expression grew troubled. "Well, Doc, Luke and Chester certainly seem to think so, and I'm inclined to agree. If you'd have seen this man, you'd understand...he was just terrible."
Millie shook her head. "Well, for once I hope that Luke's wrong," she said. "As far as I'm concerned, I hope that this Biggs is clear to Mexico by now."
x
x
But Dan Biggs was far from gone. He was close, very close.