No one ever notices me. Well, almost no one. The big Marshal does. And the lovely Miss Russell.
I do their laundry. I wash and mend and sew what is needed.
My name is Ella Reed. "Thin as a reed, Ella Reed," as my sweet Joe used to say. Joe, my Joe, he's been gone eighteen years the twentieth of next month.
Joe was a guard on the stage from Hays to Dodge when he got himself shot in the back during a robbery. He still was able to shoot and kill the robber before collapsing. He did his job and saved the payroll. He survived being carried up to Doc Adams, but only long enough to say a goodbye to me. It was a blessing in that Doc said Joe would never have walked again, and that would have been a long, slow death for a man like him.
"Oh Ella…I'm so sorry…guess our savings will git ya through. Ya've always bin my gal!" he had gasped with his last breath.
I kissed his still-warm lips one last time. Dear Joe had left the bill-paying and all to me, and I never told him how I had used up our savings months ago to pay the monthly mortgage and make ends meet. The pay from this last guard job had been owed to the General Store.
I had seen the sharp blue-gray eyes of the old doctor glance over and meet the piercing light blue ones of the Marshal then. Something passed between them.
"Uh, Mrs. Reed," the young lawman began, "Joe is due a fifty dollar reward for saving the payroll. I have the money over in my office if you'd care to accompany me."
"Certainly, Marshal Dillon. I'm ready to go now," I said in a soft voice as I tore my eyes away from the still, white face of my once vibrantly alive man. Doc Adams had assured me that Joe would be brought out and properly buried on our land tomorrow.
When we reached his office, the Marshal escorted me to a chair by the small square table in the center of the room. He then went over to his desk and began to rummage in the drawer he unlocked. I looked down with disinterest at the two rumpled shirts on the table I sat at. Two buttons and a spool of thread with a needle stuck in it were in front of me. Slowly I straightened the pale blue shirt, found where a button was missing, threaded the needle, picked up a button and began to sew. It was a task I often did for Joe and it required no thinking. By the time I noticed the tall man standing across the table from me, quietly watching, I had finished both shirts.
"Thank you, Mrs. Reed. You didn't have to do that, but I sure do appreciate it. My fingers feel like fence posts when I sew. Here's Joe's money. When Chester gets done at the stage depot, I'll drive you home."
"Thank you, Marshal. Chester is a dear man. And sewing always calms me," I said as I smiled up at the kind blue eyes. I had gratefully tucked the fifty dollars into my bag. We were down to our last two dollars yesterday.
Marshal Dillon pulled the chair out for me, and took my arm as we left the office and headed for where I had left our wagon. I always drove into town to meet Joe after a stage run.
"Mrs. Reed. What are your plans now? Do you have any family to go to?" Marshal Dillon asked in a soft voice as we walked.
"No family, Marshal. I plan on staying in the house Joe and I built, but I'll have to find work," I said firmly.
We continued on our slow way up the boardwalk. Reaching the steep stairs up to Doc Adams', I came to a stop and stared up to his office for a moment, and the Marshal put his big right hand over my hand on his left arm. Then we continued on our way to the stable.
"Mr. Dillon! Mr. Dillon!" Chester called as he hop-ran towards the stable from the depot. "Here I am!"
The slim assistant to the Marshal had been talking with the still-rattled stage driver, trying to get as much useful information about the attempted robbery as possible.
"Chester, watch over things while I drive Mrs. Reed home."
"Yessir, I sure will," he replied as he tipped his small black hat at me, then continued towards the office, his large brown eyes full of sympathy.
The solemn Marshal helped me up into Joe's and my wagon at the stable, nodded at old Moss, then climbed up and took the reins. Clucking his tongue, he guided the big farm horse out into the street. We rode in silence for the eight miles. As we reached the small, flat wooden bridge leading to the comfortable small house, he cleared his throat.
"Mrs. Reed. I'd sure appreciate if you would take in my laundry for me, washing and mending and ironing. You sewed those buttons on just fine, and I'm tired of having to do that after my current laundress irons, and plows them off!"
Sensing a hesitation on my part, he quickly added, "Please don't worry about Mrs. Dunwoody! She's always telling me my shirts are too big, too dirty, and too much for her! I think she's tearing off the buttons to try to get me to go to someone else!"
We reached the barn. He helped me down, then unhitched the horse, led it to its stall and gave it feed and water. I stood watching, mulling over a new career.
"Marshal Dillon. I would be proud to be your laundress, and I can start tomorrow. Please call me Ella."
"Thanks…Ella. And it's Matt. There's no hurry since I now have those two shirts you repaired. Anytime next week will do."
He put out his big right hand and I shook it firmly. So began an arrangement that has been going on for eighteen years now.