"Why do you hunt men and put them to death," Kitty said as she walked with Anson to Doc's. "You don't seem cruel or callous. I don't understand how you do it."
"It is most unpleasant and cost me dearly as you see. Times I thought I'd lose my reason. Perhaps I capture and execute bad men because I am like the classicists. Life should be a peaceable kingdom. Murderers make that impossible."
As Kitty and Anson headed for Doc's office, Doc held a scalpel over Chester's palm while Matt stood by the table with forceps in hand. "Doc, cain't ya please chloroform me first?" Chester begged.
"Chester, I gave you something to dull the pain. You don't need chloroform for a splinter."
"But it's so deep in ma flesh you haveta slice my hand, an' it's a big un, Doc."
"Well next time you'll be more careful when you shove kindling in the stove. Now, hold still while I make the incision." With a swift practiced motion, Doc cut a neat line across Chester's palm.
"It's bleedin'," said Chester.
"Course it's bleedin'. Hand me the forceps, Matt, and I'll pull out the splinter while you dab the blood with that cotton wadding," Doc instructed.
"Alright," said Matt.
Doc extracted a bloody sliver nearly two inches long from Chester's palm. "Well looky thar, Doc! It come out ta one piece."
"Good job, Doc," said Matt.
"Simple technique. It's all in the handwork," Doc said modestly as Kitty came in with Anson.
Kitty moved to Doc's table while Anson stood near the door. "What happened, Chester," she said as Doc cleaned the gash in Chester's palm with carbolic acid.
" 'Tain't nothin', Miss Kitty. I run a big splinter in my hand jammin' kindlin' in the stove."
"Needs a few stitches," said Doc.
"You dint say nothin' 'bout no stitches, Doc. I tole you I needed chloroform. You got the worst bedside manner I ever seed."
"Quit being such a big baby," Doc said, albeit soothingly. "I'll have you sewed up in a quick minute."
"Oh. Poor Chester." Kitty smoothed his hair back from his forehead.
Chester blushed. "Naught to fret over, Miss Kitty." Matt was looking intently at Anson.
As Doc stitched Chester's palm, he addressed his visitor without turning round. "I'll be with you just a moment, sir, after I finish with Chester here," said Doc. "Not feeling sick, are you, Kitty?"
"I'm fine. I don't look sick, do I?"
"No, you look in the peak of health. Pretty as a primrose."
"Why, thank you, Doc."
"You just came to pass the time with me, then. I'm honored," said Doc, swathing Chester's hand in a bandage.
"What's your name, Mister," Matt said to Anson.
Anson took two steps closer to the marshal and removed his hat. "Marshal Dillon. I am Thane Anson."
"Thane Anson," said Chester.
"Yes, sir. Bounty hunter and hangman," said Anson. Fashioning a sling for Chester's hand, Doc jerked his head around and gave Anson's face a probing glance.
"Sick or hurt, are you?" said Matt.
"Not bodily. I hoped to get somewhat from Doctor Adams to calm my nerves."
"What's your business in Dodge?" said Matt.
"Why don't you let me check him out first, Matt," said Doc. Chester climbed off the table and sat in Doc's desk chair as Anson took off his coat and gun belt, hung them with his hat on the stand by the door, and put the whiskey bottle in his coat pocket.
"He has a full laudanum bottle in the other pocket, Doc," said Kitty. "He was talking about killing himself." Anson stood by the door and looked at Matt, who looked at Doc.
"Come on, Mr. Anson," said Doc, gesturing.
"Walk me back to the Long Branch, Chester. I'll buy you a beer," said Kitty.
"I could sure use one, Miss Kitty."
As Kitty passed Anson on her way to the door, he reached his fingers toward a stray tendril of bright red hair under her hat. He stayed his hand just short of touching the silky lock. Kitty took his hand. "I'm sorry, Thane. I had to let Doc know." He gave her a sad little grin and nodded.
Anson sat on Doc's table, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his vest and shirt. Matt moved near the door and leaned against the wall while Doc gave the man a quick exam. "You're sound enough, Mr. Anson," said Doc. "Heartbeat's a bit fast and it hitches here and there. That's a sign you're under strain. If you drink those bottles of whiskey and laudanum in your coat pockets, your heart might stop."
"I have chronic nervous melancholy. It's worse of late and laudanum doesn't help much. I bought a bottle as Mr. Jonas has no stronger sedative in his store. If you give me something, Doc, maybe I won't . . . hurt myself."
"Well here's what I'll do for you, Thane. I'll give you a dose of chloral hydrate now, then if you feel the need for more tonight, come to my office around ten o'clock. I should be here if I'm not on a call. I won't sell you a whole bottle cause you're depressed and you might take too much at once."
"I am not quite so cast down, knowing you care to discourage me from poisoning myself, Doc," Anson said as Doc mixed the sedative in a tin cup. "A lot of men would urge me to take my life. Marshal Dillon wishes me dead."
"Makes no difference what I wish, Anson. If you decide to kill yourself, no one can stop you," said Matt.
"True. But I may not do it if anyone cares a breath whether I live or die."
"You care nothing for the men you shoot dead and hang. You just think on the bounty for a hide," said Matt.
Anson tensed and gulped. "You don't understand, Marshal. It's not the money. Murderers must die. It's a job that must be done."
"And you're mighty eager to do it. Any man who hunts men for the price on their heads and hangs them too must like killing."
"I don't. You don't understand." Anson's chest heaved.
"Drink this," said Doc, putting the cup in the man's trembling hands. Anson drained the cup and handed it back to Doc.
"Who're you after in Dodge, Anson," said Matt.
"No one. I swear. I live nowhere. I executed a man in Hays and was three days riding my horse. I was going to stay the winter in Dodge. Unless I kill myself."
"No need to do that, Thane. Think on it a spell, you'll see what I mean," said Doc. "Just live."
"I don't think I have the courage."
"You don't need courage or anything particular to live. Suicide is painful. And even when it's not . . . well it scares you to death," said Doc. "Makes a lot more sense to live. It is that uncomplicated."
Matt's mouth twitched and he tightened it to keep from grinning, holding his face stern. Doc had amused him so he'd go easy on Anson.
"Anson, I have no legal right to run you out of town," Matt said. "Unfortunately. You work on the side of the law."
"But you think my work is immoral."
Matt didn't answer. He put on his jacket and hat.
"Not me as the agent of death. You made clear what you think of me. The work itself, Marshal. You won't tell me your opinion?" Anson implored.
"I won't salve your conscience. You'll live or die with it. It's your choice." Matt went out.
"Come back at ten o'clock if you need another sedative," Doc reminded Anson.
"I'd like to talk with you a bit longer, Doc."
"No . . . . I have calls to make before sundown. I can take that whiskey and laudanum to pay for your visit."
"I'll keep the bottles," said Anson. "I see you are doing your duty by me. It's a matter of honor not to lose a patient. Well you could lose one anyway, and I wager you won't count it much of a loss."
"Now just a minute," Doc said. "It won't help you none to rush out in a huff. Set a little awhile, give the chloral a chance to ease your nerves."
Anson shook his head. "How much do I owe you."
"Nothing. Forget about that. Just sit a moment and rest."
"You are a good man, Doc, and I don't want you feeling guilt over a man like me. The chloral is making me drowsy. I shall go to my room and sleep."
When Anson slept past the dinner hour, Ma Smalley's concern surprised her. She showed her goodwill through essential comforts given with a devotion exceeding the rates she charged, but Anson was different, a strange tenant. Though he wasn't a lawbreaker, feeling sympathy for him seemed to Ma almost indecent. Yet she couldn't suppress her pity, so banished her discomposure as a nuisance which distracted from helping him. If she took a charitable interest in Anson, she would do it thoroughly or not at all.
As he agreed to eat meals in his room rather than at the dining table as a term of his board, Ma knocked on his door to see if he was ready for supper. He didn't reply. She knocked again and called his name. She'd seen him come in a few hours since, carrying whiskey and a bottle of something in a paper bag.
Then she heard his voice through the closed door, a guttural sound unlike his normal genteel tones. "No. No. You're all dead. You murdering scum. I killed every one of you. Help!" Muffled frantic babbling followed.
Ma opened the door. The room was dark and warm from the stove. Anson thrashed about on the bed. "No!" he yelled as Ma entered. "Help me!"
"Mr. Anson." Ma gripped his shoulders and shook him. "Mr. Anson. Wake up."
Anson went limp. "Mrs. Smalley? Oh my heavens," he said hoarsely.
"You had a nightmare, Mr. Anson. I'll light the lamp." In his pants and black flannel undershirt, Anson lay atop the quilt. His hair was tousled, and he was sweating and pale beneath his buff-colored skin. Full bottles of whiskey and laudanum were on the bedside table.
"The chloral Doc gave me," Anson mumbled from his pillow, raking quivering fingers through his hair. "It put me to sleep but it didn't stop the nightmares. Nothing can stop the cursed nightmares," he breathed. "They won, Mrs. Smalley. The men I put to death. They want vengeance and I'm too weary to fight them anymore."
"No call to fret, Mr. Anson. It was just a bad dream." Ma touched her warm palm to his face.
Anson covered her hand with his, then let his hand fall to the mattress. "Bless you, dear lady," he murmured. "But it is too late for me."
"Don't you worry about a thing. You need your supper and a restorative. I'll be back directly with a tray and some hot brandy with honey. Best not drink that whiskey. You might drink too much of it."
"Yes. A good dinner and brandy will give me strength to do what I must," said Anson.
Snow flurries blew through the night, the freezing wind dying down every hour or so only to bestir with a whining howl an hour later. A farmer rode to the marshal's office to report a gruesome sight at a neighboring ranch. The rancher and his three hands had shot one another to death, and their bodies lay sprawled on the ground near the bunkhouse. The farmer thought sure they fought over the rancher's wife, rumored to be wanton. The farmer claimed she tried to seduce him at harvest time when his wife and little girl took the wagon to town to sell eggs and his boys were at the creek fishing, but he was a churchgoing man and would have naught to do with a scarlet woman. He guessed the rancher's wife hid in her house now, too horrified to face the carnage she caused.
Although he could use Chester's help, Matt would not let his partner ride with him to the ranch. The stitched wound in Chester's hand was sore where Doc had removed the wood sliver, and blood splotches stained the bandage. Matt would drive a wagon to the ranch, load the four dead bodies and drive to the undertaker, who'd put the corpses on ice until the spring thaw softened the ground sufficient for the gravedigger to do his job. The rancher's wife needed questioning for the marshal's report, and arrangements made to tend their cattle and horses.
Matt would walk his rounds on his return and sleep at the office. Though the jail cells were empty and Chester's wound wasn't severe, he'd have trouble shooting straight if he needed to. Never knowing if one of his many enemies might brave the cold to come gunning for him, Matt would not leave his injured friend alone at the jailhouse all night.
Chester went to the Long Branch after Matt left, and Anson arrived in front of the marshal's office a short time later. Coatless and hatless, ungloved and not wearing a gun, he carried his whiskey and laudanum bottles hugged to his chest.
Anson peered through the office windows. The lamps were lighted and a fire burned in the stove. No one was inside. He set his bottles on one of the two outdoor chairs, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar, vest, shirt and undershirt. He picked up the bottles, sat in the chair and chugged whiskey. Then he pulled long from the laudanum bottle. The icy wind flapped his black vest and shirts and numbed his bared chest and belly.