Town people had hurried over and were gesturing and chattering in small groups as two employees of the stage line came over. One took hold of the still skittish horses and the other waited by the open coach door for the Marshal to come out.
Stepping back out into the street, the Marshal looked grimly at the man waiting for him.
"Leroy, which men were on the last leg of the run today?"
"Well, Marshal, it should have been the crew of old Sonny Collins as driver and young Tim Scott as shotgun. We figured the last leg is always the easiest and safest, being closest to town. Where do you suppose they are?"
The slight, be-spectacled man looked around now, then walked over and checked the inside of the coach.
"And what happened to the passengers?! There were six passengers, including Miss Kitty and Doc. And all of the luggage is still lashed on top," he said , after looking up.
"That's what Chester and I are going to find out. Chester! Get the horses!"
The big Marshal was already striding towards his office, people quickly stepping out of his way.
They left town about twenty minutes later after loading their horses with jerky, coffee, bedrolls, and extra water and ammunition for their rifles.
Matt had checked with the stage office for the exact route and relay stations scheduled, and had gotten a list of the names of the six passengers. Besides Doc and Kitty, there was an older married couple, the Kendalls, a lone man, Perry Crane, and a lone woman, Phyllis White.
"How far da ya figure we'll have to go, Mr. Dillon?"
"All the way to St. Louis, if necessary, Chester."
That was where Kitty and Doc had spent the last two weeks together. Kitty had decided to accompany Doc to a medical conference when he had half-jokingly asked her. Matt had been too heavily scheduled with back-to-back trials in Hays to spend time with her, so she had figured it was a perfect time to do some shopping in the big city. Plus, she and Doc enjoyed each other's company, and he was tickled to have her along.
East of Dodge, Matt and Chester searched the stage road for any sign of the missing passengers as they rode along at a maddeningly slow pace.
About five miles out, Matt thought he saw a bundle ahead on the side of the road. Galloping over, his heart sunk as he realized it was a man's body.
Chester caught up, eyes wide with concern for whomever it was, but guiltily relieved when he saw that it wasn't Doc that the Marshal was kneeling over.
"Mr. Dillon, Isn't that old Sonny Collins, the stage driver? Is he, is he dead?"
"Yes, Chester. It's Sonny. He's dead. Been shot in the chest. There's a note here in his pocket:"
"Tried to be a hero. Seven left."
"Oh, forevermore. Who would kill such a nice old man like Sonny? He was probably just trying to protect his passengers."
"Come on, Chester, let's find something to use to scrape out a grave for this man."
After Sonny Collins had been properly buried, with Matt and Chester removing their hats and observing a short moment of silent prayer, they turned towards their horses, anxious to resume their search.
Chester glanced down at the ground where the driver had been found, and spotted a small bloodied piece of folded paper that had been underneath the man.
"Mr. Dillon? Look there," Chester pointed and Matt came over, squatted down, and picked up the blood-stiffened paper that had almost blended into the grass and dirt.
"Mr. Dillon. What does it say?" Chester's voice was almost a whisper.
Matt cleared his throat:
"Burying him sure slowed you down, Dillon. If you hurry, you might find something of interest at the old Crooked Spur relay station."
Neither man said anything as they purposefully tightened the cinches on their saddles, mounted, and began the ride to the abandoned relay station, about eight miles further down the rarely-used perimeter trail. The stage line long ago had rerouted to newer relay stations along the current road.