A Rose in December
All characters are copyright to CBS, I'm just borrowing them.
"A Rose, a cross, a flickering light
A brave face, cold and white
A voice, hushed by Heaven's right
All too soon.
"Fool am I to grant this life meaning
To dream dreams not worth dreaming
While angels of death are silently scheming.
Let me lay my hand upon your breast
And whisper sins un-confessed.
I beg God in my loneliness
Tell me why
Why one so young and tender
Crushed like a rose in December
Lost forever and ever....
"I will be there
When your heart calls on me
Down from a star
On a wind from the highest heaven
I will fly.
Now don't you cry."
-- "Una Rosa a Dicembre" (English translation) by Gino Vanelli
Chapter 2
As Matt went on his rounds, he made discreet inquiries of the shop proprietors and businessmen about the girl Chester had brought in. No one had heard anything useful or seen anyone suspicious. He decided to make one more stop before meeting Kitty for supper and sauntered into the stage depot.
The sleepy ticket agent looked up from the dime novel he was reading when he heard the door open and greeted, "Good evening to you, Marshal! Anathin' I kin he'p ya with?"
Matt smiled tightly. "As a matter of fact, you can. I need to know about the passengers on the stage that came in from Pueblo earlier today and any stops it made."
The ticket agent opened the leather ledger in front of him and scanned through the information. "That run had three passengers, two men and a woman. They didn't make no other stops."
So she most likely was a passenger on that run. The information didn't tell Matt how she had gotten off the stage or come to be in such rough condition but he had an unpleasant suspicion of how it had happened. "Did you see them arriving? Can you describe them?" Matt asked.
"I don't rightly recall," the ticket agent responded. "Come to think of it, I didn't see but the two passengers getting off."
"I'll need to talk to the driver," Matt said. "Where can I find him?"
"Jim's over to the Lady Gay having a beer. You might catch up with him there."
"Thanks." The cold wind howling between the clapboard buildings slammed into Matt as he exited the stage depot. He pulled his Stetson down lower over his eyes and made his way to the Lady Gay. He and Jim had a casual friendship; it would not look amiss for him to be seen talking to the stage driver. "Evening, Jim," he greeted the man.
Jim took a pull at his beer and then signaled the bartender to bring one for Matt as well. "Evening, Marshal. Heard you been looking for me."
"Was there anything…unusual…about this evening's run from Pueblo?"
"I'll tell you, Marshal, it was the strangest run I've been on in a spell. Didn't have but the one passenger at Pueblo and she didn't have no baggage. Sickly looking little thing, poorly dressed for the weather, but she had the fare so I took 'er on. Picked up two men at way station just outside a' Garden City. Looked like Pinkerton types, maybe, real interested in that bitty female. The three a' them had some sorta scuffle at the last way station but I didn't investigate. I wanted to get here afore the storm broke on us."
"Well, did you see the girl get back on the stage?"
Jim had to think about that one for a moment. "Now you mention it, I sure didn't but it ain't unusual for passengers t' change destinations along the way or t' miss the stage."
"Uh-huh. Sure. Can you describe those men or tell me where they went?"
"Well, sure, Marshal. One was kinda heavyset with short cropped silvery hair and cold blue eyes. The other was tall and thin, reddish hair down to his shoulders, and a dark suit. I don't pry int' passengers' business so I cain't tell ya where they went."
Matt finished his beer and clapped Jim on the back. "Thanks. You've been a big help."
There was nothing more he could do with that information tonight except keeping watch for men fitting that description. Matt decided to make his rounds one more time before heading over to Delmonico's to have supper with Kitty.
It was not to be. Poking his head into the Texas Trail, Matt spotted the two men Jim had described to him.
The Texas Trail was one of the worst saloons in Dodge, composed of little more than a rough bar and a few battered tables with patched legs and torn felt. The sawdust on the floor had been neither swept nor changed in quite some time. It was a place where people did their business quietly in the shadows and left before they were noticed.
Matt found the two men in the rear corner of the saloon playing poker. The cold-eyed one had a sizable stack of chips in front of him; his companion, nervously fingering his Colt, stood silent and menacing behind him. The redhead constantly scanned the patrons, sizing them up and either dismissing them or marking them for potential trouble.
Matt Dillon, standing a full head above everyone else with a US Marshal's badge pinned to his chest, constituted big trouble. Matt saw him nudge the shoulder of the older man, who said something short but kept playing his cards.
The man lifted his head from the cards and regarded the marshal coolly as he approached. The smile he gave was a predator's and made Matt itch for an excuse to go for his gun. "Evening, Marshal. A social call, I trust?"
"Not exactly," said Matt, matching the man's neutral tone as he hooked his thumbs through his gun belt. "Could I have a word with you?"
"Anything you say." He nodded curtly to the redhead and said, "Play out this hand for me, would you, Cheney?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Stitzer." The redhead called Cheney slipped into the chair and picked up the cards as Stitzer stood. "Over at the bar, Marshal," he said, "is that convenient?"
"It'll do," Matt growled shortly. He didn't like the fact that he'd have to turn his back on Cheney in order to talk to Stitzer but it couldn't be helped. Stitzer was heavyset but not overweight with a powerful build that suggested he was used to fighting with his fists. He wore clothing of respectable quality but not of the expensive cut Matt had come to expect of gamblers and procurers. Stitzer wore his silver hair cropped close to his head and kept his beard trimmed in a goatee. Matt studied Stitzer but could see no obvious gun. That didn't mean he didn't have one, of course. It could have been tucked away in shoulder holster or a pocket.
"What can I do for you, Marshal?" Stitzer's tone was courteous enough, although cold and clipped. "I trust we have not inadvertently broken the law." He raised a silver frosted eyebrow in a question. "Drink?"
Matt shook his head; Stitzer shrugged and gestured for the bartender to fill his own glass. The marshal pulled his hat lower over his eyes and regarded the man steadily. "You're not a gambler or a merchant," he said decisively. "Mind telling me what you're doing in Dodge?"
Stitzer took a long swig of his whiskey and grimaced. He set the half empty glass aside and stared up into the marshal's eyes. His voice was a shade cooler than it had been. "As a matter of fact, I do. It's a private business transaction and I'd like it to remain so."
"I'm making it my business," said Matt, deliberately stepping closer. "Now, I asked you a question: what's your business here?"
"Unless you've got something you wish to charge me with, Marshal, I strongly suggest you find someone who is actually breaking the law to bother."
"I'm going to find out what you did to that girl," Matt growled, pressing his advantage and hoping to catch Stitzer off guard. "You watch yourself while you're in Dodge or I'll have you in my jail and before a judge."
He was rewarded by a flinch and a slight narrowing of the eyes, but that was all. Having said what he needed to, Matt turned to go. The slight nod and a blur of motion from Cheney's direction were the only warnings he had. The marshal couldn't avoid the kick aimed at his bad leg by a rough looking man at the bar. He went down and a fight broke out. A wild punch grazed his forehead and, knowing the fight had been staged and was probably intended to kill him, he surged to his feet. Someone pitched a beer mug in his direction and Matt ducked. He drove a strong uppercut into the belly of the man who had just missed. Someone else came at him from behind, knocking him in the kidneys and knees again, but Matt stood his ground and managed to drive an elbow into his assailant's face.
Having gained a little bit of space around him, Matt drew his revolver, fired it once into the air, and bellowed, "Everybody freeze!" The room fell silent. A quick glance around the room revealed that Stitzer and Cheney had made their exit sometime during the fight. "I ought to haul the lot of you to jail," Matt muttered. In a louder voice he commanded, "Go on home. You men have had enough excitement tonight. I see any of you on Front Street this evening and you will go to jail."
Without bothering to see if his orders were being followed, he stalked back to the jail. It was a good twenty minutes past the time he'd said he would meet Kitty for supper and now he would have to clean up before going to see her. He'd almost made it back to the jail without being seen when Ma Smalley intercepted him. Whatever she had been going to tell him was erased by the shock of seeing the marshal in such bad condition. "Marshal, what on earth happened to you?"
Matt halted, bruised knee throbbing and on fire, and used the hitching post to lean against. "What do you mean?" He knew his shirt was torn and stained but he didn't think he looked that bad.
"There's blood on your face!"
He put a hand up to his forehead then looked at the smear of blood on his fingers in confusion. I don't even remember getting cut. "It can't be that bad if I didn't feel it," he said, shrugging it off. Kitty's gonna be furious. The bruises wouldn't likely show too badly until tomorrow but there was no way he could hide a cut that deep from her.
"Well, it's a nasty cut. You'd better have Doc look at it. But first, I wanted to tell you that the little girl Chester brought in was conscious for a while. She didn't say much, just that her name's Sadie, and then she begged us to keep everyone but Chester away. I got to get back but you make sure you come by and let Doc take care of that cut." Ma Smalley clucked her tongue in disapproval. "Marshal, I hope you catch the men who used her so!"
By the time he'd cleaned up, changed his shirt, and applied a rudimentary bandage to the cut Matt had to admit Ma Smalley was right; it needed stitches. He pulled his Stetson down low over his head so that it partially hid the bandage and then limped over to Delmonico's.
Kitty smiled when she saw the tall marshal come through the restaurant doors. As he made his way to her table, various patrons stopped him to exchange pleasantries or for a quick word about this or that. Finally, nodding apologetically, he excused himself and sank into the chair opposite hers. "Sorry I'm late," he said quietly, squeezing her hand. "Something came up."
He looked so tired and contrite that Kitty decided not to needle him about it this time. Inwardly, she sighed. At least he got here this time. "It's all right, Matt, I'm sure it couldn't wait. Did you learn anything?"
Matt told her what he'd found out, purposely leaving out the part about nearly being pummeled to death in the Texas Trail, and what Ma Smalley had said. "There's not much to go on," he admitted. "I can't charge those two with anything until I have a definite connection. Being seen on the same stage with Sadie isn't enough."
The waiter, seeing that the marshal had arrived, came and took their orders back to the kitchen. Matt suddenly realized Kitty was staring hard at him in disapproval. "Er…something wrong, Kitty?"
"Matt," she reminded him, her lips pressed thin, "your hat?"
Feeling like a little boy who had been caught playing pranks in church, Matt removed the Stetson and set it on a vacant chair beside him. He heard Kitty's soft intake of breath as she studied the damage. "Now, Kitty…." he said, raising a hand to forestall the tirade he knew would be coming.
"Oh, Matt," she cried, not caring who saw as she skimmed his bruised face with gentle fingers, "you've been in a fight. You're hurt."
"It's not that bad," Matt protested, embarrassment turning the back of his neck red. He was saved from having to say anything else by the arrival of their orders. "How's Chester doing?" he asked, changing the subject.
"We're a little worried about him," Kitty admitted, setting down her fork. "Doc thinks Chester must have carried that little girl quite a while wrapped in his coat. How he got them both on the horse, we'll probably never know. Chester's not really built for that kind of activity."
"No, he isn't," said Matt slowly, recalling his friend's slight frame and halting gait. The enormity of his assistant's accomplishment in getting them both back to Dodge sank in. He didn't really want to think about the toll such heroic effort might have taken on the boy. "He'll be all right?" It came out more as a question than the statement he'd meant to make.
"Why don't you go over and visit him after supper?" Kitty suggested. "Chester's been asking for you anyway." She folded her napkin and laid it on the table. "I've got to get back to Doc's. Ma Smalley couldn't stay away from the boarding house for long."
Matt stood, put some coins on the table to pay their bill, and linked his arm through hers. "I'll walk you over there."
"Matt," Kitty said, laying her hand on his forearm as they were about to ascend the stairs. "There's something more you need to know about Sadie."
Her hesitation let him know that whatever it was, it was something which had upset her and was difficult for her to tell him. "Go on," Matt gently urged her.
Kitty's nose wrinkled in remembered distaste. "When I was stripping those…rags…off her and getting her into a nightgown, she had a brand mark on her shoulder."
"What kind of brand?"
"Matt, it…it looks like the imprint of a badge!"