Chapter 2 So Close, Yet So Far

Matt Dillon wasted no time taking off for the small town of Ensign, on the stage route to Meade, as soon as he received the wire. Since there was no sheriff's office the driver reported the robbery and passenger's murder to Curt Blevins, the proprietor of that multipurpose establishment. The prompt delivery, while interrupting his first sip of the beer Kitty put in front of him, gave him a chance to send an immediate reply instructing the witnesses to remain in Ensign. Calling the place a town was a misnomer. It consisted of the depot, the adjoining stable where more than just stage company horses boarded, a boardinghouse that fancied itself a hotel, a café that doubled as a saloon and most importantly a combination Post Office, general store and telegraph office. The marshal reckoned he might be able to pick up the road agents trail if he rode south immediately.

Leaving Kitty at the table only seconds after she'd brought the mugs for both of them with an apology and a "see yah later", Matt followed the messenger boy from the telegraph office out the door. The lad ran to his place of employment so his boss could send off the lawman's reply while Dillon strode briskly to his office.

"Chester, the Meade stage was robbed. With luck I can catch them before they get too far and be back in a couple of days. You're in charge while I'm gone," he told his assistant as he grabbed his saddlebags and bedroll, a canteen full of water and a rifle from the rack before racing out the door toward the stable.

Matt didn't bother with anything more than what was already packed in those saddlebags. He'd pick up supplies while gaining as much information as he could by questioning those involved. Right now all that mattered was to quickly saddle his horse and be on his way – agitated but determined to do his duty. There was a certain solace he found riding on the prairie alone but not when he was after murderous outlaws. Besides, he'd only just returned and here he was abruptly leaving Kitty again. Though it was only minutes Matt already missed the comfort she could provide, one that augmented anything being alone with his thoughts could provide.

Since the sun set at nine Dillon didn't have to slow down to avoid potholes in the dark. He rode the 12 or so miles in a bit over two hours. Dismounting in front of the general store, he tied Buck's reins loosely to the hitch rail. The place looked closed so the lawman turned his boots to the saloon cum café next door. Thanks to his abrupt departure, instead of enjoying supper with Kitty, he'd set off without a mouthful. Perhaps this place could provide something to fill his empty belly as well as a chance to speak with the driver and his shotgun messenger. Still, always mindful of the needs of others, especially his horse when out on the trail, he saw to it his buckskin was fed and watered. As he traveled to and from the stable attached to the depot Matt began to devise a plan. As soon as he had an idea of the direction and, he hoped, a basic description of the three he was after, he'd be back on the trail.

It appeared luck was with him. Dillon was able to eat a not quite bloody steak with all the trimmings and wash it down with a mug of beer while talking to witnesses. The stage driver Luke Watkins and his shotgun Rod Dietrich recognized the lawman as soon as he entered. Finishing the dregs of a couple beers as the big man took a seat they sauntered over to his table to tell him what they knew. It didn't take many questions before Matt had the details he needed. Though they told him what was taken and how much it was worth, the lawman set that and specifics concerning their only passenger to the back of his mind. The money didn't amount to enough to draw anyone's attention if spent. The dead passenger's watch was no different from any other watch a man just getting by might carry. The murdered man was a drummer newly assigned to the territory. The stage company would take care of seeing to notifying any family and the disposition of his remains. What mattered to the marshal was the clear description of the men and their horses.

He learned the robbers were masked and dressed like any cowboy you might run across, which wasn't helpful. Despite that, the two stage company employees were able to provide some unique details. One was a few inches shorter than Matt but rail thin, gangly like he hadn't quite grown into his body. His almost white straight hair fell over his forehead down into his eyes. The second was a couple inches shorter than Luke, who stood at six feet even, making him three inches shorter than Rod and stocky. His hair was black from what the two men could tell by looking at the beard that surrounded his mouth and the long strands that escaped his hat. The killer, the man giving the orders, sported a bushy red mustache and matching long sideburns. His horse was an appaloosa. The other two rode paints. The trio hightailed it toward the west from where they'd waylaid the stage a mile or so north of Ensign they told him.

Before moving on Matt managed to track down Curt Blevins at the boardinghouse where the man lived with his wife Libby, who ran the place. The couple had nothing of significance to add to what he'd already learned. Seeing no need to remain, he took advantage of the long summer day to pick up their trail and follow after the outlaws. Even so, once it became too dark to track them he camped for the night in a small grove of trees along Crooked Creek. He hoped to find fresh signs at dawn and close the distance between him and them. From experience he expected the road agents to be holed up between Lockport and Montezuma. He'd either surprise them at their camp or run them down in one of the two towns. There was no reason for anyone in either place to suspect them of being the stage robbers or, for that matter, to even know of the robbery yet. Dillon could take them by surprise and escort them back to Dodge to stand trial.

Matt rode into Montezuma after seeking sign of a camp further along Crooked Creek. He saw nothing along the way. Meanwhile the stage continued on toward Meade about the same hour as the lawman began looking for the outlaws. Montezuma was approximately equal in size to Ensign but lacked a telegraph office. He couldn't wire Dodge to say he was still on the trail. Dillon felt he was wasting precious time and so did little more than gulp down an already cooked breakfast in the catchall building while the owner gathered up coffee, bacon, beans and jerky to enable him to continue his trip. Resigned to being on the trail instead of heading home, preferably with the arrested men, he began to backtrack. The man behind the badge knew that he wasn't infallible. Matt Dillon accepted he could have missed something.

The marshal was bemoaning the downturn of his luck and thinking how much better it would be to share a ride with Kitty when he spotted a horseshoe lying on the ground where three horses had obviously passed. Matt, after camping out for another night, continued to follow the newer trail. His assumption proved to be true. A cowboy hailed him as he approached a ranch house three quarters of a mile to the northwest in the open country between Montezuma and Cimarron.

"Yep, sounds like the men you're after Marshal," the cowboy Abe Locklear, who turned out to be the ranch owner, declared. "Once I gave them the tools to replace the thrown shoe the three of 'em rode west last night. You should have no trouble trailing them. They don't seem concerned about the law bein' behind them and the shoe I gave the one on the appaloosa is noticeably worn."

"Thanks, Locklear. "I'll be on my way then."

Matt continued on, stopping briefly every hour to rest Buck. Despite the hope gained from talking to Locklear he hadn't caught up with those he was after by the time darkness forced him to stop for the night. He'd wasted a day following the false trail laid out for him that began so well at Locklear's ranch. At first light he backtracked looking for sign of where the trio doubled back then changed direction. It took another full day. These men were adept at planting false trails, a skill they probably learned during the war. By the time he was near certain he was closing in on the outlaws Matt had been on their trail for three going on four days.

Dillon was trail worn and close enough to a relay station between Ingalls and Charleston that he decided to stop there for a hot meal and a real bed if they had one available. The meal was all he bothered with along with oats for Buck once he spoke with the manager.

"Marshal, sounds like the ones what robbed the Garden City stage just before it reached Ingalls," the manager declared. One passenger was killed. Body's been sent to the Sheriff in Cimarron if you want to see it."

Matt resignedly left. He needed more information. The only way to get it was to stop at an identical relay station on the east side of Ingalls. He wasn't sure how much they could tell him, but at the very least they could point out the direction the outlaws took. The marshal followed a wide route that covered both sides of the Arkansas rather than take the most direct route to the site of the robbery. He'd look for what signs he could along the way. It might be he was wasting his time but instinct told him it was unlikely to be another trio of stage robbers operating identically to the three he was chasing. Dillon found nothing he could be certain of by the time the sun was starting to set.

Figuring Buck was rested enough under the circumstances Matt rode at a steady trot toward the town where the experienced Pete Wilson was sheriff. Cimarron's business leaders had appointed the 50-year-old lawman five years ago. They wanted to be sure they had someone in place to handle any drifters looking for trouble after being told to get out of Dodge by the young US Marshal there. Wilson had experience with many similar types back in Tascosa. The marshal had confidence in the older lawman. If there were anything more to learn about those he was after Sheriff Wilson would provide it.

Pete Wilson greeted the recently turned 31-year-old man warmly when Matt stepped into the Cimarron jailhouse. "They sure picked the right man for US Marshal. You got here mighty fast. I've a hunch you already spoke to Taggart, but how'd you even know what happened to the stage between here and there?" the sheriff asked, his voice full of awe. "I didn't think to send a wire to you because they're long gone."

"That's entirely possible, but if I'm right this isn't the first stage they've robbed," Matt replied. "I've been on their trail for five days now – since they hit the Meade stage. It was a mile or so outside Ensign and a passenger was killed. I'd be surprised if the facts you know are different from mine except for the stage crew and who was murdered."

Wilson provided Marshal Dillon with everything that was reported to him when he accepted the body. It was late the previous evening. The posse the sheriff formed was unable to find a trace of the trio in the fading light that came close enough to matching the description of the skunks and their horses Matt was following to not matter.

"Did you find any identification on him?" Matt asked. "I've got to be on my way before I loose what light's left," he added when the man nodded in the affirmative. "I'll leave it to you to contact the stage company to deal with the family, if any, and the burial."

The US Marshal for Kansas grabbed a few boxes of bullets and some more provisions to tide him over for another few days. When added to what was left of the food and ammunition he'd purchased in Montezuma the lawman figured he had more than enough, supplemented with what he could scrounge on the trail, to last for at least another week. He hoped he'd be back home before then. August was a relatively quiet time during cattle season but something could still come up that Chester couldn't handle. Even if nothing bad happened, Matt needed to share his frustrations with Kitty so she could help him sort things out. He wondered how long that would be.

By the time the nearly spent federal lawman made his camp in a grove of trees along the Arkansas west of the relay station where the latest robbery was first reported it was full dark. He fell into a fitful sleep populated by dreams of the same robbers hitting a stage Kitty was on and hearing them laugh as he tried to keep her from being the passenger they killed. No matterwhat he tried the polecats remained tantalizingly out of reach.