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Sleep was no friend to Kitty Russell. It was not even a companion of late. She spent her nights in fitful unrest, frequently getting out of bed to stand in front of her window, with her gaze directed across the street. As before a light burned in the Marshal's office but it burned now for someone other than Matt Dillon. Fatigue brought its own Army. Reality fought with fantasy, if she closed her eyes she could imagine him still there asleep on a cot, too small for his large frame. Better yet, she could believe he was asleep in her own bed. Her thoughts on so many nights strayed to the last they spent together. The memories of passion brought aftershocks that even months later sent tremors coursing through her intimate parts. "Pretty lady", he had whispered in a voice husky with passion, "what you do to me, dear God what you do to me."
"Pretty Lady." If he was her "Cowboy' then she was his "Pretty Lady. This was a private thing, a phrase meant for her ears alone. A term of endearment that encompassed not only her beauty, but her social status as well, for he never saw her as anything less than a 'lady'.
Inevitably reality would win the fight. Doubt and worry plagued her consciousness. Where was he? What was he doing, why had he left? The knowledge he hadn't trusted her enough to seek her confidence was a burden to a heart that already ached with the weight of unanswered questions.
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Despite Doc's arguments to the contrary, Festus had saddled up his old mule and left Dodge. "Ol' Doc, don't you see? You don't let a mad dog go free, not if'n it's yours. You see to it. You do what's gotta be done." Friendship had formed a bond tighter than brotherhood and it was an unspoken duty to the honor of that kinship that Hagen bring Matt Dillon home, one way or another. Family saw to family.
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Talk in Dodge had turned to conjecture, speculation to gossip and lies, those who'd marked Dillon as a friend, now claimed they'd known he'd been too honest to be true. At night she would hold his badge in her hand and wonder why - why she hadn't appreciated heaven while she had it and why she had to suffer hell now, for she could see no sin she'd created significant enough for this brand of damnation.
News from outside Ford County came to town by variable sources. The most dependable was the telegraph, which provided immediate, albeit sketchy information. Next, came Dodge City visitors, still in possession of copies of their hometown newspapers and armed with personal interpretations of the reports. Finally there was always the "Dodge City Post". This weekly chronicle was undoubtedly the least accurate source of news, for it garnered its coverage from saloon hearsay, back fence gossip and barbershop manipulated fact. It was a small thing to hang on to but Kitty Russell did, blindly hoping by some twist of fate the accounts that filtered her way were the product of sensationalistic reporting and had little connection to the truth behind Matt Dillon's actions.
The Post had been full of news and rumors were rampant in the Long Branch that day. Texas born Matt Dillon was riding with the Barger Brothers, a rebel gang who six year after Lee's surrender to Grant were still wearing the confederate gray and fighting for the 'cause'. They'd been heading east through Missouri and Southern Illinois and had recently begun to extend their treachery to small banks housing the lifeblood of northern interest.
A dismal smoky haze churned overhead; the stink of half-penny cigars and hand rolled cigarettes saturated the air. Stale beer and cheap perfume clung to the dresses of the bar gals who scurried through the busy saloon trying to keep up with the orders. Scattered conversations each hummed the same refrain.
"Ain't no better than Quantrill, no better'n Frank' n Jesse James … no better n Mace Gore …" Farmer Jimmy Taylor pronounced.
"Knew it all along, I coulda told you so." Nathan Burke crowed.
A traveling salesman spoke up, "I know a fella, who talked to a man who was kin to a shopkeeper in Wayneborough, said Dillon killed a man in cold blood, shot him dead for looking at him."
"Dillon'll come to his end, it'll be a damn bloody one too, you can bet on it!"
She wanted to put her hands over her ears and scream at them to go to hell. Instead, she balled her hands to fists and looked at Sam. "It ain't true Miss Kitty. I won't believe a word of it." She took a deep breath and leaned forward resting her arms on the bar. She stayed that way for a moment while her blood pressure equalized. Her back was to the batwing doors when Hiram T. Mahoney entered the saloon. The Marshal was a small man who preferred to wear a fancy pin striped suit that carried the persistant odor of moth balls. Upon his head he wore a derby hat that always struck Kitty as too large for his diminutive skull. He'd worn the badge in Dodge City for nearly three months now and was still no more a part of the community than the day he'd first stepped off the stage. Kitty sensed his honesty but nevertheless felt no obligation to friendly courtesy.
With his hat suspended beneath ten fingers he approached the saloon owner, "Ma'am?"
She turned with a start, premonition establishing a keen sense of foreboding, "Mr. Mahoney? What is it?"
"I got a wire - reports be that Dillon was wounded in a raid. Barger's men got away but the news is Matt took himself a bullet, maybe two in the back. The feller that shot him says it's bad."
Her breath caught in her throat and storm clouds darkened her vision. She blinked hard and swayed. Sam seeing color evaporate from her complexion rushed around the bar to grab her before she fell. An arm around her waist provided support as he guided her to the back office. She sat down hard at her desk chair, shaking her head back and forth.
Sam poured a glass of brandy and offered it to her, "Drink this Miss Kitty, it'll put the starch back in your spine." She downed the glass and he refilled it, she drank the second in a single gulp.
The strong liquor revived the color in her face and gave her enough false courage to get through the day, but did nothing for her heart which shriveled in size with each waiting hour.
A week passed with no news. She didn't know if he were still alive, although intuition told her she'd know if he were dead. Like Festus she was besought by the need to go and find him. Keeping her in Dodge City was the fleeting hope he might come to her there. She had made a decision the night she'd heard he'd been wounded. It didn't matter anymore what side of the law he was on. The only thing that mattered was love. Without giving it hard thought, Kitty knew she'd go with him if he asked her to and even if he didn't. She made ready her traveling bag, making sure there was cash enough to see them through for a long while. She waited and hoped and even prayed some.
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Late summer brought the cattle drives to town. Dodge was unruly, bordering on anarchy. It was more than Mahoney could handle especially without a seasoned man like Festus Hagen to help. Those in the saloon business tried their best to placate both trail hands and local citizens knowing to do justice to either was impossible. It was long past midnight when Kitty finally opened the door to her room with dance shoes in hand. Below her the bar was still noisy and crowed and she knew to sleep during this ruckus unlikely, but she needed a quiet break from the seemingly endless furor. Without prelude, the hard steel of a Colt .45 prodded her back as she walked in the darkened room. A course English voice hissed, "I'm 'ere to take you to Dillon; 'e needs you."
Her heart was hammering so violently in her breast she feared she wasn't hearing right, "Where is he?" She breathed.
"I hain't h'at liberty to say, mum, you can pack yourself one small carpet bag and dress yourself to ride."
With the weapon aimed at her she stepped behind her changing screen and stripped off her saloon dress and pulled on a dark split skirt, white shirtwaist and sturdy riding boots. Throwing a black hooded cape over her shoulders she grabbed the carpetbag she'd prepared weeks earlier. "I'm ready." She told the man. He moved to the door, but she gave one last backward glance to her room, not knowing if she'd ever see it again. She stopped her scan at her dressing table. The moonlight caught the reflection of Matt Dillon's badge resting there. "Just a minute." She said, hurrying to the table to pull the tin star into her palm, before shoving it to the depths of her pocket.