There's Better Ways to Travel

Matt answered the hardware accessories drummer's question about Pete's kin with a glare, silencing him. The marshal pushed his hat over his eyes to doze for what remained of the 100 miles to Larned. From what Slim Tompkins the driver and Reese Norway his shotgun guard told him, Dillon needed to be alert on the final leg of the trip if only to keep the boy from being hurt if there was trouble. If nothing happened, Pete still needed him. Matt knew how losing a mother and father along with everything else you'd ever known tore you up inside, but the lawman was nearly five years older when he was orphaned. Unlike that miserable time in his own life when his folks met their death in a fire, Pete's pa would return and his kin would raise him until then.

Nine hours later, including two 15-minute stops to change horses and allow the passengers a chance to stretch their legs at a couple non-descript relay stations and an hour-long stop in Great Bend for a late dinner at 1:30, Matt still didn't trust the passenger seated across from them. It was a gut reaction to the man of average height and build, with neatly trimmed light brown hair and a wisp of a mustache, who wore a coat and hat that were a bit more subdued than expected. The man's appearance wasn't odd enough to cause his distrust by itself, but the gun belt he glimpsed concealed beneath the salesman's coat, made the lawman believe he was up to no good probable. Many traveling men carried a pistol for protection, but not a Peacemaker.

Matt Dillon wasn't one to take unnecessary chances. Given his hunch about the stranger, the marshal wanted Pete to keep his distance from the man who, according to Slim, called himself Brad Shumway. He gave the boy a quarter and sent him across the road from the Larned stage depot to the general store so he could more easily watch Shumway while he and the stage company men conferred with the army's representatives who'd been waiting for the coach to arrive. Matt breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the supposed salesman turn toward the nearest saloon rather than follow Pete. It didn't completely ease the fear he still might have to choose between putting his obligation to get the boy to his kin unharmed and protecting the strongbox in order to safeguard both.

"I don't mean to be rude, sir, but why didn't you go with your son to the store? Army business is none of your concern," the lieutenant added as if he were issuing an order to the sergeant and private standing stiffly next to him rather than the tall, handsome stage passenger.

"It's rude, but I reckon I should introduce myself, Lieutenant," Matt replied with the voice of authority before either of the stage company employees could explain his presence. "Name's Dillon. Matt Dillon, the US Marshal over in Dodge," he added pulling aside his coat and vest to reveal his badge.

"Sorry, Marshal. Glad you're here to provide extra protection. Major Honeywell will have a detail ready to take possession of the strongbox in Dodge City to take it the rest of the way to Fort Dodge."

Matt never let on he knew, thanks to Chester's reply to his telegram, the strongbox contained five bags containing $25 gold pieces and paper money, divided into $1,000 packets of $100 bills, totaling $25,000. He successfully gave the impression he knew less of the details of the transfer from one fort to the other than the driver and guard and of course the lieutenant to keep the army officer focused on the money rather than on Pete who, while sharing his blue eyes, had straight rather than curly brown hair and without the red highlights. Matt saw no point in drawing attention to conflict of interest.

By four the army's money was secure behind the feet of the stage company men under the box where the driver and guard sat. Slim controlled six running horses and Reese cradled his Winchester as they continued on their journey. For once even the Kansas weather was cooperating. There was no sign of rain in the cloudless azure sky and the temperature hovered close to but never quite reached 70. If nothing unexpected happened they would cover the remaining 50 miles to Dodge in record time. Matt looked forward to a late super with Kitty at Delmonico's after he turned Pete over to his aunt and uncle at the depot.

The sun was setting, bringing on dusk, as the stage made its scheduled brief stop in Spearville. While there, Shumway tried to push his wares on several men but only one bothered to even take the drummer's card. It seemed strange to Matt that a man who looked more like a hired gun than a shopkeeper or rancher was the only one interested in wheel nuts and such, but pushed that curious fact to the back of his mind. Instead he let his guard down and engaged in a bit of wishful thinking that fully checking out Shumway could wait until he was back in his office.

"Unbuckle that gun belt with your left hand nice and slow or the kid's dead," Shumway calmly stated as the stage came to a sudden stop by the Arkansas near the northeast corner of Jake Worth's ranch. "Place it carefully next to me."

"Marshal!" Pete shouted as two shots rang out awakening the dozing boy. "What's happening?"

"My friends killed the driver and guard to get at the strong box, but that's not all," Shumway told him gloating as he continued. "We're gonna make even more money off the two of you. There's gotta be enough folks that don't hate Marshal Dillon here plus your kin to raise say five or maybe $6,000 so you can be with them."

Shumway shoved Pete out the door, using the six-gun in his hand while picking up Matt's weapon with the other to keep the marshal covered. The frightened boy tripped over the step below the door losing what little balance he had at the same moment the Matt made a grab for the outlaw. The spry man not only evaded the attack, he managed to plant a left hook to Matt's jaw and use the momentum to exit the coach. Shumway, having tossed Matt's side arm toward his men, held Pete firmly in his left hand. With the right one he aimed his Colt squarely at the emerging lawman's chest.

"Gord, Flint, I want you to savor this moment," he bragged to the two gunmen, one of whom Matt recognized as the man who took Shumway's business card in Spearville, who carried the strongbox between them. "Meet US Marshal Matt Dillon," he added. "Until further notice he and the kid are worth more to us alive than dead. Grab their gear from up top and this law dog's gun at your feet. Then find the irons I know he's carryin' to secure his hands after he writes a little note."

Matt wrote his own ransom note, signed it and handed the pencil and notepad to Pete for the boy to add a sentence and his name, all the time watching for a chance to create a disversion to allow the boy to race away through the copse of trees and follow the river until he found help. Three against one were poor odds even if he didn't have the boy to worry about. They were even worse because Shumway's partners were both burly men carrying close to 200 pounds of mostly muscle each who would kill just as soon as look at anyone in their way.

"I'm afraid you have no choice but to cooperate, law dog," Shumway snidely remarked as if he'd read Matt's thoughts. "Now be a good boy and put your hands behind your back," the gang leader sneered. As he snapped the cuffs his men tossed to him on the lawman's wrists he added "Kid, hand me the keys to these. They'll be in one of his pockets."

Matt outwardly ignored Shumway's insults, hoping the boy could read the silent message contained in his expression when Gord climbed into the stage, the ransom note hanging on the trigger of the marshal's gun to put in partway into the holster of his gun belt that was still on the seat where it would be easily spotted, but Shumway and Flint's aim never wavered. Then it was Shumway and Gord who still leveled a deadly aim at both Matt and Pete while Flint fetched three horses from the copse of about ten feet away.

"How did you know about the money?" Matt asked in hopes of distracting Shumway so he could run at him and shove him toward Gord while Pete got away. "Who told you?"

"The telegraph operator in Brookville. I regularly contacted the prison, so he had no problem letting me know when the stage company received special communications. I read the army's wire about adding a strong box full of money in Larned and passed it on to Flint with my card in Spearville. You had suspicions, but couldn't do nothin', 'specially bein' responsible for the kid."

Brad Shumway finished his speech, never taking his eyes off his kidnap victims, timing it so the final word came as Flint returned with the saddled horses. Then he nodded. Simultaneously, two lassos looped over the prisoner's heads and were pulled tight, pinning their arms to their sides. Matt, whose hands were already shackled uncomfortably behind his back, choked back a cry of pain when the rope forced his arms into an unnatural position.

"Boys, send that stage on to Dodge. It's dark and they'll soon wonder why it's late."

With that all three men fired their pistols, tossed whatever was handy and shouted at the team to scare the six horses into motion. As soon as the stage was on its way to Dodge Shumway jerked the rope holding Pete and Gord pulled on the one around Dillon propelling them forward toward the trees while turning them to face southeast toward the river rather than west. Another jerk on the ropes halted them in front of a couple of dense bushes in a tiny clearing under the trees.

"It's best you relieve yourselves now. It's your last chance for maybe 15 hours. "Kid, you'll have to help the dog lift his pisser free."

Matt wasn't sure who was more embarrassed by what Pete was forced to do, but somehow both managed to relieve themselves before they were jerked back toward where the horses stood. The three outlaws mounted one at a time. Shumway and Gord tied the rope attached to the prisoner each led to their saddle horn before starting off at a slow walk that gradually picked up pace until Pete was forced to run and Matt even with his much longer legs found it hard to keep upright unless he jogged.