AN: Thanks again to the well-mannered guest for your detailed & insightful reviews.
It's All Part of the Job
Matt recognized the shack that marked the end of their forced three-mile march through the prairie southwest from the point in the road where the stage was robbed. They had cut a diagonal swath through the grass to a point where the riverbank curved to the southeast due south of Fort Dodge before curving back north again a mile or two beyond where Spearville sat to the north. Exhausted, he and Pete stumbled into the line shack that marked the northeast border of Jake Worth's ranch.
The revolvers poked into their spines to push them inside were completely unnecessary because neither prisoner, particularly the boy, had the energy to resist. Both did as they were told and sank down on the floor against the bedstead in the corner farthest from the stove. Soon the end of the rope around Pete's chest was secured to one side of the frame at the foot of the cot like you would tether a horse or dog. Pete curled up on the floor and was soon asleep. The rope securing Matt was also looped around the bedstead, but it was pulled through and then tightly wound around his torso for several turns pushing his knees against his chest.
As much as his body craved it Marshal Matt Dillon couldn't rest even if he weren't in pain. He could no more ease the ache in his muscles, particularly his arms and hands, than he could see a way to perform his sworn duty. So far he'd failed in his responsibility to deliver Pete unharmed to his aunt and uncle and find a way to arrest the three men whispering to each other at the other end of the cabin for robbery, murder and kidnapping. The situation hadn't improved when the smell of beans cooking on the stove caused Pete to stir from his two-hour nap and the lawman to call over to the men once the boy was awake. Shumway took his time sauntering over without the requested food and water for either of them. Instead he pulled the rope binding Matt in his uncomfortable position tighter so that the lawman's knees dug into his chest forcing him to take shallow breaths if he wanted to breathe at all before grabbing what amounted to a lead to pull Pete toward the table where the three outlaws were finishing eating.
"Kid, you're welcome to the leavins in the pot and what water you can manage to swallow while washin' it and our dishes," Shumway told him. Tomorrow I'll fetch you to cook us up breakfast. You musta learned how while your ma was so sick and dogs like that cur Dillon trussed up over there made sure your pa wasn't around."
It was a strain to turn his head enough to see, but Matt watched with their captors as the lad scooped out the leftover beans with his hand then filled the pot with water so he could wash it. The resourceful eight-year-old, using the pot as a dishpan, managed to dip his cupped hands in the water and bring them up to his mouth for a sip before adding soap and then taking a second gulp of water when he rinsed them, simultaneously getting several drinks and washing the sticky bean residue off his hands. Matt had to content himself with the fact Pete wasn't being denied food and water. He could wait.
Judging from the angle of the sun coming through the window on the east side of the cabin Matt reckoned it was around seven when Gord and Flint collected Pete to cook breakfast. Once Gord had a firm hold of the lad's lead both men kicked the lawman a couple of times and spit in his face. All Matt could do was glare at them and watch them pull the lad toward the stove.
Pete cooked smoked side meat left from when Jake Worth's men departed the cabin a week ago along with more canned beans and boiled up a pot of coffee. He served the three outlaws and was rewarded with the leavings and a couple handfuls of water while he cleaned up. When the lad finished tidying the shack, three men and a child walked across the room to stand in front of where Matt was securely tied. Shumway, holding the lasso looped around Pete's torso nodded for Gord and Flint to ease the rope holding the big man enough so that he could stand if he used his hands, still cuffed behind him, to grab the foot of the bed for purchase. He must not have been quick enough because both men jerked the rope hard so the marshal, his legs stiff and unsteady under him, fell forward, his face striking the dirt floor.
"Boy, cain't you walk?" Brad Shumway jeered. "Fellas, this cur's gonna crawl to the door on his belly."
He wasn't sure how he did it without the use of his hands, but Matt managed to brace himself against the doorframe and stand. Being pulled on his stomach helped rid his legs of the pins and needles as the blood finally circulated after hours of being in one very uncomfortable position. Hungry and thirsty, he concentrated on keeping erect and walking behind Gord's horse while Pete half trotted behind Flint's mount. Shumway followed close behind on his roan for another three-mile trek to the river's edge.
If not for his hands cuffed behind his back, Matt would have tried something when the ransom money was shoved into the hollow oak. The trouble with that was even if he'd shoved backwards, forcing Gord's hand away from his mouth creating a diversion, nobody across the river was armed. There was nobody to follow up. The non-opportunity passed as Doc's buggy and the Gilberts' wagon pulled away. The ransom could be safely claimed.
While Brad Shumway remained on the north shore of the Arkansas, Gord and Flint, never releasing their hold on the ropes attached to their captives mounted their horses, pulling the man and boy into the water. Gord made sure the rope he held jerked suddenly halfway across, causing Matt to fall backwards into the water. To compensate for his hands uselessly cuffed behind his back he tried desperately to dig his heels into the sandy bottom in a life or death effort to regain his feet before he drowned. Only a second sharp jerk from Gord and Flint simultaneously slackening his hold on the rope around Pete so the boy could get to him prevented the lawman from experiencing anything more than a thorough soaking.
"Appears you're one dog who cain't swim. The kid had to keep you from drowning. You're in for it if you get the money in your carpetbag wet. I know how much it will pain you if I take it out on the kid."
"Are you planning on freeing my hands so I can pick it up?" Matt defiantly asked.
"Now why would I want to make it easy for you boy? You'll crawl into the hole, pick up the kid's satchel in your teeth and place it around his fingers like the dog you are. Then you'll fetch your carpetbag to carry back across in your mouth until I tell you to release it into my hand. If the handle's slimy you won't get a treat, but you and the kid will be punished."
Somehow on the way back Matt managed to anticipate when Gord would jerk the taut rope so that he didn't fall again. The one thing he couldn't do, despite his thirst, was keep from salivating. The handle of his carpetbag was slippery with spit long before Shumway opened his hand so he could slide it over the scumbag's fingers. During the eternity that was the 120 seconds he counted in his head from reaching the shore to letting go of the bag Gord and Flint kept their pistols aimed at him and, more importantly, at Peter Patterson.
Free to speak now that the gag that was the handle of his carpetbag no longer filled his mouth, Matt spat out, "I could have spit in your face after I coated your hand, but I refuse to sink to your level. I'll continue to do what whatever keeps Pete alive no matter how you try to humiliate me!"
"You'll pay for your insolence dog. The lad's punishment will be minor. Gord, Flint mount up! We haven't much time."
Again, Gord and Flint led the way with the lying Shumway in the rear. Only this time even Matt with his long legs was forced into a half trot. Poor Pete had to run the two miles to the fork in the road where the outlaws would leave them. Both stumbled and nearly fell crossing the Santa Fe tracks. 100 yards from their destination, a shot rang out. Matt turned his head in time to see Shumway fire his Colt before he fell forward thanks to a bullet passing through his lower leg. He'd barely registered he'd been hit when a second one pierced his shoulder.
"Get up dog!" Shumway demanded. "It ain't that much further to walk."
Flint, on his horse, jerked the rope around the marshal's chest hard, pulling the big man to his feet. He then set off at a slow walk. Shumway, also mounted, following close behind with a second lasso he looped around the lawman's neck and tied to his own saddle horn. Between them the outlaws made sure Matt remained standing. Limping, the amount of blood pouring from the leg wound increased with each step as he was half-dragged toward where they planned to tie him. Once he was in position they eased up on the ropes causing the marshal to collapse to the ground, his back against a tree trunk. Within minutes both kidnap victims were securely fastened to a tree with Matt again trussed up with his knees against his chest causing his left shoulder to bleed as much if not more than his right leg.
"Boss, shouldn't we finish them both off?" Gord asked. "At this range Flint and I could kill them with a single shot or fix it so they die just as them four who paid the money get here."
"No need. With the way that dog of a lawman's bleeding he'll be out cold if not dead when the old man and very pretty gal who paid his ransom get here in an hour to claim him. We could kill the kid quick but he's too scared to say anything about what we look like. Besides, he's got no reason to like the law, not with his old man in prison or to trust his kin."
"I'll live to see all of you hang," Matt blurted out.
"Boy, you talk big just like the filthy crooked law dog Murphy who beat my ma and me after he took over pa's hardware store when he killed him for not payin' enough in protection and forced Ma to marry him. He learned what yer learnin' now when I was 15 and could get away from his beatins, humiliatin' punishment tasks and far too many days without food and water. By then it was too late for Ma. He'd beat her to death. Tug Murphy was my first kill. Dillon, you might be my last, but you'll die slow like my ma," he growled as he hit Matt in the head with his pistol butt and followed with a lighter blow to Pete's head to knock the child out as well. " Let's go boys!"