Hard Promises to Keep
All characters are copyright to CBS, I'm just borrowing them.
"It's a long, long way from where I am,
To where I ought to be.
I can't remember where I made this turn,
Into no-man's land, as far as I can see.
"Stranded being and a-broken down,
With only one way from this place.
I always find the strength I need,
In the arms of my Angel and my saving grace."
-- "A Hundred Miles of Bad Road" performed by Andy Griggs
Chapter 12
Matt feigned sleepy compliance when Kitty told him she would be sequestered with her ladies most of the day sewing and asked if he would be all right left to his own devices. Festus wouldn't be coming by today, either. He needed to ride down the Arkansas to check on some reports of fence cutting. The circumstances suited Matt just fine because he had absolutely no intention of staying put. He had duties to fulfill and he wouldn't be able to rest until he'd taken care of them.
When he was certain Kitty would not come back to check on him, Matt tackled the task of getting washed up, shaved, and dressed. He didn't feel too bad today; whatever Doc had given him last night seemed to have done its work. As long as he kept his movements slow and didn't exert himself, Matt's breathing remained relatively easy save for the occasional wheeze or cough.
He found a set of spare clothes in the bottom drawer of the bureau where Kitty kept them for him. Matt frowned; he'd lost weight and the pants hung a little loosely on his hips. He couldn't find his gun belt. Dillon didn't particularly like the idea of going out unarmed -- Something Kitty must've counted on to keep me in bed, he mused with an ironic smile -- but he had no choice. Wherever his beloved redhead had hidden it this time (and there had been other times when she'd had occasion to use the same trick), she had hidden it well.
Mindful of the weather's effect on his lungs, Matt wrapped a thick woolen muffler around his neck before putting on his coat. His fleece lined leather gloves were still in one pocket; he slipped those on too and then slowly and laboriously made his way down the back stairs. The sky was leaden with fat, fluffy flakes drifting gently down and dressing the town in a clean white mantle. Matt was surprised to discover that he was a little hungry. Pulling his Stetson down over his head, he crossed the street and walked down the boardwalk to Delmonico's.
The inclement weather had kept away most of the customers, a detail for which the lawman was grateful. He didn't want to answer a lot of questions about his health from curious citizens, especially if he hoped to keep his disobedience of Doc Adams' orders from being widely known. Matt sat down at a table tucked in the corner of the restaurant where he'd be less likely to be noticed but could still see the door.
"Why, good morning, Marshal," greeted the surprised waiter. "It's good to see you up and about. How you feelin'?"
Matt, trying to appear nonchalant, shrugged. "I'll guess I'll do."
"Good to hear, Marshal. Shall I get you your usual?"
There was nothing Matt wanted more than a good thick steak with half a dozen eggs and hash browns, but he knew he'd better stick with something lighter. "No," he said, holding up a hand, "I don't think I'm ready for that just yet. Porridge, toast, and coffee will be fine."
He couldn't finish his breakfast, but it was enough to satisfy his appetite. Matt paid the bill and then slunk back down the street to his office. He was glad to be able to sit down at his desk; he felt like he'd crossed the entire prairie instead of just Front Street. Stifling a cough, he pulled the stack of wanted circulars toward him and began sorting through them.
An hour later, Matt still hadn't found what he was looking for. None of the faces or descriptions on the circulars matched those of the men he'd seen outside of Lathrop's store. He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk, and closed his eyes. His head throbbed painfully with every heartbeat and the light meal he'd eaten sat heavily with him. Matt was beginning to wish he'd stayed up in Kitty's rooms like he'd been told.
A shower of sparks exploded across his vision as he stood and went over to the filing cabinet. If what I'm looking for wasn't in the circulars, it has to be in one of the War Department dispatches. He didn't like removing the files to his desk, where anyone might come across them and read them, but he hadn't the energy to stand at the filing cabinet while he looked through them. Grabbing the first six months' worth, Matt staggered back to his desk and began pouring over them. Some were printed; others were handwritten. The handwritten ones would have been difficult enough to read had his mind been clear; in his weakened condition, the sepia toned words melted and slid in meaningless blots across the parchment when he tried to make sense of them. Sighing, he put those aside so that he could decipher them later and concentrated on the printed dispatches.
When nothing turned up, Matt began thinking he'd somehow, as Festus suggested, been mistaken but his lawman's instincts wouldn't let him give up on the idea. Finally, he found what he'd been looking for in a set of telegrams he'd kept for some reason which dated back nearly a year. There wasn't much to go on, just vague descriptions of the dozen or so men involved in the gang headed up by Ham Whitaker and the general pattern of the crimes they committed with a list of places they'd hit.
His lawman's brain, undeterred by the frailty of the man, began fitting pieces of the puzzle together. There had been a sharp increase in fence cutting and livestock theft in Ford County over the past two months and this was one of the known methods used by the Whitaker gang to keep a town's lawmen busy and jumping at shadows. He'd bet if he bothered to think about it that there'd also been a sudden increase in saloon brawls and other petty incidents all over town. That too was another tactic used by the gang; they typically incited fights in order to observe the town's group dynamics and to fragment loyalties.
Matt sighed; this was a big problem, one Newly was going to have to know about. The communiqué mentioned that the two men Matt had spotted in town generally arrived ahead of the gang to assess the town's defenses and discover how best to neutralize them. It wouldn't take them long, if they listened to the talk around Dodge or spoke with any of the citizens, to find out that the marshal was down sick or that Dodge's citizens considered the two deputies incapable of handling anything other than the usual bar brawls and cat fights between the working women. That wasn't exactly true or fair, but it was what the two outlaws would hear. Matt groaned when he realized that Burke, in particular, would loudly be telling anyone and everyone his complaints.
It all added up to the Whitaker gang making a strike at Dodge -- and soon. There was no way Matt would allow it, not even if it cost him his life. I have to find a way to make Kitty and Doc see reason on this. I need my gun belt back! Matt pulled opened his bottom desk drawer and withdrew a spare Colt, this one with a smooth walnut handle. He snapped opened the barrel, then slapped it closed and spun it. It would do for now, until he could find out where Kitty had hidden his regular weapon. Leaning again, he
felt toward the back of the drawer and pulled out an old holster and belt. It would do fine. Now, to find Newly…. He didn't think Newly would take much persuasion, not with these dispatches and telegrams to back Matt up.
Suddenly Matt felt utterly exhausted. His head and stomach hurt and his vision had doubled. Even though he'd stoked the potbelly stove until it glowed cherry red with the heat, he shivered and each breath ended with a wheeze. He knew he'd gravely overestimated his stamina. Should've paid more heed to Doc's warnings, Matt chided himself, but things had to be done and no one was listening to me. Initially he'd planned on sitting at his desk and waiting until Newly checked in so that he could talk to him about the Whitaker gang; now he contemplated curling up on the cot for a while before somehow summoning the strength to go back to Kitty's.
In the end, he did neither. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed and hands folded tightly over his stomach, hoping the dizziness would pass and stayed that way for perhaps five minutes before Abe Carpenter and Dirch Johnson burst through the door anxiously calling for him. "Marshal Dillon! Marshal, we need you to come out to our place right quick."
Matt stared at the two farmers. "Abe…Dirch…I am not riding all the way out to your places to verify the fence lines for that meadow in the southern quadrant again," he said tiredly. "It's exactly as it was the last three times you've asked me: half of the meadow belongs on Abe's claim, the other half on Dirch's and the dividing line is the creek."
"'t ain't about bound'ries, Marshal," Abe declared, looking at his cohort for support.
Dirch was nervously twisting his hat in his hands. "That's right, Marshal. We's settled that our ownselves and the wives is already a-plannin' the weddin's."
Abe elbowed him. "Get to the point, Dirch. Time's a-wastin'!"
"Someone done come onto our property an' cut the fence. They runned off with Dirch's prize milk herd and my hosses."
So it's started. "I'll get my horse from the livery and meet you out there," Matt sighed.
After the two farmers left, Matt slowly got to his feet and took one of the rifles down from the rack. He made certain the rifle was in good working condition and loaded then stuffed a handful of extra shells into his vest pockets. Matt went out the side entrance and navigated the alleys to the livery so that he wouldn't be seen. He didn't want anyone asking questions or tattling to Kitty.
Fortunately, no one was at the livery to see him saddle Buck. The buckskin, however, seemed to sense that his master shouldn't be riding out and tossed his head nervously as Matt approached. When he attempted to put the bridle on, Buck laid back his ears and nipped at Matt's hand.
"Hey, none of that!" he said sharply and gave the buckskin a light clout on the jaw. Buck sidestepped and tried to step on the marshal's feet. Gritting his teeth, Matt tossed the saddle up onto the buckskin's back. Buck walked out from under it twice before the marshal finally got the girth tightened.
Saddled and bridled, the fight went out of Buck and he stood placidly while Matt mounted. "It's all right, boy," Matt soothed the fretting horse, "we'll make this quick. I don't want to be out any longer than I have to." Buck cast a malevolent eye back at his master but moved out smartly when Matt kicked him into a trot.
Snow covered the prairie in great drifts, up to Buck's chest in places, and snowflakes still danced on the wind. Somewhere ahead, about six miles out of town and bordered by a small nameless creek, lay the Carpenter and Johnson spreads. The wheeze had become a racking cough. Matt hated the wind and the cold air tearing through his damaged lungs. He considered turning back but the lawman's sense of obligation wouldn't let him leave such a crucial and potentially dangerous jobundone.
It seemed like forever before Buck hit the creek which was the dividing line between the two properties. His hooves broke the ice with a splash which doused the marshal to the knees. Matt pulled up on the reins and directed the horse to follow the fence line. Abe and Dirch weren't there but Matt hadn't expected them to be, not in this weather. A few minutes later he came upon the section of fence which had been cut.
Matt studied the ground; the storm had obscured everything except for what might have been a boot print and one or two blurred horse shoe imprints. Casting out into the meadow from the fence line, he spotted the faint impressions of more tracks. The dairy herd had been driven onto Abe's land and the horses run off onto Dirch's. Matt nodded in grim satisfaction as the evidence confirmed his earlier suspicions. The outlaws wouldn't have known that the Johnsons and Carpenters had reached a peaceable agreement and had tried to make it look as if the families had crossed one another. Which one to follow? I'm going to lose one set of tracks in the storm. A short excursion down the fence line revealed that the horses had re-crossed onto their own land and were likely headed for their home barn. Matt elected to follow the dairy herd.
He found the herd nearly two miles away, huddled in the bottom of a draw. The occasional tracks in the snow told the marshal that several men on horseback had driven them there and then scattered them. If he left them in the draw, they probably would not survive the storm. While he found Dirch Carpenter's antics annoying, Matt didn't wish to see him financially ruined. Matt would have to drive the cattle back to their barn. Sighing, he spurred Buck toward the herd. "That's it, boy, round 'em up!"
The cattle, unwilling to remain in such a cold and hostile place, willingly plodded in front of the marshal's horse as he herded them back toward the Carpenter homestead. Approaching the sod house with smoke curling invitingly out of the chimney, Matt found Dirch waiting for him. "Ah, marshal," he said, smiling, "you've brought back m'herd. Abe's horses are over to th' barn. They came back their ownselves." He uttered a piercing whistle, which caused Matt to wince, and one of the younger boys appeared at his elbow. "Take 'em on back to the barn, Dobie. Come in, Marshal, and have a cup of coffee with me an' the missus."
Afflicted as he was with chills that shook his body so hard he thought he'd fall out of the saddle, Matt wished he could have taken Dirch up on his offer. A good cup of coffee would chase the cold from his veins and make him feel better. However, Matt doubted if he dismounted he would be able to get back on the buckskin so easily. He shook his head and smiled regretfully. "No, thanks, Dirch. I've got to get back to town."
He turned Buck around and headed him back home, toward Dodge. Facing into the wind, the big buckskin struggled against the stinging snowflakes. Buck's head hung so low Matt feared the animal would trip over the reins; he gathered them up in his hands as far as he could without pulling the horse's head back. It was getting difficult for him to sit upright in the saddle; the doubled vision impaired his balance, while the ringing in his ears coupled with increasing waves of nausea distorted his perception.
Confused by the conflicting signals given by his rider, Buck pranced uncertainly in circles. Finally Matt reined him up beneath a sheltering grove of cottonwoods. Even bare of leaves, the thick trunks and sprawling branches offered relief from the tearing wind. The marshal had a pressing need to get out of the saddle; he couldn't stand the rocking motions any longer. He slid down, one hand grasping the saddle horn and the other clenching a fistful of Buck's mane. Matt rested his forehead against the buckskin's neck as he tried to take deep breaths and fend off the nausea. Instead, a violent fit of coughing bent him double.
Buck whiffled anxiously and snaked his neck back to nuzzle his rider. Matt patted him half heartedly, fumbled in his vest pocket for the dried apple slices he kept for the horse, and gave Buck one. "Good old son," Matt muttered. He took a few staggering steps away from the buckskin and, clutching his stomach, sank to his knees in the snow. The will to fight against his illness had been exhausted; he let the nausea take him as he heaved up the remains of his meager breakfast.
Matt didn't know how long he knelt there gasping, heaving, and trying to get himself back under control. He did know he was in real trouble now; he couldn't imagine getting back into the saddle without injuring both himself and possibly Buck as well. Scooping up a handful of snow, Matt scrubbed it over his burning face. It did help clear his head a little.
The horse had not wandered far at all; he stood only a few feet away from his master grazing contentedly on some dry winter grass he had pawed through the snow to get at. Matt whistled for him and he came willingly, standing calmly with the reins dangling over the side of his neck. On the third try, the marshal finally managed to get up off his knees. He lurched against the buckskin's side and frantically grabbed at the saddle horn so he wouldn't fall again. Matt missed getting his foot in the stirrup, tried again, and somehow regained the saddle.
He realized immediately he couldn't possibly ride like this. The landscape danced and wavered around him at uncertain angles. Buck mustn't trip over the reins. He fumbled with them until he had the reins tied securely around the saddle horn. Sprawled forward across the buckskin's thick neck, he wrapped his arms around Buck and gave the horse his head. "Take us home, Buck, back to Dodge."