Haunted Heart
A Gunsmoke Story
By Amanda (MAHC)
Chapter Five: The Eyes of Dodge
POV: Festus
Spoilers: "Mannon;" "Exodus 21:22;" "The Disciple"
Rating: PG (Teen)
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Shoot.
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Deputy U. S. Marshal Festus Haggen stomped out of Delmonicos, belly puffed out happily to accommodate the steak and eggs, bacon, biscuits and coffee he had consumed at breakfast. Of course, he had turned down the side of toast. No need to fill up since he was acting marshal while Matthew was gone. As had become habit, his eyes sought out the railing outside the jail, hoping to see the big buckskin tied up there once again, but Ruth remained the lonely occupant. Clicking his tongue in disappointment, he continued his jingling walk.
"Mornin', Festus."
He had only gone a few steps when he heard the familiar voice greet him. Turning, he nodded to Doc Adams and waited for the older man to catch up with him. "Mornin', Doc. I wuz jest finishin' a tad of breakfast. Peers you slept too late ta' join me."
Doc grunted and continued walking. "I'll have you know I ate breakfast two hours ago, after I cured Mrs. Cuthbert's headache and set Billy Blayton's broken leg. It's civil servants like you that lounge in bed 'till noon and have all that time on their hands."
"Time on their hands!" Festus spluttered. "Why you ol' scudder, at least I mek a honest livin'. Not like some folks what give out sugar pills an' tell poor ol' ailin' folks ta' take two an' call him in th' mornin', then charge 'em two whole dollers fer tellin' 'em they wuz sick, which they arreddy knowd ennyway – "
Doc peered up at him and squinted. "Honest living! Well, if Matt ever let the War Department know how you really spent their time, they'd be garnishing your wages all the way back to Texas!"
"Nobody ain't gonna gobbledeegook my wages," he mumbled, but the mention of Matthew's name took a little of the pleasure out of his verbal scuffling with Doc, and he let his face fall into serious lines. "You, uh, you ain't heerd from him, have ya'?"
The physician sobered, as well, and shook his head. "Not a word. I'm assuming from your question you haven't either?"
"Nope."
For another few breaths, both men stared at each other, their fears and hopes mingling silently between them. Fears that fought fiercely at too many horrible possibilities, and hopes that snatched vainly at too few. Festus couldn't help gazing again toward the jail. Buck still wasn't there. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever be there again.
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Matthew had been gone almost four weeks this time, longer than he had been gone any of the previous six journeys. "East," he had declared to Festus that day almost half a year ago, and headed out with new hope in his eyes, determined and confident. The deputy had watched as he cinched up the saddle girth around Buck and took a final look at his trail pack, completely confident in the marshal's ability. But there was a lot of east on the other side of Dodge, and even as long as Matt Dillon had been tracking, it was hard to start from nothing.
Nobody said it out loud, but all of Dodge knew what – or who – he was looking for. And not one of them would have begrudged him the liberty of taking the personal time, but his own unbreakable sense of duty and responsibility demanded that he never left without having a professional mission as well.
Over the past six months, the marshal had personally assumed every assignment the Department of War sent him that pointed him in the direction of the sunrise. He could have passed off those duties to Festus or Newly; he had that authority and had done so in the past, but he didn't even suggest it anymore. No one asked why. No one had to.
Each time he returned, they sensed the addition of one more layer of lawman, one more coat on the mask he had worn since he had returned from that first search, exhausted, battered – and alone. He never shared what he had found. No one had to ask what he hadn't found. After a few hours' rest, he had stepped back onto Front Street as if it were any other day.
Four weeks after that first trip, he was off chasing another fugitive headed toward Missouri. Ten days after that, he returned, the body of the fugitive slung over a weary bay horse that trailed behind Buck. Again, he offered no explanations of what had happened, spun no tales of the adventure. And so the pattern continued, with the marshal conducting business in Dodge for a few days, perhaps weeks, then riding out again for an even longer period of time.
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And now he was gone again, four weeks into tracking Ed Boulder, a three-time murderer who escaped from prison in Lawrence and was last seen headed southeast.
As they continued down the boardwalk, the deputy allowed a small burp to escape, which Doc acknowledged with a shake of his head. When they reached the jail, Adams lowered himself into one of the chairs by the barred windows, and Festus propped in another and fished out a half-whittled stick and his knife, grasping the future work of art in his left hand and the instrument in his right.
They relaxed in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching the normal comings and goings of the citizens of Dodge. Finally, Doc stirred a bit and cleared his throat.
"Been a while this time."
A sudden hope flared in the deputy's chest, hope that he hadn't considered until Doc's observation. He stopped whittling and looked up. "Ya' don't s'pose 'at means he's a found her, do ya'?"
The older man swished a hand over his mustache and shook his head. "I don't know, Festus. I hope – I hope if he's supposed to find her, he does."
"What's 'at s'pose ta' mean?"
"Well, she left, didn't she?"
"Wael, o'course she left," Festus agreed impatiently. "Ain't that whut got us in this chere mess in th' first place?"
"I mean, what if she doesn't want him to find her? There are lots of places to go where people can just disappear. Lot of big cities back east."
He sighed. "I ain't never thot of it atta way. Her not wantin' ta' be found, that is."
"I just hope Matt doesn't have an even harder time if he does find her."
Again, Festus frowned. "What do ya' mean by that?"
"It's been half a year. He's been on the trail almost half that time and hasn't found anything, yet. And Matt always finds his man."
"'Ceptin' this time he's a'lookin' fer a woman," Festus noted, not realizing the depth of his statement.
"Yeah."
"I jest kaint figger why she done it."
Doc tugged at his ear and sighed. "Lots of reasons, I suppose, Festus. She's been – " He looked up, as if deciding if he should be frank or not. After a moment, he nodded. "She's been with Matt a long time. I think maybe she kept thinkin' one day he'd get tired of being marshal. Tired of coming back all shot up and half dead." His chest rumbled in a low chuckle. "Can't imagine why."
"Aw, Doc, you knowd he don't git no pleasure from – "
"Course not. Course not. Matt's a rare breed, Festus. I've never known any man like him. He has the physical ability and skills to be the biggest, meanest, and probably best outlaw this side of – well both sides of the Mississippi. Sure could make a heap more money than he does working for the government."
Festus frowned. "Ol' Matthew'd never – "
"I didn't say he would. I just said he could. But instead, he's the most honest and just and fair man I've ever known. And we both know there are only a handful of men who have ever handled a gun better. At least until – "
The deputy winced in acknowledgement of the doctor's insinuation. "He's still good, Doc. He worked that arm back almost ta' where it wuz." Festus had watched Matthew practice for hours on end until the arm was swollen and aching, and then he'd still go at it more until he was satisfied.
"Almost," Doc echoed. "I just don't know. If he has to face another Mannon or a Frank Reardon – I just don't know." His pale blue eyes looked out over the street, as if remembering something. "I think maybe that Kitty didn't know, either. I think maybe that's why – "
Bristling, Festus protested, "Miz Kitty wouldn't leave him fer that, Doc. Not jus' 'cause he ain't as fast as he wuz."
"No, not because of that, but because of what might happen as a result. How long do you think it'll take before someone figures it out? Before some young, fresh wannabe gunslinger comes riding in lookin' to be the man who kills the great Matt Dillon?" His head fell, and he examined his hands absently. "I don't think she could wait for that. I don't think she could bear – "
He looked up, then stopped abruptly, eyes locking on something down the street. Festus followed his gaze and felt a grin and a grimace compete on his lips. A very familiar form had rounded the corner, a tall man on a big horse, one hand on the reins, the other leading a second horse, burdened with a body draped across its saddle. Dillon swayed slightly, his shoulders slumped, his head down. Along the street and on the boardwalk, people stopped whatever they were doing and let their eyes follow the lead horse and rider.
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The eyes of Dodge had always followed Matt Dillon. The obvious reason was because he was a physically imposing man, tall, broad, handsome – hard to ignore. The way he carried himself spoke of self-confidence tempered with humility and a bit of nonchalance. But also, by watching Matt Dillon, there was a fairly good chance a person might see a little excitement: the break up of a brawl, the rousting of rowdy cowboys, or – best of all – a shootout in the street. Yes, there were quite a number of benefits to watching Marshal Dillon.
For the past six months, though, the reasons had changed. Only those folks new to Dodge were unaware of Kitty Russell, and they were quickly enlightened by the other citizens. Now, some of the eyes that followed the lawman watched in curiosity; others watched in sympathy; and more than a few – women anyway – watched in blatant invitation. He ignored them all.
And they began to realize that although Matt Dillon, the marshal, remained with them, Matt Dillon, the man, had disappeared somewhere out on the prairie.
He still acted like the marshal; he still was the marshal. Nothing had changed in the execution of his duties. Dodge could still count on him – and his deputies – for protection. He remained polite and pleasant to the citizens, automatically nodding and touching the brim of his hat for the ladies, but the easy smile and warm eyes that had greeted them for twenty years had given way to tightly pressed lips and a troubled brow.
Things had changed, but that just made them want to watch him more.
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Now they watched with concern as he coaxed the familiar buckskin past them, the gazes of both man and mount angled toward the ground.
Doc was off the boardwalk first, hurrying in his own shuffling way out into the street and toward them. Only a step behind, Festus caught and passed the older man, coming up on Buck's left side. He winced at the pain and fatigue etched on the lawman's face, at the clenched jaw and tight eyes.
"Matthew?"
"Matt?"
The marshal glanced over at them.
"You okay?" Doc asked, even though they could all see the answer.
"Yeah," Dillon responded, voice strained. Doubting the truth of that, Festus eyed him closely, but could see no obvious injury.
Buck, looking as worn out as his rider, plodded up to the rail outside the jail, no longer hesitating when he passed the Long Branch.
"Who's that, Matthew?" Festus asked, cocking his head toward the dead man.
"Slim Gallagher," Dillon answered without looking back.
He lifted an eyebrow in surprised. "He ain't th' feller ya' went out after."
"No." If they expected more of an explanation, they were disappointed.
"What about Ed Boulder?" Festus prodded.
"Left him outside Kansas City." His tone let them all know he hadn't left the outlaw breathing. Dillon hooked a thumb in the general direction of the body behind him. "Get him over to Percy's for me, will ya', Festus?" he asked, swinging his right leg over the horse and sliding to the ground.
No one in the growing crowd could have missed the audible grunt that accompanied the move. Festus watched as the marshal stood next to his mount for a moment, hands on the horn as if Buck were the only thing keeping him on his feet.
Alarmed, the deputy forced himself not to reach out to the man, knowing Matthew wouldn't like that at all. Instead, he threw a casual tone into his voice and suggested, "I'll tek ol' Buck ta' Moss's fer ya', too, so's ya' kin git ta' them posters whut come in while you wuz gone." Silently, he willed the marshal to accept the offer.
Dillon shot a glare his way. Festus prepared to fight the protest, but their eyes met, and Matthew read his friend's intent. Straightening stiffly, the exhausted man nodded. "Thanks," he mumbled, pushing away from the horse and taking a step toward the jail.
– and almost collapsing in the street.
They all watched in shock as his right leg buckled under him, pitching him toward the ground. Instinctively, he threw out a hand to grab the rail, barely keeping his body from sprawling into the dust. Festus lunged for him, now unconcerned about Dillon's desire not to show weakness. Too dadburned late for that. But the big man waved him away, gritted his teeth, re-set his grip on the rail, and heaved himself back to his feet.
"Matt?" Doc ignored the refusal of help, catching the lawman's elbow anyway.
"I'm fine," he ground out.
Adams didn't drop his hand. "Sure. Sure. How about we just go on into the jail and see if Festus' coffee is anywhere close to drinkable?"
Dillon didn't answer, but threw Doc a scalding glare, hauled himself up onto the boardwalk and limped heavily through the door that a helpful bystander opened for him. There was no masking his pain this time. Festus looked again to see any sign of a wound, any blood on the grimy tan pants, but he still saw nothing.
"Don't you worry 'bout Buck," he called after the marshal just as the door closed behind Doc and Dillon. "I'll tek good care of him."
Not receiving a response, and not necessarily expecting one, he turned to grasp the tired horse's reins. Just beyond, another set of eyes watched. Leaning against an open door at the Long Branch, Hannah took in the scene, her brow drawn down, her face strangely troubled.
Festus wondered briefly at that. After all, the marshal had made it a point to avoid the saloon unless absolutely necessary. As far as the deputy knew, he and Hannah had only a passing acquaintance. But the new owner – he supposed she wasn't that new anymore – seemed unusually concerned about the marshal.
He didn't suppose that the Matthew and Hannah – but then he clicked his tongue and chuckled at the absurdity of that notion. No, she must just be worried about him like any other citizen would be, and he appreciated her for it.
When Slim Gallagher had been duly delivered to Percy Crump's, and the outlaw's horse left back at Moss Grimmick's, Festus headed back toward the jail, anxious to check on Matthew. Just as he reached the boardwalk, Doc shuffled out, pulling the door closed behind him. His face was drawn, his blue eyes sad and worried.
"How is he?" Festus asked, bracing for the answer.
The physician ran a hand over his mustache and motioned the deputy on down the boardwalk and away from the pane-less windows. "Well, he's exhausted mainly."
"He ain't hurt agin?" He surely had seemed hurt, even though the deputy never saw any obvious injury.
"Nothin' new, anyway," Doc said. "His back and leg are pretty bad. More than he'll let on, I'm certain. A long ride – and who knows what kind of fight that Gallagher put up."
"Not ennuf of one," Festus observed. "But he'll be arrite?"
"Physically, if he'll let himself rest a while."
"What ain't you sayin', Doc?"
Adams shook his head, looking down toward the street. "I just don't know how much longer he can keep this up. He's been going at it six months now. His body needs time to recover." He sniffed, and added quietly, "I don't think he's sleepin' much, either."
Festus had to agree. When Matthew was in town, he spent more time in the jailhouse than he did in his room at the Dodge House – and what little sleep he was getting had been on that old cot, not the more comfortable mattress in Mr. Dobie's establishment.
"Doc," he asked, hating himself for even considering the possibility, "what if'n he never finds her?"
After a deep breath, the doctor replied, "I don't know, Festus. His body's just about given out, but it's his eyes I'm worried about."
A new worry shot through the deputy. "What's wrong with his eyes?"
"Oh, I don't mean his vision. I mean his hope. When I looked at him in there – well, his eyes were – they were – " He took in a breath that caught in his throat before he could clear it. After a few seconds, he finished quietly, "Kitty's not in those eyes anymore."
His own eyes watering, Festus laid a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. "He's jus' tired, Doc," he suggested, then added hopefully, "doncha think?"
But Doc didn't answer.
They stood together for a few minutes, wondering if it were even possible to put Kitty back in those eyes – and fearing what would happen if it weren't.
TBC