I have been working on this chapter for a while, and it grew to unwieldy proportions, so I've decided to divide it into two chapters; therefore, Chapter Eleven will also be from Doc's POV. This chapter DOES answer some questions, though! I hope the ending isn't too much like a Frank Capra movie. But you know me – don't get too complacent at the end, because it ain't over 'till – well, I won't give it away! This means there are still a couple of chapters left. Please hang in there with me! Thanks, as always, for your super feedback!
Haunted Heart
A Gunsmoke Story
By Amanda (MAHC)
Chapter Ten: Back in Them
POV: Doc
Spoilers: "Disciple"
Rating: PG (Teen)
Disclaimer: These characters (except Sam) are not mine.
XXXX
It was just after noon, but the Long Branch already played host to a fair number of patrons, some of them regulars, others of them drifters or cowboys enjoying a few days rest before their outfits headed back out into the harsh and unforgiving prairie. Doc Adams sat at his usual table, close to the back, observing the variety of interactions among those present, wondering, speculating, and chuckling. He wondered what Nathan Burke was supposed to be doing instead of losing his money at a poker table. He speculated about the two scraggly buffalo hunters who had already consumed more than the respectable amount of whiskey before they even entered the saloon. And he chuckled sadly at the ubiquitous sight of Louis Pheeters strolling through the swinging doors, declaring to Floyd that he needed just one little drink to tide him over until Hank paid him for working the stables.
All of those sights flittered across his vision, none lingering with any importance. But there was one man who caught his attention and held it. A seasoned character, his eyes hard, his cheeks mottled with pock marks. If his face wasn't on one of the wanted posters in Matt's office, it probably should have been. He sat at the one poker table that showed any action, hat pulled down over his forehead, ignoring the same half-full glass of rye he had started with an hour before. The doctor considered himself a fair judge of character and decided this fellow bore watching. He bore watching closely.
A sudden jingle of spurs drew his attention from the assorted group. Before he even looked up, he knew he would see Festus Haggen ambling toward him. Sure enough, the deputy marshal had already pushed past the batwing doors and was making his way through the room.
"Howdy, Doc," he greeted, eyes lighting on the physician's glass of beer. "You tekkin' a little break, air ya?"
"That I am, Festus. Why don't you join me?"
The scruffy beard parted in a smile. "Wael, I mite jes' do that," he declared, already sitting. "You – uh – ya finished drinkin', air ya?"
Doc brushed a hand over his jaw. "Finished? Oh, Heaven's no. Just started. Why don't you get one and – "
"That's mighty gen'rus of ya, Doc," he said, before Adams could contradict him. Of course, he had known all along what the deputy's plan was. "Floyd!" he called toward the bar. "Doc here's a buyin' me a beer."
Floyd smiled knowingly and shoved a new glass under the tap, setting it on the counter for Festus to pick up. When he plopped back into the chair, he grinned and took a big gulp. Doc shook his head.
"Whut time is it getting' ta be?" the deputy asked.
Adams withdrew his pocket watch, even though he didn't need to. He knew exactly what time it was, had checked only a few minutes before. "Twelve-forty-seven," he said.
"An' that train gits in 'bout four, don't it?"
"Well, it's supposed to be in at three, but I've never known it to be much on time."
"Naw," Festus agreed. "I ain't neither."
They sat quietly for a few moments as Doc pondered the reason behind Festus' interest in the train's arrival. Leaning back in his chair, he tugged the crumpled telegram from his vest pocket, scanning the sparse words for at least the tenth time since it had arrived the day before.
"RETURNING THURSDAY AFTERNOON TRAIN. STOP. MATT"
Almost a month. Matt had been gone almost a month without a word, and now he had sent just one thrifty, cryptic message. Of course, that one thrifty, cryptic message had been read or heard about by almost the entire town in the few hours since it had arrived. Even though the telegram was directed at him, Doc couldn't berate Barney for spreading the news. For seven months, Dodge had watched Matt Dillon struggle with himself – and with the loss they all knew he had suffered, and most of the citizens had suffered with him. Then he had left again, and although the town remained in the dark, Doc knew he had headed to New Orleans, a bit of information confided to him by Hannah. Every day since then, Doc had lifted a prayer that Kitty was there, and that she wouldn't shut out the man who loved her so deeply he had come close to falling completely apart without her.
But the telegram gave no indication that Matt had even found her, and if he had, that he was bringing her back. As usual, when the lawman went off, Adams wondered what condition he'd return in. More than likely, there would be a new bullet wound or another broken bone, or at the very least an assortment of bruises and abrasions. Years of experience had prepared the Dodge physician for just about anything.
Unfortunately, the one thing he feared the most for Matt was the one thing he had no remedy for: a broken heart.
"Golly Bill," Festus breathed.
Adams' musings scattered. "What?"
The deputy was squinting toward the poker table, his eyes locked on the very man Doc had noticed before. "You know who that thar is, Doc?"
He didn't, but he was already afraid to find out. "Who?"
"That thar is Ben McClagg."
"Ben McClagg?" The name didn't ring a bell. "Who's that?"
"He's jes' about th' fastest feller I ever seen with a gun. Purty near as fast as Matthew before – " Festus broke off, letting his gaze drop.
Doc felt his heart pound. "Why do you reckon he's here in Dodge?" he asked, already sick with the knowledge of what the answer would be.
"I reckon I know," Festus muttered. "I reckon we all know."
Before either of them could decide what to do – if there was anything to do – the doors swung open again to admit a slender young man who didn't look to be a minute over twenty. He strode purposefully into the saloon, his hips strapped with a low-slung gun belt, his eyes hungry. Doc swore under his breath. There was no mistaking this one, either. Another gunman.
"Festus?" he warned.
"I seed 'im." The deputy had eased his hand over his own pistol, watching.
"Whiskey," the boy ordered, leaning casually on the bar. When Floyd produced it, he downed it in a single gulp and turned to face the room. "Anybody here Ben McClagg?" he asked, not wasting a minute.
McClagg froze, cards in his hand. "Who's askin'?" he said after a moment, not looking up.
"Coy Brennan."
"Never heered of 'im," McClagg declared.
"He's heard of you, though," the boy returned.
The veteran gunman gently laid his cards on the green felt and turned his head to look at the youth. "Boy, why don't you jest git you some milk and go back to yor mama before you git hurt."
Doc expected Brennan to explode in youthful fury and die right there, but the young man surprised them all, barely registering the insult. "No, sir," he returned. "I come for what's owed me and mine."
"I told ya, boy, I don't know ya," McClagg insisted. "What could ya want from me?"
"My pa."
The older man rose carefully. "Yer pa? I don't know no Brennan."
"His name weren't Brennan," the kid said. "It was Poole. Henry Poole."
Doc watched the name slam into McClagg's memory and pry open his jaw. The gunman sucked in a breath, held it, then relaxed, his cloak of cool back in place.
"Boy, yer pa an' me parted company years ago. It ain't none of yer business."
"You parted his company by puttin' a bullet in him."
"He tried ta' put one in me. Seemed fair."
"I hear yer fast," Brennan observed.
McClagg narrowed his eyes. "I'm alive."
"So far."
In that moment, Doc saw the older man's finger twitch and figured this foolish kid was only seconds away from the end of his short life. He shot a glance at Festus, wondering what the deputy was going to do, how he would stop the inevitable killing.
"Hang on, thar – " Haggen began, but it was too late.
McClagg drew, his gun blurring from the holster in a motion of lightning. Doc couldn't recall having seen such speed before – at least in the past year. The kid didn't stand a chance. Double retorts sounded in the room, so close they almost blended into one. When they could think again, the two gunmen stood, facing each other. Doc watched to see when the boy would crumble to the floor, pitying a life taken.
But Brennan didn't budge. Instead, face frozen in disbelief, Ben McClagg slowly slid to the ground, eyes fixed, a blossom of crimson soaking through his vest. The entire room stared, stunned.
Nodding once, Coy Brennan spun his Colt casually around his finger before dropping it back into the holster and turning toward the bar again. "It was self-defense, you all saw."
"I ain't never seen anybody so fast!" Burke declared into the following silence. "I mean, 'cept Marshal Dillon, but that was before he was – "
"Burke!" Doc yelled.
The freight clerk jerked, but it didn't matter. Coy Brennan turned back, eyes narrowing. "Marshal Dillon? Would that be Matt Dillon?"
Burke shook his head. "You been livin' in Africa? Of course, it's Matt Dillon."
Calmly, Brennan said, "They used to say he wuz mighty fast."
No one answered.
"Thing is, I heard he met up with a little misfortune 'bout a year ago. Took out his gun arm. Ain't so fast no more."
Festus stepped over McClagg's body so he stood between Burke and the kid. "You jes' don't worry 'bout what you heered," he warned. "Matthew Dillon is still th' best gun around, an' you'd best be rememberin' it."
"That so? Well, then, where can I find the Marshal?" Brennan asked, ignoring the deputy.
"He's not in town," Doc piped up hastily. At least not for another three hours.
The kid clicked his tongue. "Too bad," he smiled, turning back toward the bar once again.
The room waited in silence for at least a minute before Festus finally motioned toward Burke and two other patrons. "You boys git this'un over ta' Percy's."
As they labored under their burden, Doc eyed the slim back of the gunslinger. For the past year, on and off, Dodge had seen a few men come and go, but no one had up and challenged Matt right out, maybe too uncertain about the validity of the rumors they heard. Or maybe just taking a look at the huge marshal dissuaded them fast enough. But Coy Brennan looked just about rash enough and just about foolish enough to follow through. In previous years, Doc would have felt for the young man, almost certain of his fate. But now –
Now he decided he wouldn't mind if that train was late this time. He wouldn't mind at all.
XXXX
It figured, of course, that the train was almost on time for once, a fact that caught several citizens by surprise and had them sprinting toward the station so they didn't miss the glimpse of their marshal. Doc stood between Hannah and Festus, his gaze occasionally scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Brennan, but the brash gunslinger hadn't appeared so far. Most of the time, though, his eyes squinted anxiously toward the rear of the passenger car, heart racing away in double time as he contemplated what condition Matt would be in. Smoke billowed from between the train and the tracks, white puffs that halfway masked the first few passengers disembarking. An old man made his way painfully down the steps, one hand clasping the rail, the other holding a cane. Following him, a group of young ladies, looking as if they might be seeking employment in an establishment like the Long Branch, their eyes too old and too worldly to match their bodies. The conductor strolled along the side of the train, supervising the unloading of baggage. After another interminable few moments, Doc saw him.
He emerged from the back door of the car, tall body bent slightly under the overhang, hat tugged low over his eyes so that Doc couldn't see his expression. It was a little surprising to see that he wore his dark pants and dress coat, but then he usually chose that outfit when he traveled by train. The physician's practiced eye watched for any sign of injury or pain, took particular notice of the slight limp when the marshal walked the few feet to the steps. Not bad, though – certainly better than it had been when he left. He had not returned unscathed, however. No one there could miss the white sling that cradled his left arm.
Doc shook his head.
Dillon paused on the platform for a moment, letting his eyes survey his town in a long-established habit. After a moment, his broad chest heaved a sigh and he took the steps at an even pace, stopping when he reached the ground. Doc's heart sank as he realized the man was alone, and he felt unbidden anger at Kitty Russell flood him. He had held out hope to that very moment that she would come back, knowing that If she had seen Matt, if she had watched him barely hold himself together – and sometimes not hold himself together – she wouldn't have turned him back.
But now, he had come home – alone. Now, what would he do? What would any of them do?
He felt Hannah's eyes on him and turned to her, seeing his sadness mirrored there. They had encouraged him to go after her, to risk himself again – and now they would have to deal with the consequences. It was the least they could do for him. Adams closed his eyes, his heart heavy and aching for the man who was the closest thing he had to a son. But he owed Matt too much to wallow in his own grief. Forcing his eyes open again, he prepared to do his best to lend what strength his could to his friend.
Instead of plodding heavily toward them, however, bent under his burden, broken by this catastrophe, the marshal turned again and extended his right arm up toward the steps. Doc frowned, confused for a moment before his heart skipped a beat as his brain grabbed onto the glimmer of hope that action caused. At first nothing happened, no one stepped forward to take the offered hand. Then, a miracle occurred, clothed in a familiar flash of color that appeared from the shadows of the platform.
Tears sprang to his eyes when he saw her, as slender and as beautiful as ever, clad in a fashionable pale green and black travel suit, matching hat perched saucily on her brilliant hair.
She was back. Kitty Russell was back, and suddenly beauty and fire and spirit returned to Dodge.
Because Miss Kitty was back.
"Thank you," he breathed to the Almighty, his words completely heartfelt, the tears trailing down his cheeks. "Thank you."
And just like that, the world was right again. Just like that, the worries and concerns and over eight months of misery vanished. The crowd that had gathered at the station broke out into a cacophony of exclamations at the sight, the rumble of voices growing so that he had to raise his own volume to be heard.
Shaking his head, he turned to Hannah, whose grin matched his own. "By golly," he declared.
"Yessiree," she returned.
Adams ran a hand over his mustache and laughed aloud, figuring things just couldn't get any better. He turned to slap Festus on the back, but stopped at the shocked expression of the craggy face. Before he could ask about the deputy's unexpected reaction, he heard a collective gasp from the crowd, followed by abrupt silence.
"What in tarnation – " Festus began.
Doc let his gaze snap back to the returning couple and saw immediately what had caused the reaction. Kitty had moved to the edge of the platform, the sunlight bringing her out of the shadows and revealing a small bundle of blue that she now handed carefully down to Matt so she could descend the steps.
The doctor's eyes widened until he felt the sting of the ubiquitous dust of the street in them. Why, that bundle appeared to be – that is, it seemed as if –
Doggone it – if it didn't look like big, strapping U.S. Marshal Matt Dillon was cradling a little bitty baby in the crook of his gun arm.
A baby?
A baby.
By golly. A baby!
In that moment, it all made sense. It took only a few seconds for the entire situation to snap into place in the doctor's mind. Kitty's increased anxiety about Matt's leaving, her insistence on going before he returned, and her determination not to let them know where she would be.
A baby.
He would have paid good money to have been a fly on the wall when Matt found out – or maybe it was just as well he hadn't been. My goodness, that had to have been a shock. He had no doubt the big man knew nothing at all about a –
A baby!
The town stood frozen, staring at the small family. Kitty's face was tight, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip, revealing her anxiety. Matt stood close to her, body slightly in front, as if he were shielding her from the speculation, from the judgment. His own lips pressed together in that look that dared the foolish soul to cross him.
But he needn't have worried. After they recovered from the shock of realizing that, not only had the marshal brought Kitty back to Dodge, but he seemed to have acquired an addition, they practically rushed the three, cries of welcome and congratulations tumbling over each other.
It took Doc, Festus, and Hannah considerable effort to push their way through the group and up to the stunned couple. Kitty looked floored as the women of the town who had cut their eyes at her in disdain before embraced her and welcomed her home. The men settled for patting Dillon on the shoulder, since both hands were otherwise occupied. Finally, the physician found himself standing in front of the two people he had known for so many years, had seen through so much.
Kitty stared at him for a moment before throwing her arms around him and kissing him soundly on the cheek. "Oh, Curly!" she cried. "I missed you so much!"
Unable to suppress his swell of tears, he allowed the display, wiping at his nose and shaking his head. Festus gave him a moment's rescue when he stepped in, wrapping his arms around Kitty and lifting her in an unabashed demonstration of hill country joy.
"Hey, now," Matt protested gamely, doing absolutely nothing to stop the display.
Doc turned to the big man, marveling at the difference in him. His blue eyes twinkled, bright and full again. His face was smoother, the lines not as deep. He even seemed taller, although Doc couldn't figure out how that might have happened. That defeated, world-weary weight that had worn him down the past months had lifted, replaced by a freshly overhauled ease that was close enough to the old Matt to make no difference.
"Matt," he greeted, eyes relaying the pleasure he couldn't express verbally. "You okay?"
The marshal returned the look, nodding and smiling in understanding. "Yeah." Simple as it was, the response conveyed a much more complex message.
The doctor's gaze fell to the squirming child swallowed up in the crook of Matt's arm. "I don't – I'm not sure what to say here – " he started.
Matt chuckled, and Adams had to grin at the trace of shock that still lingered on the lawman's face. "Believe me, Doc, I know what you mean."
Leaning over to take the child from his father, Kitty handed him to the doctor. "I know what you can say. You can say hello to Matthew Samuel Dillon, Doc."
The announcement created an explosion of exclamations through the crowd as those closest to the train spread the news to those farthest away.
It was almost impossible to realize what had happened, almost impossible to comprehend that he was standing there holding Matt Dillon's and Kitty Russell's child. He never thought it would happen. The baby opened his eyes to look up at this new human being, and Doc saw the perfect mixture of his parents in him. Sky blue eyes, fair skin, soft curls of red-brown hair, long, slender fingers.
"My goodness," he breathed. "My goodness."
"Let me see th' little feller," Festus insisted, pushing his way closer.
"Don't crowd, Festus," Doc admonished. "You'll scare him to death with that scraggly face of yours."
"I'll hev you know, I got me a way with younguns."
"Helps to be on the same mental level," Doc muttered.
Moving in to counter the argument, Hannah smiled. "He sure is a fine lookin' boy, Marshal."
Matt's only answer was a broad grin.
Festus had focused on a series of goos and gaas to entertain the infant. For his part, Sam seemed to contemplate these strange people and find them lacking. His little face screwed up for a moment before he let out a bellow that didn't need translating even for the people in the back of the crowd.
"See? Here, Kitty," Doc offered hastily, holding the baby out, "I think you need to take him back."
"He's hungry," she confided softly. "Can we use your office?"
"What? Oh, sure." He rested a hand at her elbow. "Sure. Come on."
"I'll get the bags and meet you up there, Kitty," Matt said, then shocked the entire town by leaning down and kissing her, right there in broad daylight, right there at the train station – and right there on the lips.
Doc shook his head, his amazement complete – almost.
The shock only continued. Smiling at Matt, Kitty reached her left hand up to give his cheek a brief caress. In that moment, something flashed, caught by the sun. Her hand lingered only a moment at his face, but it was long enough for all of them to see the sparkle of the ring that graced her third finger, left hand.
Doc's jaw dropped at the sight of the familiar band, the band he had removed from the pocket of a drunk, despairing U.S. marshal over half a year ago; the band that signified twenty years of a woman's love and patience – the band that he'd never really thought he'd see on her finger.
But there it was.
"Doc," Hannah gasped, "is that – "
"It sure is," he affirmed in satisfaction. "It sure is. Mrs. Dillon?" he asked, loud enough to be heard over the noise.
Kitty turned and smiled radiantly.
"Yippee!" Festus crowed, flinging his hat into the air.
If news of their arrival had traveled fast, this revelation spread through the crowd like a prairie fire. The murmurs grew to outright declarations, which blossomed into yells, which finally erupted into cheers and wild applause. The marshal looked astounded at the ovation, staring at the hundreds of his fellow citizens who had packed the station to welcome him home. Not usually prone to blatant displays, Doc Adams nevertheless found himself joining the celebration with his own hoots.
There was absolutely no doubt what the headlines of the Dodge paper would be the next day.
Over the noise of the crowd, Festus leaned in and yelled in his ear. "Did ya see 'em, Doc?"
Doc stopped cheering long enough to ask, "What?"
"Matthew's eyes," the deputy clarified, as if the physician were dense.
"What's wrong with his eyes?"
"Why, nairy a thang, Doc."
"Festus, what are you – "
"Cain't ya see? She's back in 'em!"
"Back in – "
"Miss Kitty," Festus repeated, grinning. "She's back in 'em, Doc. She's back in his eyes."
His heart swelled with that statement. Sometimes ol' Festus could hit on something. Almost overcome, he peered up at the towering form that stood, tall and broad, right arm snug around Kitty's waist, grin wide and open. They were looking at Matt Dillon, a man whose clear blue eyes were once again filled with warmth, and with humor, and with love – and with her.
Nope, he didn't figure it could get any better. Bursting with pride for Matt and Kitty, he let his eyes watch the crowd, enjoying the unconditional acceptance the town seemed to be giving them, the universal show of pure delight over the surprise.
But then he realized he was wrong. Not everyone showed delight. In the distance, leaning casually against a porch post, a slender, young man watched. Doc knew if he were closer, he would recognize hungry eyes and a low-slung holster – and a disturbingly fast hand.
TBC