"Haunted Heart?" What's that?
Okay, I know it's been quite a while since the last chapter – and I apologize for it profusely. Most of you know what curve balls RL has thrown at me recently. Thanks for everyone's best wishes and encouragement. You are great people!
Consider this a late Christmas present or an early New Year's gift. The POV is a little different than usual in that I've used three different characters to show the action, but I hope it's easy enough to follow. I couldn't figure out how to get all the scenes in without doing that.
I had originally planned for this chapter to wrap things up, but my muse had other ideas – don't throw things, now! Couldn't just finish it without a bit more angst, right? So there will be more HH – and I promise I will work on getting the next chapter out this week.
In the meantime, enjoy, and Happy New Year!
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Haunted Heart
A Gunsmoke Story
By Amanda (MAHC)
Chapter Sixteen: One Step at a Time
POV: Matt/Kitty/Newly
Spoilers: "Seven Hours to Dawn;" "The Jailer;" "The Pillagers;" "The Bullet;" "Morgan;" "Mannon;" "Hostage!"
Rating: PG-13+ (Teen+)
Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)
XXXX
Matt groaned as he moved against Kitty's welcoming softness, engulfed by her sweet warmth, embraced by her gentle arms. He continued to be amazed that this beautiful creature still wanted a tired, scarred up lawman, but she showed him over and over that she did want him – she wanted him very, very much. He felt the build of climax at the pit of his belly, fought to hold off, to wait for her, his jaw hard with the effort.
He counted his blessings every day, grateful that God – and Kitty – had given him a second chance, that they had each other again, and that they had Sam, so much more than he could have ever imagined for himself. He wouldn't waste it.
Her writhing quickened, a tell-tale sign he knew very well, just like the soft moaning of his name and the tightening of her fingers on his forearms as he held her above him. She was near her peak, and he could let go just a little more. A few more thrusts and she would be there. Then he could –
The ugly crack of a gunshot startled him, jerking him violently away from ecstasy. To his horror, he felt the hot splatter of blood, saw grotesque scarlet blossom across Kitty's lovely breasts. She stared, open-mouthed, at him, her expression incredulous.
"Matt – " she whispered, but it was all she could manage before her body collapsed, her lifeblood – his lifeblood – draining from her veins.
"No!" He cried out in anguish, in despair, scrambling to cover the dire wound with his hands, to stop the destruction of his world. "Oh God! No! Kitty!" But it was too late. Without a sound, her tender heart that had held him for 21 years stopped, tearing away his own heart with it.
He cradled her in his arms, his face buried in those fiery tresses he had so recently caressed, his stunned brain sluggish and numb.
"Marshal?" A hand fell on his shoulder to pull him from her, but he shook it off roughly.
"No!" He felt her die in his arms, felt himself die with her.
"Marshal!" The hand grabbed him, and he swung out wildly, furious at the intrusion into his grief.
"Get the hell away from me!" he snarled, his tone like an animal, ferocious and dangerous.
"Marshal!"
"I said get away from me!"
"Matt!"
Matt Dillon's eyes opened suddenly to stare into the gray-black of pre-dawn. In the faint light he could make out the shaken features of Newly O'Brien looming before him.
"Matt?" The deputy knelt at his side, eyes wide.
Matt wiped the sweat from his face with a trembling hand and twisted frantically to search around him, almost collapsing in relief when he realized where he was and what had happened. A dream. Only a dream. A terrible, terrible dream – but just a dream. Thank God.
With a shuddering sigh, he fell back onto his bedroll, chest heaving, heart pumping. Another dream. Oh God.
"Marshal?" Newly asked quietly, mumbling a bit. "You okay?"
Matt swallowed the nausea back down his throat and nodded curtly, turning his head to hide the flush of embarrassment that raced up his face.
"Must have been a nightmare," the deputy observed, his voice a little muffled. "Sounded pretty intense."
Intense? Hell, yes. He gritted his teeth to force some control through his shaking body, a struggle that was, unfortunately, not at all foreign to him. Last night it had been gnarled-teeth fugitives snatching Sam right from Kitty's arms while he watched impotently, locked in his own jail cell. The night before that, both Kitty and Sam had gotten in the way of a gunfight on a hazy Front Street and been brutally cut down by bullets meant for him. He had woken in a cold sweat in his hotel room in Hays City, grateful, at least, that Newly slept away obliviously in a separate room.
Of course, he was no stranger to nightmares. He had been haunted by them periodically for most of his professional life, had re-fought battles, chased after outlaws, and re-lived shoot-outs on and off since the first time he'd had to take a man's life in the line of duty. Through the years, he had learned to deal with the paradox of a job that demanded he protect lives by sometimes taking them.
But he had never learned to deal with those times when his dreams shifted from his own danger to threats on Kitty. What tore him up most were the visions that had come not from his imagination but from real life itself: Mace Gore, and Etta Stone, and Manez, and Morgan, and Mannon.
And Bonner. Bonner.
And more – all because of him. All because of him.
Those torturous memories had acquired new strength recently, had hit him full force since he and Kitty had returned from New Orleans. He knew it was because his responsibilities had changed – a choice that was his own, but a choice that brought with it the complications he had foreseen twenty years before when he told Kitty he couldn't commit to her. It would have been so much easier if they had just left Dodge, if Kitty had not insisted that he not resign. She had even gone so far as to wire the Attorney General himself and politely but firmly retrieve Matt's retirement request. The man had been more than happy to comply, sending back a lengthy – and embarrassingly gushing – letter praising Matt's abilities and service and assuring him he could continue in the U.S. Marshal's service for as long as he so desired.
That had been nine months ago, and the nightmares had only gotten worse. He wasn't sure why exactly, had never put much faith in omens or soothsayers, but the persistence of those dreams stirred an uneasiness deep in his bones, an uneasiness that something was about to happen. As much as he berated himself for the foolish notion, he couldn't quite shake the disturbing thought.
After a minute, he became aware that his deputy watched him closely, waiting for a response, and he found that he couldn't meet those dark eyes for fear that he might glimpse pity in them.
What was the question? Intense?
"Yeah," he muttered, hoping that was sufficient.
"Sure." Newly took a breath, wincing. "Be dawn soon. Maybe we should just get on up, head for home."
Home. Kitty. That's exactly where Matt wanted – needed – to head.
"Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah."
"I'd say it's another twenty miles to Kinsley, then thirty-five or so on to Dodge. We won't make it back tonight. Tomorrow for sure, though."
Working to slow his heart, Matt pulled himself up to sit cross-legged on the blankets, resting his head in his hands, still fighting the sick feeling that boiled in his belly. Newly – bless him – slipped away to give the marshal a moment to regain his composure.
When he felt like he had avoided a complete collapse in front of the other man, Matt raised his head and saw that the deputy busied himself with dragging his saddle over to the sturdy bay, pausing once or twice to work his chin gingerly. Matt frowned and flexed his hand, guilty suspicion nudging him with the slight protest of pain across his knuckles.
"Newly?"
The younger man turned quickly, eager to please his mentor. Matt knew the sometime-gunsmith and deputy idolized him, and he was more than a little uncomfortable with the hero worship he saw in those dark eyes way too often. Still, he was a good deputy, and a man of strong principles. Matt was lucky to have him.
In the light of the coming dawn, Matt saw the swollen jaw and bloodied lip. "What happened to you?" he asked automatically, even though he was afraid he already knew.
Newly grinned ruefully and rubbed at the injury. "Well, Marshal, I'll have to say I hadn't ever intended to be on the receiving end of one of your backhands. I figure I'm right lucky not to be spittin' teeth."
Damn. "Newly, I'm – I'm sorry," Matt said, pushing up from the bedroll to check on his deputy. He forgot about the stiff knee until he planted it, and the pain that shot through his leg almost drove him back to the ground. Waiting out the wave of dizziness, he braced himself and limped toward the other man.
"Marshal – " Newly began, concern tightening his features.
But Matt waved off any questions. "I'm fine," he declared, his tone clearly accepting no argument. "Let me take a look at it."
Taking his cue, Newly nodded, even though his eyes couldn't hide the doubt. "It's not too bad, Marshal. Besides, you didn't mean to. You were having a nightmare."
"I can still be sorry," Matt insisted, taking the deputy's chin in his hand and studying the red, swollen flesh. "Beefsteak would be helpful," he noted.
"You got one handy?" Newly asked, laughing, then wincing.
"Sorry. Don't figure jerky would do the same thing."
"Probably not."
Satisfied that the injury was not dangerous – although it certainly looked painful enough – he relaxed a bit. "We'll have Doc take a look when we get back to Dodge."
"Marshal?"
He knew it was coming. "Yeah?"
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Sure."
"You seemed a little – distressed." That was an understatement.
"I'm okay, Newly."
"I just – "
"I'm okay." The last assurance came out sharper than he had intended, but, even as much as he trusted his deputy, he was not about to discuss his dreams – his nightmares – with him.
Newly cleared his throat and nodded. "Okay. Sure. I'll just – I'll just get Buck saddled for ya."
Suddenly irritated at himself, Matt caught the younger man's arm. "Newly, I, uh, I appreciate it, but – "
A compassionate smile was his answer. "I understand, Marshal. It's okay."
Again, Matt thought about the young man. Who would have thought the green easterner who carried his gunsmith tools in a medical bag would have turned into a right decent deputy? No, Matt amended, much more than just decent. As he watched Newly go about the task of saddling his horse, the marshal took more care, more depth, in contemplating exactly how good a man he was, and a thought began to form, a thought that grew and sank its roots into a plan he had already taken steps toward completing.
Slipping his hand into his vest pocket, he pulled out the reply he had received from his earlier telegram to the Attorney General. Kitty would probably be mad at him, but she would get over it – he was pretty sure about that. And even though the decision wouldn't do anything about ridding him of old enemies, he figured at least it might keep him from acquiring new ones.
Dragging a deep breath into his lungs, he held it a few contemplative seconds before taking the final step. "Newly?"
The deputy turned immediately. "Sir?"
"Don't saddle Buck, yet."
"Sir?"
If Matt Dillon could believe in one thing, it was his instincts. They had served him well for 48 years, and he figured there was no reason to stop now. Smiling, and as sure about anything as he'd ever been – he motioned for the younger man to sit.
"I have a proposition for you – "
XXXX
Kitty Dillon smiled in delight as she watched her eleven-month-old son take a wobbly step in Hannah's firm grasp toward his mother's outstretched arms. Overwhelmed with the power of her love for the child, she wondered how on earth her heart didn't just explode with it, wondered how people possessed the capacity to deal with more than one child.
"He's gonna git it soon," Hannah noted confidently.
"He has his father's determination," Kitty said.
"And his mama's impatience," the older woman added, laughing as Sam abruptly plopped down on his rear, his familiar blue eyes widening in surprise only momentarily before he wrapped familiar long fingers around her thumb and climbed back to his feet. "He's tryin' ta' take too many steps at a time. Wants ta' do it all at once."
He might have some of her disposition, but Matthew Samuel Dillon looked more and more like his father every day, Kitty decided, enjoying the handsome sight of the boy's long, chestnut curls and toothy grin. He already had a mouthful of teeth, which had turned out to be more liability than asset. Kitty had been forced, reluctantly, to wean him two months earlier when nursing became too much a game of chance.
The hair, which she adored, was a point of small contention between Matt and her. He had voiced his opinion that the generous mane made his son look like a girl. Kitty resisted the idea that the child have his first hair cut before he was a year old, but after a well-meaning old woman had commented on how pretty Sam was, she decided perhaps she would concede the point.
""Wael, thar he is. I declare, Miz Kitty, thet boy's done grow'd annuther two inches since yesstidy."
She let her eyes shift from her child to watch Festus clink through the saloon doors, his teeth showing through the scruff of beard as he looked down toward his best friend's son. Sam ignored him, concentrating instead on his tenacious attempts to take his first steps under his own power.
"He's gonna be big as his daddy," the deputy told them – about the fiftieth time he'd prophesied that since he first glimpsed the child at the railway station those many months ago.
"He could be," Kitty allowed, having a hard time imagining anyone being as big as Matt – even his own son.
"My Aint Clarence sed ya' kin tell how big a feller's gonna git by his hands." He thrust his own index finger into the child's free hand, the one that wasn't hanging on to Hannah's supporting finger. "Looky thar at them hands. Yep. Big as his daddy."
This time, Sam rewarded the compliment with another grin – so much like his father's that Kitty felt her heart pound with the anticipation of Matt's return. He was overdue – again – but at least he had wired her from Hays City, letting her know the trial ran over, and he and Newly would be heading out as soon as things wrapped up. Her optimistic estimate had placed their arrival tomorrow, but experience cruelly reminded her that it would most likely be the next day before she could see him – and touch him – again.
Before she could tell him.
Twenty years of waiting had not necessarily given her patience, but it had at least provided her the practice of masking her impatience. Smiling fondly at Festus, she rose and patted him on the arm. "How 'bout a beer?"
As expected, the deputy's eyes lit. "Wael, I reckon a beer'd be rite welcome."
"I figured it would," she said, sliding behind the bar. "Come on over."
He followed eagerly, smacking his lips in anticipation. "Did I tell ya yer pertikularly looksome this mornin', Miz Kitty?"
"I already offered you the beer, Festus," she laughed. "No need to butter me up."
He managed to look affronted. "If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'. Ya do look mighty handsome today."
Twisting her lips in amusement, she avoided Hannah's suddenly curious gaze and said, "Why thank you, Festus." Then she let her brow furrow slightly. "But does that mean I'm not looksome every day?"
The poor man sputtered over his first sip of beer. "Wael, no – "
"No?"
"I mean – yes – "
"Yes? You mean I'm not looksome every – "
"Aw, fiddle, Miz Kitty. Don't you go a mixin' my words up. You know'd very well whut I meant."
Smiling to let him off the hook, she agreed. "All right. I'll just say, 'thank you,' and leave it at that. At my age, I shouldn't question any compliment."
"Yer age?" Festus declared. "Shorely Miz Kitty you kaint be more'n – " He faltered, at a loss.
"More than?" she prompted, curious and wary all at once. What if he overguessed?
"Twenty-five?" Festus squeaked out wisely.
Kitty couldn't help but laugh. Maybe the deputy had finally learned the nuances about women's ages. "Close enough," she figured. Truth was, he was seventeen years off, and they both knew it – but who was she to correct him?
"You heerd from Matthew lately?" he asked, the relief on his face a clear indication that he was glad to escape from the trap she had set for him.
Allowing him the diversion, she nodded. "He wired me yesterday. The trial was delayed. He and Newly ought to be back in a couple of days." She hoped.
Her disappointment must have shown because he pushed a smile to his lips and offered cheerfully, "Two days ain't bad. I'll be glad ta' see him, though." The smile faded a bit as he grew serious. "Not thet I kaint handle these yea-hoos round 'bouts, of course, but it ain't easy bein' on the job all day an' all night, too, dontcha know."
Kitty refrained from mentioning that those were the very hours Matt had kept for over 20 years as a marshal. As much as he had the reputation for malingering, Festus really was a good man, and both she and Matt owed him their lives three times over.
The beer foamed nicely on the refill. The deputy nodded his thanks to her and lifted the glass for a second helping.
"Excuse me."
Kitty glanced past him to see a rough-looking man peering over the tops of the swinging doors, a tattered hat perched a little sideways on his head. "Yes?" she acknowledged.
Taking that as invitation, he stepped into the room, and she saw that the rest of his clothing was only minutely less worn than the hat. "Mornin', ma'am," the man greeted, touching his hand to the brim.
"Morning."
"Mornin'," Festus acknowledged briefly before taking a generous swig of ale.
"Uh, could any of you tell me if the marshal's around?"
As much as she tried to quell it, Kitty felt the surge of fear in her veins with those words. Most of the time when someone came looking for Matt it didn't end up pleasantly.
"He ain't in town rite now. Done gone up ta' Hays City fer Rane Baskin's trial. Orta be back tomorrow sometime," Festus supplied.
The man seemed disappointed. "Oh."
Eyes narrowing, Festus asked, "How come ya' need ta' know?"
"Oh, I don't need ta' know. Don't matter none ta' me if the marshal's here or not."
Festus' frown deepened. "What's yer name, mister?"
"Link Jenson."
"I don't remember seein' ya in Dodge before."
"Ain't been here for long. Just passin' through ta' Colorado Springs – soon as I can git some money for train fare."
"Why do ya' need the marshal?"
"Like I said, I don't. But there's some feller around lookin' fer him, and I told him I'd ask."
Kitty's heart clenched suddenly, and she caught Hannah's wide-eyed glance. Even Festus stiffened.
"A feller, ya' say?" he asked.
"Yep."
"Who is he?"
"Ain't never seen him before."
"Whut does he want with the marshal?"
Jenson shrugged. "Don't know. Business, he said."
Kitty's fingers dug into the edge of the bar. Business? Too many men had come into town with "business" for Matt Dillon. She didn't like the sound of it – never had.
Festus apparently didn't, either. "Whar is this feller?" he asked, plunking his glass down and frowning.
"Over at the Dodge House. Said he'd get settled, then come lookin' for the marshal."
Come looking?
"Did he say whut kinda bidness he had?"
"Nope."
"Whut'd he look like?"
"Sorta young, in his late 30s, I figure, maybe early 40s. Right smart dresser, not fancy mind you, but neat and fairly clean, considerin' he'd been on the trail. Oh, and he wore his gun like he was used to it, you know? Like he weren't no stranger to usin' it."
"Show me," Festus ordered, abandoning his beer, and the two left the saloon abruptly.
An icy tingle ran up Kitty's spine and plunged into her chest from behind. She let her hand drop to her abdomen in a vain attempt to squelch the sudden nausea that roiled there. "Please God," she prayed. "Please don't let it happen now. Not now."
Ever since Coy Brennan had breathed his last in the dust of Front Street, Dodge had remained mercifully quiet, and Kitty allowed herself a glimmer of hope that Matt's reputation – and maybe the encroachment of civilization into the West – had finally proven convincing enough to persuade the remaining gunslingers to give the town – and its marshal – a wide berth. She should have known it was too much to expect.
For once, she found herself wishing that Matt wouldn't come back soon – that he'd stay away until this latest challenger got tired of waiting and moved on. But the very fact that the man was there practically guaranteed Matt's expedient return. It was her lot in life to be forever at the mercy of irony.
"Papa – Papa – Papa – "
Her son's innocent chanting drew Kitty back from a brief wallow in self-pity with a silent scold at herself for allowing the dip. Forcing cheer into her voice, she swung around the bar and over to Hannah, sweeping the child into her arms and kissing him soundly.
"Yes, Sam," she told him, "Papa is coming back soon. He'll be so proud of you. Maybe you'll walk all by yourself for him, hmm?"
The boy smiled at her. "Papa come home?" he asked, patting his mother's cheek. He had recently taken to putting together simple sentences, and Kitty marveled at the capacity of children to absorb knowledge.
"Yes, sweetheart," Kitty assured him, exchanging a worried glance with Hannah. "Papa's coming home real soon."
Just not too soon, please, Matt, she pleaded silently. Just not too soon.
XXXX
Newly O'Brien winced when he accidentally cocked his jaw the wrong way. He had told the marshal he was lucky not to be spitting teeth – and that was the absolute truth. Dillon's blow had been softened by the haze of sleep or else he figured his head would still be reeling.
He didn't have to imagine too hard what kind of dream had held the marshal in its clutches. He had heard the anguished cry of her name, had seen the perspiration bead on the grimacing face, had definitely felt the power of the thrashing arms.
Even though he would never let the marshal know it, this wasn't the only time he'd seen Dillon struggle with nightmares. Over the years, Newly had awakened more than once on the trail to the big man's mutterings and groans, his subconscious re-living some of the horrors he had experienced – or creating new horrors. It came with the territory, the deputy figured, at least for a man whose basic nature was to value life but whose job it sometimes was to take life.
More recently, he had heard Dillon shout out two nights before in Hays City, had almost burst into the marshal's room, fearing that his mentor was in physical danger and needed assistance. But just as he reared back to kick in the door, he heard the deep voice choke out her name, and realized what was happening. He hadn't mentioned anything about it, knew that the very private man would have been embarrassed if he thought anyone had been witness to his vulnerability.
There was no secret anymore, of course, about Matt Dillon and Kitty Russell, not since they had returned from New Orleans, married and parents to boot. But for Newly and most of Dodge, that relationship had been long acknowledged and accepted. In fact, it hadn't taken the green gunsmith long at all to see that there was something between the U.S. marshal and the Long Branch proprietor.
He had to laugh at himself when he though about just how naïve he had been on that first trip to Dodge. His first glimpse of Kitty Russell would be emblazoned forever in his memory – an enchantingly regal creature amid a bevy of common hoodlums and cowboys. Her beauty was ageless, and he couldn't help but take interest in her – at least until he realized that his competition would be a six foot, seven inch, 240-pound U.S. marshal.
That trip had been detoured to the lair of the border cut-throat Manez. At the time, he had mentioned to Kitty that if they got word to "that marshal in Dodge," it "might could be" that he'd help. She had smirked a little and agreed that it "might could be." Newly later realized that there had been no "might could" to it at all – it was a sure thing all along that Matt Dillon would come after them – after her.
From then on, it was easy to catch glimpses of them sitting close, talking low. Even when they were the most discreet, the sparks that snapped between them could not be disguised. He counted it as privilege that for the next few years he was privy to a few rare moments.
Glancing with subtle interest at the marshal, noting how he rode Buck with the surety of years of practice, he thought about that dreadful trip to Denver after Dillon had been shot in the back by Amos Potter, when they didn't know if he would walk again – or even live. Ignoring the witnesses, Kitty had called him "Cowboy" and run her fingers through his shaggy curls. It was a lover's caress, and one of the few times the couple allowed such evidence in public. Of course, the marshal wasn't in any shape to protest, even if he'd wanted to – and it didn't seem like he wanted to at all.
As bad as that had been, though, worst of all was Jude Bonner. Newly still shuddered when he thought about that time, still felt the blows the dog soldier and his men had inflicted, still saw the fear on Matt Dillon's face when he had to tell him that Bonner had taken Kitty, still heard the rage in Dillon's voice when he slammed an unrepentant Virgil Bonner against the cell bars. He had thought the marshal was going to kill the outlaw right there – figured he would have if the sheriff hadn't apologetically interrupted so that the law could take care of the scum for them.
And then, when he stepped out onto Doc's landing, after spending the night in vigil by her bedside –
Newly's eyes had lit on the bare shirt first, only two tell-tale holes left where a badge had hung for so many faithful years. Alarmed, he searched Dillon's face, stunned at the silent but determined fury that seethed on those strong features. In that moment, Newly knew the depth of Matt Dillon's feelings toward Kitty Russell. He had no doubt, later, that the marshal would have killed Jude Bonner – and then been killed himself by Bonner's men – if Festus and the posse hadn't ignored Dillon's instructions and rode on after him.
Somehow, throughout it all, they had survived – even past the last crisis when Kitty had left. But fate – or the good Lord – had intervened and brought her back – with interest. And now Matt Dillon had another chance. A chance to untangle himself from the tight bonds of duty to the law. A chance to live his life on his own. A chance to be happy.
Newly considered what Dillon had talked with him about that morning. Stunned, the deputy had asked for a little time to think things over, to ponder his choices. Now, though, as he looked over at the lawman, he realized there was no choice at all. Not for Matt Dillon and not for Newly O'Brien.
He watched the big buckskin canter along for a moment, the front legs kicking high and sure, as they always did with Matt astride him, as if the confidence of the horse matched that of the rider. "Marshal?"
Dillon turned, face expectant.
"Marshal," Newly asked tentatively, "are you sure?"
The older man nodded, immediately understanding what Newly was talking about. "I'm sure."
"I just don't want you to regret it."
"If a man lives by regrets, he won't ever risk anything. What kind of life is that?"
He looked up into those vivid blue eyes, only imagining the untold things they had witnessed through the years. "It's just that, well, I know you don't like to hear stuff like this – but you really are a legend."
Dillon breathed out a small, humorless laugh. "Legends aren't real people, Newly. As soon as soon a gun takes them down – or the years do it for the gun – another legend will take their place."
Newly shook his head, unconvinced. "I don't think anyone will ever take Matt Dillon's place."
"Matt Dillon doesn't really exist," the big lawman muttered, looking out over the prairie, momentarily lost in some distant thought. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and turned back to the deputy. "Not the legend, anyway," he added with a rueful smile. "You just be the best Newly O'Brien you can be. You're a good man. Be a careful man, too. One step at a time."
One giant step, Newly observed. Overwhelmed by the confidence this man – this legend, he insisted in his mind – had shown in him, Newly sucked in a breath, nodded, and said, "All right, then."
The legend rewarded him with a rare, genuine grin. "All right."
As they continued riding, Newly's veins surged with alternating excitement and terror. He had always set quite a store by Matt Dillon's decisions. He sure hoped the marshal was making the right one now.
With Dodge only a day's ride away, it wouldn't be long before they'd find out.
TBC