The man glared at his likeness on the wanted poster, then balled it up and threw it into the dirt as he rode towards Dodge. "Wonder if Matt is still a U.S. Marshal and still in Dodge? Or even still alive? He sure was fast-almost as fast as me! But that don't stop a bullet to the back, and a lawman's got hisself a target there." Nealy Falcon stared ahead at the wide, empty expanse of waving prairie grass he was riding through, but his attention was turned inward to memories of Matt Dillon. "It's gotta be more than twenty-five years now since Matt and Pa rode together along the Texas border, just being two crazy young cowboys. Pa said they was wild and had some fun!" Then the young man remembered as a small boy how he had hero-worshiped his father's tall, handsome friend, who had always been kind and patient with him. For a moment, the perpetual scowl on the scarred but still handsome face lifted into a slight smile. "Meybe I shouldn't take a chance on going into Dodge, but Mort and Smithy swear that freight office will be a real pushover when the gold shipment comes in around Thursday. Matt or not, we gotta take it!" he thought, rubbing the scar on his face. Last week, Nealy had plied a Wells Fargo man with whiskey to loosen his tongue enough to brag about a huge gold shipment going to Dodge in a few days.

At that moment, Mort and Smithy were having doubts. They stood together in the shadows of an alley near the stables, having recently arrived in Dodge. As they had started walking towards the Long Branch, laughing and joking, an extremely tall, broad-shouldered, imposing man had come out of the U.S. Marshal Office across from them. Mort pulled Smithy into the shadows and they both watched the big man stride down the boardwalk towards the same saloon.

"DANG, Smithy! That is one BIG lawman! I thought them XC-Bar cowhands were jest hoo-rahing us back there in Hayes. Meybe we should fergit 'bout 'robbin' the freight office here." Giving a nervous laugh, his wide-open hazel eyes followed the Marshal.

"Mort, ya know what Nealy will do ta us if we chicken out 'cause of one overgrown lawman! Nealy don't care the size of any man! Come ON, now! I want me a drink or two!" The tall, skinny man grabbed his short, stocky companion with the bald head and red handlebar mustache by the arm and yanked him forward.

"Kitty." Matt smiled as he walked up to her at the bar, her own welcoming smile drawing him in like a magnet.

"Hello, Matt. How about a drink? First one's on the house!" Her sky-blue eyes sparkled as they met his clear, warm gaze. It was their own private joke now in that he knew his drinks were always "on the house," and he knew the pleasure she got from having that privilege as long-time owner of the Long Branch.

"I'll have a beer, Kitty." The handsome man's face creased in genuine pleasure and his posture was easy and relaxed as he stood looking down at her.

"Sam! Two beers!" she called over the noise, holding up two fingers. "Let's go sit down, Matt." He had told her about the disturbing nightmare he had had in his office the night before, and she was relieved to see that he seemed to have pushed it away. Turning, she led the way to their usual table by the stairs, and smiled up as he pulled out a chair for her before sitting down. "Doc should be here soon. He had to go out to the Culvers for the birth of their fourth baby."

When Sam brought the two mugs of cool beer, he set one down in front of Kitty, and the other in front of the Marshal. She smiled her thanks and Sam basked in the warmth of her eyes before heading back to the bar. Even when as busy as a barkeep in a trail herd could be, he was always aware of where his employer was and who was around her. She was always more than a "job" to him.

Tonight was a raucous night in the saloon since two trail herds of thirsty cowhands had now swarmed into town. Mort and Smithy easily blended in with a crowd of newly arrived, dusty, noisy men pushing their way through the bat wing doors and joining the others already filling the tables and lining the bar. Mort saw the Marshal first and nudged his elbow into Smithy's ribs, then nodded his head toward the big man sitting with the beautiful, red-haired woman. Both thirstily drank whiskey after whiskey, elbows on the bar, eyes on the Marshal. Both secretly wondered if their boss could handle the intimidating man when the time came.

"Matt." Kitty looked at him over the top of her raised beer mug. "Those two rough-looking men at the end of the bar are eying you. The tall, skinny one with the dark, straggly hair, and his short friend with the red mustache."

"Yeah, I know, Kitty. I could feel their eyes on me. It isn't the first time and it won't be the last that strangers try to measure me up." He gave her a lazy smile of reassurance and raised his mug to his mouth, taking a large swallow. Soon he would have to head out on his last rounds of the night before rejoining Kitty upstairs for the night.

She knew better than to warn him or argue that he should worry, but narrowed her eyes at the two men, memorizing their faces, and when the shorter one noticed, he nudged his companion and both awkwardly looked the other way. "I can always tell Festus about these two snakes," she thought, wanting the sharp-eyed hill man on alert.

Just then, Festus ambled in, the jangle of the large rowels of his spurs still audible amidst the clamor of the piano, laughter, shrieks, and shouts. A grin on his whiskery face, his eyes lit up when he saw Matt and Kitty, and he joined them at their table. "Evenin' Miss Kitty," he said, touching the brim of his shabby, high-domed hat. " Matthew. Ya notice them two yay-whos over at the end o' the bar? I've scraped better-lookin' stuff offa the bottoms o' my boots! And their lizard eyes keep on a slidin'over ta ya." Festus noticed Kitty looking at him appreciatively, and gave her a slow wink.

"Sam! Bring a drink over for Festus, please!" she called, gratefully smiling at her friend's happy grin.

"Which 'yay-hoos' you talking 'bout, Festus?!" The small doctor had shuffled in and wended his way between the cowboys with saloon girls on their laps, gamblers slapping down cards, and the regulars pushing their way to the bar for more whiskey. Doc pulled out the remaining chair and sat down with his friends, wearily plopping his old medical bag on the table beside him. As soon as Kitty had seen him in the doorway, she had motioned to Sam for a drink, and Doc gratefully thanked him as he set the small, heavy glass of whiskey on the table. "Ah…that sure hits the spot after the day I've had. Thought the Culver baby would never decide to be born!"

"Well, Doc, there was these two shady trail bums eyeing Matthew from the bar," Festus said as he glanced in that direction, "but theys gone now," he added with a frown. The loyal deputy vowed to himself to keep a close look out for the two men who had set his Haggen senses on alert.

Mort and Smithy had slipped outside as Doc came in, with one last glance back at the imposing lawman calmly sipping his beer with his friends. Walking past a narrow, dark alley on their way to the hole-in-the-wall Prairie Dog Hotel, both were suddenly yanked into the dark by a strong hand on their collars.

"WHAT THE…?!" Smithy blurted, then his mouth went dry as he looked up at the sharp angles of the scarred face of The Falcon.

To Be Continued…