One second.
That's all he had to decide whether to kill or not. For when he shot, he shot to kill. He had to. It was the only sure way to stop from being killed.
Marshal Matt Dillon had been blessed with exceptionally sharp eyesight and lightning-fast reflexes that made his draw the fastest in the territory, and he had the rare ability to aim and fire without hesitation. A dutiful lawman, he hated to kill, but knew the ugly necessity was part of the job. After almost twenty years "on the job," he had killed many men, and although uncounted, each one added a small stone of weight to his mind, conscience, and heart.
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It had started early on the morning of an ordinary summer day in Dodge. Matt's eyes opened when he heard Fred Tolliver pushing his milk cart along Front Street, one of the oversized wheels making its usual, repetitive squeak. The warm breeze that caused the lacy curtain of the window beside the bed to languidly puff and sway, also pushed the soft curls of red hair on Kitty's forehead as she slept on. Glancing down with a fond smile, Matt idly twirled one of the curls with his right forefinger as she lay snuggled against his bare chest, his left arm holding her close. Lightly sniffing her hair and kissing her forehead, he marveled at how she always smelled of sun-warmed flowers and tasted of an indescribable sweet softness.
"Kitty. Honey. I should be heading over to the office. Got a stack of paperwork to deal with, and I'm expecting an answer to my telegram to Sheriff Howard over in Cimarron about Nealy Falcon." As she murmured something indecipherable, the big man slowly and reluctantly extracted himself from her embrace, kissing her lips tenderly as he carefully pulled the pillow down to cradle her head. Gazing down admiringly at her still soft and creamy skin with its overall dusting of faint freckles, his eyes lingered on her lush, full breasts before he pulled the sheet up over her beautiful nakedness. "She is as lovely as ever, while I'm starting to resemble a leathery old boot!" he chuckled to himself, rubbing a calloused palm over the golden-gray stubble on his creased face. After he got dressed as quietly as possible, he carried his sturdy boots to the door, and paused with one hand on the knob. Looking back at the way the light made Kitty's tousled red hair glow like a private sunrise, he ruefully shook his head. "Maybe someday…someday…we can both take it easy and lie in bed as long as we like, in our own house, somewhere out in the country." Then he grunted and gave a dry little laugh. "That'll be the day! When Kitty and I both stop doing the jobs we seem bound to forever." He knew they both were grateful and happy with what they had, and Kitty rarely even hinted anymore at wanting more of anything other than his time. "She's one in a million, my woman!" he thought, always mindful of the sacrifices she had made for him and their special relationship that was deeper than that of most married couples he knew.
When he neared his Marshal's Office, he could smell the aroma of strong coffee wafting out through the open, barred front windows, and could hear the jovial, off-tune humming of his deputy. "Morning, Festus! That coffee almost smells good enough to drink! Is it ready yet? I sure could use an eye-opener today!" Matt said as he greeted the grinning hill man with a smile.
"Matthew! A good mornin' ta yew, too! This here pot o' coffee will make yer eyeballs pooch out in pure, larruping dee-light!" As he grinned, the squint of his right eye increased, and he turned to pour the hot, black liquid into two thick, ceramic mugs. "Here ya go! Yer probably wonderin' why I'm here so dang early? Wal, I jest woke up and figured we both could use some coffee 'fore the day got on us! So here I am!"
"That's fine, Festus, just fine. I sure appreciate the coffee," Matt assured, taking a sip and suppressing an audible gulp at how strong it was. "Whew! If this were any stronger, I'd deputize it!" His mouth curved up on the left as he remembered saying that to his old friend and partner Chester, so many years ago.
Festus proudly preened, putting his left thumb in the left armhole of his faded black vest, and pushing it forward. "Wal, Matthew. I don't do nuthin' halfway, ya know!" Loudly slurping, he took another big drink before setting the mug down on the small square wooden table in the middle of the room, pulling out a chair, and settling himself in with a sigh as he propped both tall boots on the table's edge. He contentedly closed his eyes and listened to the jangle of the large, slowly rotating rowels of his spurs.
Matt sat down at his desk, sipping his coffee as he eyed the overflowing inbox near his right hand. Glancing at the wall clock, he figured he could get a good start before Delmonico's opened and he and Festus could meet Doc there as usual. With a small sigh, the lawman dutifully pulled the top paper towards him and began to read.
Thirty minutes later, Festus was snoring, leaning precariously back in his chair, booted feet still propped up on the table, when old telegrapher Barney came rushing in, slamming the front door open against the wall. As Festus yelped and crashed to the floor, the Marshal calmly put down his fountain pen and looked at the red-faced, bespectacled little man clutching a telegram in his right hand. "What is it, Barney?" Matt asked, holding out his left hand for the crumpled paper.
"MARSHAL! The Falcon is on his way HERE!" The excited man thrust the telegram at Matt, stepping around Festus who lay in a heap, muttering curses as he untangled his spurs, trying to get up in an as dignified manner as possible. The wispy-haired little man scurried out the door and back to his clicking telegraph key.
As he read the telegram, Matt's mind was taking in the words but remembering his old U.S. Marshal friend and mentor Clifton Falcon. Twenty-two-year-old Nealy was his youngest son, who had gotten in with the wrong crowd and quickly taken to a life of crime. Marshal Falcon had quit his job to focus his time and energy on Nealy, all to no avail. Now, two years later, Falcon's son was a vicious, serial bank and stage robber, and was wanted for at least three murders. The shame and heartbreak had turned a former fine U.S. Marshal into an aged, broken shell of a man who still desperately loved his son.
Matt turned in his chair and looked again at the wanted poster tacked to the wall behind him in a prominent position. The drawing showed a young, sharp-featured but good-looking man staring out with light, narrowed eyes, and dark, shoulder-length hair under his black derby. A furrowed scar marred the man's looks, running from his left nostril back along the side of his face, and disappearing under his hair, which was worn long to hide his bullet-maimed left ear. And now this criminal, who insisted he be referred to as "The Falcon," was reported to be headed into Marshal Dillon's home territory.