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GUNSMOKE - Welcome To Dodge - Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

I came into the office a little late the next morning. It had
been a long night. There had been four more encounters like my one at the Texas
Trail, and all of them had ended the same way. If this kept up I’d have to
check the butt of my six-gun for dents.

Chester was in the office already. He was wearing a new
shirt. In the short time I’d known him, I’d discovered him to have a little of
the dandy in him. He liked buying new shirts. Whenever he won money playing
cards – which wasn’t all that often – he went out and spent the better part of
a morning picking out a new shirt. It was strange, because in the time I’d
known him I’d never seen him wear anything but the same striped pants. Or maybe
he had lots of pairs of the same pants. But he was real neat about them. And
they never drew your eyes away from his nice crisp new shirts.

 “I turned ‘em
all loose this morning, Mr. Dillon,” said Chester, “like you said.” The keys to
the jail were on my desk.

“Good, Chester. Thanks.”

“It’s a good thing you had me let Ziegler go. Otherwise
we’d’ve been hard pressed for accommodations. They was the sorriest lookin’
cowboys I ever did see.”

I chuckled. “Well, I guess I didn’t really hurt any of ‘em,
Chester.”

“Yeah, but bein’ banged on the head with a six-gun ain’t the
gentlest way to end an evenin’s pleasure. Still, they’ll live,” he added.

“Well, they started taking their pleasure too seriously.”

“Yessir, well, things quieted down a little after you locked
them up. There might’ve been real trouble otherwise.”

“Well, it isn’t over yet,” I said. I was looking out the open
window.

“What?” asked Chester from where he lay on the couch.

The front door opened and a thick man with skin dyed by the
sun walked in. “You Marshal Dillon?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, leaning on the edge of my desk. “Yeah, I am.”

“M’name’s Rance,” he said. His voice was deep and gruff. I
knew voices like that, voices that had shouted a lot over dry prairies.

“Glad to know you, Rance,” I said.

“I bossed the Drag-R herd up here from outta Mattagorda,”
said Rance. “That’s in Texas, Marshal,” he added.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been there.”

“You have?” He sounded surprised. “Well, you better not go
back.”

I had a sense of where this was going. “Oh?”

Rance nodded. “We might give you the kinda welcome you’re
givin’ us.”

Chester had stood up and was now leaning against the far
wall. His holster was clear. I walked around my desk as sat in my chair. “What’s
your complaint, Rance?”

“Buffaloin’ my men,” he said. “Five of ‘em come into camp
this mornin’ with blood in their hair. They said you done it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I did. If I hadn’t they mighta been shot. Or
shot somebody else.”

“Good thing for you you took ‘em on one at a time.”

“I’d have taken them anyway,” I said. “Look, Rance, this town
was on the edge of a riot last night. I stopped it, and I stopped it without
any killin’.”

“Man’s own business if he wants to pull out his gun,” said
Rance.

“Not around here, it isn’t,” I said.

“Marshal, I can’t ask men to come up here the way they do and
stick to drinkin’ soda water and talkin’ in whispers.” He looked really
perplexed. “What kind of a town is this, anyway?”

“It’s a good town, Rance,” I said. “Now, you and your men can
drink and gamble all they want. But they can’t shoot the mirror off the wall at
the Allafraganza, and they can’t grab townwomen on the street, and they can’t
break the bartender’s arm in the Texas Trail, and they can’t offer to shoot
anyone that tries to stop ‘em. It isn’t that kind of a town.”

“Well, sure,” said Rance, “they get a little frisky, but
there’s no harm in it I can see.”

“Sooner or later it’d lead to killing,” I said. “I’ve got to
draw the line somewhere.”

“So do I, Marshal,” he said.

“Oh? What does that mean?”

Rance looked grim. “I mean I won’t drive cattle to Dodge no
more. I’ll spread the word it’s a no-good town, and you people can live offa
sod-busters and buffalo hunters. This place’ll starve to death.”

I stared at him. “I’m hired to keep the peace, Rance. Any way
I can.”

“Keep it, then. We won’t bother Dodge no more. Good-bye,
Marshal.”

He turned and left, leaving the door open behind him so the
flies came in. Already the day was turning into another scorcher.

“I guess it’s like you said,” observed Chester.

“How’s that, Chester?”

“It ain’t over yet.”

“No,” I said. “I guess it’s not.”

GUNSMOKE - Welcome To Dodge - Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

I finished my steak and Kitty brought me another beer and we talked about all kinds of things – the weather, the town, a new horse I was thinking of buying. We’d been talking awhile when one of the two cowboys came over and asked Kitty for a dance.

“She’s busy,” I said.

“But she ain’t doin’ nothing but gabbin’ wit’you,” the cowboy protested. He was in his middle thirties, and smelled of the saddle and of whiskey.

“That’s so,” I said.

“Matt,” said Kitty.

“She’s a dancing girl, ain’t she?” said the cowboy. “Oughtn’t she t’dance, then?”

“She’s busy,” I said again.

“Look, mister,” said Kitty, standing and smiling at him. “There’re plenty of girls around tonight. And I promise to save a dance for you a little later, when I’m done talking with my friend, the Marshal.” I don’t know how she did it, but just standing up there seemed to be a vague sensuality, an undefined sense of what she’d move like if she weren’t hampered by all those clothes. It was something I liked.

The cowboy liked it too. He glanced over at me. “Marshal, eh?”

“Yep,” I said. I liked how she’d managed to let that piece of information drop so casual-like.

“Never met me a Marshal before.”

“But I’ve met plenty of cowboys,” I said. “They’re all the same.”

“Is that so?” he said, rocking on his heels.

“Yeah. That’s so.” I stayed sitting, but I picked up my beer with my left hand.

Kitty moved between us. “Look, mister, why don’t you go over to the bar and tell Sam that your next round’s on me.”

The cowboy used the flat of his left hand to move Kitty aside. “And what are all cowboys like, Marshal?”

Kitty shot me a pleading look. Besides, I’d already shot one man today. I decided to back off.

“They’re all looking for something,” I said, “and when they’ve got it, they want to get rid of it as fast as they can. Otherwise they’re not cowboys anymore.”

That puzzled the drunk, but it didn’t sound like an insult. “Well, I know what I’m lookin’ fer, mister Marshal. And that’s a dance.”

“I already promised you that dance,” said Kitty. “Now why don’t you get back to your friend. Look, Sam’s bringing out another couple of beers for you.”

The cowboy turned as saw two beers heading for his lone friend. He was clearly worried that he wouldn’t get his share, but he didn’t want it to look like he was backing down. He looked at Kitty. “I’ll remember ‘bout that dance. Don’t think I won’t.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” said Kitty with a big smile that showed all her teeth. They were good looking teeth.

The cowboy looked at me. “I’ll remember about you, too.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve forgotten you already.” And I took another sip of beer. That reminded him and he lurched away from our table and back to his friend, who had a hand on both glasses of beer.

Kitty waved at Sam, who nodded back to us as he cleaned a dirty glass on his apron. Kitty sat down again.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“Were you trying to get into a fight with him?”

“No,” I said. “But I wasn’t avoiding one, either.”

“Is it the Marshal’s job to pick fights?”

“No,” I said.

“Then why were you egging him?”

I shrugged. I felt like Chester. “I didn’t like the cut of his coat, is all.”

Kitty smiled. “He wasn’t wearing one.”

“That must be it.”

“So you’re a man who likes trouble.”

I didn’t like the sound of that – not coming from Kitty. “No,” I said. “But I’m good at certain things. I figured I can either make money by following the law, or by breaking it. I’ve made my choice. If that means trouble comes my way, I’m not going to dodge it.”
Kitty nodded, then added in a wry voice, “Besides, what would the people think?”
I set my beer down. “Kitty, if I wanted a safe life I’d go buy a plot of land and raise some hogs or corn or something.”

“But you’ve killed men. Not just today, but before.”

“Yeah. Some. But I’ll tell you this, Kitty – I never killed a man who wasn’t out to kill me or someone else. Even before I took up this badge.”

“So, tell me, Matt – what were you like before you became so holy?” She was laughing, and I wanted to laugh with her.

“I was just a cowboy. A drifter, sometimes.”

“I bet you were a real wild one.”

“I guess maybe I was.”

“Ever get on the wrong side of the law?”

“Not in any serious way,” I said. “At least, nobody’s after me.”

“That’s a pretty answer. Where did you do all of this nothing, Matt? In Kansas?”

“No. Texas, for awhile, then Arizona. I went down to Mexico a couple of times.”

“Did you ever make it as far as San Francisco?”

“No.”

“Were you born out there?”

“No. Funny enough, I was born right here – well, about thirty miles from here, but close enough.”

“So the prodigal son returns.”

I nodded and took a sip of my beer. “I guess so.”

“Did you ever have a woman?”

I nodded. “Sure, sure. Almost got married a couple of times.”

“What happened?”

“It’s hard to tell. Say, Kitty, what’s with all these questions?”

Kitty’s eyes glittered in the darkening room. “It’s all a plot, Marshal. You see, now I know everything about you.”

“Well,” I said, leaning forward, “what about you, Kitty?”

“What about me?”

“I mean, what’s your story?”

Kitty fanned her face and laughed. It was a good laugh, full of fun and teasing and life. “You’ll just have to keep wondering, I guess.”

The cowboy who’d bothered Kitty was at the bar again. His friend had gone outside, no doubt to relieve his bladder and make way for more alcohol. The rangy youth was giving Sam Noonan some lip. I let my gaze drift off of Kitty and focused on listening for a minute.

“I said whiskey!” the cowboy said real loud.

“And whiskey is what I gave ya,” said Sam in his best calm.

“I don’t mean a shot! I wan’ a whole bottle!”

“You didn’t say that,” said Sam.

“Well, y’shoulda known! Whaddya think I am, a dude? Can’t handle my whiskey? Izzat it?”

“No, mister,” said Sam, still calm. I saw his hand drop behind the bar, though, to the place where he kept his shotgun. I’d seen him use it often enough, though he’d never had to fire it. The sight of that thing in pointing across the bar tends to calm things down in a hurry. And it made a pretty fair club, too.

The cowboy must’ve seen Sam’s hand drop, though, and he wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t figure out that it wasn’t a bottle of Whiskey Sam was reaching for. He grabbed Sam’s searching arm from behind the bar, yanked it towards him, and slammed it down on the mohagony counter. There was a sharp crack, and Sam yelped as his arm snapped.

I was already moving when Sam reared back, and before he and the cowboy could really come to blows I had my gun out and I slammed the butt of it into the back of the cowboy’s head. He crumpled like a blown buffalo, and looked about as useless.

“How’s the arm, Sam?”

“How the hell do you think it is, Marshal?” said Sam loudly, cradling it.

“Broken.”

“Damn right!”

“Get over to Doc’s. I’ll tell Big Kate, and Kitty can watch the bar for you.”

Sam shook his head. “I’ll tell Kate. You go find this fella’s friend. He’ll be gunning for one or both of us if he hears, an’ I ain’t in no shape to draw.” He tried to take off his apron, and winced as he shifted his broken arm.

“Sounded like a clean break,” I said.

“Silver linings don’t mean there ain’t clouds, Marshal.”

“True enough.”

Kitty was by my side. “Say, Kitty,” I said. “Could you find someone to run over to the jail and have Chester come and haul this sorry poke back to the lock up? I’ve got some more business, I expect.”

“Sure, Matt,” said Kitty. “Did you have to hit him so hard?”

“Not much point to hitting him if he doesn’t fall down.”

“I suppose not.”

“And now you don’t have to dance with him.”

Kitty smiled at me. “My hero.”

GUNSMOKE - Welcome To Dodge - Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Texas Trail was along Front Street, down by the Longhorn and the Oasis, kitty-corner to the Allafraganza. I’ve always liked saloons. There’s something very comfortable there. You always know what you’re going to get there - booze, cards, and girls. I suppose as a peace officer I should have liked them less. All three led to the same thing. Trouble. But I wasn’t always a marshal. And my idea of fun is the same as any man’s. So I went to the saloons and watched and enjoyed the atmosphere. I drank sometimes, and every once in awhile I played a hand of cards in a friendly game, but that was as far as it went.

In the few months since I’d come back to Dodge I’d made it my habit to eat with Big Kate, the Texas Trail’s owner, once every couple of weeks. It’s nice to have feminine company, and Kate was enough older than me that there wasn’t much for folks to speculate about. Other nights, though, I sat in the bar and watched the tables and listened to the sounds and tried not to stare at the girl Kitty, who worked downstairs. She was a fine-looking girl, with dark-red hair and a sassy smile. She must’ve been a couple years younger than me, though not more than a couple, but there was a look in her eye that told me she’d seen more of life than I had.

Sam Noonan was at the bar when I came in. “Evenin’, Marshal,” he said. “Heard you had you some trouble.”

“Yeah, Sam,” I said. “I did.” He didn’t ask anything more, and I was grateful. Noonan was a good bartender – just the right amount of gab. I ordered my food and asked for something to be run over to Chester. Sam poured me a beer and I took it to a corner table.

Things were just getting lively, though they’d quieted down some since I came in. There were even a few cowboys at the bar, looking around like they planned to rob the place. Maybe they did, until they saw me. It was the time of year that troubles a lawman most – the cattle were starting to come in from Texas and New Mexico. That meant cowboys, and drinking, and fights, and killings. Rustling, too, probably. Sipping my beer, I thought about the town. They’d be watching to see how I handled things. The six months or so here had been a good sojourn, and now I had to make good. I worked for the government, there was no chance of me losing my job. But if I wanted to be accepted here, I had to handle the next few weeks just right. If I could just keep my temper.

“You look like you just lost your dog, Marshal.”

I looked up. Kitty was standing over me, with a steak on a plate. She half-smiled down at me.

“My dog, Miss Kitty?”

“A man looks sadder over losing his dog, I’ve noticed, than over his wife.”

I laughed and stood. “I suppose he does at that.”

She set the plate down in front of me. “You’re not married, right?”

“No, Miss Kitty.” She knew I wasn’t.

“So I figure it has to be your dog. Or maybe you lost a bet.”

My smile went away slowly. “I had to shoot a man.”

Her smile went away, too. “I know, Marshal.”

We stood there for a moment, looking at each other. There was just something about the girl – though we hadn’t passed more than a dozen words in a row since I’d come to Dodge, I felt like she – she understood me. Or understood something. There was a connection, that’s all I know.

I gestured to an empty seat across from me. “Would you care to sit, Miss Kitty?”

Her smile came back. “Don’t mind if I do, Marshal.”

“Call me Matt.”

“Only if you drop this Miss Kitty stuff. It drives me crazy. Plain Kitty does well enough between friends.”

I laughed. “It’s a deal, Kitty.” I held out her chair for her and she sat. I went back to my seat and started in on my steak.

“This is real good,” I said, just to be saying something.

“Made it myself,” said Kitty.

“I didn’t know you cooked, Kitty,” I said.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Matt,” said Kitty.

“That’s the truth,” I said.

“I heard you got a kid over at the jail,” she said.

“Runaway,” I said.

“Any idea where he came from?”

“No word yet. I’m hoping to hear something before the week’s out. I’d hate to send him to one of those foundling homes.”

“How old is he, Matt?”

“Eleven or twelve. Hard to say for sure, but he acts like a real kid.”

“You like kids, Matt?” asked Kitty.

I put down my fork and wiped my lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

She nodded and smiled. It wasn’t the smile one of the bar-girls gives a mark. It was real, and it was for me. At least, I liked to think it was. The connection between us was strong, but comfortable. Not a lot had to be said about it, but we were both working at it anyway.

“Would you like another beer, Matt?” she asked.

“Sure, Kitty.”

She got up and ducked behind the bar and pulled the beer herself. She brought it back and sat down again opposite me. “Big Kate likes you,” she said. “Your beer is free.”

“But not the whiskey,” I said.

“No,” said Kitty with a smile. “Not unless she’s drinkin’ it with you.”

“Her whiskey’s better’n what they serve down here, anyway,” I said.

“That’s true.”

Across the room a couple of cowboys started getting a little rowdy. I could tell they had money burning a hole in their pockets. I’d have to find someone to look after the kid tonight – maybe Shiloh over at the Dodge House would take him. In another few hours I was gonna need Chester. Come midnight these cowboys’d be looking to tear the town apart.

But I didn’t want to be looking at cowboys. I wanted to look at Kitty. I turned back to her as I sipped my beer.

“Cowboys are in town,” I said.

“From the Drag-R herd, they said,” Kitty told me.

I nodded. I was probably staring, but she didn’t seem to mind. And I wasn’t feeling embarrassed about it for some reason. She wasn’t as pretty as, say, Francie, but there was more life in her than in a hundred town ladies.

Thinking of Francie, I said, “Say, Kitty. Couple days back, Clay Richards was in here, having a drink. Did you talk to him any?”

“Some,” said Kitty. “Seemed like he was celebrating somethin’.”

“Did he say what?”

“No, not that I recall. Why?”

“I’m trying to figure why he robbed that bank – or tried to, anyway. Was he having money-trouble?”

“His tab was paid up here, far as I know,” said Kitty. “Why’n’t you ask his wife?”

“Francie’s a little out of sorts right now. She needs some time to cool down.”

“Sure,” said Kitty. “But I know what you mean. Clay was happy as a lark the other night. The next day he goes and shoots two people. It doesn’t figure.”

“No,” I said, “it doesn’t figure.”

I sat there thinking about Clay, and the cashier, and the Chinaman. And that got me to thinking about Ziegler and Adam. Four hundred dollars. A missing gun. Nothing fit. None of it.

“Wow,” said Kitty.

I blinked at her. “What?”

“I’m glad I didn’t break any law,” she said.

I smiled at her. “What do you mean?”

“I just saw you at work, and it’s not something I’d want to be on the other end of. You’d be a bad man to be up against – so to speak.”

I flushed. “I’m sorry, Miss Kitty…”

“Matt,” she said, laying a hand on mine. “It’s Kitty.”

It was like being in a lightning storm, having her touch my hand. All my senses were alert and my heart was beating faster.

“Sorry, Kitty.”

“No worries, Matt.”

GUNSMOKE - Welcome To Dodge - Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

It was about an hour later, and cooling off just a little. There was a breeze. Dust motes floated in the air.

“Guess the funeral’s over,” said Chester.

“There’ll be others,” I said.

“Funny, though,” said Chester. “Now I miss that bell. Awful quiet, ain’t it? It’s about –“

Chester stopped talking when he heard them. A mob was coming down the street.

“Just about on schedule,” I said. “You ready, Chester?”

“Yessir, Mr. Dillon.”

I stood up and put on the coat Doc had given me at Chistmas. It was too hot for it, but I put it on anyway and made sure to pin my star over the breast pocket.

“I’d use the shotgun if I were you, Chester,” I said. “It’s more effective when there’s a mob to be dealt with.”

“Oh yessir, I aim to.”

I turned towards the back room. “Ziegler! And you too, son. If trouble starts, lie down flat on the floor and keep your head down all the time. Don’t gawk to see what’s happening. Understand me?”

The Dutchman just nodded. The kid said, “Yessir, Mr. Dillon,” in a good parroting of Chester. It made me want to smile, but I didn’t.

“All right,” I said.

Outside I heard Adam Richard’s voice. “Dillon! Dillon! Come on out here, Dillon!”

“Chester,” I said, “I want you to stand here in the doorway after I go out where you can cover the backdoor and me at the same time.”

“Yessir, Mr. Dillon.” He had the shotgun out of the locker and resting against his shoulder.

“All right, Chester,” I said. “Open the door.”

I walked out to jeering and shouting. I couldn’t understand too much of what was being said, but I didn’t have to. Adam was in the front of the crowd, the only one not yelling. He looked sober, and he was heeled. I kept my eyes on him as I said, “It’s my duty to warn all of you that you’re in the breach of the peace. I’ve sworn to uphold the law. I’ve killed in order to do it, and I’m prepared to do so again.”

Someone in the back called out, “Give us the Dutchmen, Dillon!”

I took a risk and took my eyes off Adam and dead-eyed the crowd. They were looking back and forth between me and Chester’s shotgun. “Men! Men! I ask you to be sensible and to leave quietly! But if you refuse to listen to reason, if you insist on being fools and’ve already decided to act like wolves instead of humans, then there’s nothing I can say to make you change your minds.”

They were too far gone. This time when the bum shouted, “The Dutchman!” more voices joined in. “The Dutchman! Give us the Dutchman!”

They didn’t know me. Not anymore. And not as a lawman. I felt that fire rising in my belly – the fire that had gotten me into so much trouble when I was younger, the fire I thought I had left behind in Arizona and Texas and Mexico. But it was a fire that had kept me alive.

“All right!” I said. “You want Peter Ziegler? Well, he’s not more’n twenty feet behind me, so come on and get him, any of you! One at a time or all at once! Come on! Which one of you wants to die first? You? You?” They started backing up – probably because I was walking out towards them. “You, Adam?” I asked. Richards took only one step back before steeling himself. “Well, what do you say, Adam? You led ‘em here! Don’t let this star on my coat stop you! C’mon!” With my left hand I plucked off the star and tossed it into the dirt. “There, I’m not wearing it now. Well, c’mon, draw, Adam, draw!”

He drew. My hand dropped to my hip and I janked on my gun. My left hand was already hovering over the hammer, and I hit it back once. There were three shots between us. A window shattered behind me. The smoke hung in the air between us. The crowd had cleared to either side of us, and they were silent now.

I heard Chester’s voice. “You all right, Mr. Dillon?”

“Yeah,” I said without turning. I was eyeing the crowd. “Get his gun.”

Chester hadn’t budged from the doorway, but now he stepped into the street and pocketed Adam’s gun. “Man alive, I couldn’t even see your hand move.”

Doc Adams came running up the street. “Marshal! Oh, don’t tell me! Don’t tell me!” He sounded positively jubilant.

I holstered my gun and rounded on him. “Doc, you make one single funny remark and I’ll knock you down! You just take him to your office and get to work.”

Doc was flustered. “Well, I – I never do mean to offend, Marshal. In my line of work, well, bodies, they’re just so much lumber.”

I reached down and picked up my star from the dirt. “Make all the jokes about him you please, but not to me and not in my hearing. In my line of work, there’s nothing humorous about death.” I pinned my star back in place and turned to go back into the office. “Give him a hand, Chester,” I said.

“No, no,” said Doc quickly. “I can handle him Marshal, thank you just the same.”

“Fine,” I said. “C’mon, Chester.”

Turning back towards the jail I saw a fair head duck back behind the window. One of the panes of glass was broken.

Back in my office, the kid was practically bouncing out of his skin. “That was something! You sure out-skinned ‘im, Mr. Dillon. He barely cleared leather.”

“Not now, son,” I said. He watched as I opened the chamber of my pistol and replaced the single spent cartridge.

“Bullet went about an inch past my face – I could feel the air as it went by!”

“You should’ve kept your head down,” said Chester. “You almost got yourself killed.”

“Not me!” said the boy. “I ain’t gonna die unless it’s in a real gunfight. Then I can’t die, ‘cause I’ll be faster’n anybody. Faster’n Mr. Dillon, even!” He made to draw an imaginary gun. “Pow!”

“Chester,” I said, “I’m going over to the Texas Trail for supper. Think you can keep our young friend here company?”

“Why, sure, Mr. Dillon.”

“I wanna go with you,” said the kid.

“Saloon’s no place for a youngster,” said Chester.

I took off the coat. It made me look like an undertaker. I didn’t want people to see that I was heeled, but I also wanted them to think of me as a lawman, not a gunslinger. Fella I know used to wear a coat like that. A dentist turned gambler and gunslinger. I didn’t want to be like him.

“In about an hour, you can cut Ziegler loose,” I told Chester. “There won’t be any more trouble until the trial.”

“Yessir, Mr. Dillon.”

I nodded towards the kid. “Don’t let him shoot off your guns or anything.”

“No, sir,” said Chester.

“And Chester?”

“Yessir?”

“I’ll send over a couple of steaks and some beer.”

Chester smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Dillon.”

GUNSMOKE - Welcome To Dodge - Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

The door opened and Chester and I both stood up fast. It was a woman who came through the door. Francie – Clay’s widow. “Matt! Matt, I’ve got to talk to you!”

I gave Chester a look. He shrugged. It was almost an apology. Then he went back to looking out the window towards the saloons. When the girl was past him he nudged the door shut with his toe.

Francie came towards me. She should have been in mourning. If she cared for Clay at all anymore, she should have been in black.

“Matt!”

I first saw Francie twenty years ago, when we were both younger than the kid here. She’s only gotten more beautiful in the time between.

“Matt, I was just at Fred’s funeral –“

“Fred?” I said. “You mean Fred Grinnell’s funeral?”

“Yes! And the people there were all talking about me!”

“Well, Francie – your husband did gun him down.” I was amazed that she’d gone to the funeral. But women are funny sometimes.

“Have you heard what they’re saying?” she asked me.

“What are they saying, Francie?”

“That you and me, that you made Pete Ziegler kill Clay because –“ Her voice trailed off.

I nodded. “I’m sorry that got back to you.”

“It’s all over Dodge!” She waved a hand towards the door. “I left before the service was over and went back home, and Adam stopped me on the way. He almost stoned me before they dragged him off.”

From the back room, Ziegler called out, “Francie, I didn’t shoot Clay! Francie, I beg you, believe me!”

“Shut up, Ziegler,” I said.

Ziegler didn’t listen. “Francie –“

I turned my head as my temper snapped. “Shut up or I’ll club you to death!” I stared at the Dutchman and he quailed, but it wasn’t him I was seeing. I was remembering the last time I lost my temper. Back in Texas. Reel it in, I told myself. Uncock that gun.

But another voice in my head, the dangerous one, asked, What good is an uncocked gun?

With something like a normal tone I turned back to Francie. “It’s just one of those crazy stories. They needed one and they made one up.”

“But, Matt, everyone believes it! On my way down here, people were pointing, whispering. Old women, clucking their tongues at me. They believed it!”

I wanted to pat her shoulder. Chester was still looking out at the street, but I knew he was paying attention. I kept my hands by my side. “They’ll forget it as soon as this is over,” I said. “They’ll remember that, even if we once did go with each other, it was finished and done with even before the war ended – before you even met Clay.”

Francie shook her head, her blonde curls flopping around like a moppet’s. “No, they won’t forget it! For the rest of my life, as long as I stay here –“

“Look, Francie – go home and give matters a chance to simmer down.”

That was when she settled down and looked me in the eye. “Matt… I’m going to ask you something.”

“Yeah.” I thought I knew what was coming.

“Turn Pete Ziegler out,” she said instead. “Into the street.”

“What?” I must’ve looked as dumbfounded as I sounded. That wasn’t at all what I’d expected. “Francie, they’re itching to get their hands on him.”

“Let them have him,” she said. “It’ll prove that story’s a lie, that you didn’t make a deal with him. Please, Matt! I have to live here! I have to live here! Matt? Matt? Don’t look at me like that.”

I walked past her, and looked at the peeling paint on the doorframe instead. “Go home, Francie.”

“Matt…” She touched my arm with her little fingers.

“Go home, or leave town, or hang yourself, or anything you like, just go away.”

“But Matt…”

I looked her in the eye. “Right now.”

The hand went away. She backed up like she’d never seen me before, like I’d never held that hand under a cottonwood tree up by the Arkansas. She left with that look still on her face.

Coming back to Dodge wasn’t working out so well.

Chester blinked a few times, cleared his throat, then said, “I bought me a bottle at the Allafraganza, Mr. Dillon. Would you care for a drink?”

“No.”

And we sat listening to the funeral bell ring.

GUNSMOKE - Welcome To Dodge - Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

I had a problem. I had to do some investigating. Figuring why the Dutchman had shot Clay wasn’t that hard – the reward – but figuring why Clay had tried to rob the bank in the first place was still eating away at me. Clay was dead, and most would say that ended things. But there were two other men lying over at Doc’s place, and I wanted to know why.

But I was tied to my office, at least until Chester got back. Not only was I responsible for the kid, I also had to make sure that I was present when Adam Richards came back, and make sure Ziegler didn’t get lynched.

“Son?” I said.

He was sitting next to me, watching me reloading my pistol. His head snapped up. “You say somethin’, Mr. Dillon?”

“Yeah, open that drawer in front of you there. You’ll find a small bottle of oil in there – no, no, the one to the right. Yeah, that’s right. Now, bring the little brush too.”

He handed them over. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks, bub.”

He only had eyes for the gun. “It’s a right nice gun you got there,” he said.

“Yeah,” I chuckled, “it’s not bad. But it’s a little stiff, just a little stiff.”

“Don’t it have a trigger? I never seen a gun without a trigger.”

“You remove the trigger, or tie it back against the guard, and all you have to do is thumb the hammer.” I dropped out the cartridges and showed him. “There, like that. It’s faster.” I ran the oiled brush up the barrel and through each of the chambers, then reloaded. There’s a good ritual to reloading a gun. Someone once told me never to check a gun once you’ve loaded it. If you loaded it once, it stays loaded, he said. But I like to see them there, all in that small circle. “Yeah, that’s better now.”

“Remove the trigger,” murmured the kid. “I’ll remember that.”

“What in the world for?” I asked.

“I remember everything you told me – ‘bout the Texas holster and the spring holster and the double-roll and filin’ off the sight –“

He was cut off by the door opening. I stood up and put myself between the boy and the door.

Chester came in. “It’s just me, Mr. Dillon.”

I sat back down. “Close that door behind you, Chester. Any luck?”

Chester already had the door shut, and he crossed to the window beside it. “No, sir, not any. I went to the store first and asked Mr. Denton what kind of ammunition Mr. Richards used to buy, and he told me Clay had a double-action 44. I scoured the riverbank a half-mile each way from the ford and not a sign of it.”

I nodded. I’d half-hoped it would turn up with three shots fired – two for the dead men and one aimed at Ziegler. But wishes aren’t horses.

“I got those telegrams off,” Chester said.

“Good,” I said.

We sat there, me by my desk, Chester by the window, the boy sitting close to me, and Ziegler sulking in the cell. I was wondering if I could leave Ziegler and the boy with Chester while I went out and asked a few questions. I suppose I could’ve taken the boy with me – there was something about him that I liked. There are a lot of folks who think kids ought to be seen and not heard, but I’m not one of them. I like kids who ask questions. Not that I always have the answers.

So I could take the kid with me and go off hunting for answers. But I got to wondering if, when Adam came at the jail, could Chester hold the place all by himself? Would he? He didn’t seem like the type to run. But there was something about him. It wasn’t steel. It was fluid, like water. Chester was an unknown quality. He could shoot, but shooting a tincan off a fence doesn’t mean he had the – whatever it was, to kill a man. No. I’d have to wait. Wait and see.

After awhile I heard a bell ringing. “Is there a fire in town?” I asked.

Chester peered out the window at an angle. “Funeral services for Mr. Grinnell.”

The dead cashier. “So soon?”

Chester shrugged. “It’s awful hot weather.” He went back to looking down the street towards the saloons.

“Yeah,” I said. “Any of your guns need oiling, Chester?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure? Adam Richards said he’d be coming back – with some friends.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Chester. “I stopped at the Allafreganza just now to – rinse out m’mouth. Adam was there, talkin’ mighty ugly and mighty big. He’s got a sizable followin’.”

“Mm. When do you think?”

“Any minute now, Mr. Dillon. Do you want me to take the boy outta here. To one of the hotels, maybe?”

“I wanna see it!” the kid protested.

“No,” I said. “I think he’ll be safer here, behind stone walls, than ducking about the streets rubber-necking.”

Chester nodded. “You keep your head down now, sonny, y’hear?”

“Yessir, Mr. Proudfoot.”

Paperback of VOICE OF THE FALCONER

On April 9th, Sordelet Ink is proudly releasing a paperback version of VOICE OF THE FALCONER, the long-awaited sequel to THE MASTER OF VERONA.

Here's a sneak-peak at the paperback cover:

From the back cover: 

Italy, 1325. Eight years after the tumultuous events of THE MASTER OF VERONA, Pietro Alaghieri is living as an exile in Ravenna, enduring the loss of his famous father while secretly raising Cesco, the bastard heir to Verona's prince, Cangrande della Scala. 

But when word of Cangrande's death reaches him, Pietro must race to Verona to prevent Cesco's rivals from usurping his rightful place. Willful and brilliant, Cesco is determined not to be anyone's pawn, defying even the stars. And far behind the scenes is a mastermind pulling the strings, one who stands to lose - or gain - the most.

Born from Shakespeare's Italian plays, this novel explores the danger, deceit, and deviltry of early Renaissance Italy, and the terrible choices one must make just to stay alive.

"David Blixt is one of the masters of historical fiction. Dramatic, vivid, superbly researched, VOICE OF THE FALCONER captures Renaissance Italy in all its heady glamour and lethal intrigue. This is a novel to savor - and then read again!" - C.W. Gortner, author of THE QUEEN'S VOW and THE TUDOR CONSPIRACY

GUNSMOKE - Welcome To Dodge - Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

I had the kid pretty well settled in on the couch of the office. Chester had locked his little bundle of belongings in my desk drawer, but the kid didn’t seem in a real hurry to get anyplace. He sat watching me as I went through the circulars and did the paperwork three killings brought in.

It was almost noon, and we were making conversation about the kid’s favorite subject – guns - when Adam Richards burst in. I wondered what had taken him so long. Probably the saloons had opened late on account of the heat.

“Where’s Ziegler?” he demanded.

I looked over at the kid, who was startled, but excited. “It’s all right, bub,” I told him.

“Where’s that murderin’ dog?” asked Adam, moving towards the back room. He spotted the Dutchman through the open door. “Oh, there you are, you –“

Suddenly Adam found me in his way. “Not a single step further, Adam,” I said.

Adam Richards looked me up and down. I was bigger, though not by more than a few inches, but I was wider than him, too. He couldn’t see around me, so he looked me in the eye with a half-drunk dead-eye stare. “I want him, Dillon. He murdered Clay, shot him down without givin’ him a chance.”

“How do you know?”

“‘Cause Clay wouldn’t let anyone catch him off-guard unless it was a friend. A friend!” Adam spat at the back room, then looked at me. I could smell the liquor in him. “Now, Dillon, give me that Dutchman.”

“Try to take him.” There was a good yard between us. It was enough.

“It’s like that?”

“It’s like that,” I said.

“Then it’s true what the fellas say! You made a deal with the Dutchman to give him the reward and to protect him if he killed Clay for ya!”

“That was the deal, was it?”

“Yeah!”

I nodded. “The fellas say why I’d make such a deal?”

“Dillon, it ain’t no longer a secret around town that you and Francie want each other. But Clay was in the way! You had him killed so you could get his wife. Do you deny it?!”

I stood still for a moment. Maybe it had been a mistake to come back to Dodge. Maybe there was too much history here – or too much for a man to start over again. Especially a man with a badge.

“No, no,” I said. “It’ll serve as well as any other crazy story to work you up.”

“We all know about that run-in you had with Clay.”

“He was hitting his wife.”

“That’s a man’s own business, Marshal,” said Adam.

“Not in Dodge,” I said. “Not anymore.”

Adam had that sneering look all drunks get when they’re needling you. “You think you’re safe behind that star, dontcha? Well, Clay had friends – lots of ‘em! I’m comin’ back with them friends and we’ll get the Dutchman and you and anyone else who tries to stop us!”

“All right, Adam. I’ll be waiting.”

“Yeah, you wait!” He stomped out of my office and slammed the door. I was grateful. I didn’t feel like closing it myself. It was too hot. I sat back down behind my desk.

The kid whistled. “I almost seen somethin’ pretty there, didn’t I, Mr. Dillon?”

“Yeah, almost,” I said. “One more pint of whiskey oughtta do it.”

GUNSMOKE - Welcome To Dodge - Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

“All right, Chester, kick the door shut,” I said. Chester did, and the crowd got noisier on the other side. I knew it wasn’t the end of things.

Ziegler was standing in the middle of the room, his chins working up and down as he said, “Marshal, I don’t kill Clay.”

I ignored him. “On this table, Chester.” We laid him down gently. He’d killed two men, but he’d also bought me more than one drink. I turned to Ziegler. “What’d you do with Clay’s gun? His holster’s empty.”

“Gun?” asked Ziegler. “Clay’s? I ain’t got it. I don’t even own one…”

“Chester, see if it slipped out when we were -”

Chester was already shaking his head. “His holster was empty coming up the street. First thing I noticed,” he added, then glanced at me to see if I’d be angry. I wasn’t – at least, I wasn’t at him. But my face might not have looked it, because he was in a rush to say, “Maybe it’s over on the…”

Chester was interrupted by the arrival of Doc Adams, who came in through the back door. He didn’t seem to mind the heat at all, in his long black coat and floppy tie. His white and brown mustache positively bristled with excitement. “Another customer! Three in less than a day! Oh, bountiful harvest! My fees this month will keep me in luxury! In luxury!”

“Doc,” I said, “I want to have an inquest as soon as possible.”

Doc Adams slapped his hands together and rubbed them. “As soon as I finish the autopsy.” He had a funny way of saying that last word – or perhaps it was because he was licking his lips. “Shouldn’t take long with the practice I’ve had this week, eh? No! Heh. But first I’ve got to finish up on the Chinaman before he starts to go bad. Late afternoon tomorrow all right with you? I’ll take him up to my office right now. No, thank you, Chester, I can carry him all by myself here. You just open the door there like a good fellow. Marshal, tell the city fathers I‘d like to make a deal, when the corpses are as famous as this one. Heh. Back in ’53, in San Francisco, fella I knew earned a fortune, exhibiting the head of Joaquin Marietta! Tell them if they let me keep the remains, I’ll do the autopsies for nothin’!”

“Shut the door, Chester,” I said. My deputy obeyed and Doc was cut off mid-sentence. “Ziegler,” I said, “where is it you met Clay on the river?”

“By the ford,” said Ziegler. “This side, by the ford.”

“Ride out there, Chester, see if you can find Clay’s gun. Maybe he dropped it when he was shot.”
“I did not shoot him,” said Ziegler.

“Sure,” I said.

“I did not,” insisted Ziegler. “I had no reason to. I did not! I did not!”

Maybe it’d been looking at Clay lying there on my desk, maybe it was the still heat, or maybe it was standing there with my shirt-flaps covering my holster, but I could feel my temper fraying. “You listen to me! Maybe you think Dodge’s got so big since I’ve been gone that I don’t know about everything that goes on here. Well, if you do you’re wrong! If you think I don’t know about the bank having an overdue mortgage on your farm, you’re wrong! Four hundred dollars is reason enough to a struggling sod-buster like you.”

Ziegler recoiled like I’d struck him. His back was against the far wall. “No! Who could do such a thing? I am a human being!”

“To a peace officer, Ziegler, that’s enough grounds for suspicion.” Chester was still in the room, looking at me. I acted like I didn’t notice, but I did lower my voice. “Now whether you did it or not’ll be decided at your trial. In the meantime, you just stop yammering about it.”

“Trial? Me?”

“Even when I shoot somebody I have to stand trial. If they find that it’s justifiable homicide – and they probably will, Clay being a wanted man – then they’ll let you off. If not…” I let my voice trail off.

Ziegler was looking a little crazed. “Please, I am permitted to go now?”

That forced a laugh out of me – my first of the day. “Go? Are you crazy?”

“My farm, the stock, I must look after it –“

I walked over to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and steered him to a chair. “You sit right down. Do you want to be lynched? Are you trying to get yourself murdered? Have you forgotten about Adam?” The dead man’s brother, he’d come to Dodge about the same time as Clay.

The Dutchman shook his head again. “He will not believe I shot –“

“What difference does it make if he believes or not? His brother’s been killed! Everybody’s looking to him to do something about it, and he knows it! You want me to guess where he is right this minute? He’s in one of those saloons, lapping up courage to come in here and ask me to give you to him for a present. You want to know whose with him? Every loafer, every bum, every slob in town, slapping him on the back and telling him what a shame it is. Egging him on to kill you so they can have some excitement and some fun. Maybe you deserve killing, but it’s my job to uphold the law, and I’m not letting you out of here.”

“But, I – I –“

I walked over to my desk, tucking my loose shirt into my belt. “You might spend your time thinking up a better story. That is, if you intend to stay in this town.” I dragged a chair around and sat. Leaning towards the Dutchman, I said, “All right, now think back. Didn’t Clay go for his gun before you shot him?”

Ziegler just kept chaking his head. “I tell you I didn’t –“ He stood. “If I’m not under arrest, you have no right to keep me here. I have to look after my farm. I go.”

I stared at him for a moment, then said, “All right. Chester, lock him up.”

“Yessir, Mr. Dillon.” Chester walked forward with his light-footed glide and took the Dutchman by the arm. “C’mon now, Ziegler.” He led the way to the back room where the cell was and I heard the keys come out as he opened the door. It was funny – we usually kept it unlocked. Then I heard him say, “Step out, sonny. This cage is bespoke.”

“Who’s in there, Chester?” I called.

“That li’l ol’ runaway,” said Chester.

“Oh,” I said, getting my first real chuckle in about a day. I liked kids in general, and after chasing after a murderer all night, this was a welcome diversion. “Come over here, son.”

The kid was thin but tall for his age, almost five feet. He hand fair hair and blue eyes so bright that they looked like cornflowers. He almost ran into the room, but about halfway to the door he stopped and began walking in a pretty good imitation of Chester. He reached where I was sitting, and with me hunched over in my seat we were about eye to eye.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me your name,” I said.

“No. But I know who you are,” he said.

“You do, do you?”

“You bet,” he said. “You’re Matt Dillon.”

I nodded. “Guilty.”

The kid nodded as if I hadn’t spoken. “I know’s ya right off. You was pointed out to me one day back home. Feller says you was the fastest gun-thrower in Kansas.”

“Wyatt Earp wouldn’t be awful interested to hear that, I’m afraid.” Earp was in Ellsworth at the time, and had made something of a name for himself by buffaloing Ben Thompson. I’d run into him over there, chasing down some rustlers – but that was before I’d come to Dodge.

“Feller says you were faster than ol’ Earp. Faster than Wild Bill Hickock in Hayes City, or Bat Masterson, or any of ‘em. How many fellers’ve you killed?”

That wiped the smile right off my face. “You don’t keep score, son. It’s something you try to forget.”

“Not me,” he said, standing tall. “Someday I’ll be famous like you, an’ for every feller I kill, I’ll – I’ll put a notch on my gun.” The kid’s eyes glazed over, as if he was already seeing the notches. “People’ll see those notches and know they better not try anything –“

“Why’d you run away from home, bub?” I asked. “Don’t you know your mother’s likely to worry about you?”

“Aw, she won’t worry, she’s too busy workin’.” His eyes got real narrow. “Y’ain’t gonna make me go back, are ya? Ya wouldn’t do that that, wouldya?”

“Well…”

“‘Cause it wouldn’t stop me for long, I’d only run away again!”

“Where’re you off to in such a sweat?”

“Texas, California, Mexico. A fella can do things there – not like where I’m from. If you let me go, someday when I’m famous you can tell people you helped get me started.”

“Well, ah, that’s a pretty strong inducement. I’ll have to think about it for awhile. Now, while I’m making up my mind, I want you to give me your word – the word of a man who’ll be famous someday – you won’t try to run away from me. Otherwise I’ll have to have Chester lock you up again.”

The kid held out his hand. “I’ll shake on that.”

We shook hands. “Good, good. Chester,” I said, a little louder. “I want you to go look for Clay’s gun.”

Chester came back into the room. “Yessir, Mr. Dillon.”

“And on the way, stop off and send those telegrams.”

Chester gave me a blank look.

“Y’know?” I said with emphasis.

“Oh! Those telegrams. Yessir, Mr. Dillon.”