Chapter Eighteen
While Doc' Crown lingered behind in the alcove, Doc' Ellis had himself a little look around. As in every other Federal Office that Jarrod had ever visited, there was an American flag and a Presidential portrait on prominent and permanent display. (As per standard government regulations.) That the Marshal was not a real stickler for standard government regulations was apparent in that 'Old Glory' was kept all but hidden behind his office door. And the President being prominently portrayed and permanently displayed in the large, wooden-framed picture on the wall above his bookcase? Why, it was none other than old 'Honest Abe', himself! 'Highly unorthodox behavior, indeed!' the unorthodox young doctor mused with a smile, 'Bordering on bureaucratic mutiny! Why, the bigwigs back in Washington would be positively aghast!'
No siree! The non-conformist Marshal's non-standard execution of strict government standards would not be tolerated for one moment in any of the Federal Offices back East! But--way out here?...in the West?...in this incredibly desolate little corner of the even more incredibly isolated Indian Territory? Well, it wasn't likely that anyone from the Inspector General's Office would ever bother coming way out here just to bother him with regulations. So the lawman could remain relatively unregulated.
The very thought of all that marvelous desolation--and all the marvelous prospects all that isolation held out for him--caused Jarrod's smile to broaden. The doctor was hoping that no one would be bothering him way out here, either. In fact, it was that hope that had brought him way out here. Surely here, he would find the freedom to practice his new--and non-conformist brand of medicine--in peace!
The daydreaming doctor stiffened and his thoughts rapidly returned to reality as the Senator let out a low moan and then shifted suddenly in his seat. Jarrod swallowed nervously and shot the heavily armed--and now precariously leaning--legislator an extremely anxious stare. But then the still soundly sleeping statesman stopped his stirring and started snoring. And the smile returned to the young physician's handsome--and now very relieved looking--face. And--since Doc' Crown was still rummaging around in the alcove--Doc' Ellis continued his careful inspection of the 'legend's' lair.
There were some original--and truly spectacular--oil paintings by some artist named 'Remington' scattered around the room...along with dozens of framed photographs--all dated and signed by one 'Francis L. Wilde'.
The paintings depicted both the beauty and hardship of life way out here. There were stampeding cattle--and very authentic-looking cowboys astride wide-eyed horses with bared teeth and flared nostrils--whose movements had been captured so realistically by the artist, that Jarrod half expected them to go galloping--clear off the canvas!
In stark contrast, there was the intense solitude and serenity of a lonely brave and his Indian pony--perched high atop a ridge--overlooking a herd of peacefully-grazing bison.
And, finally, the physician's favorite: two wolves traversing a harsh, frozen landscape beneath a bleak, winter sky with a boundless horizon. Jarrod could actually taste the freshness of that frigid air and feel the freeness of that wild pair as they roamed the wide-open rangelands. The doctor drew a deep, relaxed breath in and then returned once again to reality.
Or was it? Oddly enough, Francis' photographs were not of gunfights, or of notorious outlaws being taken into custody--or of anything of a 'legendary' nature. They were of fishing trips and friends and 'family outings'--and various other purely peaceable social gatherings. Jarrod found it odd that the young reporter's camera hadn't managed to capture the same 'legend' that his pen had. Or had it? Yes! Of course! It must have! Doc' Crown must simply prefer not to have the fact that he is a 'legend' prominently displayed up on his office walls, is all!
Speaking of prominent displays...
A positively hu-uge and apparently up-to-date map of the United States--and its Territories--took up the entire wall behind the Marshal's desk. And, looming over that humungous map, was an equally huge set of Longhorn horns. It defied the young doctor's imagination to come up with a 'little dogie' large enough to have ever sported such sizeable spears between its ears.
And cows weren't the only critters that seemed to grow bigger way out here in the West. There was an enormous rack of deer antlers bolted to the bottom of a diamond-shaped mirror above the washbasin. And he'd noticed two other equally impressive racks earlier�one on a wall in the alcove and another just outside the alcove on a wall just opposite the jail.
The physician found the rest of the room's furnishings to be more functional than fancy. A rich, walnut gun rack was mounted high up on the wall, just to the left of the office's front door. In the corner, just to the right of the street entrance, was a tall, oak table which held: one white-enameled pitcher, one white-enameled wash basin, one comb, one brush, two folded hand towels, and all of the Marshal's shaving accessories.
Between that table and a long row of bookshelves, was a large, frosted--but curtain free--window. And--just below that window--was a black, leather-covered, cushioned oak bench--which was bathed in bright, morning sunlight and seemed to beckon visitors to be seated in warmth and comfort.
All five of the shelves in the solid-oak bookcase beside the bench were filled to absolute capacity with a wide variety of reading material--ranging all the way from law books to popular works of fiction. Jarrod recognized a few of their authors and was intrigued by a few of their titles. Perhaps the Marshal could be persuaded to loan him a few of his books? The young doctor's nose had been buried for so long in books of a purely medical nature that he'd all but forgotten the pleasure he used to get out of reading a really good tale of mystery or adventure.
Between the bookcase and the entrance to the alcove was a small, white-enameled, pot-bellied stove. 'Just the thing for keeping the Marshal's coffee warm,' Jarrod reasoned. 'O-Or for removing the chill from the room on cloudy mornings.'
Bright, reddish-orange curtains hung on either side of the alcove's entrance. They matched the other curtains in the office--perfectly! And--when drawn--they provided a sort of barrier between the alcove and the rest of the room.
On the opposite side of the entrance--across from the little stove--stood a tall, wooden hat rack, onto which, someone had tossed the Senator's and the Marshal's Stetsons.
Judging by the drag marks across the office's uncarpeted, wooden floor, the Senator's deeply-cushioned, black, leather-covered armchair/bed belonged in the bare space between the hat rack and the fully opened doorway to the Inn.
The heavy, wooden portal was divided into two separate halves--which hung and swung on two separate hinges...which meant that the door's top half could remain open, while its bottom half remained closed. A rather handy feature--which provided the Marshal with a degree of privacy and, at the same time, allowed him to keep an eye on things happening in the Inn--more specifically--the Inn's BAR room.
As already noted, there was a standard, bearing an American flag, positioned directly behind that open door. Resting beside it, on the floor in front of the wall map, was the largest and so most conspicuous piece of furniture in the entire office--the Marshal's dark, deeply-polished, mahogany desk.
And, resting on the top of that desk, were the following items: one still-lit reading lamp; two wire-mesh trays piled high with paperwork; one small, round, reddish-orange, metal canister which--judging by the tell-tale tobacco odors in the room--must contain cigars; one pen; one inkwell; one open, and half-empty box of .45 caliber cartridges; one completely out of place looking small, white bird (A plaster pigeon by the looks of it) which Jarrod judged--by its size and composition--to be a paperweight...of some odd sort; and another out of place looking object--a towel-covered bowl...containing who knew what!
Behind the desk, a tall-backed, leather-covered, padded armchair was positioned so that, when the Marshal sat in it, his back would be to the wall. And, judging by the spring mechanisms beneath its seat and the wheeled coasters beneath its base--the thing swiveled, rocked and rolled.
On the floor beside the desk, was a tall, wooden wastebasket. In the corner, behind the wastebasket, were more filing cabinets. (Two of the little alcove's corners were also filled with filing cabinets.)
Six panes of glass--each frosted and ornately decorated around the edges with lots of frilly scrollwork--filled most of the wall space between the filing cabinets and the gun rack. 'Federal Marshal's Office' had been painted across the bottom of the top two panes--and was barely visible behind the partially rolled-down, bright-orange blind.
The physician finally concluded his inspection. And then quickly concluded the following, as well: first--concerning the 'legend' himself--the lawman must have a mutinous streak in him somewhere. And, while it appeared that he preferred practical over pretty, it also appeared that he had an eye for art. A pretty good eye for some pretty great art! He also seemed to be very well read and equally well organized. Jim Crown must also have plenty of confidence--in both himself and his abilities. Because he didn't need to rely on pictures of his past accomplishments for proof of his own worth; and second--concerning the 'legend's' lair--Jarrod had found the whole room to be just like that sunny bench in front of the window--a warm and inviting place. Yes, sir! The Marshal's entire office had a real comfortable feel to it.
And, speaking of the Marshal...
Doc' Crown finally came out of the little alcove.
Doc' Ellis directed his full attention at the 'legend' and then waited--with growing impatience--for him to speak. (It had taken Jarrod a little under thirty seconds to complete his little look. So that now left only a little over thirty seconds for their little talk.)
But the Marshal remained silent.
And--as the lawman stepped wordlessly past him--the doctor could clearly see what he had been up to in the alcove.
The 'legend' had apparently been rounding out his wardrobe and rifling through his files, for he was carrying a black tie and vest in his left hand, and some folders full of important-looking papers in his right. The folders were tossed onto his desk. The clothing was draped over the back of his chair. And the door between the Inn and his office was closed.
Then Doc' Ellis watched with growing annoyance and even greater impatience as Doc' Crown silently backtracked over to the center of his office and then stooped stiffly down to defuse the 'Texas time bomb' that was still sitting there--asleep in his chair...and loaded for bear! Jarrod continued watching as the Marshal reached out--very slowly--with both hands and--very carefully--got a very firm grip on the loaded gun that was lying across the snoring louder than ever man's lap. Then, even more carefully, he began pulling--slowly and steadily. The next thing Jarrod knew, the lawman was straightening carefully back up with the gun in his hands. The 'legend' had managed--somehow--to gently ease the weapon away from the Senator...without awakening him!
"Can't you even stand still for thirty seconds?!" the young doctor wondered annoyedly as the Marshal started heading off again---in the direction of his gun rack, this time.
"If yah don't stop movin', yah don' have ta git started again!" Crown replied rather matter-of-factly. But then, just as he started to return the still-loaded shotgun to its rightful place in his half-empty rack, the Marshal did indeed STOP moving--and breathing.
Jarrod stiffened as his patient suddenly gasped in pain and then froze--right in mid-reach. "Before you do any more damage to that shoulder," the doctor warned, his words filled with bitter sarcasm, "let's get that right arm of yours in a sling! Where it belongs!" he added--very deliberately.
But his patient recovered quickly and proceeded to replace the weapon left-handedly, "There's nothin' wrong with my arm," Crown calmly corrected and started to cross back over to his desk, "or with any a' the rest a' me, either--for that matter."
"That's your medication talking, Doc'!" the physician stated, stepping in front of his patient and blocking his path, "I'm sure you'll change your tune once the morphine wears off."
Crown ground to a halt and glared annoyedly at the sudden obstruction, "An' maybe you'll change yours," he reasoned, remaining incredibly calm. "when I tell you that it already HAS."
Jarrod just stared silently back at his patient, first in utter disbelief--then in complete confusion.
"Yes, sir! I feel jes' fine!" Doc' Crown continued. "In fact, as far as you--or anyone else--are concerned, I've never felt better! You're lookin' at the very picture of health here, Doctor. An' anyone makin' any comments to the contrary is gonna be bound an' gagged an' tossed into one of those empty cells back there--for thirty days!" he added equally deliberately, "Is that understood?!"
There was a long silence as Jarrod thought the 'legend's' no uncertain terms over very carefully. "Whatever you say, Do-oc'!" he finally replied, the bitter sarcasm returning to his voice. "But why all the play-acting? What do you hope to prove? Besides that you have an incredibly high threshold for pain, that is!" he added a bit angrily.
Do-oc' just stood there for a few moments, silently debating whether or not he should answer the good doctor's good questions. There wasn't really the time...but then, as his doctor, maybe the kid deserved some answers? "You ever played any cards?"
"So-ome..." the kid conceded, looking even more curious and confused, "Why?"
"You familiar with the game of poker?"
"I guess you could say I've played my share," Jarrod patiently replied, "Yes."
"Then you know the importance of bluffin'!" the 'legend' stated and started side-stepping his questioner.
But the kid still wasn't satisfied. "Yeah, well," he continued, latching onto the lawman's left arm and pulling him to a stop again, "according to your Mr. MacGregor, the deck is stacked against you! The way the odds are no-ow, you can't possibly win!"
The Marshal flinched as the kid's fingers dug into his sore left arm. His muscles were reminding him that a very long, sharp needle had just recently been jabbed into them. "Be that as it ma-ay..." the lawman stated rather coolly, his jaw muscles tightening and his eyes narrowing into angry slits. He glared down at the hand that was gripping his arm and was rewarded as his glare caused that hand to release its grip. "...A man has ta play the hand he's dealt!" Crown added, calmly completing his comment.
But the kid remained unconvinced. "But why-y?!" he demanded, displaying some anger of his own, "Why don't you just declare a misdeal...and fold?!"
"I can't afford ta fold!" the 'legend' informed him, his voice rising in volume again. "The...stakes are...too high!" he finished rather softly and solemnly.
Jarrod exhaled a long sigh of frustration, "So-o...you're just going to ante up and pray you can bluff well enough to pull out a win here, is that it?"
"Win, lose or dra-aw," the 'legend' reminded him, "a man has to play the hand he's dealt!"
Jarrod thought the Marshal's somber reminder over for a few seconds and then slowly arched one eyebrow. "Maybe so!" he said, reaching for his right coat pocket. "But, then again, a man could have an ace or two up his sleeve!" he added, pulling out the black, leather case containing his hypodermic syringe--and the needle.
Doc' Crown arched both of his brows. Then his dark eyes narrowed--once again--into very angry slits, "I got enuff problems right now--without havin' some cocky, 'kid' doctor from back East sneakin' around here--pokin' me with his powerful, pain killin' sleepin' potions! There's a mad dog lose out there! An', right now, I'm the only one standin' between him--an' the people a' this town! An' that's why it's real important for me ta STAY standin'! So-o, I'll make you a little deal here," Doc' drew his pistol out and pointed it up at the ceiling in front of the young physician's face, "You don't shoot me with that thing..." he motioned to the hypo' in the 'kid's' hands, "...an' I won't shoot you with this thing!" he added, motioning to the gun in his own hand. "Dea-eal?" the lawman inquired hopefully, giving the 'kid' a look as cold as the glistening steel of his gun's incredibly long barrel.
Jarrod contemplated that barrel and the 'legend's' little proposal over for a few discomforting seconds. "Dea-eal," he begrudgingly replied. But then the cocky, 'kid' doctor from back East quickly cocked one eyebrow again. "Oh, Do-oc'? I, uh...think you should know. Last night--before I went to bed--I, uh...took all the bullets out of your gun," he finished, looking and sounding rather pleased with himself.
"I kno-ow!" Doc' replied, without so much as batting an eye, "An' I think you should know that I put 'em all back--first thing this mornin'...'Ki-id'!"
"I'm not a ki-id!" the young doctor declared, suddenly looking and sounding tremendously displeased.
The man who was not a doctor suppressed a smile and then replaced his .45 so he could have his right hand free to seal a third--and final--deal, "I tell yah what. You don't call me Do-oc'...an' I won' call you-ou 'Kid'..."
Jarrod smiled and reached for the hand being offered him, "Dea-eal! Marshal!" Not surprisingly, it turned out to be the firmest, most confident handshake he had ever experienced.
"Fine!" the Marshal exclaimed, matching his doctor's smile--and sudden enthusiasm. "Welcome ta Cimarron, Jarrod Michael Ellis!" he declared, sounding very sincere--and even somewhat relieved. Then he released his vise-like grip and strolled over to his desk. "These are the keys to your place!" he announced, sliding the top drawer open and pulling out a key ring full of keys. "I'll have Dulcey take you over there. I'm sure she'll be glad ta help you get settled in!" he added, tossing the doctor the keys with his left hand.
"Fine!" the young man exclaimed, looking and sounding positively delighted by the very idea.
The Marshal suppressed another smile, "Good! Then do me a favor on your way out, Doctor--an' tell Francis it's time for his full report."
"Bu-ut...aren't you even going to check to make sure that I have all the proper credentials, etc., etc.?" Jarrod inquired, looking a bit confused and sounding more than a little disappointed.
The Marshal looked a bit confused himself and then somewhat amused, "I don' think that's really necessary, do you? I mean, I wouldn't be standin' here right now, if you weren't a doctor--an' a darn good one--at that! Bu-ut...if it'll make you feel any better. Come back here in about a half hour with yore diploma or degree--or whatever it is that constitutes the 'proper credentials' etc., etc.. An' I promise I'll have a look."
"But--" the doctor began again.
"The order a' business around here is: full reports first; job interviews later. Ask Francis ta bring along some hot water, will yah."
Jarrod sighed in surrender, then reluctantly nodded and turned to go.
Crown glanced down at the alabaster dove and then up at the back of his young doctor, "Oh, an', Do-oc'?"
Jarrod stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Thanks!" the lawman told him. "I appreciate everything you never did for me las' night!" he added with a slight smile.
The young doctor returned his smile and gave the 'legend' a wink--and another nod--before finally leaving the little room.
Crown extinguished his desk lamp and then picked up his new paperweight to closely examine it for any signs of an inscription. Dulcey's dove was definitely a pigeon, all right. Doves' tail feathers are long and tapered. This impostor's tail feathers were fan-shaped and short. And the bird had a stick stuck in its beak in such a fashion that it looked like it was smoking a cigarette. (An alabaster olive branch, no doubt.) And, while its alabaster feet were both solidly embedded in an alabaster base, its wings were spread--frozen in flight. Then, since there were plenty of hand-carved feathers--but still no words visible--the Marshal turned the thing upside down. The lawman stared thoughtfully down at the bottom of the base--and his slight smile slowly broadened. Granted, what he had there in his hands would probably never be considered a priceless work of art. Still, he would never part with it! No! Not for all the money in the world!
Crown set his gift back down on the desk and then snatched up a handful of cartridges--with which he began to load his empty gun. Yes, the legendary lawman--who couldn't lie worth a darn--was very adept at bluffing! It wasn't until his pistol had cleared its holster--and he discerned a noticeable difference in the weapon's weight--that he realized his bullets were missing. (After a while, you sort a' develop a 'fee-eel' for such things.)
####################
Jarrod stopped in the open doorway to Dulcey's kitchen and stared disbelievingly at the back of the girl wrapped in Francis' arms. Actually, it would have been more accurate to say that Francis' was wrapped in the girl's arms. Either way, the sight was upsetting--for Jarrod had hopes of finding himself in that particular position some day.
"O-Oh, thank you, Francis!" Dulcey was telling her dear friend.
Francis pulled back and peered sheepishly out from behind the shock of brown hair that perpetually hung over, and often times in, his eyes. "Then...you like 'em?" he inquired hopefully. "I didn't have time ta wrap 'em up all fancy for you..." he apologized.
"The scarves are lovely!" Dulcey declared, whipping the three layers of colorful silk from around her neck and waving them in her thoughtful friend's rather bashful face. "And the perfume is positively divine!" she continued, giving her bare right wrist a slight whiff--and the gift giver a grateful smile. "Even without fancy wrappings. You know, you really do have impeccable taste...for a ma-an," she added teasingly and finally succeeded in coaxing a grin in return.
Jarrod heaved a silent sigh of relief and finally stepped into the kitchen. As the doctor entered the room, his nose could detect the delicate fragrance of lavender mixed in with the already sweet smell of wood smoke.
At the sound of someone approaching, the two dearest of friends stiffened and turned in his direction.
"Well...you seemed to have survived your little 'ta-alk', all right. So, now, how about some breakfast?" Dulcey invited.
Jarrod reluctantly tore his gaze away from the grinning girl, "His Majesty will see you now," he informed the grinning young reporter. "Oh...and you're supposed to bring some hot water in with you when you go," he added--dutifully.
Francis snatched up a towel--with which he latched onto the handle of one of the two steaming kettles on the stove, "I don't know what this is for," he stated glumly, "I figured I was in enuff hot water, already!" he quipped lightly.
And the three young folks glanced at each other and grinned.
But then Francis' grin gradually gave way to a nervous smile...and his smile to a look of mild anxiety. He stared distastefully down at the hot water in his hands for a few seconds and then quickly took his leave.
Jarrod stared silently off into space for a few more seconds before commenting further, "Your living legend in there is---"
"Positively infuriating!" Dulcey interrupted. "Incredibly annoying! Unbelievably aggravating! And absolutely impossible!" she eagerly volunteered.
"Yea-eah! That, too-oo!" the physician conceded, directing his full attention back to the on-target female in time to catch her very lovely--and rather wry--smile. "They're all alike, you know," Jarrod observed rather calmly.
The girl set her gifts down and began preparing another plate of the not your usual assortment of breakfast foods, "Men--in general--you mean?" she inquired innocently.
Jarrod flashed the female an annoyed glare and stepped up to the stove, "I mea-ean 'living legends'! 'Living legends' are all alike!"
"Indee-eed!" Dulcey stated skeptically.
Jarrod shot the skeptic another annoyed glare and then snatched up the cup that was resting on the table behind him, "Indeed indee-eed! And I ought to kno-ow! I just spent the past four years working with one in Paris! Believe me, Louis Pasteur is the spitting image of your Jim Crown! Pompous! Pampered! Overbearing! Egotistical! Domineering! Dictatori--"
"Indeed!" Dulcey repeated, looking and sounding even more skeptical, "Well, your 'Louis Pasteur' doesn't sound anything like our 'Jim Crown'! And--once you get to know Jim a little better--you're going to see just how wrong you are about him! I'm sure you'll find that he's one of a kind, our Marshal Crown! And I wouldn't drink that, if I were you!" Dulcey added, seeing that the opinionated young medical practitioner had poured himself a cup of coffee and was in the process of raising it to his lips.
Jarrod shot the girl a questioning glance and then stared down at the cup in his hand in confusion.
"You see," Dulcey obligingly continued, "Jim made the coffee this morning. And I'm afraid the Marshal's coffee is as much of a 'legend' around these parts as he is. It has the rather dubious distinction of being the strongest coffee in the entire Strip! Which means it doesn't become drinkable until its been diluted by, at least, three to one," the girl finished explaining and held out her hand.
Jarrod passed his cup to her and then watched as Dulcey poured the coffee back into the pot and then proceeded to perform the proper dilution to it. The doctor studied the pretty, young lady for a few more seconds and then stared around him at the amazing transformation that had taken place in her kitchen. "That sedative was supposed to guarantee you'd get some rest!" he muttered dejectedly.
"And I did! It worked wonderfully! I slept soundly--up until about twenty minutes ago...when I awoke--feeling all rested and refreshed and raring to go! Thanks to you!" Dulcey added, giving the sedative dispenser a grateful smile.
Jarrod looked even more confused and then somewhat amused, "Wait...don't tell me," he stated sarcastically, "a bunch of little elves came in and did all this while you slept, right?"
"Actually, it was just one, fairly large, very thoughtful elf. Who does a very good job of getting rid of messes...but a lousy job of making coffee!" she finished lightly and passed the surgeon back his refilled cup of the Marshal's diluted--and so now quite drinkable--brew.
A strange look suddenly came over Jarrod as the girl's words, 'Well, it has to be better for him than chopping wood!' finally took on some meaning. "How on earth--?!" he began, but then stopped and stared thoughtfully down into his diluted coffee. 'It must have been a bad batch...' he reasoned silently--in reference to his 'morphine'. For--instead of being out cold--his patient had been up cleaning kitchens half the night! "I don't get it..." the young doctor muttered dejectedly.
"Enjoy your breakfast! If you'd like anything more, I should be back in just a few minu--"
"Wai-ait!" Jarrod exclaimed and looked up to find Dulcey heading out the back door with her shawl draped about her shoulders and a large wooden bowl in her hands.
"Can't!" the girl called back over her shoulder, "I'm afraid I'm already dreadfully late, as it is!"
The thought of someone, other than himself, sharing in the lovely young lady's company cancelled out any chance he may have had for an enjoyable breakfast. So the doctor set his cup down on the counter and flew out the door after her. "Hope you don't mind my tagging along!" he called out breathlessly as he--at last--caught up with, and then tried to keep up with, the rapidly moving girl. "There's just nothing like a brisk walk before breakfast--especially when it's with a beautiful girl!" he blurted out rather boldly. But then looked more dejected than ever as the briskly walking beautiful girl just kept right on going and never even broke her stride.
Dulcey managed a thoughtful, 'Indee-eed!' and then chanced a sideways glance in the young doctor's direction. It deeply disturbed her to see the young man looking so deeply dejected. But she seemed to be caught in a dilemma. She needed to respond in a way that would neither encourage nor discourage the young doctor's attentions. Because, at the moment, all of her attention needed to remain focused on keeping the dear friends she already had. Her older brother had just come incredibly close to being killed! And, according to MacGregor, the Marshal was apparently still in very grave danger! (Of course, Dulcey had no way of knowing for sure--but she was willing to bet--that those 'dozen or so other rifles out there' all belonged to one positively loathsome man by the name of Roger Mareck.) "I don't mind one bit!" she answered finally, "But I'm afraid you'll find me poor company this morning. It's just that I'm still terribly worried about Ji-im."
Jarrod looked relieved. And then, seeing where the two of them had the chance to share some common ground, he jumped on it, "I know what you mean. I'm a little worried about him, myself." But his little consolation had alarming results.
Dulcey stopped--dead in her tracks--and then stood there, looking extremely alarmed, "Why-y?! Tell me! What's wrong?! What is it?! Has he started bleeding again?!"
The girl had stopped so suddenly that Jarrod found he had to back-track a ways before he could address her, "No-o! Goodness no! The Marshal's fine...jes' fi-ine! And, if you don't believe me, jes' ask him!" he added sarcastically.
The girl's alarm gave way to confusion.
Jarrod stared dreamily into those soft, blue eyes of hers for quite a long quiet while before he finally continued, "I don't know if it's the medication I gave him or what. But your living legend doesn't seem to be thinking too clearly this morning. Do you know that he actually believes that all he has to do to make everything all right--is to just pretend that everything's all right?! We-ell, everything is not 'all right'! In fact, it's far from it! Why he's--" the doctor stopped talking, as visions of jail cells suddenly came to mind, "hopelessly out-numbered! And--even if he wasn't hopelessly out-numbered--he's certainly in no condition right now to try out-gunning anyone!"
Dulcey thought her dearest of friend's doctor's comments over carefully before commenting, "Yes. Well, you don't have to worry about tha-at. Because I'm sure he has no intentions of out-gunning anyone. Out-smarting them is more Jim's style." And, with that, the girl set off down the boardwalk at her unusually brisk pace, once again.
So that, once again, Jarrod had to just about jog to keep up with her. "I hope whoever it is you're in such a hurry to meet this morning--doesn't object to my tagging along like this!" he said, his voice filled with even greater sarcasm.
Dulcey suppressed another wry smile. "I shouldn't think he'd mind at all!" she teased right back. "As long as you don't try to stick your face in his bowl!" she added lightly. Then she stepped down from the sidewalk and started heading off across the open yard--in the direction of Lundquist's Livery.