Chapter Thirty-Five
After turning his four prisoners over to a couple of Jim Crown's special deputies, Francis decided to stay out at the Settlement and turn in, himself. But, while the Marshal's young friend did his level best to 'lie low', it seems he just couldn't sleep. So, after a few hours of tossing and turning, Francis saddled his horse and rode back to town. It was just like he had told his boss the day before: 'Call it the reporter in me, but I simply can not stand not knowin' what's goin' on!'
Well, the 'reporter' in him may have been curious, but the rest of him was just plain worried...really worried. And rightfully so! After all, the Marshal had, in fact, been seriously wounded. Francis knew he wouldn't be able to sleep until he saw--with his own eyes--that the lawman was all right.
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And so, the deeply concerned, very discreet deputy entered Doctor Ellis' house, crept up the creaky stairs, down the long, carpeted hallway and clean up to the linen closet...where he paused. Francis had no predetermined notion as to what he might find when he entered the cleverly concealed room. However, even in all of his 'Wilde' writer's imaginings, Francis certainly would've never ever expected he'd find his boss...in bed with a beautiful woman! "Sorry," the lawman's blushing young friend apologized in a whisper, as the startled awake woman's eyes opened wide and she sat bolt upright on the bed--beside his bo-oss, "guess I should a' kno-ocked..." he added rather embarrassedly and began backing out of the cozy little lamp lit room. The Marshal wasn't doing too badly. Why-y, judging by the looks a' things, Jim was doin' jes' fi-ine!
"WHO ARE YOU?!" the woman shouted anxiously--scrambling to her feet.
The Marshal didn't move a muscle.
The slightly amused look suddenly fled from Francis' slightly red face and he abruptly halted his retreat, "WHO ARE YOU-OU?!" the equally anxious sounding deputy demanded right back, "An' what have you done ta him?!" Francis knew the lawman to be an unbelievably light sleeper. So, if Jim were indeed all right, all the shouting and bed-shaking should've awakened him.
Seeing as how the intruder seemed every bit as anxious and worried as she was, the woman exhaled a sigh of relief and forced herself to relax...some. The concerned young man's coat was unbuttoned. Katelyn caught sight of the Deputy U.S. Marshal's badge that was pinned to his shirt--and partially concealed by his coat--and found herself relaxing completely, "You mus' be Francis..." she realized in relief and redirected her attention.
"And you must be Katelyn..." the deputy deduced, seeing the very professional manner in which the woman first examined and then began treating her still perfectly still patient, "Dulcey said you were a Nurse..." his words trailed off and he stared down at his boss' bandaged chest, looking even more worried.
Katelyn saw the look and flashed the Marshal's friend a reassuring smile, "It's jes' a side effect from some medication he received earlier this mornin'. He should be all right...in a few hours."
Francis sighed in relief, this time, and then warmly returned the beautiful lady's lovely smile.
Mrs. Crown suddenly remembered something--something that caused her gaze to fall and her smile to vanish. She stared sadly down at her completely motionless, unconscious 'husband' for a few moments and finally mustered up the courage to pose a certain question. "Have you seen Doctor Ellis?" she wondered regrettably, "He's been lookin' all over for you..."
The deputy didn't like the sudden change in the tone of the lady's voice. "Why-y?" he wondered nervously, "What's up?"
'Hopefully, not the sun...' Katelyn told herself, mustering up the courage to continue, "Roger Mareck has Dulcey. The Marshal's only got 'til dawn ta turn himself in. Jarrod says that if Jim doesn't show...Mareck's goin' ta...kill her..." she finished rather shakily and glanced up to witness Francis' reaction to her statements.
But the young man was no longer there. The Marshal's deputy had disappeared.
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'How could things have suddenly gone so wro-ong?!' Francis wondered, as he left the doctor's and started strolling off into the pre-dawn twilight. The Deputy U.S. Marshal was fuming! The foxy young fellah had every right to fume! After all, he'd gone to some pretty ellaborate lengths to convince 'Mister' Mareck that his boss was both dead a-and buried! No-ow, some 'one' or some 'thing' had apparently come along and convinced the slime brain that he wasn't. No-ow, both Jim and Dulcey were in danger of losing their lives! Yes-sir, he was fuming all right, and he was also incredibly confused. Francis' plan had been positively brilliant--and perfectly executed! So then, why didn't things work out accordingly?! Things should have worked out! Everything had been done exactly the way Jim would a' done it..."...if'n he was here..."Francis finished glumly, quoting Charley Lundquist aloud. And--suddenly--he had his answer. It was HI-IM, he realized in horror. The plan's failure was his own fault! He'd done such a good job of doing the Marshal's job, that it was just like Jim had never left! HE was the reason why Roger Mareck felt the Marshal must still be alive! Francis gasped in frustration and then began to fume again--this time, at himself! He'd been real smart, all right! TOO smart for his own good!
Speaking of Charley Lundquist...
The liveryman had been posted as look-out for the little group of men that had recently reassembled in the storeroom behind Carl Benjamin's shop. And--as he peered out through the greyness of the now rapidly approaching dawn--he caught sight of a rapidly approaching--and familiar--dark form. "Francis!" he called out in both relief and recognition, "Thank God yer here!"
"Where's Mareck?!" the deputy inquired curtly as he came face to featureless face with the grey figure who had grabbed him.
"The Marshal's Office!" Charley obligingly answered and watched in amazement as his questioner quickly did an about face. "Hold it!" the liveryman urged, latching onto the lawman's left shoulder and spinning him back around, "Where in the heck are you goin'?!"
"The Marshal's Office!" the deputy impatiently replied and attempted once again to leave.
"Well now, if'n you'll wait jes' one doggoned minute," Charley said, pulling the departing deputy to a stop for a second time, "I'll get my rifle--an' the rest a' the boys--an' we'll back you up!"
"No-o!" the young deputy stated adamantly. "No back up! No rifles! It's too risky! Dulcey could be killed in the cross fire..." he patiently explained, but then abruptly took his leave.
This time, the liveryman let him go. He had to! He was too stunned to stop him! No back up?! No rifles?! What was the young fool gonna do--all by his lonesome?! "There's ni-ine a' them an' only one a' you!" Charley reminded the young fool, when he finally recovered, "What exactly are you plannin' ta do-o?!"
"Exactly what the Marshal would do, if'n he was here!" Francis shouted back over his shoulder and kept right on walking. His shadowed surroundings were becoming more visible with each passing second now. So he exhaled a silent prayer and adjusted his pace accordingly.
The look-out's puzzled expression gradually turned to one of dawning understanding--closely followed by high anxiety... and then, downright dread! Charley knew what the departing deputy was gonna do and he dreaded the outcome! The stillness of the pre-dawn was shattered suddenly by the sound of the liveryman's boot heels as he abandoned his post and went 'banging' off down the boardwalk to inform the rest a' the boys of Francis' arrival--an' imminent departure!
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"Francis is back!" Mr. Lundquist breathlessly announced as he burst into the storeroom behind Carl Benjamin's shop.
The rest a' the boys sighed in relief and immediately lowered their rifles.
"We-ell...where is he?!" an equally relieved looking Doctor Ellis impatiently inquired, seeing as how the look-out had entered alone.
"The Marshal's Office!" came back the lone look-out's breathless reply.
"WHA-AT?!" Doctor Ellis exclaimed.
"He's not gonna try to rescue her alone?" 'Mayor' Rawlings inquired hopefully. He--and everyone else in the room--breathed another sigh of relief as the liveryman shook his head 'no'.
"He ain't thinkin' rescue," Charley gasped, "he's thinkin' tra-ade!" he gasped again.
The rest a' the boys glanced at one another in confusion.
So the look-out drew a deep breath in and then attempted to explain, "His life...for the girl's..."
Again the group exchanged grave glances.
Mr. Wisler turned back to Mr. Lundquist, wearing a look of utter disbelief, "Are you su-ure?"
This time, the liveryman nodded, "He tol' me he was gonna do exactly what the Marshal would do, if'n he was here!"
Everyone in the group knew Jim Crown, so everyone in the group had to agree: That was exactly what their Marshal would do, all right! That is, if'n he was there...
"Why didn't you stop him?!" Mr. Herald demanded, horrified by the thought of the young reporter's apparent suicide mission.
"By the time I figured what Francis was fixin' ta do-o, he'd already done left ta do it!" Mr. Lundquist explained in his defense, "'Sides," he added solemnly, "it's per't near daybreak out there..." the look-out's words trailed off and all eyes turned towards the window. Daylight was indeed breaking through into the room now, nearly nullifying their lamp's light.
"We-ell..." Doctor Jarrod Michael Ellis quickly concluded, "if he's gonna try to save Dulcey, I'm gonna try to save him..." And--with that--he snatched up his satchel and started heading for the door.
No one tried to stop him. It wasn't that the doctor had such a great idea. It was just that no one else in the group had a better one.
"GOOD LUCK, DOC'!" they all called out--with one accord.
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It was about five minutes to five when Francis finally reached his boss' office. He sprang up onto the boardwalk and then stood there for a while, gripping the front door knob in his trembling right hand. His race with dawn had ended in a draw, he grimly realized, for the first flickering rays of sunlight were already dancing off of the rooftops of the taller buildings in town. He continued standing there, trying to muster the courage to push that door open. The moment he entered that office, Francis realized even more grimly, he'd be putting himself directly in front of Mareck's moving 'train'! Oh well...if somebody had to be in front of Mareck's train, it was better him, than Dulcey! Besides, Francis figured he sort a' had it coming to him. 'This,' the young reporter reminded himself, 'is what happens to you when you spend all afternoon BURYIN' yore boss...an' then half the night DIGGIN' 'IM BACK UP AGAIN!' A rooster 'crowed' right about then and reminded him of the urgency of his mission. The deputy had come to do exactly what Jim Crown would do, if'n he was there. And Francis knew exactly what Jim would do! Jim would waltz right in there and pull Dulcey out a' the path of Mareck's train! And the Marshal's hands wouldn't be shaking as he did it, either! So, Jim Crown's deputy, and stand in, determinedly set his jaw. He drew his shoulders back--and a deep breath in--and then courageously threw open the door.
Charley Lundquist was wrong! Counting Roger Mareck's little revolver, there were a total of ten pistols pointed at his person. Francis quickly weighed the odds and then slowly started reaching for the ceiling. His raised hands, he was relieved to see, were now as steady as a surgeon's!
"WHO ARE YOU?!" an unbelievably arrogant looking little man--who could only be 'Mister' Roger Mareck demanded, leaning forwards in the Marshal's chair.
"He's one a' Crown's deputies!" one of Rutger's rats replied--before Francis had the chance to.
Four sets of hands immediately latched onto the lawman's deputy and hauled him inside. The office's front door was closed and the .45 was confiscated from Francis' holster.
"WHERE'S YOUR BOSS?!" Mareck demanded further, and calmly slid his boot heels from off of the Marshal's desk, "He's just about out of time here--or, should I say, she's just about out of time?!" he added evilly and swung the barrel of his gun towards Dulcey.
"I'm afraid Marshal Crown won't be coming," Francis calmly replied. "He rode into an ambush yesterday afternoon and..." the deputy stopped to stare sympathetically down at Miss Coopersmith, who--he was relieved to see--was alive and well and, appropriately, all bedecked in black.
The girl flipped the black veil back up from off her frowning face and glared aggitatedly up at him. Dulcey was apparently not pleased to have him intervening in her behalf.
"...let's just say," her young rescuer bravely forged ahead, "that Marshal Crown is no longer among the living..." Francis' words trailed off and he waited to witness, firsthand, Roger Mareck's reaction to that bit of bad news..or was that good news?
But, "You don't say..." was all the slime brain said. And, about the only action he took was to slam an open book that was resting there on the desk before him.
'Taming the Territory', Francis read upside-down, and realized the Senator must've left one of his 'dozen or so' copies lyin' aroun'. "Just before he was killed," the legend's deputy continued, ignoring Mareck's sarcastic comment completely, "the Marshal gave me a list a' things that he wanted done..." Francis paused again to carefully pull a folded piece of paper from his left coat pocket.
Dennis Bowlen deftly latched onto the Marshal's 'list' and, after opening it up, passed it along to his employer.
There followed another brief period of silence as Roger Mareck perused the slip of paper he'd been handed. Then he tossed the Marshal's list down onto the Marshal's desk and turned his angry eyes, and undivided attention, back to the Marshal's deputy. "Then it was YOU?!" he inquired rather cautiously, "YOU did all those things?!"
"I was merely carrying out Marshal Crown's orders," Francis merely stated in his defense and then tensed, expecting to experience some sort of a reaction for sure, this time.
"YOU did them..." Roger Mareck repeated almost reverently, and sat there looking somewhat relieved.
The group of gunmen exchanged thoughtful glances and then watched as their still somewhat drunk, terribly hung-over and infamously foul-tempered boss got to his unsteady feet. They continued watching as their employer staggered over to the person supposedly responsible for most of his misery.
"THEN YOU CAN JUST UN-DO THEM!" Mareck rationalized unreasonably, and slammed his clenched left fist into the Marshal's deputy's stomach.
Which caused both Francis and Dulcey to gasp--together!
Because he had been preparing for it, and also because the little man apparently didn't pack much of a punch, the blow left Jim Crown's 'stand-in' pretty much completely unscathed...and still standin'.
"I WANT MY MONEY!" Mareck screamed--with reference to his missing fortune, and, this time, slammed his right fist into him.
Francis gasped again and doubled-up this time--as Roger Mareck very forceably rammed him in the ribs with his revolver.
"AND I WANT MY KID BROTHER!" Elliot Polk suddenly exploded and rammed his balled up fist into Francis left kidney, for added emphasis.
Dulcey screamed and Marshal Crown's deputy cried out as one of the four men who had first latched onto--and were still holding onto him--dealt him a low blow from behind. This time, the pain was excrutiating! If it weren't for the four sets of hands locked on his arms, Francis would have been writhing on the floor by now. "I-I can't...undo...anything!" Francis told both the bully from behind and his 'boss', when he finally got his breath back.
"You can't...or you won't?!" Mareck inquired and motioned for several of his hired guns to re-direct their aims upon Miss Coopersmith.
"Every last cent in Cimarron...was transferred out a' town...yore men were placed...in FEDERAL custody! Only another FEDERAL Marshal...can 'authorize' their release!...An' there won' be any more...Federal Marshal's around here...'til tomorrow mornin'...at the earliest!" Francis innocently estimated, and then carefully withdrew several more folded slips of paper from his other coat pocket.
"What are these?!" Roger Mareck reluctantly wondered as he even more reluctantly accepted the latest pieces of paper that were passed him.
"Original copies...of the telegrams...the Marshal had me send for him...yesterday..." the deputy dutifully replied, and waited uneasily for another round of adverse reactions.
Roger Mareck looked positively livid as he beheld these latest bits of ba-ad news, "DAMN THAT MAN!" he declared in disgust. Even though 'that man' was dead, he was still capable of ruining his day!
Francis flinched as the man finished reading and then flung the pieces of paper in his face.
Mareck's curious hired killers picked the fluttering papers up from off the floor and then--those that could--took turns reading them. The glances the group exchanged this time, were more grave than thoughtful.
"We'd better get out of here!" Mr. Gordon determined aloud, acting as sort of the group's spokesman, "By tomorrow, every lawman in this part of the country will be converging on this town!"
"If the telegrams were, in fact, sent off..." Roger Mareck reminded his eager to split employees.
"One of the first orders...on that list over there...was the confiscation...of all telegraph equipment..." Marshal Crown's deputy calmly reminded Mareck.
And several of the eagerest to split gunmen started heading for the door.
"Hold it!" Mr. Polk piped up again, "What about the rest a' the boys?! We cain't jes' leave 'em behind! 'Authorization' or no 'authorization'--I ain' leavin' here without my brother!"
Roger Mareck glanced back over his shoulder and shot the mutinous group of gunmen a menacing glare. "I'm not quite finished here!" he stated rather annoyedly. Then, without any warning what-so-ever, he turned and took a savage swing at the Marshal's deputy.
Francis tried--too late--to dodge the blow. He winced and grunted in pain as the butt end of Roger Mareck's revolver connected with his right temple.
Dulcey screamed again. Not so much at the gruesome sight of--but at the shocking sound of Francis' skull cracking! "FRAN-CIS!" she shouted when she had recovered from the shock, and made a valiant attempt to rise to her rescuer's aide. But two of Mareck's heavily armed men shoved her back down in her armchair and then held her there.
After the initial 'popping' sound of being pistol-whipped practically unconscious, Francis felt himself fa-all-ing. Something hard struck him even harder on the back of his head and there was a brilliant explosion of lights. Dulcey screamed and someone cursed. Then everything suddenly went _______.
Francis had fallen because--just as Mareck had swung out--the office's front door had swung open, and three of his four supporters had turned themselves--and their weapons--towards it. Elliot Polk--who was pulled completely off guard by their prisoner's sudden dead weight--thus was forced to drop him.
A-and, thus, Francis fe-ell...cracking the back of his head on the corner of his boss' desk, as he did so.
"What are YOU doing here?!" Mareck angrily inquired of the young man responsible for this latest interruption.
"Why'd yah hafta hit him so ha-ard?!" Elliot Polk angrily inquired of his employer, "We need him ta find my brother!...An' the rest a' the boys!" he tacked on--for the rest a' the boys' benefits.
Jarrod stood there in the open doorway for a few moments, anxiously assessing the situation. Dulcey was sitting there in the Marshal's armchair in shocked silence. He found Francis lying in a crumpled heap on the floor in front of the Marshal's desk. The doctor watched in shocked silence himself, as a pool of bright red suddenly appeared from beneath the unconscious man's head--and then quickly began to spread. Jarrod had come to try and save Francis' life. 'Plea-ease?! Don't let me be too late?!' the young physician pleaded and promptly proceeded with his plan.
"What are you doing here?!" Roger Mareck repeated rather annoyedly and motioned for his boys to bar the intruder's entrance into the room.
"I told you last night," Jarrod impatiently pointed out, "I'm a Doctor. Miss Coopersmith is my patient. I came over here this morning to see how she's do--"
"Let 'im in, 'Mister' Mareck!" Polk pleaded, sounding a bit impatient himself, "This deputy, here ain' gonna be any good ta us DEA-EAD!"
'Mister' Mareck considered Mr. Polk's request over for a few moments and then--reluctantly--nodded his consent.
"What happened here, Dulcey?!" the doctor wondered, dropping himself and his little black bag down beside the badly bleeding deputy. 'Scalp wounds generally bleed profusely,' he forced himself to recall.
"'Mister' Mareck struck him with his pistol!" Miss Coopersmith obligingly--albeit a bit sarcastically--replied. "Then he fell...and hit the back of his head on Jim's desk!"
"Jes' give 'im some smellin' salts or somethin'!" Elliot Polk impatiently prescribed, "Jes' git 'im back on his feet!"
Realizing that all eyes in the room were on him, Jarrod made a big pretense out of his preliminary examination. "He's...dea-ead," he said when he had finished. Then, to keep Dulcey from dying as well, he looked up--locked eyes with her--and added hintingly, "...just like the Marshal." He watched as her look of absolute horror shifted to one of dawning understanding.
But then she appropriately burst into tears.
Jarrod tried to reach the girl's side, to comfort her.
But Mr. Polk stopped and held him. "HE CAIN'T BE DEAD!" the gunman insisted over the sound of Dulcey's sobs, "I NEED HIM TA TAKE ME TO MY BROTHER!"
"Believe me," Jarrod solemnly replied, "He won't be taking anybody anywhere! See for yourselves," he invitingly told him--and the other 'skeptics' in the room--Roger Mareck included, "He's not breathing!"
Mister Mareck calmly stepped over to the deputy's supposedly dead carcass and kicked Francis full force in the ribs. There was no response what-so-ever from the lifeless form on the floor. It was like kicking a sackful of grain. "I'm starving!" the apparently satisfied man suddenly shouted, sounding hungry--but happy, "Let's get something to eat!" And he and his boys began heading for the office's exit--and some breakfast.
Elliot Polk threw himself down on the deputy's dead body and carefully placed an ear against the man's non-moving chest. No breathing! No heartbeat! The kid really was dea-ead! He cursed again and then reluctantly followed his companions out the office's front door.
Jarrod wondered if the lot of them were really all that hungry or if they were merely anxious to get out of earshot of Miss Coopersmith's incessant crying. The doctor quickly closed and locked the door--and then collapsed back up against it in relief. Dulcey's sobs had conveniently stopped the same time the door had closed. Jarrod looked up and saw that the girl was now kneeling beside Francis' still form, staring silently down at her dear friend's non-moving chest.
"Jarrod! He really isn't breathing!" she exclaimed suddenly, the extremely anxious tone of her voice matching the look of high anxiety on her tear-streaked, yet still very pretty face.
"He is," Jarrod said reassuringly as he came rushing back up to his still bleeding like a stuck pig patient, "It's just too shallow for you to notice," he added, dropping to his knees beside her and reaching for his little black bag.
"What on earth did you give him?!" Dulcey wondered as she watched Jarrod preparing to inject the seemingly dead deputy with yet another one of his medical 'wonder' drugs.
"Curare," was the good doctor's one word reply as he proceeded to adminster the proper antidote.
"Curare?!" the girl came back, looking and sounding completely overwhelmed, "But...isn't that a deadly poison?!"
"Curare is a blackish resin derived from plants of the genus Strychnos," the physician patiently explained as he finished with the injection and began bandaging the cut on the back of Francis' head, "more specifically, Strychnos toxifera. Contact with this substance can cause extreme muscle paralysis...which is why some aboriginal hunters dip their darts and arrows into it. A-and, when administered in a large enough dose, it can prove fatal, yes. But, pharmacologically, the drug may be used--in very minute doses--to treat seizures or, in this case, to 'simulate' death."
'Simulate death?!' Dulcey was just about to say, when Francis' chest suddenly heaved with a very visible sigh and he noticeably began breathing again. The girl managed an audible sigh herself and then knelt there, looking as relieved as she sounded.
"Well, I had to make it look goo-ood..." Jarrod apologized as he glanced up and found the female frowning down at him.
Trouble was, the good doctor had made it look a bit too good! And Dulcey wasn't quite sure whether she should hit or kiss him for it. So she did both. "You-ou!" she gasped exasperatedly and gave the exasperating young man a playful slug in the arm, "You just saved his life..." she gratefully acknowledged and planted a kiss on the handsome young hero's cheek.
"He just saved your life," the doctor came back--and gave the girl's unconscious savior an eternally grateful glance. "And you just saved the Marshal's..." he added, locking his damp, blue eyes onto the lovely heroin's. "Now, is there some place close by where we can hide the 'body'? He's going to be needing some tending to, and that gash is going to take some stitching..."
"We can put him in Jim's room," Dulcey promptly determined, "the door is solid steel and can be barred from the inside. We should all be safe the-ere..."
"Lead the way..." Jarrod invited, scooping their still perfectly still patient carefully up into his arms.
Dulcey scooped the doctor's black bag up from off the floor and started heading for the office's side door...and her Inn.
The physician struggled with his heavy burden to his feet, and then quickly followed after her, being carful not to crack Francis' already 'cracked' head on the office's doorframe, as he left.