Chapter Twelve
The sun was setting back in Cimarron, too, where the 8:15 southbound was pulling into the depot right on schedule--for a refreshing change.
The Senator credited Francis Wilde--and not the railroad--for this amazing accomplishment. For he felt certain that the only reason they were on time was because the restless reporter in the seat beside him had been silently willing the train to run faster. The young journalist emitted so much restless energy, in fact, that, while they were still a considerable distance from their destination, the statesman had turned to the young doctor and commented that 'Nothing could stop them from reaching Cimarron no-ow! Because, even if the engine were to break down, Francis could--and probably would--just get out and push them the rest of the way into town!'
Speaking of Francis...
The reporter had left his assigned seat long before the train pulled into town. He was, at that very moment, standing on the exit step of the disembarking platform at the front of the car, gripping the railing--waiting anxiously and looking eagerly--to catch some glimpse of his friends. Then Francis' face fell. And his heart sank, also. For the first glimpse he got was that of his fellow deputy standing alone on the depot platform--with a shotgun in his hand and a side arm on his hip. Cimarron must still be under siege or the Scotsman wouldn't be packing a pistol. Normally, MacGregor had no use for handguns. Well, Mac wasn't really standing alone...exactly. There were other familiar faces on the platform with him. It's just that the two other faces Francis had missed the most--still seemed to be missing. He looked all up and down the track and the platform. But, both Dulcey and his boss were nowhere to be seen. The Marshal's young friend suddenly found himself being overwhelmed by a feeling of sickening dread.
So anxious was he to learn of the absent lawman's fate, that he stepped off the train even before it stopped moving. The momentum catapulted him onto the platform and sent him careening down it--sideways!
Mac came forward, caught his out-of-control friend by the arms, and kept him from crashing--headlong--into the crowd. "Well, if it is no' our 'roving' reporter!" the Scotsman teased, "How good of you ta 'drop' in on us like this. In fact, Ah kin no' begin ta tell yah how good it is ta have yah back! Welcome home, laddie!"
"Where's Jim?!" Francis demanded, his voice giving vent to some of the anxiety he was experiencing.
But the Scotsman remained silent.
Francis gripped Mac's arms and asked with his eyes what his suddenly tight throat couldn't seem to put into words. He studied his fellow deputy's cool, blue eyes carefully. If the Marshal was dead, they weren't telling. But then, they weren't exactly telling him that he wasn't dead, either. "Ma-ac?!" the reporter pleaded.
"What do yah say we go on over ta the Inn," Mac calmly suggested, "where we can continue this conversation indoors..." he added hintingly, "There's a bottle o' 'vintage' waiting for us back at the office...ta celebrate yer safe retur--"
"No-o! Wait!" the reporter requested as Mac took him by the arm and started ushering him towards the steps of the platform, "I brought some men back with me."
Mac seemed surprised. "What me-en?" he inquired cautiously.
"Well, one of 'em is a doctor, and the other one is--" Francis suddenly recalled that no one was supposed to know that he had been to Washington, "--an old friend a' Jim's...from back East," he finished rather vaguely. "There they are now!" he exclaimed, motioning to two men who had just stepped down from the train.
"So this is Cimarron!" the younger of the two men declared, taking a careful look around, "And, darned, if it doesn't look exactly the way you described it in your book!" he continued, turning to the reporter and speaking with a strong eastern accent.
"I told yah," Francis told the somewhat surprised--and duly impressed--looking doctor, "it ain't 'MY' book!"
"An' I told yah it was all factual, now didn' I!" the older man reminded his younger companion with a very definite Texas dra-awl.
"Welcome to Cimarron, gentlemen!" Mac declared as the gentlemen came stepping up to them. "And, may yer stay here be an indefinite one, Doctor!" he added and extended an open hand to the older of the two men.
"I'm the 'doctor'," the younger man corrected, taking and shaking the Deputy's profferred palm, "He's--"
"An old friend a' Jim's from back East!" Francis interrupted suddenly.
"You mus' be 'Mac'!" the Senator realized, giving the Scotsman's hand a hearty shake. Then he nudged the doctor and said, "He's described the people here jes' as accurately as the place. Why, I'd a known you anywhere!" he continued, turning back to flash 'Mac' a warm smile, "Hi-i! I'm--"
"An old friend a' Jim's from back East!" Francis interrupted once again. "Now, come on!" he urged rather impatiently.
"But...What about our other bags?" Doctor Ellis wondered, holding up the baggage claim checks for the rest of his luggage.
Francis snatched them from him, along with the checks protruding from the Senator's lapel pocket, and passed them on to the porter--along with his own, "Carl, here'll see to it that our luggage gets over to the Inn, won't you, Ca-arl!"
"Sure thing, Francis!" Ca-arl vowed.
"Good! Now, come on! Let's go-o!" Francis urged even more impatiently. Then the four of them left the platform and headed off down the street--in the direction of the Wayfarer's.
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"All right! We're INdoors!" Francis exclaimed upon entering the Marshal's Office. "Now, where's Ji-im?! And how come I don't see any sign of the help the Justice Department promised they'd have here--at least five days ago already?!" he added, directing his last inquiry--and accusing glare--at the Marshal's old friend from back East.
"Francis!" Dulcey joyfully exclaimed, stepping into the office and up to the extremely anxious looking young reporter to give him a warm embrace, "Oh, it's so good to see you! I'm so glad you could make it back for tonight! Oh...And I hope you'll forgive me for not being there to greet you at the depot. But, since I am the official hostess for this evening, I felt it my duty to stay here and personally greet our guests, instead. Oh, welcome home! Did you miss us? How was your trip? Did you bring me back anything? Oh, never mind! There'll be time for all that later! Come on! You--and your friends--come and join the party!"
The party! Thank God for the party! If the party was still on, that meant that the Marshal was still alive! Francis went from looking completely overwhelmed with anxiety to looking extremely relieved. But his relief was to be short-lived.
"You're just in time, you know!" Dulcey continued, "In fact, the party hasn't even really gotten started yet. But, now that you're here, things are bound to pick up. You can serve as our guest-of-honor 'til the real one gets back. Your safe return will give us all a real cause for celebration. I'm counting on you to help me keep the party going until Jim gets back. It's such a long way to Fort Dawes. There's no telling when he'll make it back here."
Francis went from looking extremely relieved to overly anxious again, "That's a great idea, Dulcey. But I have an even better one. If you're looking for an 'honorary' guest-of-honor--and a real 'cause for celebration', why don't you take Cimarron's new 'Doctor' out there and introduce him to everybody? I'm tellin' yah, Doctor Ellis, here, is your man!" he assured her and shoved the young doctor at her.
Dulcey appeared pleasantly surprised and extended her hand to the young man, "Welcome to Cimarron, 'Doctor Ellis'! I'm--"
"Miss Dulcey Coopersmith!" the young doctor finished for her, taking her hand and bowing graciously to kiss the back of it, "Yes...I know. I feel I've known you forever! Francis described you so perfectly--then again, perhaps not 'perfectly'. Why, you're even prettier than the very 'pretty' picture he painted of you!"
Dulcey (who had been going to say that she was very pleased to meet the handsome young man) looked extremely skeptical, "Why, thank you, Doctor. There's nothing like a large dose of flattery to make a girl feel better," she said, her voice filled with sarcasm.
Doctor Ellis appeared slightly hurt, "The word 'flattery' has such an unsavory flavor to it. To me, 'flattery' infers to an insincerity of one's complements. And, believe me, Miss Coopersmith, I truly do believe that you truly are a very 'pretty' young lady!"
Dulcey appeared slightly embarrassed, "Yes...Well," she blushed, "In that case, Doctor Ellis, I truly do thank you!"
"You're truly welcome, Miss Coopersmith! Jarrod Michael Ellis--at your service!" he exclaimed and eagerly offered the pretty girl his arm, "And, please, call me Jarrod."
"Dulcey," Miss Coopersmith corrected, giving the young doctor a pretty smile in exchange for his arm, "And, will you be staying here, at the Inn?"
"I hope I'm staying here! Since here is where my luggage is being sent."
"Fine!" Dulcey declared, sounding genuinely delighted by the prospect, "Then we'll find you a room. I think no. 15 is empty."
"No. 15?" the perspective new boarder inquired a bit nervously, "Was there ever really a 'Mr. Tipton' and was he really 'murdered' in that room?"
Dulcey's pretty face clouded over and she turned to Francis to give him a glare of disgust, "Honestly!" she exclaimed, giving vent to some of that disgust. "And what other stories has our resident writer been regaling you with?" she asked accusingly.
Francis cringed and looked extremely apologetic.
The reporter looked so pitiful and so remorseful that the girl found her anger giving way, "Yes...Well, Jarrod, I believe you'll find that our Mr. Wilde's imagination lives up to his name!" she teased and then took Mr. Wilde's arm and started towing him out of the office--along with the town's new doctor.
"U-Uhh..." Francis stammered, suddenly applying the brakes, "Why don't the two of you run along--for now," he suggested.
"Aye!" Mac seconded, "We've a wee bit o' business ta attend to here."
Dulcey seemed satisfied with the Scotsman's vague excuse. She released the young reporter's arm, but kept the young doctor's, "Come on! I'll introduce you to the rest of the town!" she offered excitedly. "Everyone will be so thrilled that you're here! I can hardly believe it's already been a month since Doctor Kilghren received word of his sister's illness and left us..."
The Marshal's deputies watched Dulcey drag the doctor from the room. Mac followed them to the door and then quickly closed it.
The Senator stepped over to the Marshal's desk and picked up the bottle of Scotch that was sitting there on it. "Is this for drinkin'? Or is this just a decoration?"
MacGregor started to hand the man a glass, but then paused to shoot his fellow deputy a questioning glance.
"It's all right," Francis assured his cautious comrade, "he's a United States Senator."
"From the great state a' Texas!" the Senator boasted rather loudly and proudly.
Mac looked unimpressed and passed the glass to the politician. Then he picked the napkin-covered bowl up from the desk and passed it on to Francis.
"No thanks. I'm not hungry," the reporter replied rather annoyedly, "Now, will you please tell me what's been goin' on around here?!"
Mac sighed in surrender. Then he set the bowl back down and removed both the container's cloth-napkin cover and its contents--a small, round, metal canister.
The two men in the room with him watched, wide-eyed, as he wiped a few remaining traces of whipping cream from the box and then removed its metal lid. Inside the canister were two seperate stacks of telegrams.
Francis' face lit up, "Mr. Winsom finally came through for us!" he realized aloud.
Mac nodded solemnly, "These are the messages Mareck got," he explained, passing one of the stacks to the Senator. "And these are the messages he did no' get," he added, handing the remaining stack to the rather intrigued looking reporter. The Scotsman waited silently while the two men read through their respective stacks. He continued waiting while they traded telegrams and then continued reading. He saw that the Senator seemed shocked and watched as Francis' face suddenly filled with sadness.
"That's a shame about John Two Rivers," the sad-faced reporter said quietly, "I only met the man a couple a' times. But I liked him right off!"
"He was a real likeable sort..." the Senator agreed solemnly.
"Jim must a' took it pretty hard," Francis continued, speaking softly, "I know the two of 'em seemed real...close."
Again the Senator solemnly nodded in agreement.
Francis finished reading and then drew in an incredibly deep breath--which he released as an incredibly long sigh of fatigue and frustration. "Well, looks like Jim was right about Mareck havin' me followed--and about Mareck havin' a man high up in the Justice Department."
"Yes," the Senator agreed, "And it shouldn't be too difficult to find out who that man is. Now that we have this!" he added, holding one of 'Mister' Mareck's never received messages up and waving it through the air like a victory banner.
Francis stared thoughtfully down at the floor. "He was right about everything else, too--including Mr. Winsom," he added, turning his attention back to his handful of telegrams, "Jim knew all along that Mr. Winsom didn't want ta work for Mareck. He said Mr. Winsom would come around...in time."
"Aye..." Mac admitted rather glumly, "Ah only hope--for Jim's sake--that it was 'in time'!"
"Accordin' ta these, he made it in an' out a' the Fort--jes' fi-ine!" the Senator reminded the Marshal's two still very worried looking deputies.
"It's no' the Fort that concerns me, Senator," Mac reminded the politician, "it's the river. According ta these," he continued, grabbing a couple of the telegrams, "Mareck's men have every conceivable crossing covered!"
"So-o..." the Senator said, cooly and calmly pouring and passing each of them a drink, "Then Jim will jes' pick an inconceivable one! You'll see...He'll make it! He always does!" he commented rather casually and then casually sipped his Scotch.
The Marshal's deputies glanced uncertainly at each other and hesitated to drink.
So the Senator proceeded to raise his glass and propose a toast, "To Jim Crown--and an inconceivable crossing!" he practically shouted.
The Marshal's worried-looking friends managed then to 'clink' and drink.
But the statesman could tell that their hearts weren't really in it.
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And, speaking of peoples' hearts not really being into things...
Dulcey's party would have been a huge success--if it weren't for one thing: there were no 'party-ers'! The party itself was perfect--in every detail. It was the people who were a total flop!
There was live, cheery music. That is, until the musicians were shot dead by a dozen or so of the dirtiest looks imaginable! After a revue like that, the fiddlers no longer felt much like fiddling around.
There was a very 'spacious' dance floor. But no one felt much like dancing.
There was enough food to feed everyone for a week! But no one felt much like eating.
And it was so...quiet--too quiet! It seemed the town was more concerned about its Marshal at the moment than it was about 'dancing' and 'eating' and 'making polite conversation'.
Dulcey spent the entire evening making excuses for the Marshal's inexcusable absence. Reminding everyone, including herself, that Fort Dawes was, after all, a long ways away.
But her 'reminders' only succeeded in depressing everyone even further! Along with the Inn's new grandfather clock--for each somber 'gong' served as a grim reminder that their guest-of-honor still wasn't back yet.
Even the presence of the town's new physician did little--or nothing--to lighten the 'gloom and doom' atmosphere in the room.
"I'll say this much," the young doctor observed upon popping back into the Marshal's Office for a moment to announce that he was retiring to his room for the remainder of the evening, "you frontier folk really know how to throw a party!" he stated sarcastically. And then added the following in Francis' ear, "I've been to wakes that were more fun than this!"
"Yeah..." Francis muttered glumly, "And that's just what everyone's afraid this here 'party' might turn out ta be--the Marshal's 'wake'!"
Then, ten o'clock came and it was time for the 'presentation ceremony'.
Mr. Rawls--who was a member of the town's council and the closest thing Cimarron had to a mayor--approached Dulcey and made the following suggestion, "Look, Miss Coopersmith, considering the circumstances. Perhaps we should just skip this part and hold the ceremony later on...when the Marshal gets back."
"Nonsense!" Miss Coopersmith doggedly replied, snatching the festively wrapped package from the man and turning to her gradually diminishing in number group of guests, "May I have your attention, everyone?!" she requested, and the gloomy group granted her request. "First, on behalf of Marshal Jim Crown, I'd like to thank you all for coming this evening. Second," she continued, setting the package down on the nearest table to rip the ribbons and wrapping paper from it, "also on the Marshal's behalf, I gratefully accept this gift of appreciation--in recognition of services rendered for the past five years," she paused to lift the lid from the now bare box. Then all eyes watched as the girl pulled out a small, white, plaster pigeon and turned it upside down. "The inscription reads simply: 'To our friend and Marshal, Jim Crown--from the people of Cimarron. Thank you for keeping the peace for the past five years'." She stopped reading, turned the bird right side up again and then set it back down on the table for everyone to admire. "As you can see, it is a paperweight of pure alabaster," Dulcey continued, seeing her guests gazing at the 'object d'art' in confusion, "appropriately carved in the form of a dove, which is--as everyone knows--the internationally recognized symbol of peace. And, so, the committee felt that this paperweight--in the form of a dove--would make the perfect gift for a Peace Officer..." she explained patiently.
And was rewarded for her efforts as her audience's blank looks gradually gave way to nods of comprehension. Eventually, they even quietly applauded their approval of both the purchase and the presentation.
Dulcey thanked the folks one, final time and then fled to the boardwalk just outside the Inn to stare off down the dark, deserted street for the umpteenth time that disasterous evening! So, he was a little late. All right, so he was very late. He could still make it. After all, he had promised her that he would make it back in time for the party. All right, so he had promised her that he would do everything within his power to make it back in time for her party. And Jim Crown always kept his word! Always!