JAMES ARNESS IS MATT DILLON

Come and sit a spell with me.

I barged into an episode of Gunsmoke. Pushing through the swinging double doors, I am in the Long Branch Saloon. The high sun is at my back, casting a long shadow on the dusty plank floor. My dappled Appaloosa is hitched outside. I learned how to ride yesterday.

I tap the butt of my Colt, holstered heavy on my hip, for reassurance. But I don’t expect to need it.

I am here to buy a small spread and retire—keep a cow or two, a few chickens and raise a bit of corn, mainly for the still I'll tend to out back. I need a front porch, a stand of trees for shade, and a fireplace to feed pine and oak. I want to smell like the forest, not plastic and exhaust. And a crick—I need a crick, a purring but expressive crick that meanders like a woman’s hip—hell, twenty women—and kisses my ears with peaceful song and serenade. I can see the deer taking a taste and then disappearing. I want camouflage for them and me.

I thought about moving to Mayberry or Walton's Mountain, but I'm not looking for antiseptic or wholly wholesome. Instead, I wanted more grit in my coffee, so I ventured east—to the heartland, to the wide-open prairie— and on the way, I saw elk, Cherokee, and hawks and so much sky I couldn't stomach the blue and the free-range lightning. My intestines rebelled, then settled, but I spent a fair amount of time squatting in the scrub, releasing decades of interminable shit and hunks of the wrong road. Finally, my load lightened; my earthly possession are packed into two neat saddle bags slung over my left shoulder.

I tip my hat at Amanda Blake as Miss Kitty, the smoldering and iron-spined madam who owns the Long Branch. All the whores, stuffed into billowing dresses, breasts pressed north, are hers. I often wondered if that pinpoint mole on her pancaked face was natural or if it was applied in make-up before the cameras rolled. It’s real. James Arness as Marshal Matt Dillion no doubt likes her look, being Kitty’s beau. On-screen, he's long and lean, six guns slung, keeper of the peace, the quickest draw in these her parts. Likely not with Kitty, though, as she always looks pleased—you can see it in the gentleness of her hazy hazel eyes.

I sidle up to the bar.

Glenn Strange as Sam is wiping down shot glasses, the greasy pomade thick, his slick dark brown hair graying at the temples. I smell mint, the sheen hard to miss.  Sam wears a white apron drawn at the waist. He seems to be obsessed with spotless shot glasses. Who am I to judge? I assume it’s a sign of respect and a devoted obligation to the ornery cow pokes just off a cattle drive, roughnecks who haven’t bathed in weeks, who reek of the bone-jarring trail—sweat, manure, and breath. Best to mind your manners around Sam, though. He was a bare-knuckle boxer as a lad and busted many jaws in makeshift arenas, roped off pastures, in newly minted mining towns. You can see his blood craft in his splayed nose, swollen knuckles, the scars under his left eye, and across his jutting chin. There’s also a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun under the bar. Wise men tip Sam and always hit the spittoon. At the very least, they say thank you.

What’ll you have?

Whiskey, I say, the good stuff, and leave the bottle. I always wanted to say that. And I drop three bits on the bar. The coins land hard and rattle a bit. I always wanted to drop three bits on a bar. I am not disappointed.

Thanks, Sam, I say. Eyes down, he nods in return.

I’m one drink in, my foot resting on the copper rail, and I am lost in my thoughts of living on the other side of those swinging doors, the daily madness, the speed of decay, the hubris that I can keep up with a cyclone of change for change sake. I see a lot of dead eyes staring morning, noon, and night, and after I drift off to sleep. I am souring meat. There is not enough ice or salt to hide my stink.

I am shaken awake by jangling spurs and a subterranean voice.

I haven’t seen you in these here parts before. What’s your business, stranger?

I straighten, turn, and face Marshal Dillon. He’s angular as I expected but not as tall. He pushes his wide-brimmed hat back as he waits for my answer. The marshal looks relaxed, clad in tan, his badge both dull and glinting. He has the slow eyes of a rattler sunning itself on a rock—at ease but ready to strike. Both thumbs are jammed behind the buckle of his gun belt. There are three empty cartridge loops.

I’m here to see the Doc. I hear he’s got a place for sale. I should have said Milburn Stone as Doc, but I figured that would be confusing.

Matt tells me I just missed Doc. He’s at the Jonas farm. Dabbs Greer, as Mr. Jonas, runs the only mercantile in Dodge City. The youngest Jonas boy (uncredited) galloped in about an hour ago. His momma is in trouble. The baby is in breach.

Doc’ll be back soon, I reckon, says Matt. If his ol’ buggy, don’t throw a wheel. The road’s kinda rough between there and town.

OK, I'll wait for a spell. I don't have much choice. The episode runs for a full hour.

Deal you in while you wait? I recognize Harry Horner as Blackjack Mulligan.

Sure, I say. Seems I’ve got time to kill. I eyeball a placid man masquerading as a pole cat. He sits at a small round table in the corner, his back to the wall. I do not trust this dapper dude draped in black, with two gold teeth, a silver ring circling his little finger. He sees a fat lamb, but I sit anyway. He’s never been to Vegas, and I was a dealer there for five years as I sorted my younger days. I admire his hat, a narrow-brimmed affair, trimmed in red satin and black, and a feather for emphasis. Imagine that?

What’s your game?

Five-card stud, I reply. Deal ‘em. I'll keep on an eye on that Derringer tucked under the newspaper on his right. He slurs his words a bit, but he's not drunk. I've seen that a time or two. Never trust a man who drinks from his flask in a bar. He has a weather-beaten girl hanging on his shoulder in a garish red dress, her cleavage intending to distract. I smile and ante up.

Irascible and rumpled, Doc has been burning both ends of the candle. He left the Jonas place to go tend a couple of trampled hands from the Arn Armstead Ranch—Double-A, their brand. Lots of busted ribs, a few arms, and a shattered pelvis. The bunk house is moaning. Something spooked the herd. Doc wrapped, set, and sutured, then doled out the laudanum. He often saves a long draw for himself later, his usual nightcap.

The sun is setting, and Doc’s well-earned self-care is waiting. Steak, beer, a nip of opiate, and perhaps a hand job, trade-in kind for looking after one of Kitty’s girls, slashed by a drifter, Leo Gordon as Wild William “Billy” Harris. Matt put him down quick, his drifting days done; you can find Wild Bill in Boot Hill. The town picked up the tab for the funeral, such as it was—dig a hole and drop the body in. Pound a rough cross in the ground. No coffin. The preacher said about ten words and snapped his bible shut, the body still leaking blood as the soil seals deep, enough to keep the coyotes from digging the corpse up that night.

I wonder if I smell like Wild Bill.

Doc looks dog-tired as he moseys into the Long Branch. He’s a tiny man in a coat about a size too big. His black medical bag looks to be as much as he can carry. His wire spectacles are tight to his eyes, and he pauses and pulls a pocket watch from his breast pocket. It’s a Waltham, a good brand that will survive the test of time. I’ve seen them in antique shops and on eBay.

Ken Curtis as Festus Haggen and I have been talking for quite some time. He’s a shaggy fellow with a heavy five o'clock shadow and a whirling dervish even when sitting. Festus sings like an angel, iffin’ he has a mind, and his elocution is pitch-perfect. But when he speaks, the back wood hollers take charge.

Heya, Doc, this’n here feller is lookin’ to buy your place near Turkey Crick. He aren’t from ‘round here, but I reckon he’s OK. He’s been tellin’ us all about where he come from. He says everyone was wearin' masks, even in the bank. Some still do. Imagine that? They don't ride horses, and they talk into machines, like’n the telegraph, but they can see the other feller. We don't rightly understand it. He sez men can become wimmin.’ It don't rightly make no sense, but he sez that the way it be. He's saying on many a day, people sleep til high noon and stare at things that look like winders with people in em, and they never leave their houses much. They just watch people do things, and we're in them winders, too. Me an’ you an' Matthew an' Kitty and Sam. It doesn't make any gosh darn sense. My brain’s a sizzlin’ conjugatin’ it.

Me too, I think. I didn’t even bring up all the double-dealin’ con artists and forked-tongue politicians and industrialists.

Gosh dang, it, Festus, can you give me a minute? I just walked in. What in tarnation are you talking about, asks Doc?

This here feller, he’ll splain it, you crotchety ol’ coot. Lordy, you are cantankerous… Festus exits the shot, mumbling. I’ve seen it a million times.

Doc rubs his chin and shakes my hand. He smells like cigar smoke and herbs.

Come by the office in the morning, and we’ll talk. I’m whupped.

Streaks’ on Doc, Kitty offers from behind the bar.

I bought that place around the bend from Turkey Crick. It's a little homestead where the road bends wide, a mile from a big Poplar stand, about three miles from town. Doc and I settled on three hundred dollars. He threw in a bottle of laudanum to boot.

Come see me and sit a spell if you're ever out this way. There's a rockin' chair waitin' on you. We can whittle a might, have a pour or two of the corn, and listen to the grass grow. You'll know when you made it to the right place when you see the peaceable feller wearin' a black hat trimmed with satin and a feather for emphasis.

Your cell phone goes into the outhouse, just so you know.

Imagine that.