A Man Of His Word

a/n: This was inspired by the episode, The Favor. I don't own Gunsmoke. Wish I did:)

Chapter 1

Fog rolled around the boardwalk making walking precarious and clapboard signs difficult to read. Not that the town of Palatch was big enough to get lost in, but Callan knew that the dangers of meeting in a hole-in-the-wall saloon in a town he'd never been in on an obscure 'business' trip could be lurking around any building, any corner or door. He didn't like having his vision obstructed as well. Raucous laughter spilled into the street ahead of him as a cowboy tumbled wildly through the swinging doors. Obviously drunk, the man sprawled face down in the muddy street, boots still blocking the pathway of the boardwalk. Callan stepped over him and paused, scanning over the batwing doors before entering. This must be the place, he thought to himself.

Rough-hewn boards nailed horizontally over spaced whiskey barrels served as a bar, while several tables of the same fashion crowded the room, where a few bedraggled barmaids twisted through with trays balanced in the air, slopping beer on the customers seated below. No one seemed to mind, and it occurred to Callan that the patrons of this particular hole had probably crawled out from one. He made his way over to the bar and dropped a dime onto a cigarette burn on the surface of the plank.

"Whiskey."

The short portly little man peered up at him with blood shot eyes, the dim light reflecting off his baldhead into the dirty cracked mirror behind him. Callan was grateful for the mirror. . All bars should have mirrors behind them, a good way to watch your back.

"Ain't never seen you afore, where you from, cowboy?" the little man asked as he pushed a filled shot glass in front of him.

"South of here", was the only reply as the liquid disappeared in a gulp.

"You Troy Callan?" a man asked from the corner of the bar. Callan nodded. "Well, Mr. Callan, I'd like to buy you a drink." He nodded at the bartender who quickly refilled the now empty shot glass.

Callan moved to the stranger, assessing him as he neared. Yes, this would be Aiken. He looked uncomfortable in the saloon's filthy and not a little seedy atmosphere. Such men always did. He wore a linen suit with a burgundy satin vest; he looked more like a banker than the trail hands who'd normally do their drinking here.

Troy took the drink, might as well get something for his trouble finding the place. Mr. Aiken was about to be disappointed, he didn't hire out anymore. Just didn't have the stomach for killing—be they good or bad. But the man had promised an unusual amount of money, and out of curiosity he'd taken a side route. Tomorrow he'd be back on his way home again.

"Mr. Callan, I'm not accustomed to this type of business and don't know where to begin. So I'll be blunt. Your reputation though not widely known is that you are the best, and I need the best."

"Depends on what you mean by best." Troy drank more slowly, allowing the older man to continue.

"What I mean is, I've heard you are the fastest gun ever seen. You've also a reputation for honoring your end of the contract, and then disappearing. You're not on any wanted posters."

"I don't stick around long enough for that. But, I don't hire out no more, I reckon you've heard that too."

"That's why I'm prepared to offer you three thousand dollars."

Troy whistled under his breath. "Three thousand? You must want somebody dead pretty bad."

"I do. And you're who I need. This man's fast. Deadly fast."

"Who?"

"Matt Dillon."

"Matt Dillon. I heard of him. Big man. He's a Marshal somewhere, Kansas, ain't it?"

"Dodge City. You've never seen him?"

"Nope. Only passed through Kansas once. Never met any Marshals. I hear he's a damned good lawman. What you want to see him dead for?"

"You ask a lot of questions for a hired killer."

"I don't generally kill United States Marshals either. 'Sides, you ain't hired me yet."

"Let's just say a man with the know how could make a lot of money around Dodge. With the right man behind the badge that is."

"What you mean is, Dillon don't sell out. That's pretty admirable, you ask me."

"I hear you get paid in advance. A thousand now. The rest when the job's done."

"Pretty fair. Except I'm not taking the job. I told you I don't hire out no more."

Aiken smiled. "You think about it. Three thousand, that's a lot of money. You let me know."

"Hire somebody else."

"There ain't nobody else. I've seen Dillon shoot. You're the only one who can outdraw him. Like I said, your reputation precedes you. You let me know. Then take all the time you want. I know you work slow, take your time, find the right moment. Come back by Mr. Callan, and I'll make the down payment." Aiken laid a dollar on the bar and walked out.

Troy grinned despite himself. He's a confidant son-of-a-bitch, I'll give him that. And he'd never been offered three thousand for a job. "Troy Callan, you don't have a brain in your head", he muttered to himself as he mounted his horse and headed out of town. He could have done a lot with three thousand dollars.