The Only Man I Can Trust

Chapter 1

Chester Goode sat in the meager shade offered by a pair of soapberry trees growing along the bank of a creek, which would eventually flow into the Arkansas River. He was about thirty-five miles northeast of Dodge City, and was watching a small piece of cork bobbing on the water. The bobber, in turn, was connected to a fish-hook. Chester had visited this quiet fishing hole only once before, and that time he had been with Mr. Dillon. Now it was a little different; he was all alone. He'd been here since last night and when morning came, he decided that a little fishing was in order to help pass the time, while he waited. That little piece of cork, however, was not where his mind was focused.

The purpose of his visit to this isolated place was still a mystery. He had received a telegram from his boss, Mr. Dillon, the United States Marshal for the State of Kansas, asking him to be here, at least that is what he thought it meant. The request seemed a little strange, but Chester had such a high regard for Mr. Dillon, that he had done exactly what the telegram had asked, without thinking twice about it.

It had been a week or more since the marshal had left for Great Bend, Kansas. He had received word that the bodies of the local Sheriff and his deputy had been found in an alley somewhere on the western edge of town. The only additional piece of information was that both had been shot in the back. Chester himself had got Mr. Dillon's horse saddled and brought it up to the office. He had even volunteered to go along, but Dillon had told him he'd rather have someone stay and keep an eye on the town, because as he'd said several times before, Chester was the only man in Dodge, apart from Doc, he could really trust.

Another hour had passed and still no sign of Dillon. Chester waited patiently as the sun passed its zenith and began to descend towards the western horizon. The shadows cast by the sinking rays were the only things that seemed to be moving at all. Even the river was barely flowing now, and the air was completely still. Finally, he got up from the saddle-blanket where he had been sitting, stretched, and led his horse towards the water to drink. As he stood there he looked around wondering how much longer he should wait and hoping that nothing bad had happened to the man he idolized.

The telegram had been somewhat vague but hinted that he should not tell anyone where he was going, nor bring anyone with him. For Chester that had been a problem because he always had difficulty fabricating a story. By leaving town as the first streaks of daylight appeared, he had hoped to sneak away without anyone noticing. He'd walked to the stable without seeing a soul, then quietly tacked up his horse. He was just about to walk outside when Doc Adams pulled up in his buggy. He was more than surprised to see Chester who was not known for enjoying the first light of day, unless a free breakfast was involved.

Doc had been out in the country with a family whose youngest child had developed a severe case of the croup. Just before dawn the youngster had turned the corner and started to make a rapid recovery. Gratefully, Adams had left the home and driven his buggy back to Dodge where he hoped to catch up on a few hours sleep before starting a new day of making rounds on sick patients.

"You must be getting home awful late, Chester, because I know you'd never be up this early."

"Well, Doc, for yer information, I was plannin to go do a little fishin, so y' jest mind yer own business."

Chester was all ready for the onslaught of questions and barbs that Doc usually threw at him, but the physician had endured a pretty rough night and his heart was not up to such an altercation. Adams scrubbed his mustache with the palm of his left hand and waved the marshal's assistant on his way.

"Just don't you get lost, Chester, and don't you be gone too long. You know Matt asked you to keep am eye on the town for him, while he was gone."

"I know exactly what Mr. Dillon asked me to do," the jailer answered somewhat angrily. He swung up into the saddle then reached down quickly to push the stirrup onto his right foot. "You just mind your doctoring business, and I'll watch out fer Mr. Dillon."

Sometimes Doc's arguing made him really angry inside. It seemed like the older man was trying to belittle him, just like other folks used to do. But then sometimes, all unexpected like, the doctor would take him to Delmonico's and buy him breakfast or lunch, so in a way that kinda made up for it. Chester decided that Doc treated most people like that, not just him. Maybe it was how he remained apart from everyone, after all the man didn't seem to have any close friends except for Mr. Dillon and Miss Kitty.

He spurred his horse onto the street, and quickly headed out of town before the crotchety physician thought of any more comments.

That had all taken place early yesterday morning. Now it was almost dark again, and still no sign of the marshal. Chester had made a small campsite close to the river and prepared to settle down for the second night. He didn't intend to sleep, just incase his boss showed up and needed him. He owed a lot to Mr. Dillon.

Chester remembered the day he had watched the big man ride into Dodge City. He himself, had never had much in the way of a regular job since he had been a cook in the army. No one seemed to think he was capable of much because of his stiff leg. Moss Grimmick let him help out at the livery stable, from time to time, in exchange for allowing him to sleep in the hayloft. He usually fetched Dr. Adams' mail for him, and sometimes did odd jobs for other people in the town, which earned him a little spending money. Mostly, however, he was broke without even a nickel in his pocket. If it hadn't been for Moss and a few other people, he would have had a tough time keeping body and soul together.

Dodge had been a pretty rough town in those early days. At one time there had been a law officer there - or so people said - but that had been long before he arrived. The endless number of saloons, crooked gamblers, and Texas cowboys meant that every night gunshots rang out more times than you could count. When morning came, there were bodies waiting in the street to be picked up. It happened so often that Boot Hill was becoming more populated than the town itself. Chester would often go help bury those who had succumbed during the night, and earned a little money for his services. Strange, he thought, how in that way the dead were helping the living.

Chester was no small man, standing at least a couple of inches over six foot, but when the tall man on the buckskin horse rode into Moss Grimmick's stable that morning, he remembered feeling quite small. A man that tall could have been intimidating to a man with a stiff leg, who never carried a gun, but the stranger's face had an easy grin as he removed his hat and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

"I need someone to take care of my horse," he said. "We've both had kind of a long ride."

"I kin take care of him for you, Mister…." He waited for a name.

"Dillon," supplied the man.

"Chester Goode," Chester answered. "I kin rub him down an feed him fer you too, if ya' like."

The man started to loosen the girth from around his horse. Chester was about to tell hm he would be happy to do that and clean his tack as well - anything to earn a quarter or two. Then as the man moved around the animal, Chester caught sight of the piece of metal pinned to his shirt.

"You a lawman?" Chester's question was more surprise than anything else. A lawman was not someone he expected to see in this excuse for a town.

"United States Marshal," the man called Dillon replied casually. "I'm going to be based here in Dodge City."

"We ain't had a lawman here in a coon's age, Marshal. Don't reckon folks will take too kindly to the law coming to Dodge."

"I'm here anyway. I passed by the jail as I rode into town. Looks like it could do with some cleaning and repair. You know anyone who'd be interested in a job?"

Chester's face lit up. "I'd be more'n happy to do that if ya like, Marshal. I only work here at the stable kinda part time. Soon as I git yer horse took care of, I kin get started with whatever it is ya need done at the jail." Chester was hopping from foot to foot. He could hardly contain his excitement over the possibility of some steady work for a while. More than that he couldn't wait to spread the news to the rest of the town.

The lawman seemed to be pleased with the idea. Chester didn't think he'd noticed his stiff leg yet, or the fact that he didn't wear a gun. He was used to people assuming he was a useless cripple and just hoped the marshal wouldn't throw him out the minute he saw that he only had one good leg.

Chester positioned his saddle as a backrest and made himself as comfortable as he could, considering his bed was the hard ground. He never cared much for sleeping rough. He had done it often enough during the five or six years he had worked for Mr. Dillon. The marshal seemed to enjoy being out here on the prairie, sleeping under the stars and heating coffee over a wood fire. Chester could never really get his leg easy when sleeping or sitting on the ground - of course he would never admit that to anyone, especially Mr. Dillon.

The small fire he had lit was dying down to just a few embers. He threw another piece of wood on it, then watched as small sparks jumped up and hung briefly in the air above the flames, like the fireflies he had collected as a kid. He didn't want a big fire, just something that would keep water hot for coffee and maybe scare off any interested coyotes. At the thought of coyotes, he reached over to check that his rifle was near to hand and loaded just in case he needed to use it. Chester was quite able to take care of himself if he had to - but he had to admit to feeling a lot safer when Mr. Dillon was around.

Chester's thoughts went back to that morning when he had first met Matt Dillon. He finished taking care of the big buckskin horse, then hurried along with his part hop, part running gait, to the new marshal's office. The place had been locked up for years, so it was not surprising that there was dust, dirt, and spiders webs covering everything. A rusty old iron cot ran along beside one wall and a shelf hung above it. Other than that, there was a desk with a chair set behind it, and then a safe between it and the oldest stove he had ever seen. Two chairs, an old wooden filing cabinet, a small table, and a washstand completed the furnishings. Dillon had handed him some coins and told him to go along to the mercantile to buy a bucket and mop, and other cleaning supplies.

It had taken them three days to get the place cleaned up and repaired. All in all, it was a week before it was respectable enough to hang the new sign out front, proclaiming this to be the office of the United States Marshal in Dodge City.

Strangely enough, Chester felt a pride of his own in that sign. This was, for the first time in his life, something he began to feel part of. He had watched Dillon in action a few times since the tall man had arrived in town. He had seen him stop a fight in the Lady Gay Saloon using a backhanded slap across the chin of the loud-mouthed instigator. He had also watched him disperse a crowd of cowboys intent on lynching a gambler they thought had been cheating. Finally, he had seen the marshal outdraw a gunman right there on Front Street. It had been an experience that Chester would never forget. The gunslinger was fast - but Dillon was even faster and more accurate, so in the end, only the stranger lay dead on the ground. When it was all over, Chester discovered he had been holding his breath during that entire confrontation.

The new marshal made a big impression on Chester, even in the short time he had known him. Chester realized he would never become an official deputy and wear a badge an' all, but in a way that was all right. He was happy to be the assistant and the jailer. He would always have a place to sleep, eight dollars a month pay, and a lot of times a free meal too. That wasn't much, but it was better than what he had before Dillon came to town.

The marshal had never commented on his stiff leg or made any allowances because of it. He just accepted the man as he was. In return, Chester did everything he could to make the marshal's life easier. He made the coffee, watched any prisoners and saw that they got fed. He also kept the office reasonably clean and tidy - he found that Mr. Dillon liked to have things organized and didn't like the office or the cells getting dirty or cluttered. He had Chester make a peg by the door to the cells where the jail keys could hang, and another peg below it for his gun belt. By the front door, he wanted a peg for his stetson - and Chester took it upon himself to install a second peg just a little lower down for his own hat.

He smiled to himself as he remembered those early days. Dillon had never said anything about that second peg - but it sure meant a lot to Chester.

It was completely dark now. Chester got up one more time to check on his horse then settled down for the night. For a moment or two his mind wandered back to the telegram. He took it from his pants pocket where he had stuffed it, and read it again by the light of the fading campfire. He hoped he was understanding Mr. Dillon's instructions correctly, and wondered if maybe this had something to do with the murdered sheriff. He didn't know how long he should wait for his boss to show up, but maybe tomorrow would bring some answers. He read the words again, they hadn't changed:

Meet me tomorrow at fishing hole we found last year. Big catfish. Bring gear and come alone. MD

He wasn't sure what fishing had to do with the murdered sheriff, but this was the place where he had caught that giant catfish about eight or nine months ago. He and the marshal had been trailing a pair of bank robbers and had camped overnight on this very spot. Chester had barely dropped the hook in the water when the fish took it. They had dined well that night, and he smiled at the memory. Next morning they had caught up with the men just a few miles across the river. There had been a quick gunfight, and both robbers finished up dead. He and the marshal buried them both, then headed back to Dodge with the stolen money.

Doc had never believed his story about the big catfish.

TBC