FRIEND CHESTER

by Shellecah

Sometimes it takes a hard night to appreciate a friend.

Matt pulled the special-deputy badge out of Chester's grasp as his partner vigorously polished the tin to a glassy sheen.

Chester gazed woefully at the badge. "I can handle them drovers, Mr. Dillon," he said, his voice thick with reproach.

"Chester, we went over this. Tate Judd will be here soon. I expect you to cooperate with him."

Dirt billowed through the windows as two thousand head of cattle driven by the notoriously wild outfit up from Fort Griffin, Texas neared Dodge.

"I sure could use another doctor in this town about now," Doc said. Coffee cup in hand, he looked pensively out the window. "I surely could."

Chester joined Doc at the window, and Matt hoped the promise of excitement borne on swirling dust clouds would make his friend forget how much he wanted to wear the badge. The marshal expected to throw most every cowpoke in jail before midnight, and despite Chester's steady hand with a gun, Matt needed a fast draw and a man strong with his fists. Tate Judd was both; Chester, neither. Doc said Chester was still a touch fevered and could only set for short spells in the hot sun, and Matt mustn't send his partner fishing when the trail hands invaded Dodge.

"That Tate Judd's a comin' down the street. You see 'im, Doc?" said Chester.

"I see 'im."

"I'd like to call that Tate Judd out some time."

"What kind of talk is that?" said Matt. "I said be civil to him."

"He's here," said Doc.

Tate Judd though not huge had a vital presence that dominated any room he entered. A stocky muscled man, he was some two inches shorter than Chester, and in Matt's estimation, twice as wide.

"Mornin', Marshal. Doc," said Tate.

"Tate."

"Howdy, friend," Tate said to Chester, who waved as though swatting a mosquito.

"They're come, Marshal," Tate said, pinning the deputy badge on his vest. "Down to the pens. We gonna meet 'em, show 'em the law in Dodge?"

"Just long enough to let 'em see we're here, Tate. I'll have a word with the ramrod."

"You coming, friend?" Judd grinned at Chester. "Think you'd have some work here in the office."

Matt didn't fret how Chester would take the gibe. Though chatty with those he liked and trusted, Chester was a placid sort who tended to shun forceful men. Riled betimes, his own feelings wearied him and he doused as quickly as he torched.

"Yeah well," Chester said, and walked through the door ahead of the other men.

Doc gave Judd a probing, inscrutable look as they left the marshal's office.

"Put your hat on, Chester," Doc ordered, noticing Chester's straight hair plastered to his head like a dark wet cap. "Sun makes the fever worse."

"Oh quit your fussin, Doc." Chester slapped his hat on.

"Why're you comin', Doc?" said Matt.

"I'm taking a constitutional with my friend Chester here."

"Aw now Doc," Chester said.

Tate laughed, then complained, "Dadburn dust," rubbing his big palms over wide cheekbones. "I'm unfit to be seen." Framed by tight sandy curls, Judd's clean-hued face with its snub nose, square jaw and vivid eyes—though neither dude fine or ruggedly handsome—was nonetheless appealing to men and women alike.

Scowling, Chester thought how Judd's bothersome loud voice made his head ache, and his anticipation of the cattle drive wafted away on the dust. He felt of a sudden too wore down to face noise and smells and loco cowboys.

"Mr. Dillon, I sure could use a cold beer if you can spare me. I'm a mite swimmy-headed," Chester said, eliciting a sharp look from Doc.

"Take him for a beer, will you, Doc?"

"Alright. Come on, Chester."

A brooding look shaded Tate's perpetually smiling face as he watched them walk toward the Long Branch. He kicked a rock in his path. "I'm kinda jealous to be honest, Marshal," he said.

The distant crack of a gunshot accompanied by howling laughter and the bawling of cattle drifted through the dirty air. The image of a mad asylum flitted briefly through Matt's mind.

"I'm steamed at you not hiring me on regular in Chester's place. Been wantin' to work for you since I come to Dodge."

Matt hooked his thumbs in his belt and loomed over Tate. "Listen, Judd," the marshal said. "We got no time for this. Get your head on straight or take off that badge now."

Tate's mouth dropped open, his eyes widening. "Who'd help you keep them drovers from trampling this town into the dirt? Chester? Hah!"

"He did the job in worse situations."

Tate snorted. "You know he's no lawman, Marshal. He's just a soft crippled stray what you can't figger how to get shet of."

"I told him to get along with you," Matt said calmly. "You say anything like that to him, and I'll get shet of you before the job starts. All the pay you'll get is a bloody lip."

"Alright, alright. I won't say it to him."

Night descended on Dodge like a bedroll soaked in hot springs. Tate muscled a man down the walk toward the marshal's office, holding the man's arms behind his back. "For shame," Tate scolded as the man struggled. "Trail boss oughta set the example."

"You shut up!" the man yelled drunkenly. "Let go! Your arms is like rocks."

Tate looked through the office window. "Open the door, Chester. This here's the ramrod me and the marshal met today."

"I told that marshal and I'm telling you," the trail boss slurred, "I don't pay heed to no lawman, no matter how big he is."

"The jail cells are full," said Chester.

"Get a gun and unlock the near one," Tate said. "I'll handle it."

They heard gunshots outside, men shouting and drunken laughter like mules braying. Every saloon piano in Dodge played. Smoke mixed with dirt blew in the window. Chester worried about Mr. Dillon out there by himself. "You best get back outside, Tate," Chester said. "I got things took care of in here."

Two men fought in one jail cell as another shook the bars, while the five men in the other cell brawled and wrestled, randomly swinging. They whooped and hollered unceasingly.

"Well . . . ." Tate said doubtfully, swiping sweat from his forehead. "They can't get out long as the bars is locked."

"They'll hurt theirselves, though," Chester said dispassionately. "Reckon they'll need Doc afore mornin'."

Tate put his hands in his pockets, planted his boots apart, and smiled at Chester. "You look like an owl with them circles round your eyes, friend," Tate said. "Your color's high, too. Get some sleep. Them varmints aint goin' nowhere."

"Sleep," said Chester.

Tate laughed. "Might be kinda hard to do at that. Tell you what. Lay yourself down a spell and I'll fetch us a bottle. Whiskey will set you straight."

"For heaven sakes, Tate. Mr. Dillon won't want us drinkin" with them fellas in there a fightin' and carryin' on."

"He won't want you faintin' away either. Now you come on." Tate took Chester by the shoulders, moved him to the bed, and pushed him down. "There you go. I'll be back with that bottle in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

"No. You just go help . . . ." Chester's mouth opened wide in a yawn. "Help Mr. . . . Dillon . . . ." Chester's eyes closed.

"That's the way, friend," Tate said. "Maybe we won't need that bottle." The idea had come on him sudden like at sight of Chester's peaked face. Tate would turn the cowpokes loose and tell the marshal the cells were empty and the key on the floor inside the bars when Tate came back to the office. Dillon just might believe Chester dropped the key and was too fevered to see it was no longer on its hook. Tate would say the drovers must've found the dropped key, collected their guns and escaped as Chester slept. Then maybe the marshal would realize how much he needed Tate as regular deputy.

Tate drew his gun and moved to the cell where the trail boss stood against the bars. "Ramrod," he said, "You and them critters of yourn is goin' free. Be quiet about it. You want your guns, stand by the door and keep still. First man tries anything funny gets drilled full of holes." He smiled and touched a finger to his lips. "Shhh. Don't wake the jail-keep. He ain't feelin' good."

Chester, his face slack and peaceful, didn't stir as the men shuffled by. Two of them had shot fellow trail hands, though the wounds weren't serious. "No harm done," Tate said in a low voice. "No harm done at all."

The last man to leave, the trail boss stopped in the doorway. "Name's Sy Clevenger," he said. He had a proud brown face and glinting eyes. Tate motioned him out the door, joining him on the walk. The freed cowboys scuttled away in all directions.

Clevenger swayed drunkenly as Tate closed the door. "Whasss . . . your name?" said the trail boss, thrusting his face close to Tate's.

Tate grimaced. "Tate Judd. Get on out of here. You stink."

"Wanna sign on wisss my outfit?"

"Heavens no. Git."

"Hmmph." Clevenger jerked his chin at Tate and stumbled away.

The marshal was coming. Dillon was a shadowy form in the darkness, but Tate knew who he was. No one in Dodge had Dillon's measured step or growed up height.

"Marshal."

"Tate," Matt said.

Tate stepped aside and opened the door to let Matt enter first. "They escaped, Marshal," Tate said, breathing hard.

"What?" Matt glanced at his sleeping partner, then looked at Judd.

"Chester went to sleep and they got away when I was out. Looks like he forgot and dropped the key inside the bars."

After staring a long moment at Judd, Matt shook Chester's shoulder. "Chester, wake up. Chester!"

Chester's eyes slitted open. "Mr. Dillon," he said groggily, and his eyes drooped closed.

"Come on, get up." Matt pulled him upright.

Sitting in his bed, Chester leaned his head against the wall, squeezed his eyes shut and yawned.

Matt sat on the edge of the bed. "The drovers we locked up escaped," he said. "Tate says you dropped the key and they got hold of it."

"Huh?" said Chester, his brown eyes guileless and humble.

"Well what happened?" said Matt.

"I never did lose that key afore no matter how poorly I was feelin'," Chester said quietly. "You know I never done that ever, Mr. Dillon."

"You were powerful tired," said Judd. "You forgot is all."

Chester's gaze stayed fixed on Matt. "He done it. He turned 'em loose whilst I was sleepin', the liar," Chester said with righteous conviction. He slowly stood up, facing Judd.

Unsure what to do next, Matt quickly rose and stood between them. Much as he liked his friend, Matt felt at times less than easy with him. Matt understood men like Doc, and men like Judd; but about Chester there was a peculiar gentility of person and manner. Chester's tender feelings, quaint speech and soft drawl, and the agile yet careful way he walked on the lame leg, made a body think he needed protecting.

"Pardon me, Mr. Dillon." Chester stepped around Matt, and with a swift movement ripped the badge off Judd's vest, leaving a jagged hole.

"Look what he done, Marshal!" Tate yelled. "Jest look!"

"You're a fool, Judd," Matt said. "Those cowboys shot two men and they're still raging drunk."

"Fellas they shot aint died," said Judd.

"No thanks to you," said Chester.

"Get out," Matt said to Tate. "You're through."

Tate took off his hat and scrubbed a callused palm through his rough curls. "Uh, get out of Dodge?"

Matt didn't answer.

"He means you're not a deputy no more," Chester said. "He'll let ya stay in town if you want to."

"Thanks for makin' it clear, friend," Judd sneered at Chester. "And you," Judd said to Matt. "I'd ruther bust sod than work for you anyway. Gonna go buy my gal at the Long Branch a drink." Tate stomped out the door and slammed it.

"I owe you an apology, Chester," Matt said. "You were right about him."

"Don't you think on it, Mr. Dillon. He's jest full of mischief and bluster. We need to catch them cowboys and lock 'em up again?"

"They'll be heading back to Texas soon," said Matt. "The law there can deal with 'em. I'll tell 'em to get out of town tonight if I see 'em."

"Oh." Chester nodded, gravely considering what the marshal said. "Town's awful quiet a sudden. Reckon them cowboys wore theirselves plumb out."

"Either that or they all killed each other."

Chester frowned. "No, they aint that loco, Mr. Dillon."

Matt shook his head. It was worrisome how Chester took everything literally.

"Think I'll take a walk; clear my head," said Chester. "I'll feel some better if I see Miss Kitty."

"You saw Kitty when you went for a beer with Doc."

"Well gracious, that was hours ago." Chester put on his hat.

"I could use a beer," said Matt.

"I can take care of myself, Mr. Dillon."

"Did I say you couldn't take care of yourself? I said I need a beer."

"Yessir," Chester said, his voice hushed.

Matt clapped his friend's shoulder. "Sorry, Chester. It's a hard night."

"Yessir, it is."

The Long Branch was noisy and crowded. "There she is, Mr. Dillon. There's Miss Kitty . . . and Doc." Chester threaded his slim frame easily through the crowd in spite of his limp. Matt followed at a slower pace. Men tended to clear a path for Matt, but Chester was accustomed to walking around them.

Kitty stood in her customary place at the end of the bar. "Hello, Miss Kitty." Chester smiled and tipped his hat. "Sure is good to see you. I'm right light-headed seeing you."

Kitty smiled. "You saw me earlier today, Chester."

"Doc," said Chester.

"Chester," said Doc. "Matt."

"Hello, Kitty. Doc," Matt said. Men lined the length of the bar. Matt shouldered in beside Doc, while Chester stood next to Kitty at the end of the bar. Kitty allowed only her best friends to stand there, close to her, and Chester took full advantage of the privilege.

"Hello, Matt," said Kitty. "The three of you look tired to death. Drinks on me tonight. Sam?"

"Yes, Miss Kitty."

"Three beers on the house."

"Make mine whiskey," said Doc.

"You got it," Sam said.

"Business slowed up yet?" Matt asked Doc, swallowing half his beer in a gulp.

"My office looks like a hospital," Doc said.

"How many died, Doc?" said Chester.

"That's a morbid question."

"For heaven sakes; I was only askin' to pass the time. Drink your whiskey."

Doc downed a large mouthful and started coughing.

"Alright, Doc?" said Matt, smacking Doc's back.

Doc impatiently waved the marshal off. "Don't do that," he sputtered.

"Yonder's Louisa Sims," said Chester. "She's with that trail boss fella what Tate broke out of the jail. There'll be trouble when Judd sees 'em together."

"Louisa was at the bar with Tate a little while ago," said Kitty. "Tate said he was going out for a breath of air and would be back directly."

"You gonna tell that trail boss to leave town, Mr. Dillon?" said Chester.

"Stay here, Chester." Matt walked to the table where Sy Clevenger sat with his arms around Louisa.

"Hello, Marshal," Louisa said. Louisa Sims had large green eyes and abundant, dark wavy hair that reflected the light. She was a tall woman of plumpish form, her lips full and her face coquettish and lively.

Matt didn't see the beauty or allure that other men saw. The youngest saloon gal in town, Louisa was pretty, gregarious, and eagerly sweet on men.

"Hello, Louisa." Matt touched his hat brim. "We need to talk, Clevenger."

"We talked this mornin'," Clevenger spat.

"We'll talk again. Now." The marshal thought locking Clevenger up again to sleep it off might prove easier then forcing him to leave Dodge in the dead of night. The man was fractious from whiskey, yet his face reflected a dignified intelligence through the drunkenness, and Matt didn't want to hurt him.

"Alright, Marshal. What?"

Matt grabbed Clevenger's gun and braced himself for the usual angry reaction. The man just sat there, his narrowed eyes boring into Matt's.

When they talked about it afterward, Doc and Kitty argued that Matt had just been too tired. Chester, God bless him, said it could happen to anyone to misjudge a man, or two men well as one.

And so it happened to Matt. He misjudged Tate Judd and Sy Clevenger on the same night, and cursed himself for a bumbling fool.

Matt had never seen a drunken man move so fast. Clevenger had the reflexes of a rattlesnake. He picked up a chair and slammed it into Matt's legs, and as the marshal fell to his knees and pitched forward, Clevenger snatched Matt's holstered gun and leaped back. Louisa screamed and scurried away from the table.

"Don't move," Clevenger said. "Don't." Don't raise your head. Just drop my gun."

Flaming hot with mortification, Matt dropped the gun as the Long Branch went dead quiet. Only the piano pounded out Buffalo Gals, the rendition tinny, precise and oddly soulless. At the end of the bar, Kitty gripped Chester's arm and moved closer to him.

"Now get up," said Clevenger. "Slow like."

The marshal stood slowly. No lawman of stone visage, Matt's feelings showed starkly on his face. His pale blue eyes darkened with a haunted look, his face tightened and his teeth clenched. Sweating heavily, blood-red under the tan, he sucked in his lower lip and bit down, his expression self-loathing.

At the bar, Kitty hid her face against Chester's arm for a second, then made herself look at Matt and Clevenger again. Though watching was physically painful, looking away would be treacherous to Matt.

His eyes fixed on Matt and Clevenger, Chester wrapped his other arm around Kitty's shoulders.

Clevenger lifted his strong chiseled jaw at Matt. "Aint laughing at you," the trail boss said. "I take no pleasure in holding a man like you to shame. But you started this." Clevenger swayed a little and blinked hard, vanquishing the whiskey fog that muddled his head. "I don't wanna shoot you, Marshal," he said.

"I appreciate that," Matt said, his voice gravelly.

"I'll get out of your town. Tonight, now. Just let me leave with Miss Louisa."

"You wanna go with him, do ya?" Matt said to Louisa.

"Oh," said Louisa, flustered. She looked at Clevenger and covered her mouth with graceful plump fingers, the nails painted apple red. She thought Clevenger's face nice as a fine painting.

"Go on, honey," Clevenger said. "We talked it out right here. Tell the marshal we're goin' to San Francisco to marry."

"Hold on there, now!" Tate Judd's resonant voice filled the saloon. "Louisa's my girl, you louse!"

"Don't you move, Marshal," said Clevenger. "I aint takin' my eyes off you."

"Go on, get out, Clevenger," said Matt.

Clevenger expertly twirled the marshal's gun around his finger and thrust it at Matt, who snatched and holstered it.

"My gun?" said Clevenger, raising his brows.

"Mm-hmm." Matt hitched at his pants and squared his shoulders. "Right there," he said, inclining his head at the floor.

Clevenger hesitated. Later, when it was all over and he lay on a bed in Doc's office, he'd tell Doc the whiskey made him lose his edge, that had his head been clear, he'd never have bent to pick up his gun; and he was thinking of swearing off drink.

The marshal hit Clevenger that night, knocking him on his back as he reached for his gun on the floor. Matt picked up Clevenger's gun, squatted beside him as he lay sprawled, and slid Clevenger's gun in its holster. Leaving the trail boss on the floor, Matt stood and walked to his friends at the bar. Sam met him and thumped a beer down.

"Thanks, Sam," Matt said. He upended the mug, sloshing froth, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Matt . . . ." Still holding Chester's arm, Kitty briefly touched her palm to her chest. Chester lowered his head over hers and rubbed her back with anxious gentle motions.

"Alright, Kitty," said Matt.

"Louisa's mine, you uppity critter!" Tate Judd's voice roared through the Long Branch.

"Oh forevermore," said Chester, holding Kitty's small soft form against him. He intended to hold her until she pulled away. Holding her made him feel strong and sure.

Doc turned toward the commotion and leaned back against the bar. "Those two aren't finished yet, Matt, by gum," he said conversationally, as though the marshal's shaming at the hands of Sy Clevenger had never happened.

Good ole Doc, thought Chester fondly, stroking Kitty's arm. Just as he wondered if he dared kiss the top of her head—with Mr. Dillon standing there still riled—she frowned up at him and pulled away.

Tate and Louisa were hugging each other and staring across the saloon at Clevenger, who stood by the batwings.

Standing by Doc, Matt rested his back against the bar. "He'll leave," said Matt.

"Turn loose of her," said Clevenger. "She's comin' with me."

"Hah. She don't want you," Judd said.

Louisa glided her hand over Tate's face. "Simmer down, Tate honey," she said. "I'll find us a quiet corner table, just you and me. We have wedding plans to make." She smiled brilliantly in Sy Clevenger's direction and walked away, her movements theatrical.

Tate guffawed at Clevenger, then turned his back to follow Louisa.

When the marshal talked it out later with Chester and Doc and Kitty, he fumed over not drawing his gun, or himself calling the warning to Judd. Matt couldn't figure it through, except to say he'd worn a badge too long. When Chester said every lawman came to the end of his rope betimes, Doc said that was a fitting analogy. Chester didn't understand Doc's meaning, but Matt did, and pondered over turning in the badge.

When Clevenger drew his gun to shoot Tate Judd in the back that night, Chester heard himself shout as loud as he could shout, "Behind you, Tate!" He didn't know why he warned Tate. Maybe because Chester always had abominated the very thought of a man shooting another man in the back.

Tate whirled, drew, and shot Clevenger in the shoulder before the other man's gun cleared the holster. Clevenger fell backward, dropped his gun and sat down hard on the floor, clutching his shoulder.

"You addlepated cowpoke!" Tate yelled. "I mighta killed you!"

Matt quickly moved to Clevenger, Doc at his heels. The marshal picked up Clevenger's gun and turned to Tate. "Any more trouble out of you, Judd; I'll throw you in jail," Matt said.

"He tried to shoot me in the back, Marshal! You seen it!"

"I saw what happened alright."

"Aint you gonna put him in jail?"

"Not yet anyway," said Doc. "Help me get him up to my office, Matt?"

Matt beckoned to Chester, then wrapped his arms around Clevenger's ribs and lifted him to his feet. "Come on up to Doc's," Matt said to his partner. "I need you to guard Clevenger."

"Yessir," said Chester. "Can I get some sleep up to Doc's, Mr. Dillon?"

"You'd sleep through a twister blowing Dodge into Texas. Just put Doc's shotgun loaded where you can get to it fast."

"This man's passing out, Matt," said Doc.

Matt picked Clevenger up as his knees buckled.

"Oh friend," said Tate to Chester, who didn't notice him.

"Friend Chester," Tate said.

Chester turned to glower at Tate, who stood with his arm around Louisa.

"Thank you," Tate said.

Chester gave him a curt nod and hurried out of the Long Branch. He limped fast to catch up to Matt and Doc, thinking there was none as plaguing as that Tate Judd. That Judd made Chester feel more wore down than grave digging.

"You need help carryin' Clevenger, Mr. Dillon?"

"No. Get your breath, Chester."

"He's bleedin' somethin' terrible, Doc," Chester said.

"Course he is. He just got shot. Before I cut the bullet out of 'im, I'll give you a tonic." Doc patted Chester's arm, then lead the climb up the stairs to the doctor's office.