Chapter One
The musk of sage offset by the scent of sweetgrass and violets blooming in moist earth warmed by the sun enveloped the marshal like a fragrant coverlet, tempering his disappointment at losing the cattle rustlers. Matt turned his horse homeward to Dodge when the rustlers crossed the border. His jurisdiction ended at the Kansas line; he'd send a wire to the U.S. marshal in Oklahoma Territory.
The five-year-old horse plodded, head drooping. The grayish brown shade of cottonwood bark, she was eighteen hands high, large boned and muscled. Though she carried the marshal's weight easily, she galloped slowly, and Matt knew soon after leaving Dodge he had little chance of catching the thieves.
He stroked her damp coat under the overgrown mane. "Almost home," he said. "Your hair needs trimming." Matt figured Big Lady had seen hard days despite her youth. Buck would have tracked faster, but he was resting at Grimmick's livery after a hard chase to capture a robber known as the lone highwayman, now safely imprisoned at Lansing Pen.
Dodge bustled under the mild morning sun in preparation for the scorching days when no one could do much of anything. Dust drifted around the marshal as he rode, and he heard wagon wheels turning. Big Lady raised her head and pricked her ears as she walked onto Front Street. Already dry following yesterday's rain, the dirt was yet soft, pocked from stage, wagon, carriage and buggy wheels, and horses' hooves. The mare turned toward the livery, stretched out her neck and snuffled. Moss stood by the trough, pumping it full.
When Lady stepped in the hole too small for her thick right foreleg, the marshal felt the slight jolt and knew he and the mare were in trouble. She whinnied shrilly, flailing , and Matt was thrown off, his head hitting a rock. The mare pulled free from the hole and danced a few feet away, holding her leg off the ground. Matt lay unmoving, his head turned to the side on the rock.
Moss ran to the marshal, got down on his knees beside him, and lay his hand on Matt's back. Blood seeped from Matt's head, dripping over the rock into the dirt.
A wagon stopped next to them, and two ranch hands jumped down. "You know where Doc's is?" Moss said, his hand still on Matt's back. The cowboys nodded. "Can you fellas get him in the wagon, ride 'im over there?"
"Surely," said the bigger man. "Don't know 'bout the stairs, though."
Moss stood, squinting at the men on horseback and the foot traffic on Front Street. "Here you, sir!," he yelled, waving at a broad-shouldered young man in a fancy suit. "Lend a hand, please!" The young man ran over to them.
"Can you go with this feller here, help put this man in the wagon and get 'im up the stairs to the doc's?," said Moss. "He's our marshal."
"Your marshal," the young fellow said. "I'll be."
"Hurry, hurry," said Moss, taking hold of the mare's bridle. "Know where the marshal's office is?" he said to the smaller ranch hand. The man nodded. "Fella what works for him should be there," said Moss. "Chester."
"Sure, sure," said the cowboy. "I seen 'im around."
"Tell 'im the marshal's bad hurt and he's to go to Doc's straightaway," Moss said.
"You got it." The cowboy pulled down his hat and ran.
"You take his feet there," the young man said. He rolled Matt onto his back and lifted his shoulders while the other cowboy picked up his legs.
"Careful," Moss said.
They laid Matt in the wagon bed, and the cowboy climbed to the seat with the young man beside him. "Go easy," said Moss. "Don't jostle 'im."
"I'll try," said the cowboy. "Road's rutted."
Chester was sitting in front of the marshal's office when the man ran up to him. "You're Chester," the cowpoke said.
"Last I heard," said Chester. "You're—"
"Marshal Dillon's bad hurt," the man blurted. "Ole Grimmick says you go to Doc's straightaway!"
Chester clutched the chair arms as he rose. "Good heavens," he said. "What . . . is he shot?"
"No. Horse stepped in a hole in front of the livery. He was throwed off. Hit his head on a rock."
"Oh my goodness," said Chester. He turned toward Doc's office, then hesitated. "Miss Kitty," he said.
"You go on," the cowpoke said. "I'll let her know."
"Thank . . . thank you."
"You got it."
People moving in both directions crowded the walk. Chester stepped into the dirt out of the way of the horses and wagons and hurried to Doc's, where two men carrying Matt between them neared the top of the stairs. Chester started climbing the stairs as one of the men hallooed through the door.
Doc opened the door, then swung it wide. "Put him on the table, over here," he said. "What happened?"
"Horse throwed 'im and he hit his head on a rock," the cowboy said. The men left, passing Chester coming in.
Doc lifted Matt's eyelids, listened to his heart, then turned his head to inspect the wound. The marshal's face was chalky gray.
"Is Mr. Dillon dead?" said Chester.
"No Chester, he's not dead. Hurt mighty bad, though. Gash goes through to the bone. I'll have to stitch it."
"Can I help?" said Chester.
The door opened and Kitty entered. "Good," said Doc. "I might need you both." Kitty moved to the table. "Don't touch his head," Doc said as her hand moved reflexively to Matt's hair. "He has a bad head wound."
"Was he shot?" said Kitty.
"Horse threw 'im," said Doc. "Split his scalp open on a rock."
"He was home," Chester said. "His horse stepped in a hole out front the livery."
Dodge knew by midday that Marshal Dillon was comatose, and Doc couldn't say when he'd awaken, if ever. Nourished by a rubber feeding tube, his face blank and colorless as the sheet he lay on, Matt lay motionless and silent, growing thinner.
Chester had never written a telegram to the U.S. Marshals Service in Washington DC. He asked Doc to write the missive, took it to the telegraph office, and six days later the telegrapher handed him a small sheet of notepaper. He held the paper unfolded as he hurried to Doc's, entered the office on the tips of his boots, and quietly closed the door.
Doc and Kitty sat in the room where the marshal lay in bed. "The wire come, Doc," Chester said in a near whisper. He waved the paper and haltingly read, "U.S. Marshal Nathaniel Jordan and daughter Miss Belinda Jordan arriving Dodge 3:30 p.m. train Thursday on day 19 June."
"Well," said Doc, "That's it, then. Dodge will have a new marshal."
Not responding to Chester's entrance or his news, Kitty gazed fixedly at Matt. "How long can he live like that," she said. "How do we know he's not suffering."
"He's not suffering," said Doc. "It'd show on his face if he was. As to how long he's got . . . I have no answer, Kitty. Days . . . or two, three months, maybe. He still has a chance if he wakes up . . . but will he be able to walk, talk, eat even? We just don't know."
Kitty sighed.
"Well . . . ." said Doc. "We both of us could use some lunch and fresh air, Kitty. We've been in here all morning."
"I'm not hungry," Kitty said.
"Well I am," said Doc. "And . . . I need company to lunch. I'm too distressed to eat alone."
"Why, Doc." Kitty turned her gaze from Matt and looked with concern at Doc.
"Aw, Doc, you're not distressed at all," said Chester. "Don't you fret 'bout Doc, Miss Kitty. Doc knows he's never distressed." A shade of a smile crossed Kitty's face.
"I'm the only one in this town not allowed to have feelings, is that it?" said Doc. "I guess I know if I'm distressed or not."
"Now Doc," said Chester.
"You just stay here with Matt while Kitty and I get some lunch," said Doc. "We'll bring you something back."
"Alright." Chester took Kitty's chair close to the bedside, pulled a penny melodrama out of his pants pocket, and was deeply engrossed with the small book in front of his face when he heard Matt groan. Chester lowered his book. Matt groaned again and sucked at his dry lips, frowning. As Chester watched, the marshal made a choking noise, distorted his features, and abruptly pulled out his feeding tube. His eyes blinked open, focused and clear.
Chester slowly stood and moved his face into Matt's vision. "Mr. Dillon?" he said softly.
Matt swallowed, opened his mouth to say something, and started coughing. Chester filled a cup from the water pitcher, lifted Matt's head, and put the cup to his lips. Matt drank thirstily, draining the cup. "Thanks," he said.
"You can talk!" said Chester, smiling.
"Course I can talk." Matt smiled back at him. "Seems I should know you," the marshal said. "You look mighty familiar."
The words aroused no consternation in his partner. Mr. Dillon was awake and talking and drinking water, and Chester felt light as feather-down on the breeze. They could make their acquaintance over fresh if need be.
The marshal looked somehow much younger than before the accident, younger even than when Chester first met him. Matt's face appeared smoother, his features had softer curves and his eyes were more open and expressive. His hair tumbled in curly waves over the bandage.
"It's Chester," Chester said.
"Chester," said Matt, his brows furrowing. "Heard the name . . . . I can't place where I know you from."
Then his partner did something he'd never done before the accident, no matter how sick or injured or heartsore the marshal might be. "You rest easy," Chester said, and patted Matt's forehead. "We'll get to know each other again."
"The name's Matt," Matt said.
"Yessir. Matt Dillon."
Matt's frown deepened in confusion. "Why couldn't I remember it?" he said. "My last name. I can't remember anything."
"I heard tell of it happenin', Mr. Dillon," said Chester. "Folks what gets a bad head injury like you did, lose their remembrances for a spell. It'll come back to you though."
Matt touched his head and felt the bandage. "I hit my head?"
"Your horse stepped in a hole and threw you. You busted your head terrible on a rock. Doc had to sew you up."
The marshal looked intently at his partner, started to sit up, and grimaced, stiff in his bones and achy. Chester helped him sit. Chester's presence, his soft drawl and way of talking, had a soothing effect on Matt. "We good friends?" Matt asked.
"Yessir. We are."
"What's your last name, Chester?"
"Goode."
"Chester Goode," Matt said thoughtfully.
"Your head ache any, Mr. Dillon?"
"Just one spot hurts a little on the scalp. Must be where I hit the rock. The doc did a good job.
"We're such good friends, why don't you call me Matt?"
"You're a United States marshal," said Chester. "I work for you."
"A marshal." Matt laughed, loud and easy. Chester stared, then smiled. He'd never heard Matt laugh like that. "You gotta be mistakin' me for someone else, friend Goode. I can't imagine havin' to shoot— . I did though, in the war," Matt said, sobering. "I remember that."
The door to the office opened. "That'll be Doc and Miss Kitty," Chester said. He hurried into the front room and met them coming in. "Doc, he's awake!" Chester said. "Mr. Dillon's awake! He's settin' up talkin' and laughin', and drinkin' water!"
Kitty ran to the back room. Doc pushed a covered plate into Chester's hands and followed her.
"Matt!" Kitty said. She climbed on the bed on her knees and hugged him, pressing her face into his neck.
Matt returned her hug. He couldn't remember who she was, but he liked holding her.
Kitty took his face in her hands, looked into his eyes, and kissed him. He eagerly reciprocated. She was beautiful. Kitty sat back on her heels on the bed and studied his face. "You look different," she said. "Matt. You look so much younger."
"Are we married?" he asked, smiling.
She thought at first he was joking, then frowned at his questioning look. Kitty put a hand on either side of his head, gently rubbing his hair.
"You're so pretty," he said in a wondering tone.
"He don't remember us, Miss Kitty," said Chester around a mouthful of roast chicken.
"Do you know who I am, Matt?" said Doc. "Kitty." Doc motioned her off the bed.
"Chester says you're the doc," said Matt. "You did a good job on my head here; I feel fine. I'm powerful hungry , though."
"Oh Doc," said Kitty. "He doesn't remember. Oh, Matt."
"Your name's Kitty and you're mighty pretty," said Matt. "Pretty Kitty." She covered her mouth and made a mewling sound between laughter and tears. "It's alright, honey," said Matt. "I'm fine."
"Don't fret, Miss Kitty," said Chester, digging into the mashed potatoes on his plate. "He laughs and talks easy like that since he woke up."
"Here, let's take a look at you here," said Doc. He listened to Matt's heart and peered into his eyes. "You're sound enough," Doc said. "Too skinny, though. Where's your feeding tube? Chester, you weren't to remove that."
"I didn't, Doc. Honest."
"Is that what that thing was?" said Matt. "I was dreamin' a snake crawled into my belly and I pulled it loose."
"I'll bring you some stew," said Kitty.
"I'd rather have what Chester's eatin'."
"I'll fetch you some, Mr. Dillon," said Chester, wiping his mouth. "You don't need to give me any money for it, Doc. They'll fix it up for free when I tell 'em down to Delmonico's Mr. Dillon's awake."
Doc sat on the edge of the bed and regarded Matt seriously. "You're very lucky, Matt," he said. "You'll make a complete recovery physically, but you have amnesia. You'll have to relearn who you are, what you do, get reacquainted with the people you know."
"I presume you have another name besides Doc."
"My name's Galen Adams. This is Kitty Russell."
"Where is this place?"
"This is Dodge," said Doc.
"Uh-huh. Well, my friend Chester's mistaken about one thing. I know sure I'm no confounded United States marshal."
"No Matt," Doc said quietly, "Chester's right. You're our marshal. Here in Dodge."
"Well, Doc, if I was, I'm not anymore. I hate the thought of shooting and killing people. I had to in the war and it sticks with me. Those memories I wish I could forget."
"You do whatever you want to, Matt," said Kitty. "It's your right. You quit bein' a lawman once and Chester talked you back into it. Don't let him do that again if it's not what you want."