Although he knew the hot spell thwarted fistfights, holdups and gunplay, the days dawned with empty jail cells and the townsfolk barely slogged through necessary work, Moss Grimmick felt a mite annoyed that Chester loafed around the livery while Moss tended to the horses, cleaned and tidied the stable.
Chester stood in a stall and leaned against a big roan gelding, resting his arms on the horse's back. Watching Moss curry Buck, Chester wondered if he'd like working as a liveryman better than jailkeeping, and idly thought about hiring on at a stable when he left Dodge. He pondered moving on a lot these days.
"You reckon Matt needs you?" said Moss.
"Been to the post and telegraph office. "Warn't nothin' for Mr. Dillon," Chester sleepily drawled. "An' it's too hot fer chorin'."
"It's never too hot for me to do chores," said Moss.
"Yeah," said Chester. "Horses always needs tendin' and cleanin' up after um. You want I should help you some, Moss?"
Holding the currycomb in one hand and Buck's tail in the other, Moss paused his grooming to look at Chester. "The way you're dragging?" said Moss. "I'll do everything before you decide what to do."
"I was spry 'nough helpin' you afore, Moss. Leastways you never complained."
"You help me fine," said Moss, "when you're not sluggish, like now." He patted Buck's rump, put away the currycomb and picked up a pitchfork.
"I guess I ain't cut out for stable work after all, maybe," Chester muttered.
"Why'd you wanna muck out stalls when you have a good job working for Matt," said Moss, vigorously raking. Straw dust filled the air, and Chester sneezed.
"Jest a notion." Chester rubbed his nose and sneezed again.
"The powder will float in here awhile," said Moss. "That little brown mare in the corner stall is skittish. Hearing the same bothersome sound too much makes her loco."
"Well, I kin take a hint, Moss, fer heaven sakes. You tired havin' me round, say so straight out."
"I'm not tired having you around," Moss said testily. "If that mare starts whinnying and stomping, she'll set 'em all off. You know how horses are that way."
"It ain't jest ma sneezin'," said Chester. "You been grumpin' me since ah come. It ain't easy 'tween you an' me like as ever'day, Moss."
"It's not this hot everyday, either," said Moss. He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and mopped his face.
"Well, I 'pologize for gettin' in yer way," said Chester. "Maybe next time I'll wait for an invitation 'fore I come callin'."
"What are you bein' so snippety about, Chester," said Moss.
"I cain't say nothin' but ah'm at fault with you today, Moss. I best leave."
"Where you going?" said Moss, unsure why he asked.
"I'll know when I get there."
Resisting an urge to call after him, Moss watched Chester limp slowly out of the stable. Better leave him alone to calm himself. Moss felt niggling guilt. Though a steadfast friend, Chester was tendersome and might stay away if his feelings were wounded, unless Moss patched things up, whereas Chester would at once happily forgive and forget. Not one to rush headlong, Moss would wait for the time to say a kindness, which was all Chester needed.
M~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Matt lunched on jerky and cold johnnycake as he wrote reports of incidents backlogged from planting season, when ruffians, cardsharps and bandits besieged Dodge City with the cattle drives. Ma Smalley was fixing a special summer midday meal with berry ice cream for dessert, and Matt told Chester that Ma wanted him to dine at her place.
Chester headed for Ma's an hour before lunch, hoping to sit in the parlor surrounded by the aromas of her cooking and drink a glass of lemonade. Ma's boarding house was fine as Dodge House, her settee and chairs upholstered with satiny padding more comfortable than the wooden chairs at the marshal's office and Long Branch, and Chester's bed with its straw and corn husk ticking.
Excepting the icehouses, every building in Dodge was warm as a steamy bath, though Ma's place was cooler than most. She'd opened the draperies and windows to let the breeze waft through her rooms, and kept the curtains closed to veil the sunlight. The smells of fried chicken and bread baking filled the house, making Chester's mouth water and his belly twist, as he'd eaten only a hunk of un-buttered johnnycake for breakfast.
Ma stood in the kitchen with her back to the doorway, dicing hardboiled eggs for potato salad. "Howdy, Ma," said Chester.
Ma turned, looking harried. "Oh Chester, I'm glad you're here," she said. "You can help me with the fixings."
Chester hesitated in the doorway, feeling a dropping sensation in his empty stomach. "Well . . .I . . . ." he said softly, holding his hat in both hands.
"Come in, come in," said Ma, gesturing impatiently. "There's cold lemonade; the pitcher's setting in the ice left over from my ice cream making. I have the tin buried in crushed ice, but I'm feared the cream's like to melt before we finish lunch." Ma sighed. "Oh well, it can't be helped. It'll taste just as good thawed with the berries and berry juice mixed in.
"You're droopy, Chester," said Ma, her brow furrowing. "Wash your hands and set at the table there; I'll see to you."
Chester pumped water over his hands and dipped his fingers in a saucer brimming with soft lye soap while Ma wrapped ice in a cloth. He sat at the table, and she handed him the cold bundle. "Scrub that over your face and head," said Ma. "It'll make you feel better. You'll be fit to help me after some lemonade and bread and butter. You can slice the cucumbers and tomatoes. We're having 'em salted and peppered, with olive oil and vinegar. I have corn ears boiling, but we need to eat these other vegetables too," Ma chatted. "It rained so heavy over planting time, my garden's overgrown. I couldn't sell enough of them."
She put a tall glass of lemonade in front of Chester, and a plate with two big pieces of bread thickly slathered with butter. Chester ate and drank, wishing he could live and eat his meals at Ma's. She was known for her good cooking, and her food tasted better than Delmonico's fare.
"I'll bring the cucumbers and tomatoes to the table," said Ma, "so you won't have to cut them standing up."
Chester sliced slowly and methodically while Ma bustled about the kitchen. "What a time you're taking, Chester," Ma said presently. "I'll have to finish that myself, like as not."
"Well, I ain't practiced at choppin', Ma. I was thinkin' . . . . What kinda job would pay sufficient to live at a roomin' house, maybe."
"You mean here?" said Ma, swiftly peeling boiled potatoes.
"You kin set ta do yer peelin', Ma. There's plenty room here at the table."
"No no. I move faster on my feet," said Ma. "Don't the marshal want you at the jailhouse nights in case somewhat happens with a prisoner or they need something, or a body in trouble comes by? If someone witnessed a shooting, or had their money stolen?"
"Yessum," said Chester. "Mr. Dillon got no one else ta do that all. Ah'm the onliest man in Dodge he has for sech as that. I mean if I found me a different job somewheres else, I cud stay in a roomin' house in another town, maybe."
Wiping her hands on her apron, Ma stopped her flurry of preparations to look at him. "Why, Chester. You're not thinking of moving from Dodge."
"I am, Ma," Chester said solemnly, his brown eyes wide and earnest. "There comes a time when a man wants to move on is all."
"But where will you go?" Ma said, almost petulantly. "Your home is here."
"I ain't worked that part through yet," said Chester.
"Now Chester, I have no right to tell you what to do, but I hope you'll give me a tiny thought makin' up your mind. A widowed matron like myself, why, you're the only young gentleman calls on me. You visit me regular just to chat, and help me wind my yarn and such. I don't mind sayin' one bit, I consider you a dear friend, Chester."
Chester felt his face flush, and warmth spread through him. Ma's words were like honeyed hot tea in the wintertime. "I ain't much for yarn winding," he said. "Tangles ma fingers."
"Oh my goodness," said Ma. "It's most noon and the dining table's not set."
"Can I help set out the plates, Ma?" said Chester.
"No, you sit there and keep an eye on the loaves in the oven, if you would," said Ma. "You'll know when they're done by the smell." She piled a handcart with china plates, silver cutlery and linen napkins, salt and pepper shakers and dishes of butter, bowls of sugar cubes and pitchers of cream for coffee, and wheeled the cart to the dining room.
Chester yawned and stretched in his chair at the kitchen table. Bickering with Moss had worn him down, and the wearisomeness clung to his limbs and muddled his head. His lids grew heavy, his eyes closed and he slept.
Arranging the place settings in the dining room, Ma smelled burning bread. "Good gracious." She hurried to the kitchen as smoke drifted through the air.
Chester sat quietly snoring, his chin resting on his chest and his face slack and peaceful. With the skirt of her apron, Ma pulled the pan with two blackened loaves from the oven and pumped water over them. Then she picked up a dinner bell and rang it.
Chester started awake and sniffed the air. "Oh heavens," he mumbled, looking vague. "I'm sorry, Ma. I jest got so tired I couldn't stay awake a minute."
"No matter," said Ma. "You couldn't help it. Knowing what a sleepyhead you are, I shouldn't have expected you to keep your eyes open to take the bread out in time. But no matter. We'll have enough for lunch from my first baking if everyone takes only one slice." Ma's fussing held no bite, but Chester was still stung by her words.
"Oh dear me," he said. He rose stiffly from the chair and put on his hat. "I best be on my way, Ma, seein' as I ruined yer lunch an' all; you won't want me at table today. Since ah'm sech a sleepyhead, ah'll nap through lunchtime in jail, maybe."
"What nonsense, Chester," said Ma, laying her hand on his arm. "You'll do no such thing. You're always welcome at my table. Burning two loaves doesn't ruin a whole lunch. I burn 'em myself more'n I like to admit." She took his hat off his head and held onto it. "Now you go on in the dining room, set and eat your fill, and forget about this; it's less than a trifle. Go on now, while the butter still melts on the corn ears."
"Yes, ma'am," said Chester. "Things jest ain't what they used ta be, Ma. It's different with folks."
"Chester, I don't know what folks you're talking about, but things are exactly the same between you and me. I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Well, I s'pose you ain't changed none anyways," Chester said gloomily.
"Of course not! You're just hungry," said Ma, patting his back.
Chester wanted to pass the day at Ma's, doze after lunch on one of her beds, eat supper there and head for the marshal's office at nightfall. He knew she'd let him do all that if he asked her; Ma never turned him away or refused him anything, and she never asked for money in return. She was busy though as she always was, and Chester wouldn't make himself a pesky fly in her house.
With eleven cents left from his pay, he figured to stop by Jonas's store for a penny sarsaparilla and drink it while he walked to the Long Branch, where he'd spend his last dime on beer. When the hot spell drove lawbreakers to whatever dens they holed up in, Chester had at times taken to walking on the other side of the street from the marshal's office, hoping Mr. Dillon wouldn't see him and call out.
Chester's own behavior distressed him, as he couldn't understand why he did it, and he inwardly berated himself. In bygone days, he'd eagerly checked the office throughout the day to see if Mr. Dillon wanted anything. While liking the marshal as well as ever, on occasion he no longer felt as close to Matt, which baffled and saddened Chester. Unless the marshal needed him, he doubted Mr. Dillon noticed anymore when he wasn't around for long spells in the daytime.
"Sarsaparilla all you want today, Chester?" said Jonas.
"All I got money for." Chester swigged from the bottle. Though he didn't chat much with Jonas, who tended to lose patience with him, he felt a compulsion to talk.
"Ain't never had much money to oncet, nor scarce anythin'," Chester said matter-of-factly.
"Reckon most folks have it like that," said Jonas.
"Might try my hand at storekeepin' sometime," said Chester. "Make enough to pay fer a room of ma own anyhow."
"I can't use any help here," Jonas said quickly. He hadn't forgotten the time Chester almost burned down Quint Asper's blacksmith shop when Quint hired him as a favor.
"I ain't offerin' none, Jonas." Chester colored. "It's jest a manner of speakin'. I wouldn't ask you for a job cuz I know you wouldn't give me one. You think I do everthin' wrong."
"Oh, I do not, Chester," said Jonas. "You're not cut out for storekeeping is all."
"How do you know, you ain't never seen me try ma hand at it."
"Now, don't get yourself in a stew," said Jonas. "I didn't mean anything, so don't start yelling, Chester."
"Yeah, well . . . ." said Chester, quietening. "Ah'll be on ma way, git outa yer hair." He sighed. "Seems a body could go somewheres in this town where folks chat with 'im easy 'stead of actin' like a fire's lit under 'em. It warn't this way with folks afore."
"Mm-hmm," said Jonas. "The hot spell does it. Makes people cross. Don't fret, Chester. Drink that sarsaparilla down; you'll feel better."
Chester left the store and trudged along Front Street toward the Long Branch, drearily humming in an aimless way, with no tune. He felt like drinking whiskey now, though he preferred beer.
"Miss Kitty stepped out a moment," said Sam. "She'll be in right along."
Chester hadn't thought on passing time with Miss Kitty, though he usually looked forward to visiting her more than having a drink. She seemed of late at a distance to him, like Mr. Dillon and Doc too, yet Chester was no less fond of any of them. The feelings unsettled and made him skittish in his head.
Sam put a whiskey glass in front of Chester, and he reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the dime left from his pay, and he remembered that whiskey cost twenty cents.
"Uh, Sam?"
Sam looked at Chester, who held his hand out with the coin on his palm. Sam grinned. "I can't speak for Miss Kitty, but I don't think she'll mind, seeing as it's you, Chester. You can pay when you have it."
"Thank you," said Chester. "I'll pay ten cent of it now."
"Isn't that all you have?" said Sam. "You might need it."
"Yes . . . Sam . . . I need it for a lot an' more. But I can pay for my own drink."
Sam's grin widened. "Sure you can," he said. "When we lower the price of whiskey by half."
"Oh," said Chester, confused. "I'll pay the whole shebang later then, Sam, if that's alright."
"Drink up," said Sam. "Clear your head."
Chester pocketed his dime, took a big swallow and felt at once sounder in body and soul, so when Miss Kitty appeared, smiling and vibrant in blue silk and white lace, he saw her at least for the moment as close to him again. Heartened by a familiar rush of warmth like he used to feel when greeting her, Chester returned her smile and tipped his hat. "Miss Kitty."
"Chester."
"By golly, it's good to see you. We ain't chatted in quite a spell."
Kitty laughed. "We chatted last night, Chester. You were here until closing time."
Chester downed another swallow of whiskey that filled his cheeks. "Yeah, ah was," he said, his drawl pronounced, "but that there was different. Doc was settin' at the table a jawin' at you and Mr. Dillon was here too 'til he went on 'is rounds." Chester drained the glass.
Miss Kitty stepped closer to him, her striking blue eyes twinkling up at Chester. A pleasant scent of honeysuckle perfume wafted around her. "Well you can't have me to yourself all the time, Chester," she said. "I like talkin' with Doc and Matt, too."
Chester leaned on the bar and hovered over her, his grin blank and his eyes glazed. "Yeah, wahl . . . um cheered they're not here now."
"That's right," said Kitty. "I'm all yours, so you best make the most of it while it lasts."
Chester snickered, then sobered a bit. He let his head droop until his nose nearly touched Kitty's, and gazed with a pensive expression at her lovely face.
Kitty stood easily resting against the bar, not backing away from him. "Chester, why don't you chat with my new girl at the table over there," she said, holding her smile. "Make her feel welcome."
Chester glanced at the gal, then turned back to Kitty and lowered his voice. "She ain't pretty," he said. "An' she don't look none too friendly. Ah calculate she won't help yer business much, Miss Kitty."
"Probably not," said Kitty. "But she needed the job. She said she doesn't know how to do any other work, not even women's work well enough to get paid for it."
"Don't look like she's handy as a saloon gal neither," said Chester. "A body kin larn a new kinda work. I maybe could." A strange troubling thought of a sudden struck him that he might somehow be like the poor gal. But I know my job and I do it well, Chester assured himself. Leastways better'n she does hers, looks like. And I'm tolerable neighborly, too, where she looks none too obliging.
As Chester and Kitty watched the woman, a cowboy carrying two mugs of beer approached her table, and she gave him a tentative smile. "She looks almost pretty when she smiles," said Kitty. "It's that way with her. Once folks say hello and start talking with her, it doesn't matter a speck that she's not useful at a job and has a somber face. She's the nicest person when you meet her. I need to remember her name; it's embarrassing to ask again. It's either Mary or Jane.
"Chester, what's wrong? You look . . . askew. How many whiskeys did you drink," said Kitty.
"Jest one. Ah'll give Sam the money fer it when Mr. Dillon gives me ma pay, Miss Kitty; honest."
"I told Chester I didn't think you'd mind, Miss Kitty," said Sam.
"Of course I don't mind," said Kitty. "You're not coming down with summer fever, Chester?"
"Don't reckon so," said Chester. "Ma head's muddledy's all. Doc at 'is office, Miss Kitty?"
"I suppose so. He said last night he'd stay in all day today unless something urgent comes up. Chester, what did you mean by learning a new line of work."
"Well, I don't rightly know, Miss Kitty. Somethin' beside jailkeepin'. I done lawed with Mr. Dillon an age a'ready. Ah'm more a city feller; don't cotton to farmin'. Homesteadin' jest wore me down, the one time I tried it."
"I remember," said Kitty, amused.
"Figger maybe ta try tendin' bar when I move on," said Chester.
"Move on," said Kitty.
"Well, a man's gotta move on some time in 'is life, Miss Kitty," said Chester.
"Chester, I hope you don't start up again about riding horses clear to California," Kitty scolded. "You haven't an idea in your head where you'd go if you manage to find your way out there or what you'd do, and you have no money. And on top of all that, you're off-kilter. Don't bother denying it," she said, as Chester opened his mouth to protest. "I know you well enough to see when something's the matter," said Kitty.
"You best get to Doc's, Chester," said Sam. "Miss Kitty will keep on you 'til you do."
Chester figured Doc would give him a tonic and recommend a break from working, though Chester did little once the hot weather settled in other than go to the post and telegraph office, do a little tidying at the jailhouse, keep the coffee pot full and fetch Buck when Mr. Dillon needed him. Doc likely could not set Chester's head plumb square on his shoulders when it went crooked of itself, but he'd tell Doc about it anyway.