Sherman Sims
I wondered if Emmie and I disembarked in the wrong town. We saw no whooping cowboys fighting and shooting in the air, no ruffians prowling about, no crowded walkways or wagons, buggies and riders teeming the streets. Nevertheless, the conductor had bellowed "Dodge City," so here we were.
Few people departed the train while a lesser number waited to board, and the streets looked deserted from where we stood at the depot. The sun blazed white and dust floated in the muggy summer air, so still that a tumbleweed at our feet did not stir.
The only activity in sight came from a bespectacled fellow directing two youths loading a wagon with provisions. The man watched us a moment as the boys worked, then approached us and tipped his hat to Emmie. "I got a wagon here if you folks need help with your trunks," he said.
"If you'll be so kind, sir," said Emmie. "We will be staying at Dodge House. Just leave it all at the clerk's desk," she said to the boys, smiling. "We'll be there soon." I handed each boy two dimes, which they pocketed with a nod and picked up our luggage.
"Dodge House is down Front Street a ways," said the man. "I'll walk with you, you don't mind. My store's further along. Jonas is the name. I sell the largest assortment of goods in town, no higher quality anywhere. You folks in Dodge long?" Mr. Jonas's nervous energy made me rather anxious.
"We'll spend the season here if there's anything out of the way to be seen in this town. I'm Sherman Sims and this is my wife, Emily. We write adventure stories."
"That so," said Jonas. "We have our share of excitement, that's sure. One minute sleepy and peaceful, the next it hits like a summer storm. You could borrow trouble if you hunt it down, though. It gets dangerous."
"I thrive on danger, Mr. Jonas," I said. "I think my best chance of encountering it is to accompany Marshal Dillon as he enforces the law."
"Matt Dillon is a legend in the eastern papers, Mr. Jonas," said Emmie. "We're very eager to meet him."
"Well, I don't know, ma'am," said Jonas. "We none of us see the marshal that way, himself least of all. And he might not take to being followed about."
"He may not have a choice," I said, "unless he throws me in jail for interfering with his job."
"He's like to do that if he tempers at you," said Jonas. This thrilled and alarmed me, since reports described Dillon as herculean.
Emmie wished to bathe and rest, so I saw her settled in our suite at Dodge House and headed for the marshal's office. The small brick building surprised me; I expected a two-story edifice.
One can find every sort of body in New York. I'd seen taller and much heftier men than the fellow lounging at the desk. He wore a United States Marshal badge, so he had to be Dillon, though he was clad like a cowhand in dusty clothes and unpolished boots. His chair was tilted against the wall, his eyes closed and long legs resting on the desk, ankles crossed. He opened his eyes and straightened up, sliding his boots to the floor as I entered.
Another man lay sleeping. I thought it backward, that a prominent frontier town had a bed in the marshal's office. As the man had no badge, I supposed he was an assistant or jailer.
"What can I do for you," said the marshal.
"Marshal Dillon?" I said, taking off my hat. He nodded. The fellow on the bed wakened, saw me, jumped up and quickly limped to stand near the doorway to the jail.
"My name is Sherman Sims. My wife and I just arrived from New York."
"You're a long way from home, Mr. Sims," said Dillon.
"We travel a lot, Marshal. My wife and I are adventure writers. The papers back east often feature Dodge City and the exploits of Marshal Matt Dillon."
"The papers exaggerate. I'm like any lawman."
"You're modest. I'd like to ask a favor of you, Marshal. I confess it's rather a big one, as I am a stranger."
"What's that."
"Mrs. Sims and I plan to stay the summer if I can find anything exciting to write about. I'd like to trail you around, witness some fights and shootouts or a duel or two. Some saloon brawls perhaps."
"Well forevermore," the man with the lame leg said in a quiet, polite tone.
Dillon pushed back his chair, rose and stepped close to me. I am medium height and his stature intimidated me, though he had a slimmer form than I envisioned. The newspapers called him a giant and I assumed he'd be burly, which was not the case. Considering my own light build though, I'd be at his mercy if I vexed him.
"That's an unreasonable request, Sims," Dillon said patiently, giving me the impression he'd dealt with his share of such requests. "You don't look like a fighter and you're not wearing a gun. I'd be responsible if anything happened to you, and I'd have to face your wife. Not only that, you might not see much. I try to break up fights when they start. There aren't many shootouts here because I run gunmen out of town, and I don't hold with duels either."
"Oh, but that's excellent, Marshal," I said. "You talk just like Emmie and I hoped. Emily. My wife. I observe the incidents and relate them to her, and she does most of the writing. I don't carry note paper; it's inconvenient and slows one down. I remember everything.
"I asked to join you as a courtesy, Marshal," I went on, feeling a breathless twinge of apprehension at my boldness. "I don't suppose I'll break the law if you forbid it and I do it anyway, as I fully intend to."
"Gracious," the marshal's companion said.
Dillon frowned. He looked annoyed and worried, though his face showed no harshness. "No," he said. "There's no law against making a pest of yourself. Unfortunately."
"Emmie looks forward to meeting you, Marshal," I said. I hoped he'd warm to the idea of my company when he saw how pretty, refined and smart my wife is. "Will you have dinner with us tonight?"
"I have nothing against dining with you, Sims," said the marshal. "But it won't change what I said about you trailing me."
"Where shall we eat?" I said.
"Best knowed place is Delmonico's," said the marshal's assistant, if such he was. There was no mention of him in reports on Dodge City. He at first seemed to me rather a bashful fellow, though I discovered he had a bold chatty side. "Not high-priced neither," he said.
"Delmonico's it is, then. Will you dine with us too, sir?" I said.
"Thank you," he said.
"You work for Marshal Dillon?"
"He's my assistant," said Dillon. "Chester Goode." I guessed, correctly as I found out, that despite his humble demeanor, Chester was the marshal's right-hand man, and thus a well of information if I could gain his confidence. Though his speech bespoke a scanty education, his eyes reflected a keenness that proved he wasn't feeble.
"I imagined you'd be out patrolling the town, Marshal," I said.
"Try Varieties Theatre, you want a show, Sims," said Dillon.
Maybe he was grumpy as I'd interrupted his nap. He was not the active lawman of the frontier narratives, and I was disappointed. I resolved to search for adventure on my own. "I would rather try your finest saloon. There is always something doing in a Dodge City saloon, am I not right," I said.
"Not hardly always," said Chester. "The days bein' so hot. Long Branch is the nicest in town. Might be most no one there 'til sundown, though."
"Walk there with me, Chester? I'll buy you a beer."
"Oh. Mr. Dillon?" said Chester.
"Go ahead, Chester," said the marshal.
"Does Marshal Dillon hold you to account for all your movements, Chester?" I asked as we walked to the Long Branch.
"Huh?"
"Must you get permission from him to go out?"
"He lets me go anywheres, 'lessun he needs me fer somethin'. So I ask 'im first, usual."
As Dodge City was known for violence, I thought Dillon's watch remarkably lax, though admittedly I'd seen no lawbreaking, nor anyone who looked remotely like an outlaw or gunman, though most men wore guns. I heard little talking, the townsfolk moved slowly and appeared to lack spirit compared to New York people.
I began to regret putting Emmie through the long wearying journey, and spending money we could scarcely afford on the stages and trains, and lodging at Dodge House. We weren't rich by any means, but she was accustomed to comfort and I'd give her no less. If I saw nothing of interest before retiring for the night, I would let Emmie rest a week, and we'd depart for New York and home.
My gloom deepened when Chester led me through the batwings into the Long Branch. Neat and clean except for a film of prairie dust, it was, like the marshal's office, smaller than I expected and more plain than fancy. There were only three people in the saloon—the bartender, a pretty red-haired woman playing solitaire, and a fellow at another table practicing card shuffles.
The woman looked up from her game with what I interpreted as an ennuied expression, and I sympathized with her, as I felt ready to flee Dodge after barely two hours there. Her fair face brightened when she saw Chester, and he moved to her table while I lagged behind.
The Long Branch seemed a torpid place. Only the woman interested me, as I wondered why she was there. She wore a fine blue silk, not a saloon gal's outfit, though her face was painted, and unlike Dillon and Chester, no dust clung to her clothing. Her grooming was flawless to stunning effect.
"Miss Kitty," said Chester, tipping his hat.
"Chester," she said. She gave me a curious, friendly look. I removed my hat and smiled.
"This here's Mr. Sherman Sims," said Chester.
"Miss Kitty," I said. "Delighted."
She returned my smile. "How d'you do. Can we get you a beer, Mr. Sims? First one's on the house."
"You work here, then, ma'am?"
"Mm-hmm. I own the place. Have a seat."
"Thank you. Chester's beer is on me," I said.
"You can buy him a second one," said Miss Kitty. "This round's my treat. Three beers, Sam," she called to the bartender.
"Thank you, Miss Kitty," said Chester, looking inordinately grateful. His hat was frayed and his clothes and boots old. As an assistant he must make less than a deputy, and at that I figured Dillon of necessity scrimped on his wages. Marshals do earn less than the job warrants.
As we sipped our beer and chatted, I noticed the fellow with the cards eyeing me. Though he had a knavish manner, I wasn't daunted by him. He looked like a punk, and was no taller or bigger than myself, which meant he likely wasn't much of a fighter. His fingers weren't adept with the cards and his face was animated, not signs of a skilled player.
"Who is that fellow, Chester," I said.
"That there's Norman Dade," said Chester. "A gambler. Don't do nothin' the day 'n night long 'cept play cards."
"He's not very good at it, either," said Miss Kitty.
"He steals for 'is roomin' an' food," said Chester. "You best watch out for 'im, Mr. Sims. He robs at gunpoint under cover of night, wearin' black duds and a black bandanna. Folks know it's him but cain't identify 'im of a surety so's Mr. Dillon kin throw 'im in jail."
"I believe I'll have a word with Mr. Dade," I said musingly. "Ask him what he's about, doing that." As I spoke, Dade chose that moment to fling his cards on the table and move to the bar where he talked to Sam, who poured him whiskey and regarded him like he was a stray mongrel the bartender wanted to swat away.
"Pardon me, Miss Kitty," I said, putting on my hat. I picked up my beer and went to stand beside Dade. He looked at me and gave a slight start, then sneered in my face. I met his eyes directly and he shrugged, blew rudely through his lips, turned away from me and took a drink of whiskey.
Unless I lied about my source of knowledge concerning his thievery, Dade would realize who the man was which informed me about him. I had no wish to make trouble for Chester, so I hatched a falsehood. "Mr. Dade?"
"What," he said.
"My name's Sherman Sims."
"So what."
"I met some townsfolk when I came in on the early afternoon train," I said.
"That's your problem," said Dade.
"They warned me about you, Dade."
He thumped his whiskey down and turned to face me. "What're you talkin' about," he said.
"They said you're that fellow who roams the streets at night dressed in black holding people up," I said.
"Whoever the deuce they are, they got no proof," said Dade.
"Then you're not the thief?"
"Why don't you mind your own business," said Dade. "You're a blamed troublemaker." He lowered his voice to a near whisper, so only I could hear him. "You'll be sorry you accused me," he said.
"I am not accusing you. I'm just curious who this robber is."
"Why," said Dade. "You some kind of lawman?"
"No. I write true adventure stories."
Dade snorted. "The worst breed of meddler. You'll learn not to stick your nose in my affairs, Sims," he said in the same hushed tone. I'm gonna teach ya."
I detected no menace in his eyes; his threats did not scare me. I figured Dade was the type who used his gun to frighten folks into handing over their money, but feared prison and the noose too much to pull the trigger.
Emily Sims
I knew who Marshal Dillon and Chester were when we entered Delmonico's, as Sherman had described them. I saw none of the ubiquitous prairie dust that Sherman said coated their clothing. They wore suit jackets, white shirts and black ties, and their boots were shined.
They rose as we approached their table, and I instinctively liked them. They looked unaffected yet gentlemanly, like many men in the region. Though Sherman said they were tall, Marshal Dillon was taller than I imagined, and I myself am an inch or so taller than my husband.
Even so, were I to encounter the marshal alone on a dark street, and he a stranger not wearing his badge, I'd go to him without hesitation, take his arm and ask him to escort me to my lodging place. Though Chester appeared just as trustworthy, I sensed a gullibility in him that made one feel more protective of him than in need of his protection. His smile was openly admiring, and I wondered how many women had used him to their advantage.
"Marshal. Chester," said Sherman, with the grateful pride in his voice whenever he introduced me, "This is my wife, Emily."
We exchanged greetings, and Sherman pulled out a chair for me. He and the marshal said a few words about the hot spell, then our party grew awkwardly quiet. Sherman is more observant than talkative, except about things that involve as well as interest him, and he looked uncomfortable.
Marshal Dillon on the other hand was clearly at his ease saying nothing, not only, I guessed, because Dodge was his home and he was in charge there. I felt certain that, unlike Sherman, the marshal would show the same confidence in any situation.
Sherman had told me that he coaxed Chester out of a timid reserve on their walk to the Long Branch, where he chatted freely with my husband in the company of Chester's friend Miss Kitty Russell. With the marshal and Sherman and me together though, Chester was diffident. He attended to his roast pheasant with mushrooms and baked potato and apple pie, seeming to think no conversation was expected of him.
"I want you to charm Dillon into letting me follow him about, my dear," Sherman said before we met the marshal and Chester. "That's why we're dining with him."
I could see the marshal was not the sort of man to be manipulated by any woman regardless of her charms, and I gazed round the dining room, wondering how Sherman and I would make it through supper, dessert and coffee. Chester enjoyed his meal, quite untroubled, and Marshal Dillon looked amused at our plight.
As I looked around, I met the cold forceful eyes of a strongly built man sitting by himself at the table next to ours. He leered at me and winked, then eyed Sherman as though hoping to cause mischief.
Sherman did not notice the man, but Marshal Dillon did. "Keep your eyes on your steak there, Coldwell, or I'll haveta ask you to leave," said the marshal.
"A man can't admire a pretty woman in this town?" said Coldwell. "You're out of your place, Marshal." The marshal gave him a warning look.
"Who are you looking down that pointy nose at, stranger," Coldwell said to Sherman. "You the lady's husband?"
"I am. Sherman Sims." Sherman perked up visibly, his intense dark eyes brightening with curiosity in his sharp-featured face.
"A lot of women are too short and delicate for a big fella like me," said Coldwell.
"Coldwell," said Marshal Dillon.
"Man like me needs a tall lady with a buxom yet graceful womanly figure, shaped just so." Coldwell outlined with his hands a female form. "Like you, honey," he said to me.
The marshal stood up, but Sherman, his face tightening in anger, reached Coldwell first and hit him. I don't think he expected it, as he made no move to duck the blow. I didn't know Sherman could punch that hard. Coldwell fell over backward in his chair and blinked in stunned surprise at my husband. Laughter filled Delmonico's, and some diners applauded.
Coldwell's face contorted with fury, and I gasped and jumped up as he launched himself at Sherman. Chester took hold of my shoulders, his touch gentle yet urgent, and moved me away from the table.
Marshal Dillon stepped in front of Sherman and hit Coldwell, who fell back again to the floor. The laughter in the restaurant grew louder, and some men yelled approval and stomped their boots. Coldwell reached for his gun, and with an incredibly swift movement, the marshal leaned over and snatched it from the holster.
"Now get out," said Marshal Dillon.
"That's not fair, Marshal," Coldwell snarled, climbing to his feet. "The dude struck first and you interfered. It's not your fight."
"What d'you expect, talkin' familiar to Mrs. Sims like ya did," said Chester.
"Not your fight either, Chester," said Coldwell. "Shut up or I'll bust your nose."
"Yeah, we'll see 'bout that," said Chester.
"You're not hitting anyone, Coldwell," said the marshal. "Get out of here or I'll throw you out on your hind end." He advanced on Coldwell, who took two quick steps back. "My gun," said Coldwell.
"Come by the office and pick it up when you cool off," said Marshal Dillon. "You look a speck riled, you don't get your gun."
"You just made an enemy, Sims. No man hits Thorne Coldwell and escapes without a beating, and you got one coming. When the marshal's not around to protect you," Coldwell vowed as he headed for the door.
"You alright, Mrs. Sims?" said the marshal.
"Yes, of course. I wasn't really frightened for Sherman or myself with you here, Marshal. I knew you wouldn't let that man hurt us."
"Thank you, Marshal," said Sherman. "I was ready to fight Mr. Coldwell as you saw, but I'd have ended senseless on the floor, and while such an outcome would heighten the drama of our Dodge City narrative, I would not like Emmie so distressed to witness it or me shamed before her."
"You could never shame me," I said.
"That's sweet of you, my love," said my husband. "But I'd feel the shame horribly just the same."
"I advise you to leave Dodge on the early morning train, Sims," said Marshal Dillon. "Thorne Coldwell can be mean, and he doesn't bluff. Like he said, I can't protect you every minute, and Coldwell spends most of his time in town. He's a carpenter here."
"How does a man like that attract business?" I said.
"He's a master craftsman, Mrs. Sims," said the marshal. "The best in Dodge."
"It's disgraceful, to be blessed with such talent and behave like a brute," I said.
"Norm Dade threatened Mr. Sims, too, Mr. Dillon," said Chester. "This afternoon at the Long Branch."
"Sherman," I said. "You didn't tell me about this Dade."
"He's not like Coldwell, Emmie. Dade's nothing, a dreg. He doesn't scare me."
"That may be, Sims," said the marshal. "But he'll likely track you some night and rob you at gunpoint if you stay in Dodge."
"Why don't we all sit back down and have another cup of coffee," said Sherman. "Here's the waiter, now.
"There are things going on in Dodge that are the stuff of raw western drama," my husband continued. "Coldwell and Dade are two examples, and I encountered them both today, so there must be more. Emmie and I will stay the summer. The best way to protect me, Marshal, is to let me keep company with you while you do your job. I am asking for your protection. It's your duty as a lawman."
The marshal's face hardened and his eyes chilled as he regarded Sherman. Though he doubtless wished he could run my husband out of town, Marshal Dillon was a gentleman and wouldn't voice his sentiment in front of me. "Alright, Sims," he said tightly, after a long moment. "But I can't guarantee you won't get hurt. You're asking for trouble to follow me."
"I make my living chasing trouble, Marshal. Or at least I try to," said Sherman ruefully. "The bulk of our living, and a scanty parcel it is, is given us by my father and Emmie's. It's mortifying for a man of thirty-six years to confess he's never made his way in life. I'm telling you as a bid for sympathy; I confess it," Sherman said. "So you'll be . . . perhaps more willing to tolerate me. My Emmie is so gracious and beautiful, I thought maybe when you met her—"
"Sherman," I said, unable to endure more. "Really. My father owns a thriving general store in New York, Marshal, and he's wanted Sherman to run the place since we married. I'll inherit the store when Papa passes on, and my parents' home too, as my brother is a tailor with his own shop and family. So you see, my husband and I are not in desperate straits."
I don't know precisely why I wanted the marshal to know our true situation. I liked and trusted him on little more than an hour's acquaintance, and was compelled to confide in him. I did not want him misled by my husband, and my pride refused to let Marshal Dillon and Chester think we were poor, as my father is a prosperous merchant and Sherman's a successful attorney.
"I've no wish to be a storekeeper. You know that, Emmie. And I'm not smart enough to practice law and join Pa as a partner," Sherman said childishly.
The marshal made no answer to all this, but looked entertained. His large sky-blue eyes softened and shone with amusement, and I felt grateful that his animus toward my poor husband had faded. I was drawn to Marshal Dillon's strength, the honor he exuded and his sound temperament.
"Do you sleep in the office nights, Marshal?" said Sherman.
"Sometimes," said the marshal. "I have a room at Ma Smalley's place."
"Then Chester bunks at the jailhouse," said Sherman.
"That's right," said the marshal.
"I wonder if I could sleep there, too," said Sherman. "Since those men threatened me, I think Emmie may be safer if we spent nights apart. The cells were empty when I visited earlier today; I could bunk in one of them."
"Why not stay at another rooming house," said the marshal.
"I don't carry a gun," said Sherman. "I never owned one and know nothing about using one. I see Chester doesn't wear a gun, but as your assistant he must know how to use them, do you not, Chester."
"I can hit my target," Chester said, not looking at Sherman.
"Coldwell won't know whether you're in the office on any given night, Marshal," said Sherman, "and if you aren't, he'll know Chester is there with a shotgun close by. Since Coldwell is a skilled carpenter as you say, and has enough business sense to earn a living at it, he must have some intelligence despite his defective character. He's not likely to attack me at the jail."
"You can explain anything," said Marshal Dillon. It was a cryptic statement, though the marshal is clearly a straightforward man. I supposed the vagueness of his meaning stemmed from the brevity common to westerners, particularly lawmen.
"Then you will let me bunk at the jail?" my husband said.
"Alright. But that doesn't ensure your safety. Men like Coldwell are irrational, no matter how smart he is. There's no telling what he might do," said the marshal.