Chapter One
Folks had bedeviled Wes Kenyon from his earliest remembrance despite his fine patrician features, for at thirty-three years of age, he had no notion of how to conceal his mild, guileless nature. Wes had no protective mental wall, and no emotional guard. He'd never learned to wear a forceful, defensive or sanguine mask, move and talk with surety, or in keeping with common social pretense, follow conversational proprieties invented by whoever seized the lead at the moment.
Like hounds scenting blood, bullies saw his vulnerability in his clear brown eyes. Middling height and build, tending to light, Wes made an easy target for men to vent their bile.
No matter where they lived, Wes's wife Shona thought folks always would torment her husband. He painted images that did not exist in the real world, carved and chipped strange shapes from wood and rock, and set up shop with his creations.
Business wasn't good, and folks who did buy rarely paid more than fifty cents. Shona's father sent her a generous allowance every month, and with each check included a letter warning her to divorce her husband before they depleted her inheritance fund.
When the Savannah city council burned Wes's shop to the ground, he and Shona sold the Kenyon family plantation, moved to Dodge City, and bought a house and store building to sell his art.
Matt and Chester visited on the morning The Art Shoppe first opened, as two incidents forebode trouble for Wes. Two drunken cowboys had dragged him out of the Long Branch and dunked him in the trough some nights ago, and a gambler tripped him on the walkway the day he and his wife came to Dodge.
They were alone in the shop when the marshal and Chester arrived. Shona moved forward in friendly greeting, while her husband stood back waiting for them to approach. "You and Chester are welcome, Marshal," said Shona, "but I don't think you're here to buy anything." She was a tall trim woman of thirty years with pleasant exotic features. Framed by thick curly hair, her face was wide across the cheekbones, and her slightly slanting, large dark eyes bright and vital. She had a snub nose, full mouth, and unblemished cream complexion that tanned light-brown in hot weather. "You're here to see no one destroys Wes's art or roughs him up," said Shona.
"They will in time," said Wes from across the shop. "They always do, you know."
Trailed by Chester, Matt moved to Wes. "Well, Wes," said the marshal, "if a man won't stand up for himself around here, he might have a hard time."
"When Wes tries to defend himself, they make it worse for him, Marshal," said Shona. "It's not in him to act vicious for the right to be who he is."
Matt had known men like Wes in Dodge. They either ended up murdered, or fled to escape the hounding that tracked them everywhere.
"We have coffee with brown sugar lumps and cream, and maple cakes," said Shona. "Would you like some."
"It sounds good, Mrs. Kenyon," said Chester.
"Marshal?" said Shona.
"No, thanks."
"Look around, Chester," said Shona. "I'll bring you some coffee and cake."
Matt followed her to the table. "Wes's pictures and carvings could be part of the problem, Mrs. Kenyon," he said, fiddling with his hat. "Folks aren't used to this kind of art. They'll see your husband as a charlatan."
Wes stood behind the counter near the table, and Matt felt awkward talking to Shona about her husband like he wasn't there. Although Wes seemed smart enough, not backward, Matt sensed Shona took the lead, and Wes was comfortable with the arrangement.
"My husband is a visionary, Marshal," said Shona.
"I'm inspired by the English artist Joseph Mallord William Turner, who painted Rain, Steam and Speed – The Great Western Railway," said Wes, looking earnestly up into Matt's eyes. "Of course, I haven't his talent. One can make out the train and bridge in his painting. I can't draw true-to-life things."
"You've worked hard, though, Wes," said Matt, looking round the shop. "Some folks might take an interest. The Transcendentalist Society, maybe."
Wes nodded seriously. "I'll be happy if they visit our shop, Marshal, even if they don't make a purchase. They're not likely to hit me or bust up my work."
"I'm sure they won't," said Matt.
Shona carried coffee in a china mug and a cake on a matching saucer with a silver fork and linen napkin to Chester, who was examining a hunk of black marble hacked into peaks to resemble a mountain.
"That's very nice, thank you," said Chester.
"I'll set your coffee on the table while you eat your cake," Shona said. "I'm afraid we don't have chairs for our guests to sit."
"This is jest fine," said Chester.
"I'll wager you never saw a shop like this, Chester," said Shona.
"No one in Kansas has," said Wes, "nor the country. I'm the first to set up a shop like this."
"Never seen pictures and carvings like these all my days," said Chester politely.
Wes clasped his hands at his chest and smiled, a dimple creasing each cheek. "I'm a sight pleased if my work elicits profound ideas in your mind, Chester," he said. "That's the reaction I want. My art is not superior or inferior. It has nothing to do with talent, as I haven't any."
Chester looked baffled, and Matt stifled a grin. "Wes means he wants his art to make you think about things," said Shona. "Make you recollect something."
"This one recollects mountain peaks up Colorado way," said Chester.
Wes clapped his hands. "Excellent," he said. "Let's look at every piece. Tell me what you think, Chester."
"Chester hasn't time for that, Wes," said Shona.
"Oh, I have time, Mrs. Kenyon," said Chester. "Unless you need me for somewhat, Mr. Dillon."
"Go ahead and look around, Chester," said Matt. "I'll take my leave for now, Mrs. Kenyon. Everything is quiet and orderly here. Course nobody's shown up, yet."
"Hopefully, we won't have any rough visitors," said Shona. "Thank you for coming, Marshal."
Matt put on his hat and headed for the door, and almost ran into a man coming in. "Councilman Roman," said Matt.
"Marshal," said Roman. "I'm glad you're here. You can back me up in case that fella puts up any resistance. I don't think he'll give me trouble, though. He's not the type." The councilman removed his hat, uncovering abundant, waving yellow hair silvering at the temples and long on his neck. Chester, Wes and Shona looked at Roman, who strode to Wes. Matt followed.
"Wes Kenyon?" said Roman. Wes nodded. "I'm Councilman Dane Roman."
"It's our opening day," said Wes. "Artists have shops."
Roman's intense cobalt-blue eyes roved the room, his mouth twisting in disgust. "It's bad as I heard," he said. "What kind of folly are you running here, Kenyon."
Wes looked at Matt. "Will you stop him from making us close shop, Marshal?" said Wes. Shona moved to her husband's side.
"That's why I'm here," said Roman. "You're to close this place and move all this junk out of here at once. The council won't tolerate you palming this stuff off, tricking people out of their money."
"Mr. and Mrs. Kenyon own this building and the land it sits on, Councilman," said Matt. "You have no right to tell them to close their shop. And if the council passed a new ordinance dictating what merchants can sell in this town, I'd appreciate it if you let me know before you start throwing around orders."
"We don't need a new ordinance against indecency, Marshal," said Roman. "If he wants to peddle his rubbish, let him move to the back street with the opium dens and ill repute houses."
"That's enough, Roman," said Matt.
"No, it's not enough," said Roman. "If you and my shiftless fellow councilmen refuse to put him out of business, I'll find folks who will."
"Roman," said Matt, "you incite a mob, and I'll throw you in jail for breach of the peace. Now, unless you're thinkin' of buying something here, you best be on your way."
"This isn't over, Marshal," said Roman. "Not until this madman is run out of town." He stalked out. Shona put her arm around her husband.
"Don't let Roman scare you," said Matt. "He knows the council will oust him if he doesn't behave himself."
"Wes and I've been through this, before, Marshal," said Shona. "It's what free thinkers face when we're forging new ground."
"Maybe they won't run us out fast as in Savannah, or burn our shop, seeing as you're marshal here," Wes said. "There are no lawmen like you in Savannah."
"I won't let 'em run you out, Wes," said Matt. "And anyone who even pulls out a match in here will go to jail. I don't know about lawmen in Savannah, but we don't hold with that in Dodge."
C~~~~~
"They dunked me in the trough awhile back," Wes said to Chester, as they stood with Kitty at the bar. "They were drunk, then, but not now. It's harder to escape sober men."
With untouched beers in front of them, the two ranch hands sat at a table, staring at Wes and talking in low tones to each other, so no one could hear them.
"I don't like the way they keep lookin' at Wes, Chester," said Kitty. "I wish Matt would come."
"He's on his rounds," said Chester.
"Wes, why don't you wait here, and Chester can find Matt to walk you home," said Kitty.
"I had a beer and chat," said Wes. "I'm ready to go home to my wife."
Holding a whiskey bottle and two glasses, Sam paused on his way along the bar. "You're not wearin' a gun," he said to Wes.
"I don't wear a gun," said Wes.
"You can have a beer on the house if you wait, Wes," said Kitty.
"I must get home to Shona, now. I thank you, Miss Kitty," said Wes, tipping his hat.
"I'll walk with you, Wes," said Chester.
"Tisn't a need, Chester," said Wes. "A man oughtn't take an escort."
"It ain't no escort," said Chester. "It's guardin', passin' one place on to the next. Mr. Dillon does it nights when two fellers like them there bides time to hurt another 'un."
"You've no gun, either," said Wes. "And you can't fight those men like the marshal can."
"Two fightin' two comes off better'n two against one," said Chester.
"Not when I'm one of them," said Wes. "I'm not a fighter. I don't fight. You're borrowing trouble trying to protect me."
Sam paused again on his way back to the other end of the bar. "No harm in trying to defending yourself," he said. "They bother you, just start swingin'."
"I can't," said Wes. "Folks call me a coward. I don't feel so afraid like a coward; I just can't fight." Sam shook his head and moved on.
"No use bickerin', Wes," said Chester. "You won't wait, I'm walkin' with you."
"Be careful, Chester," said Kitty.
Chester close on his heels, Wes walked past the cowboys' table without glancing at them. Chester looked them both in the eyes. "What're you lookin' at," said one.
"Nothin' at all," said Chester.
The January night was dry and windless yet icy cold. Chester and Wes turned up their coat collars and put their hands in their pockets. A moment after they left the Long Branch, the two cowboys stood and pushed through the batwings.
"Sam, did you see that?" said Kitty. "Oh, where is Matt when we need 'im."
One cowboy was big, the other mid-size. They moved fast, closing the distance from Wes and Chester, who heard their boot steps. Chester looked over his shoulder. "They're followin' us," he said. "You best not go home jest yet, Wes, on account of Mrs. Kenyon."
"Yes," said Wes, and stopped.
"What're you stoppin' for," said Chester. "They're most on us."
"I can't run all night," said Wes. "I may as well stand here and wait for 'em. Have done with it."
His eyes narrowing, Chester looked at the approaching men, and back at Wes. "You have ta fight, Wes," Chester said breathlessly, feeling his heart pound his chest bone. "You have to. There's two . . . . One of 'em's big."
"I told you," said Wes. "I told you I couldn't fight, and you came with me anyway."
Chester and Wes faced the cowboys. "You go on," the smaller one said to Chester. "We got no fight with you." Chester said nothing. "Git," said the cowboy.
"You fight him; fight me, too," said Chester.
The cowboy shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, and swung at Wes. The swing was slow. Chester figured Wes could duck and hit the other man, but Wes stood like a trapped possum, not raising his arms. The blow hit his jaw, and he stumbled.
"This'll be easy," said the cowboy. "You yellow-bellied lunatic mountebank." He put up his fists, and Chester snatched at the man's arms.
"Oh, no, ya don't," said the bigger cowboy. He pulled Chester back, while the other man pummeled Wes's face and ribs.
Chester flailed out of the big man's grip and struck the one beating Wes, just as Wes fell. The smaller cowboy staggered, and the big one hit Chester, knocking him down.
The big cowboy stood over Wes lying on the walk. "Close up that abomination you call a shop," said the man, "or next time, we'll shoot a bullet through your hand. Your paintin' days'll be over." The cowboys walked away.
Chester slowly sat up. "Wes?" he said. He patted Wes's face, and blood from his lower lip touched Chester's hand.
"They're through with me for tonight," said Wes. "If you'll give me a hand up, Chester, I'll go home."
Chester helped him stand. "You should see Doc."
"It's not that bad. Shona will tend me."
"You gotta come to the marshal's office with me," said Chester. "Mr. Dillon looks in after his rounds afore he goes on to his room. You gotta show 'im what them cowboys done to you so's he kin throw 'em in jail."
Wes heaved a tremulous sigh, and Chester cupped his hands around Wes's upper arms. "It's jest down the way a piece," Chester encouraged. "We have some whiskey, get yer strength back."
Wes had a gashed lip, a swelling eye, and tender red spots on his face. Chester gave him a wet cloth for his mouth, and poured him two shots of whiskey in a tin cup.
" 'Spose I could use some, maself," said Chester. "That big feller hit me hard." He poured himself a shot.
Though Wes had drunk beer at the Long Branch, he was clearly not used to whiskey. He swallowed a mouthful, hunched his shoulders, screwed up his face, and coughed.
"You'll feel a heap better in a quick minute," Chester soothed. He and Wes were sitting at the table when Matt rushed in.
"Kitty said two cowboys followed you and Wes out of the Long Branch, Chester," said Matt. "They beat you, Wes, did they?"
"Not so I need to see the doctor," said Wes. "I was throbbing sore right after, but the whiskey dulls it." He gulped another mouthful, and went through the same contortions. "I need only to go home to Shona, Marshal," he said.
"They hit you, too, Chester?" said Matt, frowning at the knuckle marks on his friend's jaw.
"Jest once," said Chester. "They was after Wes. Same two what dunked 'im in the trough. You think that Dane Roman has somewhat ta do with this, Mr. Dillon?"
Matt sat down at the table. "The councilman?" he said. "That doesn't seem likely, Chester. He's forceful, likes giving orders. Roman's threatened folks before; it came to nothing. He knows he'd lose his position on the council if he paid to have a man beaten."
"Sure seems them cowboys is up to more 'cept bein' bullies," said Chester. "They tole Wes to close up his shop, or they'll shoot his hand so he can't paint no more. Them kinda fellers ain't like to think on much but drinkin' 'n cards, gals maybe. They wouldn't know nor care 'bout art, or the virtue of a likeness. They called The Art Shoppe an abomination, Mr. Dillon. Sounds like somethin' Roman would say."
Matt considered. Despite his simplicity and scanty book learning, Chester at times showed flashes of insight that took the marshal by surprise.
Wes loudly slurped the last drops of his whiskey and hiccupped. His normally clear brown eyes were glassy, and he wore a muddled look.
"He had a beer to the Long Branch," said Chester. "He cain't hold nary one taste of strong spirits, maybe. I give 'im two shots fer the pain."
"I'm not quite drunk," said Wes. "I need to go home to Shona. She'll worry."
"You and Chester give me a description of those cowboys, Wes," said Matt. "Then I'll walk you home."
"You gonna jail 'em, Mr. Dillon?" said Chester.
"They're gonna tell me if Roman hired them to beat Wes," said Matt.