Chapter One
Black clouds covered the night sky over the quiet streets of Dodge as lamplight glowing through the windows illuminated a lone, slim figure walking from the Long Branch to the marshal's office. The barbershop and millinery owners had snuffed their wicks, and solid darkness separated the two buildings.
As Chester moved cautiously along the walk, sliding his hand over the hitching rail, a man emerging from the passageway between the stores rammed into him. Chester thought the man bumped him accidentally, which often happened on Front Street, and he tightened his grip on the rail, scrambling for his footing and hoping the man wouldn't force a fight.
Two burly arms clamped his waist in a vise, and Chester knew the man was not another quarrelsome cowpoke or gambler down on his luck. Chester's heart bounded so he could hardly draw breath. He gasped a chest full of air to holler, and a meaty hand slapped over his mouth as the man nearly lifted him off his feet and dragged him through the passage toward the stretch of dirt behind the buildings.
His captor's hold loosened as Chester struggled frenziedly. Though he lacked strong fists, he could jump on a man from the front, knock him to the ground, fight flailing like a bobcat, and choke him until he stopped moving. Chester bucked against the man's arm in an effort to turn and defend himself.
"Where are ya?" the man hissed in a loud whisper. "He's gettin' away!" His voice sounded muffled, like he wore a bandanna over his face.
"Hold his arms behind his back," ordered another smothered voice.
"I can't. He'll yell if I take my hand off his mouth."
Chester saw the men as shadowy forms—one hulking, the other somewhat larger than Chester, and about half a head shorter. He heard a gun hammer click and froze.
"I'll shoot if you yell," the smaller man said. "Understand?" He spoke with calm deliberation, clipping his words.
Chester nodded. The big man let go of his mouth, and yanked his arms up behind his back. "What d'you want. I got no money," said Chester.
"Shut up," said the smaller man. "I'll do the talkin'." He stepped up close to Chester. The man's eyes above the bandanna were like bottomless black holes in the darkness. "Romulus Krane," the man said.
The memory flooded Chester's mind as he heard the name. Five years past, Mr. Dillon tracked down Romulus Krane, who had robbed a stage carrying Chester as the only passenger. The stage driver and shotgun man disappeared to parts unknown, leaving Chester the sole witness to testify at the Dodge courthouse against Krane, who the judge sentenced to five years hard labor.
Chester knew from the odd voice that the man standing before him now was not Krane. "Did Krane hire you to kill me?" Chester said.
"No," said the man. "Krane knows you're Marshal Dillon's friend. Any man kills you, Dillon'll never stop lookin' 'til he catches the one done it. He'll trail 'im like a bloodhound, and kill 'im himself or die tryin'. So Krane paid me to beat you 'stead of kill you. Oh, it'll rile Dillon sure, just maybe not enough to kill Krane and me."
"Mr. Dillon'll look for you anyway," said Chester. "He'll find you and throw you in jail."
"I think not," said the man. He moved closer to Chester until their noses almost touched. The man's breath smelled of chaw. "You tell Dillon anything you recollect about me or what I said . . . ." He touched his gun barrel to Chester's shoulder. "If word of your blabberin' reaches my ears, I'll tell Krane, and he'll pay me to shoot you next time. Not so as to kill you, but it's gonna hurt. Krane ain't forgetting he spared your life when he robbed that stage, and you ratted him out.
"You recognize my voice, Chester?"
"No," said Chester. "No, I don't know you."
"Well, that'll work fine," the man said conversationally. "I stay here in Dodge, so I'll be around to shoot you if you tell on me and Krane. Now I gotta do what I been paid to do, Chester, and right sorry I am, cuz you seem like a nice fella." The man holstered his gun, and Chester started struggling again.
"Hurry up, before someone sees us," the big man holding Chester said. "You talk too much."
The smaller man hit Chester's midriff, paused as he doubled over, then struck his jaw. "Hold him up," the man said.
"Quit playin' around and get to it," said the big man, jerking Chester upright. "He's already faintin' away."
The smaller man pummeled Chester's torso and face with both fists. He felt like his ribs were afire, every blow like a knife stabbing him. The man hit him so fast, he couldn't breathe. He coughed and choked on the blood filling his mouth and nose, and saw the pain glaring white-hot inside his head. Chester thought he was dying, and wondered if Mr. Dillon and Doc and Miss Kitty would miss him, if Miss Kitty would cry, just a little, as Chester didn't want her pining too much over the likes of him.
The attacker dropped his arms to his sides and stepped back, and the man holding Chester let him fall. "I think I beat 'im too bad," the smaller man said, rubbing his knuckles and looking at Chester lying motionless in the dirt. "The marshal's gonna be powerful mad. I sure hope he don't find out I done it."
"He ain't findin' me," the big man said. "I'm ridin' out now and I'm not lookin' back."
Walking his rounds, Matt was passing the barbershop when he heard Chester groan. He was sure the sound came from Chester, as the marshal knew his partner's voice like his own. "Chester?" Matt said. Hearing the groan again, he moved through the passageway between the barber's and the millinery.
Matt peered through the darkness, took another step forward, and tripped over Chester. The marshal crouched beside him and turned him onto his back, unable to see how badly he was hurt. "Chester?" Matt said.
"Mr. Dillon," Chester said faintly. "I'm not dead."
"Where're you hurt," said Matt.
"All over," Chester whispered. His whole body throbbed, sharp pain cutting through him with every breath. Matt felt Chester's fingers grasping at his arm. "Am I gonna die, Mr. Dillon?"
"No. You'll be alright," said Matt, trying to sound reassuring as his chest tightened with mounting frustration and anxiety. He needed to know what was wrong with his friend. "You shot?" Matt said.
"No," said Chester, his breathing labored. "He beat me. I cain't hardly breathe, it hurts so bad. I'm gonna die."
"You'll be alright," Matt said. "We'll get you to Doc's."
He picked Chester up and carried him toward Doc's office. When Matt walked through the darker length of Front Street, his stride faltered as he clearly saw Chester's battered face in the light from the streetlamp. His partner's swollen eyes were squeezed shut, his features twisted in pain. Though Chester was light for a tall man, the marshal faced a walk of some minutes to Doc's, and Matt was winded as he reached the top of the stairs, his muscles quivering under the strain.
"Doc!" Matt shouted.
Doc opened the door in his dressing gown, his hair disheveled. Matt watched vitality animate Doc's small form, making him appear larger and stronger when he saw Chester in Matt's arms. The marshal felt humbled every time he witnessed this vigorous transformation in Doc.
"Put him on the table there," said Doc.
Matt lay Chester on Doc's table. Though Matt wanted to go for Kitty, he waited to see if Doc needed his help. Chester's head fell heavily to the side, his face resting on the table. His guttural breathing sounded loud in the room. Queasiness coiled Matt's stomach.
Doc brought his face close to Chester's, turning his head so Doc could look into his eyes. "Chester?" Doc said.
Chester opened his eyes halfway. "I'm dyin', Doc," he said. His eyes looked dull and remote.
"No, you're not," said Doc. "You're in a lot of pain. I'm gonna put you to sleep while I fix you up."
"Will it hurt while I'm sleepin'?"
"No," said Doc. "No, it won't." His brows furrowing in concentration, as though he listened for the solution to a mathematical equation, Doc's fingers gently probed Chester's ribs. When Chester gasped and cried out, his face scrunching like a grayish paper mask, Matt shifted his boots and his shoulders twitched. He lowered his head and tugged at his hat brim.
Doc slid his hand over Chester's hair and moved to his medicine cabinet, glancing at Matt. "I need Kitty," Doc said.
"Alright," said Matt. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, watching as Doc, chloroform bottle in hand, removed a cloth from a box on one of the shelves.
"Two of his ribs are broken on one side, one rib on the other side," said Doc. "His insides took a pounding; might have internal bleeding. He could come down with infection, too."
"Will he live, Doc?"
Doc stopped collecting his implements to meet Matt's eyes. "Yes," Doc said. "I'll see to it."
Doc wrapped Chester's ribs tightly with Kitty's help, and cleaned and bandaged the cuts on his puffy, discolored face. Chester slipped without awakening from the chloroform stupor into a deep morphine sleep.
"That's all we can do for now," Doc said. "If infection sets in, we'll have to use ice to break the fever. Put him to bed in the other room, will you, Matt?"
Matt covered Chester with the blankets, sat in a chair by the bed, and watched him sleep.
"Matt?" Kitty laid her hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you go get some rest," she said. "Doc says Chester will sleep the night."
"I'll see you to the Long Branch," Matt said.
They walked slowly along Front Street. Kitty put her arm around Matt's waist, and waited for his arm to encircle her shoulders. She took his arm after a moment and draped it around her shoulders, and he hugged her against him.
"Chester will be alright," Kitty said. "Doc's taking good care of him."
"I know, Kitty," said Matt. "But I might not find who did that to him. A cloudy night like this, it's so dark behind these buildings, you can't see your hand in front of your face. I don't think Chester saw who beat him."
Matt returned to Doc's office early the next morning. "Doc," the marshal said.
"Matt."
"Chester awake?" Matt said.
"He's awake," said Doc. "No appetite yet. I coaxed a little chicken broth into him."
"Can I talk to him?" said Matt.
"You can talk to him," said Doc. Just don't pressure him too hard to answer questions."
The figure in the bed bore little resemblance to Matt's friend. Chester's face was more bloated, the bruises mottled. The dim eyes were unlike Chester's clear expressive eyes. He looked with resigned patience at Matt.
"Chester," Matt said.
"Mr. Dillon. Doc give me morphine," said Chester, his voice tremulous. "I don't hurt none."
"Can you tell me anything about who beat you?" said Matt.
"He said he'll shoot me if I tell. Only not so as I die. He'll aim for the shoulder or somewheres like. He said the man what hired 'im don't want me dead so you won't kill 'im," said Chester. "So you won't kill the man what paid him to beat me."
"I won't let him shoot you." Matt put his hand on Chester's shoulder. "Don't be afraid to tell me who did this to you."
"You cain't stop 'im if he bushwhacks me," said Chester.
"He won't get a chance to bushwhack you," Matt said. "I'll look after you 'til I find him."
"You cain't look after me, find him and do your job all to once," said Chester.
"You can tell me," Matt said.
"I'll tell," said Chester. "I'm scared's all."
"It's alright," said Matt.
" 'Twas Romulus Krane what hired 'em," said Chester. "Man I testified against what robbed the stage. Five years past."
"Krane," Matt said. He hadn't forgotten the name. He recalled the trial and Krane's weathered, rugged visage well. "More than one man attacked you?" said Matt.
"Two of 'em," Chester said. "The big one grabbed me, dragged me behind the barbershop, and t'other 'un done the beatin'."
"You see how they looked?" said Matt.
"No. 'Twas too dark. They wore bandannas roun' their faces."
"What about voices?" Matt said. "How'd they sound?"
"The big one jest regular. One what beat me talked like he's passin' the time of day, sayin' howdy. Careful, like he thinks on every word afore he says it. An' cutoff like. His words was cutoff," said Chester.
"Can you remember anything else they said?" said Matt.
"The one what beat me said he stays here in Dodge. That's all," said Chester.
"That's good, Chester," said Matt, patting his friend's shoulder. "You did good."
"I'm so powerful tired, Mr. Dillon," said Chester. "I think I'm dyin'."
"You're not hurting, are you?" said Matt.
"I'm not," said Chester. "The morphine stops it. I feel like I'll die though when I go to sleep some time."
"Quit saying that, Chester," Matt said, just as Kitty walked in the room. "You won't die."
"I will." Chester started crying. Feeling guilty, Matt looked helplessly at Kitty.
"Chester," Kitty said pleasantly, as though Chester wasn't weeping at all. "Hello, Matt." She showed none of the consternation Matt had felt at the sight of Chester's face.
Kitty took a cloth out of the water basin on the small table by the bed, wrung the cloth out, and cleaned Chester's face. "That's how Doc does it," Matt said. "Doc handles his distress easy like you're doin' it."
"Of course," said Kitty.
"I'm fine when you're here, Miss Kitty," Chester said sleepily. "I won't die when you're here. I can close my eyes a spell."
"That's good to hear," said Kitty. She smoothed his hair into place. "You do that, Chester."
"You look worn out, Matt," Kitty said. "Didn't you get any rest?"
"Some," said Matt.
"You had breakfast?"
"Not yet."
"Why don't you and Doc get yourselves somethin' to eat while I sit with Chester. He'll sleep awhile."