Sherman Sims

I was not afraid to face Coldwell. Marshal Dillon towered over me as we walked to the Long Branch, and though his build was more lean than broad, he radiated strength. He was warm in an unassuming way and reassuringly sensible. Beyond his presence, my anger at Coldwell for making advances to Emmie emboldened me.

"Don't fight Coldwell, Sherman," the marshal warned. "And don't provoke him. I'll handle it." I didn't answer. I would fight Coldwell.

The Long Branch was empty except for Sam and Coldwell, who sat at a table drinking beer. Coldwell bared big white teeth in a grin when he saw us. "I wondered if you'd have the gizzard to show, Sims," he said. "You're not quite a coward; that I admit. So your lady told you I paid her a visit, did she? She's one fine woman."

I felt my chest heave and my fists clench. "Sims," said Dillon. Coldwell took a gulp of beer, rose and planted his boots apart. I rushed him. I knew the marshal wouldn't stop me, as Emmie is my wife.

Coldwell's fist rammed my gut. I charged right into it and collapsed. I couldn't breathe an endless moment. The pain was fierce, shooting to my fingers and toes as I writhed on the floor, hugging myself and gasping. My vision clouded and my head buzzed. The marshal's boot steps moved in fast.

"You saw it, Marshal," said Coldwell. "He charged me like a mad coyote; I just defended myself. All I wanted all these days was to hit him back after he punched me that day at Delmonico's. I'll leave him and Mrs. Sims alone now."

"Alright, Coldwell," said Dillon. I'll run you out of town if you go near him or Mrs. Sims again."

"I won't," said Coldwell. "I swear."

"Get out of here. You're through drinkin' for now," said the marshal.

I felt Coldwell's heavy tread through the boards as I lay on the floor. His steps receded, I heard him push through the batwings and knew he was gone.

"Bring us some whiskey, will you, Sam?" said the marshal. He lifted me under the arms and sat me in a chair. I streamed clammy sweat, breathing hard. Dillon removed my hat and put it on the table, loosened my tie, unbuttoned my collar and took off my suit jacket, putting it beside my hat.

I was embarrassed but too weak to help myself. My arms hung at my sides and my mouth gaped as I sucked air like a hooked fish. I wished Miss Kitty were there or one of her girls. I'd have welcomed their help and not felt so mortified, but no women were in the Long Branch then, only me and the marshal and Sam.

Sam carried a tray with two whiskey glasses, a water pitcher and a clean folded cloth to the table. "Ice water," he said. Dillon nodded, and I guessed what was coming. I was helpless to protest. Sam soaked the cloth and vigorously rubbed my face, neck and head. The cold water shocked yet made me feel a little better. The marshal and Sam showed no unease. The shame was all on my side. They attended me with detachment, as though rubbing down a sick horse.

I thanked Sam, and Dillon sat at the table with me. I sipped my whiskey with a shaking hand. "My Dodge City tale will be very different than I thought, Marshal," I said. My voice sounded reedy to my ears. "I'm quite ready to leave your jail and return to Dodge House. I want to go home to New York, yet somehow I know it's not time for Emmie and me to depart this town. I've something more to do here."

"What's that," the marshal said.

I didn't know what I had still to do, though if I confessed as much to this practical lawman, he'd likely think me a fool. "Perhaps nothing," I said. "I am not thinking straight. That blow from Coldwell made me a bit ill."

"Doc goes to the jail afternoons to see how Dade's doing. He can look you over," said the marshal. I had a hazy notion that my impulse to prolong our stay in Dodge concerned Dade. The plan would take shape in my mind; I'd have to be patient.

I moved slowly on the walk to the marshal's office. My stomach was sore to the backbone and my legs wobbled. Dillon kept pace with me, looking closely at me every few yards. Expecting me to faint, I suppose, which I would not do. I'd disgraced myself enough.

Doc was at the jailhouse, tending Dade in his cell. Emmie put her arms around me, knowing at once I was hurt. Gracefully formed as she is, she has wide shoulders and strong arms for a woman. I was comforted yet weakened by her embrace, but her soft warm body was too pleasing for me to pull away. "Come lie down," she urged. "At least until Doc sees you."

"I musn't. That bed belongs to Chester," I said nonsensically.

"Good heavens, Mr. Sims, go 'head an' lay down," said Chester. "I don't mind at all."

I let Emmie lead me to the bed and help me lie down. She stood over me, holding my hand, and Chester pulled up a chair for her.

"It's about time you got back, Matt," said Miss Kitty. "I can't sit here all day, ya know. I have to get ready for my night patrons. You'll come have a beer tonight?"

"I guess I'd better," said the marshal.

"See that you do," Miss Kitty said.

As Doc examined me, I asked him how Dade fared. "He's no better," said Doc, his fingers probing my ribs and belly. "No worse either."

I grunted, and Emmie anxiously stroked my hair. "It aches," I said.

"I know it does," said Doc. "I have to make sure nothing's ruptured, and Coldwell didn't bust a rib."

"Emmie gave Coldwell's carving to Dade," I said to Doc. "The castle. And the box it came in. Do you think, Doc, that might . . . sort of . . . strengthen Dade's senses?"

Doc pondered my question. "He's calmer than yesterday," he said. "Head's maybe a little steadier. Don't know how long it'll last, though.

"Coldwell's punch shook you up," Doc went on, "You'll have a bruise is all. A day's bed rest will set you right."

I knew abruptly like a lamp lighting why I wanted to stay longer in Dodge. I sat up on the bed and swung my boots to the floor. "My father takes charity cases in his law practice," I said. "He will represent Dade on his court date."

"Your father would travel from New York to Kansas to help a man like Dade?" said Marshal Dillon.

"He's most enthusiastic helping lawbreakers too infirm to survive prison," I said. "He'll come to Dodge directly when I wire him that I wounded Dade. Pa will make inquiries to find the best public invalids' home, and pay for Dade to travel there, and for a nurse to go with him."

"Papa Sims will do that," said Emmie. "He'll believe it his duty. Oh, I am glad. You needn't feel guilty for injuring Dade, Sherman."

"Well, I'll try not to, Emmie," I said. "I won't feel nearly as guilty anyway. I hope you won't be distressed if we stay in Dodge awhile, my dear. We ought to stay and keep Pa company when he comes. We can rest and see the town sights. Our adventure here was . . . dramatically strange. We need to relax before we sort it out."

"Oh yes, Sherman, I agree," said Emmie. "Let's rest the summer and wait to write our narrative when we go home."

"I'll send it to you when we finish it, Marshal," I said. "Pa will pay the publishing if we cannot find a house to accept it.

"Mr. Jonas and Sam have small roles," I told the marshal, "and Doc too, unfortunately. Miss Kitty figures more, Chester appears throughout, and Marshal Dillon plays an important part in this true adventure. As he always does, sir."

"Well I don't know how true that is, or this story you're telling, either. But it won't trouble me to take a look at it," said Matt Dillon.

END