Kitty sensed trouble brewing that muggy summer night. The young gambler drank too much as usual, tossing back two-shot whiskies without a shoulder hitch or grimace as his girl petted and kissed him under his tattered hat, her soft bare arms hugging him from behind. Though he feared the rich railroader who swaggered in at sundown, and was wont to let his rival take possession of the girl, tonight liquor made the gambler bold and forceful. Not naturally talkative, he chatted more each time he drained his glass and splashed it again to the brim, his mild brown eyes kindling with a hot light as he watched the batwings for the railroader's robust frame.
"Dustin Keane's drinkin' a lot," said Kitty, standing with Chester at the end of the bar by the stairs. "He won't wanna give Annette up when Bellamy gets here."
"He dun never wanna give 'er up, Miss Kitty. Bellamy scares 'im, that's the thang. Dustin does look frisky tonight, don't he. Ain't like him a'tall. Think he'll fight Bellamy?"
"Won't be much of a fight," said Kitty. "Unless Keane pulls his gun."
"He ain't like ta shoot an unarmed man. Bellamy don't wear a gun."
"There he is," said Kitty. "Bellamy."
The barroom was full yet quiet, except for the young gambler's tipsy rambling. Though the temperature cooled as the sky darkened, the daytime sun sapped bodies while the humidity dehydrated them. Warm moisture hung heavy in the night air. The men and gals were sluggish and sweating, beer and whiskey soothing nerves and aches and sucking even more water out of them at the same time. Player piano music made the saloon feel hotter, so Kitty and Sam left the instrument off. Talk above a low pitch could be overheard anywhere in the room.
Kitty did not like Jack Bellamy, though a lot of people did. When he plowed through the batwings with that arrogant grin, like he owned Dodge and everyone in it, Kitty's girls and patrons shouted greetings. Folks called him Jack, even those he bossed and paid, even his housekeeper. He wouldn't have it any other way.
As Bellamy approached Dustin's table, the gambler's girl Annette took Jack's arm, smiling brightly at the railroader. Kitty knew the girl was playacting. She loved Dustin and disliked Bellamy much as Kitty did, but Annette worked for her, and Bellamy spent more than anyone at the Long Branch. A widower forty-five years of age, he still needed a woman's services, would bed only Annette and paid her extravagantly.
"Hello, beautiful." Bellamy embraced her and they kissed.
Dustin threw his cards on the table, scraped back his chair and jumped up, his sharply hewn, fine-boned face shadowed and his eyes smoldering. "Annette's with me tonight, Bellamy. All night."
"Dustin. Sit down and enjoy your game," Annette urged. "I want to chat with Jack now."
"You heard the girl, boozer," Jack said, grinning.
"Annette," said the gambler, "go to the bar."
Annette pulled out of Bellamy's embrace. "Dustin, please don't fight," she pleaded. "You'll get bad hurt."
"Smart girl. You best take heed, Keane," said Bellamy.
"Go on, Annette," said Dustin.
"No. I won't let you fight him." She threw her arms around the gambler's neck and clung to him.
He gently pried her arms loose and moved her aside. "Go on, Annette," he repeated.
"No. He'll kill you."
"Annette, come here," Kitty ordered from the bar, forcing herself to sound tough. Bossing never came easily to Kitty. Indulgent with her workers, as each year passed she felt a stronger motherly affection and protectiveness for the younger women, most of whom were between eighteen and twenty-five years old. At twenty-four, Annette was a slender pretty girl with a graceful figure, about two inches shorter than Kitty. Though the girl knew how to handle men as well as Kitty, Annette had a delicate look and air that made Kitty want to take care of her. She was fond of her own way, and Kitty was relieved when Annette obeyed her and went to the bar.
"Dustin is so stupidly jealous and mulish when he's had too much to drink," said the girl. "Anyone can see he's no match for Bellamy. Jack will beat him just for sport." Annette was not a callous woman despite her hard words. She loved Dustin with a tender passion, but she wasn't the sort to bury her heart with her man. A woman who fell in love in a town like Dodge risked losing her man at the hands of another. A man was as likely to die from a beating or bullet as from consumption, cholera or pneumonia, and many died younger than the gambler's twenty-eight years. When Dustin set his head to a thing no matter how foolish, he would do it and Annette couldn't stop him. He'd refuse to pay her any mind at all.
Kitty understood, and wondered what Annette saw in the shiftless, unkept, aimless gambler. His looks maybe, which were pleasing enough in spite of his rumpled appearance, though Kitty had seen handsomer men. Medium height and build, neatly shaped and spare of form, Dustin Keane had fine even features, a clean complexion the hue of sand, clear eyes and a serious expression, and mussed, waving brown hair.
Kitty felt nothing much about Keane, except to shrink from the thought of him taking a beating. He was not a sturdy man, his frequent imbibing made him tottery even when he wasn't drinking. He and Jack Bellamy were hurling barbs, their dander heating up. The cardplayers at Dustin's table had stepped to the bar to watch from a safe distance. "What're you so riled about anyhow, you durn fool," Bellamy snapped when the gambler called him a braying moneyed jackass. "She's just a succulent little harlot."
Dustin took a swing at the railroad man, who ducked the fist and punched his jaw, knocking him on his back. Eyes glittering, Bellamy clenched and bared his teeth, loomed over Dustin and jerked him upright by his worn linsey vest. Bellamy rammed a fist in his gut and kneed him under the chin as he bent over. Jack held the gambler up by the neck of his faded collarless shirt, pounding both sides of his face.
Annette covered her mouth with both hands, her dark eyes wide in horror. "Chester, go find Matt," said Kitty. "Hurry. Bellamy will kill him." Chester rushed across the barroom and charged through the batwings. Kitty put her arms around Annette. Some of the men looked concerned, a few looked queasy or glared at Bellamy, but most watched the beating with a sort of hungry fascination. No one moved to help Dustin. Though he hadn't landed a punch and was too pummeled to defend himself, he'd started the fight and the men would not interfere.
They had their code, and many disliked Dustin, said he was too lucky on account of he earned his bread solely by gambling, even though he stayed in a small shoddy room and owned just two worn outfits—slate-colored linsey pants and vests, two collarless threadbare shirts and holes in his boots where his stockings showed through. He had his clothes laundered once a month, paid a nickel for a bath once a fortnight and cut his own hair.
Tired of hitting Dustin's face, Bellamy shoved him back across a table and hammered his ribs and belly. A stocky man yelled, "You're wearing a gun and he's not, Dustin Keane. Shoot the piece of dung."
Bellamy stiffened and raised his hands over his head. Not handy with guns, leery of them, the railroad man had poor aim and faulty vision, and was too vain to wear spectacles. Though Dustin was nearly passing out, Bellamy had no wish to grapple for the gambler's gun.
Dustin's shaking fingers closed round his gun butt as he lay on his back on the table. He drew the gun, cocked and pointed it at Bellamy's chest. "Rich braggart, fooling all these people," Dustin said faintly, wetly, blood coating his mouth and trickling from the corners. "You're nothing but a dirty whitewashed pig in a fancy suit." Bellamy's face twisted in rage.
Dustin struggled to sit up on the table, slid his boots to the floor and stood swaying in front of the railroader. Holding his cocked gun leveled at Bellamy's chest, the gambler worked up a mouthful of bloody saliva and spat full in the rich man's face. Bellamy snarled like a dog and leaped at him. Dustin pulled the trigger, and as the bullet ripped through Bellamy's heart, he fell straight back and hit the floor with a loud thud.
His bloody battered face blank and his normally mild eyes hard as brown stones, Dustin holstered his gun. "Got a carcass to clean up," he said weakly, as Matt pushed through the batwings with Chester at his heels.
Annette hurried to her wounded beau, followed by Kitty. Eyes dimming, he squared his shoulders, lifted his gashed jaw and held out his hands to her, which she grasped. "My lady," he said, and crumpled. Chester caught and eased him to the floor. "He's senseless, Mr. Dillon. Poor feller. Bellamy beat 'im somethin' terrible." Annette knelt beside the gambler, took his hand and pressed it to her chest.
"Keane had that beating comin'," a cowboy said. "He's a no-count cheat at cards and he killed Jack in cold blood. I oughta finish Keane off right here and now."
"Shut your rotten mouth or I'll finish you off," Annette said, her dark eyes blazing.
"Hah," the man barked. "Crazy woman. You're just a frail little strumpet."
"Shut up, Romper," Matt said. "No one's finishing anyone off here. Kitty, you see what happened?"
"All of it. Bellamy was beating him to death, Matt. Dustin had to shoot 'im."
"She ain't tellin' the whole story, Marshal," said Romper. "Jack put his hands in the air and quit beating Keane, but he riled Jack then. Spit blood in his face. Keane made Jack jump at him again so he could shoot in self-defense."
"Marshal?" The stocky man approached Matt. "I told Dustin to shoot Bellamy on account of Bellamy was beating him to death, like Miss Kitty said. I can tell you everything, but I want to get him to Doc's. He's in real bad shape. I'll wait for you at Doc's, Marshal. Don't matter how long I wait. A lot of these fellas liked Bellamy and they're none too fond of Dustin. I best guard him a spell 'til these fellas cool off."
"Alright, Ben. I'll meet you at Doc's," said Matt.
Annette still knelt at the gambler's side, and Chester held out his hand to her, helping her stand. Ben picked Dustin up and carried him out, and the girl went with him.
"Is Keane under arrest, Marshal?" said Romper.
"No. It was self-defense."
"It wasn't, I tell you. Keane shot Jack cold. Ben Ellis didn't like Jack, so he takes Dustin's side natural, and how can you go on Miss Kitty's word, Marshal. Jezebel like her." An angry rumble of agreement rose in the saloon.
Matt could move fast for a man his size. His long legs swiftly covered the space between him and the cowboy and he socked Romper's face, knocking him out. He crashed into a table and landed with it on top of him. "You other men got anything to say?" Like blue ice chips, Matt's eyes roved over the men, his rugged face set in hard lines. The angry rumble abruptly ceased. "Get Romper outa here," Matt ordered, "and see he doesn't show his hide on the street again tonight. And take Bellamy's body to the undertaker's."
Six men moved to obey, two carrying Romper and four lifting Bellamy's corpse while another righted the upended table. The Long Branch cleanup man approached with a pail of steaming water, a tin of lye soap and a pile of rags, and washed the blood away. Dustin's blood stained the floor in small splashes, and Bellamy's was a wide puddle smeared with the shape of his body.
Their wrath at the gregarious, generous railroader's killing drained out of them, the men stood silent, gloomily watching the cleanup man at work. "The rest of you boys have some more drinks," said Matt. They moved slowly to the bar, talking in low sober tones.
Matt put his arm around Kitty. "We need to talk before I go to Doc's. Come on, Chester." Sam met them with a tray as they sat down. Beers for Matt and Chester and chilled apple cider for Kitty. They thanked the bartender, and were quiet a moment as they took long swallows. Kitty felt shaken although she concealed it, not wanting to worry Matt, or Chester, who looked nervy. Chester hadn't witnessed Bellamy's shooting or seen the whole of the gambler's brutal beating, but he'd seen enough to unsettle him. A gentle man, he couldn't harden himself to bloodshed any more than Kitty could, and was too guileless to try. Unlike Kitty and Chester, Matt wasn't shaken, but after running with Chester through the muggy summer night from the office to the Long Branch, the marshal was hot and sweating.
"The fight start over Annette, Kitty?"
"Yes, and you know it did. Annette's not to blame, Matt. Dustin was drinkin' too much like always, and got jealous mad when Bellamy took Annette in his arms and kissed her. She was just doing her job."
"Miss Kitty's right, Mr. Dillon," said Chester. "Annette ain't at fault. Them two men brung this on theirselves."
"Looked to me like Dustin was scared of that railroader," said Matt. "Soft muddle-headed gambler. Didn't think he had it in him to stand up to Jack Bellamy."
"Dustin was almost drunk," said Kitty. "The liquor made him bold."
"Lot of folks in Dodge liked Bellamy," Matt said. "They might make trouble for Dustin. Best thing for him is to leave town, if he lives. If he's not left a cripple."
"Bellamy was a brute under his smiles and manners and the money he threw around," said Kitty. "I'm not sorry he's dead."
"Me neither. He cain't hurt no other man like he done poor Dustin," said Chester.
"I might just give that girl of his a talking to," said Matt.
"What for?" said Kitty.
"Annette must've known she'd stir up trouble, kissing Bellamy in front of Dustin."
"Matt, that's not fair. The girls are hired to flirt, and Bellamy was one of our best customers if he was a mad dog under that well-groomed skin."
"Bellamy was a muck pile," said Chester. "Annette ain't ta blame a'tall. My goodness, Mr. Dillon, a body ud 'spect you to see it."
"Don't scold her, Matt," Kitty implored. "She's distressed over Dustin as it is. Annette loves him and he might die."
"Alright, alright. I won't scold her." Matt grinned a little, reaching for Kitty's hand. "I don't have the gizzard, between you looking out for the girl and Chester's gallantry. You're growing into a mother hen."
"I'm not old enough to be a mother hen. Annette's twenty-four and I'm just eleven years older."
"Kitty, you're as pretty as the day we met," said Matt, his sky-blue eyes shining with that special tender look he bestowed only on her. Chester blushed and gulped beer, leaving a line of froth like an old-timer's mustache under his nose. He planned to leave Dodge for the north of California when harvest time came and the weather turned. Already missing him, Matt and Kitty didn't mind having him around for their affectionate moments.
Kitty smiled. "I'm not as pretty as the day we met, but you can say I am much as you want to."
"You are to me," Matt said.
"Well, I'm still lively enough to smash a chair into that cowboy Romper's fool face." Kitty's mouth tightened, the exquisite gem-blue of her eyes darkening. "He has a lot of nerve, callin' me Jezebel in my own establishment. If you hadn't knocked his lights out, Matt, I would've."
Matt's smile widened. "I forget you like to do your own fightin'."
"I sure can if I have to."
"No need fer that, Miss Kitty," said Chester. "Romper best respect you here on in, cuz ah'll loosen 'is teeth for 'im if Mr. Dillon ain't 'roun ta do it."
"I know you will, Chester." Which reminded Kitty with a pang in her heart that Chester himself wouldn't be around too much longer. At forty years old he'd matured, grown surer and steadier, yet Kitty worried how he'd fare in California, what would become of him without her and Matt and Doc watching out for him.
"We have to get to Doc's," said Matt. "Ben's waiting to tell me what went on with Dustin and Bellamy. I'll add Ben's account to yours for my report, Kitty."
Kitty felt the usual dip in her spirits as Matt's big hand, strong and warm, released hers. She was used to the feeling, the weighed-down sensation of her slim, light figure, the saloon seeming to darken, looking every bit as drab as it was. With Matt there, the barroom looked fine and bright.
M***********************************************************************
The gambler's spare body looked pale and wasted on Doc's table, his reddened face swollen and covered with sticking plasters. Annette sat by the table stroking his tousled hair, and Ben sat near the window.
"Will he live, Doc?" said Matt.
"He'll live, but he'll be bedridden a spell. Has a concussion, three busted ribs and some bruising in his gut. He woke up long enough to lose his supper and all that whiskey he drank, and I gave him a hefty dose of morphine and stomach bitters, put him out again. What he needs most now is sleep, help him mend."
"He warn't none too liked since he come to Dodge, an' folks'll have a grudge now he's shot Bellamy dead," said Chester.
"If anyone in this vicious town hurts him again, I'll kill them," said Annette. "Dustin has a right to be who he is. He's a better man than a lot of the animals scurrying round here, and he has a right to defend himself."
"No one will hurt him again if I can help it, Annette," said Matt. "I can't watch him all the time, but I can keep an eye out for him."
"I'll look out for him, too, Marshal," said Ben. "I haven't had much bodyguard work of late. Summers are slow."
"You a friend of Dustin's?" Matt asked.
"Don't know as he has any friends in Dodge, except for you, Annette. Tonight I saw how much he needs a friend, so I took an interest. Reckon that's all there is to it." Ben Ellis was an honest, careful, plain-spoken man, even-tempered and steady. Matt thought he might trust him if he knew him better. He had a keen eye and sharp memory, relating to Matt every detail of what happened at the Long Branch with Dustin and Bellamy.
The gambler convalesced three weeks at Doc's, his face and torso blossoming purplish blue with a mass of bruises that turned greenish yellow when they began to fade. No one plagued him while he was confined to bed, but Kitty heard the cowboy Romper threaten to bushwhack him, and she told Matt. The marshal paid Romper a visit at the ranch where he worked, warning him that if any harm came to Dustin, Matt would throw the cowboy in jail. That shut Romper up, though Matt didn't know for how long. Not given to fist-fighting, Romper was no gunman either, but he was a blusterer and could be a rabble-rouser when the notion took him.
When Chester reported the townsfolk backbit Dustin somethin' fierce, Matt headed for Doc's and urged the gambler to leave Dodge with his girl soon as he was strong enough to travel. Doc had moved the patient to his own bed and slept nights on his recliner. Dustin normally bathed once every two weeks, and for two weeks of the month his clothes reeked and he smelled like a goat. Under Doc's ministrations, and with Annette as his nurse outside her Long Branch hours, the gambler always smelled clean, of Pear's soap—a mild wash for babes which Doc used on his patients as it soothed the senses—carbolic acid, for treating wounds, and healing cream. And though there was no taming Dustin's unruly hair, his brown waves no longer resembled a bird's nest.
When Matt visited Doc's that morning, Annette was at the saloon working the day shift. "Doc. How's the patient today?" said the marshal.
"Mending a little slow for a young fella, but he'll be fine eventual," said Doc. "He still has a lot of pain and some melancholy. I keep him on high doses of morphine and chloral hydrate for the depression. Calms his craving for whiskey."
"Can I see him?"
"Sure. He's doped, though. Sleeps most of the time. Uh, Matt . . . . " Doc closed the bedroom door and lowered his voice. "Before you speak to 'im . . . . Dustin and Annette were talking last night while I cleaned the cuts on his face. I told 'em if they waited 'til I finished, I'd leave the room and give them time alone, but they asked me to stay. Those young folks want me in on everything they talk about for some reason." Doc shook his head.
Matt grinned. "How old are you now, Doc?"
Doc shot him a peevish look. "Sixty. I know where you're goin' with this, and you're no spring chicken yourself. I happen to know Kitty treated you to a forty-first birthday dinner in May."
"Not old enough to play papa to a twenty-eight-year-old man. That's your role, Doc."
"Papa to a boozing gambler and a saloon girl." Doc shook his head again.
"That just means they need your fatherly presence more than ever, Doc."
"Well, I don't know about that but they sure have made me their confidant. Set and I'll pour us some coffee, tell you what they said. Dustin asked Annette to marry him last night."
"I saw that comin'," said Matt. "Annette is so pretty and dainty, she draws the men like bees to honey. Like Bellamy. Beautiful girl like that makes the worst trouble workin' a barroom, when she has a serious beau, particular. She should marry Dustin straightaway."
"Course she should," Doc agreed. "But there's no figurin' a woman's mind, my friend. Like to addle your own if you try."
"Don't tell me she refused him," said Matt.
"She did."
"Why?"
"He wants her to quit flirting and bedding men for money," said Doc. "Quit the Long Branch. Which she'll have to do if she marries him. Kitty doesn't employ married women."
"Mm-hmm. Town council ordinance forbids it, too. Under decency laws," said Matt.
"Well, Annette says she's not equipped for any other job. Has just three years schooling, she can't sew or cook, and she hasn't the strength for laundering. Says she's not gonna subsist as a pauper wife on Dustin's paltry gambler winnings."
"There are worse things than bein' a poor wife," said Matt. "Like a man losing his life on account of rivalry over a woman."
"If you mean Jack Bellamy, Annette is pleased he's dead, and she praises Dustin to his face for killing Bellamy. That rich ass was the problem, Matt, not Annette."
"What about the next rich ass who comes along, Doc?"
"How should I know?" Doc took a long drink of coffee and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "She can tell Dustin to kill him too for all I care, whoever he may be." He took another fortifying swallow of steaming brew. Beer and whiskey had nothing on strong hot coffee for invigorating a body.
"Now Doc, you don't mean that," said the marshal.
"What I mean, Matt, is Annette's not to blame if the idle sot she's in love with gets too jealous. She did promise Dustin to stop sharing her bed with other men, give up her Long Branch room and move in with him. She said maybe she'll marry him when he wins big at cards."
"Which will be never, most likely," said Matt.
Having told Matt what he thought the marshal needed to know, Doc tired of the conversation. Though he never wearied of saving lives—treating, tending, studying and talking about his patients' wounds and sicknesses both physical and mental. Doc's profession enlivened him any time of the day or night, no matter how fatigued he grew or how hard he worked his mind. What his patients did outside their health, however, was their business, and often Matt's as well, interesting Doc but little.
He rose from his chair and moved to the window, signaling an end to the discussion. "Go on in and visit with that young fella," he said curtly. "He gets lonely when his lady's out at work."
Dustin sat dozing in bed, resting on two big feather pillows. Though he was still peaked, the swelling on his face had disappeared and he looked better. Reluctant to disturb him until his eyes opened, Matt pulled a chair near the bed and waited a few moments. Annette had put a tintype of herself and the gambler in a gilt frame on the bedside table. She wore a simple sprigged lawn dress and hat adorned with one peacock feather, and he wore his usual worn linsey pants, vest and collarless shirt, his waving hair a tangle. Annette's arms were wrapped around him and his arm encircled her shoulder. Both were smiling—he looked proud and happy, she looked blissful.
"She's the prettiest girl in Dodge, don't you think, Marshal?" Dustin's mild brown eyes were open, shining at the picture.
"She's sure one of the prettiest," Matt said. "How are ya, Dustin."
"Fine. Annette comes every day, and Doc takes good care of me. Ben visits betimes."
"I want you and Annette to leave Dodge when you're mended sufficient to travel."
Dustin's chest hitched and his eyes glimmered hurt. "I thought you were calling on me to be neighborly."
Matt reached out and patted his shoulder. "I am. Folks here have ill will for you over Bellamy's death."
"I know I made trouble. It's all my fault, Marshal. Annette's the sweetest girl you'll ever meet, and the town likes her. No one with a shred of decency would hurt her."
"I don't think anyone will. It's you I'm worried about, Dustin."
The gambler's fine features hardened and his eyes grew cold. "Annette said shoot any man who tries to beat me again, and I will. I won't run from them, Marshal, they won't drive me out of town. Don't matter if I have no friends long as my lady loves me."
"Dodge is just another cow town," Matt argued. "Why not find a place where the people aren't hostile to you. You're in danger here, Keane. I can't protect you every minute and neither can Ben. You can't pay him to guard you, so he has to guard folks who can."
"The one way I can be strong is stand against men who wanna hurt me. The more I stand against 'em, the stronger and surer I feel. It's a heady feeling, like a draught of fine rye. I'm taking the land my ragged old boots tread on, Marshal. I won't leave Dodge, and no one can make me."