In spite of all the money Jack Bellamy had spent in his store, Jonas never liked the dead railroad man, and he felt for Dustin Keane, sort of a nice young fella if rather scruffy and indolent. Customers spoke of missing Bellamy—so well turned out with his brilliant smile and hearty laugh—and in the same breath scorned the gambler as a nothing unfit to clean the coal dust off Bellamy's boots.
Jonas wanted to remind them that no one would ever clean Bellamy's fancy boots again, those dead hands would never again toss quarters for drifters and drunkards to grovel after in the dirt. The storekeeper almost said it aloud a time or two, biting it back with an effort. The townsfolks' venomous contempt for the gambler compelled Jonas to do him a kindness.
When Dustin and his girl came in to buy provisions, the gambler attracted the usual scowls. Thankfully folks did not bother Annette. Men, women and children found gazing at her a pleasure, and Jonas figured her delicate beauty shielded her from the rancor targeting her beau. Some time had passed since Dustin shot and killed Bellamy. In Jonas's opinion, no one had liked the man enough to truly mourn him, no one had loved him, maybe not even his wife before she died. No, the townspeople's anger at Dustin should have disappeared by now, or very nearly. It grew instead into something darker and more menacing, and those who despised the gambler gave voice to the thing.
Which didn't scare Jonas. It made him mad, as did the ill-bred dunderheads that let themselves be sucked into it. Jonas was a nervous man, but he wasn't fearful. He smiled and was attentive to Dustin and Annette.
"This big suit manufacturer from St. Louis is mailing me letters," the storekeeper said as he gathered their purchases from the shelves. "Says he'll pay me to put his brand on display around town. Been thinkin' on how I'm s'posed to do that. He hasn't sent me a single advertisement poster. Now if a slim young fella with a neat figure would do me a favor, wear a couple of these suits when he's out on the town . . . why, I could line my pockets with this bigwig's money, and some lucky young man would have two sets of new duds to call his own."
Kitty walked in, and Jonas nodded and smiled at her. He was always happy to see her, and not just because she was a good customer. With her brightly colored silks and laces, abundantly feathered hats complimenting her fair skin, vivid blue eyes and flaming red hair, Kitty lit up the store merely by stepping over the threshold. "I see just one young man in here, Mr. Jonas," she said, having overheard the storekeeper talking as she admired a green parasol with pink trimming in the window. "Think he'll do?" she asked, her eyes twinkling at Dustin. The gambler blushed and tipped his hat to her.
Annette took his arm. "He'll do fine," she said.
A man whose bearing and expression—his shifty eyes in particular—made folks think of a rat, shuffled away from the display of men's hats and moved between Kitty and Dustin with Annette hugging his arm. The town council paid the rodent-eyed man sixty-five cents a day to shovel horse muck from the streets, and cow dung from the trampled grass at the rear of Dodge City. The fellow was a sneaking thief, and Jonas had lost count of the times the marshal jailed him for stealing. It was hard to keep an eye on the man while serving the customers, and Jonas usually discovered that merchandise or money from the cash drawer was missing when the man scurried out the door.
"Sure he'll do fine," said the fellow. "Shabby dreg like Dustin Keane will snatch at charity wherever he can find it."
"Grimke, why don't you go gnaw another hole in that shack of yours and root out some rotten cheese," said Kitty.
Grimke kept his back to Kitty, his eyes not meeting Dustin's but darting over every other inch of him. "Jack Bellamy always said howdy when he seen me, chatted and treated me to a beer at the Long Branch. Jack's money about ran that saloon of yours, Miss Kitty."
"The Long Branch did fine before Bellamy came to Dodge, and it's still doin' fine now he's dead," said Kitty.
"That's gratitude for you," said Grimke. "You and that marshal of yours are one of a kind. Bellamy gave a lot to this town, and Dillon wouldn't even arrest his killer. This little dirt clod should be layin' under Boot Hill sod with his neck broke by the noose."
"Dustin shot Bellamy in self-defense," said Annette. "So quit riling people against my friend." She raised her voice, her dark eyes sparking round the store at the shoppers, most of whom frowned at Dustin. Annette's tone startled them, coming from such a lovely young woman with an air of delicacy about her, though anyone who knew her well knew that even with her normal light voice she spoke decidedly. Her voice sounded deeper now, louder than folks would have expected. "That goes for all of you looking daggers at him."
"You are one brave fella, Keane," said Grimke. "First you shoot an unarmed man, then you hide behind your little woman's skirts while she defends you."
"Grimke, stop pestering my customers and get out of here," said Jonas.
"Oh would I love to smash your face," Grimke said to Dustin.
"There are ladies present," Dustin said, "and I won't wreck Mr. Jonas's store. You want to scuttle outdoors there, Grimke, I'll rip your tail off and shove it down your throat. Just don't leave any droppings on the floor on your way out." Stunned, Kitty and Annette stared at Dustin. Though he spoke in his usual quiet tones, his words and the flinty cast of his eyes were unfamiliar, like some forceful, hardened stranger had taken possession of the somewhat timid, mild-mannered gambler. Kitty remembered his eyes had changed that way just before he spat blood in Jack Bellamy's face and shot him dead.
Grimke lunged for Dustin's throat. Ben Ellis's brawny frame was suddenly among them, his thick fingers grasping Grimke's collar at the back of the man's neck. "You're not gonna fight Dustin with Annette on his arm and Miss Kitty standing right here," said Ben. "The women could get hurt."
"Glugh!" Grimke tugged frantically at his collar, and Ben let him go. Grimke coughed and gasped, stroking his throat.
"Now get out," said Ben. Grimke stumbled out of the store.
"Thanks, Ben," said Dustin. "I wanted to thrash that rat, but not near Annette and Miss Kitty."
"Maybe you best not rile Grimke," Ben said. "He's some bigger than you, and he's real mad over Bellamy's death."
"He doesn't daunt me. I don't care how mad he gets. I'm tired of people hounding me about Bellamy, and I wanted to bust Grimke's snout," said Dustin.
"That is the best way to shut scum like Grimke up," said Annette.
"Of course it is," said Kitty. "Jack Bellamy got what he deserved for beating you most to death, Dustin, and whoever in this town can't see that needs some sense smacked into 'em."
"Well, it sure gave me pleasure to hear you call Grimke what he is, Dustin," said Jonas. "How about I pick out two of those fine suits for you to try on? The manufacturer sells hats, shirts, ties and boots under the same brand. Folks'll have to see you in the full outfits for the dandy affect he wants."
"Will you help us pick the things out, Kitty?" Annette said. "You're so very fashionable, you'll know what looks smart on a man, too, and how I'll like Dustin turned out. I wonder you don't choose nice suits for Marshal Dillon."
"Oh, there's no choosing anything for Marshal Dillon, honey," said Kitty. "Or hardly ever. When did Matt let me buy that tweed wool suit jacket for him, Mr. Jonas."
"Er, six, seven years ago."
"He'll wear a black string tie on special occasions," said Kitty, "a white shirt once in a blue moon."
Dustin had never owned one fine suit, and the thought of owning two, along with new boots, two shirts with collars, a tie and hat all at once, about struck him dumb. He let Annette, Kitty and Jonas select his outfits. Both suits were linen for the summer season—one gray and one brown, colors suited to the gambler's quiet nature.
"My he looks handsome, doesn't he, Kitty?" said Annette, as her beau reddened and dropped his gaze to his new boots.
"Mm-hmm. He keeps standin' up to men like Grimke, though, he'll need a black suit, too," said Kitty lightly.
"Black?" said Dustin.
"Sure. Gray and brown match the old Dustin. Black is for the tough new one."
D**********************************************************************
Like most of Dodge, Ma Smalley had heard about Jack Bellamy's killing at the Long Branch, and until Chester told her the truth of it, she listened to accounts from her boarders, which made her wonder why the marshal hadn't jailed Dustin Keane for murder. As Chester would leave Dodge for California when summer was over and the weather turned cool, Ma encouraged him to come to supper as often as he would, or for afternoon lemonade with a slice of frosted vanilla cake and a leisurely chat. A lot of the townspeople either spewed gall to Dustin's face and behind his back, or looked through him like he wasn't there when they saw him, and Chester, like Jonas, felt for the gambler. Ma's caring heart soon changed toward the young man, and she couldn't help but feel goodwill for his lady friend Annette, with her graceful little figure, doll-like face and silken fair hair.
Dodge had an impressive gossip mill to which Ma was no small contributor, and as the saying went, a cat could scarce sneeze in town before most everyone knew it. The town's harsh treatment of her man wore Annette down, and in the dingy little room she shared with Dustin, she took to their bed with the sick headache.
"Poor l'il gal cain't cook none, nor Dustin neither," Chester told Ma. "Annette's a bold woman what knows 'er own way, but fer all that she's jest a fragile girl. Reckon with her distressed for Dustin, she ain't thrived eatin' outa them cheap kitchens sells meals 'long the back street."
"Well my goodness, I should say not," said Ma. "Chicken soup's the best food for whatever ails a body, with ginger, garlic and a spray of cayenne for the sick headache. I'll make Annette a pot, so there'll be plenty for Dustin, too. I'll fix it with turnips, mushrooms and leeks."
"By golly, that sounds good, Ma," said Chester. "Surely gives ma belly a cravin'."
"I'll cook an extra pot for you and Marshal Dillon."
"With a bakin' of cornbread?"
"Heavens, I didn't think on fixin' so much," said Ma. "But I'll do it for you." With a wistful little smile, she patted his hand. "You won't be here to come callin' much longer, Chester Goode."
Wearing a lightweight blue gingham and sunbonnet, Ma carried the soup pot in a basket to the ramshackle rooming house on the back street. Annette would be too poorly to eat the cornbread and butter, which Ma had wrapped in a cloth for Dustin, and both of them could drink from the jar of cold ginger tea.
Dodge City's rear street smelled of cattle and manure, although few trail herds came through in summer, with the sun burning, the air oppressively moist and the water levels lower in the creeks and river. The town risked drying the wells in the hot months if drovers drew too much water for their cattle. Trail-herding seasons were autumn and spring.
The rooming house clerk slumped on a stool behind a counter in the lobby, leering at the contents of a glossy black-covered magazine, his nose almost touching the pages as he sucked from a big brandy flask. "Pardon me," said Ma. "What number is Dustin Keane's room?"
The clerk looked up from his page at Ma. "The killer? What business you got with him? Say, that basket smells mighty good. Yer Miz Smalley, ain'tcha. You not givin' that good food to that murderin' gambler, is you? Folks in this town was fond of Jack Bellamy."
"So I've heard," said Ma. "Who I give the food to is my affair. Yours is to direct me to Mr. Keane's room."
"Now now, hold on 'ere. Woman your age, hardworkin' with 'er own boarding house, nicest in town from what I heard tell. You wouldn't take no interest in a young no-count gambler. Smells like chicken soup you got there, and that pretty little woman of Keane's took sick. That's for her, ain't it."
Ma sighed. "Alright. It's for Annette. Now will you please tell me where their room is."
The clerk stepped from behind the counter and lifted the cloth off the basket. "Figgered. 'Nough in that pot ta feed two a coupla days, an' that sick l'il gal ain't like to eat cornbread."
"Don't you touch anything in this basket," Ma ordered, snatching the cloth from his grubby fingers. "Your hands are dirty."
He let out a rusty chuckle. "Ya know Miz Smalley, you ain't bad lookin' for a matronly widder woman. Right lively, ain'tcha."
"Oh for mercy's sake. Never mind, I'll find Mr. Keane's room myself."
The clerk stayed Ma with a hand around her arm. "I'm hungry for chicken soup. I'll leave over more'n 'nough for Miss Annette, but that killer man of hers don't need none. That storekeeper, Jonas, give Keane two fancy new suits with boots an' a hat, all Keane has ta do to pay for 'em is strut roun' town showin' off 'is neat little figure. Who ever heard of sech?"
Ma carefully set her basket on the counter as the clerk clutched her arm. To run their errands, many women carried small flimsy reticules, decorative but not practical. Ma had a pile of reticules—for churchgoing, weddings, burials and christenings, quilting and embroidery circles, tea parties and paying calls. For errands, though, her purses were sizable pouches with drawstrings, made of sturdy cotton. Today she carried a ruffled blue gingham one to match her dress, jammed as usual with sundries, including knitting needles in case she had to wait long at the post.
As the clerk held her left arm, Ma set her chin and wound the drawstring round her right hand. She took a deep breath as exasperation kindled hot temper surging through her chest and squeezing her temples. The clerk was stupidly boozy, grinning and watching curiously for her next move.
Harnessing her anger, Ma raised her purse high over her head and swung, whacking the clerk's head. She flipped the purse up again and brought it back down. Thwack.
"Hey! What the . . . ." The clerk let go of her arm. With both hands free, Ma swung again, hitting his whiskery face.
Doc and the gambler appeared at the top of the staircase on the second floor and saw Ma grappling with the clerk. "Ma. What in tarnation," said Doc.
The gambler ran down the stairs, Doc following at a slower pace. Dustin grabbed the clerk and wrenched him away from Ma, shoved him and punched his jaw. The clerk staggered and touched his face, his rheumy eyes narrowing in wrath at Dustin. "I'd just as soon put my hands on a muck-covered buzzard than fight you," the clerk spat. "You dirty killer."
Dustin's brown eyes flashed and he slammed his fist into the man's face again. The clerk stumbled over his own boots and sat down hard on the floorboards. Doc regarded Dustin in surprise and some dismay. Doc had heard of the change in the quiet gambler who once shunned fighting—even to nightly giving up his girl to Jack Bellamy at the Long Branch—until that night in his cups when Dustin had enough and ended up shooting the rich man to death after Bellamy nearly killed him with his fists. Folks said Dustin was turning forceful and bold, harder with his words. Not that the men who ill-treated him—if only with their own stinging words and scorn— didn't have it coming, cause in Doc's opinion they sure as thunder did. Doc wondered though if the change in Dustin did the young man any good. Gentle souls who went rough sometimes found themselves on a dark road.
"Finn, I oughta report your worthless hide to the owner of this place so he can dismiss you, laying hands on a woman like that," said Dustin.
"I ain't hurt Miz Smalley none," Finn whined, rubbing his jaw as he climbed to his feet and shuffled to his stool behind the counter. "Just wanted a little chicken soup. This 'ere brandy gnawed holes in ma gut and hot soup eases it."
"Well you shouldn't be drinkin' that stuff like it was water," Doc snapped at Finn. "Ma, are you alright?"
"Oh I'm fine," said Ma, tidying her hair and bonnet. She hefted her purse. "He's more shaken than I am. Mr. Finn," she said, lifting the cover from the basket again, "if you need some chicken soup to soothe your stomach, there's a way to ask a lady proper."
"Yessum," Finn mumbled, gazing hopefully at the basket.
Ma took out a bowl and the ladle, and lifted the top from the pot, releasing fragrant steam. "That smells real good, Mrs. Smalley. Is it for Annette?" said Dustin.
"I fixed a lot for her and you too." Ma put a square of buttered cornbread on a cloth on the counter as Finn slurped from the bowl. "Now if you just let me know your room number, Dustin, I'll take my basket upstairs and see if that poor girl can take a little soup. Broth if nothing else."
"Bit of home-cooked soup will do Annette good, Ma," said Doc. "Morphine killed her pain, and she said she felt hungry."
"We're in room seven. Second floor a few doors to your left, Mrs. Smalley," said Dustin.
"I'd a tole the lady yer room," said Finn around a mouthful of chicken. "Women is too impatient ever' time."
"You should've told Mrs. Smalley immediate," Dustin scolded. "You had no business interfering, Finn. I'll tell the owner about your ways someday and he'll discharge you."
"Oh shaddup," Finn retorted, spraying broth. "Dirt like you got no right takin' decent men ta task."
Ma took her basket upstairs to Annette, and Doc put a bottle of stomach bitters on the counter. "That'll coat your belly lining, take away the burn from the ulcers. They won't heal unless you let up on that brandy," he said to Finn.
"Yeah yeah," the clerk said.
Doc and the gambler went outside and sat on a bench in the shade. There was no boardwalk along the town's back street, and they sat facing the vast prairie which shimmered under the hot sun. "You know, Dustin, it might behoove you to take Annette away from Dodge for her health. She's a brave girl and she'll be at your side no matter what, she loves you that much, but she suffers for you. Hurts her to see the man she loves maligned. It may be a blow to your pride to back down to folks here and leave when you feel it strengthens you to take a fighting stand, but you should think what it does to Annette," said Doc.
"Doc, it would hurt her more knowing I did something I didn't want to do for her sake," Dustin said. "If I try and pretend I want to leave Dodge, she'll see through my sham to the truth. She always does. I am getting stronger standing my ground here and I can't deny giving into pride, but it's more than that. If I can seize the land under my boots in this savage cow town, shut their mouths and slap those haughty sneers off their faces, throw a fistful of dust at the backs turned on me, then I know I can seize the land anywhere and I'll never again have to give way to people who want to push others in the dirt and stomp on them. Annette's hoping I'll strike it rich at cards." Dustin smiled and shook his head. "She has dreams, my lady. My dream is she'll come to see it's right to marry the man who loves her and shares her bed. And if I do win big, she'll quit the Long Branch and we will settle as husband and wife without people hounding me."
Doc nodded thoughtfully. "You can be convincing once you get to talkin'. When you explain it all that way, I'd likely do the same in your boots, Dustin. I just hope your mission here don't get you bad hurt. Don't forget what Jack Bellamy did to you."
"Jack Bellamy is dead by my own hand, and I have a fella watching over me."
"Ben Ellis?" Doc asked.
"Yes, sir. Look a ways over there, front of Hank's Kitchen."
Doc looked. Ben leaned on the hitching rail in front of Hank's, whittling on an oak cube and gazing across the plains. "You payin' him to guard you?" said Doc.
"No. I haven't the money. I asked Ben why he was watching out for me. It struck me strange and I wanted to know."
"I'm wonderin', too," said Doc, gazing curiously at Ben's burly form with its air of calm steadiness. "What'd he answer?"
"To even the odds," said the gambler.
C***********************************************************************
Although Dustin and Annette were grateful for Ben's protection, the bodyguard had to take paying jobs when he could get them, and when the gambler next needed help, Ben was not there. Passing the time with Grimmick, Chester lounged on a hay bale while Moss hitched up a buggy for the gambler and his girl to take a ride and picnic. Moss had only the one buggy to loan, and just as Dustin put his hands around Annette's slender waist to lift her inside, two councilmen approached, wealthy ranchers who resided at Dodge House more often than not, and planned to go take a look at a prize bull in its prime. The councilmen wanted to borrow the buggy, and they didn't want to wait.
"Dustin and Miss Annette have this buggy 'til sundown," said Moss.
"Dustin, huh?" said one of the men. "You that Dustin Keane who murdered Jack Bellamy?"
"It was self-defense," said Dustin.
"That's not what I heard. I heard you spat in Jack's face and shot him cold on account of your girl wanted him more than you," said the councilman.
"You heard lies," said Annette. "I never wanted Jack. It was my job to make him feel welcome at the Long Branch. And Dustin had to kill him. Jack was beating him to death."
"We're no fools, young woman," said the other councilman. "It's our business to know what happens in this town and how it happens. Jack had stepped back and had his hands up after your no-good beau here drew his gun." He turned his gaze from Annette to Dustin. "Keane, you spit in Jack's face to rile him into beating you again, to give you a reason to shoot him in self-defense. You're a dirty killer, and if Tom here and I had our way, you would've been lynched on Front Street a long time ago."
Chester rose from the hay bale and limped to the buggy. "What kinda way is that for a councilman to talk? You're s'posed to set an example 'bout keepin' the peace."
"Can't be peace with filth like Keane running around loose," said the man.
Dustin's brown eyes hardened, shining like polished stones in the sunlight. "Maybe you'd like to do somewhat about that," he said quietly, his voice pitched low. "You rich dung heap."
Tom grabbed Dustin's arms and twisted them behind his back, and with a loud clap Tom's friend slapped the gambler's face. "No! Brutes!" Annette screamed. She kicked the knee of the one who slapped Dustin, and the councilman stumbled. Moss put his arms around her and dragged her away from the men.
As the councilman raised his hand again to backhand Dustin, Chester jumped on the gambler's attacker. The man fell on his back with Chester on top of him, his hat flying off and his head landing in a steaming mound of horse droppings. They wrestled in the dust, and the horses hitched to the buggy whinnied and danced, rolling their eyes.
"Get 'im, Chester!" Annette shrieked.
"Stay here, Miss Annette," Moss ordered. "Don't go near those men or you'll get hurt." He rushed to the buggy, took hold of the horses' bridles and led them round the corner of the stable, and returned to Annette.
"Get off me, you idiot gimp!" the councilman yelled at Chester. "I have to wash in the trough!"
"Gimp, huh?" Chester gasped. He jerked the man's head up by the collar and slammed his head back in the horse muck.
"Make him eat it, Chester!" Annette screamed.
Struggling to free himself as Tom held his arms behind his back, Dustin shook off his hat and threw back his head, butting Tom's nose. Tom clutched his face and bent over as blood streamed over his mouth.
Seeing Dustin freed and Tom hobbling around with a bloodied bandanna pressed to his face, Chester stopped tussling in the dirt with the other councilman, climbed off the man and stood up. The man rose, his costly suit covered in dust, his collar ripped and his hair and ears thickly smeared with horse dung. His hat was a flattened ruin.
As Chester stood catching his breath, the man swiftly drew his gun and swung it, hitting Chester with the barrel and splitting a gash just beneath his right eye. He tripped yet kept his footing as blood spilled over his face. Moss and Annette hurried to him, supporting him between them as he swayed. Chester's head thumped a drumbeat and his ears rang as the wound began burning. His vision dimmed, haze veiling his eyes. He blinked his eyes clear and willed himself not to fall, not with Annette there holding onto him, particular. Moss pulled a bandanna from his pocket. "Press that against the cut, Chester."
The councilman with the bashed nose walked unsteadily back along Front Street, heading for his Dodge House room. The one who hit Chester holstered his gun and went to splash in the trough.
Dustin followed the man and crept up on him from behind as he knelt in the dirt, washing muck from his hair and ears. The gambler grabbed the councilman's neck, shoved him underwater and held him there as he frantically bucked over the trough. After a moment Dustin pulled him up. He sucked in a chest full of air, and Dustin plunged his head back under the surface. Waves splashed from the trough as the councilman thrashed in a panic against the hands around his neck.
Dustin jerked him out of the water, the gambler's fingers squeezing the man's throat. As the councilman choked and coughed, the gambler leaned close until his mouth almost touched the man's face. "This is for pistol-whipping Chester," Dustin hissed in the man's ear. "You could've blinded him. And if you or your friend ever put your paws on me again, I'll shoot you down like dogs, just like I shot Jack Bellamy."
Dustin let go of the councilman and moved to where Chester stood with Moss and Annette. Shaking from his ordeal, the councilman pulled himself upright and tottered back into town, heading for his hotel room as his friend had done moments ago.
"Me and Annette will help you to Doc's, Chester," said Dustin.
"The marshal's not gonna like this," said Moss. "Chester getting pistol-whipped on account of you, Dustin. Matt won't like that at all."