"You boys aren't taking back anything, Wicker," Matt said to the burly card player.
Wicker hesitated, his eyes shifting from the marshal to Ben Ellis. Matt knew Wicker was calculating the odds, playing it out in his head. He wanted to punch Dustin's lights out and take his winnings, but if he swung at Keane first the marshal would get the jump on him, and Ben would broadside any of the other four players who tried to hit Dustin. Matt thought for a moment that Wicker as pack leader might back down and the other men with him, but he was working his jaws, almost slavering to get back the money he'd gambled away.
He swung at Matt, who parried the blow and drove his left fist into the man's gut, as another husky player charged Ben Ellis. Matt's right fist hammered Wicker's jaw, and he crashed through the batwings to the barroom floor. A third man rushed Matt and pummeled his face while another player struck Dustin, knocking him down. The fifth man kicked Dustin's ribs, and the two of them frantically clawed his vest to get at the money. On his back in the dirt, Dustin swung his fists and kicked wildly.
Annette clenched her fingers to her chest, and Kitty put her arms round the girl. Men and gals spilled out of the Long Branch. Onlookers scurried to the fight from all directions, and leaned from the windows of inns, rooms over saloons, restaurants and shops. Doc opened his door and stepped out on the landing, looked down at the street, shook his head and hurried back indoors to dress and light his lamps.
Matt stumbled, his knees weakening under the third man's rain of punches as Ben and the other big fellow pounded each other. Boots planted in the dirt, Ben was like a boulder, barely twitching when the fellow hit him and not making a sound. Ben's mission of the moment was protecting Dustin, and he felt himself failing.
Dustin's two assailants warmed to the attack, socking and kicking his face, ribs and belly in a frenzy as he squirmed in the dirt. The fight drained out of Dustin and fear washed over him. He curled up, covered his face with his arms and squeezed his eyes shut. An image burst glaring into his head of Jack Bellamy beating him that other night at the Long Branch, the night he shot and killed Bellamy.
Screeching in rage, Annette tore out of Kitty's embrace and ran at the men. "Annette, no!" Kitty said. Chester hurried after the girl, took hold of her and pulled her back on the boardwalk. She pressed her face against his chest and he put his arm around her.
With all his strength, Ben struck the big fellow fighting him. The man dropped like a fallen tree just as Matt rocked the third player's head on his shoulders with two brutal punches to his skull that rendered him senseless before he hit the walk.
Wicker recovered and climbed to his feet inside the Long Branch, his head and shoulders appearing above the batwings. An arm raised behind him, the hand of which gripped the neck of an empty whiskey bottle. The bottle came down and shattered on his head, and he fell through the batwings onto the boardwalk. Holding the bottle's jagged stub, Sam Noonan stepped to the swinging doors and looked at the motionless man.
Matt collared one of Dustin's attackers and Ben grabbed the other one. The marshal and Ben yanked the men away from Dustin, exchanged a keen glance and bashed the men's heads together. They crumpled in the dirt, one draped over the other.
Annette ran to Dustin as Matt leaned over him and turned him on his back. His head flopped to the side, his mouth open and eyes closed. Stained by rivulets of blood, his sand-colored skin looked chalky gray-white in the light from the streetlamps. Annette dropped to her knees in the dirt and took his hand. Matt expected her to weep but her eyes were dry, her pretty face determined. She touched her lips to Dustin's forehead, kissed his hand and held it to her face. The girl was a remarkable mix of fragility, pluck and strength. A lot like Kitty.
"If he lives, this town won't hurt him anymore," said Ben. "Let me know how he does, will you Marshal?" Matt nodded, and Ben trudged into the darkness.
Matt picked Dustin up and headed for Doc's, and Annette ran ahead to let Doc know they were coming. Kitty went back in the saloon, stepping over Wicker lying passed out on the floor. She quelled an urge to step on him.
"Ah'll see to 'im, Miss Kitty," said Chester from outside. He came in a moment later with a pail of water, which he dashed in Wicker's face. The man stirred and sat up snorting.
"We're closed," Kitty said to Wicker. "Get out." He staggered to his feet and hobbled through the batwings.
Chester filled the pail four more times, dousing the other men that Mr. Dillon and Ben knocked out. Three of them came to coughing and tottered away. The other man, one of the two who beat Dustin, emerged hot-tempered from his faint and swore at Chester.
"Git!" said Chester. The man snatched for Chester's throat, but he was wobbly after Mr. Dillon and Ben bunged his head upside the other feller's. Chester strong-armed the man to the trough and pushed him in facedown. He scrabbled his way out, choking and gasping, and stumbled away.
Shrill cackling laughter rent the warm night air, and Chester looked at Miss Kitty's smiling face above the batwings. "Good for you, Chester. The louse had it comin'."
Chester returned her smile. "He shore 'nough did, Miss Kitty."
The crowd broke up, walked to their rooms and rode to their bunkhouses. There was nothing more to see that night. The excitement was over.
M************************************************************************
After the fight, Dustin's winnings were still snugly buttoned in the pouch inside his vest, every dollar of the nine-hundred-twenty-two. Annette took the money to the bank when it opened next morning.
The gambler's injuries were not so severe as when Jack Bellamy beat him. Unlike with Bellamy's ruthless calculated blows, the two men who attacked Dustin on Front Street swung and kicked in a furor, many of the blows glancing off their target. His face was cut and bruised though not as badly swollen as the first time, and he didn't need stitches. His attackers had cracked two ribs on his right side, and Doc said the innards felt pulpy when he palpated Dustin's stomach. He was bedridden at Doc's again, for a fortnight this time.
"I've lost, Marshal," the gambler said when Matt came to visit him as he lay in Doc's bed. "I can't fight them anymore. Can't take anymore. Soon as I get my strength back, Annette and I are leaving Dodge. They broke me." Dustin's eyes watered and a drop trickled down his face.
Matt patted his shoulder. "Ben and I figure this town is done plaguing you."
Dustin sniffled. "How d'you know that?"
"The fight out front of the Long Branch. Enough people saw it, and whoever didn't will hear about it. When Ben and I beat those five men who came after you to take back the money you won from 'em, and Sam crowned Wicker with the whiskey bottle, that scared the rest of 'em bent on bullying you. They'll leave you be now, Dustin."
Dustin blinked his eyes dry and nodded, pondering. "I'm a proud man. That got me in trouble when all this started with Bellamy. I don't want the ones who gave me a hard time to have the satisfaction of thinking they defeated me, ran me out of town. I'd like to stay on in Dodge, Marshal."
Matt grinned. "You're not just proud, you have a will of iron. So does Annette."
"Annette is everything to me," Dustin said with grave earnestness. "She's the only friend I need. I'm a shy sort anyway, unless other fellows make me mad." He frowned, his fine features shadowing. "It riles me when they act like I'm a specter they can't see or hear. I wanna split their fool heads."
"They won't treat you like an outcast anymore, either," Matt reassured.
"They won't?"
"The shunning was part of the torment they put you through. That isn't the same as choosing not to befriend a man. They're too spooked after that fight to shun or hound you. Folks'll go back to treating you normal like they did before Bellamy's death. So if you wanna settle in Dodge, that's alright with me."
"You're welcoming me?"
"I'm welcoming ya."
Dustin grinned slightly—a rare, cautious smile. He was a serious young fella.
Walking through the white-hot sunlight to the office, Matt felt a mere shade of the usual freshening which invigorated him when he restored order and peace and helped save a life—that sense of solid ground under his boots after navigating a rocky hill. Maybe the gambler cared nothing for friendships with men, but Matt did. His most trustworthy devoted friend—except for Doc—would leave Dodge come harvest time and journey fifteen-hundred miles west. Matt didn't know when next he'd see his friend when he departed, but the marshal would always keep track of him and write a letter once in awhile. Matt would not forget about Chester. Not ever.
END