Like a steed sprung from Aesop's Fables, the muscled stallion tossed his fine head as he nickered and pranced, his shoes kicking up dust puffs and the autumn sunlight shimmering on his iron-gray coat. Moss fiddled with the lasso. Above sixteen hands, the stud looked spirited yet not loco, his bright eyes neither rolling or wild. Though he wouldn't stand hitching to a wagon or buggy, Moss could sell him, and 'til a buyer came along, loan him as a saddle horse. The trick was in not spooking him. No one in Dodge knew horses better than Moss Grimmick, but he was surely no cowpuncher, nor strong enough to hold the stallion if it bucked. Moss was no young sprig after all, and rather a small fellow. He could get hurt.
"Ah kin rope 'im for ya, Moss!" The horse whinnied and reared, his forelegs striking the air as Chester rushed to Grimmick's side.
"Chester, you'll scare him off with your running and hollering."
"Wahl he ain't made a break fer it. See 'is muzzle twitchin' like a cottontail's? He smells the trough water but he's feared ta come close up. He is one dandy stud, ain't he, Moss?"
"Quit jabbering. You're making him nervous."
Chester snatched the lasso. He felt like Moss punched him in the gut.
"What're you tempering for," said Grimmick.
Chester twirled the rope over his head and lassoed the stallion, leaving the rope slack as the loop slipped round the horse's neck. "You got 'im," Moss said.
Instead of agitating the horse, the tether settled him. Chester tugged the rope and the stallion trotted to the trough. "Don't that beat all. He's tame." Chester passed the rope to Moss.
"Much obliged, Chester."
"Warn't nothin'. How's ma horse mendin'?"
"His foot's still sore from throwing the shoe," said Moss. "It'll take a spell to heal."
Chester limped cautiously to the stallion as it drank, reached out a tentative hand and stroked the lush silky mane. "Reckon I could ride Maiyun 'til my horse mends."
"Maiyun?"
"Cheyenne scout Mr. Dillon knows has a stallion name a Maiyun. 'Tain't this 'un, though."
"You can name that stud but you're not riding him," said Moss.
"Why."
"He's too strong and spirited. He'd throw you."
"He would not. Been ridin' since I could walk. I kin sit a stallion well as the next man," Chester bristled.
"No you can't."
Anger and hurt roiled hot in Chester's belly. He felt of a sudden unsure of himself, somehow ashamed. "What – what . . . you think I'm too crippled ta ride this 'ere horse?"
"I didn't say that, Chester. Why are you so touchy today?"
Chester stalked away without answering. "Where you goin'?" Moss said to his back.
Chester turned. "I dunno," he said sullenly. Concern shadowing his weathered face, Moss watched him leave.
The patchwork of prairie grass and dirt between Grimmick's livery and the Front Street boardwalk teemed with wagons, buggies and riders. Chester ambled aimlessly, the shrinking shame from his words with Moss lingering like grub that sours after a body munches it down. It was harvesttime, trail herds surged through Dodge, and folks bustled from sunup 'til three o'clock or so in the morning.
Passing by Ma Smalley's, Chester recollected old Lotty Nutters, who Mr. Dillon jailed in one of Ma's rooms for shattering her husband's foot with a musket blast. Farmer Nutters shared a bed ofttimes with an aging saloon gal, and when he told his wife that he wanted to divorce her and marry the gal, Ole Lotty shot him. Doc sawed off the mangled shards of Mr. Nutters' foot, and bought him a wheelchair from the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog at Jonas's store. Though Mr. Dillon ordered Chester to keep a watch on Lotty, he idled on guard duty. The woman was eighty-three years of age and Ma kept her room door locked from the outside. Chester figured Lotty was no flight risk.
He was wrong. He stopped in at Ma's to take a quick look-see at Lotty and found Ma pacing and wringing her hands. Lotty was gone. "Wahl now, Ma, jest calm yerself. She surely ain't wandered far."
"Oh mercy, Chester," said Ma. "The marshal told you to guard her."
"I ain't watchin' 'er ever' minute," said Chester, albeit soothingly. "I got thangs ta do. How'd she bust loose?"
"She climbed out of the window. It's wide open," Ma said. "I don't know how she managed it."
"She is right spry for an' ole girl, come ta think on it."
"Well don't loaf about, Chester. Go tell the marshal before Lotty skips town."
Chester felt a sting in his chest, like Ma stabbed him with a sewing needle. First Moss, now Ma, who was usually a motherly body. Harvest flurry with the cattle drives and such made folks a mite crazy every year. Planting season, same way. "She cain't skip town in that rattletrap wagon, Ma. Cain't go nowheres 'cept walk to the farm. An' ole man Nutters ain't in peril from Lotty no more. Mr. Dillon said he writ 'is testimony for the court an' hightailed it to 'is sister's place in New York soon's he mended fit to travel. Left 'is saloon gal lover here in town, but she fled from Lotty, too. Took the stage no one knows whar. 'Sides a which, I ain't lookin' for Mr. Dillon in this town swarmin' with cowboys, steers a bawlin' 'n whatnot, on account of one ole woman. Ain't even seed Mr. Dillon since breakfast."
"Oh dear," said Ma, kneading her fingers, "I know the marshal will blame me. That window Lotty escaped through locks from outdoors. I should have thought to secure it."
"Forevermore, Ma, Mr. Dillon won't find a speck of fault with you. Nothin' to worry 'bout."
"Chester, I'm surprised at you. You act like Lotty's breakout doesn't matter at all."
"Well . . . it don't. Nutter an' 'is gal's long gone outa Dodge. Lotty ain't shootin' no one else."
"That's not the point," Ma scolded. "This would not have happened if you'd checked on her like Marshal Dillon told you."
"I best leave now, Ma. You don't want me in yer house jest now, you made that right clear."
"Oh nonsense, Chester. You know you're always welcome here."
"Wahl I sure 'nough dun feel welcome."
"I'm sorry about that. But you are partly to blame for Lotty's escape."
Chester felt a knot in his head, like a vise squeezing his temples. He might temper at Ma if he stayed there one more minute. The thought shocked him. He never riled at women—leastways not to yell at 'em. He put on his hat and hurried out, taking care to noiselessly close Ma's front door.
He felt an urge to look over his shoulder at Ma's house as he rushed away, so he did. She was holding the curtain aside—colored pumpkin for harvesttime—and gazing through the window at him, her face sober and her eyes sparkling worry. Her face brightened a bit and she waved when Chester met her gaze. He waved back and went on his way.
Three hours or more 'til nightfall, and Chester was worn down already. He thought of his bed at the jailhouse, and the new stack of Wild West penny books beneath the bunk. As he walked in the brisk air, the headache that came on after his quarrel with Ma slowly faded, leaving a swimmy touch in its wake. The achiness might plague him again if he had coffee in the late hours, yet he wanted a drink for his nighttime reading. Sarsaparilla, maybe. Doc said it was good for the blood, and it made a dandy tonic for a weak head. Sarsaparilla and somewhat sweet to chew on to lift Chester's spirits 'fore bedtime. Like gumdrops.
Ole Lotty was shopping in Jonas's store like she was nary a fugitive a'tall. She stood chatting with Jonas whilst he sacked her provisions. When Chester moved to the counter, she looked up at him and screeched laughter. Chester startled, drawing a chuckle from Jonas. "Be with you in a minute, Chester," said the storekeeper.
"Jest a sarsaparilla bottle an' gumdrops. Ah'll scoop the drops maself iffen you'll pass me a bag thar, Jonas."
"I will not. Last time I let you scoop 'em out, you dropped 'em all over the floor."
"Wahl, Jonas, I kin save you the trouble pickin' the flavors I want."
"I'll do it, Chester. It's more trouble sweeping gumdrops off the floor."
Chester and Jonas watched Lotty leave with her purchases as she sang
"Rubin, Rubin, I've been thinking
what a strange world this would be
if the men were all transported
far beyond the northern sea."
"Wasn't she jailed for shooting her husband?" said Jonas.
"Mr. Dillon locked 'er in a room at Ma Smalley's. Lotty escaped out the window."
"Oh." Jonas grinned, shaking his head and chuckling.
Chester plucked a gumdrop from the glass bin and Jonas slapped his hand. Chester dropped the candy, rubbing his hand. "Ya don't haveta git surly, Jonas."
"Surly. When did you last wash your hands, Chester."
"When I got up this mornin'. They're clean."
"Keep your dirty fingers outa there. That's what this scoop is for," said Jonas. "One cent for the sarsaparilla, three cents for the gumdrops. That'll be four cents."
"Three cent is too much for gumdrops," said Chester.
"Chester, you had me stuff this bag full. It weighs out to three cents."
"I got two cent."
Jonas blew out a sigh. "Alright. Two cents for the gumdrops."
"Two cent is all I got fer everthin'," Chester said sheepishly. "Kin I give you the other penny when I git ma next pay?"
"Never mind. Just give me the two cents. I can't keep track of your debt. You never pay up, anyway."
The barb stunned Chester, though he knew at once from the storekeeper's harried, distracted manner that Jonas meant no harm. A crowd milled about among the merchandise, and a team of rowdy drovers picked up and played with whatever their eyes lighted on. The pain of Jonas's brusqueness quickly dulled. Feeling strangely empty, Chester picked up the sarsaparilla and bulging sack of gumdrops. Hemmed in by customers, Jonas shifted his spectacles below his eyes and gave him a keen look. "Let's forget about what you owe. You spend enough here to start with a clean slate next time." Chester nodded.
When he stopped at the marshal's office to stash the sarsaparilla and gumdrops beneath his cot by his Wild West books, Mr. Dillon was out. The door to the jail was open and both cells were full. The front and back cells each held three men, and a clamor arose when Chester came in. Tending the prisoners wiped away the dragging hollowness which spread like a wasting inside him since he lassoed the stallion for Moss, bickered with Ma Smalley over Ole Lotty's escape, and cringed under the sharp edge of Jonas's tongue. As he took care of the men, Chester's strength and sureness returned. His head steadied and he kept his wits about him. The work boosted his spirits and put a spring in his boots, and he began to feel like his normal self. Until Mr. Dillon showed up, Chester alone had charge of the men, and he was set on doing things right.
Armed with a shotgun, he escorted four of the prisoners—one by one—out back to the privy, then gave them all fresh water and coffee. "Ah'll fetch yer supper to the restaurant," he said. "Back in a spell." The men were for the moment quiet and civil, soothed by the comforts he gave them and the promise of a hot meal. He ordered seven steaks at Delmonico's, seven roasted potatoes with salted butter and seven hunks of cornbread. The prisoners' food was on the jail tab, and Chester paid for his dinner from the marshal's till. He carried the food with plates and utensils in a basket, served the men first, then ate his supper at the table. He toted the basket with the soiled dishware back to the restaurant, and walked to the Long Branch for a beer, eager to see Miss Kitty. It had been a long day.
Chester heard the revelry and player piano music from down the street. Cowboys packed the barroom—drinking, playing cards, sparkin' and dancing with the gals. Kitty had hired as many saloon workers as she could find for trail-herding season, and the upstairs rooms were all occupied, with a stream of couples climbing up and down the steps.
Kitty stood at her usual post at the end of the bar by the stairs, watching the batwings. Chester knew she looked for Mr. Dillon. Miss Kitty's lovely face was wont to brighten like the sun whenever she saw the marshal, her enchanting blue eyes sparkling tiny flames. That was Miss Kitty—all beauty and spirit, fire and light. Chester loved her, though not like Mr. Dillon did. She wasn't quite a goddess to Chester, but she almost was. He was aware of her frailties, yet her faults meant he could be her friend, and help and protect her when Mr. Dillon couldn't.
Chester threaded nimbly through the crowd, making his way to Miss Kitty. She greeted him with her customary smile which always warmed him to his bones. "You look tired," she said.
"Oh, jest a l'il, maybe."
"Beer or whiskey tonight?" Kitty asked.
Of a sudden, Chester recollected spending his last two pennies at Jonas's. "Oh my goodness."
"On the house," said Kitty. He chose beer, and she called the order to Sam, then asked Chester where Matt was.
"Somewheres roun' town. Ain't seed Mr. Dillon in quite a spell. Not since this mornin'."
"When did he drop charges against Lotty Nutters?" Kitty said.
"You seen Lotty, have you?" said Chester, sipping his beer.
"At the stage depot, when I was coming from the dressmaker's."
"Gracious," said Chester. "Lotty boarded the stage?"
"She had a carpetbag. I asked where she was headed, and she said, 'Far from Dodge, dearie.' She said she had her nest egg in that bag. She hoarded gold coins and buried them on the farm from the time she was sixteen years old, when she married Mr. Nutter. He never knew about it. Lotty said it's enough money to take her comfortably through the rest of her life."
"Mr. Dillon dint drop charges 'gainst Ole Lotty. She 'scaped."
"Escaped."
"Ma Smalley said she climbed out the window of Ma's room what Mr. Dillon had 'er locked in."
"Does Matt know about this, Chester?"
"Mr. Dillon dunno cuz I ain't seed 'im ta tell 'im. Ain't looked for 'im neither on account of he has more important thangs ta do with the trail herds in town 'n all."
"Well . . . ." Kitty shrugged. "At least now Matt has one less thing to think about. He's way too busy to hunt down an old woman."
"Yeah . . . ." Chester leaned on the bar close to Kitty. He felt relaxed and easy, the tension of the day seeping out of him. Just being near her cheered him, whether they chatted like clucking prairie chickens or said scarce anything a'tall.
"Hel – lo – hoh, Miss Kitty!" Like a clap of thunder, the broad-shouldered, spiffily clad man thrust himself between Chester and Kitty. Scowling, Chester stiffened and straightened up. He disliked Rex Bass, though the rich railroader wasn't a bad sort. He was loud, though, charged with an industrious vigor that made somnolent, softly drawling Chester uncomfortable. Bass wanted Miss Kitty's attentions all to himself whenever he visited the Long Branch, with no regard for other fellers already chatting with her. Mr. Dillon gave way to Bass on account of Miss Kitty said he was good for business, but the marshal always looked like he tasted somewhat sour when Bass showed up, and fixed a hard eye on the rich man before walking away with his deliberate tread. Bass once smiled in Mr. Dillon's face and asked, "You don't like me, 'ey, Marshal?", and Mr. Dillon just answered, "No." Bass quit trying to make friendly with Mr. Dillon after that.
"Hello, Rex," said Kitty, looking pleasant with an effort. Bass was not one of her favorite patrons, but he treated each man and woman to three drinks of their choice every time he visited. He recommended the Long Branch to scores of men, made regular use of the saloon gals' services and paid them generously.
Bass put an arm around Kitty's waist and pursed his mouth, craning his neck for her lips. She bobbed her head out of reach. Kitty never let him kiss her. All the money he spent at the Long Branch wasn't worth enduring his kisses. Though she found his embraces distasteful as well, she could tolerate him hugging her. Not that Bass was bad-looking. He was clean and neat with even features, and he was well-proportioned. Kitty supposed his loud frenzied nature caused her mild aversion to him. And in a town of hardworking people—Doc, Matt, Sam and herself included—Bass's overblown zeal for his work wearied Kitty. She knew sensitive, easily tired Chester couldn't stand him.
"Me 'n Miss Kitty was talkin', Bass," said Chester. Kitty gave him a warning look, her mouth tightening, and Chester felt a head-spinning urge to bust Bass in the nose.
Bass turned his blazing smile on Chester. "Why don't you call me Rex."
Chester glowered at him. "Why dun you quit takin' liberties with Miss Kitty. Anyone kin see she don't want you pawin' 'er."
"Chester," said Kitty.
Bass gave a good-natured shrug and let his arm slide from Kitty's waist. "Alright, Chester," he said. "I don't blame you for being jealous over a beauty like Miss Kitty."
"Chester, I'm gonna chat a little with Rex, now," said Kitty. Her face softened at Chester's crestfallen look and she smiled. "Tell Sam I'm treatin' you to another beer." She patted his arm.
"Think I need whiskey this time, Miss Kitty."
Kitty nodded sympathetically. "Whatever you want."
His lean face droopy, Chester limped to where Sam stood behind the bar. Chester had done wrong in the eyes of most everyone he said howdy to that day, 'ceptin' Mr. Dillon. And the prisoners. Seemed jailed men should snap and trouble a body 'fore law-abiding folk did. Such weren't the case, though. Not today leastways. The prisoners shouted rough in the way of lawbreakers when they wanted somewhat, but once Chester tended them, he sensed they was obliged, though they didn't say thank you or much of anything. The cloud of ill will that hovered round the menacing ones lifted a bit when he gave them their comforts.
Chester plunked his elbow on the bar and rested his face in his palm, heaving a sigh. "What'll it be, Chester." Sam's eyes were neighborly warm, like he knew all about it and felt for Chester.
"Sam. Miss Kitty said ask you for a whiskey on the house."
"Best rye comin' up."
"Oh. Well thank you thar, Sam."
Sam poured two shots, filling the glass to the brim. Chester's heart felt lighter, beat stronger before he took his first sip. He lifted the glass high, looked at Sam's kind craggy face and smiled a little without even trying.
"Rex Bass is one lively fellow," said Sam. "He's one of our best customers, so Miss Kitty treats him special. His company don't please her, but it's part of the job."
"Yeah . . . ." Chester took a swig of rye. The autumn night was growing cold, and despite the throng in the Long Branch, the fire burning in the stove and his jacket buttoned to the neck, the barroom felt drafty. The whiskey at once warmed him—a flowing warmth that flooded from the pit of his belly through his bones, fingers and toes. The cleansing burn soothed his throat, chest and gut. Best thing about the draught was the easing, humming buzz swelling through his head.
Sam grinned at Chester's blissful expression and flushed face. "Better cure than a pretty woman's kiss," said the barkeep. "Whiskey demands nothing in return."
Chester tossed back another mouthful, and his tongue loosened in a rush of regard for Sam. Though Chester had always liked the bartender, he wondered now why he never realized how fond he was of Sam, what close friends they could be if Chester took the time. "Sam, d'you reckon I kin sit a big frisky stallion 'n ride 'im so's he don't run away an' buck me off?"
"No."
"Figgered you ta say that." Chester raised the glass and filled his mouth again. "When I finish this atop the beer ah a'ready swallered, 'twon't matter nohow."
He drained the last drop and looked round the saloon for Miss Kitty. She sat smiling and chatting with that loudmouth Rex Bass. As Chester watched, Bass's maw opened wide and he bellowed laughter. Chester wanted to pass the time with Miss Kitty some more, but had no patience to wait for the rich man to turn restive, his glinting gaze darting from gal to gal 'til he saw one he wanted and left Miss Kitty alone. Thinking of that habit Bass followed night after night, Chester's mouth curved down in disgust. He had no notion how Miss Kitty could stand the feller, good business be durned.
Chester hurried out of the Long Branch into the crisp night, heading for the jailhouse. The booze he'd imbibed heated his belly and his head swam pleasantly. He swayed side to side, tunelessly warbling and stumbling a little.
Doc sat in front of the marshal's office, the streetlamp illuminating his smallish form. "Howdy, Doc."
"Chester. What's all that caterwauling, for heaven sakes."
"Jest singin'. Ain't you cold, Doc, settin' in the night air with no coat?"
"I went inside and those fellas in the cells hollered at me first thing," Doc said. "I made 'em fresh coffee and gave 'em water, stoked the stove and left the jail door open to keep them warm. Had a fresh baking of chocolate cookies the widow Honeywell gave me for treating her lumbago, so I passed the cookies through the bars to their grasping hands. Then I poured coffee for myself and sat at the table, and do you know what? Them fellas sat on the bunks and floor staring at me, quiet as mice, chomping and slurping. Well, they spooked me some so I came outside here."
"They don't mean nothin', Doc."
"I know. You seen Matt around? Moss said he rode in an hour since."
"This mornin's the last time I seed Mr. Dillon. I dint know he was outa town a'tall today. Come inside, Doc?"
"Think I'll rest here under the stars a bit. I been paying calls since sunup. Grippe of the gullet, mostly. Harvesttime's the season for it. Set, Chester, 'fore you topple. You never can hold your liquor."
"I most surely can, well's the next man." Chester couldn't say just how it happened. All he did was limp by Doc to reach the chair beside his friend. Chester's lame leg felt like a heavy wooden post, as it always did in his cups. His boot snagged Doc's chair leg, and Chester fell in Doc's lap.