The Marshal felt his usual calm inner strength return and replace the turmoil that had been brewing as he turned and purposely strode out to deal with whatever occurred. His faith in himself had been bolstered by Kitty's unwavering faith and love.
Matt made his last rounds of the night as he always did, shaking doorknobs and looking in windows of all the businesses. Crossing a deep and narrow alley between two buildings, he heard a rustling noise.
Pulling his six-gun, the big Marshal slowly entered the dark, cluttered alley, knowing what a large target he made, backlit from the street.
Halfway through the alley, a stack of cartons was pushed over, and the sudden crash distracted Matt for the instant it took for the sound of a bullet being chambered in a rifle. He still was able to react quickly enough, throwing his body to the side, so that the bullet only made a burning crease across his upper left arm.
"HOLD IT!" he yelled, firing a shot at the stocky, dark figure of a man with a rifle who raced away down the alley and around the corner.
Matt was enraged but energized at finally getting a glimpse of his tormenter, and ran after him.
Back at the Marshal's office, Chester sat at the desk again, staring at the drawer that contained the Remington pistol. Since Matt had left on his rounds, Chester had tried to sweep, clean chimney lamps, and read one of his usually-engrossing Wild West magazines while lying on his bunk. Nothing could keep his mind from racing. Scenarios of the Marshal being ambushed kept playing through his mind, tormenting him.
Matt Dillon was the finest man Chester had ever known, and ever expected to know. He valued the trust and friendship of the Marshal, and knew in his heart that he would willingly die to save the big man. He loved Matt, without even thinking the word.
All of the years he had worked with the Marshal, Chester had also known that Matt could always take care of himself in any situation, but that didn't stop him from worrying.
Now Chester thought back over the many times the Marshal had told him "Stand over there, Chester," or "You'd better stay here, Chester," or "Give me some room, Chester," whenever gunplay was imminent. Even when the Marshal's own life was on the line, he always thought of Chester's safety.
Chester had literally saved the Marshal's life a few times, so he had no doubts of his own bravery. He tried to puzzle it out, furrowing his brow, of what he should be doing right now, feelings battling with obedience.
Being a man of emotions and music and feelings, Chester was not one who deeply pondered situations. Pulling open the desk drawer, his face smooth with decision, he decided to do what he felt was right.