As Tilden lay passed out cold on the Front Street boardwalk near Delmonico's, Kitty knelt beside him, calling his name and patting his gaunt face. He didn't stir.
"Dash of water should wake him up, Miss Kitty." Kitty looked up at Jonas standing over her. "He's that rich gent writes the horror books. I saw Rafferty hit him from down the walk a ways. With the cold settin' in, the trough water will be chill enough to shock him awake." The storekeeper stepped to the trough and picked up a bucket.
"Don't throw water in his face, Jonas," said Kitty. "He's just getting over the grippe."
"Alright." Jonas pulled a bandanna from his pocket. "He is peaked. Not much to look at, is he." He dipped the bandanna in the trough, wrung the cloth and handed it to Kitty.
She wiped Tilden's face, and he opened his dark eyes and gazed serenely into her clear violet-blue ones. "How beautiful you are, Miss Kitty," he murmured.
Jonas stepped behind Tilden, put his hands under Tilden's arms, pulled him to his feet and helped him to a bench.
"Obliged," Tilden mumbled.
"Surely." Jonas nodded at Kitty and went on his way.
"Can I get you a glass of water, Colm?" said Kitty.
Tilden smiled a little. "You called me by my first name."
"You don't mind, do you?"
"Not at all. It pleases me. I'm not thirsty, thank you. I am hungry for luncheon," said Tilden.
"Then you're alright?" Kitty said.
"Right enough. I shall have a swollen cheek and bruise, thanks to that halfwit Rafferty. And a sore neck." Tilden rose from the bench and opened Delmonico's door for Kitty to go in ahead of him.
"You should shoot that dolt next time he tries to hit you. You can't stand up to Rafferty with your fists. He might hurt you bad or kill you if you don't shoot him first. Matt wouldn't arrest you. It'd be self-defense," said Kitty.
"Yes, but I'd feel guilty shooting Rafferty unless he pulls a gun on me. I'd feel like a weakling and a coward, even though I'm not afraid," said Tilden.
"Well, what will you do, then? Let him beat you to death?" said Kitty.
"I'll try to fight him if he challenges me again. He swung at me so quick out there on the walk, I didn't see it coming."
The waiter appeared at their table with a tray of water and coffee, hot rolls and butter. Kitty ordered the roast chicken and baked potato.
"I'll have what Miss Kitty's having," said Tilden.
Kitty sipped her coffee straight, pensively regarding Tilden as he dumped three lumps of sugar and a generous dollop of cream in his cup. He saw her watching him as he stirred his coffee, and his sallow face flushed.
"You could fight dirty," said Kitty. "It might be your only chance, since you're not ready to leave Dodge."
Tilden's sober face brightened. "That's a fine idea, Miss Kitty. Why didn't I think of it. I shall come up with dirty ways to best Rafferty. He's just a cur, so it will amuse me." Tilden rubbed the side of his face marked by Rafferty's knuckles.
"Good for you, Colm. He deserves it," said Kitty.
When Ma Smalley saw Tilden in Jonas's store a fortnight later, she told the storekeeper that Kitty's companionship made poorly Mr. Tilden bloom like a wild autumn chrysanthemum. He'd gained a few pounds, his face filled out a little and lost its grayish hue, and his overly large round eyes no longer looked sad, though still haunted in their depths on close inspection.
The day Doc drove his buggy back to town after patching up two brothers—farmers who tore into each other like feral dogs after sharing a jug of homemade corn whiskey—Tilden sat in the long windblown grass with his back against a cottonwood tree. He'd no wish to read any literature except horror in a long spell, so when a novel by Mr. Howells titled Their Wedding Journey caught his eye in Mr. Jonas's store when Ma Smalley said hello and chatted with Tilden—or rather at him, as Tilden never could think of much to say in the way of light chatter—his curiosity about Howells' book surprised him.
The character Basil March was close to Tilden's age of thirty-five, and his bride Isabel a little younger than Miss Kitty's age, thirty-two. Basil and Isabel weren't romantic, and neither were Tilden and Miss Kitty. They were just ordinary, or Miss Kitty was, if prettier than most women. Tilden felt ordinary, but folks thought him strange wherever he wandered. The novel's characters were Bostonians, too, like Tilden. Boston was one place where people understood and respected him, though he'd left there at the age of twenty-one, when his father died and left him an inheritance of nearly two million dollars once young Tilden sold his pa's iron foundry and took stock of his stack of solid gold bars.
Not that Tilden wanted to marry Miss Kitty or even share her bed, except in the natural way when she held his arm and lightly bumped him as they walked. He felt easier and more at peace alone, in a town with folks close by yet giving him a polite berth.
Though Their Wedding Journey entertained Tilden, it had no suspense or real plot. Not the sort of novel to immerse one. It was innocuous, like a smooth ride on a riverboat, and Tilden frequently paused in his reading to look at the plains and let his thoughts ramble.
When he glanced up from the page for the sixth time since sitting down with the book under the cottonwood tree, he saw Doc approaching in his buggy. Tilden stood up, brushing grass and soil from his suit. As Doc reined in his horse, he and Tilden heard the thunderous pounding of cattle hooves as a trail herd headed for the stockyards, and whirlpools of dust filled the air.
"Hello there, Tilden," said Doc.
"Hello, Doc."
"You're looking well. Taking your tonic, are you?"
"Twice a day, like you said. I am feeling much better," said Tilden.
"Good to hear," said Doc.
Then Doc's head jerked up and his horse whinnied, dancing nervously. As the herd thundered past, Jett Rafferty stopped his horse next to Doc's buggy. "My boss sent me out to help drive 'em to the pens," said Rafferty. "Part of my job."
"That so," said Doc. "Well, you best get to it, Rafferty. Herd's goin' on without you."
"They'll get there alright. I ain't the only hand the boss sent from the stockyards," said Rafferty. He dismounted as the last straggling steers passed them. "Hey bookworm," he said to Tilden. "Where's that purty cream mare of yours?"
"At Grimmick's livery. I walked here," said Tilden.
Rafferty snorted. "Now that's just what an odd duck like you would do, right? Walk to a cottonwood and set out with a durn book."
"No better exercise than walking in the fresh air," said Doc. "Nice day for it, cool and windy."
"Ain't talkin' to you, Doc. You gone an' birth you a critter," said Rafferty. He threw back his head and brayed laughter.
"Rafferty, you must be the worst young fool ass that ever drew breath," Doc retorted. "Your head's full of rocks instead of brains."
The braying abruptly chopped off and the cowboy scowled at Doc. "If I had no score to settle with the dude here, I'd pull you outta that rattling eyesore you call a buggy and trounce you, Doc."
"You keep your blockhead mouth off my buggy or I'll run you over!" Doc threatened.
Rafferty lunged at the buggy and Doc gathered up the reins, raising them in his hands. He had no intention of running Rafferty over. Doc hoped that if he turned his horse so the buggy brushed the cowboy, Rafferty would jump on his horse and ride away, leaving Tilden alone.
As Rafferty sprang at Doc, Tilden rushed to the cowboy and stuck out a slim leg. Rafferty tripped on the leg and fell. He glowered at Tilden from his belly in the grass. "I'm gonna bust your hide in two," Rafferty snarled.
"I think not. You have no score to settle with me, Rafferty," said Tilden.
Rafferty climbed to his feet. "You refuse to draw on me."
"That's right," said Tilden.
"So you got a thrashing comin'. I figure Doc won't interfere in our fight. He can either set there and watch or get movin' and mind his own business," said Rafferty.
"Any altercation that might result in injury is my business," said Doc. "I'm staying right here."
"Have it your way. I ain't the one gonna need you nohow," said Rafferty. He swung at Tilden, who ducked the blow and kicked Rafferty's knee. The knee buckled and Rafferty sat down hard in the grass. He swore at Tilden. "Can't you fight like a man?" said the cowboy.
Tilden didn't answer. He picked up a tree branch as Rafferty coiled his muscles to leap at Tilden from the ground. Rafferty hesitated, then swiped an arm through the air in disgust. "I'm through playing with the likes of you," he said. "Next time I'm goin' for my gun. I give you lotta chances to git the jump on me and you wouldn't."
Rafferty mounted his horse. "We'd face off now," he said, "only I gotta git back to work before the boss sacks me." He kicked his heels to his horse's sides and it galloped away.
Doc shook his head. "That fella has got to be the dumbest man I ever laid eyes on."
"I have encountered some in my wanderings even more dimwitted than Rafferty," said Tilden. "They forced me to a gunfight, too, and I had to kill them."
"Well, look on the bright side, Colm. If Rafferty's dead, he'll quit houndin' you," said Doc.
"I'm starting not to care if I have to kill him. He's made himself a pesky beast," Tilden said.
As cattle drives at the height of harvest season came through Dodge all day, and late into the night when the sky was clear and starlight illuminated the plains, Rafferty worked long hours at the stockyards, leaving him no time to trouble Tilden for a spell. Trail hands swarmed the Long Branch until Kitty found no spare moments to sit and talk with Tilden over beer.
Kitty couldn't pause on a particularly hectic night even to chat with Chester as she habitually did, and he leaned on the bar with his chin resting in his palm, looking gloomy. When she appeared beside him, he looked into her clear bright eyes and sighed.
Kitty lay a hand on his arm. "You want beer or whiskey, Chester."
"I wanna talk ta you."
"I have no time to talk now. I want you to take a drink to Colm Tilden's table and chat with him," said Kitty.
Chester frowned as though she'd said something indecent. "Well, I cain't do that, Miss Kitty. Tilden ain't a woman. An' a body got nothin' to say to a quiet book-learned feller like him."
"Chester, listen. Tilden has no real friends in Dodge but me. Tell him the drink's on the house, courtesy of Miss Kitty."
"He's lucky, Miss Kitty. Man has you for 'is friend, dun care if fellers talk to 'im or not," said Chester.
"Matt told me Tilden said we were his friends, for helping him that night Rafferty smacked him and pushed a table over on him. Now, Colm wouldn't have said that if he didn't care if men talk to him," said Kitty. "And Matt and Doc don't pass the time of day with him much."
"Who's Colm," said Chester, looking confused.
"Tilden. Colm's his first name," Kitty said.
"Wahl, ah dun recollect 'is first name. I don't care what 'is name is." Chester's face flushed, and Kitty saw what she was telling him to do on top of missing his nightly chat with her flustered and put him out of sorts.
"Just talk to him a few minutes, Chester. As a favor to me."
"Cain't."
"Why not," said Kitty.
"He's a nice enough feller, but he ain't interestin' at all."
"Alright. I asked if you wanted beer or whiskey, and I won't go back on it cause you won't do me a little favor," said Kitty.
Chester felt a sinking in his belly. Miss Kitty's displeasure made the night darker. The loud talk and raucous laughter in the barroom jarred his ears and rasped in his head. A muddled film coated his soulful brown eyes as Kitty looked at him.
She smiled and patted his arm again. "That's alright, Chester. I'll have Sam draw you a beer."
Chester's eyes cleared and he returned her smile. "Reckon twon't hurt me none to chat with Tilden a spell," he said.
"Only if you're up to it," said Kitty. Chester nodded, feeling awkward.
"Colm likes a double rye," she said.
"Reckon I could use a double rye, too. For the job ahead," said Chester.
"You sit down and I'll bring the whiskies. Tilden's a little bashful but he's easy to talk to if you start it off," said Kitty.
She moved along the bar to catch Sam's attention, and Chester hesitated, staring warily at Tilden. Chester thought the man a strange sort. Tilden even looked odd, spiffy as he was. His eyes were too big for his fine-boned face, eyes rounder than Chester's own, and he was stick thin, though he did look some better since Miss Kitty started keeping company with him.
Chester limped slowly to Tilden. The man sat still with his hands folded on the table, an empty whiskey glass before him and a distant look in his almost black eyes, like he was somewhere far away from the Long Branch.
"Uh . . . Tilden?" said Chester.
Tilden blinked and looked up at Chester's strained lean face. "Hello, Chester."
"Miss Kitty's bringin' drinks to the table here. On the house."
Tilden's serious face turned softer, not so shadowed-like. "I haven't talked to Miss Kitty in a little while. She is so busy."
"She don't have time to talk to you now, neither," said Chester. Tilden's sharp features drooped. "Mind if I set?"
"Sure."
Chester pulled out a chair and sat, and turned to look at Kitty as she waited for Sam to pour the whiskies at the bar. Tilden grinned a little. "Did Miss Kitty ask you to talk with me, Chester?"
"Um, yeah."
"You don't have to. You can take a whiskey when she brings the drinks and go back to the bar," said Tilden.
"Yeah?" said Chester.
"I'm a grown man. Miss Kitty is very kind and she means well, but I don't need a fellow to chat with. I understand she hasn't time to talk with me every night. When she doesn't, I'm easier sitting by myself watching the folks," said Tilden.
Just what Chester figured, not that he thought on Tilden at all except when Doc spoke of his frail health, or Mr. Dillon worried the cowboy Rafferty would beat him, or now when Miss Kitty wanted Chester to chat with Tilden. Chester didn't get the drift of why his friends were drawn to Tilden. Just a rich dude, and an odd one at that.
Carrying two whiskies on a tray, Kitty moved to the table. Tilden's face brightened again, which nettled Chester. He was sitting across from Tilden, and gazed over his head at the batwings.
Tilden rose and took off his hat, uncovering his rumpled dark hair. "Miss Kitty."
"Hello, Colm." Kitty smiled. "Compliments of the house."
"Thank you." Tilden picked up the whiskey glasses and set them on the table. "Won't you sit down?"
"Oh, I'd like to but I can't right now. I'm greeting customers and serving, too. We're short on girls tonight," said Kitty. Tilden nodded and grinned with glowing eyes, as if each word she spoke held great import.
As Chester sat in his chair and looked over the batwings at the clear night sky, Rafferty's broad shoulders and whiskery face with its wide cheekbones appeared behind the swinging doors. "Tilden," said Chester. "Rafferty done come."