Cowboys and gals spilled onto the boardwalk in front of the Long Branch to watch the new marshal fight the tall stranger whose name was known by just a few, though he rode into Dodge more than a short spell ago. Chester put Latimer's gun in his belt and strapped on Matt's gun belt. Kitty held onto Chester's arm, and Clem stood at Kitty's other side.
Latimer swung first. Matt ducked his fist and hit his jaw. His neck snapped back and he staggered, and Matt struck him again. Latimer swayed like a tree about to topple, and as Matt wound up again, Latimer's big fist rammed the marshal's belly.
Matt bent over as pain exploded in his gut, and Latimer socked him under the chin. As the marshal stumbled back and his opponent moved in on him, Latimer's nearness, the hard face and deep-set eyes close to his, triggered Matt's fury.
Either the pain in Matt's belly and weakness in his legs vanished, or he forgot it was there. He hammered Latimer's face with both fists, still holding back, reining in his ire, knowing he could shatter the man's teeth, jaw and cheekbones with ease. Matt had time to strike just three more blows before Latimer fell senseless.
Panting, Matt braced himself with his hands on his knees, leaning over Latimer to inspect the damage. Matt's first two punches left red marks without breaking the skin. The last three blows that knocked Latimer out left shallow cuts that trickled blood. Ever aware that he was stronger than most men, Matt had held back the punishment even more than he intended, leaving Latimer's ribs and belly untouched. The man would not need Doc and could ride out straightaway.
Chester picked up a bucket beside the trough and filled it with water. He limped to Latimer, and Matt stepped out of the way. Chester dashed the bucketful in the man's face.
Latimer's eyes blinked open and he sat up, hacking. He rubbed his hands over his face and grimaced. Chester picked up the marshal's and Latimer's hats from the street, handed Matt his hat, and dropped Latimer's on his legs. Latimer climbed shakily to his feet.
"Now get out of town," said Matt.
"He has my gun." Latimer jerked his head at Chester.
"I took your gun and I'm keepin' it," said Matt.
"That's theft. What kind of a lawman are you."
With one long step, Matt covered the ground between himself and Latimer, who quickly backed up. He raised his resonant voice so it carried up and down Front Street. "I'll leave town for now, Dillon," he said. "But I will be back soon and look for you. And when I do, you might not know I am here 'til it's too late." He hobbled away.
"Alright folks, the show's over," Matt said to the cowboys and gals. "Go on inside and buy some drinks."
Chester unstrapped Matt's gun belt and gave it to the marshal. "You should oughter kilt Latimer, Mr. Dillon. When he said thet all, he means he's gonna come back 'n bushwhack—"
"I know what he means, Chester. Follow him but not too close. Let me know when he gets on that black stallion and rides out," said Matt.
"Yes, sir."
"Give me his gun," said the marshal as Chester started off. Chester shot Matt a reproachful look, pulled the gun out of his belt and handed it over.
"Matt?" Kitty's voice sounded light and young to Matt's ears as it drifted to him from the boardwalk. She stood alone in her costume in front of the batwings.
Matt smiled, moved to her and put his arm around her. "Alright, Kitty?"
"Sure. But I'm worried Latimer will sneak back to town and potshot you, Matt. I agree with Chester. You should've killed 'im."
"He's not the first man who threatened to ambush me, and I'm still alive. Don't worry, Kitty."
"Oh Matt. I can't help it," she said testily.
Matt tightened his arm around her. "I could use a beer," he said.
"Me too. I'm payin' this time. I owe you a lot more than a beer, Matt."
"Kitty, you don't owe me anything. You'll never owe me," said the marshal.
Matt prepared a report on the Latimer case the following morning, leaving Kitty's name out of it. The marshal mentioned that Latimer's suspicious behavior toward a woman employed at the Long Branch saloon, witnessed by the town physician, along with statements by Latimer to Matt, made the man suspect in the assault and forcible carnal knowledge of the woman.
Matt further wrote that the woman admitted to the attack, but declined to identify the perpetrator. Concerned for the safety of women working at the saloons, dance halls and certain houses in Dodge, Matt ordered Latimer to leave town, and the man then engaged him in a fight. Matt finished up by stating that he subdued Latimer by rendering him unconscious, revived him and again ordered him out of Dodge, at which time the man complied.
Matt was reading over the report when the door to Front Street opened and he heard Chester's limping steps. Absorbed in his wording of the case and impressed with his improved composition, Matt did not look up at his assistant.
"I gotta take fifteen cent from the till fer a bath, Mr. Dillon."
Matt looked up from his report. Chester's hat was missing, and mud and muck covered him head to foot.
"Mess like this needs the barber's bathin' room, on account of he keeps pourin' in hot water whilst yer scrubbin' an' shakes all the foam salts you want in the tub. He pours hot water over your head to rinse when yer done an' dun skimp on the soap. Five-cent bathhouse, you jest git one hot tub an' a dinky dish of soap," Chester explained.
"What happened, Chester?"
"Two cowboys what work at the stockyards drug me to that pigpen near the slaughterhouse an' rolled me in the mud. Mr. Dillon, I try to stay 'way from them two, but I jest ain't fast enough."
The stink of dung wafted to Matt, and he resisted wrinkling his nose. "Was it that big dumb fella and his friend with the mean face again?" said the marshal.
"Yeah. Could you git a dime an' nickel out the till for me, Mr. Dillon? Um too dirty to touch anythin'. Ah'll haveta mop up from my boot steps."
Matt rose from his chair. "Don't worry about the floor, Chester. Set out on the walk there and pull off your boots." Chester obeyed.
Matt picked up the boots with his fingertips. "They're ruined. I'll put 'em in the trash barrel."
"You bought 'em for me new," Chester mourned. "My new hat's gone, too. Them dregs tramped it in the mud."
"Alright, Chester. We'll get you another pair of boots new and a hat at Mr. Jonas' store. Set there while I throw these away."
Matt picked up a bucket behind the jailhouse, filled it with fresh water from the outdoor pump and carried it to Chester. "Stand out in the street away from the walk," said Matt. Chester limped to the middle of the street and Matt emptied the bucket over his head.
"Now dunk yourself good in the trough there," Matt instructed.
"I gotta bathe in the trough?"
"Just a rinse. So you don't muck up the barber's tub," said Matt. Chester sighed, pulled off his muddy socks and plunged into the trough, splashing Matt's legs.
Matt reached into his pocket, and as Chester climbed out of the trough, water streaming from his slim frame, the marshal handed him fifteen cents. "Go get your bath and I'll pick up some new clothes at Jonas's and bring 'em to the barber's. The smell will never wash out of what you got on," said Matt.
"Cain't say how obliged I am, Mr. Dillon."
"That's alright. Those cowboys are at the Lady Gay most every night, aren't they?"
"Yessir."
"We'll pay 'em a visit there," said Matt.
"Mr. Dillon . . . ." Chester scrubbed a hand through his wet hair and examined the dirt specks on his palm. "I surely am obliged like I said, but seems ta me maybe a man oughter fight his own fights."
"Every man needs help sometimes. What kind of help depends on the man," said the marshal.
"You mean I cain't stop them fellers tormentin' on account of my infirmity."
"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Chester. You get on better than a lot of men with two sound legs."
"You're always havin' ta help me, though. I ain't no help to you."
"Well, you're keeping the office clean and neat and tending the prisoners. You just about coddle 'em. They don't learn any hard lessons in the jail there," Matt joked.
"I jest look after 'em careful like without thinkin' on it, Mr. Dillon." Chester hugged himself and shivered, dripping water.
"Wouldn't want them treated any other way but charitable. Go on and get your bath before you catch cold." The marshal watched Chester limp away barefoot. Handling the cowboys who plagued his assistant did not worry Matt. Bullies understood force, and often just a show of force was sufficient. Every man at the Lady Gay would watch and listen, and the town would get the message.
What concerned Matt was Chester's need for someone to look out for him. He wasn't just down on his luck until he got a hand up. Without a hand to keep him up, chances were he'd sink fairly quick. And he seemed at times passive, gentle-like unless frustrated or riled.
Matt needed more than a jailer. He had to have a man he trusted backing him on the trail. Chester had showed his prowess with a rifle, hitting every one of a row of bottles dead-on at several yards distance. Not quite as fast rapid-firing with a six-shooter, he nonetheless hit his target with a pistol, too, though he was too slow on the draw to tote a handgun. He'd fought in the war, so he could kill if he had to.
The marshal hoped his friend would not hesitate when the time came, calculating despite his doubts that Chester would come through where it counted most. Matt recollected fighting Kitty's attacker. Right after Latimer punched his gut, doubling him over, Matt had raised his eyes an instant to the crowd on the boardwalk and seen Chester with Kitty holding onto his arm, his shoulders thrust forward, his hands fists and his eyes fierce. Though he knew not to interfere in another man's fight, Matt Dillon's particular, he sure enough wanted to knock Latimer's lights out.
Another new outfit complete to suspenders, boots and a hat, cheered Chester considerably. As he walked with Matt to the Lady Gay that night to face the cowboys who rolled him in pig muck, he chatted about the best coffee-making methods, from grinding the beans to just the right kind of pot and heat of the stove fire.
Drovers and ranch hands, gamblers and drifters thronged the Lady Gay, second to the Long Branch as the liveliest saloon in town and booming at the height of planting season, with more trail herds thundering through Dodge every day. Matt pushed through the batwings with his partner just behind, cutting an undisputed path to the bar for Chester and himself. "Kin we git a beer, Mr. Dillon?" Chester asked. "I got a nickel left from ma pay."
"Long Branch sells better beer. It's worth the extra five cents. We'll do our drinkin' there," said Matt.
"Reckon yer right 'bout that, sir. I do have a hankerin' to see Miss Kitty," said Chester.
"Look for that pair that's been bothering you. They're like to be somewhere in this crowd," said Matt, looking round.
"That thar's them, Mr. Dillon." The cowboys were sparking a petite, giggling gal they'd lifted to sit on the bar between them. Matt moved to them with Chester at his heels, and stood close by the big loutish one, invading his space.
"Bull . . . ." the middling-sized cowboy warned. "Look who's here."
"Why, hello, Marshal," the little gal giggled. "Chester."
Matt and Chester tipped their hats and greeted her. She went by Pixie, so fitting to her fair looks and dainty form that folks debated whether her ma and pa had in truth thus named her.
Matt picked her up off the bar and set her on her feet as she put her hands on his shoulders and laughed merrily, kissing him on her way down. "Hey. She's our'n, Marshal. You got no right to horn in," said Bull.
"Do me a favor, Pixie?" said Matt.
"Why sure, Marshal. Anything."
"Go chat with Kitty at the Long Branch. Here. For your trouble." Matt handed Pixie a silver dollar.
"Oh, no trouble, Marshal. Thanks most awfully." Pixie pattered away in her tiny high-heeled slippers.
"Hey," Bull repeated, watching her depart.
"What the sam hill you do that for, Dillon," said the smaller cowboy. "We was havin' fun."
"Uh-huh. I heard about the fun you had today with Chester," said Matt.
"Uh-oh. That's all it was, honest, Marshal. We was just funnin' ole Ches," said Bull.
"Yeah. None of your never mind, Dillon. You been stickin' your nose into folks' affairs a lot lately, ain't you. For a lawman new to town, you got some gizzard. That stranger with the odd name . . . Ohm Latimer. You beat 'im and run 'im outa town," said the smaller cowboy.
"What's your name, Mister," said Matt.
"Nick Dickson."
"Listen, Dickson. If you or Bull here trouble Chester again, I'll thrash the both of you and run you out of town same way I did Latimer," said Matt.
"Latimer did nothin' wrong. He just took from Miss Kitty what she dishes up easy to line her reticule," said Dickson.
Matt backhanded him and he staggered, clinging to the bar. He had a pointed weasel face, small sly eyes and a hard slash of a mouth, and unlike his brawny companion, he needed roughing up to make him mind. He leaned his forehead on the bar, clutching his face.
"How about it, Bull," said Matt.
"I won't trouble your friend no more, Marshal. Sorry, Ches. Ch-Chester. Mr. Goode," Bull stammered.
"Alright, go to whatever hole you're stayin' in and don't come out the rest of the night," Matt ordered.
"Yes, sir." Bull hurried out of the saloon without a glance for Dickson.
Dickson straightened up. "You don't say much, do you, Chester. Kind of a sneak, ain't you. You done gone and whined to the marshal so's he'll do your fightin' for you," he sneered.
" 'Scuse me, Mr. Dillon." Chester stepped in front of Matt to face Dickson, and the marshal moved aside. Some five inches shorter than Chester, the cowboy's mid-range build tended to puny. Matt figured if Chester punched some sense into Dickson, the fellow would fear troubling him again. Dodge would know Chester was no coward and could defend himself, and he'd come out of it a bolder man.
"Dickson, you ain't nothin' without yer big fool friend. You little dirt clod," said Chester.
Dickson's face flushed crimson. "I ain't no match for you with Dillon backin' you."
"Don't let me stop you, Dickson. Like you said, it's not my fight," said Matt.
Dickson had the look of a cornered rat. He swung at Chester, who blocked the blow by grabbing his arm. Dickson had a small fist. His right arm rendered useless in Chester's grip, he had no idea what his next move should be. He uncurled his fingers. "Let go," he said.
"You still like funnin', do ya?" said Chester. He tightened his grip and gave the man a shake. Dickson said nothing, and made no move to resist him. "I better not hear you bad-mouth Miss Kitty no more," said Chester. Dickson nodded, and Chester released him.
"You gonna make me leave like you done Bull, Marshal? I need a whiskey," said Dickson, rubbing his face where Matt backhanded him.
Matt took a dime from his pocket and slapped it on the bar. "Barkeep. Whiskey for Dickson here."
"I don't want nothin' from you. I'll buy my own drink," said Dickson. The barkeep looked questioningly at Matt.
"I'm payin'," said the marshal. The barkeep put a glass in front of Dickson and filled it halfway. "Make it a double," said Matt.
"Five cent more, Marshal," said the barkeep.
"I got it, Mr. Dillon." Chester pulled out a nickel.
"What kinda town is it where a man ain't allowed to buy his own drink. I don't want it," said Dickson.
"Dickson, you're gonna drink that and like it," said Matt. Dickson shrugged, picked up the glass and drained it.
"Beer for you and Chester, Marshal?" said the barkeep.
"No thanks. We're headed for the Long Branch."
"What's the Long Branch got that the Lady Gay ain't?" said the barkeep.
"Good drinks and good company. Come on, Chester."
Chester felt like a surer man, maybe more so than in any town since a bullet shattered his knee in the war. He worked for the marshal now and had a place to stay. No matter that he bunked at the jailhouse, which did him just fine. He had clothes, boots and a hat all store-boughten new, could take a bath regular if he wanted to and had plenty to eat.
Whenever hunger gnawed at Chester, he recollected a short spell ago before Mr. Dillon hired him, when his belly twisted so he thought of food the day long, a whiff of cooking from a boarding house or restaurant brought on the pangs and made his mouth water, and the emptiness, the craving to eat, troubled his sleep the night through.
Mr. Dillon or Doc, and Miss Kitty betimes, bought him dinner at Delmonico's most every night, and breakfast too, usual. He ate jerky with biscuits or pone, or scrapple with molasses for lunch, or if he visited Ma Smalley's rooming house at noon, she always invited him to set and eat in the kitchen, knowing he wasn't quite easy dining at the long table with the boarders. Much as his friends fed him, Chester felt he never could get enough to eat. Thin with a light frame for his height, he ate twice what the marshal did.
When he and Mr. Dillon left the Lady Gay after taking care of Bull, and Dickson, who when Chester's eyes opened to him turned out frail as a little girl and not a speck as spirited, Chester felt he had a purchase on the ground he walked since he first came to Dodge on foot and friendless, with nary a penny to his name. He wanted to celebrate with drinks. One beer with the marshal at the Long Branch would not do the trick.
Chester asked Mr. Dillon for the loan of a dollar, which Matt with his usual generosity promptly handed over and Chester pocketed to buy drinks come sundown. Doc treated them to supper, which suited Chester as he wasn't called on to break his dollar.
He spent seventy cents that night on two double whiskies and a beer at the Long Branch. Bill Pence charged twice what the Lady Gay did, but as Mr. Dillon said, Long Branch drinks tasted better and had more of a punch.
After drinking the whiskies and beer, Chester had thirty cents left from the dollar the marshal loaned him. He felt swimmy-headed in an easy way. "Give me another beer, thar, Clem," he said, leaning on the bar.
Miss Kitty appeared at Chester's side. "How many did he have, Clem," she said.
"Two doubles and a beer," said Clem.
"I think you've had enough, Chester," said Kitty.
Chester put his arm around her, smiling. "Aw now, Mish Kitty," he drawled.
"Why don't you go on home. It's way after midnight. You can come back tomorrow," said Kitty.
"Wahl, alright. Iffen you think it best," said Chester. "Night, Mish Kitty."
"Goodnight, Chester."
Finishing his rounds, Matt encountered Chester's former tormentor Nick Dickson, staggering drunk and shooting into the air near the Lady Gay. Matt wrested Dickson's gun away, told him he was going to jail and to get moving.
Dickson stumbled about babbling, wobbled at the edge of the boardwalk and pitched forward. Matt caught him before he fell and supported him down the street, pulling him along when he resisted. Mumbling, Dickson suddenly thrashed in Matt's hold to free himself.
"Quit fightin' me or I'll hit ya," Matt warned. Dickson quietened and sagged against the marshal.
Matt helped him to the bunk in the front cell. Dickson lay blinking blearily up at the marshal. "I got no friends in Dodge now, Marshal. Bull said he don't want nothin' more to do with me. He spread the word I'm a troublemaker."
"You might have it easier if you try to be a little neighborly," said Matt.
Dickson screeched laughter, choked and passed out. Matt put his palm on the man's chest a moment and felt the slow yet regular rise and fall, satisfying himself that Dickson would make it through the night, sleep off his drunk and waken in the morning.
Outside the jailhouse on Front Street, a tall, lean man trod with soft steps, so the boards would not creak as he walked. Lamplight shone through the marshal's office windows, so whoever was inside was awake. The man hoped it was Dillon, though it could be the jailer, Chester, or both of them, in which case the man would have to leave and come back again the next night.
The man stopped by the window, opened to the warm night, and peered in. The door to the jail was open, and Dillon stood in the doorway between the office and cells. He wore his gun belt, which made things risky, but wouldn't matter if the man could squeeze off a clean shot to the back. Problem was, Dillon stood sideways, his head turned from the window as he looked into the front cell. There was likely a fellow in the cell who could get a look at the man's face, but maybe not, if he jumped away from the window fast enough after he fired the shot.
He drew his gun and took aim. From Dillon's position, the bullet might hit his shoulder instead of his back, or miss him altogether. The man raised his gun, aiming at the marshal's head. He'd have to be quick. Once the lawman heard the hammer click, he would go for his gun, and he was known far and wide as a fast draw.