Chester was having trouble walking from the Long Branch to the jailhouse. His head swirled from the whiskies and beer, and his legs felt weak and clumsy. Almost there, if he took care to stay on his feet and not trip and fall over his boots and bust a leg or somewhat, he'd make it in one piece.
The shadowed form of a tall man, lean yet with a look of strength, was peering through the marshal's office window. Something about the forward thrust of the wide shoulders distressed Chester, and he cast about in his muddled head to get a purchase on that something.
The need prodded him to get out of the fellow's line of sight and not make any noise. Chester slipped into the passage between buildings and looked round the corner of the structure closer to the jail, trying to see the man's face under his hat in the darkness. Lamplight from inside the jail shone on the walk, meaning Mr. Dillon had lit the lamps and was likely there. Had he left for his rooming house, he would have put the lamps out first.
The man stayed out of the light, making it harder to see him. He moved away from the window and flattened himself against the front wall of the marshal's office. On the tip of grasping who the man was, Chester fought to clear the boozy fog from his head.
He stepped from the passage to the walk, moved silently passed the building next the jailhouse to the side wall of the jail, and looked again at the man from his hiding place. He saw a long nose and cheekbones standing out sharply, and knew of a sudden who the man was.
Ohm Latimer, who attacked Miss Kitty and said he'd come back for the marshal after Mr. Dillon beat him in front of the Long Branch and told him to leave town. Chester watched as Latimer once more faced the opened window and drew his gun.
Chester's heart bounded, he sucked in a chest full of air and charged at Latimer. "The window look out Mr. Dillon!"
Chester bent over and swerved against the wall as Latimer whirled and fired at him. The bullet whizzed by him, missing its target.
Inside the office, Matt pivoted to face the window, drawing his gun when he heard Chester holler. The marshal saw Latimer, framed sideways in the window, fire his gun. Matt pulled the trigger, and the shot exploded deafening loud in the room. The bullet tore through Latimer's ribs, ripping through his body and out his other side.
He jerked up rigid, holding onto his gun as he turned to face Matt through the window. As Matt leveled his gun for a chest shot, Chester tackled Latimer, knocking the gun from his hand. He cried out as he fell back on the boardwalk with Chester on top of him. Chester quickly got up off him, picked up the gun and slipped it in his own belt.
The drunken prisoner Dickson woke and sat up. "Whush gone on," he slurred.
"Just rest easy," said Matt. He holstered his gun and went outside.
Men gathered round the office in all stages of dress and undress. One wore a nightshirt, and a nightcap over his long tail of hair. Most wore pants over their underwear with no shirts. A few were barefoot and hatless, and one was bare-chested.
"You alright, Chester?" said Matt.
"Yessir. It's Ohm Latimer, Mr. Dillon. He come back gunnin' fer you like he said."
Matt leaned over Latimer. He was conscious, and met the marshal's eyes. "If I live, I won't come after you again, Marshal. I gave it a try, so I can hold up my head now. You're not the breed of man dies easy," Latimer said faintly.
"We'll get you to Doc's," said Matt. "Some of you men carry him to Doc's."
Four men stepped forward and picked Latimer up. He groaned as they lifted him. "Only two of us can tote him up the steps," one man observed. "Biggest fellas hold him under the shoulders and take his legs." They lowered Latimer to the boardwalk again and shifted positions. He cried out as his mutilated torso touched the wood, and whimpered when they picked him up once more.
"Don't set him down again 'til you get to Doc's, boys," said Matt, and turned to go inside the office, followed by Chester.
Dickson stood at the bars of his cell. "Who got kilt," he said.
"What's Dickson doin' in thar," said Chester.
"He was shooting in the air out front of the Lady Gay. I locked 'im up to sleep off his drunk. We'll turn him loose come sunup," said Matt.
"He ain't sleepin', though," said Chester.
"Who got kilt," Dickson repeated.
"Ohm Latimer got shot. He's still alive," said Chester.
"He deserves it. He preys on women. That's one thing I don't do," said Dickson.
"Go back to sleep, Dickson." Matt started closing the door to the cells.
"Marshal, please. No," Dickson begged.
"I dun mind we leave the door open, Mr. Dillon. Um sleepin' in the other cell anyways. You're stayin' the night here, ain't you, it bein' so late," said Chester.
"I don't think a cup of coffee would disturb my sleep," said Matt.
"I could use some too, by golly," said Chester, moving to the stove to fix a fresh pot. "Had me a mite much of a good time to the Long Branch tonight. I got here when you needed me thanks to Miss Kitty tellin' me I had enough ta drink."
"Chester."
"Yeah?"
Matt glanced in Dickson's cell and satisfied himself the prisoner had gone back to sleep. Chester turned from the stove. Mr. Dillon looked at him in a way the marshal never had, almost like seeing him the first time, only not like he was Chester. More like he was an Army Sergeant-Major or such.
"You took a big chance out there, Chester. Latimer's bullet might've hit you," said Matt.
"Yes, sir. Warn't no other way to work it, Mr. Dillon. Latimer woulda killed you sure if I kept quiet," said Chester.
"Good job. Thanks," said Matt.
Chester's face flushed as he tried not to smile too big. The brief compliment and word of gratitude warmed him through. "Wahl. I guess I oughter git that coffee ta boilin'. Maybe we kin talk 'bout what happens next with Latimer whilst we drink it. Him bein' a strong tough feller, I got a feelin' Doc'll pull 'im through."
"Wouldn't be surprised. No better sawbones than Doc. That means Latimer will spend some time in jail while he waits for his trial," said Matt.
"He won't git 'is hands on a gun again. Ah'll guard 'im up ta Doc's through 'is mendin', an' see he stays put behind bars when yer out the office, Mr. Dillon."
"I know you will, Chester."
Latimer made a full recovery, and the judge sentenced him to ten years at Lansing prison for attempted murder, not to be released before he served five. Nick Dickson married the little saloon gal Pixie, and took a homestead a mile outside Dodge. Pixie was too fragile for farm work, so Dickson, who doted on her, paid a hired woman to live with them and do the cleaning, cooking, laundering and gardening. True to his word, Bull did not plague Chester anymore, and said howdy whenever they happened to meet.
"Ya know," said Doc, one night over dinner at Delmonico's, not long after Matt returned from escorting Latimer to prison, "I know Latimer's a bad breed, but seeing as he's locked up a spell, I hope I can say this without offending you, Kitty."
"You just go ahead and say what's on your mind, Doc. I promise not to be offended," said Kitty.
"Well, I feel kind of proud saving his life so he healed up like he did. Not that he's deserving, cuz he ain't, by thunder. But I just can't help taking pride in the job I did on him," said Doc.
"I guess I understand, Doc. I don't like thinking about him," said Kitty.
"Of course you don't. Of course not." Doc patted Kitty's arm. "I won't mention him no more except to say this. The men of this town got the message when Matt beat him out front of the Long Branch. Any of 'em think about giving any woman a hard time, they'll think twice from now on."
"Well, the women of this town feel a lot safer," said Kitty. She and Matt gazed across the table at each other.
Chester dug into a big slice of hot berry pie. "I'm pleased you come to Dodge, too, Miss Kitty. Admire us all dining together an' such. Things is more cheerful like with you here."
"Thank you, Chester."
"By the way, Matt, did I tell you Chester kept order just fine while you took Latimer to Lansing?" said Doc.
"Aw, well, warn't nothin' really to it. Mr. Dillon keeps the peace in Dodge even when he ain't here," said Chester.
"With three trusted friends, I get on tolerable," said the marshal.
END