Cain boarded at an inn with two floors and no name on the back street. The sloppily painted sign had just one word, Rooms. The desk clerk directed the marshal to Cain's room on the second level.
The door was unlocked, and Matt went in without knocking. Cain lay on the bed, reading the Dodge City Times. He lowered the newspaper, looked at Matt, folded the paper and put it on the small table by the bed, and stood up. His gunbelt hung on the post at the foot of the bed, and Matt picked it up.
"Put that back," said Cain.
"You're under arrest, Cain," said Matt. "Get movin'."
"It was self-defense, Marshal. Chester jumped on me."
"Mr. Jonas witnessed it," said Matt. "Now get movin', or I'll throw you down the stairs."
"You jail me, you dig friend Chester's grave," Cain spat. "I'll kill 'im when I get out."
Matt backhanded Cain, and he fell against the unpainted, splintered chest of drawers, tripped over his boots and hit the floor, his mouth bleeding. Matt took Cain's gun from the holster, stuck it in the marshal's belt and tossed Cain's gunbelt on the belt, then yanked the cowboy to his feet, collared him and strong-armed Cain to the head of the stairs.
The desk clerk heard the commotion and stood at the foot of the flight, looking up wide-eyed. Matt's gut and chest burned with the compulsion, and he later wondered if he'd have thrown Cain down the steps, if not for the clerk.
"Stay away from him or you're dead," Matt said in a low tone, his mouth close to Cain's ear.
"Yeah, we'll see about that," said Cain, his voice choked from Matt's hold on his collar.
"I'm not playing games with you, Cain," Matt said through clenched teeth. He jerked Cain's collar into his throat, squeezing.
"Alright," Cain choked, flailing and pulling at Matt's fingers. "Let go." Matt let go of him.
"My hat," said Cain.
"We hold belongings thirty days," said the clerk, starting up the stairs. "If you'll wait one moment, Marshal, I'll fetch Mr. Cain's hat."
"Get my—" said Cain.
"Just the hat," said the marshal.
"It's you I wanna kill, Dillon," said Cain, as they walked to the jail. "I'm using your friend to temper you into fightin' me. I guess you know that."
"Either you want to die or you're a fool," said Matt. "You aim to kill every lawman in every town you stay in, do ya?"
"I want to," said Cain. "If I'm gonna risk gettin' hanged or shot, the prize gotta be worth it, though. And you are. You're everything I hate about your breed."
"You're a fool and you're rotten," said the marshal. "A lot of men wanna kill me, Cain, but the worst of 'em had a reason that made sense to them, if no one else. Not many want to kill outa nothin' but hate."
"My father was a sheriff," said Cain. "If he'd beat me when I was a young 'un, it woulda been easy. I'd a had a reason to kill him. But he never once hit me, never laid a rough hand on me or said a harsh word.
"It was the rules I hated. Go to church, go to school, do chores, help the neighbors. Or no riding, no huntin' or fishin' or goin' to the swimming hole. No dessert or pennies for stick candy. No goin' outside for two days, or a week if I set my head against doin' what he told me to. Always forcing rules every minute, not knowin' he taught me to hate 'em, and hate him and what he stood for. Why I'm not a bandit, I don't know," said Cain.
Matt opened the marshal's office door, and he and Cain went in. "Did you kill him?" said Matt. "Your father?"
Cain jerked his head up and gave Matt a shocked look. "No," he said. "I wanted to, but no. Like I said, he give me no reason to. He was fifty-five already when my mother birthed me. He died four years ago, of old age."
"And you have no reason to kill me, or any lawman," said the marshal. "We're only doing what your pa did, Cain."
"You and other lawmen aren't my father," said Cain.
Matt took the jail key from the peg and opened the near cell. Cain stepped in, and Matt closed the cell door and locked it. Holding the bars, Cain looked with his bitter dark eyes at the marshal.
"You ever kill a man, Cain?" said Matt, not sure why he asked.
Cain swallowed visibly, looking into Matt's eyes, and the marshal saw fear behind the incessant anger. Matt waited, and on impulse made his eyes as grim and his face as forbidding as he could. The cowboy slid his fingers around the bars, saying nothing, and Matt knew after a moment that Cain wouldn't answer him.
Two days later, Doc removed the bandage from Chester's head and said he could go back to work. "Come in when the stitches start poking out of your skin," said Doc. "I'll take them out with the forceps."
"Why do they poke when it's healin', Doc." said Chester, putting on his hat.
"Your body does its own needlework, with some help from catgut," said Doc. "Your head sews itself up, pushes my sutures out."
"Gracious," said Chester, fingering his cut. "Ain't that a wonder."
"Now don't go pickin' at it," said Doc. "Unless you want infection. And watch your steps around that Cain fella. He's bad blood."
"Well, alright, Doc," said Chester, nodding seriously, his eyes a bit sad. "I will."
Doc patted Chester's arm. "You're not to blame, Chester," said Doc. "Just be careful."
Mr. Dillon wasn't one for tidying up, and the office already looked less than neat over the two days Chester stayed at Doc's. "Chester, I just boiled that coffee," Matt objected, as Chester stepped out the side door with the coffeepot, to empty it in the dirt.
"We can still use the grounds, Mr. Dillon," Chester instructed, "so's they won't go to waste. Second time wet grounds is good as fresh dry, you know how to fix it. You forgot the eggshells again."
Matt glanced at Cain lying on the bunk and reading the Times, and closed the door to the jail cells. "Chester, I'll see to Cain," said the marshal. "He goes to court in three days, and the judge will likely release him for time served, like you said. He needs anything and I'm out, he'll have to wait 'til I get back. I'll be sleepin' here nights, long as he's in jail."
"Yes, sir," said Chester.
When the judge turned Cain loose for time served as expected, the cowboy turned with a mirthless grin to Matt. The marshal hadn't seen Cain smile, and it looked strange on his surly face.
"You kept Chester from me when I was locked up," Cain said slyly. "I'm free, now. Our little talk about my pa? That was a weak moment; don't change anything. You beat me two times in one day. Not many men can do that."
"That's nothing to what I'll do to you, Cain, you don't leave Chester alone," Matt quietly said.
Anticipating Cain's release while Matt waited with the cowboy in court, Chester felt skittish as a rabbit in a snare, and figured maybe a beer at the Long Branch and Miss Kitty's company would ease his mind. Kitty sat at a table with a plate before her containing two hardboiled eggs, two biscuits and a pat of butter, and coffee.
"Miss Kitty," said Chester, tipping his hat. His face looked strained and pensive.
"You feelin' alright, Chester?" said Kitty.
"Mr. Dillon's at the courthouse with that Darius Cain," said Chester. "He done served the time he has comin', so the judge'll let 'im go."
"I keep tellin' Matt to kill that brute," said Kitty. "If he shows his face in here, maybe I'll get the shotgun and do it myself."
"Oh . . . well," said Chester, smiling a little. "It ain't hardly come to that, Miss Kitty."
"You hungry?" said Kitty. "I hired a new girl; she likes to cook and bake. She's good at it."
"I guess I am, some," said Chester. "It's 'bout lunchtime."
"Help yourself," said Kitty. "The biscuits are still hot.
"Sam," she called. "A beer on the house for Chester."
"Fix yourself a plate, Chester, and set with me awhile," said Kitty.
"Thank you, Miss Kitty. I will."
As they ate, Kitty said her new girl would fix a fine picnic lunch for the price of twenty-five cents, and the talk drifted to fishing. Kitty treated Chester to another beer, and he felt easy and drowsily happy by the time he drained the mug. Chatting about the best spots to dig bait worms, and creeks where the most fish were biting, Chester missed seeing Cain walk through the batwings.
Kitty saw the cowboy come in; she habitually watched the batwings. Much as she disliked Cain—as did everyone Kitty knew; folks kept their distance from him and he seemed to have no friends—he'd never frightened her. Cain took no notice of women. Kitty felt a chill of fear, now, not for herself or her girls, but for Chester.
Cain moved to the table, stopping beside Chester, who blanched, narrowing his eyes at the cowboy. "You want a drink, Cain, you know where the bar is," said Chester.
"You ordering me again?" said Cain.
"Leave him alone, Cain," said Kitty. "You get out of here."
Cain ignored her. Chester stood up. "You heard Miss Kitty," he said.
"Sure. Sure, I heard her," said Cain. "What are you gonna do if I don't get out."
Kitty rose from her chair. "It's alright, Chester," she said. "Let 'im stay.
"Just . . . go to the bar, Cain," said Kitty. Cain paid her no mind.
"Get out," said Sam. He raised his voice to be heard, though his tone was composed, almost impassive. Sam was always the stoical barkeep. Kitty had never seen him ruffled, not even when Ad Bellum beat him for trying to protect her.
Sam stood behind the bar, aiming a shotgun at Cain. The men and gals deserted the tables and backed away from the bar to stand against the walls.
As Cain drew his six-shooter, Sam knew he wouldn't fire the shotgun. The cowboy stood too close to Kitty and Chester. Sam dove behind the bar, and Cain's bullet shattered a whiskey bottle.
"Draw a bead on me, will ya, barkeep," said Cain, lowering his gun at the bar where Sam had disappeared from view.
Chester grabbed for Cain's gun hand, and just as Matt pushed through the batwings, Cain whirled on Chester, squeezing the trigger. Chester's body jolted as searing pain ripped through his side, and he doubled over.
Matt drew his gun. "Cain!" he said. Cain spun to face the marshal, and Matt shot him. The bullet hit Cain's belly and he crumpled, dropping his gun.
Still on his feet, Chester looked at the spreading red stain on his shirt, and felt the blood wet on his back. The wound burned like he'd been stabbed with a hot poker. He felt Kitty's little warm hands, one on his back above the bullet hole, the other on his arm.
"Chester?" said Matt, holstering his gun.
"It tore clean through," said Chester. "Missed ma innards, maybe. Hurts powerful, though."
Cain groaned, stirring on the floor. Matt glanced at him, then looked again at Chester.
"I'll make it ta Doc's, Mr. Dillon," said Chester.
"You sure?" said Matt.
"Yessir."
"I'll go with him, Matt," said Kitty.
It was like when Cain hit Chester's head with the gun and Miss Kitty helped him, only this time Chester wouldn't lean on her. She was a small woman, not strong enough for a man to lean on.
"I'm sorry, Chester," said Sam, from behind the bar. "I was trying to scare Cain off. I didn't think he'd start shooting."
"That's alright, Sam," said Chester.
"Come on, Chester," said Kitty. She put her arm around him, careful not to touch the wound, and they left for Doc's.
Matt bent down next to Cain, picked up his gun and put in the marshal's belt, took hold of Cain's shoulder and turned him on his back. His opened eyes were dim, his shirt and vest soaked with blood. "I'll have some men carry you to Doc's," said Matt.
"No," Cain whispered. "It's too late. I have to tell you, Marshal. Please. Before I die."
"Alright," said Matt.
"I killed Jim Malik and Anse Underwood. The ranchers." Cain stiffened, grimacing. "The bullet," he moaned. "Like a . . . ball of fire. In my gut."
"I'll get you to Doc," said Matt.
"No," said Cain. "I have to tell you . . . all of it. I don't wanna . . . die a doomed soul."
"I'm not a parson, Cain. You need Doc."
"No," Cain gasped. "I did ranch work for Jim and Anse. They wouldn't pay me. Jim was drunk, and Anse just mean, meaner than me. I drew my gun. To make 'em. Pay me. They both shot at me . . . and . . . missed, and I killed them. Self . . . defense. Marshal. I . . . swear. I swear."
"The judge will decide if it's self-defense or not," said Matt. "And how much more jail time you'll get for shooting Chester."
"No," said Cain. "I'm dying."
"You might want to die, Cain," said Matt, "but you're alive."
"No."
Matt stood up. "Two of you men carry him to Doc's, will you?"
Cain groaned, his face contorting as the men lifted him. Matt followed them through the mid-afternoon sunlight to Doc's.
Doc worked fast, especially when Chester was the patient. He was wrapping a bandage around Chester's waist when Matt and the men carrying Cain arrived.
"Cain still alive, is he," said Doc. "Lay him here on the table.
"Chester, you lie on the lounge there, rest awhile. I'm gonna keep you here a day or two."
"Doc, you said them very words not a week ago, when Cain whacked my head with his gun," Chester sighed. "What you said this time's jest a li'l different."
"I know, Chester," Doc soothed. "He won't hurt you no more after this."
Kitty plumped a pillow from Doc's bed and arranged the pillow comfortably on the lounge, and poured coffee for Chester. "I'm not helpin' tend Cain," she said.
"Don't expect you to," said Doc.
"I'll send men up to guard Cain, sunup to sunup, long as he's here, Doc," said Matt. "If his eyes are open, he's unpredictable. Like a wild animal no one can tame."
"No, Marshal," Cain whispered. "No more."
"You rest easy," Doc said to Cain, taking the chloroform bottle from his cabinet. "I'm gonna put you to sleep, take the bullet out."
Heavily dosed with morphine after Doc removed the bullet, Cain slept the rest of the day and through the night. Kitty carried up a basket from Delmonico's the next morning, with eggs and fatback strips, fried spuds 'n onions and coffee cake.
"Is Mr. Dillon comin' to eat with us?" said Chester, as Kitty fixed him a tray.
"Matt and I ate earlier," said Kitty. "He's lining up some more men to guard Cain. This breakfast is all for you and Doc and Mr. Drake."
Their guard of the hour, Mr. Drake was a strong stocky man known in Dodge for his soundness of mind, with keen eyes in a placid, pleasant face. "I'm obliged, Miss Kitty," he said, accepting the plate and cup of coffee she handed him. "Most guardin' jobs, I have to tote my own parcel of jerky and hardtack. Got it right here in my pocket."
"Well, you just save that for later, Mr. Drake," said Kitty. "Matt says you're the best guard in town, and we're gonna treat you right."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"He don't get none," said Chester around a mouthful of eggs, looking at Cain lying motionless on Doc's table. "On account of he can't eat it."
"He gets only rice gruel and beef broth a spell," said Doc, "when he can keep it down. The bullet mangled his stomach. He can't drink the morphine, either. Have to give him injections."
"I cannot believe I'm feeling a teeny bit sorry for Cain, Doc," said Kitty, looking at the cowboy's drawn, gray face. "Against my better judgment. I'm still not nursin' 'im."
"Matt wouldn't want you to nurse him, Kitty," said Doc. "No harm feeling compassion, though. Cain's a mean one and no mistake. But by golly he's human."
"I shot a pronghorn, oncet," Chester commenced, chewing crispy fatback. "I used up all ma other bullets shootin' rabbit. Delmonico's paid me fifteen cent each rabbit, and all the roast and fricassee I cud eat. Anyhow, the pronghorn took 'is time dyin', thrashin' on the ground and his eyes bulgin', so's I felt for 'im. Ah did," said Chester.
"Well, what happened then, Chester," said Kitty.
"I picked me up a big rock and smashed his head," said Chester sorrowfully. "Mercy, that was hard ta do, Miss Kitty, that ole antelope not bein' a man, howsoever. I made maself, to stop his pain."
"You did that antelope a kindness, Chester," said Kitty.
"Surely," Mr. Drake said earnestly.
"So how does that remembrance make you feel about Cain, Chester," said Doc.
Chester looked in perplexity from Doc to Cain. "Well, Doc, I ain't gonna bash Cain's head with no rock," said Chester. "I believe in turning the other cheek." Kitty's eyes twinkled and her cheeks flushed, holding in laughter, and Mr. Drake grinned.
"Why're you laughing at me, Doc," said Chester.
"I'm not joshin' you, Chester." Doc stood, set down his plate and coffee cup, and briefly laid his hand on Chester's side above the bandage. "Not while you're poorly," Doc said.
Doc looked at Cain, who'd awakened and was watching them. "Good thing I didn't kill you," Cain faintly told Chester. "I won't hang, if the judge rules Malik and Underwood's killings self-defense." Cain blinked, as though recollecting something. "Unless I killed the barkeep," he said.
"Sam? He's fine," said Doc, lifting layers of bloodied cotton from Cain's wound. "You in any pain?"
"No," said Cain.
"You killed Malik and Underwood?" said Chester.
"They shot at me, first. If their aim weren't so bad, I'd be dead."
"Doc, I need to tell Mr. Dillon 'bout this," said Chester. "Cain confessed."
"I told the marshal last night," said Cain, as Doc cleaned his wound. "On account of I thought I was dying. I'd a kept my mouth shut on it if I'd a known I would live.
"Where's the marshal. I need to tell him I won't trouble him no more; I won't hate no more. I don't want to die a condemned soul," said Cain. "My pa said I'd be lost all eternity if I didn't turn from my wicked ways, and it most happened."
"Now, you rest easy," said Doc, folding a clean cloth into a thick square for a fresh bandage. "Matt'll be up by-and-by."
Sipping from his second cup of coffee, Chester told Cain, "You need the parson."
"No," said Cain. "Parson knows the Bible, but he don't understand a man like me. Dillon does, and he's the one I'll tell."
"You can tell him all you want, when he comes up," said Doc. "He'll listen."
"I won't hound you anymore, either, Chester," said Cain.
"Well, that remains to be seen," Kitty said under her breath.
"Can't say I'm sorry; I'm not a remorseful man," Cain went on. "Changing my ways is about all I can do. And this whole thing began anyway when you bumped me by Grimmick's livery, Chester."
Chester startled. "You hesh up," he said in a gentle burst, mindful that Cain was badly gunshot.
Doc had heated beef broth on the stove, and he lifted Cain's head, putting the cup to his lips. Cain swallowed the liquid, then cut his eyes over at Chester. "Changing my ways don't mean I'll let a man like you tell me what to do," said Cain.
"Never mind," said Doc. "Be quiet and drink."
"You hesh up," Chester said to Cain, in the mild voice he used when helping Doc tend the sick and injured. "You cain't do nothin', Cain. 'Bout nothin'. You oughn't bother Mr. Dillon with confessin' yer sins. Tell the parson."
Cain tried to push Doc's arm holding the cup away, and Doc pushed Cain's hand down. "Finish it," Doc said firmly.
Cain took another drink. "I can do plenty soon as I'm healed sufficient to rise offa this table," he said. "I'll split your hide wide open, Chester."
"You talk mighty bold for a man flat on his back, Cain," said Chester, as Matt walked in. "Maybe you won't never git up. You might die."
"Chester," said Matt.
Cain strove to sit up, and Doc held him down. "Doc," said Matt. "Should we move Chester to the bedroom?"
"No," said Chester. "I wanna stay here. Move Cain to the bedroom."
"No," said Doc. "They're both staying here in the front room. Makes it easier for me to tend them. Chester . . . behave yourself."
"Oh, Doc," said Kitty. She'd pulled a chair close to the lounge, and sat rubbing Chester's shoulder. "None of this is Chester's fault," she said.
"Well . . . of course it isn't, Kitty," said Doc. "I already told Chester he wasn't to blame, after Cain pistol-whipped him."
"I need to talk to you, Marshal," said Cain. "I need to tell you some things."
The marshal pulled up a chair near the table where Cain lay. "Alright, Cain," said Matt. "I'm listening."