"Defend me from my friends; I can defend myself from my enemies."
Maréchal Villars, 1653 – 1734
Defend Me from My Friends
Chapter One: A Few Wild Oats
POV: Chester
Four days earlier:
"My daddy come west to Kansas,
ta' make his home in Kansas."
Chester Goode's tenor voice slid off the walls of the jailhouse and breezed past his ears, and he smiled, content as he usually was after a satisfying breakfast of steak and eggs and coffee from Delmonico's.
"But all he made
was his own grave
when he crossed the path of Killer Dave – "
The tune was a little ditty he had composed all on his own to pass the time while he did odd chores for Marshal Dillon. Sometimes he found himself humming it even when he wasn't hard at work. In fact, more often than not, it – and others like it – served as entertainment to while away the hours he spent propped in a chair outside the marshal's office, observing his fellow Dodge citizens.
This morning, though, he had plenty to do, since the marshal was out and expected the place to be neat and clean when he returned. While he wasn't necessarily driven to keep busy, Chester nevertheless liked to help out, and anticipated the response he would receive from the returning lawman when he saw the results of his assistant's efforts. Yes, indeed, Mister Dillon would be pleased.
He paused in his work, leaning his chin on the handle of the broom as he imagined the moment. The thought so enthralled him that a couple of seconds passed before his brain registered that someone had spoken. With a jerk, he lifted his head to look toward the door, and sure enough a man stood there, his brow raised expectantly.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Chester said, squaring his body with the stranger's. "Did you say somethin' to me?"
"I said, 'Are you the marshal?'" The man's dark eyes glanced around uneasily, and he tugged at the wide-brimmed hat he wore.
Chester blinked. "Oh, Heavens no. The marshal – " He stopped, unsure of what this man wanted of Mister Dillon, unwilling to reveal exactly where the marshal was, or when he would return. "The marshal's out," he finished simply.
Scratching at a half-grown beard, the man asked, "When'll he be back?"
"Wael, I don't rightly know – "
"I'm lookin' for a man name of Matt Dillon," the stranger said.
Confused, Chester said, "Ya told me that."
The man looked equally confused. "No, I didn't. I said – look, can ya tell me where th' marshal is?"
Despite his curiosity, Chester suddenly realized the need to be cautious. "Any particular reason?" he probed warily.
"Some fella on the boards told me I could find him at the marshal's office." The man's eyes narrowed. "He in some kinda trouble?"
"The marshal?"
Apparently irritated, the man snapped, "Matt Dillon!"
If he hadn't been a bit consternated over the fellow's unreasonable impatience, Chester would have laughed. "Trouble? Oh, Lord, no. Why, he's – "
"'Cause if he is – if he busted up a saloon or somethin', I'll pay the damages." The man unfolded a healthy wad of greenbacks and ruffled through them.
Chester's eyes widened at the impressive display of wealth. "My, my. Are you a – a friend of Mister Dillon's?"
"Mister Dillon, huh? Well, maybe ol' Matt's doin' better for hisself than I thought."
"I don't know what you thought, Mister, but Mister Dillon's done right well for himself. In fact, he's – "
The door swung open abruptly, and the subject of their conversation strode in, shirt halfway unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, a string of fish in one hand, a pole in the other. Doc Adams followed right behind, his sleeves rolled up as well, his own string of fish noticeably smaller.
"I don't know how you do it, Matt," the older man complained. "We were barely ten feet from each other, and those fish practically jumped right onto your line."
"Patience, Doc," Matt advised sagely, not bothering to mask the gloating. "It just takes – " But he stopped abruptly as he looked up and saw the stranger with Chester.
"Gotcha a good string there, Mister Dillon," Chester noted, then couldn't help but add, "Doc, uh, your string ain't sa crowded."
"Oh, hush up. I'd like to see you – "
"Howdy." Matt greeted the stranger with his usual courteous caution.
"Well, I'll be," the man returned, scanning upward to take in the long frame before him.
The marshal paused and handed his pole and string of fish to Chester, his eyes scanning quickly over the visitor. "Can I help you, Mister?"
"You know, I figured it was nigh on impossible fer you ta' get any taller, but I see was wrong."
Matt squinted at the man for a moment.
Cocking his head to one side, the man declared, "And I still cain't believe I'd owe my life to no bluebelly!"
Chester's eyes flittered anxiously to gauge the marshal's reaction, but instead of taking offense to the insult, Matt let a sudden grin cross his lips and shook his head. "By golly! Glenn Cantrell." Reaching out, he took the man's right hand in both of his, pumping hard. "Glenn, I figured you to be rich or dead by now."
Cantrell returned the grin. "Neither. How 'bout you? I figured you'd have stopped growing, but I swear you're a half foot taller than last time I saw you."
Matt laughed and let his hands drop. "Not quite."
"So, you don't look like you're in trouble, goin' off fishin' and such. How come someone pointed me here to this hoosegow to find you?"
Matt pushed his hat back on his head. "Well – "
"Marshal!"
They turned to see Moss Grimmick hurry as much as he could down the steps, but Chester noticed that Cantrell wasn't paying any attention to him. Instead, he stared at Matt, his mouth open.
"Marshal?" he echoed, clear astonishment in his tone.
The United States Marshal shrugged and nodded.
"Well, I'll be – "
Moss caught his breath and said, "You wanted me to tell you when that fella that'uz down to the Lady Gay the other night come back."
Matt turned his attention to him. "Yeah?"
"Well, he's over to the Long Branch right now."
"Thanks, Moss."
"No problem." The older man threw an evaluating glance toward Cantrell as he left.
After an awkward moment of silence, during which Chester sized up this mysterious former acquaintance, Cantrell chuckled. "I'll be dadblamed. Matt Dillon a U.S. Marshal. Who'da ever figured that?"
Sidling up to the newcomer, Doc picked his teeth with a straw and asked, "You, ah, you've known Matt a while, have you?"
Cantrell slapped his leg. "A while? Why me and Matt wuz just about weaned together."
Matt grunted.
"Well, maybe not quite that long. I figger we hitched up not too long after we quit being saplings. 'Course, Matt always looked like a full growed tree next to the other boys."
"Boys?" Chester asked.
"Back in Texas before the war, there was a few of us half-growed fellas that run together. Feeling our oats and such."
"And Matt was one of you?" Doc asked, his eyes twinkling.
The marshal frowned at him, but it wasn't very convincing. It certainly didn't stop Doc from asking more.
"One of us?" Cantrell declared. "He was our leader. Could out-ride, out-shoot, and out-drink us to the man."
Chester lifted a brow, trying to reconcile this image with the straight-arrow, stalwart lawman he knew. "Why, Mister Dillon, I ain't never seen you drink more'n a coupla beers at a time. Maybe a rye whiskey or two."
He was surprised to see the flush creep back across the Marshal's cheeks. "Well, Chester, I was young and kinda foolish back then. Guess I did sow a few wild oats."
Cantrell snorted. "A few?"
A look of distinct discomfort tightened Dillon's face.
"Anyway, then we went our separate ways coupla years or so before the hostilities commenced. Later heard thet ol' Matt had put on a Union kepi. Never could figure how a good Texas boy ended up a bluebelly."
"Cantrell – " Matt warned, but the other man just smiled.
"So here we run into each other again the evening of September nineteen of eighteen and sixty-three. I'd taken a mini-ball in the thigh and figured I was a goner – or at least my leg was. I was lying there for dead, which put me in good company since everybody around me was dead or almost there. Didn't see hide nor hair of a butternut shirt. Then, out of the trees, here comes this gangly, long-legged son of a bitch wearin' a damn blue jacket and kepi. I knowed there couldn't be two of 'em in the world, so I called out to him."
"And he took you to a medic."
"Yeah, but not just any medic. The idiot hauled me up over his shoulders and carried me half a mile back into my own lines so one of my own could tend me."
"Well, my goodness, Matt," Doc said incredulously. "How on earth did you keep from getting captured?"
Before the marshal could respond, Cantrell answered for him. "He didn't. Soon as the pickets saw us, they took me then set their sights right on ol' Matt."
"I didn't know you were a prisoner of war, Mister Dillon," Chester declared, truly surprised. The marshal didn't say much about his experiences during the late war, but Chester figured that little fact would have come up before now.
Matt bit at his lower lip. "Well – "
"Oh, he wasn't," Cantrell clarified. "At least not fer long. See, my colleagues made the mistake of puttin' only four men on him. By the time they come to again, my rescuer was long gone."
Chester looked at the marshal with something dangerously akin to awe on his face. "That was some more chance you took, Mister Dillon."
Matt shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
Cantrell's expression eased into seriousness. "More'n likely saved my life. If I'd ended up at Rock Island or some place like it, I probably wouldn't be here telling you folks about it now. I sure did owe him. Still do, I figure."
Clearing his throat uncomfortably, the marshal drew his shoulders back and said, "How about I buy you a drink, Glenn?"
Chester smiled. Matt Dillon didn't hold much for praise.
"Well, now. That's more like it," Cantrell allowed. "You got a good saloon in this town?"
"The Long Branch," Matt offered.
"It's good?"
Chester piped up, "Oh, Miss Kitty's got 'bout the best place this side of Saint Louie, that's for sure."
His tone suddenly intrigued, Cantrell raised both eyebrows and grinned. "Miss Kitty, huh? Sounds like my kinda place." Slapping the marshal on the shoulder, he added, "Don't it, Matt?"
"Yeah."
The tight response drew Chester's attention, but when he looked he saw that the lawman's expression was the same as always. Hastily hanging the line of fish on the gun rack and propping the marshal's pole next to it, Chester limped out the door behind the group, eager to hear anything the newcomer might share about Matt Dillon's earlier – and apparently wilder – life.
TBC