Defend Me from My Friends

Chapter Six: The Other Man

POV: Chester

Chester peered over the swinging doors of the Lady Gay Saloon, wide-eyed, watching as Matt Dillon stood in the middle of the room, boots planted wide apart on the gritty floor, thumbs hooked over his gun belt, eyes hard and flashing just under the low brim of his Stetson. The two grubby drifters whose brawl had prompted Chester to interrupt the marshal's evening with Miss Kitty stood slumped-shouldered on either side of him, their whiskered faces still glowering at each other despite the considerably large presence of the law.

"What's going on here?" Dillon demanded, voice hard and commanding, his anger poorly contained.

Chester winced, pondering what his tentative knock had disturbed. He had spent an anxious few seconds, listening for any sound on the other side of Miss Kitty's door before he received a muffled, curt acknowledgment. The marshal emerged several minutes later, hat in his hand, scowl on his face. Chester didn't figure he blamed him any. A woman as pretty and nice as Miss Kitty would be hard to leave.

It wasn't the first time he had interrupted them. Despite being a bit naïve himself, Chester had a fair idea that they didn't spend their time playing cards when Mr. Dillon visited her, but, being a gentleman, he had never mentioned it, and Mr. Dillon, being a gentleman as well, had never volunteered anything.

Dillon's jaw muscles worked, and Chester figured these two wouldn't get much leeway from the law tonight.

It hadn't taken long to subdue the combatants. By the time he and Mister Dillon reached the doors of the saloon, the disagreement between the drifters had erupted into an all-out fracas, with cowboys and drifters alike throwing punches, bottles, chairs, and tables.

As he expected, Mister Dillon did not hesitate to wade into the melee, yelling, "Break it up!" as he scattered them.

Most of the scrappers – those natives familiar with the Dodge marshal – fell back with the order, but two men were so absorbed in their fight that they didn't pay any attention to the warning. Dillon stepped between them, tearing them apart and slamming them back to splinter tables and the few remaining intact chairs.

Dazed, but persistent, the two instigators staggered to their feet, separated only by Dillon's solid frame. Chester saw the marshal unconsciously flex his left hand and noticed a smear of blood across the knuckles.

"Seems a man cain't offer nobody no drank ennymore." The twangy nasal of the shorter of the two brawlers growled, bringing Chester's attention back.

"I done tole ya I ain't askin' fer nothin' and ain't takin' nothin'," the other man returned, swinging wildly toward his opponent.

But his intended punch stopped abruptly when it slammed into the solid wall of muscle that was Matt Dillon's chest; then his entire body flew backwards with the force of a powerful backhand. The other man apparently had a change of heart and lunged in defense of his former opponent. Dillon spun and drew at the same time, twirling the Colt in his hand to bring the butt of it down onto the attacker's head. The man dropped to the grimy barroom floor, out cold. Chester shook his head. Some fools just never learned.

Dillon jerked his head, indicating the prostrate figures sprawled in the dirt. "Chester, get them over to the jail, will ya'?" Looking up at the subdued crowd, he ordered, "The rest of you head home. If I have to come back for you, you'll spend the rest of your night in jail."

The few who could still walk nodded obediently and helped their companions out the door, heeding the formidable lawman's threat.

"Yes, sir." He paused, peering down at them. "Who d'ya reckon they are, Mister Dillon? I ain't never seen 'em around here before, and most of the time – "

Dillon shook his head. "Don't know." Then he rubbed at the torn knuckles. "Listen, I'll be at –" But he stopped and lowered his voice so that only Chester could hear. "You, uh, you know where I'll be if you need me."

"Yes, sir," Chester acknowledged, suppressing a grin as the marshal headed hastily back toward the Long Branch.

But the long strides had taken the lawman only halfway across the street before Chester heard Barney call out to Dillon, who stopped, a sigh lifting his shoulders before he turned around.

"Marshal?" Barney called again.

Dillon regarded the telegraph operator impatiently. "What is it, Barney?"

The old man extended a yellow slip of paper toward him. "Got an answer to that wire you sent earlier."

The irritation vanished from Dillon's face as he took the telegram and scanned it quickly, pressing his lips together after only a few seconds. Chester peered up at him, curious.

"Bad news?" he ventured, but Dillon didn't answer. Instead, he let out a heavy breath, then nodded at Barney and stuffed the paper in his shirt pocket.

Walking back to the Lady Gay, he pulled over two of the ambulatory cowboys who had been only on the periphery of the fight. "You boys want to earn your way out of trouble?" he asked.

They nodded eagerly.

"Take those two over to the jail and wait 'till either Chester or I get back over there."

"Yes, sir!" they agreed, happy both to be redeemed and to be given the marshal's trust.

"Don't leave, you understand?"

"Yes, Marshal," they both promised.

Turning back, he flicked a hand toward the Dodge House. "Come on with me, Chester," he said, already headed that way, not waiting for his assistant to catch up to his long gait.

Dillon's large frame practically crashed through the doors of Dodge's best hotel, striding past a startled clerk. He took the steep stairs two at a time, the urgency in his step triggering alarms in Chester's imagination. Sliding to a stop in front of the third door to the right, the marshal banged on the painted wood. "Cantrell!" he yelled. "Open up!"

With no answer, even after a full minute of pounding, Dillon pressed his lips together in frustration and turned, dropping back down the steps as quickly as he had taken them.

"Marshal," Howie asked timidly as they reached the first floor again, "are you looking for Mister Cantrell?"

Stopping so suddenly that Chester almost slammed into the broad back, Dillon turned to the clerk and demanded, "Where is he?"

Gulping, Howie adjusted his glasses and stammered, "He – he left – about a half hour ago."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No. He and the other man – "

"Other man?" Dillon leaned forward, bracing his hands on the counter.

Howie nodded, emboldened by the marshal's interest in what he knew.

"Who was he?"

"I've never seen him before, Marshal."

"Which way did they go?"

"Looked like they were headed toward the Long Branch. I told 'em it would be closed by now, but –"

Before Howie could finish, Dillon was already out the door, Chester scrambling behind him. "Chester!" he barked over his shoulder, never breaking stride. "Check on those drifters. I'll be back later."

"Yes, sir," he replied, but the marshal wasn't waiting for a response.

The glow of street lamps reflected off the tan vest until those broad shoulders disappeared into the side alley that led to Miss Kitty's office. Chester stood for another moment, pondering what had worried the marshal so. Then he shook his head and turned toward the jail.

He had just stepped onto the boardwalk when he heard the gunshot.

TBC