Chapter Two

Figuring the cowboys might stay in town in case Roman had more henchman work for them, Matt went to the cattle pens, taking Chester with him to identify the men. "That there's them, Mr. Dillon," said Chester, pointing to two men with shovels mucking out an empty corral and tossing the dung into a wheelbarrow.

"Ya sure?" said Matt.

"Yessir. I seen 'em clear last night in the light comin' through the windows, and the moon and stars out. They're the same fellers what was in the Long Branch, starin' at Wes. 'Twas the smaller one done all the hittin'. The big one jest held onto me so's I couldn't help Wes, and when I wrastled outa his hold, he punched me one."

Chester rubbed the sore spot on his jaw, where a purplish-blue bruise had formed. "Poor Wes must be farin' a sight worse'n me," he said. "I hope he lets Doc take a look at 'im."

Chester looked at the marshal, who was scowling at the cowboys. "You gonna thrash them two, Mr. Dillon?" said Chester, his voice hushed. "They got shovels and muck on 'em."

"I don't know, yet, Chester," Matt said tightly. They walked to the pen. The two men stopped their work and looked at the marshal. "Don't run," said Matt. "You won't get far."

"What d'you want, Marshal?" said the smaller cowboy.

"What're your names," said Matt.

"Name's Rafe Pickett. This here's Hank Clay."

"You beat Wes Kenyon last night," said Matt. "No use denying it. Wes and Chester here can identify you."

"We goin' to jail, Marshal?" said Pickett.

"Not if you tell me who hired you to do it," said Matt.

"We'll tell, Marshal," said Clay. "I didn't hit Kenyon none."

"You hit me," said Chester.

"Just once. Once ain't enough for jailin'. That's fightin', not beatin'. Fightin' don't break no laws," said Clay.

"You stopped Chester from defending Wes," said the marshal. "That makes you an abettor, Clay."

"Huh?" said Clay.

"Means you helped so's I could beat him without Chester interferin'," said Pickett. "So you're guilty as me, Hank. Don't try to weasel outa your share of wrongdoin', and don't tell the marshal nothin' just yet.

"If the court subpoenas Hank and me to testify against the fella what paid us, the judge might give us a jail sentence, anyway, Marshal," said Pickett.

"I won't tell the court you did it," said Matt. "You think I will; you're free to leave Dodge. Do this town and yourself a favor. You won't tell me who hired you, I'll arrest you both right now."

"You might arrest us, anyhow," said Pickett. "You might be lyin'."

"I might be," said Matt. "Were I in your boots, Rafe, I'd chance it."

Rafe and Hank grinned. "Just one more thing, Marshal, and Hank and me'll be on our way to Abilene," said Pickett.

"What's that?" said Matt.

Rafe took off his hat and brushed dirt clods from his hair. "Without our testimony," he said, "how'll you jail the fella what hired us?"

"He won't get away with it," said Matt.

Rafe's grin faded as he squinted up at the marshal. "I bet he won't," said the cowboy. "I bet you wanna punch me out, too."

"You're lucky, Pickett," said Matt. "I'm giving you another chance. You'll come by worse than gettin' punched out sometime down the trail if you and Hank here don't mend your ways."

Rafe nodded thoughtfully. "Councilman Dane Roman," he announced, and grinned again. "Ain't that a joke, Marshal?"

"Hah," said Hank. "It's a dandy trick."

"Councilman Dane Roman hired you to beat Wes Kenyon?" said Matt.

"That's right," said Pickett. "Roman said tell Kenyon close up his shop, or we'll do something worse to 'im next time, so I told 'im we'd shoot his paintin' hand."

"Alright," said Matt. "Get out of Dodge. Now."

"We need our boots and clothes cleaned, and a bath," Pickett objected. "It's too cold to wash in the crik."

"You can clean up," said Matt. "Then go."

M~~~~~

"Yonder's Doc," said Chester. "Doc." Doc turned and waited. "Where're you off to, Doc."

"Wes Kenyon's house," said Doc. "I was out all night at the Norris farm. Whole family down with cholera. I got home and found a note Shona slipped under my door. She says Wes was attacked last night."

"I was there when the feller did it, Doc," said Chester. "I tried to stop 'im, but he had a big partner what grabbed me. Times sech as that makes me think on wearin' a gun. I could do ma job better, maybe."

"You did a good job without a gun, Chester," said Matt. "Wes might be more bad off now if you hadn't been with 'im and witnessed it."

"They hit you, too, Chester?" said Doc.

"Jest one punch," said Chester. "It didn't bleed or crack nothin'."

They walked through the gate of a whitewashed fence and along a winding path of cobblestones to the Kenyons' front door. Shona answered Matt's knock. "Marshal," she said. "Oh, good, you've come, Doc. And Chester. Do come in."

They greeted Shona and took off their hats. "Wes wanted to open the shop, but I made him stay in bed," she said. "He can be mule-headed, but he's feeling too poorly to tussle with me. I can give him a lively scuffle even when he's at his best. Our bedroom's upstairs. You and Chester come up, too, Marshal."

Leaning against two goose-feather pillows and wearing a linen nightshirt, Wes sat in bed, his face bruised and puffy. His left eye was blue-black and swollen shut.

"Wes," said Matt.

"Hello," said Wes. "It looks a lot worse than it hurts. Shona knows a fellow's face looks this way the day after he's bested in a fight. It's happened to me more than once."

"That was no fight, Wes," said Shona. "It was a beating. You didn't try to hit that cowboy."

"You know I can't fight," said Wes.

Doc sat on the bed and probed Wes's face. "Can you see out of that eye?" said Doc.

"When it's pried open," said Wes. "It pains me peeling the lids, so I let it stay closed."

"I need to take a look at it, Wes," said Doc. "Make sure nothing's busted in there. It's gonna hurt a little. Look side to side for me. Bloodshot is all. It'll be sore a spell."

"Feel any sharp pains here?" Doc said, pressing Wes's ribs.

"No," said Wes. "They ache a bit."

"What about your belly?" said Doc, probing.

"It's a dull pain in my muscles, there," said Wes.

"Were you sick after?" said Doc.

"No."

"He ate a big breakfast, Doc," said Shona.

"The breakfast set well," said Wes. "I could sleep, now." He yawned.

Doc listened to Wes's heart and took his temperature. "Your temperature's normal and your heart is sound," said Doc. "Rest in bed a coupla days, though. Let your body recover from that pounding."

Doc took two bottles out of his bag. "This is tonic and laudanum, Shona," he said. "Give him the tonic after breakfast and supper, and the laudanum if he needs it for pain. I'll come back morning after tomorrow, Wes. See if you're ready to get up."

"I can't possibly lie abed that long," said Wes.

"You'll do as Doc says. Open your mouth," Shona ordered. She gave him a spoon of tonic.

"I found the man who did this to you, Wes," said Matt. "He and his partner are leaving town."

"You didn't arrest them, then, Marshal," said Shona. "You know best, of course, what's to be done."

"They were paid to do it, Mrs. Kenyon," said Matt. "I said I wouldn't jail them if they told me who hired 'em."

"It was that dreadful councilman, wasn't it," said Shona.

"Yes," said Matt. "Dane Roman."

"Well, of all the . . . . I can't say I'm shocked, by gum," said Doc.

"But you can't jail Roman, Marshal," said Shona. "The only men who can testify against him won't be here."

Matt shifted his boots, looked at Wes's swollen face, and gazed at his hat in his hands. He had big hands, not that big for his height, though. And Roman was built stronger than Wes. A man Wes's size—fine-boned face and middling to thin—suffered more from a beating.

"Marshal," said Shona.

Matt looked into her penetrating, bright dark eyes. Wes had gone to sleep, and Chester and Doc were staring at the marshal, who rarely hesitated so long when spoken to. Matt hadn't just hesitated; he'd drifted off, which he almost never did.

"You're going to fight Roman, aren't you," said Shona.

"I might have to," said Matt.

"Wes would object?" said Doc.

"Not particularly," said Shona.

"Would you like some coffee," she said, leading the way downstairs. "I have blueberry muffins fresh made."

"I have to be going, Shona," said Doc. "I've some calls to make."

"I can't stay, either, thanks, Mrs. Kenyon," said Matt.

Chester had liked Shona's cake at The Art Shoppe. It wasn't lunchtime yet and he wanted a muffin, but thought asking for one to carry out would be impolite.

"Wait just a moment, Chester," said Shona. "I'll give you some muffins to take with you."

"Oh, well, thank you, Mrs. Kenyon," said Chester, "but . . . I . . . ." He looked at Matt.

"Alright, Chester," said the marshal. "I won't need your help with Roman."

Dane Roman Enterprises stood between an assessor's office and a cattle buyer's building, on a street bustling with wagons, buggies, riders and crowded walkways on both sides. Men and women milled around the ground floor and lined up behind desks, where clerks waited on them.

Matt climbed the stairs, walked to Roman's office at the end of the corridor, and opened the door without knocking. Roman sat at his desk before a large window, the sun shining through the glass on his butter-colored hair.

His vivid blue eyes sparking, Roman looked up from a ledger and glowered at Matt. "Just what do you think you're doing," said Roman. "When you come to this office, you knock first. I don't care if you are the marshal.

Close that door," he commanded. Matt looked around the office, his gaze briefly resting on Roman's Peacemaker in the gunbelt draped over a peg on a coat stand near the door.

"Why are you looking at my gun, Marshal? Do you intend to challenge me to a duel?" Roman sneered. "Are you hard of hearing? I said close the door."

The marshal moved to the desk and loomed over Roman. "Shut up," said Matt.

The councilman gaped, then pushed back his chair and jumped up, glaring fiercely. With broad shoulders and a solid frame in the mid range, Roman was about seven inches shorter than Matt.

Wes's bruised face flashed through Matt's mind, and he felt unexpectedly queasy at the thought of hitting Roman. The marshal reminded himself that more often than not, the only way to stop a bully was to bully him.

Perplexity smoothed the anger from Roman's face as he looked at Matt. "What's going on, Marshal," he said.

"I talked to Pickett and Clay," said Matt.

Roman blanched and supported himself on the desk. He looked at Matt, speechless, and suddenly the marshal knew what to say. "You don't want to go to jail, Roman, you want to keep your position on the council, leave Wes Kenyon alone," said Matt. "Don't make trouble for his shop, and what you did to him stays between us. Hound him again and I'll throw you in jail, and the town will know."

Roman thought on it, frowning, then his eyes squinted in suspicion. "Why would Pickett and Clay tell you who hired them," he said. "Will you close that door? Please." Matt closed the door. "Ruffians like them would want . . . more work," Roman said. "From . . . whoever it was hired 'em."

"They wanted their freedom more," said Matt. "They're headed for Texas."

"Then they can't testify against me," said Roman.

"No," said Matt, "but Chester, Wes and Shona and I can. We heard you threaten Wes at his shop, Councilman. That, and the cowboys' confession to me, will get you a jail sentence sure, and the council will expel you."

Roman gulped. "If I let Kenyon alone, you'll say nothing . . . of any dealings . . . Pickett and Clay claimed I had with them? You'll give me your word? We surely have our differences, but you are a man of your word, Marshal. That much I know."

"I won't say anything about it," said Matt, "so long as you hold up your end of the bargain." He saw no need to mention he'd already told Wes and Shona, Doc and Chester. Matt would tell them not to spread it around.

"Then it's done," said Roman. He dropped into his seat and ran a shaky hand over his hair. "For an honest man, you can be shrewd, Marshal. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Neither did I," Matt muttered.

"What?"

"You mean, you thought you could get away with paying to have a man attacked and hounding him into closing his business," said Matt. "Not in Dodge, Councilman. Remember that."

"Yes, yes," said Roman. "If there's nothing else."

Matt opened the door, glancing again at Roman's Peacemaker in the gunbelt hanging on the coat stand. The stairway was chilly, and the marshal rubbed his hands together, keenly aware of their strength.