CHAPTER TWO
“All right, Chester, kick the door shut,” I said. Chester did, and the crowd got noisier on the other side. I knew it wasn’t the end of things.
Ziegler was standing in the middle of the room, his chins working up and down as he said, “Marshal, I don’t kill Clay.”
I ignored him. “On this table, Chester.” We laid him down gently. He’d killed two men, but he’d also bought me more than one drink. I turned to Ziegler. “What’d you do with Clay’s gun? His holster’s empty.”
“Gun?” asked Ziegler. “Clay’s? I ain’t got it. I don’t even own one…”
“Chester, see if it slipped out when we were -”
Chester was already shaking his head. “His holster was empty coming up the street. First thing I noticed,” he added, then glanced at me to see if I’d be angry. I wasn’t – at least, I wasn’t at him. But my face might not have looked it, because he was in a rush to say, “Maybe it’s over on the…”
Chester was interrupted by the arrival of Doc Adams, who came in through the back door. He didn’t seem to mind the heat at all, in his long black coat and floppy tie. His white and brown mustache positively bristled with excitement. “Another customer! Three in less than a day! Oh, bountiful harvest! My fees this month will keep me in luxury! In luxury!”
“Doc,” I said, “I want to have an inquest as soon as possible.”
Doc Adams slapped his hands together and rubbed them. “As soon as I finish the autopsy.” He had a funny way of saying that last word – or perhaps it was because he was licking his lips. “Shouldn’t take long with the practice I’ve had this week, eh? No! Heh. But first I’ve got to finish up on the Chinaman before he starts to go bad. Late afternoon tomorrow all right with you? I’ll take him up to my office right now. No, thank you, Chester, I can carry him all by myself here. You just open the door there like a good fellow. Marshal, tell the city fathers I‘d like to make a deal, when the corpses are as famous as this one. Heh. Back in ’53, in San Francisco, fella I knew earned a fortune, exhibiting the head of Joaquin Marietta! Tell them if they let me keep the remains, I’ll do the autopsies for nothin’!”
“Shut the door, Chester,” I said. My deputy obeyed and Doc was cut off mid-sentence. “Ziegler,” I said, “where is it you met Clay on the river?”
“By the ford,” said Ziegler. “This side, by the ford.”
“Ride out there, Chester, see if you can find Clay’s gun. Maybe he dropped it when he was shot.”
“I did not shoot him,” said Ziegler.
“Sure,” I said.
“I did not,” insisted Ziegler. “I had no reason to. I did not! I did not!”
Maybe it’d been looking at Clay lying there on my desk, maybe it was the still heat, or maybe it was standing there with my shirt-flaps covering my holster, but I could feel my temper fraying. “You listen to me! Maybe you think Dodge’s got so big since I’ve been gone that I don’t know about everything that goes on here. Well, if you do you’re wrong! If you think I don’t know about the bank having an overdue mortgage on your farm, you’re wrong! Four hundred dollars is reason enough to a struggling sod-buster like you.”
Ziegler recoiled like I’d struck him. His back was against the far wall. “No! Who could do such a thing? I am a human being!”
“To a peace officer, Ziegler, that’s enough grounds for suspicion.” Chester was still in the room, looking at me. I acted like I didn’t notice, but I did lower my voice. “Now whether you did it or not’ll be decided at your trial. In the meantime, you just stop yammering about it.”
“Trial? Me?”
“Even when I shoot somebody I have to stand trial. If they find that it’s justifiable homicide – and they probably will, Clay being a wanted man – then they’ll let you off. If not…” I let my voice trail off.
Ziegler was looking a little crazed. “Please, I am permitted to go now?”
That forced a laugh out of me – my first of the day. “Go? Are you crazy?”
“My farm, the stock, I must look after it –“
I walked over to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and steered him to a chair. “You sit right down. Do you want to be lynched? Are you trying to get yourself murdered? Have you forgotten about Adam?” The dead man’s brother, he’d come to Dodge about the same time as Clay.
The Dutchman shook his head again. “He will not believe I shot –“
“What difference does it make if he believes or not? His brother’s been killed! Everybody’s looking to him to do something about it, and he knows it! You want me to guess where he is right this minute? He’s in one of those saloons, lapping up courage to come in here and ask me to give you to him for a present. You want to know whose with him? Every loafer, every bum, every slob in town, slapping him on the back and telling him what a shame it is. Egging him on to kill you so they can have some excitement and some fun. Maybe you deserve killing, but it’s my job to uphold the law, and I’m not letting you out of here.”
“But, I – I –“
I walked over to my desk, tucking my loose shirt into my belt. “You might spend your time thinking up a better story. That is, if you intend to stay in this town.” I dragged a chair around and sat. Leaning towards the Dutchman, I said, “All right, now think back. Didn’t Clay go for his gun before you shot him?”
Ziegler just kept chaking his head. “I tell you I didn’t –“ He stood. “If I’m not under arrest, you have no right to keep me here. I have to look after my farm. I go.”
I stared at him for a moment, then said, “All right. Chester, lock him up.”
“Yessir, Mr. Dillon.” Chester walked forward with his light-footed glide and took the Dutchman by the arm. “C’mon now, Ziegler.” He led the way to the back room where the cell was and I heard the keys come out as he opened the door. It was funny – we usually kept it unlocked. Then I heard him say, “Step out, sonny. This cage is bespoke.”
“Who’s in there, Chester?” I called.
“That li’l ol’ runaway,” said Chester.
“Oh,” I said, getting my first real chuckle in about a day. I liked kids in general, and after chasing after a murderer all night, this was a welcome diversion. “Come over here, son.”
The kid was thin but tall for his age, almost five feet. He hand fair hair and blue eyes so bright that they looked like cornflowers. He almost ran into the room, but about halfway to the door he stopped and began walking in a pretty good imitation of Chester. He reached where I was sitting, and with me hunched over in my seat we were about eye to eye.
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me your name,” I said.
“No. But I know who you are,” he said.
“You do, do you?”
“You bet,” he said. “You’re Matt Dillon.”
I nodded. “Guilty.”
The kid nodded as if I hadn’t spoken. “I know’s ya right off. You was pointed out to me one day back home. Feller says you was the fastest gun-thrower in Kansas.”
“Wyatt Earp wouldn’t be awful interested to hear that, I’m afraid.” Earp was in Ellsworth at the time, and had made something of a name for himself by buffaloing Ben Thompson. I’d run into him over there, chasing down some rustlers – but that was before I’d come to Dodge.
“Feller says you were faster than ol’ Earp. Faster than Wild Bill Hickock in Hayes City, or Bat Masterson, or any of ‘em. How many fellers’ve you killed?”
That wiped the smile right off my face. “You don’t keep score, son. It’s something you try to forget.”
“Not me,” he said, standing tall. “Someday I’ll be famous like you, an’ for every feller I kill, I’ll – I’ll put a notch on my gun.” The kid’s eyes glazed over, as if he was already seeing the notches. “People’ll see those notches and know they better not try anything –“
“Why’d you run away from home, bub?” I asked. “Don’t you know your mother’s likely to worry about you?”
“Aw, she won’t worry, she’s too busy workin’.” His eyes got real narrow. “Y’ain’t gonna make me go back, are ya? Ya wouldn’t do that that, wouldya?”
“Well…”
“‘Cause it wouldn’t stop me for long, I’d only run away again!”
“Where’re you off to in such a sweat?”
“Texas, California, Mexico. A fella can do things there – not like where I’m from. If you let me go, someday when I’m famous you can tell people you helped get me started.”
“Well, ah, that’s a pretty strong inducement. I’ll have to think about it for awhile. Now, while I’m making up my mind, I want you to give me your word – the word of a man who’ll be famous someday – you won’t try to run away from me. Otherwise I’ll have to have Chester lock you up again.”
The kid held out his hand. “I’ll shake on that.”
We shook hands. “Good, good. Chester,” I said, a little louder. “I want you to go look for Clay’s gun.”
Chester came back into the room. “Yessir, Mr. Dillon.”
“And on the way, stop off and send those telegrams.”
Chester gave me a blank look.
“Y’know?” I said with emphasis.
“Oh! Those telegrams. Yessir, Mr. Dillon.”
