CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
After lunch Shiloh and the kid came back to the jail and cut
me loose from watching Stobo and Trevitt. I went straight up to Doc’s.
“Hello, Marshal,” said Doc as I came in. He looked tired, but
his eyes were bright. I couldn’t tell what that meant.
“Doc,” I said in greeting. I took off my hat. “Well, what is
it? Tell me.”
Doc scratched his chin. “Chester,” he said. Then he chuckled.
“Heh. He’s gonna be alright.”
It was like I hadn’t been breathing for twenty-four hours,
and now I had air again. “You sure?”
Doc grinned wide. “Why, o’ course, Marshal! His breathing
suddenly changed – the pressure’s off somewheres. Aw, he’s gonna be fine.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s good, that’s good.”
Doc shusshed me. “Of course, he’ll be in some pain for awhile
yet, but…”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, grinning.
“And there’s something else, Matt,” said Doc, his pleasure
lessening some. “I was too worried about his breathin’ to mention it before –
cart before the horse, and all that.”
I sobered up. “What is it, Doc?”
“Well, his knee is in pretty rough shape – he’ll walk with a
limp for awhile yet. But the real problem…”
“Yeah, Doc?”
“It’s his hand, Matt,” said Doc. “His gun hand. He must’ve
tried to cover up his face with his hands.”
I blinked. “Is he going to lose it?”
“No no, no,” Doc said quickly. “But it’s been damaged some.
Hard to tell how bad, but he can barely move it. Matt – he won’t carry a gun no
more. I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to draw one again.”
I nodded, and that sick feeling came back. My fault.
Chester’s hand. My fault.
“Alright, Doc,” I said. “I’ll come see him in a little
while.”
“I’ll tell him for you, Marshal,” said Doc. “Before you go,
though, let me take a look at that shoulder.”
I took off my shirt and Doc peeled the bandage away. I hadn’t
changed it since before heading out to look for Stobo and Trevitt, and he
clucked his tongue and changed the dressing. When he was done, I put my shirt
back on and tucked the tails into my trousers. “Thanks, Doc,” I said.
“Just try not to get too banged up for the next couple of
days, Matt,” he said. “I was thinking about going on a vacation, once Chester’s
on his feet again.”
“Where would you go, Doc?” I asked.
“I was thinkin’ of goin’ fishing, Marshal,” he said.
“Doc,” I said, “when Chester’s back on his feet, I think
we’ll both join you. You know how he loves his catfish stew.”
Doc chuckled, and for a moment it felt like everything was
back to normal. Then I remembered about Chester, and my smile slowed faded.
“Tell Chester I’ll be back soon,” I said. Doc nodded and headed for his back
room.
I couldn’t talk to him yet. It’d been my laziness that had
got him hurt. I couldn’t talk to him until I’d made things right. Or at least,
as right as I could.
I put my hat on and went downstairs and out into the street.
Then I walked around to the front door of the jail and went inside. I looked at
the kid. “Bub,” I said. “Get me the keys to that cell.”
The kid walked to the peg they were hanging from and brought
them to me without a word. His eyes were wide.
“What’s up, Marshal?” asked Shiloh. I didn’t answer him as I
walked into the back room and unlocked the door to the cell. I pulled out my
gun and swung the door wide open.
“Alright,” I said, leaving the barrel of the gun floating
somewhere between the two of them. “C’mon, Trevitt.”
Trevitt stood but didn’t move towards me. “Where to?”
“Come on, I said.”
Stobo looked at me and said, “What’s up, Marshal?”
“I’ll be back for you, Stobo. Come on, Trevitt.” I jerked my
gun and he came out of the cell. I locked it behind him and pointed towards the
back door. “Now get going. Go on!” I shoved him a little and he walked to the
door and opened it. Once we were outside I closed the door behind me and
holstered my gun. Trevitt tried to look at me over his shoulder. He thought I
was going to shoot him in the back.
“It was Stobo did it, not me,” said Trevitt. “You can’t do
anything to me –”
“Shut up,” I said. I grabbed him and turned him around to
face me. “Trevitt, your horse is down at the National stables. Go and get on
it.”
Trevitt blinked, disbelieving. “You – you’re turning me
loose?”
“Get on your horse and ride. Don’t ever come back to Dodge,
not while I’m alive. Now go on before I change my mind.”
Trevitt started nodding and running at the same time. “Yeah,
yeah, sure. Sure. I’ll go!” He was around the corner of the jail and out of
sight before I reached the door. One thing about Trevitt – he could run.
I walked back inside and unlocked the cell door again. This
time I swung it wide and left it open. We weren’t going to need it anymore.
“You’re next, Stobo.” I had my gun out again.
Stobo stood, his arms folded. “What’d you do to Trevitt?” he
asked. “Put a knife in him? I didn’t hear no shot.”
“I turned him loose,” I said. “Now come on, get out of that
cell.”
“Am I free, too?”
“You will be,” I said. “In a little while.”
We walked through the front office and Shiloh said, “Where’s
Trevitt?”
“Turned him loose,” I said.
The kid saw the gun and said excitedly, “What’re you gonna do
with Stobo?”
Stobo grunted. “Gonna shoot me in the back, probably. That
right, Marshal?”
“I’m gonna do what I should’ve done three days ago when I
sent Chester after you.” I holstered my gun and nodded to Shiloh. “Bring him
outside.”
Shiloh drew his pistol and prodded Stobo. “Let’s go, Stobo.
Slow and easy.”
“What’re you gonna do, Marshal?” asked the kid.
“Bub,” I said, “for the week you’ve been here, you’ve been
gun crazy. I’m gonna show you something that might put an end to that.”
By the time I got outside a crowd had already started
gathering.
“Bring him over here, Shiloh,” I said.
Stobo looked around. Someone was leading a horse and he said,
“You’re gonna drag me, is that it? You try that and I’ll –”
I cut him off. “That’s what you’d do, isn’t it, Stobo?”
“Don’t try it!” he said.
“Nevermind!” I unbuckled my gunbelt. “Here, Shiloh, hold my
guns.”
Shiloh stared at them and said, “What?”
The kid grabbed my arm. “What’re you doin’, Mr. Dillon?”
Stobo started laughing that sick, rat-tat-tat laugh of his,
like a repeating rifle. “Oh-ho-ho! I get it! You’re gonna fight me! Marshal,
you’re crazier than I thought!” He flexed those huge muscles of his. “Why, I’ll
tear your throat out!”
“If he wins,” I said, “let him go, Shiloh.”
Shiloh eyed Stobo. “Maybe I will…”
“I said you’ll let him go.”
Shiloh shrugged. “Alright, Marshal, alright. I guess maybe
you are crazy, but this is your party.”
The crowd had made a ring for us – a wide ring, considering
Stobo’s size. Stobo was grinning as he pulled off his shirt and threw it into
the dirt. “Come on, Marshal! I’ll make it short for you! Real short!” He swung
his arms around a couple of times to warm them up.
I took off my hat. And my vest. And my badge. I unbuttoned my
collar another button. That was about as much as I was prepared to give.
“Make ‘em keep back, Shiloh,” I said. The kid had run off,
which surprised me. I’d have thought, with his longing to see a fight, he’d
have stuck around.
Shiloh walked the perimiter of the crowd, shooing them back
like cattle. “You heard the Marshal! Stand back, everybody! Get back, d’ya
hear?”
I walked into the center of the street, with the ring of
people around me, all watching the show. Well, this time I wanted to give them
one.
Stobo was watching me with a huge grin on his face. I decided
that was what I’d start with. I’d stop him from grinning.
“You’re big, Stobo,” I said. “But you’re stupid. You’re ugly
stupid.”
Stobo’s grin vanished as his lips turned down into an ugly
sneer. “Why you…!” And he swung. It was a huge roundhouse, and I’d expected it,
but Stobo was faster than I’d expected and as I stepped back his knuckles
grazed my chin. It turned my head, but my left arm was already moving.
Most men hit with their fists, which is about as dumb as
kicking a man if you’re not wearing boots. There’re too many bones in the hand
to break – I know, I’d learned the hard way when I was about fifteen. Sat all
summer with a plaster cast on, and I never wanted to do that again.
No, the fist is only if you have to reach out. Instead, I
stepped into Stobo and brought my left elbow up into his ear. It’s a hit that
could knock a normal man off his feet, or at least down to one knee. But Stobo
wasn’t a normal man. He staggered maybe two steps, then lashed out with the
back of his right fist. It was what I’d wanted him to do, and I ducked and gave
him two short jabs in the gut. There are no bones in the stomach – nothing to
break your hand on. Then I backed away fast as he brought his left hand down to
club me. He missed, and I stepped around, circling him. He followed me with his
eyes, and he cuffed sweat from his forehead, to keep it for blocking his
vision. I felt my own sweat spreading through my shirt already. I was beginning
to loosen up. Under the hot Kansas sun, my mouth was still wet. I wasn’t
parched yet, which is always a good sign. Time was on my side. Stobo was big
and quick, but he wasn’t too smart. And he was already smacking his lips. He
hadn’t had enough water – probably refused to drink what Shiloh brought to him.
Ornery, that’s what Stobo was. Well, I’d have to beat that out of him.
I was busy feeling smart when Stobo lunged, and though I
dodged to my right I didn’t get away fast enough. Stobo got ahold of my shirt
and spun me around. With that meaty paw of his he clubbed my face, first the
right side, then the left. I threw up my arms to block him, trying to angle
them so his fist would bounce off without breaking my forearms. He still had
hold of me with his right hand. I ducked down, but he hauled me back up. Again
with the clubbing, right, then left. My lip split open, and I knew my eyes were
going to puff shut in a minute. The crowd was cheering, but if they were
cheering him or me I couldn’t tell. Again with the club. Another minute and I was
going down. I pushed backwards, trying to get out of reach, while my left arm
tried to break the grip he had on my shirt. If I didn’t buy such good shirts it
would’ve ripped by now, and I’d’ve been free. Then I remembered, it’d been
Chester who’d bought this shirt. Chester and his new shirts.
Stobo was pulling me towards him, and he was laughing that
evil, sick twitter of his. He pulled back his arm to club me again, and I
lunged forward and pushed up off my feet. I drove my forehead up into his nose.
He howled and reeled back. I stumbled off to the side, my vision blurred with
dancing lights. Head-butting a man is never without those stars, and I hate
doing it. But I was back in the fight before Stobo was. He was holding his
head, or maybe just his nose, and there was his belly, wide open. I didn’t feel
like getting in close again, so I put the heel of my boot into Stobo’s soft
middle. His air rushed out of him with hardly any voice to it, just the wind
from a bellows, and he went down, landing on his backside. The crowd gasped.
I staggered. For some reason I had trouble getting that leg
back under me. But I managed to straighten myself. I spat some blood out of my
mouth, tasting that strange copper flavor blood has. It hit the dirt and made a
little sound. It was hotter now and I imagined that the sound was my blood
boiling right there on Front Street.
“Come on, Stobo,” I said. My words weren’t slurred, but
that’s because I was working hard at it. “Get up.” My eyes were both puffing
up, and it was getting harder to keep them both open. But the right one was
worse than the left, so I focused on keeping the left one wide.
Stobo clambered off his tail and stood holding his gut,
shaking his head clear. I’d rung his bells pretty hard, but he wasn’t a man
who’d stay down long. He wasn’t even bleeding yet, except from his nose. I’d
probably broken it. But noses bleed a lot, and when he cuffed his face he saw
the blood and stared at me and growled. “I’ll. Kill. You!”
This time I didn’t have to say anything to egg him on. He
came at me like a locomotive, his huge arms open so he could grab me and
squeeze me to death. I feinted to the right. He fell for it, and I slipped
around his other side and punched him in the kidneys with everything I had
behind it. He arched his back and grunted, and the big arms came backhanding at
my head again. I caught it against my right elbow and my whole arm shuddered
and my hand went numb. I brought my knee up into his belly, and as he doubled
over I brought my left elbow down where his shoulder met his neck. He folded,
but he folded over me, his arms around my waist. With the cry of an angry
buffalo he surged forward, carrying me off my feet and flat on my back. I tried
to roll away, but he held me down with one hand and his other fist went back.
My only luck was that he was a brute scrapper. He only thought about big
swinging punches. If he’d taken the straight shot at me from his shoulder
I’d’ve been done. But he brought that beefy paw around at my head. I hunched up
and took the blow on my left shoulder. I couldn’t help yelling when he hit the
wound made my Howard’s bullet the other night, but I was already reaching for
his eyes. My arms weren’t as big as his, but they were just as long. I jabbed
at his face with my fingers, and between gouging at his eyes and twisting his
broken nose, his grip on my shirt loosened. I felt it and threw my weight
against that arm. He was using it for balance, so he fell and I rolled over him
and back to my feet.
“Kick ‘im!” shouted someone in the crowd. “Kick ‘im,
Marshal!” It soon became a chant. “Kick him! Kick him!”
I stood back to let him find his feet. I don’t care what a
man’s done. I won’t kick him while he’s down. Even though Stobo derserved it.
It wasn’t a matter of who he was, or what he’d done. It mattered who I was, and
what I was willing to do.
Stobo didn’t get up, though. He lay there on the ground, his
hands out in front of him grasping the dirt, like I’d hurt him bad.
“Are we done, Stobo?” I asked. He said something, but it was
muffled, and I took a step closer to hear him. When he saw my shadow near him
he spun and threw the dirt in his hands into my face. My right eye was still
shut, but the dirt got into my good left eye. I pulled back, and knowing what
was coming, I dropped to my knees and rolled. He must have surged right past
me, because I breathed in a cloud of his dust as I heard his scream of anger. I
cuffed at my left eye and pried my right eye open. Stobo had turned and was
about to come at me again. I stood up and ran forward and put a shot into his
broken nose. It surprised him, me coming at him. I hit him again, right in the
face, trying to puff up his eyes the same way he’d closed mine. I wasn’t
worried about breaking my hand anymore. I wasn’t worried about much of anything.
My blood was pumping and my face felt like a raw steak but my arms and legs
were loose and my breathing was coming easy. Stobo was panting. I figured that
any fight he’d ever been in had ended after the first couple punches. If I
could last longer than him, I would win.
But that wouldn’t be much of a victory. It was the kind of
win that a man like Stobo would scorn. And I wanted him to know he’d been beat.
He tried to bring his arm around to grab me but I slapped it
away and in the same move elbowed him in the jaw. He turned, and I hit him with
my fist in the side of his huge neck. His hands came up, but to hit me or stop
me I couldn’t tell. I hit him again, a backhand to the face, then three good
punches to his stomach. He folded and went down to his knees.
“Stay down, Stobo,” I said. My words sounded strange in my
ears, and I realized that they didn’t sound much like words at all.
Stobo must’ve understood, though, because he shook his head
and struggled up to his feet again. I let him come for me, though now it was
his turn to have trouble seeing and he tried to find me more by feel than by
sight. I ducked under his arms and put two good punches into his ribs, a right
then a left. He staggered, and his huge arms came around limply, like he wanted
to swing at me but just couldn’t muster the energy. I stepped back out of his
reach, then walked right up to him and gave him a solid straight arm punch to
the jaw. I was lucky I didn’t break every bone in my hand. But it worked. He
stumbled back a few paces then fell on his back, barely breathing, his eyes
closed.
I could hardly stand, and my feet were weaving under me. My
nose was broken, and probably a couple of ribs. The sweat stung my swollen eyes
and the tips of my hair hung down and half-blocked my sight. But I was still
standing. Stobo wasn’t.
“Gimme my guns, Shiloh,” I said through my broken lip.
Shiloh handed them to me. “Here,” he said. He looked down at
Stobo. “He don’t look too good, Marshal. I better get the Doc –”
“He’s hurt but he isn’t dead,” I said, buckling my guns back
on. “If he can’t ride, throw him on a stage, but get him outta here. If I see
him again, I’ll shoot him.”
The crowd made way for me as I walked back into my office.
Even the kid didn’t come with me.
Always something to prove.
