This story begins with the final scene from "Groat's Grudge," and will contain some scenes that are graphically medical and others that are graphically violent. It may not be appropriate for sensitive readers, so read on with that caveat in mind.

GUNSMOKE

"A Measure of Devotion"

"Libby Prison," Haskett whispered, as Adams' head snapped sharply toward him. "Libby Prison, Doc..."

A cloud of dismay passed over Doc's pale eyes, and his timbre turned slightly hard. "What about Libby Prison?"

"I was there," Haskett said. "My eye. You...you took a sliver of steel out. You saved my eye, Doc."

Dillon swallowed hard; it was another piece of the puzzle from Doc's mysterious past, but one that lent itself to the most appalling possible scenarios.

Adams gently brushed a hand over the man's forehead, running his thumb along the scar just above Haskett's right eye. "Well I'll be dog-goned..."

"Tell him," Haskett pleaded, "tell him I was there, Doc."

Adams rubbed his fingers softly over the only remaining evidence of his handiwork, barely visible in the firelight. He felt Matt lean closer into his left side then, the marshal's voice a soft caress. "Doc, you remember him?"

"I sure do."

Dillon tried to keep the curiosity from his timbre, "Then he was at Libby Prison... with you, during the war?"

"I worked for two weeks to save that eye; I'll never forget that scar. He sure was..."

Matt probed the old man gently, looking for answers not only to Haskett's past, but also the doctor's. "He was there right up until the end of the war?"

"Yes."

Matt nodded. "Then he couldn't very well have been in Georgia with Sherman, could he?"

"Well of course not," Doc growled.

Matt glanced over toward his prisoner. "Did you hear that, Grayson?"

Lee Grayson's voice was filled with emotional contempt, "He's lyin'...they're both lyin'..."

And Grayson sprang toward Haskett, the blade of the knife in his hand glinting slightly in the firelight. Dillon drew his pistol and fired, standing as Grayson's body hit the ground. Slowly the marshal holstered his gun and walked over to the southerner, bending over to confirm what he already knew, garnering no pleasure in having to end the man's life.

"Well, he's dead," Matt said flatly.

Adams shook his head sadly at the patient lying before him, and he gently pulled the blanket covering the man's lower body up over his face. "Matt, Haskett's dead too."

"Oh that's a shame," Chester said, "he was just as innocent as he could be."

Doc pulled the glasses from his face, as he stood. "Yeah, well, war can sure cause a lot of hell."

"Yeah," Matt said, "at least this one's over with...trouble is, like most wars, it ended too late."

Doc swallowed hard and walked over to the patch of trees where the horses were tethered. Matt frowned slightly and turned toward his assistant.

"Chester, can you collect Doc's instruments and put them in his bag for him?"

Chester's brow furrowed, but all he said was, "Sure, Mr. Dillon."

The marshal watched Goode limp over to the campfire and slowly begin to pack Doc's bag, then he headed for the trees; but as he neared the greenery, the sound of choked-off sobs stopped him hard. Matt peered through the brush and saw Doc leaning his face and hands into his saddled horse, weeping. Matt had seen the distress that had flashed across Doc's face when Haskett mentioned Libby Prison, and now he was witness to the harsh reality of the dark shadows that had been conjured from the depths of Doc's soul.

The possibilities landed like a lump in Dillon's gut.

Chester's voice suddenly next to him, made Dillon start, for he hadn't heard him approach. "Mr. Dillon? What's wrong with Doc?"

Matt shook his head. "I don't know, Chester, but I think we'd better leave him be." He looked into the concerned dark brown eyes staring up at him. "You and I have a lot of work to do." He glanced toward the man who had been more of a father to him than his own. "We'll catch up to Doc on the trail back to Dodge; I doubt he'll ride that fast after the hard ride you two had to get here."

"It's awful dark, Mr. Dillon...I don't much care for the idea that Doc'll be riding alone out there on the prairie. Anything could happen ya know..."

Dillon pat the younger man's shoulder. "Don't worry, Chester, Doc's pretty good at taking care of himself. Besides, I think he needs a little time alone right now."

Chester looked past Dillon's large frame toward the distraught physician. "He sure is takin' Haskett's death awful hard."

Matt didn't believe that Haskett's death alone was what had gripped the good doctor's heart with such force, but all he said was, "Yeah..."

Goode limped back toward the dead men and the impending task of burial, but Dillon lingered for a moment, watching the shuddering form of the old doctor as he wept into the worn leather of his saddle. Matt swallowed hard, wishing he could comfort his friend, but given that Adams had always been intensely private about his past, any move on Dillon's part would probably be seen as an intrusion. Matt had heard about the horrors inside the walls of Libby, and if even half of them were true, the thought of the hell that Adams must have experienced soured the marshal's stomach.

The lawman shook his head as he made himself turn his back on his friend, moving toward the campfire. Doc had survived with his memories of Libby for years without ever mentioning it to Dillon, so it was doubtful that the old doctor would fall apart now. And yet Matt's lips pulled into a tight, straight line; he knew from his own experiences that these things had a way of eating at a man until he faced them head on. His guess was that Adams had never so much as spoken aloud of anything he had seen, heard or felt at Libby Prison, and that he had stoically stuffed down his own despair in favor of moving on to help others.

Only time would tell if the unexpected brush with a grievous part of his past would inflict harm upon the doctor's present. Dillon silently prayed that Doc would be spared any further pain in a life that had been dedicated to helping everyone around him at the constant expense of himself. A slight smile suddenly tugged at the corners of Matt's lips, knowing what Kitty would say to him for making such an observation. But if there was anyone Matt Dillon would point to as having set the example of self-sacrifice and dedication toward the greater good for him, it was Doc Adams.

Having caught up with his trail more than an hour before, Matt and Chester rode at a discreet distance behind the old doctor. Chester didn't like dogging the man from the back, but Dillon was firm in his belief that Doc would be more comfortable thinking he was alone. The old black medical bag rubbed annoyingly against Goode's leg, and once more he adjusted it, unaccustomed to having it tied to his saddle horn. His mind then returned to its previous concern.

"Mr. Dillon, I jist don't understand why we have ta stay behind him like this. It don't seem right, ol' Doc ridin' up there by himself in the dark, and us so far away."

Dillon tried to keep the impatience out of his voice, although he wasn't entirely successful. "I already explained it to you, Chester. Doc's a little upset right now, and I don't think he wants to make conversation with anybody."

"I didn't say nothin' about a conversation, Mr. Dillon. I jist wanna keep him company is all."

Matt's timbre softened, "I know, Chester. So do I, but what Doc needs right now is a little space, and we've gotta give it to him. Understand?"

Goode didn't, but all he said as he wiped his brow with his sleeve was, "Yes sir."

It was a hot summer night, and the heat rising off the ground of the prairie made it seem all the warmer. Doc pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket as he rode on, mopping the sweat from his face with it. He shoved the white cloth back into his pants and rode on, unaware of the two men trailing him from some distance behind. The night sky was cloudy and the air thick with humidity, giving a heaviness to each breath the doctor took. It was about as sticky as the old man could remember Kansas ever having been; it felt almost as uncomfortable as Richmond in July - but then, nothing in his memory was equal to that particular discomfort. A frown pulled Doc's brows together as he tried to shove aside the thoughts that had inundated his mind since Haskett had spoken the words "Libby Prison" to him. It was a part of his past that Adams didn't want to remember, and yet it was as influential in shaping the person he had become as his life in Dodge had been.

But the sting of it still brought tears to his eyes, and visions of horrors that no man should ever know. He spurred his horse into a cantor trying to dislodge the unwanted emotions, but the tears streamed down his face with even more fervor. And he moved the animal into a full run, despite the lack of visibility on the trail. From a third of a mile behind, Dillon's sixth sense sounded an alarm. He squinted in the dark and could see Doc's horse moving with surprising speed across the prairie.

"What in the hell is he doing?" Dillon growled.

Without waiting for a comment from Chester, Dillon kicked his horse into a run. Doc's much smaller bay gelding was no match for the power and stride of Matt's buckskin, and within minutes, Dillon had caught up to the startled doctor, pulling up on the man's reins.

"What do you think yer doin'?" Doc roared.

Dillon looked straight into the enraged pale blue eyes. "Stoppin' you from killin' yourself, or worse, your horse."

"Killin' my horse'd be worse, would it, Mr. Marshal?"

"Yes, Dr. Adams, it would. It's not his fault he's got a jackass on top of him!"

"What did you call me?"

"You heard me. Ridin' like that in the pitch dark on a night with clouds and no moon's an idiotic thing to do and you know it." Doc looked away as Dillon continued to scold him, "You could hit a prairie dog hole or rock and go down so fast it'd snap your neck before you even knew what happened." The more Matt thought about it, the angrier he became. "Damnit, Doc...I know you're upset--about losing Haskett," Dillon added quickly, "but you've got too many people dependin' on you for you to pull an asinine stunt like that."

Uncomfortable with the emotion he could hear in Dillon's voice, Adams shifted his seat in his saddle, and muttered, "You're right, Matt. It was a stupid thing to do. Guess I just wasn't thinkin' too clearly."

"I guess not."

Adams was thankful that Chester rode up then, giving him a reason to change the subject. "Now that Chester's caught up, we can head for home..."

Adams gently urged his bay forward in the direction of Dodge. Matt tilted his hat slightly back on his head, staring after the old man, and he shook his head.

Confused, Chester asked, "What was that all about, Mr. Dillon?"

"Nothing really, Chester," Matt fibbed, "Doc was just blowin' off some steam."

Matt spurred Buck forward, leaving Chester staring after him. "Well forevermore, that was one heck of a way to do it..."

Chester nudged his roan to follow the two horses in front of him, shaking his head at the odd behavior of his two friends. Goode looked toward the eastern horizon and knew they'd be home in time for morning coffee at Delmonico's. He was looking forward to a good breakfast, and if he played it right, he could most likely guilt Doc into buying. A slow grin spread across Chester's lips; there were few things in life that he enjoyed more than goading Adams into doing something the man would grouse about for days to come. But the grin of anticipation quickly dissolved into a line of worry as his mind recalled the distress he had glimpsed in the pale eyes lit by the glow of the campfire only a few hours before. He had seen such onerous looks before on the faces of men who were heartsick from having witnessed atrocities too dreadful to bear; Chester prayed that Doc would realize he didn't have to shoulder whatever was burdening him alone.