The Best Part

by mahc

ATC to "The Avengers" - She was going to die. In just a matter of moments she was actually going to die. It wasn’t the first time Kitty Russell had faced that realization, but it was the most recent and, therefore, the most imminently possible.

The Best Part

ATC for "The Avengers"

A Gunsmoke Story

by Amanda

Kitty Russell sat next to the bed in Doc's upstairs office, a position that had become all-too familiar the past eleven years. Fatigue pressed down on her like a sodden blanket, blurring her vision and dulling coherent thought. Doc had tried to coerce her into resting, but she steadfastly refused to leave. Not until she knew – one way or the other.

It had been three nights since it happened, and she felt beaten down, worn out. Three nights of wiping a fevered brow. Three nights of calming thrashing arms. Three nights of fretting when the thrashing lapsed into deathly quiet.

He lay still now, unmoving except for shallow breaths. Through eyes gritty from lack of sleep, she watched the rise and fall of his chest. Her gaze moved down the coarse blanket Doc had drawn over those wonderfully long legs, and she tried to imagine –

Beneath the blanket Matt's left thigh was swollen and ravaged. And she knew that even though Doc had done his very best to repair the damage there was still a possibility – much too strong of one – that Matt might die. And there was an even greater possibility that if he lived –

She found that she was trembling, the frantic moments of fear, then relief, then fear again washing over her in the aftermath of their ordeal. But it really wasn't the aftermath at all, she acknowledged. That was yet to come. Three nights of sleeplessness crowded in on her, tugging down heavy eyelids and thrusting unwanted images through her mind. Despite her resolve, darkness surrounded her and dragged her into its depths.

****

She was going to die. In just a matter of moments she was actually going to die.

It wasn't the first time Kitty Russell had faced that realization, but it was the most recent and, therefore, the most imminently possible. The stiff rope burned her neck, already reddening it. She considered – with surprising calm – that it would do considerably worse damage in just a few more seconds.

The horse below her was anxious, as if it sensed its unwitting part in the travesty that was unfolding. Behind her the oldest boy raised a stick, ready to swat the animal, to administer the final judgment brought down by his father. Bless Doc, he had used all his skills of debate to convince Strom to give up this evil mission. He had cajoled, he had pleaded, he had reasoned, he had raged. But the judge remained unwavering in his quest to see his own brand of panhandle justice – as Matt had called it – done. And that meant that in a matter of seconds, the rope would snap her neck – or even worse, strangle her in slow agony if the fall didn't kill her instantly. Knowing Festus would suffer the same fate made things even more difficult.

Doc's strategy had been to buy time for Matt and the posse to find them, but it looked as if his efforts had been in vain. Maybe the posse could make it – albeit late – but she couldn't imagine that her stubborn marshal was in any condition even to sit a horse, much less keep himself upright in the saddle for the rugged search across the prairie. They needed a miracle.

She saw Strom glare defiantly at Doc and took a moment to regret her dear, old friend's witness to this sorry end. What would Doc tell Matt when he finally saw him again? She ached to think of the grief that would dull those sharp blue eyes, age that boyish smile. Her heart ached for him, for Doc, for her, for the loss of love and friendship and human experience. Lynched liked a common horse thief, she would be torn from the two men she loved the most; the only father she had ever really known – and the man who held her heart.

A movement just past Strom's shoulder caught her eye, and she fought not to react. Disbelief, anxiety, and hope all churned inside her as she watched their miracle crest the low ridge. Forcing herself not to call out, afraid of what Strom would do if he saw the marshal, she winced as Matt dismounted – after a fashion anyway – hanging on to the saddle and letting his body slide down the horse's side. With awkward, jerky lunges that were painful just to watch, he half-limped, half-dragged himself the few feet to a tree that would serve as both barrier and brace. She wondered if he could even hold a rifle steady enough at this point to hit anything.

The next few seconds flashed by like a series of pictures taken by one of those traveling photographers that occasionally came through town. Strom gave the order. Cal lifted the stick. Matt raised the rifle.

Just as the boy reared back, a shot cracked the air, then another, then another. Panic blasted through her as the rope tightened around her neck, but Doc grabbed at the reins to keep the spooked animals from running out from under their riders and finishing the gruesome job. When the firing stopped, three men lay on the ground beneath the horses. Struggling to free herself from the strangling rope, she glanced once toward the ridge just in time to see Matt's solid frame slump against the gnarled roots.

"Get my bag, Kitty!" Doc ordered, not bothering to see if any of the Strom family were alive, much less in need of medical attention. She wasted no time in grabbing the well-worn case and thrusting it into sure hands. Doc was already doing his best to scramble up the hill, audibly cursing Matt for a fool even as he offered up gratitude for that foolishness. It had without doubt saved their lives, but the physical toll it had taken on Matt's body was all too evident as he collapsed, the miraculous reserves of strength and raw willpower that got him there now depleted. Kitty did not see how he had made it this far.

Slipping to his knees beside the limp figure, Doc eased Matt onto his back so he could gain better access to the wound. Fear shot through her at the grisly evidence of damage done to the already serious injury. Blood soaked Matt's pants from hip to knee, painting crimson claws down his leg.

"Matt?" Doc called, and when he got no response called again, "Matt?"

Sweat ran down the marshal's face and dripped from his hair, darkened his shirt halfway down his chest and under his arms. At Doc's touch, he opened his eyes, and Kitty saw that they were glazed and red-rimmed, a stark contrast to the unusual pallor of his skin.

"Kitty?" His voice was raspy, barely audible.

"I'm here, Matt," she answered immediately, her hand trembling as she reached out to cup his jaw. "I'm okay, and Festus is okay."

The trace of a smile crossed his lips. "'Fraid I was – too late – "

"No, Cowboy, you were just in time. Now, you lie still. Doc's gonna take care of you." Her eyes lifted to meet Adams', the question as clear as the blue depths.

She could tell the doctor wanted to reassure her, but it didn't take a trained physician to see how critical the situation was. Matt had saved them, but at what price?

"It's pretty bad, isn't it, Doc?" she asked quietly, knowing it was an understatement.

He gave her a curt nod then rifled through his bag until he found a scalpel and cut his way through the tough fabric and ruined bandage to get at the wound, flinching hard when he revealed the torn, raw tissue. As she feared, any work Doc had done before was destroyed, the ragged flesh he had so carefully cleaned and stitched now ripped wide open, angry red, and slick with blood – lots of blood, far too much blood.

Kitty gasped. "Oh, my God."

She saw a similar thought cross Doc's face, but he couldn't spare the time or the emotion to express it. She had seen enough bullet wounds – mostly on Matt himself – to know that he could bleed out right there in front of them, and that was something too terrible even to imagine. Without regard to any modesty issues – they had more to worry about than that – Doc cut the pants' outer seam all the way to the waist, making sure he included the long johns underneath as well, then moved the scalpel down to do the same all the way to the cuff. "Get his gun belt off," he told Kitty briskly. "And then his trouser belt."

She didn't question, just got to work on the task, accomplishing it with a skill that she had honed over the years, but usually with much more pleasant intentions. When the leather wasn't in the way any longer, he finished the job on the pants, slicing through the waistband and pushing the ruined material apart, baring the long leg completely from hip to boot. She glanced up at Matt and saw that his eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth clenched.

"Can't see," Doc muttered, cursing as the thick well of blood obscured his attempts to determine just how bad it was. "Kitty, I need something to soak up – "

Without hesitation, she picked up the bloodied scalpel and cut away at her petticoat, handing him a strip then continuing with another and another. As he blotted away more and more of the dark life fluid, she realized they couldn't wait for Doc to take Matt back to Dodge and tend to him. He would have to work on him right there beneath the tree, like the Army field surgeon he had once been. Otherwise, Matt would never survive the trip.

"What do you need, Doc?" she asked, the calm of her voice betrayed by the tremor in her hands.

"More bandages. And I don't suppose you have any whiskey on you."

Whiskey? Somewhere – "Strom did – in the cellar. I saw two bottles of rot gut. Not worth drinking."

"I don't think Matt's gonna be too particular about the taste." As if anything but a whack on the head would dull the additional misery Doc was about to cause him. "Festus!" he called.

Kitty turned to see that the deputy had used the hanging rope to secure the two surviving Stroms. Seemed fitting.

"Kitty says there's some whiskey in that old cellar. I'm gonna need it." Doc paused ruefully. "And so is Matt."

"I'm on it, Doc."

She turned back to Matt. His eyes were open again, but she doubted he was focused on anything. At least he seemed to be resting without as much pain now. That would change quickly as soon as Doc started working on the wound again.

When Festus returned, he managed to pour a good slug of rot gut down the marshal's throat, getting Kitty's help to coax the big man into swallowing the vile liquid. "All right, Festus," Doc instructed, dread weighing down his tone. "Hold him. Hold him good, now. It's not gonna be easy."

She gritted her teeth in anticipated empathy, as Doc doused the gaping wound with more whiskey. Matt gasped, his body bucking up in a powerful surge. Festus hung on as best he could. Tears burned her eyes, but she leaned hard against Matt's right leg in a vain attempt to keep him still.

"Hold him!" Doc repeated, as if any of them really could. "Kitty, talk to him."

She leaned close to Matt's ear, her voice low, soothing, whispering words of assurance, of calm, of love. Presently, his body relaxed enough to satisfy Doc, who nodded in thanks or satisfaction – or both.

"Give him more rot gut," the physician ordered.

"Whut about some a' thet lawdee-num, Doc? Wouldn't thet be a sight better?" Festus asked.

"Well, it would, certainly would," Doc agreed, and Kitty heard the rueful sarcasm in his voice. "If I had any. Damn fools rushed me so – whiskey'll just have to do."

Sucking in a deep breath, Kitty scooted behind Matt to lift his head and urge him to drink as much whiskey as she could get down him. After only a few more forced swallows, he turned away, muttering a weak refusal, some of the liquid spilling down his chin and onto his chest. As he sagged in her arms, his head cradled against her breasts, she prayed it would be enough.

"All right," Doc said, bending over the bloody thigh.

Despite the whiskey and Kitty's soothing, Matt couldn't keep from reacting as Doc cleaned the wound thoroughly, then painstakingly re-stitched layer after layer of ripped tissue. Kitty bushed her fingers over Matt's damp forehead when he groaned, pressed her palms against his shoulders when he jerked upward. About halfway through, he passed out, and Kitty offered a prayer of thanks for that mercy. Finally, Doc sighed and proclaimed the job finished, and Kitty sat back against the tree in exhausted relief as Festus made sure the Stroms were still secured, then headed out to bring back help.

"He'll be all right, won't he, Doc?" she asked hopefully. After all, Matt had been wounded before. Her heart still ached every time she re-lived the nightmare of just a year before when she had thought him dead at the hands of Mace Gore's men. But he had survived that, and surely this time couldn't be nearly as bad.

But no reassuring smile crossed Doc's lips. Instead, his solemn expression telegraphed his words before he spoke them. "It's a serious wound, Kitty," he told her. "It was already serious before, but now – " He shook his head, his own personal concern clear behind his kind eyes. "There's some infection. He must have ridden through brush and creeks and – well, that didn't help. Maybe I got it all. That's why I had to be rough with – well, I just don't know." His voice caught.

"You did what you had to do, Doc," she offered, trying to reassure both of them.

"If the infection gets worse, and I can't stop it – " A heavy sigh lifted his thin shoulders. "You know what – what gangrene can do, don't you, Kitty?"

His words jarred a gasp from her. Gangrene was a vile, dreaded thief that robbed men of their bodies piece by piece – even of their lives. "Oh, Doc, no!" Her hands tightened around Matt's limp fingers. "You're not telling me – he won't lose the leg, will he, Doc?"

After a moment's hesitation, Doc said quietly, "That might be the best we can hope for."

Dear God.

The old man patted her shoulder. "I'm gonna do all I can, you know that. And Matt's a strong man. You know that, too. He's been through – " He stopped, and she knew he was once more regretting how he had to handle the situation with Gore. "I'm just – I'm just making sure you understand that in order to save him, I might not be able to save the leg."

"No." The voice was rough, weak, and barely audible, but that one word was clear enough. The fingers in Kitty's grip tightened around her hands.

"Matt?" she breathed, shifting to lean over his prone body.

It obviously took every ounce of strength he had left to do it, but somehow, he struggled to one elbow, glaring at them both. "No," he repeated, the word ground out between gritted teeth. "Don't – take – the leg, Doc."

"Marshal," Adams declared, "I'll do what it takes to keep you alive."

The big man's body was shaking with the effort to stay up. "If I can't live – with the leg, I can't – live – without it."

Unexpected fury burned through her. "Matt Dillon! That's a damn selfish thing to say." If she hadn't been so angry, she might have laughed at the stunned expression on his face. But she didn't have time to contemplate it before the bit of strength that had helped him hang on to consciousness vanished, and he fell back against her.

"Doc!" she cried out.

Adams' fingers slipped over Matt's wrist, resting there long enough to ascertain his patient's condition. "Just passed out. It's okay."

She stared at the wounded man for a long moment, the flash of anger gone, wondering what lay ahead for him – for them. "Doc, what if – what if you do have to take the leg? What will that do to him?" But she already knew the answer to that.

Adams pursed his lips and sighed. "I don't know, Kitty."

"What will he do? How will he – "

"Matt's a smart man. He's got lots of talents besides marshaling."

He did, indeed, she thought, enjoying some specific, fond memories, then shook her head from those visions. She refused to have only memories left. With a determined slant of her jaw, she said, "Try to save the leg, Doc."

"I will try, but – "

"But if you can't save the leg – save Matt." The jaw softened. "Oh, Doc, please save Matt." It was a selfish plea, perhaps, but one she couldn't help making.

He nodded. "I'll do my best to save both."

It was only another couple of hours before Festus returned with Thad, Sam, several of the posse, and a wagon to transport them back to Dodge. Kitty had been touched by her bartender's clear worry over both Matt and her, and gave him a kiss on the cheek in gratitude. But instead of bringing relief for them, the trip back brought more worry. The paleness of Matt's cheeks gave way to the flush of fever, and by the time they reached the outskirts of town, he was perspiring and groaning and mumbling incoherently.

It took half a dozen men to carry his long frame up Doc's stairs and place him on the bed in the back room. The fever was raging by then, and Doc shooed out everyone but Kitty and himself. They exchanged worried looks before the physician set about making his patient as comfortable as possible. Between the two of them, they managed to strip Matt of his clothes and settle him under the top sheet. Then Doc set about re-cleaning and re-wrapping the wound, ominous streaks already starting to crawl down the leg. She held Matt's hand, wiped his brow, listened to his fevered groans. Sometimes she heard her own name in his ramblings. Sometimes she heard names of long-dead outlaws. Sometimes she heard unfamiliar names, and wondered who they were, what hold they had on Matt to haunt his nightmares.

It was twilight of the third day when a moan, raw and ghastly, jarred her out of a restless, shallow sleep. Her eyes snapped open, widening in horror as she saw Doc poised over Matt's leg, surgical saw gleaming as he sliced through the rotting flesh.

"No!" she cried out, lunging for the vicious instrument.

But Adams pulled away from her. "I have to, Kitty," he explained brusquely. "It's gangrened, don't you see? He'll die if I don't."

"But he's awake! Doc, he's – you have to give him something! What are you doing?"

"The flesh is dead, Kitty. He won't feel it."

But the agonized groan from Matt's throat drowned out his reassurances.

"Doc! Stop! Stop it!" Frantic, she grabbed Doc's arm, shifting the saw so that it tore into living tissue. Fresh blood gushed over the covers, splattering onto the floor.

A hideous scream ripped through the room. Matt's head snapped back, the cords in his neck bulging as he cried out.

"Matt!"

"Kitty!" Matt gasped. "Help me!"

"Doc! For God's sake! Doc!"

"Kitty!" Matt pleaded, hands ripping at the iron rungs of the bed.

But she couldn't stop Doc, who continued to saw through the thigh, even as the bed was washed in Matt's blood. Slipping in the gory mess, she collapsed onto her hands and knees, sobbing impotently.

"Kitty!" he screamed, reaching for her as he screamed again, "Kitty!"

****

"Kitty!"

Dear God! Please stop! Please stop!

"Kitty?"

She blinked once, then again, squinting into the pale light, just discerning Doc's face before her.

"Kitty?"

"Doc!" she cried, vaulting up to seize his arm. "You can't do it! You can't take his leg!"

The older man jerked back, startled. "What are you talking about?"

"I – I – " Heart pounding, she fought to catch her breath, shooting panicked glances around the room. Everything was in place. No saw. No blood. No screams.

"I hated to wake you. You needed the sleep." He studied her carefully. "You okay?"

Sleep? "What?" And the sudden wash of relief flooded her. A dream. It was a dream. Shaking, she sat back hard in the chair.

"Kitty?" Now Doc's voice was decidedly worried.

"I'm – I'm fine," she said, swallowing the lingering terror and pushing a smile to her lips.

"I'm not so – "

"How's Matt?" she asked, changing the subject.

He gave her one last squint, then lifted a brow. "Well, that's why I woke you. Figured you might be interested in this." He stepped to the side and cocked his head toward the bed where a disheveled, but conscious Matt Dillon gazed blearily back at her.

"Matt!" she cried, leaping up again and past Doc to kneel next to the bed. "Oh, Matt! Thank God. How do you feel?"

He managed a weak smile. "I tell ya', Kitty," he said, his usually rich voice thin. "I've – felt better."

"I would imagine," she laughed, almost giddy with relief. Lifting her hand, she brushed through his hair, which, although cut shorter than usual, still managed to be tousled roughly, the black waves severe against his white face, the dark shadow of beard over his jaw only emphasizing his paleness. It took a moment to register just what that paleness meant. "Doc, the fever's down?"

"Almost completely gone," he said. "Broke while you were asleep."

"You okay?" Matt asked her, his eyes hinting at a deeper meaning to the question.

"I'm fine. Just fine."

"Strom?"

"Festus has him and the boy in jail," Doc answered. "Nothing you need to worry about." You just concentrate on getting that leg well."

The marshal sucked in a quick breath, looking down the covers.

"It's still there," Kitty told him, tears glistening on her cheeks as she verified for herself.

"And don't you get any ideas about getting up on it," Doc added. "It's gonna take a long, long time to heal."

"But?" Matt prodded warily.

"But," he allowed, "it'll be all right eventually. If," he added pointedly, "you follow your wise physician's orders."

The marshal didn't bother hiding the relief that swept over his weary features. Lying back, he said simply, "Thanks, Doc."

A quick nod was his answer. "I'll go get you some broth," the older man offered, but they all understood his real motive. She gave him a grateful smile before he closed the door, leaving the two of them alone.

"Are you really okay, Kitty?" Matt asked, his voice hoarse. "When I saw you with that rope around your neck – " He choked on the words.

Stretching her arms around his shoulders, she kissed his mouth, his jaw, his chest. "I'm really okay. I am."

She felt his lips in her hair, his hands on her back. "I kept seeing – I thought I was going to – lose you."

"I know the feeling, Cowboy," she returned, her tone warm, un-accusing. Then she waited, her head on his shoulder, giving him time to force back the emotions that had risen so visibly to the surface.

Finally, drawing in a shuddering breath, he asked, "Did you mean it?"

She let her fingers play over his chest. "Mean what?"

"Mean what you said about me being selfish not wanting to live without the leg?"

After a pause, she pushed up to look him in the eye. "I did."

"Why?"

"Because you were. Matt, do you have any idea how much losing you would mean to – to everyone around here?

"Maybe as marshal, Kitty. If I had lost that leg, I couldn't – "

"No. Not as marshal. As Matt Dillon. You mean more to them as Matt Dillon the man than you do as Matt Dillon the marshal. You'd want to deprive them of that man?"

"Without the leg, I'd deprive them of protection – "

"What about me? What would you deprive me of?" She said softly, the hurt sharp in her tone.

He blanched, swallowing hard. "I wouldn't be a whole man, Kitty. You wouldn't want – "

"How dare you!" she snapped, and was mildly satisfied to see him flinch. "How dare you assume to know what I would or wouldn't want. Listen to me, Matt Dillon, I want you any way I can get you."

"Even as a cripple?"

"Even as a cripple."

He sighed and shook his head in doubt.

"Matt, you are the biggest man I have even known." Her lifted brow let him know she was referring to more than just his height, and she was pleased to see a blush color his pale cheeks. "And part of Matt Dillon is the fact that he is big, and strong, and tough. But that's only part of Matt Dillon. There are so many more parts. He's also noble, and honorable, and compassionate, and honest, and smart. And loving. Those are the best parts, Matt. And no one can take those away."

"I hear what you're saying, Kitty, and I appreciate it, but – "

"Matt, it's not your body I fell in love with." Her lips teased up in a smirk. "Although I'm not complaining, mind you. It's what's inside. You've shown me that again and again."

"Maybe, but – "

"If Doc had had to – to take the leg, I don't have any doubts that you'd find something else to do, and you'd be better at it than anybody else. Maybe you wouldn't be a U.S. marshal, but you'd still be Matt Dillon. And let me tell you that's a pretty special something to be."

He stared at her, nonplussed.

She pressed her advantage. "You said you wouldn't be a whole man if you had lost your leg, but that's not true. If I know you, Matthew Dillon – and I do – that wouldn't have made you any less of a man; it would have made you even more of one."

For a breathless moment, he didn't move, just looked at her with no little amount of amazement in his eyes. Then, he pulled her to him fiercely, his lips burning against hers, sharing love and passion and gratitude. She fell into his arms, joy bursting within her, chasing away pain and fear until, breathless, they broke apart, chests heaving, hearts pounding.

When he managed to find his voice, he gave her a crooked smile and said, "Maybe you're right, Kitty – about the different parts of Matt Dillon. But it's not those parts that make me a man."

She laughed and shook her head, relieved that he could joke again. "Oh, you – " she began, swatting playfully at his shoulder, her gaze dropping to the bulge in the covers, blatant evidence of a certain part's reaction to their embrace.

But instead of laughing with her, he lifted long fingers to her lips. "There's only one part that really makes me a man," he told her, letting his fingers slide lower. "The only part I couldn't live without."

His hand came to rest just over her left breast, and he flattened his palm so that it pressed directly above her heart. She felt that powerful, vulnerable muscle pound in her chest, surging outward as if it could touch him, as if he could hold it in his hand.

With a heartbreakingly tender smile, he looked at her and whispered, "This part, Kitty. This is the best part of me."

END