Not Today

by Mercury'sShadow

Matt and Festus pursue three stagecoach robbers, but get more than they bargained for in the chase.

24

Author's Note:

I don't own any of these characters. This is strictly for fun. I know nothing of the geography of Kansas or of the workings of guns, nor have I researched them. Any errors relating to these issues are my ignorance alone.

"Not Today"

"Oh no, not today you don't! You are not mooching a free beer out of me today!" Doc Adams voice rang out on the boardwalk, causing a few passersby to pause and glance over to assess the commotion brewing.

"I never said nuthin about moochin, a' tall'! I was jes askin if'n you were plannin on goin' over to the Long Branch is all", the deputy sauntering beside him protested vociferously, arms waving. The sun was high in the sky, the heat of the midsummer day already building even though the day was still young, threatening to be a scorcher. A slight Kansas breeze lazily stirred up a bit of dust in the street, and drifted away.

"That is exactly what you always do! You go asking if I am going to the Long Branch and then when you tag along, you have no money to pay for your own beer! This time I want to see your money!"

"Now why do you need to go seein' my money? Jes cause I don't go round spoutin' off 'bout money all the time, don't mean that I don't got any," the deputy blustered

"So how much do you have? Right now, in your pockets", Doc stopped in the middle of the boardwalk, challenging the scruffy deputy. "How much do you have right now to buy a beer?'

"Now you know I ain't good with countin' and sich!" Deputy Festus Haggen protested. "I g'arantee that I got enough fer a beer, though."

"Well it's your turn to buy, so you need enough for two beers!" Doc was in a cantankerous mood and giving no quarter to the haggard deputy.

"Two beers!" Festus huffed. "Why you got enough money to kill an ole' billy goat, you ole scudder! I'm right sorry that I even asked you 'bout goin' to the Long Branch!" The men had carried on their argument as they continued walking and the deputy now stopped outside the swinging doors to the Long Branch saloon.

"You're sorry all right! You are the sorriest excuse for a deputy that I've ever seen! No wonder Matt didn't want you going with him to Hays last week. You can't read! You can't write! You can't count! And he knew that you would just mess it up!" The words tumbled from Doc's mouth before he could catch them, his anger getting the better of him in his foul mood.

Doc's verbal jousts with Festus were legendary in town but even he knew that he had gone too far this time. Festus was still sore about having been left behind by Matt and although it was true that Festus could neither read nor write, he always got the job done. Doc had always been careful never to raise the deputy's illiteracy against him in his duties, and railed at those who suggested that the hillman's competence was questionable as a result of his educational failings. But today, his temper had bested him and although Doc knew that Festus was a fine deputy despite the fact that he could neither read nor write, his remorse was too late. He could not take the words back.

There was an awkward pause, as Festus stopped dead in his tracks, unable to hide the hurt in his hazel eyes.

"If'n that's the way you feel, I don't reckon that I want your company no how, you stubborn ole' billy goat", he said stiffly, turning his back on the old doctor and stepping back into the dusty street, his spurs jangling sadly.

Doc said nothing, his eyes still flashing annoyance, and shook his head as he pushed the swinging doors open and scuffed purposefully into the saloon.

The argument had not gone unnoticed by the patrons of the establishment who pointedly returned to what they were doing, some glancing at the old doc as he slowly shuffled past. Kitty Russell, the owner of the Long Branch, her glowing red hair piled high, moved to sit with him.

"You were pretty hard on him today, Doc. Any particular reason for it?" Kitty's blue eyes showed her concern. Kitty knew both men well; counted both men among her best friends. She also knew that their stormy verbal attacks, although often sounding serious to an outsider, were just a means for the two men to blow off steam. For all their bickering, the two men were good friends, best friends if truth be told, although Doc would flatly deny it. The saloon owner also knew that this time Doc had crossed the line. Although Festus was not an educated man, he was incredibly loyal, tenacious as a wildcat, and one of the best trackers in all of Kansas. Steady in a fight, and good with a gun, Festus had always done his job to the best of his abilities. The man's scruffy appearance and lack of education led many people to misjudge the unshaven deputy, often to their detriment. And although both men often resorted to name calling in their verbal spars, the reference to Festus' deputying skills was personal – and very wrong. Although Festus wasn't one to care much about what other men thought of him, what his friends thought of him actually did matter. And that included Doc.

The old man sighed. "That stubborn old mule! He just knows how to push all my buttons, is all!" Kitty's eyes flashed with concern.

"That may be so Doc, but you just crossed the line today. You owe him an apology." Doc looked down into his glass of beer, which no longer seemed very inviting, and remained silent. The past few days had been particularly trying on him, but he knew that was no excuse. It wasn't Festus' fault that he had been hauled out of bed six times in the last five nights to deal with the stupidity of others. Four were drunk drovers, one was an intoxicated farmer who fell down a ravine on his way home and the sixth was a teenager who fell out of a barn loft while trying to pull a prank. He sighed again.

"Why don't you go over to the jailhouse and apologize. Bring him back here and I will buy you both a beer – on the house". Doc sat for awhile, still stewing over the argument and not quite ready to eat crow just yet, then nodded and started to shuffle to his feet. Before he got more than a few feet, a loud commotion suddenly rang out in the street and brought a man running to the saloon doors.

"Get the Marshall! Doc, we need you, too! The stage has been robbed! "

xxxx

Four days later, Marshall Matt Dillon and Deputy Festus Haggen had the stage robbers in their sights, having left Dodge immediately after interviewing the surviving stagehand and passengers. There had been no opportunity for Doc to speak to Festus in all the commotion surrounding the robbery. Doc was immediately thrust into caring for a wounded passenger and the lawmen were intent on catching the suspects before they got too far. All the witnesses said that only three men were involved in the holdup, so the big Marshall had asked Festus to join him and they quickly rode out of town in the hope that they could catch the outlaws quickly. Deputy Newly O'Brien was left in charge of the town with instructions to gather a posse and follow as soon as they could, if the lawmen failed to return by morning. The Marshall figured that the posse would be at least a full day behind, given the number of men who were in town and close at hand on the day of the robbery. The stage robbery had been well timed. A neighbouring town was holding a town carnival and many folks had gone there from Dodge to enjoy the festivities. It would take Newly awhile to gather enough good men and supplies to follow them.

As the Marshall gazed down at the outlaws, he felt his gut clench. What initially had appeared to be three robbers, had in fact become a full fledged gang. The men that he and Festus pursued through the dusty plains had joined up with a larger group early on the second day, which itself had subsequently been joined by others. Festus was unable to get an exact count from the tracks, but it appeared to be at least 7 more. This had changed the rules of the game somewhat. Everyone knew that Dillon was a crack shot and although Festus did not have the lightning speed of the Marshall, he was fast enough on the draw and deadly accurate. But 10-2 odds were poor even for the two of them and the Marshall hesitated. Waiting for the posse was no longer an option. The outlaws were moving fast and in another day would enter country that would make it impossible for them to track the men. If the lawmen were going to take on the outlaws, it had to be soon. Dillon needed to devise a plan that not only would result in the capture or death of the outlaws, but that would allow him and Festus to survive. Dillon wasn't a cowardly man, but he didn't have a death wish either. So he and Festus had watched and waited, following at a good distance. His deputy's tracking skills allowed them to remain at a safe distance and still follow the outlaws, as they threaded their way through the dusty plains into the desert sandstone formations.

It was here that they finally cornered the unruly gang of renegades. The ten men had ensconced themselves in a small, shallow ravine cut into the landscape, surrounded on nearly all sides by steep red rock. It had been a risk. The ravine only had two exits, one at either end, but once in the ravine, it was almost impossible to spot the group. Even Festus had almost missed the telltale signs. Almost. But now he and his deputy were looking down on the group as they slept, waiting for first light as the sun slowly crept toward the horizon, pink fringes pushing the darkness of the early morning away. He looked at Festus, fifty yards away, guarding the only other exit to the ravine with his shotgun in hand, melting back into the rocks. The big Marshall nodded and motioned "five minutes". Nodding back, the scruffy deputy touched his hat brim. They would catch the outlaws by surprise before they had a chance to even grab their guns. The two lawmen had already quickly and quietly disposed of the two renegades posted to guard duty. The odds were already better, with only eight outlaws remaining.

As the sunlight finally filtered through the early morning air, chasing the morning shadows away, Dillon came out of hiding and stood on the edge of the short ravine.

"This is Marshall Matt Dillon! Everyone put your hands where I can see em'! We have you surrounded!" The effect was almost immediate as the outlaws scrambled to roll out of their bedrolls and grab for their guns. But the ravine had almost no cover and Dillon and Festus each picked a man off in the mad scramble, causing the others to pause and glance upward.

"I said hands in the air! If your hands so much as twitch, my deputy's gonna' put a bullet in you! Nice and slow."

The plan was working and Dillon felt his muscles ease just a bit. As the surviving men slowly raised their hands, Dillon looked closely at their faces. Recognition dawned as some of the faces turned up to glare at him, where he stood about fifteen feet above them on the edge of the ravine. Kurt Casgrain, Dane Peters, Buck Pearce; there were others that he didn't recognize, but he had seen these three men before. These men all rode with the Casgrain gang. . . only the Casgrain gang was twenty-five to thirty strong, not just ten . . .

"Dillon!" one of the men shouted from below the lip of the ravine. "You're a dead man! I'm gonna climb up there and kill you!"

The rock walls surrounding the ravine on three sides were short but steep, about twelve to fifteen feet high all the way round, framed in red rock, while the fourth side was a steep dropoff ending in dizzying emptiness. A man might be able to scramble his way up the short walls, but not before he was shot. Dillon knew the man was all bravado and bluff, the currency of men with cruel souls and angry hearts.

"I'll put three bullets in you before you even get to the top, Casgrain," Dillon countered. He nodded at Festus, who stood ready and alert across from him. "Now quit yer whining and form a line. I want you all to walk out of there with your hands nice and high!"

"My brothers will kill you for this, Dillon! You and that deputy friend of yours are dead men!"

"I'll take my chances Casgrain!" and he fired a shot into the dirt behind the men to encourage them along. The remaining outlaws plodded slowly into a line glaring at Dillon and Festus as they slowly started forward toward the entrance that Dillon guarded. The Marshall allowed himself to ease his posture slightly. This might actually work. But as it happens with all good things, when a man finally comes to the point where he has taken on a risky dare and the near impossible is within his grasp, it all fell apart . . .

The warning came from Festus. "Matthew! Behind you!" Matt barely had a chance to turn when he felt himself struck a heavy blow from behind as someone crashed heavily into him.

"Not today, Marshall. Yer not takin' us in today!" Matt heard as he fell forward over the edge of the ravine, landing hard on the unforgiving rock below. His felt his left arm crack beneath him as he fell hard on his shoulder, the pain shooting through his arm and shoulder almost causing him to black out. The outlaw who had pushed him fell on top of him, driving the wind from his lungs in a painful grunt. Distantly, he could hear Festus calling his name, but it seemed fuzzy somehow. He glanced up just in time to see his deputy fire desperately at the outlaws who were quickly surrounding the Marshall, cutting two men down. But as the men fell and Festus took a bead on another, a scruffy man with a yellow bandana emerged from the rocks behind Festus and fired at the deputy. The deputy yelped and fell forward, toppling over the edge of the ravine.

"Bout' time you showed up Curly! We was wonderin' where you boys were. Yer jest in time to kill us some lawmen!" The Marshall heard one of the men yell. Matt didn't have time to consider what had happened to his deputy. The man who had fallen on him got up, hauling the Marshall roughly to his feet in the process. There was a great commotion as outlaws desperately ran to their bedrolls, grabbing for the guns that they had been forced to abandon. At the same time Matt heard a shot and a bullet whistled past his ear in a near miss that was close enough to part his hair. But the bullet ricocheted off the steep rock behind him and he heard a startled scream from nearby as one of the outlaws fell writhing to the dirt. More shots were fired ricocheting crazily off the rocks and another outlaw fell.

"You idiots! No guns! Don't shoot in here! You idiots are gonna' kill us all! Anyone shoots off another gun and I will kill him myself!" The familiar voice was strained with pain. Casgrain. Struck by a ricocheting bullet fired by his own man. Matt would have laughed if the situation had not been so dire and he wasn't in so much pain. He was still wrestling with the bull of a man who had knocked him down.

"You don't need your guns to kill em! We outnumber them – we might as well have some fun with em' first!" The voice laughed cruelly.

Matt had his hands full with the outlaw who had knocked him into the ravine. The man was bigger than the Marshall himself, almost an impossibility given Matt's stature, and the man outweighed the Marshall by at least twenty pounds. He was a veritable giant of a man with a huge head, a barrel chest and two meaty fists. Matt dodged a roundhouse punch and landed one to the giant's body, but the man caught him hard on his wounded shoulder and Matt involuntarily cried out. Another outlaw struck Matt across the head with a rifle butt, dropping him to a knee, and a warm wetness began streaming down the side of his face. He avoided a kick from the giant, but could not avoid the next strike from the rifle butt again: it was 3 on 1 and Matt's wounded arm and shoulder were compromising his ability to fight. A quick glance told him that Festus was faring little better. Festus could fight with the best of them, but his deputy was battling three other men and although he seemed to be holding his own for now, blood stained the hillman's shirt and Matt held no illusions about how long the wounded man could hold out.

"I told you that you weren't going to take us in!" Casgrain said to Matt, as the giant put a meaty fist into Matt's ribs and another into his wounded shoulder. Matt's head spun and his vision briefly went black as the pain almost blinded him. Surprised, he felt himself lifted clean off the ground. There were few men who could manage such a feat and Matt was still struggling as he was heaved bodily over the side of the steep dropoff . . . . and then he was falling. . . This is going to hurt. I'm sure of it. He wasn't wrong. Stars literally exploded in his mind as his head struck a rock ledge and he landed once again on his wounded arm and shoulder, a smothered scream involuntarily forced from his lips. And then mercifully, there was blackness, as Casgrain's voice still rang in his head "Not today, Dillon! You're not taking us in today!"

xxxxxx

The fuzziness was finally clearing from his head as Matt grasped desperately at the small scrub bush, praying fervently that it would hold. The scrawny plant was giving way, Matt's weight too much for the desert shrub to bear. The big lawman wasn't sure how long he had been out. Not long. He could still hear a commotion from above him, which hopefully meant that Festus was still fighting. The sun was still rising, the early heat of the day only starting to come to fruition in the desert. He had fallen about fifteen feet to a narrow rock ledge below, his head and shoulder having taken the brunt of the fall. Blood streamed from a gash in his head; lots of blood. He had obviously been left for dead, as none of the outlaws was paying any attention to him any longer. No wonder. If not for that ledge, it was another fifty foot drop to the bottom; a fall that he would not have survived. Matt's vision was blurry and blood smeared his sight, but he struggled all the way to the top of the rock face grasping onto sharp ledges and the scrawny desert plants clinging to the side of the rocks. He had to help his deputy.

As he neared the top of the ledge he dared a quick glance around to find his friend. Badly outnumbered by the remaining outlaws, Festus had finally been cornered against the towering rocks, where they were beating him viciously, kicking and striking the older deputy with rage driven blows. Some of the outlaws had finally succumbed to the gunshot wounds they had suffered during the battle, either from Matt and Festus or inadvertently from their own men. Matt smiled grimly. The odds were better. Not great, but better. Most of the remaining outlaws sported bloody or bruised faces, a testament to his deputy's ferociousness and tenacity, but the anger of the outlaws was palpable and it was clear that Festus had riled them up. His deputy had an uncanny knack for aggravating the toughest, most vile men, usually through his sheer obstinacy and refusal to bend, plead or beg, which more than once had seen him on the wrong end of a bloody beating. As he watched now, Matt knew that his deputy was in serious trouble.

Matt watched one of the outlaws aim a vicious kick at his downed deputy, who had collapsed to one knee, panting heavily, and was certain that he heard the crack of bones breaking as the blow connected, sending his friend sprawling backwards in a gasping heap. The deputy's arms trembled as he struggled to lever himself up from the dirt where he lay but the outlaws gave him no quarter and Festus was roughly hauled to his knees. A knife glinted in the bright morning light, its sharp point held tightly against his neck. Casgrain. Panting for air, the hillman caught its sharp glint but did not flinch, his mouth setting in a grim line. Disappointed at having gotten no better reaction, Casgrain paused, testing the eight inch blade that gleamed cruelly in the early morning sun, then angrily ran the sharp blade viciously across the injured lawman's chest, scarlet springing from the jagged wound staining the deputy's bedraggled white shirt. Festus jerked but made no sound and Matt couldn't help but grin humorlessly at his deputy's stubborn refusal to give Casgrain the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

"Yer an ornery one, aren'tcha?" the man glared at Festus as his men laughed and held the deputy tight. Their mood had changed now that they had the upper hand and the renegades were enjoying themselves, reveling in the beating they were laying on the deputy. His death was imminent and it would be by their hands. "Well that's fine by us, ain't it boys?" and he nodded mirthlessly to his companions, his face hard as stone. When Casgrain nodded, one of his companions struck the lawman hard across the chest with a rifle butt and another planted a sharp kick to his ribs. The deputy couldn't hold back the pained wheeze as the air was driven from his lungs and his head lolled forward, blood trickling from the side of his mouth as his chest heaved with pain.

"Howzit feel deputy? That big Marshall friend of yers is dead! No one here to help ya! Ya' gonna surrender? Huh? I wanna' hear you say it lawman! Surrender"! But the only response Matt heard was a soft but angry wheeze that sounded like "Go rot!" followed by another grunt of pain as the crack of another hard blow from a rifle butt to the hillman's chest echoed off the rock walls. Determination filled the Marshall. Matt had to end this – now. Blood streaked down his face, smearing his vision as he gave one final grunt and finally hauled himself over the edge of the precipice. Matt's head was pounding and his broken arm was really smarting now, but he crawled quickly to the forgotten pistol nearly buried in the dust of the hot desert. The pistol that had fallen from his hand when he was first knocked into the ravine by his adversary.

Firing a bullet into the air, Matt stood, stretching with his entire 6'7" frame and called out with all the authority he could muster,

"Hold it! Drop him and step back with your hands up! I want all your guns thrown over the side. Now!" Surprised, the members of the gang hesitated, halting the beating that they were laying on the deputy.

"It's the Marshall!"

"He's s'posed to be dead! You can't do nuthin' right, you big idiot!" Peters snarled at the giant of a man, who Matt had battled. The man who had startlingly managed to throw the big Marshall over the side of the cliff face. The giant dropped Matt's deputy, who crumpled, bleeding to the dusty earth.

"I said that I want all your guns thrown over the side! Now!" the big Marshall yelled and pulled back the hammer on his pistol for emphasis. Slowly, reluctantly, the remaining renegades threw the weapons that they were holding over the steep drop-off on the edge of the ravine. Matt risked a closer look at his friend crumpled in the dust. Festus' face was battered and bruised and his shirt was stained with blood but as best he could tell, the man was still breathing and that was what mattered. The distraction, however small, had not gone unnoticed, and Peters silently rushed forward as Matt focused on his deputy, a glint of metal briefly shining in the noonday sun. Catching the movement, Matt didn't hesitate and the loud "boom" from the pistol echoed off the dusty rocks standing silent witness to the events of the day as Peters hit the ground, dead, his knife falling harmlessly to the earth. Another shot took out yet another of the outlaws who attempted to turn a rifle on the big lawman; a rifle pulled hastily from the hands of one of his dead comrades.

The giant took that as his cue and both he and the outlaw with the yellow bandana rushed Matt at the same time, while Festus struggled to his feet and turned on another outlaw. Matt knew that if the giant got hold of him again, neither he nor Festus would survive this day. . . Matt made his choice. Dropping to one knee he fired at the rushing mountain of a man. The deranged man took the bullet and kept barreling forward as the big Marshall quickly pumped another shot into the renegade's broad chest at close range. At this, the giant's eyes glazed over but his momentum carried him toward Matt, who was struck by the other outlaw seconds before the dying giant bowled both of them over in a heap. Winded and gasping for air, Matt dropped the pistol, watching it skitter away in the dust. He jumped to grab it, but the man with the bandana grabbed him from behind and struck him a heavy blow. Matt dropped to one knee, but recovered enough to plant a heavy fist into the man's solar plexus just as a single wounded outlaw scurried out of the circle of rocks and hurriedly limped away. The sound of a horse racing off distracted Dillon as he realized that Casgrain had just escaped, undoubtedly racing off to warn the remainder of the gang who must be holed up elsewhere.

He turned his attention back to his final attacker just as the outlaw rained another heavy blow against his chin. Matt's throbbing head sparked with stars and he groggily shook his head, only to hear a hoarse, rasping voice, say

"Hold it! . . Back off the Marshall! . Now". Festus was standing shakily, supported by the dusty rocks. His chest heaved painfully and his shoulder hung at an awkward angle, but his pained eyes were clear, and the rifle was steady in his hands. The outlaw's eyes narrowed warily and Matt could see the conflict. The man was sizing Festus up, deciding if he could wrestle the gun from the wounded deputy. If he could . . if he could, he would be in a position to kill both Dillon and Festus. And he would have all the stolen money for himself. Festus too, saw the decision in the outlaw's eyes and just as the man moved, said,

"Don't you even think o' doin' that . ." But the angry renegade snarled a challenge instead and Matt saw the rifle flash just before the outlaw, propelled forward in his rage and desperation, careened into the wounded deputy, dropping both of them to the ground in a mad tangle of arms and legs. And then all was silent under the hot noon day sun, as Matt struggled slowly to his feet among the carnage of blood and bodies, moving toward the fallen men.

"Festus!" Matt knelt down next to his fallen deputy, who stifled a sharp cry as Matt reached out to roll him over. The big Marshall could feel the bones grind beneath his large calloused hands, and it was clear that the older man's ribs were badly broken. Matt's hand came away sticky and wet with blood, a bullet having creased the deputy's side, taking a good hunk of skin with it and breaking another rib. A trickle of blood still spilled steadily from the jagged laceration across the man's chest. None of the wounds was deadly in itself, but the deputy was losing blood and the injuries were painful nonetheless. The outlaw with the yellow bandana lay beside the battered deputy, clearly dead.

"Easy, Festus. Take it easy."

The older deputy was gasping for air, and his voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

"Ribs are busted, Matthew. . . and muh shoulder ain't right. I cain't . . move my arm a'tall". A quick check confirmed the deputy's ribs were badly broken and Matt carefully pulled back his deputy's blood stained shirt to assess the wounded shoulder and chest. Thankfully, the bleeding was slowing, the remaining trickles emanating from the deep laceration on the older man's chest and the crease to his ribs. Although not fatal, his friend's wounds were still very serious.

"Festus, you've got a few broken ribs for sure and your shoulder is dislocated. The bleeding seems to be stopping, but we can't stay here. Casgrain got away and he'll be goin' to get the rest of them. They must be camped out somewhere nearby. We have to get out of here. Can you ride?"

"Don't sound like there's much choice, now, does it?" Festus whispered, his haggard and bruised face bunching with pain and concern. "What bout you, Mathew? Yer head is bleedin' somethin' fierce and you got one nasty bruise. . .Looks like you got kicked by a mule who got his snout in a beehive".

Matt shook his head and immediately regretted it. "Just a nasty knock on the head. And I think my arm is broken. Thankfully, not my gun arm".

Matt's head was paining him and he didn't feel that great, but the big lawman knew that they had to get out of there and be long gone before Casgrain returned with his brothers and the remaining members of the Casgrain gang. He sighed. He and Festus had clearly bitten off more than they could chew hunting down the perpetrators of the stage heist. Had Matt known at the beginning that it had been the Casgrain gang, he never would have come alone with Festus. Although Festus was the one man he would want beside him in this predicament, what he really needed was a full posse. The Casgrain gang now ranged from twenty five to thirty men. It had been operating in Mexico and nearby territories for some time, and their reputation was becoming formidable. Wild, smart and determined, the gang had grown in number from the four Casgrain brothers and three close companions to over twenty. With the increase in numbers, grew increasing boldness and lawlessness. As their reputation grew, so did the Cagrains' egos, and more recently they tore through towns that they would previously circumvent to avoid attention, shooting merchants and farmers, burning and looting. The Casgrain brothers were violent and brutal and they surrounded themselves with men who were cut from the same cloth. They had never entered Kansas before and had never split up in the past – but clearly there was always a first time. Matt's eyes flickered dangerously. Given the tracks they had followed, he suspected that the gang had split up, likely to avoid recognition and capture and perform several heists at once. Clearly the plan was to meet back up and split the profits. He and Festus had obviously run into part of the gang, but many very dangerous men still remained. Unfortunately it was not until he had actually seen the men here in the ravine that he knew exactly who he was dealing with. Now it was too late. Although many members of the gang were now dead, all of the remaining men would be gunning for the two lawmen. It was still very likely that this situation would not end well. Now there was only one question that mattered – could he and Festus make Dodge before the remaining gang members caught up to them?

Blood still trickled down his face into his eye, which the Marshall quickly wiped away with his bandana, tying it awkwardly around his head to stop any further bleeding. His arm was almost numb as his nerveless fingers struggled to tie the bandana. With care, Matt then helped Festus to his feet, supporting the smaller man's weight. He could feel the deputy's muscles tense with strain and hear his gasping breath as the two battered lawmen worked their way slowly up to their mounts, the big Marshall supporting his rangy companion. The Marshall could feel the warmth of his deputy's blood saturating his shirtsleeve as Matt supported his companion around the waist. Those broken ribs have gotta' hold up, Matt thought. Matt took the time to locate his spare shirt in his saddlebags and cut it into long strips, carefully binding the deputy's injured ribs. The job was slow and awkward given his injured arm, but if his friend's broken ribs punctured a lung, his deputy would die an agonizing death, slowly drowning in his own blood. Matt shook his head, warding off those unwanted thoughts.

Matt didn't like the shape the deputy was in. Hell, he didn't like the shape he was in himself. But Festus was right – there really was no choice in the matter. It was ride or wait here to die. Because Matt had no illusions about what would happen next. Casgrain would find the remaining gang members and return here, intent on finding and killing Dillon and Festus and recovering the part of the loot that Matt now reclaimed from the saddlebags of the dead outlaw's horses. Vengeance and greed were strong motivators for men such as these, and the two wounded lawmen would have their hands full trying to get to safety.

Worriedly, Matt shot a concerned glance at his wounded companion. Festus was silent, slumped in the saddle of his mule, his pale, bruised face and the grim line of his mouth the only testament to his discomfort. The crimson trail across his chest was gradually turning a dark rusty brown, giving Matt some satisfaction that his friend at least would not bleed to death. The desert sun shone hot and bright, with few shadows and no breeze to give the lawmen comfort as the trail stretched before them like an uncoiling ribbon, withering in the heat. The Marshall knew that Festus had sand and there was no one else he would rather have here with him right now. The older man was tough as nails, loyal to the core and would fight with his last breath if need be. However, there was no hiding the fact that his friend's badly broken ribs would slow them down and likely cause greater injury. Riding was not a balm for broken bones and Matt was worried that when it came time to fight, Festus would have nothing left, his energy being completely depleted by the struggle to keep his pain within himself.

As if reading his boss's thoughts, Festus piped up, hoarsely.

"Don't you worry none, Matthew. No mangy outlaws is a gonna' keep us from doin' our dooty and gettin' home. I may not be able to fight so good right now, but so long as I'm breathin' I kin still shoot." The deputy shifted painfully in the saddle, wincing as he did so. "B'sides, thays aint' that smart no how. ." Matt grinned. For all of his friend's faults, the hillman's determination was second to none and he was sufficiently cagey and ornery enough to be a real handful for the renegades, injured or not. Matt swung into the saddle and the lawmen slowly moved off into the heat of the desert, leaving the dead outlaws behind, splayed out on the baked earth for their companions to bury.

xxxxxx

Hours later, Matt stopped his horse at a small, lonely water hole and looked back. Festus trailed behind on his mule, slowly picking his way through scruffy desert scrub and broken rock. The trail was rough, strewn with steep outcroppings and dangerous gullies and the heat sucked every remaining ounce of energy from all living creatures unfortunate enough to be suffering in its suffocating embrace. Festus was completely slumped over now, nearly falling out of his saddle and perspiration soaked his bandana. Ruth stepped hard down a short steep pitch, jarring his injured rider and Festus could not hold back the pained grunt that forced its way past his lips as he clutched his side.

Concerned, Matt grabbed the mule's reins from his deputy and led the ornery animal the last few steps to the water hole. "Water hole" was a bit of a grandiose term for the small trickle of water that emerged from the dusty rock, creating a small pool only a few inches deep, Matt decided. He glanced up at his deputy.

"Festus? How are you holdin' up?" Desert dust covered the deputy's face and clothes in a pall, only the bruises giving some colour to his features, the black and purple standing in stark contrast to the fine grit that had settled on the deputy. Matt knew that he looked no better himself, the dried blood crusted on his face having turned nearly black with the grime. Festus coughed and wiped his mouth on the inside of his sleeve. No words came out, and the deputy gave a cursory okay nod to Matt, but he made no attempt to get down off his mule and remained slumped over, clutching so tightly to his side that Matt noticed that his knuckles were white.

The big Marshall helped his deputy down, who coughed again, and they both drank greedily from the tiny pool, sitting in the only vestiges of shade offered by a miserable little sage that clung to the side of a dusty rock. Matt's headache had not improved and pounded mercilessly, a drum beating a steady rhythm of agony on his temple. He recalled Doc using the word "concussion" once with a farmer who had fallen down an abandoned well and struck his head. The man had been laid up for over a week and Doc had insisted on rest, otherwise. . he wasn't too sure what the "otherwise" meant, but he was afraid that he might find that out soon. Matt went to the pool to clean his head wound, which had finally stopped bleeding, hoping that the cool life giving liquid would provide some relief from the pain.

Feeling somewhat better, the Marshall returned to his deputy, who remained hunched near the small scrub, as if the small sliver of shade would get up and run away, abandoning him to the scorching rays of the sun. The deputy's face was grey with strain and concern bunched Matt's forehead.

"Festus, we gotta' make Devil's Tower. It's the only chance we've got to make a stand against the rest of the outlaws." Matt didn't want to say it, but he was certain that they would have started after the lawmen by now and he had been keeping an eye behind them watching for the telltale cloud of dust that would clearly confirm that the remaining outlaws were hunting them. Festus' eyebrows rose.

"Devil's Tower is a mite ways yet, Matthew. Those real life devils are behind us now fer sure. You think we can make it?" The deputy was breathless, the few words sapping his energy and his uncertainty was clear in his voice.

"We have to. It's the only place around for miles where we can take cover. If we can climb it, we can defend it against a large group and they can't circle behind us." The deputy looked uncertain, his eyes questioning and then seemingly coming to a conclusion. He left unspoken the question that haunted Matt. Would either of them even be able to climb Devils Tower when they arrived? Matt shrugged the question off. Matt knew that Festus would crawl on his knees if he had to and Matt would make sure that they made it. They had to. They were not going to die today . . .not today.

xxxxxx

Deputy Newly O'Brien pulled his grey mare to a halt and motioned to the posse to stop. Carefully, he searched the ground seeking the tracks that they had been following for the past few hours. He had finally managed to gather ten men to join him, but it had taken some time to do so. Many of them were family men, but he had also managed to coerce Burke, the warehouseman to join them. Notwithstanding the delay in getting on the trail, the posse had been moving fast and they had originally been optimistic that they would catch up to the Marshall and Festus fairly quickly. However, it soon became clear that the Marshall and the deputy were moving even faster.

Now, there was a jumble of tracks and Newly wasn't sure what it all meant.

"I sure wish Festus was here", he muttered to Burke and Hall, who sat astride their horses near him. He could probably tell what these tracks mean. There's an awful lot of them all of a sudden".

"Maybe they just crossed paths with some drovers or something?" Burke suggested.

"I don't think so." Newly said.

"What would drovers be doing out here anyway?" Hall spoke up. A rancher himself, he knew cattle country when he saw it. "There's no good reason to be driving cattle through this country. Besides, there's only horse tracks here. There's no cattle".

Concern etched the young deputy's face. He had been hopeful of catching up to the Marshall. Now he wasn't sure what to do. The tracks were chaotic and it was difficult to tell if they were even still tracking the Marshall and Festus at all, or if they were now tracking someone entirely new. He looked to Hall, who was the most experienced of the group.

"Do you think you can find mule tracks in this jumbled mess?" he asked. "If there are mule tracks, we know that Festus is here."

"I think so. If we follow it a ways, the tracks should spread out a bit and then I can tell you if there is a mule riding this way."
"Can you tell if they were all riding together?" Hall shook his head.

"No, sir. Festus would know, and maybe the Marshall could say too, but there is no way that I can tell you if these horses were all riding together or if some of them were following the others."

"All right. Well, just do your best. Can you tell when any of these riders left these tracks?"

Hall dismounted and checked the tracks carefully.

"Not today", he said, shaking his head. "I don't believe they passed through here today".

xxxxxx

Matt and Festus pressed on for another few hours, the oppressive blanket of heat that permeated everything giving way to a brisk breeze. Matt looked up and saw a menacing wall of dark grey cloud crowding the horizon, forcing all the light in its path to yield, as its blackness pushed forward in a surge of unadulterated power. The wind picked up even more, stirring up the dust and throwing it in their faces. Lightning burned in the oncoming wall, the occasional bolt streaking through the grey mass, writhing like a living demon hurling its anger for all to see. Matt's face twisted with concern. The desert was not a merciful place and although rain was not common, desert thunderstorms were severe and could leave a torrent of floodwaters racing down a gully that was normally completely barren. They still had a ways to go before they would reach the Devil's Tower. This was not the time for them to have to face a thunderstorm.

Matt glanced at Festus. The man's face was stoic but the stiffness of his demeanor in the saddle and the arm he kept clutched tightly to his side belied his discomfort. The deputy was hurting but there was nothing Matt could do. They had both seen the telltale cloud of dust behind them, slowly gaining on the two of them. Notwithstanding all their efforts, the wounded lawmen were unable to keep a pace that would keep them ahead of the unruly gang now hunting them. Festus was already gasping with the effort of keeping up, his face having drained of all its color; going faster was impossible. Matt himself was struggling against the pain, his headache having increased in intensity until he could hardly see straight. As the oncoming thunderstorm swallowed the telltale cloud of their pursuers in its threatening black maw, a glimmer of hope rose in Matt. The storm would also slow down the Casgrain gang. . .

xxxxxx

It struck the wounded lawmen less than an hour later, wind ripping at their hair and clothes just before the rain came pelting down, huge drops pounding like tiny exploding anvils on the dusty desert rocks, drumming Matt's headache to an all new level of agony. The scorching stillness of the day transformed almost instantly to a shrieking sheet of water, as the wind screamed and the shrubs cowered against the ground, flattened without thought or mercy by nature's tirade. Matt could barely see his deputy's mule behind Buck as both animals, aggravated by the storm, stirred restlessly, pawing the dust in angst. They dared not stop. It was a chance to make up some time on the Casgrain gang, who hopefully had taken shelter under one of the lone rock formations standing stark and desolate in this country. Devil's Tower was still a couple of hours ride away in normal weather. They had to keep moving.

"Festus!" Matt yelled over the shriek of the wind, as the mule hesitated, throwing his head in aggravation against the pelting rain. "We have to keep going! Festus didn't answer but gave a short nod as he prodded Ruth forward, the perturbed mule fighting him as he encouraged it down a slippery slope. Matt turned his own attention to the trail ahead as Buck slipped on the now slick rock, nearly throwing Matt. Visibility was down to nearly nothing. He turned Buck with the wind and pushed onward.

Festus could barely hold Ruth now, the animal was so spooked, and he had no strength in his injured shoulder to keep the mule moving. It was sheer will alone that drove them forward, Festus urging the animal continuously through the driving wind and rain, unable to see what lay ahead and unwilling to turn back. Although generally surefooted, the rangy mule slipped as they picked their way through a rocky outcropping that had become slick with rainfall, slamming Festus hard against the rock formation they were skirting, nearly causing him to fall from the saddle. Something tore deep inside the deputy's chest and Festus gasped and nearly blacked out, but he caught a glimpse of Buck through the violent downpour and managed to steer Ruth in that direction before slumping against the saddlehorn, nearly spent. He must not pass out . . .Matthew was counting on him. If he passed out and fell from the mule, Matthew would come back looking for him and the Casgrain gang would catch them for certain. Matthew would sacrifice himself looking for Festus . . and Festus could not let that happen. . . .not today. He must not fall today. Wracked by a coughing fit, he took a stunted breath and clutched tighter to the saddlehorn.

Two hours later, the storm blew itself out and the heavy low cloud that obscured the sun in a dark grey mass parted for just a few seconds; just long enough to yield the view Matt had been hoping to see – Devil's Tower. The pelting rain that had stung their faces and necks and frightened the animals nearly to bolt, softened to a sweet summer rain. Rivulets of water raged down from the rock face known as Devil's Tower forming small waterfalls that shone with sparkling rainbows in the diffuse light as the sun started to slowly peak through the clouds, that began lifting as if to show mercy to the lawmen who struggled beneath the towering rock spire. Matt glanced around, his concern growing when he failed to see his deputy, giving way to relief as he saw the mule plodding through a steep rock outcropping a short ways behind. Relief gave way to alarm as he initially thought that the mule was riderless, then noticed the deputy slumped forward like a shadow behind the mule's neck clutching the saddlehorn. The deputy looked terrible, but Matt sighed with relief. Festus was still alive and so was he. His headache had grown to all new proportions and was affecting his eyesight, a fact that he didn't want to bring to his deputy's attention and Matt's arm had also swollen to twice its normal size under his shirtsleeve, stretching the fabric nearly to the point of tearing. But for all the misery and pain that the thunderstorm had just caused them, it had very likely saved them from the Casgrain gang.

xxxxxx

Doc stood with Kitty on the boardwalk watching the telltale dust cloud approach the town until they could make out Newly's grey mare and Burke's silhouette. It was the posse all right, but there was no big buckskin and no mule, either. They didn't have to see any more to know that Matt and Festus were not with the returning men.

Newly reined in beside Doc, weariness evident in his posture, and stark resignation on his face. He shook his head at Doc's unspoken question. "We didn't find them", he said. "We found some tracks and followed them for a couple of days but they were moving fast. We lost them when some storms went through and washed all the tracks away."

"Could you tell where they were going?"

Newly shook his head tiredly as he took off his white hat, shaking the dust from its brim, and gave a quick glance at Kitty.

"No, Ma'am". Something in his tone caused Doc to pause.

"Kitty, why don't you head back to the Long Branch. I'll be by later on", Doc said, leading her by the elbow as men from the posse shook the dust from their clothing and dismounted from their horses. Some of the wives and children ran to greet them, hugging their husbands and fathers, happy that everyone had returned home safely. Almost everyone.

Dejected, Kitty nodded silently, her bright blue eyes glistening, and made her way alone back down the boardwalk as Hank appeared and slowly led some of their mounts to the stable. Some of the men gave an exhausted nod to Newly before heading home to their families. It had been a very difficult few days; all their efforts had been for naught. Once they had lost the initial tracks there had been nothing. Although Newly had been diligent, there had been no sign of the vicious men that they tracked. No sign of their Marshall and their deputy. Not yesterday. Not today.

Waiting until Kitty was out of earshot and melding into the bustle of the boardwalk, Doc stopped and looked at Newly.

"What are you not telling me and Kitty?" the old man demanded, staring right through the young deputy, steel in his eyes. Newly shuffled nervously under Doc's stark gaze.

"Doc. We found some tracks. Lots of tracks . . ." He stared at Doc and let the words sink in. "Some riders joined the ones that Matt and Festus were tracking. They were following more than just three men." Doc was startled.

"How many more?"

The young deputy ran a hand through his tousled dark hair and shook his head in frustration "I don't know. Festus could probably tell but none of us is a good enough tracker to be able to say for sure. I just know it was a lot more than three men." He paused, uncertain, staring at the toe of his boot. "Doc, what do you think it means?"

Doc stood for a short while saying nothing, finally rubbing a hand across his moustache in a nervous habit that he had never managed to tame.

"It means they're in trouble".

xxxxxx

The last of the afternoon sun was starting to fade as Matt looked back to see if he could make out any telltale signs of the remaining Casgrain gang, but he could see nothing. The rains had tamped down the earth behind them, preventing the clouds of dust that were the easiest way to determine movement of riders in the desert. Matt didn't like it. The storm had blown itself out at Devil's Tower, as if knowing that there would be a showdown here at this lonely spire, and settling itself down so as not to miss the spectacle. The outlaws should be near now, and the best time to attack would be dusk or dawn. The desert beyond the towering spire toward Dodge was as dry as ever, the salt flats not having seen rain for weeks by the look of it. Matt wished they'd had time to fill all their canteens after the deluge. They had only managed to fill one each; hardly enough for what appeared to be a dry and desolate final leg to Dodge, assuming they survived this shootout.

Matt also hoped they would have a little longer to prepare. He glanced at his bedraggled companion, who lay against one of the tall spires of rock, keeping an eye to the north and west, his shotgun held steady in his uninjured left hand, a rifle laying close at hand. The deputy was still soaked nearly through and was shivering, his misery showing in the gaunt shadows of his face. The tattered formerly white shirt, now clung to his skin and sported a pink stain across the front, the deep laceration having reopened during the scramble up the towering rock face. He and Festus had managed to climb Devil's Tower, at least as far as they needed to, although Matt still wasn't sure how they had done it. Slipping and sliding, grasping at scraggly desert plants for handholds and slick red rock for footholds, they had slowly worked their way upward til their hands bled and their trousers were covered in mud. At the end, Festus was practically crawling, and Matt grabbed him by the arm as the hillman slipped, dangling above the serene desert escarpment far below. His friend had given a strangled cry, as the displaced and torn muscles surrounding the dislocated shoulder shrieked in protest, but Matt quickly hauled the disheveled deputy up and over the last precipice, where they both lay for some time, gasping for breath.

"Hows about we stop here . Matthew?" Festus managed to groan. "I . . .cain't go . no higher. My shoulder . don't work a'tall now . ."

Matt just nodded his agreement, his own broken arm throbbing mightily now to the same drumbeat as his head. Festus had set and splinted Matt's arm for him and Matt had taken the time then to awkwardly wrestle the deputy's dislocated shoulder back in place. In doing so, he nearly caused the deputy to black out, but it was better to get the arm and shoulder straightened out well before the Casgrain gang arrived. They weren't as high up the spire as he would like, but hopefully it was enough. It had to be enough.

They had a good view from all directions and had good cover on this ledge, which was about forty feet across. A large spindly, spire of rock protruded from the middle of the ledge, substantially blocking the back part of the ledge from the front. The outlaws would have to climb up to get them and although the renegades would be difficult to pick off once they started climbing, Matt and Festus still held the high ground and the upper hand.

"You reckon them boys are gonna' come after us tonight, do ya?" asked Festus, his face scrunching. His breath came in ragged gasps now, but Matt had insisted that he rest once they made the ledge and the deputy looked slightly better, some colour having returned to his face. His short dark hair had finally dried and he did not look quite so wet and miserable.

"Either just before sunset or shortly after sunrise would be my bet, hoping to catch us tired." Dillon answered. "You seen any movement out there?"

Festus shifted and shook his head. "Not even a coyote."

"How is your shoulder holding up?"

Festus shrugged, sucking in a small breath. "It's painin' me some, but it feels a heap of a lot better than it did." Matt couldn't help but smile at the irony. Under ordinary circumstances, the deputy would complain about the slightest discomfort, but when he was truly seriously hurt, the hillman never complained at all. When the chips were down, the man had sand. It was also worrying, as the man's silence was a testament to the seriousness of his injuries. He didn't ask about the deputy's ribs; he already knew that the hillman's ribs were bad, his chest a mass of deep, black bruises that turned white when Matt pressed on them. He might be bleeding inside. Matt had no way to know. The big Marshall had watched his deputy carefully as he did his best to re-bind his friend's chest and side with a few ragged strips of cloth, but the hillman was stoic, his mouth set in a tight grim line. The bullet graze that had reopened during the ride to Devil's Tower had again stopped bleeding, for which Matt was grateful. As the bright moon emerged, painting the sky in a haunting pale light, the two wounded men settled in for a long night, taking turns keeping watch.

xxxxxx

Newly sat at the Marshall's desk, grimly holding his head in his hands when the door opened and Doc shuffled his way into the old jail. Doc cocked his head as Newly straightened up and shuffled the papers lying on the desk, not wanting the old man to see the worry in his posture. But Doc had been around a long time and he knew despair and distraction when he saw it. Before he could speak, Burke hurried into the jail carrying a rumpled paper in his hands.

"Another telegraph, Newly", the warehouse man stated and paused waiting to see if there was any juicy tidbit of information to be had. A selfless gossip, Burke couldn't help himself; he liked to be the one "in the know" and he considered it his duty to spread information that others might find informative, whether or not that information was true or hurtful.

"Well? Is it like the others?" Burke asked, impatient.

Annoyed, Doc pushed Burke aside. "What others?", the old man asked gruffly.

Burke puffed out his chest, pleased to be able to share his information with the old Doc. "Barney has got three telegrams for the Marshall just today. Four nearby towns got hit at the same time as our stage robbery and the men all got away!"

Doc turned to Newly. "Is that true?"

The young dark haired man sighed and nodded. "One of the towns sent out a posse. They tracked the robbers til they joined up with another group. Then the posse caught up to them . . ." Newly paused and looked down.

"Well?" Doc demanded.

"Burke interrupted excitedly. "The posse came back with 5 wounded men and 3 dead! The sheriff thinks it might be the Casgrain gang! Shot em' down like dogs!" He paused dramatically. "It's just lucky that we didn't catch up to those men that we were tracking – that could have been us! And one other posse lost a couple of men, too – a deputy and another man!"

The mention of a dead deputy struck Doc hard and anger filled him, his voice hard.

"Shut up, Burke! Why don't you just leave!"

Hurt, Burke stepped back, his tone wounded. "I'm just saying . . ." he whined. "That could have been us lyin' dead, shot full of holes if it was the Casgrain gang that robbed the stage and we had found them." And then the callousness of his statement finally struck him, knowing that their two lawman friends were following the dangerous men alone and had possibly already found them. . .

"Oh", Burke said quietly. "I'll just be goin' then," he said as Doc glared at him.

"Now don't you dare go into the Long Branch and go scaring Kitty!" Doc thundered. "You don't know for sure that it is the Casgrains and the posse that got hit might have been following a totally different group of men!" The door shut quickly as Burke made his escape from the angry old Doc.

The aggravated doctor turned his attention back to the Newly, who suddenly looked young and small sitting at Matt's desk.

"Has there been any word from any of those posses about Matt and Festus? Any word at all?" Doc asked, hope in his voice. The young deputy shook his head sadly and absently played with the shiny deputy's badge pinned to his chest.

"Not today. Not a single word".

There was a long pause and the deputy finally stood, dejectedly stretching his lean frame from behind the desk.

"It doesn't look good, Doc", Newly said. "Burke is right. The sheriff at Hays is speculating that all the robberies were committed by one gang. They robbed a few banks and another stage. Killed a deputy and a banker. And one witness is pretty sure that one of the Casgrains was the shooter." Newly paused in his pacing and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, halting at the door.

"Four different posses went out from the other towns looking for their robbers, not counting Matt and Festus. Two returned with nothing, the one Burke mentioned came back with dead and wounded and . . .". Newly took a deep breath. "The last one lost seven men . . they all came back tied to their horses, dead. Burke doesn't know about that posse - yet".

He looked up plaintively into Doc's steely blue eyes. "Whoever it is that Matt and Festus are chasing, they are dangerous. Very dangerous."

xxxxxx

Pink streaks were painting the azure sky when Matt woke next, the early morning sun just starting to show a glimpse of its rays and the dawning of a bright new day. The thought briefly struck Matt that this might be the last time he would see the dawning of a new day, but he quickly pushed the thought aside. He and Festus had fought their way to this place, determination alone carrying them when there was nothing left. They were not going to die today. . . "Not today" he muttered and the light breeze whispered it back at him.

Festus was peering bleary eyed down at something far below and he pointed it out to Matt.

"I think theys a comin', Matthew. Sneaky devils is a comin' up yonder on the far side. I've counted seven, as best I can tell but there may be more".

Dillon looked where the deputy was pointing and saw the movement of three men, slowly making their way forward through the scrub. They were still out of rifle range.

"Hold your fire til they get 100 yards shy of the base of the spire. Then open fire on them, Festus." The deputy nodded. He was shooting off his uninjured left shoulder, but Matt knew that his accuracy was still pretty good at that range. Festus didn't like to use his pistol with his left hand, but the rifle and shotgun were not a problem for the deputy. Matt took cover behind the spindly rock formation on the ledge, where he could still get a near 360 degree view surrounding Devil's Tower depending on how he moved. He had one of the men in his sights and pulled the trigger as the man approached the Tower. The outlaw fell, and Matt heard the loud "boom" "boom" of Festus' rifle nearby. Another outlaw fell. Two down. One still in sight. The remaining four had not shown themselves as yet, and must still be hiding motionless in the scrub. The remaining visible outlaw made a run for it just as Matt pulled the trigger and the shot spit up the dust behind the man as he ran for the base of the Tower. Festus' next shot hit him in the leg but that's when the remaining outlaws decided to make their presence known. Two quick shots struck near the deputy's head, ricocheting off the rock ledge at the edge of his vision. The other outlaws had been watching and gained the range. The deputy ducked and crawled to a new position on the ledge. A volley of shots rang out striking near Matt and the battle was joined as both Festus and Matt fired continuously at the outlaws that they could see hunkered down below.

As the fight continued and Matt shot at another enemy, a bad feeling niggled at him. The outlaws were keeping just out of range now, keeping up a running fire, but oddly enough, none of those that Matt could see made any attempt to make a run for the base of the tower. Why weren't these men trying to gain ground against them? Unless . . these men were just a distraction and there were more outlaws, more than just the ones that they had seen surreptitiously hiding in the scrub. "Festus!" Festus! Be careful! I think there may be more! Cover me while I check to see if they are climbing the tower." The deputy nodded and began firing again, while Matt cautiously gained a position where he could glance at the base of the tower while trying to remain under cover. Matt was right, but he was too late. The distraction had been enough.

Turner Casgrain, a vicious and cruel man who enjoyed killing just for the fun of it, had edged his way up the rock spire from behind while his men kept Matt and Festus occupied. He had no qualms about sacrificing a few men in order to kill the lawmen. The pesky lawmen had killed a number of his men, gotten his brother shot, ruined his carefully laid plans and taken his money; money that he had earned with blood. The big marshall also had a formidable reputation. Matt Dillon was supposed to be wily and fast but Casgrain was not one to heed any man and he was determined to make sure that the marshall and the mangy deputy the man rode with, did not survive this day.

"Not today" he muttered darkly, scowling up at Tower. "You are not goin' to live beyond today". Casgrain would make an example of Dillon and his deputy, and he would enjoy doing it. His men had succeeded in keeping the lawmen occupied with their continuous fire and if he had lost a few, too bad. Now Casgrain was so close to the lawman that he didn't need his gun. The big Marshall would learn not to mess with the Casgrains. . and he would see exactly which one killed him. Turner jumped at Matt knocking him from his perch to the ledge, five feet below. Matt hit the ground hard, his head slamming into a rock, immediately feeling the rush of warmth running down his face. He lay stunned, his eyesight refusing to function, as Turner Casgrain rolled to his feet and stood over him, Turner's large shadow spilling over Matt, marking the place where Matt would die.

"Marshall Matt Dillon. It is going to be my pleasure to kill you today," Casgrain sneered, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand. Matt tried to roll, to reach his gun but his eyesight was blurry and his hands did not want to obey him as he scrabbled at the dust. The wind whispered in his ears. Determinedly he reached for his gun and Turner brought his foot down hard on Matt's wrist. He felt and heard it snap and pain rushed up his arm to his shoulder as Casgrain brought his boot down again. Another snap. The arm was totally paralyzed and felt like it was on fire. His arm was already broken and now two more breaks . .Casgrain laughed.

"There's no one to save you, big man", he sneered, sending another kick, this one directed at Matt's head. Matt managed to roll away, the outlaw's boot striking only a glancing blow, but he still saw stars, his head having taken too much punishment in the last few days.

"You're wrong", Dillon managed to gasp out, blinking hard to clear his vision and buy some time to catch his breath. He could still hear gunshots from the other side of the ledge, behind the large spindle of rock that separated him and Casgrain from his deputy. That meant that Festus was still alive.

"Wrong?! Unless you got wings, yer never getting off this rock, Dillon! Yer gonna die here. Today!" Casgrain lifted his gun and pointed it at Matt.

"He don't need no wings. He's got me." A raspy voice interrupted. "Now drop that gun afore I put a hole in you that a buzzard can fly through". Casgrain turned, glaring at the bedraggled deputy, disdain and anger clear on his face. Festus had worked his way around the rock formation separating them and now leaned against it, holding a rifle steady on Casgrain. Festus knew that he was taking a great risk. There was at least one shooter down below and possibly more and the deputy had forsaken his cover to call out Casgrain and save Matthew.

The outlaw's eyes raked over the bedraggled deputy. "You! Yer the most sorry deputy I've ever seen! Why, you can't even stand up by yerself . . " Casgrain scoffed in disdain, his eyes fierce. Festus flinched at the words, an echo of Doc's voice ringing in his ears but he gripped the barrel of the rifle tighter with his wounded arm.

"Try me" he said hoarsely. And Casgrain made his move, swinging his gun quickly to fire at Festus. The deputy pulled the trigger on the rifle at the same time, striking Casgrain in the centre of his chest, a gurgling sound emerging from his throat as the outlaw hit the ground, his pistol still gripped in his hands. The fallen outlaw lay in the dusty rock, blood spewing from his mouth and pooling beneath him, but rage and hate filled him as he lay dying, and he yelled "Dillon!" his voice a gurgling rage. Turning painfully on his side, the outlaw desperately vied for one last shot. "I am going to kill you, Dillon!" he spat.

His final scream was drowned by the sound of Matt's gun followed shortly by a volley of gunfire, several shots seemingly fired from everywhere, the sound ricocheting from the ramparts of the rocky spires. The outlaw dropped face first into the dust near Matt. Quickly glancing around, Matt fired his pistol again at a man climbing the Tower getting ready to scramble onto the ledge, the sound thundering in his ears as more shots rang out and he saw Festus aim towards him with his pistol and shoot, the bullet screaming past just above his right shoulder. Alarmed, Matt heard the grunt of pain from behind and turned to see one of the remaining renegades had climbed onto the ledge and leveled his pistol at the Marshall from behind, only to have fallen to Festus' bullet. More shots rang out and Matt thought he saw another outlaw climbing the ramparts near the deputy, but the sounds had become fuzzy and distant, a wall of fog seemingly having penetrated Matt's brain and he realized that he was losing consciousness, his sudden movement having aggravated his head injury. No. I can't pass out now. Not now. He gripped his pistol tighter as his vision started fading and thought he saw Festus flinch as he tried to yell a warning to his deputy. He lost consciousness before the ricocheting sounds of gunfire in their lofty perch eventually disappeared, left to waft among the westerly breeze as silence descended.

xxxxxxx

The sun shone brightly in Dodge on a solitary figure wandering the boardwalk. The morning was relatively quiet and although a few townsfolk walked the street, the solitary old man's mood made it clear that he was not to be bothered. Doc couldn't help himself; he had a bad feeling this morning that he just could not shake and walking was the only balm, poor as it was. His hands were jammed deep into the pockets of his grey trousers as he wandered, head down, his black hat perched precariously on his head. Doc was not a superstitious man; he was a man of medicine, a man of science. But somehow, despite the warm sun trying to spread cheer on his countenance, something did not sit right on this day and he simply could not shake the feeling that something terrible had happened.

"Silliness" he thought to himself, running a hand through his thick grey hair. "You're just worried about Matt " he thought. "and Festus" the afterthought came unbidden. The old Doc halted in his pacing at the tired jailhouse and went in, looking down at the abandoned game of checkers he had been playing with the scruffy deputy before . . .before all this.

That old mule just can't stay out of trouble! Anger welled up in him, quickly replaced by tension and fear as he looked at the telegrams sitting on Matt's desk, painfully detailing the viciousness and cruelty of the men who had committed the robberies in their territory, leaving behind nothing but a trail of misery and death.

His thoughts went to his closest friends, wherever they were on the lonely, unforgiving plains.

"You old mule. Don't you two give up. Not today. Don't you dare."

xxxxxx

Matt tried to open his eyes, but the blood crusting the left side of his face resisted his efforts, leaving him to survey his surroundings with one eye. The blood had run down the back of his neck and soaked his collar, scratching his skin as it had hardened. The sun was getting high in the sky and a dead man lay behind him, shot through the heart. Dillon struggled to remember the final fragments of the battle as he crawled to his knees. The effort was a mistake and he fell back down as a wave of nausea hit him, his head spinning like he had consumed too much of Aunt Thede's rotgut. There was not a sound around him, other than the thin screech of birds high above.

Then he remembered. He had killed Casgrain. He could barely see straight then, the blood from his head running into his eye and impeding his vision, but thankfully Casgrain had been so close that he could not possibly miss. Dillon rolled over and checked the outlaw, who lay only a few feet away from him – the man was dead. The ledge on the lonely spire had become a bloody battleground, witnessed only by the birds that circled serenely high above on lofty air currents, a stark contrast to the men lying prone beneath them splayed out under the late morning sun, their blood staining the dirt a deep crimson. Still, there was no sound on the ledge.

Matt knew that he had been out for awhile, the sun high in the sky now. He shook his head, trying to recall what had happened. Festus had shot Casgrain first, and Matt had finished him off, but then, . . .then everything had gone to hell. Bullets had been flying everywhere and other fugitives had been scrambling up the rock formation. Matt was sure that he hit at least one. Shots were still being fired when his head injury had finally overcome the weakened Marshall. Yet Matt was still alive. So where was Festus?

Gingerly, Matt raised his head again. The deputy had been alive when Matt had fallen. The big lawman knew that. He also knew that Festus would never abandon him, no matter the circumstances. As he painfully raised his head again to find his friend, he glanced toward the spindle of stone in the centre of the ledge. Oh no.

"Festus!" The deputy was crumpled in a battered heap, lying awkwardly against the spindly rock spire, a crimson stain spreading across his upper chest. He appeared to be guarding Matt, his position ensuring that he had a clean shot at anyone who approached the Marshall, but he was only semi-conscious, struggling for breath, and clearly did not have the strength to move from his position. Matt swayed onto his feet and worked his way over to his fallen companion.

"Matthew . . . we got em . all" the hillman muttered in a gasping breath, his chest heaving with strain. He was fighting to stay conscious, the rifle still clutched loosely in limp fingers, lying in the red dirt beside him.

"You sure, Festus?" Matt said, his gun in hand as he glanced around the ledge. He dared not let his guard down until he knew for certain that their assailants were all dead. Festus nodded weakly and pointed over the ledge. The outlaw Matt had last seen climbing the ledge lay far below them at the base of the cliff, a bullet in his chest. Another outlaw lay near him, also dead and having fallen from the Tower.

"He shot me . . but I got 'em both. Last ones . . " Festus uttered, his voice pained and broken, his arm dropping to his bloody side. The deputy's voice failed, fading to a gasping cough. Another shooter lay dead on the side of the ledge behind Festus. All told, there were at least seven dead that Matt could see on the ledge or down below. A final outlaw lay near the horses, unmoving. The man who got shot in the leg, Matt thought. Must've been a bad wound. Probably bled to death trying to get away. They had survived this day – so far. The outlaws were all dead. Matt relaxed slightly with that knowledge, rubbing his wounded head and dropping to his knees beside his friend, exhaustion and pain briefly overcoming him. Matt looked at the bright blue sky and the birds circling loftily overhead. He knew that they still had a difficult time ahead of them as his head pounded a drum beat in his skull. As Matt struggled to focus, the wind whispered in his ears, and he turned to his fallen deputy.

The hillman was gasping for breath, his eyes glazed with pain and fatigue and sweat beaded his face and chest. Matt carefully pulled open the older deputy's bloody shirt. The wound was nasty and had been bleeding badly, a large caliber rifle bullet at short range having blown a jagged hole in the deputy's upper chest, low on the left shoulder. He stuffed his bandana into the wound in an attempt to stem the bleeding, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain from his companion. The rest of him didn't look too good either. The hillman's injured ribs were purple and black now, deep and angry bruises covering his battered chest and the laceration on his chest had peeled open again, dripping blood onto the torn remnants of the binding strips that Matt had used to help support the injured ribs. Protecting his own wounded arm, Matt awkwardly ripped off the remnants of the binding strips and stuffed them into the wound also.

"The bullet's still in there, Festus." Matt said. "We have to get back to Dodge. You need Doc."

"Speak for yer ownself, Matthew" the deputy's voice was hoarse and pained. "Yer not lookin so pert neither". The deputy was interrupted by a deep hacking cough, as Matt gave a small grim smile, and forcing himself to stand, looked over the ledge, checking out the best routes down from the spire. As the Marshall turned back to his friend, a nasty coughing fit overcame Festus, who winced in pain as he held his side, and Matt saw with alarm that the inner sleeve of his deputy's shirt was stained crimson as the hillman wiped his shirtsleeve across his mouth. The deputy was coughing up blood . . .

This was not good. They were still more than a good day's ride from Dodge and the final struggle had clearly been too much for the deputy's injured ribs. The gunshot wound to the shoulder was bad enough in its own right and now the man was damaged inside. . . All of a sudden a stark rage built up inside Matt. He and Festus had fought hard to bring the outlaws to justice. They had beaten them in the face of overwhelming odds, had recovered the stolen money and suffered through the ravages of the desert heat and thundering rain. He would be damned if they were going to die now, less than two days ride from home. They were NOT going to die today. Not today.

xxxxxx

Determined, he shakily knelt next to his deputy, putting a comforting hand on his friend's heaving shoulders.

"Festus". The coughing fit subsided and Festus looked up at Matt with a pained expression.

"I'm right sorry, Mathew," he rasped, "I don' think I kin ride no more. I cain't even get down from this here rock we're a hidin' on. Yer gonna' have to go on without me. "

"Festus, I'm not leavin' you. We're going together", Matt said determinedly.

The deputy shook his head. "I'm all shot up, Matthew. T'ain't gonna' do no good. You gotta' git ta' Dodge. You can come back fer me." The deputy's voice trailed off in a whisper and his eyes refused to meet Matt's. The deputy may not be educated, but he was no fool. Remaining behind was a death warrant. There was no way that Matt would return in time to save him.

"No, Festus. I am not leavin' you behind!" Matt's voice was stark and angry now. There was a long pause and he finally said more softly. "Festus, I can't see too well; my eyesight's getting' blurry. My head is killing me and I think I have what Doc called a concussion. You can see, so you are going to have to lead us home. I'll fix you up as best I can. I know you're hurtin' Festus but we've got to do this and we have to do it together. You have to ride."

Matt wasn't being entirely truthful. His head was killing him and it was true that his vision was slightly compromised although not as severely as he implied to Festus. But he knew if he left the deputy behind, the man would die before the big Marshall could get back. The deputy was losing too much blood and Matt was wounded and could only ride at a slow pace. The big Marshall would not make it back in time. Festus would willingly die to save the Marshall – Matt knew that. He also knew that Festus would fight with his last breath to save his friends. Although he knew that Festus risked even greater injury continuing to ride with his damaged ribs and a bullet in him, he faced certain death if he remained where he was. The hillman would bleed to death on this lonely spire before help could arrive. Matt needed Festus to keep fighting; he owed it to his deputy to get the man home.

Carefully, Matt added Festus' bandana to the bullet wound in the hillman's shoulder, eliciting a suppressed cry, before tying his last spare shirt around the bandanas in a makeshift bandage, doing the best he could with his own badly broken arm, that was now paining him mightily. The shoulder was a bloody mess, the wound created by a large caliber bullet fired at close range, but Matt said nothing. They were going to survive this. Festus was going to survive this – and he didn't need to be told how bad it was. Matt had no illusions about that anyway. Festus had a shrewd head for such things and there was no point in lying and saying that everything was fine. Festus already knew his injury was bad, and knew the situation they faced. A bleeding, shot up deputy with busted ribs and a bad shoulder and a half blind Marshall with a severe concussion and a badly broken arm – if they were unlucky enough to run into any more unsavory types, or anyone with a grudge against the Marshall, they wouldn't stand a chance. But Matt refused to entertain the thought. "Not today" the voice in Matt's head whispered. "Not today".

xxxxxx

Festus was conflicted. He didn't want to let Mathew down, but the pain in his chest and shoulder was nearly overwhelming and he was exhausted from holding it in. It felt like he had daggers piercing his chest, the daggers spearing further into his innards with every hitch of his breath. For the past two days they had struggled through the trials of the desert, pushing their limits of endurance and sanity. The deputy had started coughing up blood before they had even arrived at Devil's Tower. During the torrential downpour, Ruth had lost his footing in a short steep gulley and the animal fell, jerking his rider against the stone cliffs. Festus had not mentioned anything to the Marshall. There was no need. The big lawman could do nothing about it anyway. But now, Festus was gasping and breathless, occasionally choking on his own blood with one arm completely useless and the other only marginally better and Matt still wanted him to ride. No, he corrected, needed him to ride. The distinction was not lost on the hillman. Although not an educated man, Festus knew that Matt would not force this on him if it wasn't necessary.

Festus looked up at the Marshall. The big man looked terrible. The side of his face was purple and badly swollen, so much so that one eye was nearly shut completely and this last struggle had reopened the cut above the lawman's eye, sending blood down his face to soak his collar. The Marshall's left arm had an awkward bent to it under his strained shirtsleeve and his hand was badly swollen; it was surprising he was able to use it at all. The arm was clearly badly broken, though the big lawman said nothing. The Marshall was in a bad way. Pondering their predicament, the deputy recalled that there were occasions in the past when Festus had failed the big lawman. Those occasions were very few, and he had never failed when the stakes were this high. An image of Miss Kitty, stricken with grief, believing Matt to be dead, flickered fleetingly through his mind. She would die of a broken heart if Matt didn't return; of that Festus was certain. And Doc - well 'ol Doc would find some way to blame himself. Festus could not let that happen. Gritting his teeth and forcing back a groan, he struggled to his knees. Matthew needed him. Miss Kitty needed him. He could not fail his friends now. Not today.

"I'll do er, Mathew", he whispered, "but I'm gonna need some hep gettin' down from here . . ". He and Matt had been through many trials together, and although Festus rightly didn't know if he could muster the strength to get them back to Dodge, the ragged deputy hoped that he could get them close enough that Matthew would find his way home . . . even if the Marshall ended up riding into Dodge alone.

xxxxxx

Matt gripped Buck's reins tightly under the early morning sun, his left arm hanging painfully. They had to make Dodge today. He licked his parched lips that had started to crack. They had just used up the last of their water on the animals and although they would likely die of their injuries before dying of thirst, their misery was certainly made worse by the shortage of water. Riding had reopened his head wound and trickles of blood ran down his face to his neck. He was too tired to wipe them away. The Marshall's head pounded ferociously, the riding worsening his condition and he could no longer see much of anything now, his vision having deteriorated substantially since they had left Devil's Tower. Matt recalled Doc saying that it was important to rest if you had a concussion, but he really had no choice in the matter. Everything had now turned into a blurry fog and although he could still discern details in objects that were very close by, he was completely reliant upon Festus to keep to the trail. Ironically, the ruse he had used to coerce Festus to ride, had become reality.

He squinted at his companion riding beside him, and although his vision was limited, he did not like what he could see. Normally a prominent talker, the hillman was unusually silent, which Matt knew to be a testament to his injured condition. Festus was slumped low on his mule, completely covered now in a fine grey dust. They had crossed the salt flats earlier in the morning, and the driving wind had only recently died to a whisper. Matt knew that he himself probably looked much the same as his deputy. The crimson stain on the front of the deputy's bedraggled shirt had grown and started turning black as the dust from the salt flats mixed with it. His left arm hung useless from the bloody shoulder, his right hand loosely holding the reins of his mule in an awkward position to take pressure off the dislocated right shoulder that Matt had fixed at Devil's Tower. Fever shone hot and bright in the hillman's eyes, infection starting to take hold in the ravaging conditions. The deputy was coughing regularly now, blood spattering his trousers as he slumped forward.

"Festus? How are you holding up?" Matt rasped, his throat raw from the heat and the fine grit that permeated everything.

Festus barely moved, opening his mouth as if to speak, then coughing harshly as he gathered himself. The wounded man finally croaked out an unintelligible answer. Not that Matt expected much.

"Festus, I can't see much anymore. You need to keep us on the trail. Think you can?" The Marshall's voice was riddled with pain and exhaustion, belying his attempts to ignore his own injuries.

Festus said nothing but after a pause, slowly nodded once, and gripped tighter to the saddlehorn with his right hand. He would try his best. But blood loss had severely weakened him and the harsh, spiking pain in his chest and shoulder stabbed deep into him with every step of his mule. He heard Matt's words, but it was as if they came from a great distance. It was taking all of his energy to keep the pain within himself and hold onto Ruth. He didn't have the strength to answer; simply staying in the saddle had become an excruciating chore.

Desperation gripped him and he could feel himself break into a cold sweat. The pain and exhaustion were swallowing him up and he was nearing the end of his endurance. They were still too far from Dodge. Matt needed him; needed him to be able to find their way home, but his broken body was recalcitrant as his consciousness threatened to abandon him, the fever raging in his body draining his final reserves of energy. His breath hitched, and he coughed again, more blood spilling from his lips. He had to hang on. If he could get them within ten miles of Dodge, then he could let go . . . Ruth would be able to find his way home from there. Then it wouldn't matter if Ruth arrived riderless. Matthew would be safe. He sank back into his pain filled fog, his focus now only on following the trail . . he had to get a little further . . . If he failed, Matthew would die. A soft breeze whispered in his ear and once more he pushed his way through the red haze of pain. He must not fail his friend – "not today", he muttered to himself.

xxxxxxx

Kitty stood at the end of the street, staring into the wide plains under the late afternoon sun. The sun shimmered in waves off the desert scrub, making it look like the air was dancing with delight, but she took no joy in it. If truth be told, she had come here every day for three days now, anxiously hoping to see him coming home. Them. Every day she hoped to see a big buckskin with a tall rider beside a rangy mule ridden by a smaller man. But, like every other day, there was nothing to see.

The posse had returned two days earlier, having lost the trail after a series of thunderstorms hit the area. They had found the original tracks and knew that Festus and Matt were following seven or eight men. Then word had gone around that other stage and bank robberies had occurred in nearby towns at around the same time and the Casgrains had been seen taking part in some of them. The thought that Matt and Festus might be alone tracking the Casgrain gang made her blood cold and the rumours had already started. No one had heard from the two lawmen.

She turned and saw Doc standing in the shadows of the last mercantile building, watching her. He shuffled over and touched her elbow, a touch of compassion. The gentle touch let loose all her fears.

"Oh, Doc! Where are they? Do you think that they're . . ?" She left the thought unspoken. They can't be dead! He can't be dead!

"No. No I don't think that. And you shouldn't either," the old doctor said vehemently, although he had silently been wondering the same thing. But Kitty needed hope today, not doom, so he steered her away towards Delmonico's.

"You know Matt better than that," the old doc said as he ran a hand over his moustache. "He doesn't take unnecessary chances. And he has Festus with him. That ornery old mule won't let anything happen to Matt." The words seemed hollow, even to Doc, although the sentiment was true. He knew that there was no one better to have watching Matt's back than Festus. But the two lawmen had been gone too long. And if they were actually tracking the Casgrain gang, rather than just a few rangy, down on their luck drovers . . The old doc paused, his own thoughts betraying him as he remembered his last hurtful words to his friend. Turning to Kitty, he said "Why don't you join me for supper? I think we could both use a little cheering up today."

xxxxxx

As the two neared the restaurant, there was a great commotion at the edge of town, and a young man on a horse careened wildly to a stop in front of the old doctor.

"There's ghosts a comin! There's ghosts a comin! Ever'body get out! The ghosts are comin!" Recognizing young Abel Bryer, Doc hurried forward.

"Here now Abe! What's this all about? You can't go scarin' folks, yelling such a thing around town!"

"It's true Doc! I seen it myself! The Marshall and Festus are dead and theys ghosts are coming to town!" Angry now, Doc pulled the young man from his horse.

"Now see, here! The Marshall and Festus have gone out after the stage robbers. They are not dead and there is no such thing as ghosts! Now don't you go scaring everybody half to death or I'm going to have Newly lock you up!"

By now quite a crowd had formed, murmuring at the young man's words.

"Young Abe says the Marshall's dead . . and Festus, too"

"I knew they were dead. They shoulda' been back days ago. ."

"Do you think theys ghosts, then?"

"I've seen a ghost. Widow Lentner still haunts the old Lentner homestead", Burke said "I seen her myself!"

"Yeah, me too!" muttered another voice, loudly.

"Oh, Burke, hush up!" Doc stated loudly. It didn't help that young Abe was normally a congenial, steady sort and not prone to making up stories. Kitty was trembling beside him.

"Where did you see him, Abe?" she said. "Where did you see the Marshall?"

"Out yonder near Cherry Crik, Ma'am! It's the Marshall for sure. Ain't no man as big as he is. . .and Festus is with him, too! Ceptin' they're ghosts! Sure as shootin' they're ghosts, Ma'am!" The young man's eyes were wide with fear.

This is ridiculous! I'm going to go out there with you Abe, and then . . ." Doc's mutterings were stopped by a shrill scream from the end of the street that caused every man, woman and child to freeze. It was a scream of utter and complete terror, ripped from the throat of a young woman standing on the boardwalk. Just beyond her, a large buckskin horse and a rangy mule had entered town, their riders slumped and silent, skin grey as death, clothes chalky white. Doc looked closer.

"Matt" he whispered. There was no question who the men were. Young Abe was right – there weren't many men with the stature of Matt Dillon in the whole territory and there weren't more than a few men who rode a mule. It was definitely Matt and Festus astride the animals. But the touch of death was on them both, the Marshall's head and face streaked with fine dark lines, black spiderwebs entwining his face and neck. The battered deputy's shoulder and upper chest were stained black, as if he had a gaping hole right through his chest and the reins had fallen from his lifeless chalk hands, the mule simply wandering his way home of his own volition, followed by the big buckskin. Both men were deathly silent, wilting in their saddles and swaying with the motion of their mounts. Neither looked up or made any move to get off his animal. Doc swallowed hard. These men were his friends and besides, there was no such thing as ghosts. He stepped forward into the street.

"They need help," he said. But fear had overtaken the crowd and no one moved to follow the old man. Doc stopped in front of the pair as they slowly rode toward the jail and both the mule and the big buckskin duly stopped in front of the old physician as he stood his ground in the middle of the street.

Just then, as if the process of stopping had somehow interrupted his ghostly intentions, the slumping phantom riding the mule fell, his body hitting the ground with a sick thud accompanied by a low groan. The fallen rider coughed violently and blood trickled from his lips as he grasped at his chest, and then lay still.

"Ghosts don't bleed!" Doc cried, running over to the downed man. "It's them – in the flesh! They're completely covered in dust!" Doc's words partially lifted the veil of terror that had frozen the townsfolk, and after a short pause, a few of the braver sorts scurried forward to help Doc with the missing lawmen. "Help Matt!" Doc ordered. It was clear to Doc that both men were badly hurt. Reaching for the fallen deputy, Doc carefully turned the lawman over. "Festus!" Doc cried out. Doc touched the "hole" in the deputy's chest and his hand came away smeared with blood that turned black when the heavy dust covering the deputy's clothes mixed with it. The deputy's bones ground together under his skilled hands and Festus gave a strangled cry as Doc's practiced examination revealed the deputy's badly broken ribs. Doc bit his lip and ran his hand across his moustache, a habit that he had never managed to tame. The deputy may not be a ghost, but he was not far from it.

Kitty rushed forward to the big lawman, who still sat astride the buckskin, eyes unseeing. He was mouthing the word "Doc" through lips cracked and bleeding but no sound came out.

"Matt! Oh, Matt!" Kitty cried, grasping the big lawman's leg. He slowly reacted as if coming out of a deep fog, but his eyes were glazed and filled with pain, unable to focus.

"Kitty?" It came out as a hoarse whisper, barely audible, but it was the best sound she had ever heard. "I can't . . . see", he said as she and some of the townsmen helped him from his horse. He collapsed to his knees, nausea and weakness overcoming him. "Help Festus", the fallen lawman muttered, "Hurt . . .bad" He spoke no more as he, too, fell in the dust of Dodge, consciousness fleeing.

"Festus, you old mule, what in tarnation were you doing riding in this condition?" Anger and consternation filled Doc's voice, belying the fear that ran underneath, as he assessed the damage from the badly broken ribs and the chest wound. The deputy's injuries were devastating; both he and Matt ought to have had more sense than to put the man on his mule. "What were you two thinking?!" The old doctor was muttering more to himself than his patient, but the hillman's eyes fluttered open at the words, and he gazed at Doc with clouded, pain filled eyes, his eyes unseeing,

"Doc?" The voice was a pained whisper and Doc had to strain to hear it.

"Yeah. It's me. You're home, Festus. You just take it easy now."

"Matt . . hew? . . . Safe?" The sound came out more as a gurgle. Festus tried to move to find the big lawman, but agony ripped through his chest and Doc held him as he curled into a ball, coughing violently, blood purging down his lips. A pained sound escaped the deputy's lips, almost a whimper, and Doc held him tighter. The deputy's chest was a bloody mess, the bullet entering low on the shoulder, blasting through bone, muscle and sinew with equal ease, and his friend gasped for air, choking on his own blood.

"Matt's here, Festus. You're both safe. You've gotta hang on, now. Both of you. I'm gonna take care of you . . " Doc's voice was soft and gentle now, and he realized the cost to his injured friends as they had struggled to make it home. Sometimes there was no real choice. Adams touched the blood soaked bandage covering his friend's chest as he called Newly and some others over to help get the deputy and Matt up to his office. Festus was not a ghost, but it was going to take all of the skill that Doc had accumulated over the years to keep his closest friend from becoming one . . A gentle breeze whispered in his ear as his hand drifted nervously across his moustache.

"Not today. Don't you dare die on me today ol' boy," the old doctor muttered.

xxxxxx

Doc wiped a hand across his furrowed brow and leaned against his desk with a deep sigh. He was afraid to sit, in case he fell asleep. It had been 12 hours since Matt and Festus had ridden back into town, if you could call it riding. Doc was beyond exhausted and his rumpled shirt stuck to his sweat soaked skin. He glanced briefly around his office, such as it was. Bloody bandages and various instruments littered the area near a tattered, once white shirt and grey pants, stained rust brown now. A white basin, stained with blood, held a crushed bullet and forceps; the bullet he had pulled out of his closest friend. A tidy pile of clothes lay nearby, the red shirt nearly chalk white with dust and stained rust brown all down the collar, a testament to the suffering of his friends.

He shook his head at the thought of what they had endured. Neither man had come around long enough to speak for any length of time. Matt had awoken only briefly a few hours earlier, long enough to inquire of Festus and Kitty. The big Marshall was still in pain, his arm being badly broken and he had a severe concussion and a lot of bruising. Doc was hopeful that Matt would recover, but a head injury was a funny thing and one could never really know for sure. The Marshall's sight was still blurry, but the vicious headache had become a dull throb, substantially thanks to the drugs that Doc had administered. In actuality, Doc didn't expect to see much improvement until the man actually had a chance to rest for a few days. One didn't take a beating like Matt had endured and recover in a few hours. Matt had subsequently fallen into a deep sleep; the exhausted sleep of a man who has endured to his very limits. At least Kitty had been reassured. Matt was alive, and although the loss of his sight was very worrying, she would be grateful for tonight. The rest she would worry about tomorrow.

Doc sighed again and looked at his other patient. Matt was settled in the guest bedroom, but Festus still lay on the gurney in the surgery, the vicious chest wound covered by a large bandage. Angry black and purple bruises peeked out from the bandage and covered his friend's lower chest. He had not bound the injured ribs, fearing that the jostling would start the internal bleeding again. He had chased Kitty and Newly out a few hours before, when there was nothing further to do and the strain of not knowing the outcome was something he did not want to share with anyone. Kitty knew him well enough to see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes, but although she hesitated, the beautiful redhead did as he asked and left with Newly. Now Doc was alone, and the silence of the night was deafening.

He glanced again at the man on the table. Festus' face, normally a ruddy tan, was deathly pale in sleep but it was not the peaceful slumber of a contented man; it was the dreamless sleep of a man suffering, a man struggling for every breath. The painful wheeze of Festus' ragged breathing was the only sound in the room and he shivered with fever, perspiration dripping from his brow. A raging infection was attacking the deputy's already ravaged body and the shivering only made the pain from the badly broken ribs worse. Festus had not come round. Doc was desperately trying to control the fever, but there had been little improvement.

He had done his best with the internal injuries; they had tried his level of expertise but he had finally gotten the internal bleeding to stop. He knew however, that too much blood had been lost. Given the amount of blood that stained the hillman's tattered shirt and pants, it was surprising that the man even lived at all. But Festus had always had enough fight in him to battle long after most men had given up or fallen. There was no question that he was the most unconventional deputy that ever wore a badge in Dodge, or the entire territory for that matter. A ragged hillman who could neither read nor write and who came from a large family of law shunning thieves, the deputy had managed to gain the trust and acceptance of Matt Dillon. And although in many ways they were worlds apart, he had gained the trust and acceptance of Doc. More than that, the scruffy deputy had earned Doc's friendship. Doc brushed at his eyes.

Doc's mind travelled back to the last words that he had spoken to his friend, thoughtless words spoken in anger. Thoughtless words that were not true, but he had not had a chance to take them back. Although the deputy's antics nearly drove Doc to drink on many occasions, there was no one that he would rather have protecting Matt than Festus. The fact that the two lawmen had even survived an encounter with the Casgrain gang was nothing short of a miracle.

He had heard the stories now. A number of towns within forty miles of Dodge all had bank heists or stage robberies on the same day. Two deputies, a sheriff, and two stagehands had been killed and another deputy wounded. Posses sent out by the various towns to apprehend the fugitives either came back empty handed or did not come back at all. An entire posse of seven men had been killed. It was only after a few days that it became clear that the heists had all been committed by the vile Casgrain gang, one of the most feared and vicious gangs this side of Mexico. Newly had traded telegraphs with other lawmen tracking the fugitives but gradually most had given up or been forced to return home empty handed. Only Matt and Festus had remained on the trail.

Now they were back but badly hurt and no one really knew what had happened to them. Although Doc thought it very likely that they had tracked the Casgrain gang and faced off against them somewhere, no one really knew for sure. However, pieces were starting to fall into place. A large posse sent out from a nearby town following Matt and Festus's return to Dodge had found two sites where major gun battles had taken place. One of them was Devil's Tower. At least sixteen men were dead by their estimation, possibly more. If so, some of the gang remained alive, but the gang had definitely suffered serious losses. At least two of the Casgrain brothers were among the dead. No one knew where the remaining gang members were; perhaps they had not taken part in the gun battles. The remaining gang members, including the final two Casgrain brothers, must be in hiding elsewhere, perhaps having run for Mexico. Still, taking on sixteen men was not for the weak or the faint of heart and the two lawmen from Dodge, strong and determined as they were, had paid dearly for it.

"You stubborn old mule. Why did you two have to go taking on the entire Casgrain gang alone? You and Matt shoulda' had more sense than that." Doc's voice was rising, his fear turning to anger, his frustration at not being able to do more finally spilling over into his words. And as his ire spilled over, his emotions broke through his tough façade. The old man's breath caught and his voice failed.

"You . . you pig headed . . . you . . . .". His voice breaking the old doctor finally said, "I'm sorry. I never shoulda' said what I said old boy. . . You're a fine deputy and Matt knows it. . . I know it. If you weren't so dang stubborn. . . He wanted to say You wouldn't be in this mess, only he knew that wasn't true. It was only because the deputy was stubborn that he was alive. Heaven knows he should have fallen off that mule long before the men arrived in Dodge and he would have bled to death in the dust of the Kansas plains. Guilt ate at him. Guilt for words spoken in anger and haste; guilt for even thinking that the deputy was unworthy, knowing it wasn't true but annoyed by the man's lack of education and stubborn manner. And now guilt because of the great likelihood that his friend would die because Doc had not done enough. A lone tear trickled down his face. It couldn't end like this. Not like this. Not today. . .

xxxxxx

Early in the morning, the door to Doc's office slowly opened and a disheveled head peeked in.

"Louie?" What are you doing up at this hour? It's nearly two a.m.?"

"I know Doc. I saw your light and thought I would see if the Marshall and Festus are OK. I heard they come in earlier." The words were slow and slightly slurred, indicating Louie had imbibed a bit much earlier in the evening.

Doc nodded. "They came in all right. They're both hurt pretty bad, Louie."

"Oh". Louie was a compassionate soul and his face dropped with concern. As the town drunk most men overlooked him, but Festus often let him sleep in the jail on cold nights and the Marshall always treated him decent. As a result, Louie was often prepared to help the lawmen when they needed it, at least to the extent that he could.

Louie's eyes grew wide as he took a good look at the wounded man in Doc's surgery. It seemed that Doc wasn't exaggerating today. His friend Festus looked terrible, and Doc didn't look too good either, but he had come to ask a question, so he might as well do so now that he had Doc's attention.

"Festus said that he would come and help me clean out the stalls at the livery when Hank was gone. Hank left yesterday. D' ya think he'll still be able to help me later?" Louie stammered plaintively. He was pretty sure that he knew the answer to his question as he looked at the pale, limp form of his friend shivering with fever and pain and the piles of bloody clothes and instruments spread throughout Doc's office. He didn't like it when the Marshall and Festus got hurt. They looked after him. They looked after everybody in the town. He looked at Doc with watery eyes, pleading for an answer that meant Festus would be all right.

Doc paused and shook his head sadly.

"Not today, Louie. Festus won't be able to help you today".

xxxxxx

Kitty took Matt's arm and slowly led him to a large, shady willow near the creek. The sound of the water running cheerfully in its banks and the feel of the sun kissing her face added to her already buoyant mood. Matt stepped carefully as she led him further and they settled on the edge of the bank, the big Marshall stretching out his long legs in the sweet grass. It had been nearly ten days since Matt and Festus had returned to town, more dead than alive, and although Matt's sight had had almost completely returned to normal, he had not yet fully recovered. The badly broken arm was slung up near his shoulder, tied tightly to his chest to keep him from moving it and he still had headaches. Today was his first day up and around and Kitty was going to make the best of it. She had a full basket of picnic goodies and the day had been perfect for taking a short walk. Matt stretched his full frame lazily on the blanket that Kitty had laid out for them and sighed.

"What are you thinking, Cowboy?" Kitty said, running her hands softly through his curls. The big Marshall was quiet for a moment, considering his answer.

"I'm just happy . . happy to be here with you." He paused. "This was a close one, Kitty," and he lapsed into silence. She knew exactly how close she had come to losing him again, having helped Doc with both Matt and Festus as they recovered.

"I know." She said softly. "But you're here. And so is Festus".

The Marshall nodded. "I wouldn't have made it without him, Kitty." She nodded.

"Funny, cause Festus told me the same thing about you." Her eyes held his. "That's what good friends are for, Matt. To help us when we can't help ourselves anymore." He grinned, a tight smile crinkling his eyes. He still felt a bit guilty, but Kitty was right. His deputy knew the risks that came with the job; the risks that came with being Matt Dillon's friend. And Festus never once shirked from them.

"Well I'm just glad that Festus is doing better," he said, thankfully. He had been worried about the deputy; it had been touch and go for a few days and Doc had nearly bitten everyone's head off during that time, the worry had strained him so. But Festus was as ornery as they come, a fact for which Matt was grateful, and the infection had finally gotten under control. The deputy was still in pretty rough shape, but Doc had allowed Festus to coerce him into letting him out for an hour or so. Kitty and Matt had passed the two of them as they had returned from a short trip to a nearby fishing hole. Festus' left arm and shoulder were tightly wrapped under his shirt, leaving his shirtsleeve to flap in the caressing breeze and although he walked slowly and with care, he carried his pole and 3 fish in his right hand. Doc carried only his fishing pole and some bright new hooks.

"It's pure luck is what it is! Just plain luck!" the old doc was muttering loudly.

"Tweren't luck a'tall", the deputy rasped. "You jes don't know how to catch fish is all. What with them fancy doodads yer a throwin' in the crik, it's a wonder you didn't scare all the fish away!"

"I'll have you know these are the finest lures! There's solid research behind them!"

"Wal that's yer problem right thar! You don' need no lure thingy! You jes need something to help you catch a fish!"

Doc's eyes bugged out of his head and he snapped his head to look over at the deputy, who was innocently looking at him and holding his fish high. The old doctor was about to spout off some choice words when the deputy suddenly paled and stumbled slightly. Doc grabbed the ailing deputy by the arm to steady him. "Easy, ole boy. I told you not to overdo it today!"

"Who er you callin' old?" Festus gave a short grimace as he paused to steady himself, clutching briefly at his wounded side, but his voice did not have its usual edge and it was clear that the hillman was grateful for the hand. The old doctor saw the hillman's discomfort and steered his patient slowly down the boardwalk back to Doc's.

"Yer jes tryin to get at my fish, is all", Festus grumbled halfheartedly, trying to keep the mood light.

"Your fish! I don't need your fish!" Doc protested loudly. "It's a beautiful day and I've been fishing with a good frien. .. .well, with you! And thanks to your ornery pig headed self, Matt is alive and for that I am grateful. So you are not going to ruin my day! You're not! Not today!"

The deputy gave a small grin as a slight breeze whispered round his head, and allowed the old doctor to support him by the elbow, grateful for his friend's steadying hand after a pleasantly exhausting day. With that, the two men slowly shuffled their way back to Doc's with the easy air of good friends, the old doc surreptitiously supporting his injured companion.

Kitty and Matt had bemusedly watched them go before making their own way to the creek. After a thoroughly enjoyable picnic, Kitty snuggled close into Matt's chest, careful to avoid his injured arm.

"Well, we had better get you back before Doc starts getting antsy. He's been a bear since you and Festus got hurt".

"Oh, I don't need to go back yet." Matt said. "I thought I would go and make some rounds". Kitty missed the twinkle in his eye and she sat bolt upright, a look of indignation and rage twisting her features. As she opened her mouth to speak her mind, she caught the bemused look on his face.

"Oh! Matt, you are horrible!" She poked at him hard, a stern warning only partially in fun and grabbed his broad chest. "I have other plans for you, Cowboy", she murmured. "You are absolutely not doing ANY rounds today! Not today!"

And the breeze whispered cheerfully in her ears as she pulled him under the blanket.

The End.

March 13-15

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