To Do Justly*
A Gunsmoke Moment by Amanda (MAHC)
Matt Dillon wasn't exactly sure how he'd gotten himself into the situation. Had he fallen into Spring Creek somehow? Or was he pushed? Maybe hogtied and thrown. That seemed to fit the predicament better. If it was Spring Creek, how ironic that the place that brought the most pleasant memories would bring the most horrible ones at the end.
He didn't seem to remember what had happened before, could only focus on where he was now. He felt like a worm on one of Doc's fishing lines, struggling to wiggle back up to the surface but held down by the heavy sinker that kept pressing. The disturbing realization came to him that he was drowning, gasping for air but sucking in only water, choking and coughing and desperate for just one gulp of clean, sweet oxygen. Hell, he'd settle for stale, musty oxygen. Anything that might prolong his life, save him from what was quickly and unpleasantly turning into his final moments. The water, brutally cold, attacked his body, limb by limb until even his heart seemed to freeze. His teeth no longer chattered together; his jaws were fused and aching.
With a final, desperate attempt, he reach outward, upward, one last surge in the hopeless effort to break away from the chains that kept him under. But the weights held him fast, refusing him, scoffing at his feebleness. Matt Dillon was unaccustomed to being feeble. He had always counted on his physical power, and it had rarely failed him so completely. Maybe, he finally decided, it was time. Maybe the Good Lord was going to take him on. Maybe, even though he was still a young man, he had fought the good fight, he had run the race. He had tried to be a good man, had remembered the scriptures his mother, in one of the few memories he had of her, quoted. "What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God."**
For a moment he relaxed and allowed the water to fill his lungs. It just suddenly seemed easier. But as he sank deeper, a vision wavered at the front of his mind. A vision of beauty, of laughter, of passion – of love. Thoughts of giving in were thrust back behind a powerful desire not to lose that vision. He fought again and clawed upward, gagging and coughing to expel the vile fluid from his sodden lungs, but his efforts seemed futile and the final curtain of darkness fell over him, her name the last word bubbling from his lips.
XXX
His eyes opened slowly, the light burning them so that he blinked painfully before he could settle on the surrounding walls to determine where he was. To his surprise, it was not the bottom of Spring Creek. Not even the banks of Spring Creek. Instead, he lay in Doc's spare bed in the back room of the physician's office.
"Matt?"
With more effort than he would have figured he needed, he turned his head, mustering a weak smile when he gazed on the vision he had fought for. "Kitty," he whispered, just a breath of her name.
"Well, you had us pretty worried there, Cowboy," she told him, scooting the chair closer and stroking her fingers through his damp hair.
He realized he was dripping wet, and what he figured was just a dream seemed suddenly plausible. "What – "
"Chester found you passed out in the stables."
"Just wanted to – sleep," he remembered, deciding that still wasn't a bad idea. He could just drift on back down –
"You've been real sick," she revealed. "Doc says it's pneumonia."
Her voice roused him again. "I dreamed – I was drowning," he admitted.
"That's because your lungs were filled with fluid," another voice supplied.
He tried to smile, but it seemed too difficult. "Doc."
"'Bout time you came around."
"How long?"
The anguish was too clear in Kitty's tone. "Four days."
"I was cold."
"You had a high fever. Just broke this morning."
"Thought I was in – Spring Creek."
Doc chuckled, but his tone was more relief than amusement. "You kinda look like you were in Spring Creek."
Mustering as much strength as he could, he lifted a hand toward Kitty's face, his fingertips brushing her smooth cheek. "Couldn't – let you go."
He heard an awkward cough, and the door closed, leaving him alone with the vision that had no doubt saved him. Kitty leaned toward him and gave him a gentle kiss. "Welcome back," she whispered, her eyes brave, but her voice trembling.
"Kitty," he began, his clouded brain trying to sift through his thoughts and feelings to latch on to what he really wanted to tell her. How the mere vision of her had brought him from the depths. How the thought of never seeing her again had given him that last needed strength to hang on. How his need ingrained from childhood to do justly and love mercy and walk humbly had only been solidified by her own innate character to do the same.
Instead, he licked his lips, smiled the smile he reserved only for her, and said, "It's good to be back."
* ATC for "Unloaded Gun"
**Micah 6:8