As the bloodcurdling scream echoed across the rock walls, Dillon and Chester froze for one eternal, heart-wrenching moment, which was followed by Matt's sorrowful utterance of a single word: "Doc."

Goode bolted from their alcove of cover, but Dillon grabbed the back of his suspenders, yanking him hard down into the shelter as bullets whizzed past their heads. "Chester!" The big marshal scolded, "What in the hell do you think you're doin'?"

"That coulda been Doc! We can't just leave him there, hurtin' like that..."

"Chester, those men out there will gun you down before you get anywhere near Doc."

"But what if he was hit by a bullet?"

Matt stared hard into the clouds of dark brown. "Chester, if we get killed, then Doc won't have any chance at all." He looked squarely into his assistant's eyes. "We can't even be sure if that was Doc, or if he's even still alive."

"Mr. Dillon!" Chester admonished, "Don't you dare say that. Just don't--"

Goode's voice broke and he looked away. Dillon slid a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder.

"How many bullets have you go left?" He asked softly.

Chester shrugged. "Full load in my rifle, and I got a few more here in my pocket...but it don't total much."

Dillon nodded and then looked toward the entrance of the crevice where Doc was trapped. "You men in there," He yelled, "I'll give you one last chance to throw out your guns and come out with your hands up."

After a long moment of silence, Pablo's accented voice answered, "Or else what, marshal? You'll come in shooting? There are two of you and two of us. You have no advantage here, so you are in no position to make demands."

"Maybe not," Dillon yelled back. "But we have access to food and water. You'll run out. We can wait..."

"Maybe you can, amigo, but your doctor friend cannot. He is in a bad way."

Chester looked hopefully at Matt. "Then Doc's still alive, Mr. Dillon!"

Matt forced himself to remain calm and levelheaded as he said, "I hope so, Chester, but he could just be saying that to get us to play his game." He pat Goode's arm. "It's time for us to call his bluff. Take my shotgun in addition to your rifle, and draw their fire, I'm going to circle around to the right of the entrance."

"Be careful, Mr. Dillon."

The big marshal smiled and nodded before pulling his six-gun from his holster, preparing to run. Goode peered out from the rock protecting him, took aim toward the cave entrance and shot off the rest of the rounds in his rifle, while Dillon ran toward the crevice. Chester followed it with two huge blasts from both barrels of Matt's shotgun. But unfortunately, Matt Dillon hadn't counted on the instability of the snow hanging off the rocks of the cliffs, and a delayed second or two later, the rumbling sound of an avalanche towered toward them.


Charlie was cold and tired as he approached the dilapidated shack in the Smoky Hills above Hays. When he was about twenty feet from the porch, he heard the cocking of a rifle, and froze.

"Just hold it right there, mister," a voice said from the darkened entryway.

Charlie recognized Pete and called out, "Pete, it's Charlie..."

After a moment the rifle uncocked and Weed's voice said, "Well, well, little Adams, we was beginnin' to think you didn't care none for that older sawbones brother of yours..."

Charlie dismounted and tied his horse up against a post, patting the animal's neck. "Don't worry boy, you won't be out here long," he whispered.

Adams walked across the porch and into the shack just as Pete was lighting an oil lamp inside. Weed slammed the door shut behind him, and shoved a cocked handgun into the back of his neck.

"You ain't carryin' no saddlebags, Charlie. Where's the money?"

"I'm not as stupid as that, Weed. If I had the money on me, you'd just shoot me and Galen."

Weed smiled as he uncocked the pistol, returning it to its holster. He walked around to face Adams. "You ain't none too smart, Charlie, tryin' to cheat me, sendin' me and the boys to jail in San Antone. That weren't none too smart at all."

Charlie smiled and shrugged easily. "Can't blame a fella fer tryin', Weed. It was a lot of money."

"And where is it now?"

Charlie glanced around the shack, but there was no sign of Galen, Pablo, Jimmy or Bill. "Where's my brother, Weed?"

"I've got him stashed away for safe keepin', Charlie, don't you worry none about that."

"You ain't gettin' a dime, Weed, not until I see that my brother's okay, and you let him go."

"You always was a big dreamer, Charlie. You see, if Pete and me don't show up at our meetin' place by a certain time with the cash, Billy's gonna blow that ol' sawbones' head clean off."

Pete glanced from one man to the other, wondering which was the bigger liar.

Charlie sat down, removed his hat, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well then, we're standin' in front of a big wall, Weed. No Galen, no cash. It's as simple as that."

Weed laughed as he sat down at the table with Charlie. "Then we really are in a small spot. I ain't givin' you nothin' until you return what's mine to me."

Charlie sighed, his smile growing. "You got any whiskey to help pass the time then?"

"I got all the time in the world, Charlie. It's that ol' sawbones of yours who don't." Weed grinned. "Pete, bring that bottle over here, will ya?"

"Sure, Weed."

Pete lifted a half-full whiskey bottle from a shelf and set it on the table in front of Weed, followed by a couple of coffee mugs. Weed poured a little whiskey into each and handed one to Charlie, who grasped it tightly in his left hand. The two men stared at each other for a long moment before either took a sip of the amber liquid. Then without warning, Charlie flung the contents of his mug into Weed's face, and pulled his gun. Watkins' hand easily slid to his pistol, and drawing it, he fired blindly across the table at the same time Charlie squeezed the trigger...


As the avalanching snow tumbled toward them, Dillon screamed to be heard over the deafening noise, "Chester! Take cover!"

Goode ran for the side of a cliff with a large overhang of rock, and pressed himself tightly against it, ducking his head under his arms. He could feel his breath panting hot against the cool limestone as the earth continued to shake with the force of the sliding snow. With no time to think through his options, Dillon dove into the exposed cave which held Pablo, Jimmy, and Doc Adams. Matt rolled as the two outlaws fired at him, missing him only by inches. Lying on his stomach, the marshal shot back, catching Jimmy squarely in the chest, and nicking Pablo in the arm. As the earth continued to rumble, the snow above the crevice entrance began to slide, covering up the only way out. Pablo dove wildly for the opening, only to be smothered under a wall of snow. Matt lunged in the other direction, covering his head with his arms, praying that he wouldn't be buried alive...


Pete plunged under the nearest chair, covering his head for fear of flying lead. But after the initial three or four crackles of gunfire, there was only silence, and the acrid smell of gunsmoke hanging over the small room. He peeked out from his vantage point of safety and stared at the two men lying on the floor on opposite sides of the wooden table. Carefully, Pete crawled out and cautiously approached Weed, but even from a few feet away, Pete could see that Weed's eyes were staring blankly up at the ceiling, as dead as the man himself. He glanced over at Charlie, but his eyes were closed, and Pete wasn't about to wait around to see if he was still breathing. He grabbed his gear and his coat, and headed out of the shack, jumping on Charlie's horse as soon as he hit the porch. Wherever the money was, it would most likely remain there now, as Pete assumed that Charlie was as dead as Weed. And that fact was just fine with Pete.


There was only silence surrounding him, until Chester let out the breath of air he'd been holding. He lifted his head and realized that he was unscathed; however, there was now a wall of snow surrounding him, directly under where the overhang of rock extended. But Goode was relieved to note that it hadn't buried him completely; there was still a half foot or so open up at the top. Chester began to mold handholds in the wall of packed snow, and slowly hoisted himself toward the top. He tried to balance himself with one hand and his two feet while using his other hand to push snow outward at the top of the wall, but he repeatedly lost balance, falling back to the bottom. And then he remembered that he had carried his rifle to the cliff with him. Goode picked up the weapon, and reaching with the butt of it toward the top of the wall, he began to push out the packed ice and snow a little at a time. But his progress was slow, and Chester figured it would take several hours to make a hole large enough for him to climb out. His mind wandered to his friends then, and he swallowed hard; he could only hope that both Doc and Mr. Dillon had fared the avalanche as well as he.


Matt pushed himself off of the cavern floor, shaking free the bits of snow and ice that had lightly covered him. He let out a slow sigh of air, silently thanking the Almighty that he was still alive. But now with the entrance to the crevice closed off, it was pitch black in the cavern, and if Dillon tried to move, he might wind up falling into a chasm. The big marshal reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a match, striking it against the zipper of his pants. As the light filtered through the cave, Matt walked through the small area, searching for Adams, but there was no sign of him.

"Doc?" The big man called. "Doc? Where are you?"

His question was met with only silence. As the match began to burn down, Matt gathered sticks and brush from the cave floor into a pile. He lit another match when the first one burned out, and collected enough fodder to start a small blaze. Once the fire was burning steadily, and he had assembled enough sticks and leaves to keep it going for awhile, he walked toward the wall of snow blocking the entryway. Pulling his gun from his holster, he struck the barrel into the snow and ice repeatedly, until he had several small cylindric holes that reached to the outside to allow the smoke from the fire to exit the cave, and also to keep some oxygen flowing in. He noted that he had to thrust his entire seven and a half inch barrel to reach the other side of the snow wall, and the force that he had to use had been considerable, just to make a small hole. Digging out was going to be a lengthy and difficult process. He could only hope that Chester was all right and would be trying to dig him out from the other side soon.

Satisfied that the enclosed space had enough air for the moment, Dillon returned his attention to finding Doc. Lighting a thick but short branch from the fire, Matt walked once again around the cavern, but there wasn't much room toward the back, and it didn't take him long to realize that Doc must have fallen into the crevice below. His heart sank with the thought that Doc was lying dead somewhere in the black chasm below. With a heavy chest and dry mouth, Matt lowered himself to his stomach, so that he could lean his makeshift torch over the side of the cliff. His breath contracted in his throat as he caught sight of the small doctor wedged limply and precariously between two jagged rocks, his shoulder jammed at an odd angle.

"Doc? Doc!" Dillon called, but Adams did not respond.

Matt stood up and looked around for anything he could use to lower himself down into the crevice, and he spotted a couple of saddle bags that belonged to the outlaws. Dillon rifled through them, and pulled out a couple of lengths of rope; however, he was unsure as to either the strength of the ropes, or that even tied together they would be long enough to reach the spot where Doc was stuck. The marshal sighed, for in the end it didn't matter, Matt knew he had to try.

He tossed his hat onto the floor and removed his gunbelt. Meticulously, Dillon tied the two ropes together to make one longer lead. Eyeing the rocks near the edge of the crevice, Dillon chose a fairly narrow, but apparently stout rock, and he tied a ring around it with one end of the rope. He added some brush and twigs to the fire to make sure it wouldn't expire while he was down in the crevice, and then he flung the free end of the rope down into the darkness of the pit below. Picking another branch as a torch, he lit it, and held it tightly in his left hand. Slowly and cautiously, Dillon climbed down the rope with his right hand, allowing his feet to walk down the limestone walls of the cliff. As he neared the body of his dear friend, the lump that had formed in his throat swelled.

Matt forced himself to shove his emotions aside as he found a slit between the rocks near Doc to wedge the torch into. Looking at the leftover rope below him, Dillon heaved a sigh, for it wasn't nearly enough to tie Doc's body to him and still leave enough room for the big marshal to begin scaling upward with any kind of a safety length. Shaking that reality off, Matt pulled the end of the rope up toward himself, and tied it into a tripod shape so that he could balance himself in the makeshift seat and have both hands free. Once supported by the end of the rope, Matt pulled himself toward Doc's unconscious body, praying that Adams was still alive. Gently Matt leaned the back of Doc's head against his chest, pulling up on the small doctor's lower body, trying to take the pressure off of his mangled limb. Adams moaned in pain, and Dillon brushed a soft hand over his forehead.

"It's me, Doc. It's Matt."

"Matt," the old man muttered hazily.

"It's a fine mess you've gotten yourself into this time, ya ol' country croaker. You couldn't have chosen a more difficult spot..."

"Yeah..." Doc swallowed hard, unable to remember the last time any water had passed his parched lips. "Hurts 'bout as good as it looks too..."

"I'm gonna lift you out, Doc, so just hang on."

Adams shook his head against the marshal's massive chest. "Weed Watkins' young whelp brother tried that, couldn't get it out." His voice softened to a whisper, "Might have to take it off, son..." Dillon slammed his eyes shut against the thought, and tried to steady his uneven breathing. "Matt? You okay?"

"I'd say I'm a damned sight better off than you are right now, Doc."

"That ain't sayin' too much."

"Maybe not." Dillon shifted Doc's weight against him slightly, preparing to try and pull him out. "All right, ol' boy, grit your teeth some, here we go."

With all his might, the big marshal of Dodge pulled Adams' dead weight upward from his waist, but instead of releasing the wedged shoulder, it only caused Adams to scream in agony.

"Matt! Stop! Please stop..."

Dillon moved closer, allowing Doc to lean his body weight against him. "Take calm breaths, Doc, let the pain pass, and we'll try this again."

"No," he said weakly, "please no more..."

"I have to, Doc. You know that I do." He stroked Doc's forehead and rested the back of the man's head against his chest once more. "Rest for a second longer, and then I'm going to move up above you a little to get more leverage, and then come heaven or hell, I'm lifting you out of here."

"That's gonna be awful dangerous, Matt," Doc breathed heavily. "You could lose your balance and fall to your death doin' it that way."

"That's my lookout, ol' boy. You just keep breathing. That's your job in all this."

"Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to promise me that if it comes down to you or me, you'll let me go." Matt was silent for a long time, and the old man prompted, "Promise me, son."

"I can't," Dillon whispered. "I can't promise that, Doc."

"Now you listen to me, you stubborn galoot," Adams chastised, "one young man has already fallen to his death today tryin' to get me outta here, and I'll be damned if another one does. Especially you, Matt." Dillon was once again silent, and Doc growled, "Do you hear me, boy?"

"I hear you. Now you hear me, old man: I'm not leaving you here, I'm not cuttin' off your arm, and I'm not lettin' you fall. You got that?"

"Y-yeah," Doc's emotional voice cracked slightly, "I got it."

"Good."

Matt moved away from Doc slightly, and scaled upward a foot or so, figuring the distance would give him enough leverage to pull the much smaller doctor free. Bracing himself with his feet pressed into the crevice wall, Dillon reached down, gripping Adams' shirt.

"Okay, ol' boy, take a deep breath and try to stay with me."

Before Adams could think about it, Dillon yanked him upward with every last ounce of strength he possessed, pulling the little doctor free. Doc passed out from the searing pain almost immediately, and Matt hoisted him over his shoulder, balancing him carefully as he gripped the rope with both hands. Slowly, methodically, Dillon reached one hand over the other, his feet climbing up the walls, until finally he reached the edge of the crevice. With one last grunt of exertion, Matt folded Doc over the side, onto the floor of the cavern, the doctor's legs still dangling over the cliff, and Dillon crawled out. As gently as he could, Matt lifted Doc and carried him to the small fire, lying him down in front of it for warmth. And it was in the glowing firelight that Dillon could see Doc's pale color, his bluing lips, and the hideous damage the fall had inflicted on the doctor's shoulder.

"Aw, Doc..." Dillon said softly.

Matt removed his coat and covered Adams with it. Trying to keep warm himself, Dillon moved quickly to the saddlebags on the other side of the cavern, lugging them over to the fire. He emptied all the contents, and made a pillow out of the leather, gently setting Doc's head on top of them. He picked up the canteen and took a small swig of water, then poured a little between the old man's lips. Doc stirred, groaning.

"M-matt?"

"Right here."

"Pain's awful bad," Adams managed through gritted teeth.

"What do I do to stabilize your shoulder?"

Adams tried to think through a thick haze of hurt. "Need to tie the whole arm to my body so it can't move," he whispered.

"I don't have any gauze, Doc."

"Stripped material'd work..."

Dillon looked at his own shirt, and hated the idea of giving it up in the cold, but he couldn't see any way around-- And then his eyes landed on Jimmy's body. "Okay, I can immobilize your arm. Then what?"

"You gotta set it first, Matt, then tie it up."

Doc was fading slightly, and Dillon gently shook his leg. "Stay with me, ol' boy, or I won't know how to help you." Adams swallowed hard, trying to overcome the white hot stab in his arm. "Pain's almost more than you can take isn't it?" Closing his eyes, Doc nodded. "Would a little whiskey help?"

Doc's eyes snapped open. "You got some?"

Dillon grabbed the bottle that had fallen from one of the outlaw's saddlebags. "Yeah. Can't vouch for the quality of it, but it might take the edge off."

Doc nodded and Matt carefully poured a generous shot into the doctor's mouth.

"More..."

One of Dillon's eyebrows shot up slightly, but he gave Adams a little more. "Better?" Adams nodded, but Matt could see the whiskey hadn't done much to ease the pain. "Tell me how to set your shoulder, Doc."

"As far as I can tell, Matt," he breathed heavily, "my shoulder's busted in about four places. But that's just from the feel, I might be wrong without seein' it." Dillon let out a puff of air. "Steady, son, it's gonna hurt me a lot more than it is you," Adams said with as much of a grin as he could muster. All Matt could do in answer was pat Doc's cheek, and Adams noted the tears brimming in Dillon's eyes. "I know it'll be hard on you, Matt, but I need you to help me."

Dillon's voice was soft, "I'll do anything I can to help you."

Adams grasped Matt's hand with his strong right one. "I know you will, my boy." Adams pat Dillon's hand before letting go. "The tricky thing about this is that the muscle and tendons that usually hold the clavicle, scapula and humerus together are all torn..."

"In English, Doc."

"It means even if you get the bones back where they belong, they're not gonna wanna stay there. You'll have to try and immobilize my shoulder as quickly as ya can. Somethin' like this usually takes two people to handle." Dillon nodded, and Adams continued, his voice growing husky with fatigue and discomfort. "The acromioclavicular joint is a small bone that connects the clavicle and the humerus. I'm pretty sure its crushed."

"What do I do about it?"

"Well, Matt, I'm not completely sure about that. You see the deltoid and bicep muscles that groove into the top of the humerus are so torn up I couldn't move any part of this arm if I tried. I think maybe you should just try and patch it together as best ya can, immobilize it, and get me back to Dodge."

"And then?"

"I'm gonna need surgery, Matt. A specialist. But we'll cross that prairie if we get that far."

Dillon frowned, alarm setting in. "Do you think you'll lose the use of your arm, Doc?"

"I don't know. It's pretty bad."

"But Doc--"

"--Yeah, I know, there ain't much call for one-armed surgeons in these parts."

Matt swallowed and then took a breath. "Tell me how to set the bones, and I want it in as much detail as you can stand. Whatever we need to do to give your arm the best chance, that's what I want to know."

"So long as you remember, Matt, no matter what the outcome, none of this is on you..."

Dillon's countenance darkened slightly as he thought of the man who was responsible for Doc being abducted; the man who abandoned his brother for love of money; the man who didn't care what happened to one of the kindest souls that walked the earth: and it was then that Matt Dillon knew Charlie Adams would be beaten to within an inch of his life if the big marshal ever caught sight of him again.

"Matt? You all right, son?"

"Sure, Doc, I'm fine." But if I ever catch up with that son-of-a-bitch brother of yours, he won't be...


Chester climbed out of the top of the wall enclosing him, and pushed himself out through the hold he made with the butt of his rifle, tumbling to the hard ground in a heap.

"Ow!" After a moment, he picked himself up and looked around. "Mr. Dillon? Mr. Dillon!" He called to the big marshal, but there was no response. And then Chester saw the cavern entrance, encased in a wall of ice and snow. "Oh my lands..."

With a fervor usually reserved for madmen, Chester Goode began tearing into the wall with the butt of his rifle. "Mr. Dillon! Mr. Dillon, are you in there?"

But the cry continued to go unheard by the men trapped behind the wake of the avalanche.


Dillon was finishing the final tie on the strips of clothing he was going to use to wrap Doc's shoulder once he set the bones when he heard the faint sounds of scraping. He glanced down at Adams, but the man was out cold, exhausted from pain, frigid temperatures, no food or sleep. He looked over at the entrance of the cavern, and frowned: it was emanating from there. Dillon stood and walked over to the wall of ice, trying to peer out one of the small cylindric holes he had dug, but he could see nothing. The sound grew louder, and then he saw some snow fall inward. Using the butt of his handgun, Matt chipped away at the snow and ice, and finally he saw faint light peering through, and then finally what he thought to be a dark brown eye.

"Chester?"

"Mr. Dillon!"

"I'm glad you're okay."

"Are you all right, Mr. Dillon? Didja find Doc?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, and I found Doc, but he's in miserable shape. Busted his shoulder up pretty bad. I need to work on settin' it right now."

"Wull, can't it wait awhile? With two of us digging, we could get a hole large enough for a man ta git through in three or four hours. Then I can help ya with Doc."

Dillon shook his head, even though Chester couldn't see it. "I can't make him wait that long, Chester. He's hurtin' awful bad."

"Won't settin' it hurt him even worse?"

"In the short term, yes, but then it'll ease up some if the bones aren't rubbing against each other all wrong."

"If ya think that's best then. It's coming upon dusk out here, Mr. Dillon; I won't have light for much longer."

Matt licked his lips, coming to a decision. "Look, Chester, make yourself a fire and bed down for the night. I've got a one burning in here, and I've got enough sticks and brush to last. I'm gonna set Doc's arm, and then keep an eye on him. Tomorrow morning, you and I'll dig through this wall."

"Are ya sure, Mr. Dillon?"

"Yeah, Chester, I'm sure."

Chester frowned, not so sure that Dillon was making a wise decision. But all he said was, "Wull, if...if ya need something, just yell through this here hole. I'll bed down right next to it."

"Fine, Chester, fine."

Matt turned away and walked over to Doc, oblivious to his assistant's attempt to watch him through the small passage. Dillon knelt down and brushed a caring hand over Doc's brow.

"Doc? Come on, ol' boy, let's get that arm set."

"Ohhhhh...damn that's painin' me somethin' smart." The pale blue eyes looked into the shimmering ones. "You 'member what I told ya?"

"Yep."

"Then what're you waitin' fer?"

Dillon's intense eyes locked with Doc's. Matt gripped Adams' left wrist with his hands and placed the arch of his boot at the pivot of Doc's armpit. For a brief moment, Matt thought he saw fear register in the soft sea of blue staring at him, but if he had, it was gone in an instant. As quickly and strongly as he could, Dillon yanked Doc's arm up and out while pressing his left boot down to hold Adams' shoulder still, setting the clavicle back into its groove against the scapula. Even though he understood the agony he'd caused, Matt was not prepared for the cry of anguish coming from his dearest friend, and it startled him. Dillon froze.

Howling with distress, Adams screamed, "Finish it, Matt! Hurry up!"

Dillon reacted to the sound of Doc's voice and pulled straight out on the injured limb, snapping the humerus back into contact with the scapula. And again Adams screamed in misery, tears of pain sliding down his cheeks, his breath emitting in heaves as his heart worked overtime to compensate for the released blood flow from the nerves in Doc's shoulder that had finally been freed.

"Matt," Adams panted, "wait..."

Dillon stood still, not letting go of Doc's arm, but not making the final adjustment as he had been instructed. After a long minute of silence, the lawman swallowed hard.

"Doc?"

The dazed pale eyes rolled to meet Matt's, the pain in them almost more than the marshal could bear to see from someone so dear to him. "Just need a minute or two..." Not trusting his own voice, Dillon simply nodded. "Okay my boy," Doc whispered, "go ahead."

Holding his boot tightly at the pivotal point where Adams' humerus and acromioclavicular joint met, he pulled Doc's arm toward him, and heard the sound both men had dreaded: the grating of bone against jagged edges. Adams wailed in distress before passing out, and Dillon released the air he'd been holding in his lungs. As quickly as he could, Matt set on the task of wrapping Doc's left arm as tightly as possible to his body, before any of the bones had a chance to shift.

Several hours later, Adams moaned softly, and Matt's eyes snapped open. He moved closer to the doctor and could see the beads of perspiration that had broken out across Adams' forehead. Dillon lay a gentle hand over Doc's brow and the searing heat surprised him. Frowning, Matt doused a torn piece of fabric he'd ripped from Jimmy's shirt with water, and pressed it against the old man's forehead. The marshal poured a little water into Doc's mouth and gently rubbed his hand over the doctor's good shoulder. Adams moaned again, but this time in response to the comfort of Matt's touch.

Dillon changed the compress and watched his friend writhe in pain and delirium as his inner core temperature continued to rise. All Matt could do now was pray that Doc would make it through the night.