Dark Reflection

Chapter 26

"Through the Long Night"

by Lilyjack

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Doc Adams slumped back in his chair drinking tepid coffee amid a cramped roomful of sleeping folk. He felt like he'd drunk so much in the past twelve hours that his eyeballs were very near floating in the stuff. But the strong, bitter brew in his enameled tin cup was the only thing keeping him awake at the moment so that he could continue to do his job.

One by one, over the course of the evening, his fellow conspirators had lost consciousness in corners and under tables or between racks full of dusty wine bottles, prone on the packed dirt floor of the modest cellar, all exhausted by the exertions of both their daring rescue and the unforeseen harrowing medical complications that followed. At the epicenter of their seemingly unending night's vigil—a deathly-ill, red-headed female saloon-owner who seemed to spark a quiet but ferocious loyalty in this motley crew of tough males. Yes, they'd all finally sacked out on him, but, to their credit, were unwilling to stray too far in the event that their further assistance was required.

Doc chuckled as he removed his spectacles and rubbed his gritty, bloodshot eyes. This merry little band had come through for him last night, had come through for Kitty Russell…and for Matt Dillon who lay softly snoring, sprawled unceremoniously on the floor directly beside her bed, so worn out he probably would need to sleep a month of Sundays to recover.

Doc had warned that big, stubborn cowboy what a foolhardy thing it was for him to go gallivanting off on a rescue attempt. Why, Dillon should still be in a sickbed himself with the injuries he'd received from Dodge City's so-called sheriff and his followers. But Doc had become acquainted with and, well, maybe come to admire Matt Dillon in the short time he'd been in town. And the wise old physician believed nothing short of death itself could have kept the young "Sir Percival" from rescuing his fair maiden, no sir.

Doc shook his head, remembering when Matt had been near death himself in Doc's office, going by the name "Jack Mathias." He also vividly recalled all the talking Matt had done while unconscious. It was clear as day to Doc and to the boys who were helping out at the time that this man had a strong attachment for a certain someone named "Kitty." Occasionally the things Dillon revealed in his unconscious ramblings had made Doc blush, but at the same time, it also made him yearn for the sweet bygone days of his own tender youth. Oh, you bet – Doc had loved and worshipped buxom beauties, too, maybe not to the extent that Matt Dillon apparently cherished this one, this Kitty with the soft, white skin and silky, red hair like a prairie afire. Yep, Doc understood most assuredly.

But even a knight-in-shining-armor who has a ladylove to rescue has his physical limits. Come the early morning hours after the rescue, Matt Dillon was hurting so badly he could hardly walk, and his broken ribs were making breathing difficult. Because the worst of Miss Russell's medical danger had passed, and everyone else had already fallen asleep, the physician decided to stealthily slip some remarkably effective sleeping powders into Matt's coffee. The gentle giant had fairly quickly passed out on the floor right next to where Miss Russell lay sleeping now. That hard dirt wasn't precisely the best place for him to be resting, but it would take three men and a boy to transfer Dillon's dead weight to another location. Better just to let him lie there sleeping peacefully beside his fair maiden.

That young woman was something, too, she really was. According to Chester, she was downright fearless. She'd faced up to Silas Blackthorne, absolutely refused to back down. When all the male businessmen in town had simply given in and paid him off, Kitty Russell had balked. And balked loudly. Perhaps if more men in this town had spines like hers, Dodge City wouldn't be in the awful mess they were in right now. But because she was one woman fighting alone, she had paid dearly.

Doc realized Chester had tried to help her—he'd heard the tales around town concerning that fateful day, the day Blackthorne slashed Goode's face when he tried to free Miss Russell. But Chester was right. One man can't fight a group of outlaws this big and ruthless.

It was just unfortunate that it took so long to get the young lady free. She was terribly sick by the time they could manage her escape. Last night, when he'd detected her feeble, erratic heartbeat and beheld her bloodless complexion, Doc wasn't sure if she truly could be saved. But then all those men and boys worked together feverishly around the clock to help her, to keep her alive, and the result of their efforts was now curled up sleeping, albeit very deeply, in the bed in the center of the room.

The first few hours had been just miserable, primarily for Miss Russell. The emetic was necessarily a very powerful one, and she had emptied her stomach time after time until finally she suffered torturous dry heaves. Thankfully, a fair amount of the opiate was expelled during this process, preventing any further narcotics from reaching her bloodstream. Dillon stayed by her side the entire time, held her, supported her head, since the drugs that were already in her system had rendered her completely incapable of helping herself.

Those villains should all be strung up. They were monsters—to do that to a helpless woman, out here alone with no family or husband to protect or care for her. But thinking back on those first touch and go hours last night, in spite of the fact that she'd been so drugged and sick she could barely speak, Adams got to see a little of that stiff backbone that must've enabled her to stand up to the outlaw gang and survive their treatment this long.

Doc had kept everyone out of the room at first, except Matt, of course. Charlie Fitz only came to the door to drop off hot water for washing and to dispose of things as necessary. Good old Charlie.

When finally the dry heaves wore off, Miss Russell was shaking from head to toe, covered in a cold sweat that soaked her nightdress, her sickly eyes streaming tears. Dillon lay her back on the bed, softly wiping her face with a warm, wet cloth and cooing to her like she was a child. It nearly broke Doc's heart.

Doc had only then shuffled to the door and found the rest of their party, every last one of them, sitting on the stairs right outside the sickroom in shadowy silence. Young Ocie quickly swiped his shirtsleeves over his cheeks. Lafe held his bright, reddish-blonde head in his hands and glanced up quickly when Doc popped out of the room. Charlie Fitz sat on the bottom wooden stairstep with an lantern turned low sitting at his feet. His chin had been resting glumly in his palm but he looked up pensively when the physician appeared.

Deke, with stricken green eyes, was the one to speak, soft and slow and uncertain. "Well, Doc, it's…it's mighty quiet in yonder all of a sudden."

Doc was drying his hands on a towel, but he nodded his head and agreed, "Yes, Mr. Bowman, but quiet in this case is a good thing for our girl. Her stomach has finally settled and…"

A big whoosh—exhaled sighs of happiness and relief from the assembled band, flew over Doc and forced him to pause in the middle of his sentence.

"…and now we gotta keep her awake and moving. It'll be a lotta work."

Ocie sniffled, surreptitiously wiping the corner of his eye, and piped up, "I'll help."

Doc smiled, "I know you will, son. Deke, now that Miss Russell's stomach has eased, we need to fill her up with some of that fine coffee you've been making. Charlie Fitz, can you fix her some clear broth as well? And I'm sure you've got some tea in that kitchen somewhere. She needs some sustenance in her body. I don't think she's been eating too much lately. She's mighty thin."

Charlie nodded as he rose and headed up the stairs. "Yes, Doctor, coming up right away."

Doc interjected, raising one finger, "Hold on just a minute."

Charlie Fitz paused on the stairs and pivoted to face Doc. The others glanced back at him in apprehension.

"Boys, she's not out of danger yet, not by any means." Doc scrubbed his nails through his wiry hair. "I don't know how much of that stuff they managed to force down her throat, but she still can't even walk on her own or hold up her head. Or talk hardly, for..." The physician halted suddenly and cast his head down, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled lower face.

The men looked at each other, expressions ranging from disbelief to seething anger.

Deke began to speak, his face flushed, glittering green eyes narrowed, "We'll do anything you say, Doc. She didn't deserve none a' this. The ones that did this t' her deserve killin'."

"Now…" Doc threw up his hands. "…let's not get distracted stewin' about revenge. Right now let's keep our minds on what's important, and she's layin' in there in that bed right now." Doc blinked his eyes and nodded with finality, then continued, "We've gotta have some clean sheets for the bed—Ocie, will you go up and fetch some for us? And she's sweated her nightgown plumb through. I don't know what we can do about that."

Charlie spoke up, "If I may be so bold, I've a spare nightshirt she might borrow. It's clean and serviceable, although it'll be a wee bit large on her decidedly more delicate frame."

Doc nodded his head. "That'll work fine. Thank you, Charlie. Lafe, follow Charlie to get the nightshirt so I can make Miss Russell more comfortable, and we'll take turns keeping her moving, walking…talking if she's able. Let's get goin'! Bring us that coffee down here, Deke!"

"Yessir!" Deke nodded and headed up the stairs with the rest of them.

And so Doc and Matt had worked together to clean up their patient after the messy business of being sick—washing her face and neck and hands and changing the soiled bed linen. That big young man was shaping up to be a fine nurse! And Doc had assumed after the somewhat impassioned details Dillon had uttered about Miss Russell in his own unconscious state while injured, that assisting in changing her clothing would not serve as a problem. While Dillon didn't breathe a word in protest, his cheeks surprisingly turned rosy and he kept his one visible eye downcast.

Until they removed her nightgown that is. Matt sucked in a breath and his gaze glittered hard as it fell on her body. Doc could see the man's large hand visibly shaking as he reached for the washcloth in the basin of warm, soapy water. Matt swallowed hard, asking, "You got her?"

Doc nodded silently, his mouth a grim line at the overwhelming sight of dark smudges on tender, white skin.

Matt gave a long exhale, gingerly caressed the washcloth over her shoulders and back, careful of her bruises, both old and new. "Who did this to her, Doc?" He dunked his cloth again, scowling, smoothed it over her skin. "Why? Why the hell would…anybody do anything like this to her?"

Doc shook his head, his brows beetling. "Maybe…maybe she'll be able to tell us later. I can't think about it too much because it distracts me from what I need to be doing, which is saving her life, son. Dry her off so we can get her dressed. She needs to be moving."

The physician held her while Matt slipped the nightshirt over her head. He carefully slipped her hair free from the neckline and removed his bandanna. Then he managed to get her arms through the long sleeves with some difficulty, finally rolling them up to make them short enough. He muttered darkly to himself, "When I find out…for sure, I'm gonna kill 'em."

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Yep, they had spent the rest of the night awake with that young lady, walking her up and down the old underground passageways of Dodge. One person would support her on each side and another would carry a lantern against the pitch darkness of the brick tunnels. For hours she was kept moving, she was talked to, she was made to drink coffee, tea and broth, and slowly, oh so slowly, she seemed to regain her senses.

The triumph of the evening actually happened long about 5 a.m. when Miss Russell was seated in a chair in the cellar with the two youngest boys close on either side of her. Ocie was kneeling down holding a cup of coffee to her lips. When she finished drinking, she opened her blue eyes wide with recognition and said his name aloud, clear as day. Doc thought the boy might burst into tears. Instead, he'd swallowed the big lump in his throat and told her earnestly, "Yes'm, Miss Kitty, it's me, Ocie. We came t' git you, along with Chester. Yer safe here with us now."

Her weary eyes had closed again, but she'd repeated Ocie's word, "Safe…"

Doc had watched the men quietly celebrate that tiny victory by exchanging shining glances, patting backs, expelling great sighs. Doc could see, by the glowing lantern light, unshed tears shimmering in the one blue eye of the biggest man in the room. But then they'd quickly set to work again walking the tunnels, brewing coffee and tea, keeping Miss Russell from slipping into a deep sleep from which she might never emerge.

Round about 10 a.m. when Doc checked Miss Russell's heartbeat and pulse for the hundredth time, it was just slow, but no longer erratic. Her respiration was closer to normal. The poor girl was completely exhausted and Doc felt it was finally safe to let her get some rest. He would simply wake her every half hour to make sure that she was not sleeping too deeply. The drug was still in her system and would take a while to work its way out.

Doc asked Charlie Fitz to please pass the word to Mr. Botkin that Miss Russell was doing as well as could be expected and to thank the banker wholeheartedly for his part in freeing her until they were able to tell him themselves. Seems Charlie Fitz's cousin had been filling in for Charlie upstairs, helping out Mr. Botkin while Charlie aided in the emergency care of Miss Russell.

So now Doc was the last man standing. Others had valiantly attempted to stay awake along with him, propping themselves up in corners, singing softly, playing Solitaire on the dirt floor and such, but the end result was the same—exhausted eyes inexorably drifting closed accompanied by deep, resonant snoring.

Matt was the lone holdout, limping terribly, breathing shallowly with an arm clutching his broken ribs. His expressive features were distressed not for his own considerable pain, but for the helpless young woman lying unconscious on the small bed between them. Doc could see the weighty guilt written on his drawn face. When the stubborn young man refused to rest, Doc finally felt sorry for him and decided to put him out of his misery with a tranquilizer strong enough to knock out a bull elephant. With any luck, Dillon would never realize what had hit him, would simply believe exhaustion had won over, plain and simple. That obstinate cowboy was lucky he had hadn't killed himself during this terrible ordeal.

Doc pulled out his watch—it was tucked in his cowboy pants pocket and felt odd there. He was looking forward to getting back into his own comfortable clothing. Ten more minutes and he'd wake Sleeping Beauty one last time. He wondered if he'd get a cussing this time like thirty minutes ago. She was definitely starting to get the opiates flushed out of her system as her verbal skills were most assuredly improving. She did not like being woken up, that much was certain. He likened her drugged demeanor to that of a cantankerous drunk and ruminated that it would be interesting to discover what Miss Russell's personality was like when she was stone cold sober.

But, he sighed to himself, he was afraid that's when her troubles would begin all over again. He wondered if she realized this, and knew he'd need to have a talk with her about it pretty soon. But right now, it simply felt good that they'd gotten her through this first long night…

tbc

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