Author's note: I don't own True Grit and I don't profit from this fanfic. Some lines were taken directly from the film and book, I take no credit for those parts. This was made solely for entertainment purposes. Everything belongs to its respective owners - Charles Portis and the Coen brothers. I'm deeply grateful to both parties.

Please enjoy :)

The snake venom was taking hold of her.

The world was coming at Mattie in cold flashes, with distorted colours and sounds and a terrible icy pain which was creeping through her veins. She felt like she was slowly sinking beneath a wave of dark water.

Rooster handed her to LaBoeuf as gently as he could, but in spite of that she was still jostled some, as the Texan seemed uncoordinated and nearly staggered under her weight as he took her over his shoulder. Mattie noticed vaguely that there was blood clumped in his fair hair – from the blow Chaney had dealt him with that rock. There was a lot of it. It was trickling down his face in a fairly gruesome way, and he was squinting quite a bit. LaBoeuf settled her clumsily on the saddle of Little Blackie, his bad arm slowing the process, then he stepped back, panting slightly. The wind toyed with his ever present cowlick, muddied down with blood as it was.

Everything was so cold. Her head was too addled with the pain and the snake venom to make any sense now. Her eyes settled hazily on the lawman, but her vision was failing with her consciousness and the figure was no longer clear. She squeezed her eyes shut and gave a ragged sob.

"I must get you to a doc, sis, or you're not gonna make it," Rooster said, his gravelly voice sounding from behind her and grounding her a little. He steadied her on the saddle and nodded at LaBoeuf, who was standing by the pony's head and looking wretched. "I'm in your debt for that shot, pard. I will send help as soon as I can. Don't wander off."

"We are not leaving him," Mattie heard herself gasp, hunched miserably over the pommel.
The sun was in the sky still as it was only late afternoon, but its rays held no warmth or comfort for Mattie. She had succeeded in her mission, but she could barely think of it. Her mind was foggy and her thoughts confused. A terrible shivering had got hold of her, wrapping her in its cold clammy fingers.

LaBoeuf must have bitten his tongue again, for there was more blood on his chin, and his voice sounded very thick when he managed a short reply to Rooster's promise to send him back help.

Mattie didn't register what the Texan said. She thought she was listening, but his words passed over her in a kind of distorted mumble – so far removed from that pleasant lazy drawl of his. LaBoeuf was sitting on a rock and holding his head when they left him.

Her eyelids were already falling shut when Rooster spurred her poor pony into a rough canter.
Darkness descended about her in a veil, and she saw the world go by through its gauzy, hazy filter. The trees and rocks and long grasses and the dead men and horses from Rooster's gunfight against Lucky Ned Pepper and his gang passed by her as if in a feverish dream.

She lost consciousness properly when they got to McAlester's, and she did not know anything more for some days.

When Mattie next came to, she was lying in a strange narrow bed with stiff white sheets in a strange whitewashed room which smelled strongly of whiskey and medicine and cigarette smoke. Her head hurt badly, and her arm too, but in a more distant way.
She felt very…heavy. Lethargic. As though she were still asleep and only dreaming of being awake.

Mattie blinked slowly a couple of times, aware of the urge to sit up. She wanted to get up. She wanted to feel okay.
But she was much too tired to make the effort, and soon fell asleep again, her cheek flush against her pillow and her dark hair tangled about her face.

"Well, Marshal, I done my best. It's a shame about her arm, but you know there was nothing for it. Miss Ross has a way to go before she's feeling halfways to normal, but she's out of danger now," the doctor said in a low voice, rubbing a damp washcloth at his forearms.

Rooster humphed, but he was glad.
"That's real good to hear," he said gruffly, manoeuvring his dry cigarette into the corner of his mouth, the better for talking. He stood in the doorframe of Mattie's makeshift hospital room, his hands in his pockets and his brow furrowed in a relieved frown. "That girl has got some grit in her, all right."