Doc's Secret

by dinacarter

Doc Adams has been acting rather strangely lately. He keeps disappearing and avoids his friends. What is he trying to hide?

Doc's Secret

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Disclaimer: This fan fiction was written for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to infringe or violate the copyrights as owned by VIACOM/PARAMOUNT, nor to realize any profits.
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Summary: Doc Adams has been acting rather strangely lately. He keeps disappearing and avoids his friends. What is he trying to hide?
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Rating: PG-13. Please be advised that this story contains crude language, graphic violence that some readers might find offensive. Discretion is advised.

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"Well, for heaven's sakes," mumbled Doc Adams as the loud knocking on his front door became more persistent. He fumbled with the hurricane lamp on his desk, trying to light it.

"All right, all right, I'm comin'! you don't have to knock the door down!"

With the lamp lit at last, he hurriedly shuffled through the inky darkness of his office, towards the front door.

No sooner had he unlocked it, than someone pushed it open and quickly entered.

Doc held the lamp up to the man's face. The other squinted annoyed at the bright light and shielded his eyes with his hand.

"I need your help, doc."

The physician lowered the lamp a little and regarded the man closer.

He was tall and lanky, his dark hair covered by a worn-looking brown hat. His thin face was unshaven and pitted with pockmarks.

Doc didn't like the looks of him, nor did he recall having seen him in Dodge before. He thoughtfully rubbed the stubble on his chin.

"What can I do for you?" he asked guardedly as his eyes continued to study the stranger carefully. He noticed that the man's left hand was restlessly running up and down the side of his leg while his gaze was nervously sweeping the office as if trying to make sure that the doctor was alone.

"It's my wife, doc...she's about to have her baby."

Surprised, Doc glanced towards the door.

"Well, why, in thunder, didn't you bring her up here?" he wondered.

The stranger scratched his stubbly chin, then nodded vaguely towards the window.

"She ain't here," he answered. "She's out yonder...a couple o' miles north of town. Our wagon broke an axle."

Almost immediately, a frown began to darken the physician's face.

"You mean to tell, me you left a woman about to give birth out there all by herself?"

The stranger's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"Look, doc...I had no choice. Now, are ya comin' or not?"

Doc sniffed and ran a quick hand across the graying bristles of his mustache. As he saw it, he had not much of a choice; even though he definitely disliked the man, he could hardly ignore his plea for help.

"All right, jus' gimme a minute to get ready," he grumbled resigned and began to shuffle off towards his bedroom.

Moments later, he emerged, fully dressed. Grabbing his black leather bag from the desk, he ushered the stranger through the door before locking it from the outside.

He turned towards the stranger when they reached the bottom of the staircase.

"I have to get my buggy over at the livery."

The other shook his head.

"We ain't got time for that, doc," he retorted gruffly, "I brought ya a horse."

He pointed at two saddled horses, waiting patiently beside the staircase.

"Hope ya know how to ride."

Immediately, the physician bristled.

"Of course, I do," he shot back irascibly, "what kind of fool question is that?"

Without another word, he snatched the proffered reins from the man's hand and slung his medical kit over the saddle horn.

As he mounted the sturdy cow pony, he was unable to deny the strange uneasiness any longer that had been lurking in the back of his mind ever since the stranger had walked through his door.

Doc gave a slight shiver. He suddenly wished that Matt or Chester could have come along.

He cast a quick glance towards the Marshal's office, but before he had a chance to say anything, the stranger gave a sharp whoop and smacked Doc's horse on the rump with the ends of his reins.

Startled, the pony broke into a swift canter and all Doc could do was hold on for dear life as mount and rider quickly disappeared into the inky darkness of the night.

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The mid-morning Kansas sun shone brightly through the dust-streaked windows into the Marshal's office, bathing the old wooden plank floor in its warm light.

Chester Goode, the Marshal's assistant was happily singing to himself, briskly moving the broom in his hands across the floor.

Oblivious to the clouds of dust he sent billowing into the air, he worked his way over to the nook which housed his and the Marshal's bed.

Matt Dillon made a grumbling noise and tossed himself around on his cot, pulling the woolen blanket tighter around himself.

Usually, he was up by now, making his rounds or checking the mail, but he hadn't been feeling well for the last day or so and, to make matters worse, a little while ago his head had begun to pound terribly.

The gangly, young man shot him a quick glance.

"Mornin' Mister Dillon," he said brightly as he looked up from the floor where he was now stooped over, sweeping up the enormous dirt pile he had created. "Sure's a beautiful day, ain't it?"

An unintelligible mumble was the response; Matt didn't know whether it was beautiful outside, and he definitely had no ambitions to find out.

Unimpressed by the Marshal's obvious indifference, Chester rambled on.

"I made us some coffee, Mister Dillon. A fresh pot, too."

He limped over to the backdoor, opened it and tossed the dirt outside, loudly slamming the door shut when was done.

Matt flinched at the noise and squeezed his eyes shut; he wished that Chester would just disappear for a little while.

The young man, however, had no such intentions.

"It's gettin' kinda late-like, Mr. Dillon, don't ya think ya maybe oughtta get up?" he wondered instead.

He casually picked up a 'Wanted' poster from the desk and studied it for a moment.

"Sure's a mean-lookin' fella this Dan Moody, ain't he?"

Chester's words caused an annoyed look to spread across Matt's face. The old cot he was sprawled out on was creaking dangerously as the tall man forcefully flipped himself around.

"Chester," he growled, "do me a favor, will you?"

The young man looked up expectantly. He was standing over by the stove, firmly holding the Marshal's colt by the barrel, about to nail the poster to the announcement board.

"What do ya want me to do, Mister Dillon?" he inquired curiously.

"Go away!"

With a grunt, Matt threw himself back around and pulled the blanket over his head.

Right away, Chester's enthusiasm gave way to indignation. A frown began to darken his face.

"Well, forevermore," he muttered offended.

He was just about to say something else in retort, but suddenly the front door opened with a creak, flooding the office with the bright light of the morning sun.

Chester's face began to lighten up immediately when he saw who it was.

"Mornin', Chester."

Kitty Russell stepped inside.

Chester smiled broadly, always happy to see the pretty co-owner of the Long Branch.

He quickly walked around her to close the door and then set colt aside.

"Well, good morning' there, Miss Kitty. Sure's nice to see ya."

Kitty's eyes quickly scanned the office, in obvious search of something. She turned back to Chester.

"Say, where's Matt?" she wondered.

What her eyes had obviously failed to see, was the lumpy outline of the Marshal, curled up under the blanket on his cot.

Right away, Chester's features darkened. He threw a quick glance over in the Marshal's direction. Lowering his voice, he then brought his hand up to his mouth and moved closer to Kitty's ear.

"He's over yonder," he whispered with a nod towards the cot, "but I'm tellin' ya, he sure does seem a bit jumpy today. Maybe you oughtta just leave him be."

A slight frown began to crease Kitty's forehead. She had already figured that he had spent the night here at the jail when he hadn't show up in her room last night, but that he was still in bed at this hour-

Resolutely, she marched over to where the lawman was lying. Hands perched on her hips, she raised a curious brow as she looked down at the tell-tale form of him, clearly outlined underneath the blanket.

"Matt, what are you doing in bed at this time of day?"

Slowly, the blanket began to move, and a moment later, Matt's tousled head emerged from underneath it.

He cast her a weary glance through half-opened eyes.

"I'm not in bed," he muttered. "I'm resting."

Kitty raised a brow.

"I see. Well, that sure gives me a great sense of security, knowin' that the Marshal is resting in the middle of the day."

The distinct touch of sarcasm in her voice was not lost on Matt. But given who it came from, he resisted the urge to roll his eyes, at the same time seriously wondering what one had to do to get some peace and quiet around here.

Wearily, he rolled onto his back. Right away, the bright morning sun assaulted his eyes. With a groan, he moved his right forearm over his eyes to shield them from the light.

"I'm sick, Kitty. I feel terrible."

Chester moved to stand next to Kitty. He held out a mug of steaming coffee.

"Well, maybe if you had a cup of coffee," he suggested helpfully.

Matt sighed resigned, a look of weary annoyance on his face. He knew when he was beat.

"All right, are you two in this together?" he grumbled as he began to awkwardly shift himself into a sitting position.

He found out quickly that his head was still pounding terribly. He groaned softly and pinched the bridge of his nose.

After briefly stretching himself, he reached for his shirt and pulled it on.

Now, for the first time, Kitty was able to get a closer look at him.

She frowned when she noticed his flushed face and the beads of sweat that covered his forehead and chest.

Her eyes filled with concern, she sat down next to him and gently placed the back of her hand on his cheek. She was surprised at how hot he felt to her touch.

"Oh, my! If I didn't know any better, I'd say you have a fever," she exclaimed startled.

Matt continued to button up his shirt.

"Yeah, imagine that," he replied crossly.

Kitty made a face and was about to reproach him for his remark when the office door all the sudden flew open and Burt Lucas came rushing in.

The young farmer stopped for a second, looked around and then turned straight towards the Marshal.

"Marshal Dillon! I need Doc Adams an' he ain't at his office!" he shouted quite excited.

Matt glanced up at him.

"Well, what's the matter, Burt?" he wondered as he coaxed the last button into its hole.

Burt Lucas and his wife Maggie were relatively new to the area. Matt remembered having seen her at Doc Adams' office last week. She had already looked then as if she was ready to have her baby right this minute.

"It's Maggie, Marshal," the young man quickly confirmed his thoughts. "The baby's comin'!"

Matt was relieved; although he didn't know much about babies, he knew that women usually managed to give birth on their own while the doctor stood by to assist. But he also understood Burt's uneasiness since it was their first one.

He turned to his assistant.

"Chester, why don't you go an' see if you can't find Doc somewhere?"

Chester nodded. He put down the coffee cup.

"Yes, Mister Dillon."

He snatched his hat off the table and hurried out the door.

A strangled moan escaped Matt's lips as, once again, the sunlight came flooding in through the open door, blinding him.

Followed by two pairs of curious eyes, he clambered heavily to his feet and trudged over to the table to retrieve the coffee. Feeling as lousy as he did, he definitely needed all the help he could get today.

Suddenly remembering his manners, Matt held out his cup to the farmer.

"Can I get you some, too?" he wondered.

With a shake of his head, the young man politely declined, his gaze wandering anxiously to the window.

Kitty's heart went out to the nervous young man. She rose from the cot and walked over to where the Marshal was standing.

"Maybe I should go out there with Burt."

Matt regarded her thoughtfully for a moment.

"Well, might be a good idea...if you don't mind," he replied after brief consideration.

He already knew that Doc would most likely ask her to come along anyway as he had down numerous times in the past.

Kitty's smile was genuine.

"Of course not, Matt," she assured him. She turned to Burt and nodded towards the door. "Won't you go ahead. I'll be right with you."

Relieved, the young farmer thanked them both and slipped out the door.

When the door had closed, Kitty stepped up to Matt.

He was an imposing figure; just the size of him inspired respect-regardless whether he was sick or not. Looking up at him, she tenderly brought her hand to the side of his face.

"You oughtta have Doc take a look at you, too, cowboy," she said gently.

Matt didn't get sick very often but when he did, he often seemed to make up for it.

He could hear the concern in her voice and flashed her a quick smile, hoping it didn't come across as bad as he felt.

"I'll be all right," he assured her.

Gently taking her hand in his, he bent down to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I'm gonna give Chester a hand. See if we can't find Doc somewhere. We'll meet you at Lucas' place as soon we can."

Kitty gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"All right, Matt," she said and then slipped out the door to join the waiting Burt Lucas.

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"By golly, you just hang in there, Ezra," Doc Adams muttered quietly as he patted the sleeping man's arm.

He had given him the last of the Nitroglycerin that he had luckily carried in his bag and hoped that it had been enough. One look at the old man's ashen face as he had clutched his chest, had told him immediately that the homesteader was suffering a heart attack when he had collapsed on the cabin floor a few hours ago.

Now there was little else that he could do for him but pray. Doc's face was serious as he turned to Hettie Carswell, Ezra's wife of forty-six years.

"Well, I done all I could, Hettie. It's out of my hands now," he said softly with a thoughtful swipe at his mustache. Slowly, he rose from the bedstead to move aside for her.

Silently, the elderly woman drew closer; her eyes began to mist over when she bent down to tenderly caress her husband's face.

"How's the old man, doc?"

The cold voice, coming from the doorway caused the physician to turn.

Immediately, the doctor's face darkened. He turned and shuffled up to the big man that was casually leaning in the doorway, a colt in his right.

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The Marshal urged his buckskin forward, giving him a short stretch to warm up before putting him into an easy canter as they left the city limit of Dodge behind.

The Lucas' homestead was only a good half hours ride north of town, just past the Carswell's place. Puffs of dust rose behind them as they galloped along the dusty trail that wound its way through the prairie with its groves of trees and green meadows.

It was already late morning and the Marshal and Chester had spent a good portion of it unsuccessfully looking for Doc Adams. Matt was not too concerned at this point; it happened quite frequently that the physician was called out in the middle of the night to deliver a baby or tend to someone who had suddenly fallen ill. The fact that his buggy was still at the livery wasn't cause for concern either; it was not unusual, if the situation was urgent that Doc rode along with whoever had come for him.

Soon, Matt came upon the Lucas' spread and he slowed his mount to a trot as he guided him past the barn with its attached corral towards the small one-story farmhouse to the right of it. He dismounted and loosely tied the reins to the crude pine hitching post.

Apparently, his arrival hadn't gone unnoticed; as soon as he stepped up onto the porch, Burt Lucas came out to greet him.

"Where's Doc?" were the first words that came across his lips.

Matt took off his Stetson and brushed the dust from it.

"Well, I'm afraid we'll have to do without him," he said.

Burt didn't immediately understand. His eyes began to anxiously search the farm yard behind the Marshal.

"What do you mean? Where is he?"

Matt sighed.

"I don't know. I got no idea, Burt."

He began to make his way past the farmer into the house. His eyes surveyed the room and quickly located Kitty. The pretty redhead paused in the doorway of the bedroom when she saw him, a look of relief beginning to spread across her face.

"I'm glad you're here, Matt. It's anytime now."

She tucked a stray strand of red hair back behind her ear and glanced over to the door.

"Where is he?"

Matt shook his head, his eyes on the hat he was twisting in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Kitty, but Chester an' I looked all over. "

Kitty sighed.

"Oh, that's just swell."

She placed her hands on her hips.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to do the best we can."

She didn't exactly like the idea of having to deliver Maggie's baby without the physician, but she was fairly confident that she would manage.

Matt stepped up to her.

"Anythin' I can do to help?" he offered in an attempt to ease her worries.

Kitty pointed towards the big cast-iron stove which took up the greater part of the rear wall.

"Well, you could make sure, that water over there is nice and hot," she said.

Matt nodded, relieved that she didn't ask him for his help with Maggie.

"All right...I can do that."

He began to roll up his sleeves and walked over to the big cast-iron stove while Kitty disappeared into the bedroom again.

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The next half hour passed slowly. Burt Lucas had taken to nervously pacing the floor as the muffled cries of pain coming from the adjacent room became more frequent.

Matt cast the young farmer a sympathetic look; even though he had never been in this situation, he could understand how unsettling it must be to see the woman you love in such obvious pain. He found himself wondering, how he would act if it were Kitty lying in that bed instead, about to have his child, and suddenly, he started feeling emotions that he couldn't quite identify.

He quickly shook off his thoughts when the door to the bedroom was suddenly cracked open and Kitty peered through.

"Matt, I need that hot water...now!"

The tone of her voice left no doubt as to the urgency of the situation. Quickly, he poured the water into the waiting bowl and carefully carried the steaming container into the bedroom.

After hastily directing some calming words at the soon-to-be father, Kitty closed the door, leaving Burt alone with his worries.

Matt cringed inwardly at the sight of the young woman; her face was flushed and contorted with pain as she cried out with the violence of another contraction. Unsure of what to do, he began to scratch the nape of his neck with his thumbnail and stared down at the tips of his boots.

When Kitty saw his apprehension, she handed him a moist rag.

"Here, why don't you keep her cool," she suggested with a sympathetic smile.

It was amusing to see the usually tough-as-nails-lawman act so awkward at the sight of a woman about to have a baby.

Relieved, Matt accepted the rag; he could definitely handle this part. He knelt beside the bed and began to gently wipe Maggie's forehead, talking to her soothingly, determined not to let his eyes wander too far from her face.

Somehow, he ended up loosing track of time, but soon it was all over and the momentary silence was broken by a small wail that quickly increased in volume as the infant took its first breath.

With sure movements, Kitty wrapped the little one tightly in a soft blanket and handed him to his mother.

"It's a boy," she declared softly.

Matt couldn't help keep the amazement from his eyes as he regarded the tiny human being. He managed to give Kitty a big smile, despite the fact that his stomach was feeling rather weak by now.

Their attention was suddenly drawn away to the door as it was tentatively cracked open and Burt stuck his head through.

Matt clambered to his feet and stepped over to Kitty's side.

"Congratulations, Burt," he said with a grin, "you got yourself a fine son."

His eyes moved down to capture Kitty's. Tenderly, he put his arm around her, giving her a quick squeeze.

"I'm proud of you," he said softly.

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It was late afternoon as the small buckboard wagon finally rattled down the trail past the Carswell farm towards Dodge. His forearms resting on his thighs, the Marshal casually held the reins in one hand, every now and then flicking them down onto the horse's back to keep it trotting along at an even pace. The young woman sitting next to him contentedly rested her head against his shoulder, her left hand tucked under his right elbow.

No words or gestures were needed to confirm the bond they shared, but every now and then Matt turned to glance down at her affectionately.

The Marshal had convinced Burt Lucas to lend them the buckboard so that the new father didn't have to bother with taking Kitty back into town; after tying his horse to the back of the wagon, they had set out on the short drive back into Dodge.

So far, their trip had been a quiet one; Matt and Kitty sat next to each other in agreeable silence, simply enjoying the fact that they were traveling together on such a beautiful day.

Kitty let her gaze wander over the landscape; the prairie, with its meadows, dotted with a profusion of wildflowers, was a lovely sight at this time of year. She had grown to love the rugged beauty of Kansas even though it was in stark contrast with her New Orleans upbringing.

The familiar buildings of Dodge were just coming into sight as they rolled around the last bend in the dirt road. Suddenly, the calm was broken by the thunder of hoofbeats on the dry, hard ground; a rider quickly came towards them at breakneck speed.

With a frown, the Marshal pulled the wagon to a halt. The man, however, had no intentions of stopping; without as much as a glance, he sped past them, trailing a cloud of dust behind him.

Curious, Kitty straightened up, her eyes following the quickly disappearing rider.

"Who was that?" she wondered as she lifted her gaze questioningly at the tall man sitting next to her.

Matt shrugged.

"Don't know. He sure was in a hurry though."

With a final, thoughtful look at the cloud of dust, he tapped the reins down onto the mare's back and clicked his tongue.

When they arrived in Dodge moments later, they found a small crowd gathered outside the doctor's office.

As he pulled the wagon to a halt alongside the building, he could see Chester sitting on the steps, holding something to his head.

Hastily, the Marshal jumped off the high seat. The crowd moved aside as he made his way over to his assistant.

His jaw tightened when he saw that Chester was holding a bloodied rag to his forehead.

"What happened here?" he demanded.

At the sound of the familiar voice Chester looked up; it was obvious that he was more than just a little relieved to see the lawman.

"Oh, Mr. Dillon, it's jus' awful good to see you back."

Matt gave a quick nod of acknowledgment.

"Yeah. Tell me what happened."

His eyes quickly scanned the crowd for Doc and came back to rest on his assistant when he didn't see the physician anywhere.

By now, Kitty had joined the two and was now gently examining the cut on Chester's head.

"Well," Chester, began, flinching at Kitty's touch, "I jus' don't understand it at all. This there fella...I ain't never seen him afore, Mr. Dillon...he was a-sneakin' out of Doc's office. When I tried to stop him, he hit me upside the head with that gun o' his an' then took off a-ridin' like the devil's after him."

Surprised, Matt raised his eyebrows. He gave Kitty a quick glance.

"Well,...that answers your question," he remarked grimly.

When Chester cast him a puzzled look, Matt quickly explained about the man that had passed them minutes earlier. His eyes wandered up to Doc's office.

"I take it, Doc's not back yet?"

Chester shook his head, a sudden frown appearing on his face as his head made itself known by throbbing sharply.

"You know if anything's missin' up there Chester?"

This time, Chester didn't shake his head.

"Well, like I said...I didn't get to see much on the account of that weasel hittin' me upside the head. But he had a couple of them bottles here..."

He opened his left hand and produced a small brown bottle.

"Reckon, he lost that one when he was a-runnin' down them stairs."

The Marshal took the small bottle and held it up to his eyes.

"Hmm...Nitroglycerine," he muttered after quickly scanning the label. He had heard the name before, but couldn't remember what Doc used it for.

Matt turned to Kitty.

"Is he gonna be all right, Kitty?"

Kitty gave Chester's shoulder an affectionate pat.

"He's goin' to be just fine, Matt," she assured him.

Matt nodded pleased.

"Good. I see you two later then."

He stuffed the bottle in his shirt pocket and walked over to the wagon. Quickly, he began to untie the buckskin. Reins in his left, he toed the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle.

A little awkwardly, Chester clambered to his feet.

"Wait, what're ya fixin' to do?" he wanted to know.

Matt was already in the saddle. He pointed with his head down the street.

"I'm gonna see if I can't catch up with our friend."

With that, he turned his mount around, back into the direction they had just come from and spurred him forward to a swift gallop.
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It didn't take Matt long to cover the distance between Dodge and the spot where the rider had passed them earlier. Reining his horse to a halt, he bent down, trying to make out the hoofprints on the dusty ground.

He had no trouble following them until they suddenly seemed to disappear where the rider had obviously left the road in favor of the softer, grassy ground.

He dismounted and surveyed his surroundings; about a quarter of a mile to his right was the Carswell homestead.

This was rather strange, he thought; Ezra and Hettie Carswell were an old couple without any kin nearby. He couldn't imagine their farm being the rider's destination.

Nevertheless, maybe they had seen something that would be helpful to him. With that in mind, he remounted and rode towards the farm house.

Clucking loudly in protest, the chickens scattered as he rode through the yard moments later.

Matt dismounted and led his horse to the water trough in front of the house, tying the reins to the nearby hitching post.

He stepped up onto the small porch and knocked. When there was no answer, he knocked again, this time a little harder. Soon, he heard the shuffle of footsteps as someone approached the door. He straightened himself, hooking his thumbs into the top of his gunbelt.

Moments later, the door was cracked open and Hettie Carswell peeked out. When she saw who it was, her face lit up for a second.

Matt found this a little unusual; normally, she would have asked him in right away. He gave her a friendly nod, his hand briefly touching the brim of his Stetson.

"Mrs. Carswell," he greeted her politely.

"Marshal Dillon, how nice to see you,"

Even though she was smiling, her eyes weren't, and Matt immediately got the distinct impression that something was amiss. He didn't see it wise to come straight out with his suspicion, so he decided to question her about the rider first.

"Mrs. Carswell, I'm lookin' for a rider that came through here a good half hour ago."

She shook her head.

"We ain't seen nobody, Marshal."

Her answer had come a little too quick for the Marshal's taste. His eyes fixed on the crack in the door above her head, attempting peek inside.

"Say, Mr. Carswell around? Maybe he's seen someone goin' by."

When she became aware of his probing gaze, she closed the door a little more.

"He's asleep, Marshal. He ain't feelin' well," she answered hesitantly, her eyes purposely avoiding his.

For a second, Matt regarded her suspiciously; something definitely wasn't right here.

"You mind if I ask him myself?" he wondered.

By now, Hettie seemed clearly distressed.

"I already told ya...we ain't seen nobody. Please leave us alone, Marshal."

There was a strong finality in her last words, one that he couldn't argue with and Matt realized that he had outworn his welcome.

Pressing his lips together, he watched as Hettie Carswell shut the door in his face.

For a moment, unsure of what to do next, he lingered. Something strange was going on here, but he could hardly bust the door down going on his feelings alone. He peered through the window but didn't see anything unusual.

Almost hesitantly, he finally walked back to his horse and mounted.

Unaware of the three pairs of eyes that were watching him closely through the window, he cast one last look at the house and then pulled the buckskin around, heading back towards the road.

The day was quickly beginning to fade and the sinking sun was casting long, sharp shadows onto the streets and buildings by time Matt finally rode back into Dodge.

Despite his determined efforts, he had been unable to find any clear trails and finally had reluctantly abandoned his search. He left his horse in Moss Grimmick's care and made his way over to the jail. Finding the office dark and empty, he assumed that Chester was probably at the Long Branch by now.

He carelessly flung his Stetson onto the peg by the door and walked over to the table to light the hurricane lamp.

He still wasn't feeling much better and decided that maybe a drink would help. His earlier talk with Hettie Carswell replayed in his mind as he bent down to retrieve the whiskey bottle from the small cabinet under the window.

Automatically, his thoughts turned to Doc when he saw that the contents of the bottle was reduced to little more than a few drops. The physician was known to help himself to a frequent night cap from the Marshal's private stock. Matt remembered Doc complaining about the almost empty bottle the other night. Annoyed, he replaced the empty bottle and straightened.

Matt closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. The events of the day had left him exhausted and badly in need of rest, but he knew he had to go and find Doc first. Surely, the physician would be back by now, probably sitting at the Long Branch, too, he figured.

He heaved a sigh, grabbed his hat and slipped out into the dark street to walk the short distance down to the saloon. A small party of cowboys clattered down the boardwalk, whooping and shouting as they passed by him.

Light, music and laughter spilled out onto the street as he approached the Long Branch. The Marshal hesitated for a moment before pushing the batwing doors open.

Luckily, it wasn't too crowded, and he had no difficulty locating neither Kitty nor Chester. He headed straight for the far end of the counter where the redhead was engaged in a lively conversation with his assistant.

Kitty's face lit up when she saw him.

"Well, hello there. Any luck, cowboy?" she wondered.

Matt leaned against the counter and turned to face his friends.

"I'm afraid not," he said glumly. His eyes quickly scanned the saloon.

"Say, have you two seen Doc?"

His inquiry obviously struck a nerve with Chester. He carefully shook his abused head.

"Well, for goodness sakes. I tell you, he's back all right," he grumbled.

Matt raised his brows.

"What're you talkin' about?"

His question was directed at Chester, but Kitty took it upon herself to explain.

"Don't bother tonight if you wanna talk to Doc, Matt."

A slight scowl crossed the Marshal's face.

"Don't bother?" he echoed. "You two don't make a whole lotta sense, you know?"

Kitty arched a brow at his testy tone.

"You know, it's Doc who's not making any sense, Matt. He came in here just a little while ago, ordered Clem to hand him a bottle of whiskey and left with it."

Chester nodded earnestly.

"Oh, he sure was in a foul mood, Mr. Dillon. I mean, even for Doc that is."

Matt's brow furrowed. This didn't sound like the Doc he knew.

"Any idea where he went?"

Kitty shrugged.

"Try his office," she suggested.

Matt straightened.

"All right. I'll do that."

He gave Kitty's arm a quick pat and turned to leave, but her hand on his forearm suddenly stopped him.

"Matt," she implored as her eyes caught his, "be easy on him. I think something's really bothering him."

Matt studied her for a moment; Kitty knew Doc better than anybody. He knew that he could count on her to see things that others sometimes couldn't. He acknowledged her with a nod and left.

As he stepped out onto the boardwalk he turned his eyes upwards to the physician's office. Sure enough, the flickering lamp inside shed a soft glow down into the street. Matt was relieved to see that Doc had returned, safe and sound.

He knocked. When there was no answer, he rapped on the door again, this time a little harder.

"Who is it?" boomed Doc's voice from inside.

The lawman flicked his Stetson back.

"It's me. Matt."

There was some shuffling and a moment later, the door was unlocked and opened.

The Marshal took his hat off and stepped inside. His eyes following the doctor as he trudged back over to his desk where he slumped heavily into his chair.

Doc began to pour himself a drink and tossed the whiskey down neat.

"What do you want?" he grumbled irritated as he refilled his glass.

Matt raised his eyebrows at the physician's hostile tone.

"Well, we haven't seen ya around all day," he began, "and I figured..."

"I'm not interested in what you figure, Mr. Marshal," Doc suddenly interrupted him. "Why don't you mind your own business?"

He picked up the glass and downed its contents, loudly slamming it back down onto the desk when he was finished.

Matt cast him a startled look. He decided, it was time to come straight to the point.

His voice was husky with annoyance when he spoke this time, leaving little doubt that he expected an answer.

"Bart Lucas was lookin' for you this morning. Mind tellin' me where you been?"

Matt's words and tone were not lost on Doc. He lifted his head. His gaze met the Marshal's. This time, there was genuine worry in his voice.

"By golly, did Maggie..."

Matt pressed his lips together, but his tone was a little softer now.

"Maggie's fine and so's the baby. You can thank Kitty for that."

Obviously relieved by the Marshal's words, the doctor visibly relaxed; his shoulders slumped as his eyes fixed on the half-empty bottle in his hand.

Matt took the opportunity to close the distance between them. He placed a friendly hand on the physician's shoulder. His voice was filled with concern when he spoke.

"Won't you tell me what's goin' on, Doc. Come on," he coaxed softly.

He had known the doctor for quite a few years now and this wasn't like him at all.

There was a long moment of silence, and Matt could tell that Doc seemed to be wrestling with some inner conflict.

The older man ran his hand nervously through his mustache and rubbed his neck, his eyes darting aimlessly about. He didn't look up when he finally spoke.

"There's nothin' to tell, Matt." he said quietly.

Pulling himself up to his full height, Matt folded his arms in front of his chest.

"Look. I can't help you if you won't tell me what's goin' on."

He tried hard to conceal the frustration he felt, certain, that the doctor was holding something back from him.

All the sudden, Doc straightened, his eyes briefly flashing at the Marshal.

"Doggone it...I already told ya there ain't nothin' to tell! Why don't you go an' shoot somebody? Isn't that what you get paid for?" he barked angrily. "Now go...go on, leave me alone!"

He heavily rose from his chair and shuffled over to the door. As he opened it, he fixed his friend with a silent glare.

The gesture was quite clear and the Marshal realized that their conversation was over as far as Doc was concerned.

"All right," said Matt reluctantly, barely reining in his anger, "you change your mind, you know where I'm at."

He slapped his Stetson back on and stalked over to the door. With one final, hard look at the doctor, he then walked past him out onto the landing.

Matt was about to set foot onto the first step when he all the sudden remembered something. His hand went for his shirt pocket.

Doc hadn't mentioned a single word about someone breaking into his office. His fingers tightened around the small, brown vial . He decided to wait for Doc to bring it up to him. Without affording the doctor another glance, he began to descend the stairs.

Doc's eyes followed him until he disappeared from view around the corner. His body shuddered as he drew a shaky breath. His shoulders slumping tiredly.

"I'm sorry, Matt."

Slowly, he turned and shuffled back inside. At this moment, he felt older than he had ever felt in his life.

.

.

.

Matt was frustrated.

"Well, I sure can't figure it out."

His eyes were thoughtfully fixed on his hands as he leaned forward onto the counter, flanked by Kitty on his left and Chester on his right.

Chester shrugged.

"Well, now...old Doc gets a little ornery now and then and flares up," he tried to explain away Doc's strange behavior, "but he sure don't mean no harm by it."

Kitty nodded in agreement.

"Maybe Chester's right and Doc really just had a rough day."

But Matt did not agree.

"No. No, it's more than that, Kitty."

He began to think. Could it be that Doc was maybe trying to protect someone? It had happened before, several years ago when Jake Worth's son Hank was kidnapped and murdered. In order to save his own life, the physician had given his word not to reveal the identities of the kidnappers.

The comments that the physician had made earlier, not to mention the way he had acted, all pointed towards the fact that there was more to it. One way or another, he had to get behind this. Matt picked up his beer. He stared at the foamy beverage in his hand, but couldn't get himself to take a drink; he was still feeling rather sick.

Chester scratched his head.

"Well, we're right back where we started now."

Matt placed his glass back onto the counter. He sighed wearily.

"Yeah, you're right on that one." He cast Kitty tired smile.

"Well, time for me to make my rounds. Lettin' folks know that the Marshal's earnin' his keep."

He turned to go, but before he had a chance, Chester's hand suddenly shot out, grabbing his forearm tightly.

"Mr. Dillon, that's him over yonder...the fella from Doc's office!"

The Marshal's eyes followed Chester's stare. There, at the other end of the counter was a lanky man with a pockmarked, rough-looking face. He was handing Clem, the barkeeper a couple of dollars in exchange for two bottles of whiskey.

Immediately, Matt straightened. He hadn't been able to get a very good look at the man that rode past him and Kitty earlier this afternoon, but he took Chester's word for it that this was the man indeed.

When the cowboy became aware of the lawman's approach, he dropped his bottles onto the counter and turned towards the door.

"Hold it!"

Matt's words came at the same time his colt cleared its holster.

For a second, the cowboy looked as if he was going to run, but then, faced by the Marshal's gun, he thought better of it. He raised his hands in defeat.

In a flash, Matt had stepped up to him and pulled the man's gun from his belt.

"It's him all right, Mr. Dillon." Chester confirmed as he came limping closer. His face darkened. "Sneakin' around an' hittin' people upside the head. What's wrong with him anyways?"

Matt's eyes narrowed, regarding the stranger.

"All right, get movin'."

He waved him with his colt towards the batwing doors.

Silently, the man complied. The Marshal followed closely behind, his gun pointed at the cowboy's back. He addressed Chester without turning.

"Chester, I want you to get Doc an' bring him over to the office."

The young man muttered an acknowledgment and quickly set off into the opposite direction.

.

.

.

No sooner had Matt locked the cowboy into one of the cells than Doc came storming into the office, Chester following closely behind.

"What, in thunder's goin' on here, Matt?" he demanded irascibly as he came to a halt in front of the lawman.

The expression on his face was less than friendly. Matt could tell right away that he had been drinking some more. His eyes were blood-shot and, judging by his disheveled appearance, he most likely had went to bed fully dressed.

He folded his arms in front of his chest, looking down at the doctor.

"I was hopin' you could tell me that."

For one brief moment, his eyes bored into the physician's, then he nodded towards the cells.

"This afternoon Chester caught this fella here stealin' from your office."

Immediately, Doc side-stepped the Marshal to get a closer look at the man in the cell. Matt could see the color drain from his friend's face.

Then Doc turned around.

"I don't know him an' I don't know what you're talkin' about." He shook his head in denial. "Nobody broke into my office. Doggone it, Matt, I would've told ya!"

But the Marshal was not convinced. In fact, he was certain that the doctor was not telling the truth.

"You mean to tell me, you've never seen this man before?" he persisted.

Doc cast another quick glance at the prisoner. His hand was nervously rubbing his neck.

"You bet your life I haven't!" he thundered.

A big grin slowly began to spread across the prisoner's pock-marked face. He walked up to the cell door and wrapped his hands around the cool, metal bars.

"Ya see, Marshal. It's all a misunderstandin'."

Right away, Chester stepped up. He tossed the man in the cell a dark look and then turned to Matt.

"Well, forevermore," he exclaimed indignantly, "fancy him lyin' like that!"

The prisoner nodded towards Chester, still grinning.

"I ain't never seen him afore either, Marshal," he said.

This was more than Chester could take.

"Now looky here.." he suddenly exploded. He took a determined step forward, angrily jabbing his finger towards the prisoner. But Matt quickly put a restraining hand on his arm.

"Take it easy there, Chester," he said calmly. Then he turned his attention back to the physician.

"You sure, you don't wanna make a report, Doc?"

His eyes were firmly holding the doctor's who was nervously rubbing at his mustache.

"Sure I'm sure! I already told ya, nobody's broke into my office!"

Matt heaved an imperceptible sigh.

"Well, I reckon we don't have much of a choice then."

With that, he pulled the keys off the peg. Before Chester could voice his objections, Matt had unlocked the cell.

"Get out," he growled as he held the cell door open for his prisoner.

In an instant, Chester's face dropped. He looked from the prisoner to the Marshal.

"But Mr. Dillon..." he began to protest weakly.

"It's all right, Chester."

Matt gave Chester an assuring nod and then cast a quick side glance at Doc. He was certain that he had seen a distinct flicker of relief in the physician's eyes.

Grinning shamelessly at Chester, the now ex-prisoner made his way past him towards the door.

"Good night, Chester," he said mockingly as he holstered the gun back up that Matt was holding out to him.

His eyes quickly brushed the doctor's, then he slipped through the door and disappeared.

Chester was dumb-struck. He had never seen Mr. Dillon act like this before. He found it impossible to ignore the disappointment that was welling up inside him.

"Oh, why'd you let him go, Mr. Dillon?"

Immediately, Matt raised his hand to silence him.

"Not now, Chester."

He turned to the physician.

"Well, I'm sorry for bringin' you over here, Doc."

Matt's apology came as a surprise, to both Doc and Chester. The doctor's shoulders slumped as he waved the Marshal off. It was as if the words seemed to have suddenly taken the fight out of him.

"Yes, I know you are, Matt."

Without waiting for a reply, he slowly shuffled towards the door and left.

The moment the door closed, Chester turned to the Marshal again.

"Well, I jus' don't understand..." he began to object, but Matt once again raised his hand to stop the flow of words.

"I said not now, Chester."

Matt pulled the small, brown bottle from his shirt pocket and stared at it for a moment. There was no doubt in his mind that Doc knew the cowboy.

The decision to let him go had been an easy one. It was apparent that the man's freedom had been extremely important to the physician. Matt had silently decided that whatever Doc's reasons were, they were good enough for him-for right now anyway. He would get to the bottom of this. He was certain of that.

He slipped the bottle back into his shirt pocket and looked up.

"Well, we figured out one thing," he said.

Chester looked at him confused.

"Figured out what, Mr. Dillon?"

The Marshal turned from the door and began to unbuckle his gun belt.

"Doc definitely knows our friend here."

He hung the holster onto the peg by his cot.

Chester made a face.

"Ya think it was smart to let him go then?"

Matt thought on it for a moment.

"I sure hope so, Chester."

"Well," his assistant persisted, "don't you reckon, we oughtta go after them?"

Matt slowly shook his head.

"No. No, there's not much more we can do about it tonight. They probably both figure we'd do just that. We wait until morning."

With that, he began to unbutton his shirt and trudged over to his cot where he wearily dropped himself down. All day long he had tried hard to ignore the signals his body had been sending him. By now he couldn't anymore. His limps felt weak and his head was throbbing worse than it had all day. To sum it up; Matt felt miserable.

He barely managed to pull his boots off before he curled himself up on his cot. Within minutes, he had drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

Uncertain of what to do next, Chester stared at him for a moment, then he finally decided to do the same; if Mr. Dillon figured it was all right to go to sleep, then that was good enough for him.

.

.

.

It was early morning and the rim of the sun had just risen over the edge of the horizon. Dodge was slowly beginning to awake to a new day. People began to stir here and there, preparing to go about their daily business. One person though had been awake longer than anybody.

It had taken him quite a while to hitch the horse to the buggy. It was Moss Grimmick who usually hitched it up for him. But in the end, he had managed.

Now the little black buggy was rolling out of the side alley next to the livery stable and onto a still deserted Front Street.

Eager to get to his destination, the driver clicked his tongue and send the reins flicking down onto the horse's back, causing him to fall into an easy trot. Soon, the buggy had left the town behind in favor of the road leading north.

.

.

.

"Mr. Dillon! Mr. Dillon!"

The door to the Marshal's office burst open and Chester almost fell through. Struggling to regain his balance, he grabbed hold of the Marshal who was standing by the stove, about to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Matt took hold of his assistant's arm to steady him.

"You better take it easy there," he said.

Chester wagged his hand excitedly towards the door.

"Mr. Dillon! I was jus' a-feedin' them horses an' old Moss done told me that Doc left town bright an' early this mornin'. What do you make of that?"

Matt didn't reply immediately. He had planned on following the physician around today. Obviously, it was now too late for that.

"Did Doc happen to tell Moss where he was headed?"

The young man shook his head.

"No. No, Mr. Dillon, he sure didn't."

Matt tried not to sound as disappointed as he felt.

"Well, I reckon, there's little we can do but wait, Chester. "

He turned back to the stove and continued to fill his cup with the steaming brew. His thoughts drifted back to Doc as he walked over to his desk and dropped himself down in his chair.

Never before had he seen the physician so out of sorts. He was trying to come up with a good reason why Doc hadn't simply told him the truth. Then his mind turned to the pock-marked cowboy. Matt began to wonder where exactly he fit into this puzzle. Doubts, whether he had done the right thing by letting him go last night, began to creep into his mind. He decided to go looking for him as soon as possible.
.

.

.

"How's it goin', Doc?"

Doc didn't bother looking up.

"Don't ask me questions, I'm concentrating!"

His bespectacled eyes were fixed on the back of the unconscious man before him.

"Bad place, the spine," he muttered to himself as he carefully pushed the forceps deeper into his patient's back, attempting to get hold of the bullet that was lodged in there somewhere.

Dan Moody drew closer. He didn't like the sound of the physician's voice, nor what he was hearing.

"What do you mean?"

Suddenly, Doc's head whipped up. His brows knitted into a frown.

"Now you listen to me," he snapped. "I don't know how much of a chance your brother has, even if I get this bullet out, but I know your not helpin' matters any by botherin' me. Now get out!"

He graced Dan Moody with a rather irritated glare and then pointed towards the door.

Moody stiffened, not used to being talked to liked that. His eyes narrowed dangerously.

"All right," he said slowly,"but you remember one thing..." He poked a thick finger at the doctor's face. "My brother dies, so will you an' them old folks as well!"

Without another word, he wheeled around and stalked from the room.

.

.

.

"Well, good morning, stranger."

Kitty's voice was teasing as she looked up at the tall man who was blocking the doorway of Jonas' Mercantile. She had just finished making a few purchases and was about to take her goods back over to her room at the Long Branch.

"Mornin' Kitty."

Matt was fully aware of her tone and also the reason for it; she was not happy with him for spending the night at the jail, instead of her room. He sighed inwardly and let his eyes wander to the packages in her arms, hoping to divert her attention.

"Can I give you a hand with those?" He pointed at the packages in her arms. All morning, he had been looking for the pock-marked stranger without much success. By now, had pretty much given up on finding the man.

Kitty considered him for a moment; he did look better today, she had to admit. Even though she still was a little upset that he had chosen not to spent the night with her again, she realized that he probably had his reasons. That didn't mean, however, that she would make it easy for him now.

A sly smile began to play on her lips.

"All right, knock yourself out, cowboy."

With that, she pushed her packages into his arms and proceeded down the boardwalk while Matt struggled to get a grip on her purchases. As he was about to follow her, Mr. Jonas suddenly stopped him.

"Don't forget those, Marshal," he chuckled as he began to pile more boxes into his already overloaded arms.

By the time he had finally managed to organize all the wrapped bundles and packages, Kitty was well ahead of him. Matt found himself having to pick up his pace considerably in order to catch up with her-much to the amusement of Mr. Jonas and some of the other customers.

Slightly annoyed, he drew up alongside her.

"Looks like you cleared out Mr. Jonas' store," he attempted to strike up a conversation. "You mind tellin' me what this all is?"

"Oh," she replied vaguely as she pushed her way through the batwing doors of the Long Branch, "just some things that you wouldn't know about."

"Try me," he challenged as he followed the pretty redhead up the stairs.

Kitty came to a halt in front of her door. She turned around and gave him an amused smile.

"You sure are nosy..."

She pulled the key from her purse, unlocked the door and then held it open for Matt to step through.

"I'm the Marshal...it's part of my job to be nosy," he countered teasingly as he made his way past her into the room.

His eyes began to search for a suitable place to drop the packages, but nothing seemed big enough to hold them. Finally, he decided to drop his load onto Kitty's bed. Breathing a sigh of relief, he straightened and took off his Stetson.

"Sure's hot today," he muttered as he used his shirtsleeve to mop the sweat from his forehead.

At his words, Kitty looked up from the bed where she was now sitting, sorting through her purchases. Her eyes narrowed with concern.

"And here I thought you were feelin' better." She studied his flushed face for a moment, not entirely sure whether it was from struggling with the boxes and the heat, or from still being sick.

She patted the bed beside her.

"Come here."

Matt was all too happy to comply. He plopped down onto the bed beside her to turn himself over to her scrutinizing gaze.

Kitty rose and moved to stand in front of him. She placed the back of her hand on his cheek and then moved it to his forehead. He did seem a little warm, she thought but not really hot. She cocked her head a little and carefully studied his eyes. They appeared as blue as ever.

"Hmmm. You're eyes seem fine," she mused out loud.

There was, however, a faint glint in them-one that she recognized all too well.

She regarded him with unabashed amusement.

"I don't think you're sick at all, cowboy."

Matt gave her a toothy grin.

"Well, I was," he began to protest. It was true; he was feeling warm-and not just from the heat. He cast her a meaningful smile. "But I feel better now."

His hands took hold of her hips and pulled her closer. As his eyes searched hers, he couldn't help but notice the all- too familiar look; it was one that was reserved only for him.

Kitty's eyes twinkled mischievously when she realized where this was obviously going. Her earlier resolve, not to make it easy on him, began to weaken quickly as his hands abandoned her hips and started to travel up her sides and around her back, pulling her even tighter into his embrace. The warmth of his chest pressing against hers, along with the demanding pressure of his touch, broke down the last of her resolve. In an instant, her reservations were gone.

Gently, she wrapped her arms around his neck as their lips came together in a long passionate kiss.

.

.

.

By the time the Marshal finally emerged from the Long Branch, it was early afternoon. As he was making his way back to the office, he was quickly beginning to feel guilty for spending so much time at the saloon instead of looking for the pock-mark faced cowboy. The smile that he had left Kitty's room with, began to disappear. He was just stepping up onto the porch in front of the office when he noticed Chester waving at him from the Dodge House across the street.

"Oh, Mr. Dillon! Wait up!"

Matt stopped and watched as his assistant limped across

the street.

"Well, for goodness sakes. I've been a-lookin' all over for you," Chester gasped as he hobbled up onto the porch. "Where you been?"

He wrapped his arm around a nearby post beam, trying to regain his breath.

Matt regarded him curiously.

"That so?" he wondered. "What's goin' on? Is Doc back yet?"

Chester shook his head.

"No, I sure ain't seen him. But the other fella...you know, the one you was lookin' for this mornin'...he came back a-ridin' into town a little while back."

The news definitely got the Marshal's attention.

"Where's he now?"

Chester scratched his head.

"Well, he was a-hangin' aroun' the Long Branch for a spell, waitin' fer it to open, I reckon. Anyways, he's over at the Lady Gay now, a-drinkin'."

This was great news. Matt straightened and gave the brim of his Stetson a determined tug.

"Chester, go an' get the horses ready."

This time, he wouldn't let him slip away, Matt vowed to himself. Without further ado, he began to walk down Front Street.

.

.

.

A short while later, well hidden from view, Matt and Chester were waiting in one of the side alleys across the street from the Lady Gay saloon.

They didn't have to wait very long. Soon, the cowboy emerged from the saloon. Several whiskey bottles cradled in his arms, he headed straight for his horse, a pretty strawberry roan which was waiting patiently, tethered to the hitching post in front of the saloon.

Chester was astounded.

"Good gravy, Mr. Dillon...that fella sure likes his liquor."

Matt's eyes were fixed on the cowboy. He watched as he packed the bottles into his saddlebags and untied his horse.

"I have a feelin' that's not all for him, Chester," he replied thoughtfully.

By now, the cowboy had climbed into the saddle and turned his horse around.

Matt gave Chester a nudge and began to mount his own horse.

They watched as the cowboy spurred his horse on and quickly disappeared down Front Street.

Matt and Chester set out to follow him.

"He's headin' north, Mr. Dillon," observed Chester.

The Marshal nodded thoughtfully. He suddenly remembered his rather unsettling encounter with Hettie Carswell.
.

.

.

Whatever his destination was, the cowboy obviously wasn't in a terrible hurry to get there. Matt and Chester had to slow down several times and fall behind even further in order to avoid being seen by him.

A good half hour had passed and Matt realized that they were getting close to the Carswell place.

He reined his buckskin in and waited for his assistant to come up alongside him.

A troubled expression began to appear on Matt's face as he watched the strawberry roan trot up the narrow dirt road towards the farm.

Chester pulled his horse up alongside the Marshal's.

"What's the matter?" he wondered. He craned his neck to see what Mr. Dillon was looking at. His eyes widened with surprise when he realized where their man was heading.

"Now, what business, do you reckon, a fella like that has with ole Ezra?"

Matt didn't have an answer to that. He shrugged.

"I don't know, Chester, but I sure aim to find out."

With that, he urged his horse forward into a canter and his assistant followed suit.

They had not gone very far, when, suddenly, the Marshal's buckskin came to an abrupt halt and Chester's horse almost ran into him. Confused, the young man reined his chestnut in.

Matt was stretching himself tall in the saddle, his gaze fixed on something ahead.

"Well, I'll be doggoned," he muttered loudly.

The buckskin was tossing his head, restlessly scratching at the dusty ground as the Marshal braced his hands on the pommel of his saddle. He turned to his assistant who, by now, had pulled his horse up next to him.

"Will you look at that," he said.

Chester stretched himself tall in the saddle, trying to see what the Marshal was pointing at.

A look of utter surprise suddenly flashed across his face.

"Well, forevermore," he exclaimed startled as his eyes came to rest on the little black buggy sitting outside the Carswell's farmhouse.

It didn't take Matt long to put two and two together. His suspicion, that Doc knew the cowboy, was now definitely confirmed. But what were they doing at the Carswell's? That question still remained unanswered.

Matt pushed the brim of his Stetson back to wipe the dust and sweat from his brow.

"Chester, I want you to stay here," he said. "I think it's about time, I have me a talk with a certain doctor."

"But, Mr. Dillon," Chester began to protest immediately, "don't you'd better let me ride along? What if there's gonna be trouble?"

Matt shook his head.

"That's why I want you to stay here."

He gave his assistant one last, firm look which left no doubt that this was his final word. Then he picked up the reins and spurred his mount forward into a trot.

Worried, the young man watched as the Marshal rode the short distance to the farmhouse. He realized that it was smarter for him to remain unseen in case there was going to be trouble-which he almost for certain knew was about to happen.

Chester turned his horse around and steered him towards a little grove of trees; the growth was dense enough to conceal him and his mount and from here he had a good view of the farm. He dismounted, pulled his Winchester from the scabbard and waited.

The Marshal slowed his horse to a walk as he entered the yard, his eyes cautiously taking stock of his surroundings. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss; the chickens were once again scattering across the yard, protesting his intrusion into their domain by clucking loudly and the dog greeted him with a friendly bark before he trotted off towards the barn.

Matt's gaze wandered to the little black buggy sitting by the side of the house; yes, it was definitely Doc's.

When he reached the farmhouse, he dismounted and hesitated for a moment; he hadn't seen the strawberry roan. Could he be in the corral?

Cautiously, he began to walk around the buggy; but the corral was empty.

Matt began to wonder if the cowboy had passed up the farm after all.

It didn't really matter. Doc was obviously here. With or without the pock-marked stranger, Matt was determined to get some answers from his friend and check on the Carswell's.

He turned and made his way back towards the front door. Squaring himself, he knocked.

This time he didn't have to wait very long; almost immediately, Hettie Carswell answered.

"Hello, Marshal."

This time, no smile greeted him, the expression in her eyes unreadable. Hettie stepped aside and bade him to enter.

Matt's eyes narrowed suspiciously. The fact that she had opened the door so quickly, gave him reason to believe that she had expected him. He hesitated.

"Mrs. Carswell," he said instead, "I see Doc's here. Ev'rything all right?"

Slowly, the elderly woman lifted her gaze.

"Yes, he is. It's Ezra. He's very sick, Marshal."

She opened the door a little further.

"Please...come on in, Marshal."

Matt could read the worry in her eyes; but there was also something else-something that he couldn't quite identify. Was it fear?

He decided that the quickest way to get some answers was to oblige her. Thanking Hettie, he took off the dusty, sweat-stained hat and stepped inside.

Almost immediately, Matt realized his mistake.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something moving in the shadow of the door. He spun around, and suddenly found himself face to face with the man he had been after.

His hand moved instinctively to the gun at his side, but froze above his holster when he realized that the other was pointing a revolver at him.

He cast Matt a grin that revealed a row of yellow, chipped teeth. "Well, what a nice surprise...fancy seein' ya here, Marshal," the man drawled lazily.

He pointed with his revolver at Matt's gun belt.

"Now, if you don't mind...drop that gun of yours."

Matt didn't have much of a choice. Reluctantly, he complied.

His right hand still half-raised, he reached down slowly with his left to undo the buckle.

He tossed the holster into the cowboy's waiting hand.

The other cast him a pleased grin.

"Now get them hands up nice an' high, Dillon."

He motioned Matt to turn and then walked up behind him, the barrel of his gun firmly pressed against his ribs.

"Move it," he hissed as he prodded him along into the main room of the house. There, Matt took notice of two more strangers.

A tall and broad-shouldered, heavy-set fellow was sitting at the table in the middle of the room. His left hand was wrapped around a whiskey bottle while his right was casually clutching his revolver. When he saw the Marshal, he looked up.

"Well, looky here. It's Matt Dillon." His lips drawn into a sneer, he swept his insolent gaze over the lawman, looking him up and down.

Matt didn't reply. His hands still suspended in mid-air, he stood tall and evenly met the other's hostile gaze. His mind however, was working feverishly; he was certain that he had seen this man somewhere before.

"Hey, Fred!" The one sitting called out to the other man who was standing by the fireplace. He was a rough-looking, wiry fellow with an angular, cruel face.

"Look what followed Lou home."

The heavy-set man clambered to his feet.

Fred abandoned his spot by the fire came strolling over to get a closer look at the lawman.

The two men threateningly positioned themselves in front of Matt while Lou remained behind him, leaving him surrounded.

Matt addressed the heavy-set man who seemed to be the leader of the group.

"Where's Doc Adams?"

The big cowboy regarded Matt intently for a one, brief moment.

"Doc Adams?" He gave a short, contemptuous laugh and began to speculatively contemplate his knuckles.

"Don't you worry about him. You'd better start worryin' about yerself, Dillon."

His eyes fixed on the Marshal's face.

"I heard a lot about you. I wonder if it's all true."

His eyes suddenly narrowed, and before Matt could do anything about it, the man dealt him a powerful punch to his stomach.

With a gasp of pain, Matt doubled over. His hands instinctively wrapped themselves around his mid-section. He gulped in a few lungfuls of air, the amused snicker of the three men ringing in his ears. Slowly, carefully, he straightened back up, his angry glare directed at the men in front of him. The big cowboy simply chuckled, cracking his knuckles, ready to deal another blow.

"Moody!"

The sudden shout stopped Matt's assailant in his tracks.

The Marshal looked up. There was Doc Adams, an expression of utter surprise and shock on his face, standing behind the men.

"Well, good heavens!" thundered the physician as he prepared to push past the three men to come to the Marshal's aid.

Immediately, Matt saw his chance. In a flash, he had whirled around and grabbed hold of Lou's gun hand with his right while his left landed a painful blow to his chin.

With a startled outcry, Lou staggered backwards.

The other two recovered quickly and Fred charged at the lawman, slamming his rifle stock hard into the Marshal's lower back.

With a grunt of pain, Matt stumbled forward, but caught himself and managed to ram his elbow into Fred's face in retaliation.

The outlaw howled with pain and anger. The rifle slipped from his grasp.

Right away, Matt lunged for it, but the sudden scream from Hettie Carswell's lips caused his head to jerk up in alarm. Before he realized what was happening, a single shot rang out, drowning out the woman's horrified cry.

Matt stiffened as a searing pain began to spread through his right arm. Instinctively, he clutched it with his left.

The muffled sobs coming from Hettie Carswell's lips as she clasped her hand tightly over her mouth in horror were the only sounds that broke the stunned silence.

Then Dan Moody spoke up.

"You try that again, the next one's gonna hit dead center, Dillon!"

Matt was glaring into Moody's face. He looked as if he was about to charge the outlaw. Doc saw the expression on the Marshal's face and immediately rushed to his side.

He put his arm on the lawman's back, quickly evaluating the extent of the injury.

"By golly, Matt...what, in tarnation, are you doin' here?"

Matt clenched his teeth against the pain.

"I could ask you the same," he grated hoarsely.

The physician stared him for a moment, unsure of what to say. He knew that he had a lot of explaining to do, but now was hardly the right time.

"Come on, let's get you on over to the table," he said instead.

Up to now, Dan Moody had watched in silence.

"I brought you here to take care of my brother, sawbones," he hissed as he planted planted himself in front of the table.

Doc cast him an angry look.

"I done all I could for your brother," he barked. "Why don't you jus' shut up for a while?"

Without paying any more attention to him, he sidestepped Moody and guided Matt to the nearest chair.

The outlaw was contemplating Doc in silence. He knew that he still needed the physician-at least until he knew that his brother was going to be all right and fit to travel. He decided to humor the doctor for now.

He turned towards his accomplices.

"Fred, Lou...keep a good eye on 'em an' make sure Dillon gets tied up after Doc's done with him."

Without affording the lawman and the doctor another glance, he headed for the bedroom.

When Doc saw where Moody was going, his head jerked up.

"Stay outta there, Moody," he groused angrily. "I told you already he needs to sleep. I ain't gonna have you go in there and rile him all up. He's still too weak."

But even though the physician's voice was firm, Matt had known the doctor too long not to notice the strange tremble in his voice. It was fear.

Moody frowned, but obliged. As soon as Ed was better, he would take care of this damn doctor, he silently swore to himself. He turned and headed for the outside instead. The physician shifted his attention back to the Marshal who was looking rather pale by now.

Sitting slumped forward, Matt watched in silence as the blood continued to slowly spill out between his fingers from the bullet wound in his upper arm, soaking quickly into the light-blue fabric of his shirt. Although his arm was hurting badly, it didn't stop him from thinking.

It was clear to him by now that Doc had been brought here to treat Moody's brother. Yet, several questions still remained unanswered.

His train of thought was interrupted as Hettie approached, carrying Doc's little black medical bag. She handed it to him, trying hard to avoid the lawman's eyes.

Matt immediately knew why.

"It's all right, Hettie," he tried to assure her. "It's not your fault."

He gave her an encouraging smile, but it came out rather strained.

His words caused a sad smile to flash across her wrinkly face. Tears began to glisten in the corners of her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Marshal."

"Hettie," said Doc, "I need hot water and some rags."

The doctor's urgently spoken words were enough for her to pull herself together. With a nod, she hurried off towards the stove to gather the requested items.

Doc cleared his throat and pulled his spectacles from his vest pocket, putting them on.

"Matt, I guess, I have some explainin' to do..."

The Marshal looked up. His expression was grim.

"Yeah, I reckon you do."
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As the day wore on and the hours passed, Chester became increasingly concerned. The night was about to descend on the prairie, quickly swallowing up the last of the remaining light. Somewhere an owl hooted and from far off he could hear the eerie, drawn-out cry of a coyote.

Once again, he turned his gaze, as he had done so many times over the past several hours, towards the Carswell farm. By now it was almost too dark to even make out the outline of the house; he was, however, able to discern the windows, presenting themselves to him as two softly glowing, orange rectangles silhouetted against the darkness.

Chester began to explore his options, quickly realizing that he didn't have too many; the realization was sobering. He remembered the shot he had heard several hours ago and he wondered once again who had fired it. For all he knew, the Marshal could be over there hurt or even worse-

Of course there was still the matter of Doc Adams; the thought that the physician was at the farm with Mr. Dillon gave him slight consolation.

Chester continued to think out loud, muttering to himself as he always did when he was faced with a difficult decision. He took his hat off and nervously ran a hand through his hair. After limping back and forth for a few more minutes and thinking the matter over, he knew what he had to do.

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Matt lifted his gaze when he saw Doc enter the room.

Despite the physician's protests, Lou and Fred had roughly tied his hands behind his back and thrown him into the far corner of the room. His injured arm was throbbing sharply, hurting more than he cared to admit. The, not exactly, comfortable position was putting a lot of strain on his arm. He squirmed a little, trying to take some of the pressure off, but wasn't very successful.

Slowly, Doc came shuffling closer. Matt could see how much this ordeal had taken a toll on him. The elderly physician looked worn out and tired. The usual spark seemed to have disappeared from his eye.

Matt understood why he had been so reluctant to confide in him. His irritation at the doctor had faded when he had explained how Dan Moody and his gang had brought Dan's injured brother Ed to the Carswell's, and how Lou had come to his office in the middle of the night, tricking him into coming along.

The gang had taken the old couple hostage, and old Ezra had suffered a heart attack when they had tried to tie him up. Unwilling to let Doc go at first, Dan Moody had sent Lou to the physician's office to get more Nitroglycerin for Ezra. He almost got caught when he ran into Chester.

The Marshal knew that the doctor's first priority had been the lives of the Carswell's. Still, he wished that Doc would have been straightforward with him right away.

"How's Ezra?" asked Matt when Doc squatted down next to him.

Doc took a quick swipe at his mustache.

"He'll be all right," he answered quietly.

The two men caught the watchful eye of Dan Moody.

"Don't you get no fool ideas now, Doc." He was still comfortably perched on his chair, his feet propped up on the table. There was a new bottle of whiskey in his hand.

Doc shrugged off Moody's warning. Instead, he leaned forward to take another look at Matt's injury.

Luckily, the bullet had only grazed his upper arm. It appeared not to have done too much damage, aside from the fact that it seemed to be bleeding a good deal. The doctor frowned when he noticed the fresh blood that was once again staining the bandage.

"Doggone it, didn't I tell you to take it easy on that arm?" he groused at his friend.

"Well, you try sittin' up with your hands tied behind your back," retorted Matt crossly. His his arm was hurting, his hands were almost numb by now, and he was very thirsty.

"Look, I sure could use some water."

The physician nodded.

"Let me see what I can do," he said and scrambled to his feet.

He was making his way past the table when Dan Moody's foot suddenly shot out, his leg blocking the doctor's path.

"You know, Doc," the outlaw slurred, clearly drunk. "I don't think I like you very much. 'S a matter of fact...I think you're lyin' to me about Ed..."

Doc pressed his lips together. All the sudden, he looked very nervous.

"I don't follow you, mister."

Moody fixed his unfocused eyes on the doctor.

"You keep tellin' me, my brother's not fit to travel," he went on to say. "How am I to know you're not jus' lyin'? You keepin' him asleep like that all the time..."

Doc scratched the back of his neck. His eyes narrowed.

"Let me tell ya somethin'...your brother's lost a lot of blood. I'm keepin' him sedated so he can regain his strength."

He ran a nervous hand across his forehead and then swiped at his mustache.

"You want him to wake up? Well, go ahead!" He threw his hand up and gestured with it towards the bedroom door. "But let me tell ya somethin' else. He dies...for heaven's sakes, don't blame me. I warned you!"

Much to Doc's own surprise, the vehemence of his words caused the outlaw to back down.

Moody opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say in return. "Well," he finally stammered, "you just remember...my brother dies..."

"Yeah, yeah...I know...so will I, " Doc finished Moody's sentence in a bored tone. He made a scoffing sound, dismissing the other with an impatient wave of his hand. Without another word, he continued on his way to the kitchen.

Doc realized that he had taken a great chance in talking to Dan Moody like that. The only thing right now that kept the Carswells, him and Matt alive, was the fact that Moody still needed him.

As long as Dan Moody believed that his brother Ed required Doc's care, they were relatively safe.

He shuffled over to stove where the bucket of water was sitting. As he dipped the ladle into the bucket, he noticed a knife lying nearby.

Quickly, his eyes darted to Moody; the outlaw was busy taking long pulls from the whiskey bottle in his hand, not paying any more attention to him. Fred was almost asleep in the rocking chair, the rifle carelessly draped across his lap.

Never taking his eyes off the two men, Doc's hand stole up onto the stove and grabbed the knife, slipping it into his coat pocket.

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Nervous hands clasped tightly around his Winchester, Chester cautiously moved towards the farm.

As he drew closer to the house, his determined resolve was all the sudden giving way to a feeling of apprehension. By now, he knew that something had definitely gone wrong for Mr. Dillon.

The yard was still and peaceful as Chester hobbled along the split-rail fence towards the barn to his left. The soft glow of the oil lamps inside, illuminated parts of the porch. The young man could see the physician's unhitched buggy sitting alongside the corral. Crouching low, he quickly limped across the yard into the safety of the shadow of the barn.

His heart was thumping loudly in his chest as he leaned his back against the wall, resting for a moment. He needed to make his way around the back of the house without being seen. But being seen by who, he thought to himself as the realization that he didn't even know who he was up against, suddenly hit him.

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Inside the house, Doc made his way back to the corner where the Marshal was sitting. Dan Moody watched with a scornful expression, but remained silent.

When the doctor had reached his friend, he knelt down and held the battered tin cup to his lips.

Thirstily, the Marshal took a deep drink. He nodded at Doc, indicating he had had enough, but the physician wasn't paying any attention to him; instead, his eyes kept stealing nervous glances at Dan Moody.

Matt realized at once that the doctor had something on his mind. He coughed a little to get his attention.

Doc shifted his gaze back to the lawman and lowered the cup. His eyes were boring into the Marshal's as if trying to convey an unspoken message. He cleared his throat.

"Let me take another look at your arm there, Matt. Looks like it's still bleedin'.'" He spoke louder than necessary, almost as if he wanted to make sure that Moody could overhear him.

The outlaw cast the two men a lazy glance.

"Yeah, you jus' keep him from bleedin' to death," Moody sneered. "It'll give us a chance to shoot him later for good." He laughed hoarsely and raised the bottle to his lips again to take another swig.

Doc didn't bother with a retort. He was crouched at the Marshal's side. His right hand was fumbling with the bloody bandage while his left reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the knife.

Matt lifted his head, trying his best not to look surprised when he realized what the physician was doing. Seconds later, he felt the ropes loosening around his numb wrists. Carefully, so as not to draw any unwanted attention, he began to move his hands behind his back to get the circulation going again.

"Thanks, Doc," he replied loudly, grinning inwardly at the fact that the outlaw didn't know what he was thanking the physician for.

Doc pursed his lips and gave a quick nod.

"You're welcome, Matt," he answered with a wink.

Without another word, the doctor scrambled back to his feet to make his way over to the bedroom where Ed Moody was laid up.

Left alone with the two outlaws, Matt now realized that one of them, Lou, was gone. His eyes began to search the room. Suddenly, he paused, startled. He was certain that he had seen something move outside the window.

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Only a few more yards, he told himself. Chester was limping across the dark yard as quickly as his stiff right leg would allow him. His hands were still tightly gripping the rifle, his eyes fixed on the outline of the house directly ahead. When he had reached the physician's buggy, he ducked down behind it.

Chester hesitated. He tried to decide whether he should go left, around the corral, or to the right. The left meant a longer, but safer way around since there were no windows; the right seemed shorter, but it also led past the front door and the two big windows which were casting their light out into the yard.

After weighing the matter for one, brief moment, he decided on the longer way around. He headed for the corral. The further he moved away from the house, however, the more difficult it became for him to see. The night was extremely dark, with the moon only occasionally glimpsing through the thick cloud cover. He tripped and almost fell over a lonely bucket, sitting alongside the fence.

Suddenly, Chester froze. He had heard something. Straining his ears, he listened intently into the darkness. There it was again-a soft rustling, coming from somewhere by the corral.

Almost too to afraid to breathe, the young man slowly turned his head towards the source of the noise and relaxed immediately. There, nibbling contentedly on an armful of hay, were two horses. He frowned at himself for having been so fearful and moved in for a closer look. As he did, he recognized the big buckskin at once as being the Marshal's horse, and the smaller, dark one looked as if it belonged to Doc.

Carefully, so as not to spook them, he retreated a few steps and continued on his way.

Finally, he was past the corral and found himself at the back of the farmhouse. He could make out the dark rectangle of the backdoor where light was seeping through the crack at the bottom and the small window to the left of it.

Chester paused for a moment. There were no sounds coming from the inside. Crouching low, he inched his way closer to the window. When he had reached it, he straightened and glanced inside. His gaze fell on a big, beefy fellow sitting at a table, drinking whiskey from a bottle. He recognized the man at once as Dan Moody, the outlaw from the 'Wanted' poster.

"Oh, my goodness," he whispered to himself.

His eyes continued to search the room and came to rest on a pair of legs in the right corner, closest to him. The legs were clad in tan-colored pants and looked awfully familiar.

Chester craned his neck further, trying to get a better look. A light-blue shirt came into view, along with a definitely familiar looking head. The young man pressed his lips together. No wonder, Mr. Dillon hadn't returned.

A sudden movement inside to the left of the window, caused him to duck in a flash. As he carefully peered back inside, he saw another man sitting in a rocking chair to the left. The man was almost asleep, sagged forward with his chin dipped against his chest. Occasionally, his head would snap back up as if he was trying to stay awake.

Chester withdrew from the window and flattened himself against the wall. He hadn't seen Doc, nor the Carswells, but for all he knew, they could be in one of the other rooms. He knew that he had to do something. But what?

A solution presented itself rather quickly and unexpectedly. Inside, Fred rose from the rocking chair and stretched himself. Without a word, he marched straight towards the back door.

Chester's eyes fell on a shovel, leaning against the wall next to the window. Without hesitating, he picked it up and positioned himself to the right of the door.

Seconds later, the door was opened with a creak and the outlaw stepped over the threshold. He paused for a moment. His eyes briefly swept the darkness surrounding him before pulling the door shut behind himself.

Chester's hands tightened around the handle of the shovel as he swung back. With a thud, the broad side of the blade came down hard onto the back of Fred's head. He was knocked out instantly and crumpled to the ground.

Quite pleased with himself, Chester's eyes lingered on the unconscious man for a moment Then he straightened himself and put the shovel aside. He knew that he didn't have much time. Sooner or later, Moody would come looking for his partner.

Chester bent down and took hold of Fred's ankles, dragging him around the corner. There, hanging on one of the fence posts of the corral, he found a coil of rope. In a flash, he had tied the unconscious man up. For good measure, he took the outlaw's grubby bandanna and stuffed it into his mouth.

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Matt looked up as Fred rose from the rocking chair. As the outlaw walked out the backdoor, he realized that now might be his only chance.

He glanced over at Dan Moody; the bottle in the outlaw's left was almost empty and he appeared to be almost asleep. Cautiously, Matt shook the remaining rope from his wrists, but kept his hands behind his back.

Every now and then, Dan Moody's eyes popped open. They wandered over to where Fred had been sitting. When he noticed the other's absence, he sat up.

"Fred?" Moody's gaze searched the room for any sign of his partner. When he was unable to locate him, he slammed the bottle down onto the table. Uttering one expletive after another, the big man heavily, awkwardly, clambered to his feet.

For one second, Matt thought, he was going to fall, but he caught himself at the last moment.

"Where, the hell he go?" Moody grumbled angrily as he began to stomp towards the backdoor. When he was level with the Marshal, he pointed at him with the gun. "You stay where you are, Dillon!"

Matt watched him intently. He had no intentions of heeding Moody's warning. Ever so slowly, he began to draw up his legs, angling them at the knees. His eyes were fastened on the outlaw who was now standing at the window, searching for any sign of Fred. Matt braced his palms against the rough wood planks of the floor. He flinched as his injured arm protested the movement.

The large amount of alcohol had caused Moody to be careless. Unaware of what was going on behind him, his eyes continued to search the darkness outside for his missing partner.

Matt took a deep breath and surged to his feet. Within seconds, he had closed the distance between himself and Moody. His left hand dug into the outlaw's shoulder, forcefully spinning him around while his right landed a powerful blow to the outlaw's chin.

The commotion drew the physician's attention. Cautiously, he cracked the door of the bedroom open and peered through.

What he saw, caused his stomach to lurch. Dan Moody and the Marshal were fiercely wresting with each other, exchanging punches, each of them trying to gain control of Moody's gun which had skidded across the floor and was now out of reach for both.

Matt dealt the outlaw another blow to the chin that would have knocked any ordinary man to the ground. But not so Dan Moody; he simply shook it off like an enraged bear and then lunged at the lawman with a curse on his lips.

The lawman was able to block a vicious jab directed at his nose, but he was too slow to catch the powerful right which followed it immediately. It slammed painfully into his brow. Stars began to explode inside his head, and before he could recover, he was dealt another blow, this time to his chin. It sent him reeling backwards, falling over one of the chairs behind him.

Doc realized immediately that Matt didn't stand a chance given the shape he was in. He had to do something. Desperately, his eyes darted around the room and came to rest on the table. There, still in its holster, was the Marshal's colt. Without hesitating, the doctor rushed towards it.

Dan Moody's gaze fixed on his revolver, lying on the floor almost within reach. He was about to lungefor it when he realized that the Marshal had laid eyes on it as well.

His eyes gleaming fiercely, the outlaw threw a quick, hard punch directly at Matt's injured arm.

It had the desired result. With a cry of pain, Matt recoiled, his left now clutching at the wildly throbbing wound.

In an instant, Moody had grabbed the gun and aimed it squarely at the Marshal chest. But before he could pull the trigger, a sudden shot rang out. The revolver was ripped from the outlaw's hand as a bullet grazed his wrist.

"You just hold it right there, Moody," growled Doc, the Marshal's colt now directly aimed at the outlaw's head. "By golly, don't make me shoot you!"

Dan Moody stared at the doctor in disbelief, then he shook his head and began to laugh.

"You ain't gonna shot me."

Doc tightened the grip on the colt and adjusted his aim.

"You're fool enough to try an' find out?"

His voice was firm, his eyes locked with Moody's in deadly determination.

All the sudden, the backdoor burst open.

"He might not shoot you, but so help me, I sure will, mister!"

The sneer on Moody's face disappeared. He stared in disbelief at the
tall, lanky man standing in the doorway, pointing a rifle at his chest.

Matt quickly secured the outlaw's revolver and struggled to his feet. Despite the pain that was coursing wildly through his arm, he managed to give his assistant a small smile.

"Good to see you, Chester."

He made his way over to the door and proceeded to cautiously look around.

Chester knew immediately what the Marshal was looking for.

"If you're lookin' fer the other fella...I reckon, you could say he's a bit tied up right now."

When Matt cast him a questioning look, Chester simply shrugged.

"Well, I had to even things up a bit."

Matt nodded pleased.

"I see." He pointed at Dan Moody. "Well, do me favor an' make sure you tie this one up, too."

By now, Doc had stepped up to the Marshal. He held out the colt.

"I believe this is yours, Matt."

With a grin, the lawman accepted it.

"That was quite some shootin' there, Doc," he remarked impressed. "Next time I need a deputy, I know where to go."

Doc shook his head. "Oh, no you won't. "I have a hard enough time cleanin' up after people using guns!" Without another word, he shuffled past the men, towards the bedroom.

Matt's eyes followed his friend as he disappeared in the Carswell's bedroom. He was glad to see that the doctor was back to his cantankerous old self again.

He turned to Chester who had taken his task of tying up Moody apparently very serious; the outlaw was wrapped up like a package, unable to move anything but his legs and head.

Matt's thoughts suddenly drifted to the third man. Lou. He remembered that the outlaw had left several hours ago. Where had he gone to?

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Dan Moody was a drunken fool as far as he was concerned, and so was Fred, whose last name he didn't even know. Lou Wallace was trying to remember why he had joined Moody's gang in the first place as he rode through the darkness back towards the Carswell farm. He had spent several hours in Dodge, drinking and playing cards at the Lady Gay.

When they had first started out, there had been ten of them. Now they were reduced to four; three, if Ed Moody didn't make it.

His face darkened as his mind went back to their last heist a week ago. They had attempted to rob the bank in Garden City and failed when they ran into some unexpected, fierce resistance from the Sheriff there and several of the citizens.

Forced to make a run for it, they had to leave the money behind. To make matters worse, they had also lost six of their men.

Dodge was a nice place-plenty of saloons, lots of willing women. It was a pity that he couldn't stay longer. Lou took one final swig from his whiskey bottle before carelessly tossing it to the ground. Soon, the Carswell farm came into view, putting an end to his musings.

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The arrival of the rider did not go unnoticed.

Matt rushed to the window at the sound of hoof clatter outside in the yard.

"Looks like our friend's back." He watched as Lou dismounted and lead his horse into the barn.

He nodded towards the bedroom where Dan's brother Ed was laid up.

"Chester, take Moody in there." he instructed his friend and then called for the physician.

"Doc," he said when the doctor opened the door of Ezra's room. "Lou's back. I want all of you to stay put in there, no matter what happens."

With a nod, the physician obliged and closed the door again.

Matt pointed with his colt to the nook over to their right.

"Chester, over there."

The young man acknowledged the order and placed himself in position. His back flattened against the wall, he cocked the lever of his Winchester.

Matt's eyes searched the room for a place to hide. His gaze came to rest on the big storage cupboard. With a few steps, he had crossed over to it and stood now pressed against the side of it.

Minutes passed without anything happening. The ticking of the grandfather's clock was cutting loudly through the tense silence. Chester cast the Marshal an inquiring look.

An unexpected answer came suddenly in the form of the shattering sound of glass as a bullet ripped through the back window. It was followed immediately by a second one.

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In a flash, the Marshal and his assistant had thrown themselves to the ground.

Matt could feel the first bullet whizzing by his head, missing him by only a fraction. By the time the second one came through the window, he was already on the floor. Lying on his stomach, he took brief aim and returned fire as he rolled himself towards the table.

Chester began to send several shots in close succession through the window while Matt grabbed the table and quickly flipped it on its side.

Crouching safely behind its cover, Matt motioned Chester to join him as he fired another blind shot through the shattered window.

With swift fingers, he reloaded the chambers of the colt. His eyes glanced over at the front door.

"I need you to cover for me, Chester."

Chester nodded. With steady hands, he took aim over the table top and fired at the same time the Marshal rolled from behind his cover and jumped to his feet.

Within seconds, he had reached the front door safely while Chester continued to distract Lou. He had just fired his last bullet when Matt disappeared through the door into the yard.

Carefully, his thumb resting on the hammer of the colt, the Marshal advanced towards the left corner of the house.

He recognized the shots that were now being fired as coming from a handgun. Swiftly he rounded the corner and headed towards the back.

When he came up to the edge of the building, he stopped. He took a deep breath before peering around the corner. The lamp inside cast trembling shadows onto the ground, and Matt could see Lou crouching behind a barrel about thirty feet from the house.

His fingers tightened around the grip of his colt.

He waited for Lou to duck back behind his cover. Chester had just finished reloading and was now several shots into the man's direction, forcing him to remain in cover.

Matt jumped from the shadow of the building. His colt was pointing straight at the man in front of him.

"Hold it right there!"

Startled, Lou wheeled around. The initial confusion on his face quickly gave way to a look of dangerous determination.

Without hesitating, the outlaw brought up his gun and took aim. But he was too slow. The Marshal's bulled struck him square in the chest and Lou collapsed. The gun fell from his grasp. He was dead before he hit the ground.

For another second, Matt stood frozen to the spot. His knees slightly bend, his right hand was still grasping the colt, suspended in mid-air. His gaze was fixed on the body lying face-down in front of him. Self-defense or not, it was never easy for him to shoot anyone.

Chester's voice caused him to turn at last.

"Mr. Dillon?"

Matt holstered up his colt.

"I'm all right, Chester," he said quietly as he headed for the door.

Back inside, Doc Adams was busy with giving Hettie Carswell more instructions for her husband's care. Chester went to hitch up the Carswell's wagon and Doc's buggy.

The new day was already dawning when everyone was ready to return to Dodge at last.

Matt turned towards Dan Moody.

"All right, Moody, get movin'." He motioned his prisoner to walk ahead of him.

Silently, the outlaw took a step and then suddenly halted.

"What about my brother?"

Matt looked at Dan Moody and frowned. He had almost forgotten about Ed. He turned to the physician.

"Doc," he inquired, "how about it? Can we move him?"

The was a long moment of silence as the physician seemed to struggle to find the right words. He nervously swiped at his mustache. His gaze brushed Dan Moody and then came to rest on the Marshal.

"You can move him or leave him. By golly, it's not gonna make a difference, Matt," he then said quietly. "He's dead. Died the night after I operated on him."

Without another word, he shuffled past the men towards the front door.

In an instant, Dan Moody's face darkened. He glowered murderously at Doc's back.

"You damn liar! I would've killed all of you if I'd of known that Ed was dead!"

The doctor stopped. He turned and calmly looked up into the outlaw's livid face.

"I know."

With that, he turned and walked out the door.
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It was early evening when the door to the Marshal's office was opened and Matt, followed closely by Chester, emerged.

Still tired and sore, but cleaned up and relatively satisfied with the outcome of last night's events, Matt leaned against one of the post beams. His gaze was lazily sweeping the busy street while Chester stood alongside him, stretching his gangly body.

The sudden sound of brisk footfall caused both men to turn their heads. Kitty had just stepped up onto the raised sidewalk and was now heading straight towards them.

As she came closer, Matt could tell that she looked rather tired.

"Oh, Matt, I was beginning to get worried," she said as she stopped by his side and looked up at him. "I saw you comin' in this mornin'. Is everything all right?"

Her eyes fell on the lumpy outline of the bandage under his shirtsleeve. She bit down on her lip.

Matt glanced down at her affectionately. He had already figured that she probably wouldn't sleep too well without knowing where he was.

He straightened himself and placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Yeah. Yeah, ev'rything's fine now, Kitty,"

He gave her a sincere smile.

"How about I tell you over lunch?"

"Lunch?"

Kitty raised a reproving eyebrow and placed her hands on her hips.

"Why, it's almost six, cowboy!"

Matt shrugged, not quite seeing what difference it made what you called your food.

"Well, how about dinner then?" he corrected himself.

Kitty shook her head, but couldn't help smile. This was so typical Matt.

"All right, dinner it is."

She was about to turn, but then a thought struck her. She frowned.

"Say, I haven't seen, Doc. Where is he? Is he all right?"

Her question was answered as a black buggy drew up alongside the Marshal's office.

"Well, speakin' of the devil..." C hester limped around the hitching post to hold on to the horse's reins.

Doc Adams looked down at his friends.

"Mornin' Kitty. Matt...Chester".

Matt gave the older man a friendly grin.

"Well, I'm glad to see, we're not the only ones gettin' a late start today."

Doc took a quick swipe at his mustache.

"Speak for yourself, Marshal,"he grumbled,"I never went to bed at all. The Miller-baby decided that no sleep at all is good enough for an old man like me."

While Doc was talking, Chester had made his way around the buggy. His eyes now fastened on the fishing pole on the seat next to the physician. Before Doc could stop him, he had picked it up.

His eyes were twinkling with humor.

"What're you fixin' to do with that? Fishin' for patients?"

Unfortunately, the sleep-deprived doctor failed to see the humor in it.

"Gimme that!" he groused defensively as he yanked the pole from Chester's hands. He threw it back onto the seat. "Nothin' wrong with a fella tryin' to get in a little fishin' between makin'calls."

Chester rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. "No. No, there sure ain't nothin' wrong with doin' a little fishin'. S' a matter of fact, I was just thinkin' the same thing. Well, if you know what I mean, Doc."

He cast the physician a hope glance, but Doc wouldn't have any of it.

"Oh, no you won't!" he grumbled. "By golly, Chester, I' m not gonna have you chase away the fish with your constant yappin'!" He harrumphed indignantly and then turned towards the lawman and the pretty redhead.

"Kitty, Matt." With a quick nod at his friends, he resolutely send the reins smacking down onto his horse's back and departed, trailing a cloud of dust behind him.

Dumbfounded, Chester stared after the quickly disappearing buggy.

"Well, forevermore!"

It took Matt and Kitty a lot of self-restraint not to burst out laughing. The lawman cleared his throat and turned to take hold of Kitty's elbow.

"Come on, Kitty, I'm starved."

She smiled and looked up at the tall man, regarding him amused.

"What's new, cowboy?"

Matt grimaced slightly, but decided to swallow the comment. After all, Kitty was right; he was known to have quite an appetite.

He started to usher her along, when he suddenly remembered something.

"Say, you never told me what was in all those boxes."

Kitty smiled up at him sweetly.

"And I'm still not goin' to tell you."

She paused and couldn't help but laugh when she saw the expression of obvious disappointment on the Marshal's face.

"Tell you what..." A meaningful smile was playing around her lips. "You come by tonight after your rounds and I'll show you."

It didn't take Matt long to figure out what Kitty had in mind. A sheepish grin began to spread across his face.

"Yes, ma'am," he found himself muttering through a throat that suddenly felt somewhat restricted.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw that Chester was regarding them both intrigued.

Matt gave his friend a friendly clap on the shoulder in an attempt to discourage him from asking any, potentially embarrassing, questions.

"Come on, Chester, I'm buyin'," he said, and without waiting for an answer, wrapped his arm around Kitty's shoulder and began to usher her towards Delmonico's.

For a second, Chester's eyes followed the couple, trying to figure out what exactly Miss Kitty wanted to show the Marshal. Then he suddenly realized that he had just been offered a free meal. Quickly, he abandoned his thoughts and hurriedly limped after them.

"Wait up, Mr. Dillon!"
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~THE END~