What Friends Are For

by dinacarter

While pursuing two outlaws, Matt is wounded and left to find his way back to Dodge without his horse in a snowstorm. At the same time, Rip Toland arrives in Dodge, intending to kill the Marshal in retaliation for his brother's death.

What Friends Are For
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This story was written for fan fiction purposes only and is not intended to violate or infringe on the copyrights as owned by PARAMOUNT/ VIACOM, nor to realize any profit.
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Summary: While pursuing two outlaws, Matt is wounded and left to find his way back to Dodge without his horse in a snowstorm. At the same time, Rip Toland arrives in Dodge, intend on killing the Marshal in retaliation for his brother's death. Matt learns the hard way that sometimes one has to rely on his friends for help.

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Chester Goode turned his head towards the door.

"Well, fer goodness sakes, Doc...either come in or stay out," he exclaimed with a frown. "You're lettin' all the cold air in."

Annoyed, he dropped the chunk of wood he was about to shove into the pot-bellied stove. He rushed over and quickly closed the door behind the physician.

The wind was howling outside, blowing the snow around like a violent sandstorm. It was early March and the sudden cold spell had taken all of Kansas by surprise.

Doc didn't reply; he was too busy extricating himself from the extra layers of outerwear he had donned when he had ventured out this morning. Blizzard or not, babies unfortunately didn't wait for better weather to be born-the new Steven's baby had just proved that once again.

Finally free from the restraints of his buffalo skin coat, Doc shuffled over to the stove, seeking to warm his frozen hands.

"What, in the name of thunder, are you grinnin' about?" he groused when he noticed the amused expression on the young man's face.

Chester chuckled as he shoved more wood into the belly of the stove.

"Oh, it's nothin' really," he said, "I'm just glad to see you've made it here without anybody takin' shots at you."

His gaze shifted from the doctor to the buffalo coat.

"What I mean is," he went on to elaborate when the physician cast him an uncomprehending glance, "you sure could've fooled me. For a moment there I thought you was a real live buffalo comin' through that door."

He regarded Doc with his most serious expression, but his eyes were twinkling with humor.

Frowning, Doc waved him off as he began to help himself to some coffee.

"Oh, be quiet," he grumbled.

He lifted the cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. With a satisfied grunt, he shuffled behind the Marshal's desk and made himself comfortable in Matt's chair. He idly picked up an old newspaper and glanced at it.

"Say, heard anything from Matt yet?" he wondered.

Chester shook his head.

"No. No, I sure haven't, Doc."

He looked out the window into the snow-packed street.

"Sure's lookin' bad out there. I mean it ain't just snowin', it's blizzarding. I sure hope Mister Dillon's all right...bein' out there by himself an' all."

The Marshal had left Dodge almost three days ago in pursuit of Jeb Wilkins and his partner. That night, the two men had robbed and killed a man outside the Lady Gay saloon. Unfortunately, by the time the lawman had arrived at the crime scene, the two had already fled town. Matt had left Chester in charge and immediately set out after them. The young man hadn't heard from him since.

Doc took another sip from his coffee.

"Oh, Matt can take care of himself," he replied dismissively.

But Chester wasn't so sure.

"Well, I can't help it." His expression was serious. "I'm just' plump worried. There just ain't no way, a man can live very long in weather like this out there on the prairie."

Doc looked up from his newspaper.

"I wouldn't worry, Chester. Knowin' Matt, he's probably sittin' by a warm fire right now."

Chester nodded but inwardly still worried.

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The blizzard was howling madly around him and the windblown snow made it impossible for him to see anything ahead. The icy bits of driven snow painfully pelted his face, melting against his reddened cheeks.

Matt turned the collar of his barn coat up some more, attempting to keep the stinging cold out. It didn't help much. The snowstorm had taken him completely by surprise and he was hopelessly ill-equipped. Hugging himself against the sharp chill, he huddled closer to the trunk of the tree he had found shelter under.

His left leg was hurting badly. A bullet from Jeb Wilkins' rifle had struck him in the thigh and lodged itself there when he had caught up with the two men and confronted them.

The failed attempt at the Marshal's life had cost Jeb Wilkins his own; Matt had taken him down with one clean shot in the chest, killing the outlaw instantly.

Unfortunately, Wilkins' partner had gotten away, and so had the Marshal's horse when it got spooked by a stray bullet.

This happened yesterday, and Matt had been walking since trying to make his way back to Dodge.

He glanced out from underneath the brim of his Stetson into the swirling mass of snow.

He wasn't sure where he was, much less how much further it was to Dodge. He was hungry and thirsty but too tired to do anything about it. His hand fished in his coat pocket and found the sticky remains of the lump of hoarhound candy that had been sustaining him since yesterday. Thoughtfully, he regarded the small, brownish chunk for a moment before putting it in his mouth.

So much for that, he wearily thought to himself as he began to move the bitter-sweet tasting candy around inside his mouth, letting it slowly dissolve.

Much too soon it was gone, and Matt found himself even hungrier than before. He drew a long, weary breath, deciding that he might as well try and rest some-especially since the snowstorn didn't look as if it was going to let up anytime soon.

Carefully, he curled himself up at the foot of the tree with his hands tucked under his arms and his left leg sticking out at an odd angle. It wasn't exactly the most comfortable position, but he was too tired to care.

Finally, overcome by exhaustion, he closed his eyes and had soon drifted off into an uneasy sleep while the blizzard continued to rage around him.

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"Chester, any word from Matt yet?"

Kitty Russell, co-owner of the Long Branch saloon in Dodge cast a hopeful glance at the lanky young man standing across from her at the counter. She had waited for the Marshal in vain the night he had left and hadn't even known that he was gone until Chester had told her the next morning.

The young man shook his head slightly, wishing that he had better news for her. He had been feeling rather uneasy for last two days and for some reason, it had gotten worse since his conversation with Doc this morning.

"I'm afraid not, Miss Kitty."

Kitty didn't reply. She didn't have to-the worried look on her face spoke for itself.

She finished drawing the beer and placed the foamy beverage in front of Chester before proceeding to draw one for herself.

Immediately, Chester began to rummage through his pocket for some change.

Kitty cast him a smile.

"It's all right...this one's on the house, Chester," she said.

He grinned delighted.

"Why, thank you kindly, Miss Kitty."

He wasn't sure if he would have been able to even find enough money in his pockets to pay for the beer, but he kept that to himself-after all, he had his pride.

Kitty came around the counter. A beer in one hand, she motioned him to sit down with her at their usual table.

The saloon was almost empty tonight, no doubt, on account of the weather. Even though the storm had passed over by now, it had dropped a good foot of snow onto Dodge, leaving the streets buried under a blanket of white. The few patrons that were present, were mostly men that lived in town.

All except one.

Kitty's eyes stole another glance at the stranger as she had done several times before.

There was something about him that she didn't like. He had been sitting at the same table close to the doors for the past several hours, not doing anything except pouring himself the occasional drink from his whiskey bottle.

Kitty was fully aware of the fact that he had been watching her, even though he always seemed to quickly look away when she turned. She wasn't sure why it bothered her so much that he seemed to have taken an interest in her-after all, in the kind of business she was in, it was only natural that the male customers eyed her, more often than not even making passes at her.

"What's the matter, Miss Kitty?"

Chester's words startled her from her thoughts, and she quickly shifted her gaze from the cowboy to the young man beside her.

She cast him a little smile, reluctant to burden him with her indistinct worries.

"Oh, it's nothing."

But Chester didn't go for it. He turned his head towards the cowboy, Kitty had been staring at.

"Ya know that there fella?" he asked.

Kitty shook her head slightly.

"No, I've never seen him before." She hesitated for a moment. "But you know, there's somethin' strange about him. He's been sittin' there for the last two hours, and all he does is drinking and staring."

"Starin'?" Chester repeated, "at you?"

He turned again, stealing another glance at the stranger. Now that he looked at him closer, he liked even less what he saw.

The man was quite tall with a hard, ruddy face. Despite the fact that he sat in silence, there was undoubtedly something dangerous about him. He also noticed the black holster with the revolver which was strapped low to the man's hips.

If the cowboy knew that he was being watched, he didn't give any indication; he simply continued to stare into his whiskey glass.

"I don't rightly know what it is, Miss Kitty," said Chester, turning back to her. "But I sure have a feelin', he ain't up to no good."

He kept his voice low, afraid the man might hear him, and he suddenly wished that Mister Dillon was back.

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Matt woke up with a sudden start, staring around wildly. He wasn't sure what had roused him from his sleep. Confused, he squinted into the semi-darkness, and then he suddenly remembered where he was; the realization was quite sobering.

A dull grayish tinge along the horizon showed that daybreak was drawing closer. He was relieved that the blizzard had finally stopped, but to his dismay, it had left the prairie covered with a blanket of deep snow.

With a groan, he slowly uncoiled his aching body. He had slept curled up tightly to protect himself against the bitter night air. It had worked, and although he was numb with cold, at least he hadn't frozen to death. The snow that had piled up on him, now fell off as he awkwardly levered himself to a sitting position.

His injured leg was throbbing dully. As he peered down at the wound, he noticed that it had bled again. The bandanna that he had tied around his thigh, was stained with fresh blood.

Matt knew that the bullet had to come out as soon as possible. Almost automatically, his thoughts drifted to his friend Doc Adams. He wondered how much further it still was to Dodge and whether he would be able to make it there.

The one thing he was certain of, was the fact that he couldn't remain here; he would most likely die before anyone could find him.

Shielding his eyes with his hand, Matt once more scanned the horizon but saw no sign of human life.

He remembered having mostly traveled north towards the Pawnee River in pursuit of Wilkins. He decided to continue on south as he had done since the day before yesterday.

He was hungry. Hungry and thirsty. He hadn't eaten in almost three days and the pangs of hunger were gnawing painfully at his stomach. Longingly, he thought of the provisions which were now completely useless, packed away in his horse's saddlebags. Digging his hand into the powdery snow, he scooped up a handful and let it melt in his mouth. It took quite a few handfuls but at least, it quenched his thirst.

Blowing into his cupped hands in an attempt to warm them a little, Matt looked up into the morning sky. The air was still, without the slightest breeze and the warm rays of the rising sun felt good on his face.

He decided that it was time to move on.

Still stiff from the cold, he slowly struggled to his feet, pulling himself up on the tree trunk. It took him a few seconds to overcome his dizziness. Cautiously, he put his left foot forward. Almost immediately, the lawman flinched as the pressure of his weight send a sharp, stabbing pain through his leg.

No, this definitely wasn't getting any better, he realized grimly. Frustrated, he leaned his back against the tree and closed his eyes.

His thoughts turned to Chester.

Matt found himself wondering how his friend was getting along. The young man was loyal and Matt trusted him completely, but that still didn't keep him from worrying. About three years ago, his assistant had almost died after being dragged behind a horse by two rowdy Texans. For a long time afterward, Matt had felt guilty because he had sent Chester to calm the two drovers down. He was hoping that things remained quiet back in Dodge-at least, until he got back.

With renewed determination, he pushed himself off the tree and began to walk.

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The bright rays of the mid-morning sun flooded the Marshal's office as the door was pushed open and Kitty stepped inside.

"Good mornin', Chester," she greeted the young man as she began to free herself from the restraints of the warm shawl she had draped around her shoulders against the cold.

Chester looked up from the stove where he was about to pour himself a cup of steaming coffee.

"Well, mornin' there, Miss Kitty." He held the cup out to her. "Can I get you some?"

The pretty redhead shook her head slightly. She had just finished having breakfast at Delmonico's with Doc Adams, and she wasn't sure if her stomach could handle any more coffee-especially Chester's kind.

"No, but thank you anyway, Chester," she declined politely.

Chester's eyes lingered on her for another moment, and he couldn't help but notice how tired she looked. He immediately knew why; he had seen her too many times like this. She was worried about the Marshal.

He was worried, too.

Chester already had a pretty good idea what she was going to ask him next, and he wished that he could give her some good news. But, as it was, he still had no word from Mister Dillon.

As if to confirm his thoughts, her gaze began to wander around the office.

"Still nothing from Matt?" she asked quietly.

Chester shook his head sadly in response.

"Sorry, Miss Kitty."

Kitty heaved a sigh and attempted a smile.

"Well, I'm sure he's all right." She tried to sound optimistic, but her voice carried a distinct hint of uncertainty.

Chester scratched his head.

"Say, you remember that fella from yesterday?" he then asked, changing the subject. "I done a little checkin' up on him this mornin'."

Kitty regarded him curiously. She had wondered about the stranger and what he was doing in Dodge.

"Well," Chester continued, happy with the fact that she was interested. "I found out he's got himself a room over at the Dodge House. His name's Rip Toland."

"Rip Toland?" Kitty repeated.

Somehow, the name sounded vaguely familiar to her-although not in connection with the stranger from the Long Branch.

Chester nodded in confirmation.

"Well, that's what Howie's done told me anyways. But for all we know, it might not be his real name."

"Rip Toland," she muttered again thoughtfully as she chewed on her bottom lip. "It sure sounds familiar..."

Chester was about to say something else when all the sudden, the door was flung open.

It was Louie Pheeters.

"Where's the Marshal, Chester?" he gasped urgently as he stumbled into the jail.

Chester shook his head.

"Well, he ain't here, Louie. He's still chasin' after them fellas that killed that man over at the Lady Gay a couple o'days ago."

He put his cup on the desk and regarded the older man suspiciously.

"What's the matter with you anyways?"

Louie, looking and sounding quite sober, wagged his thumb over his shoulder and pointed towards the door.

"There's been a shootin' at the Lady Gay an' one of them fellas is dead!"

Chester swallowed hard.

"Oh, my goodness..."

He had always been afraid that this might happen one of these days when Mister Dillon was out of town.

He nervously rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think of what to do next. One thing was for sure-the Marshal had entrusted him with the responsibility of looking after things. He couldn't disappoint him now.

"All right, Louie," he said firmly with all the authority he could muster. "You go on ahead an' get Doc. I'll be along directly."

The town bum nodded and hurried off to do Chester's bidding.

Worried, Kitty watched as Chester began to rummage through the Marshal's desk. She was afraid to think of what might happen if he had to face off with whoever shot that unfortunate cowboy. She knew that Chester usually didn't carry a gun-and wasn't exactly handy with one either.

The Marshal's assistant quickly found what he was looking for; Mister Dillon's spare colt. With nervous fingers, he half-cocked the hammer and slid back the loading gate, checking to make sure the gun was fully loaded. Satisfied, he stuffed it in his belt and limped over to the door.

"You best be gettin' back to the Long Branch, Miss Kitty," he told her as he pulled on his coat.

Kitt looked at him worriedly.

"All right. But you be careful, Chester," she said.

He nodded, and giving her a smile that appeared a little shaky, slipped out the door.

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The first thing Chester saw as he entered the Lady Gay saloon, was the small crowd, gathered around a motionless figure on the ground. Quickly, he hobbled over, parting the crowd as he pushed his way through.

It didn't take him long to realize that the man was beyond help when he saw the bloody gap where a bullet had entered the cowboy's chest. He pressed his lips together and looked into the round.

"Any of yen's seen how this happened?"

Hard, expressionless faces stared back at him.

Chester didn't care much for the Lady Gay saloon and its clientele. The men frequenting this establishment were of the rougher kind, the ones he preferred not to associate with-not to mention go up against.

It quickly became apparent that nobody seemed to have any intentions of talking. He swallowed, reminding himself how Mister Dillon would handle this.

"Well?" he repeated firmly, letting his gaze travel over the crowd.

Suddenly, a tall man stepped forward, roughly shoving another man aside. It was Rip Toland.

His hands casually hooked into his gunbelt, he planted himself in front of Chester, sweeping his gaze deprecatingly over the jailer.

"Who, the hell, are you?"

Chester, annoyed by Toland's obvious show of disrespect, pulled himself up to his full height.

"My name's Chester Goode, and I'm watchin' out for things while the Marshal's out of town," he said importantly.

Toland fixed his eyes on Chester's stiff right leg. He raised his brows and gave a derisive chuckle.

"I see," he said slowly, deliberately.

Chester was well aware of the other's attempt at provoking him. But he quickly pulled himself together and pretended not to notice. He was determined not to let Toland get the better of him.

He looked the other firmly in the eye.

"You seen what happened here?"

Rip Toland's response was not what Chester had expected.

"Oh, yeah, I shot him." His tone was casual as he continued to evenly hold the young man's gaze.

Chester blinked and looked at him as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard.

"It was self-defense," Toland now added.

He was eyeing Chester with a provocative expression as if daring him to challenge his words.

Luckily, Chester caught on to it and didn't allow himself to be baited. Instead, he turned to some of the other men that had by now formed a half-circle around the two of them.

He let his eyes slowly travel from one man to the next.

"Any of you fellas seen this happen?"

The reactions were slow and mixed. Some men nodded their heads, others mumbled, but Chester had the distinct feeling that they all were afraid of Rip Toland.

When he turned back to Toland, he saw a smirk of suppressed triumph on the man's face.

Chester wished at once that he could wipe it off, and his own face darkened considerably.

"What business you got here in Dodge anyways, mister?" he growled, sounding quite a bit braver than he actually felt.

For some reason, the question seemed to have struck Rip Toland as funny. For a moment, he regarded the Marshal's assistant with an amused expression, and Chester, catching it, felt anger and indignation rise within him.

Then suddenly, Toland's eyes narrowed and his face turned dark, the amused look giving way to one of dangerous determination.

"I'm here to kill the Marshal," he hissed.

Without another word, he spun around and stalked out of the saloon, shouldering roughly past the physician who was just stepping through the doors, Louie Pheeters closely at his heel.

Confused, Doc Adams turned. He allowed his gaze to briefly follow the stranger before shifting his attention to the Marshal's assistant.

Chester nodded at the body.

"The poor fella's dead, Doc," he said.

But the doctor, preferring to form his own opinion, knelt down beside the body anyway.

It didn't take him long to confirm Chester's words.

"By golly, you mind tellin' me what happened here?" Doc swiped at his mustache and then proceeded to clamber back to his feet.

Quickly, Chester explained what had happened. Not wanting to alarm Doc unnecessarily, he purposely left out Toland's last remark.

When he had finished, the physician thoughtfully rubbed the back of his neck.

"Well, since you're in charge here, I'd say you tell that Toland-fella to get outta Dodge," he suggested gruffly.

Chester nervously pushed his hat back, Toland's last words swirling around in his mind.

"I'm afraid, it ain't gonna be that simple, Doc."

Doc frowned in response.

"Oh? An' why's that?" he grumbled, tugging at his earlobe.

Chester shifted uncomfortably. There was no way around it; he had to tell him.

"Well, that there Toland-fella came here to shoot Mister Dillon."
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It was impossible to tell how long he had been trudging on-he had lost all track of time.

Matt stopped and turned back, looking at the trail of irregularly paced footprints he had left in the deeply packed snow. Ahead, the vast expanse of the prairie seemed to stretch on forever with no sign of any human habitations as far as he could tell.

As his eyes continued to scan the horizon, they fell on a ridge, about a mile or so ahead. Its treeline, silhouetted darkly against the bright blue sky, looked vaguely familiar to him. Could it be Pawnee Creek? If he was right, it meant that he was less than a half day's ride from Dodge.

The thought brought renewed hope to the exhausted lawman.

He squinted up at the sun. By now it had climbed past its highest point in the sky, telling Matt that it must be early afternoon.

Luckily, the day had warmed up considerably with the temperatures hovering well above freezing. The snow was glistening brightly as it slowly but steadily began to melt.

Matt figured that with a little luck, he could make it to the ridge by late afternoon. The trees promised shelter, and if Pawnee Creek indeed lay behind it, even water.

His injured leg was hurting worse now than it had all day. He longed to rest, but he knew that he had to keep going. For a brief moment, his mind toyed with the idea of lying down for just a little while, but he knew that he couldn't allow himself to give in to his desire.

His face stiffened with resolve, and he continued to stumble on.

Soon, every step was becoming a chore. The stabbing pain in his leg had become virtually impossible to ignore. To make matters worse, the snow had somehow found its way into his boots, making his feet not only cold but now also wet.

He slipped and fell several times as he clambered up the steep incline, but his determination was too strong to allow him to give up.

His mind set on the things that mattered the most to him, Matt kept reminding himself of all the reasons why he had to make it back to Dodge; the people there that relied on him, his friends, Doc, Chester-and of course Kitty.

He knew that she was probably worried by now, wondering where he was. He hated the fact that he was causing her grief, and yet, she rarely complained. The pretty co-owner of the Long Branch knew him better than anybody, and they understood each other without the need for a lot of words. She was the only person that he shared his innermost feelings with, and he could always count on her to be straightforward and honest with him-whether he liked to hear what she had to say or not.

The tiniest of smiles curved his lips. Yes, he would make it back to Dodge. With renewed determination, he continued to trudge on.

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The day went on slowly without any news of the Marshal.

Chester wasn't sure what was worse-the fact that Mister Dillon still hadn't returned, or Rip Toland's presence in Dodge, waiting to gun the lawman down as soon as he set foot into town.

The young jailer had never felt so helpless before. He wished that there was something he could do besides waiting. But as it was, he also realized that even if he could go out looking for the Marshal, he wouldn't even know where to begin his search.

Finally, he stopped pacing the office for a moment.

"Oh, forevermore," he muttered loudly to himself.

He ran an agitated hand through his hair. The silence at the jail was quickly becoming too much for him. He decided to head down to the Long Branch and join Miss Kitty for a beer.

He knew, he had to watch what he said to her. Doc Adams had made him promise earlier not to tell Miss Kitty what they had found out about Toland's reason for being in Dodge.

Chester understood. The pretty redhead was already worried enough about Mister Dillon as it was; the knowledge that Rip Toland was here to kill the Marshal would just add to her worries.

With a sigh, he reached for his jacket and pulled it on, slapped on his hat and headed out the door into the cold.

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"Chester! Wait up!"

At the summons, the Marshal's assistant stopped and turned.

It was Moss Grimmick. Waving his hand excitedly above his head, the old man came shuffling down Front Street, his booted feet splashing through the slushy patches of melting snow.

Chester shoved his hands deeper into the deep pockets of his jacket to keep them warm.

"What's the matter, Moss?" he inquired curiously as the other came to a halt in front of him.

Still panting, the livery man motioned for Chester to follow him over to the stable.

"You better come along," he said, still a little out of breath. "There's somethin' I think you oughtta see."

Chester's face scrunched up slightly.

"Well, can't you jus' tell me?"

But apparently, that wasn't good enough for Moss. Stubbornly, the old man shook his head.

"I think you best be takin' a look at this yerself," he insisted as he began to tug on Chester's sleeve.

Chester pulled his sleeve loose from Moss' grasp.

"All right, all right, for goodness sakes," he fussed. "Take it easy there!"

He motioned Moss to walk ahead. "Well, go on then."

Satisfied, the old man began to shuffle along, a grumbling Chester in tow.

When they reached the livery stable moments later, Moss ushered Chester inside. He nudged him along towards the stalls and pointed to a buckskin-colored horse tethered inside one of them.

The initial frown on Chester's face gave way to a look of delight.

"Say, when did Mister Dillon get back?"

Old Moss scratched his wrinkled forehead. He pushed his hat back.

"Well, that's what I been a-tryin' to tell ya, Chester. I haven't seen the Marshal at all."

Chester didn't immediately understand.

"You mean, Mister Dillon brought him in here without tellin' you?"

He found that rather strange, too.

Moss shook his head.

"Nope. I found him standin' outside the doors a good half hour ago."

Chester was still not quite understanding what Moss was trying to tell him.

"You did?"

He turned his gaze to the Marshal's buckskin.

"Well, but where's Mister Dillon?"

The horse, of course, unable to provide him with an answer, commenced to contentedly munch on an armful of hay.

Suddenly, comprehension began to dawn on Chester's face.

"Oh, my goodness," he muttered horrified. The bad feeling he had been carrying around with him for the past couple of days, suddenly seemed confirmed.

He began to think feverishly. The first thing that came to his mind was that Mister Dillon obviously was somewhere out there on the prairie on foot. Then a second, less appealing thought suddenly entered his mind; what if the Marshal was hurt?

He had to go and find Doc Adams.

"Moss," he said as he turned to the old man, "don't you go tellin' anyone about this...not yet anyways."

Matt grabbed Chester's arm again.

"Wait up, Chester, there's somethin' else, I think you oughtta see."

He shuffled over to where he had hung the Marshal's saddle. Silently, he pointed at it, inviting the young man to take a closer look.

Chester's stomach suddenly lurched. A good part of the saddle was smeared with something reddish that looked an awful lot like-dried blood.

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Only a few more feet, he kept telling himself. With a loud crunch, his boots sank into the icy crust as Matt forced himself to take another step.

The sun had already begun to sink in the west, taking with it the last of the warmth and the temperature once again, was plummeting below freezing.

The lawman's eyes scanned the grove and came to rest on the narrow, tapered outline of a red cedar tree. Exhausted, he dropped himself under its sheltering branches. The ground underneath him was free of snow and dry, covered with a layer of dried prairie grass and leaves.

Matt allowed himself to rest for a brief minute. Then he began to look for any suitable kindling to get a fire going. He was lucky; the small inner branches of the tree were dry and broke off easily. It didn't take him long and he had gathered a nice pile.

What he needed now were some bigger pieces. As he looked around, he noticed several splintered tree limbs sticking out from between the patches of snow. He pried as many as he could from the frozen earth, and soon he had gathered enough.

His fingers, now raw and numb from digging in the snow, clumsily fished in his coat pocket for the matches. Luckily, he had carried them on himself instead of leaving them in the saddlebags as he usually did.

Matt's hand was trembling as he opened the small pack.

His heart sank as he took count.

Six matches was all he had left.

Carefully, lifting one up with his thumb and forefinger, he fumbled with the small match, trying to rake it across the rough bark of the tree. But his fingers, too cold and stiff, dropped it. He picked it up and tried again. This time, the sulfur match ignited with a hiss, briefly flaring up before it dropped once again from his fingers.

Matt exhaled loudly in frustration as the little flame died instantly when it came in contact with the snow.

Only five left.

He swallowed, trying to focus on the task at hand and pulled another match from the pack.

Once again, the match ignited, the acrid smell of the sulfur stinging his nostrils, but he managed to hold on to it this time. Greedily, the small flame began to devour the thin, dried twigs, quickly growing as it began to spread over to the bigger branches.

Soon, the fire was crackling and burning brightly. Matt sat as close as possible, rubbing his hands together above its flickering warmth.

He still had no idea where he was or how much further it was to Dodge. He dearly hoped that at least his horse had been able to find its way home. If the buckskin turned up in Dodge without its rider, surely someone would come looking for him.

Matt placed a few more branches on the fire and turned his attention to the injured leg.

The dull throbbing had gradually increased to a sharp stabbing pain as the day had worn on. He was afraid that the wound had become infected. Matt fumbled with the bandanna which he had used as a make-shift bandage. It was stiff with dried blood, and it took his fingers a while to undo it. The bullet had left a small hole in his pant leg, not big enough for him to get a good look at the wound.

He pulled the pocket knife from his coat and snapped it open. Carefully, he began to cut the blood-stained fabric open some more.

Matt was no doctor, but he had seen enough bullet-inflicted injuries to realize that this one didn't look too good. He bent closer to examine his thigh in the flickering light of the fire. The flesh around the entry wound was red and swollen and extremely tender to the touch.

There was no doubt; the bullet had to come out as soon as possible.

Matt wasn't a squeamish man, but all he had was the small pocket knife, and he wasn't sure if it was good enough for that purpose.

He decided to wait until morning when the light would be better. With that, he knotted the bandanna back around his thigh and stretched himself out close to the fire.

The night was cold, though not as bitter as the previous one.

Lying on his back, Matt turned his gaze upward.

The sky was black, sprinkled with a myriad of stars that shone down brightly, their light reflecting off the snow-covered ground. The drawn-out cry of a coyote echoed across the prairie, sounding abnormally loud as it was carried along by the crisp night air.

The prairie was suffused with a strange, almost unearthly sense of peace, and despite his predicament, the Marshal was beginning to feel a sensation of calm wash over him.

He rolled back onto his side and curled himself up tighter, his hands tucked firmly under his arms and closed his eyes. Soon, he had fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

.

.

"What are you two whisperin' about?"

Kitty stopped in front of the table and curiously looked down at Doc and Chester.

Business was a lot better today now that the snow storm had blown over, and even though it was only early afternoon, the saloon was already crowded.

Chester lifted his gaze to her.

"Oh, it-it ain't really nothin', Miss Kitty," he stammered. He shook his head dismissively, but Kitty knew him all too well. She didn't go for it.

"Hmm, that's strange," she mused. "I'd swear, I heard you mention Matt's name."

Immediately, Doc tried to come to Chester's aid.

"Well, we were just talkin' about..." he began to say evasively, but he broke off in mid-sentence when Chester interrupted him.

"Oh, Doc...it just ain't no use," he said. He shook his head sadly. "We gotta tell her. I mean, she's got a right to know. Besides, she's bound to find out sooner or later anyways."

"Find out what?" Kitty's voice took on a tone of uneasy curiosity. Somehow, she didn't like the way this sounded.

Doc shot Chester a rather sore look.

"Doggone it, Chester! Why, in the name of thunder, can't you just keep your big mouth shut for once?" He stabbed an angry finger at the young man's chest. "Now she's gonna worry herself sick!

"Worry about what, Doc?" Kitty looked back and forth between the two men. By now, her curiosity had given way to concern.

"Well? I'm waitin'," she added when neither one of them seemed to take the initiative to talk.

Doc sighed.

"Oh, all right...we might as well tell ya before you hear it from someone else."

He graced Chester with a rather unfriendly side glance and took a quick swipe at his mustache.

"Why, thank you Doc." Kitty's voice carried a distinct touch of sarcasm.

The doctor hesitated, trying to choose his words carefully.

"Well...seems like Chester here ran into Moss Grimmick this mornin'. Matt's horse showed up at the livery stable-without Matt."

Kitty's eyes widened and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

"Oh, no...No sign of him at all?"

Doc didn't answer her right away; there had been a sign, albeit, not a very good one. The dried blood on the Marshal's saddle gave him reason to believe that Matt had been wounded. He decided not to share his knowledge though. Slowly, he shook his head.

"No, Kitty. No sign of him at all."

Though clearly shaken, Kitty's voice was firm when she spoke.

"Well, we gotta do something!"

"Well, Doc an' I were a-thinkin' that..." Chester started to say, but he broke off abruptly when a shadow fell on their table.

As he looked up, he found himself staring at Rip Toland. A terrible grin was gracing his lips.

"Howdy, Chester, thought I check with ya if Dillon's back yet."

In an instant, Chester was on his feet.

"Now look here, mister," he said, practically shouting in Toland's face. "Why don't you just go on back where you came from an' leave Mister Dillon be!"

He glared challengingly at the outlaw with clearly more determination than common sense.

Rip Toland stiffened, his ruddy face turning crimson. His hand went for his gun, and for a second, it looked as if he was going to shoot Chester.

But then he hesitated, trying to decide whether it was worth the trouble to take care of this pesky deputy right now, or wait until he got finished with Dillon. He decided to do the latter; it would be much more fun to make him watch the Marshal die first.

"I'll be waitin' around, Chester." Toland's voice was low. Without another word, he wheeled around and stalked off.

"Mister, I'm gettin' awful tired..." Chester started to call defiantly after him. But the rest of his sentence never made it past his lips as a firm hand suddenly seized his forearm and pulled him back down into his chair.

"Well, for heaven's sakes, goodness gracious! What's the matter with ya?" snapped Doc. "You're tryin' to get yourself killed? Go on, sit! Sit back down!"

He tightened his grasp on the young man's arm, determined to keep him in his chair.

Still trembling with anger, Chester swallowed hard, a disgusted scowl on his face.

"I tell ya, that Toland-fella's right outta his mind!"

"It's all right, Chester," Kitty joined in, in an attempt to calm the irate young man. "That was pretty brave of you."

She patted his arm and gave him a quick smile, and the young man slowly began to relax.

"Brave?" sputtered Doc incredulously. "I'd say that was pretty stupid!"

He shook his head in disbelief.

Secretly, Kitty agreed with Doc, but she figured it better to keep that to herself.

"Say," she said, suddenly remembering Toland's words. "What's he got to do with Matt anyway?"

Doc and Chester exchanged a quick uncomfortable glance. They might as well tell her. Already, Rip Toland's reason for being in Dodge was quickly beginning to spread around town. Better for Kitty to hear it from her friends than from somebody else.

Doc took a quick swipe at his mustache and cleared his throat.

"Kitty, it seems like this Toland-fella's after Matt."

Immediately, Chester's face darkened again.

Kitty pressed her lips together and remained silent. She had known Matt for almost five years now and during this time she had gotten strangely used to people constantly threatening his life.

Experience had taught her to have confidence in the Marshal's ability to deal with these situations, but there was something about Toland that outright scared her. But as alarmed as Kitty was by Toland's intentions, she still thought that finding Matt first was the more pressing problem at the moment.

She looked from Doc to Chester.

"What are we gonna do about finding Matt?"

Four days had passed since the lawman's departure, and the sooner they began their search, the better.

After mulling their options over for a short while, they decided that Chester should go and try to find him.

It was important that no one besides Moss Grimmick knew about it, and Doc would make sure of that. Kitty took it upon herself to see to it that Toland was distracted at the Long Branch during Chester's departure.

.

.

"Well, I'm ready, Doc."

At Chester's words, the physician turned. He motioned the Marshal's assistant to stay where he was.

"You just hold on there a minute...we gotta wait 'til Moss gets back."

The livery man had volunteered to go down to the Long Branch and check to make sure that Rip Toland was out of the way.

Chester nodded and turned his attention back to his mount. He checked the tightness of the latigo strap and cinched it up some more. The Marshal's buckskin was all saddled up, too, waiting patiently, his reins tethered to the chestnut.

It was still early afternoon and there was enough daylight left for Chester to cover some ground. Even if he didn't find the Marshal today, he had packed enough supplies to last him for several days.

Luckily, the weather was continuing to take a turn for the better. The milder temperatures were quickly melting the abundance of snow, leaving the streets of Dodge slushy and wet.

It wasn't before long and old Moss came shuffling up Front Street.

"Best get goin' now," he urged Chester. "Not sure, how much longer Miss Kitty can distract that fella."

Chester didn't waste any time. Quickly, he led the horses from the stable and swung up into the saddle.

He looked down at the physician with a somber expression.

"Well, wish me luck, Doc."

Doc's eyebrows knitted into a frown, a sarcastic remark on his lips, but he immediately thought better of it and his expression softened a little. He ran a nervous hand across the salt-and-pepper bristles of his mustache.

"Yeah, well...you just see to it that you find Matt and bring him back," he grumbled.

Chester nodded earnestly as he picked up the reins, adjusting them in his hand.

"I sure will, Doc...don't you worry none."

With that, he tapped his heels against the horse's flanks, guiding him out into the street. The buckskin followed obediently behind.

"Chester," Doc suddenly called after him. "Try bein' careful out there."

This time, there was no trace of the usual sarcasm in his voice.

A brief smile passed across the young jailer's face as he turned.

"Yes, Doc. "

He urged his mount forward into a swift trot.

Doc Adams continued to stand in thoughtful silence, watching as man and rider quickly disappeared from view. He was worried-worried not only for Matt, but now also for Chester.

With another quick swipe at his mustache, he turned and decided to head for the Long Branch to check in with Kitty.

.

.

When Matt awoke the next morning, he felt feverish and weak. Slowly he uncurled his aching body and lifted his head. For a moment, he looked around in obvious confusion.

Where was he? Why was he lying under a tree?

Suddenly, he remembered; the realization of his predicament was less than comforting. With a grunt of effort, he rolled himself onto his back and ran a tired hand across his face.

For a while, he simply lay there, staring up through the frost-covered branches outlined against the pale blue sky. It was still early, he noted; the sun had just crept over the rim of the horizon in the east. He had to get moving soon. Easing himself stiffly upright, the Marshal suddenly dragged his breath in sharply as his injured leg made itself known by throbbing painfully.

His breath held, his eyes shut tightly, Matt waited for the pain to subside.

When the pain eventually settled back to a dull throbbing, he eased his breath out and opened his eyes. He decided, it was better to remain where he was for now.

Propping himself up against the trunk of the cedar tree, Matt peered down at his leg. He had to get the bullet out now; if he waited any longer, he most likely wouldn't be in any shape to do it at all.

Once again, he searched the horizon in hopes of finding help. Nothing. The vast, snow-covered prairie stretched out as far as he could see, devoid of any signs of life.

Matt turned his attention to the remains of the fire; it had burned itself out long ago, reducing the wood to nothing more than a pile of ashes. He needed more wood. Luckily, there were still quite a few of the branches left which he had pried from the frozen ground the night before.

It took him a little while, but eventually, he managed to get another fire going with the help of some dried prairie grass.

Despite the cold, Matt's face was flushed and sweaty, and even though he had just woken up, he felt tired and weak. But be it as it may, he couldn't allow himself to go back to sleep though; he had to get that bullet out. His hand reached into the coat pocket and fumbled for the knife. Seconds later, it emerged, holding the small blade. He snapped it open. It was a good little knife, and he always kept it well sharpened.

Carefully, Matt laid it down onto his thigh and began to unbutton his coat. He tugged the hem of his warm corduroy shirt from his pants and then began to cut off a small piece.

For a moment, he regarded the shred of fabric.

Kitty.

It was Kitty who had bought him this shirt. Matt missed her, and he found himself wondering how she was doing. Usually, she was still sleeping at this time of day. Due to the nature of her job, Kitty wasn't exactly an early bird. There had been times however, when he had been able to coax her out of bed early. Among other things, they also shared a common love for fishing. Then there had been other times, especially when he was out of town, that she would often rise early and stand by the window, looking out for any sign of him. He had never mentioned it to Kitty, but he knew about it; Doc had seen her and told him once.

Matt closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind of everything except the inevitable task he was about to perform.

His fingers were shaking as he began to clumsily untie the blood-soaked bandanna. He found that the wound was swollen even worse than it had been yesterday.

Matt suddenly wished that he had some whiskey. Aside from acting as a disinfectant, a few good swallows of it certainly would have made it a little easier.

Holding the blade into the flames, he waited until it was blackened with soot and good and hot. Then he commenced to wipe it clean on the shred of fabric.

Taking a slow, deep breath, he moved the knife closer to the wound.

For a moment, his right hand hovered indecisively above his thigh, and suddenly, he wasn't so sure anymore whether he could go through with it.

Doc Adams. Damn it-how he wished Doc was here now.

Matt pressed his lips together, trying to steel himself for what he was about to do. His fevered body was shaking worse now than it had before, and he knew that it wasn't just from the cold.

He hesitated. Despite the frigid air, beads of sweat had begun to form on his forehead, running down his cheek and neck in small rivulets. The hand, clasping the small pocket knife, was trembling.

Matt inhaled sharply through clenched teeth at the sensation of the blade pressed against the sensitive flesh.

Do it, dammit, he told himself angrily when his hand refused to obey. He gulped in a lungful of air and held his breath; he couldn't allow himself to be squeamish now.

With one swift motion, he drove the blade down into the wound.

The pain-racked cry that spilled from his lips moments later, echoed eerily across the prairie.

.

.

He had covered a lot of ground yesterday before nightfall, but despite his efforts, he had found no sign of the missing Marshal.

Yawning, Chester extricated himself from the thick woolen blankets he had wrapped himself up in last night in hopes to keep from freezing. It had worked, and he had slept warm and comfortable within their confines.

A bright blue, cloudless morning sky greeted him as he looked up. The frigid night chill which still hung in the air, was slowly being chased away by the warm rays of the rising sun.

The trees were glistening with quickly melting hoarfrost and the snow which had been knee-deep only a few days ago, was now compacted down to a hard, crusty layer. Soon, it too, would be gone. Snow often melted as quickly as it fell in the moderate climate of Kansas.

Chester was thankful for that; it would make his search a little easier. He stood up and stretched to relieve some of the soreness he had woken up with. He let his gaze travel across the prairie, trying to decide which way he would continue his search. It was almost like searching for a needle in a haystack and his heart sank a little at the realization. They had only known the general direction in which the Marshal had headed in pursuit of the two men.

Chester decided on continuing towards the Pawnee River. He was determined not to return to Dodge without Mister Dillon unless he absolutely had to. He had made Miss Kitty and Doc a promise, and he had all intentions to fulfill it.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he decided against starting a fire and making coffee. Instead, he had a quick breakfast of some jerky and dried apples which he was munching on while he gathered up his gear.

Soon, he had the two horses saddled up and packed and he was ready to continue his search.

.

.

.
When Matt awoke the next morning, he felt feverish and weak. Slowly he uncurled his aching body and lifted his head. For a moment, he looked around in obvious confusion-where was he? Why was he lying under a tree? Suddenly, he remembered; the realization of his predicament was less than comforting. With a grunt of effort, he rolled himself onto his back and ran a tired hand across his face.

For a while, he simply lay there, staring up through the frost-covered branches outlined against the pale blue sky. It was still early, he noted; the sun had just crept over the rim of the horizon in the east. He had to get moving soon. Easing himself stiffly upright, the Marshal suddenly dragged his breath in sharply as his injured leg made itself known by throbbing painfully. His breath held, his eyes shut tightly, Matt waited for the pain to subside.

When the pain eventually settled back to a dull throbbing, he eased his breath out and opened his eyes. He decided, it was better to remain where he was for now.

Propping himself up against the trunk of the cedar tree, Matt peered down at his leg. He had to get the bullet out now-if he waited any longer, he most likely wouldn't be in any shape to do it at all.

Once again, he searched the horizon in hopes of finding help. Nothing. The vast, snow-covered prairie stretched out as far as he could see, devoid of any signs of life.

Matt turned his attention to the remains of the fire; it had burned itself out long ago, reducing the wood to nothing more than a pile of ashes. He needed more wood. Luckily, there were still quite a few of the branches left which he had pried from the frozen ground the night before.

It took him a little while, but eventually, he managed to get another fire going with the help of some dried prairie grass.

Despite the cold, Matt's face was flushed and sweaty and even though he had just woken up, he felt tired and weak. But be it as it may-he couldn't allow himself to go back to sleep though-he had to get that bullet out. His hand reached into the coat pocket and fumbled for the knife. Seconds later, it emerged, holding the small blade. He snapped it open. It was a good little knife and he always kept it well sharpened.

Carefully, Matt laid it down onto his thigh and began to unbutton his coat. He tugged the hem of his warm corduroy shirt from his pants and then began to cut off a small piece.

For a moment, he regarded the shred of fabric. Kitty. It was she who had bought him this shirt. Matt missed her, and he found himself wondering how she was doing. Usually, she was still sleeping at this time of day. Due to the nature of her job, Kitty wasn't exactly an early bird. There had been times however, when he had been able to coax her out of bed early-among other things, they also shared a common love for fishing. Then there had been other times, especially when he was out of town, that she would often rise early and stand by the window, looking out for any sign of him. He had never mentioned it to Kitty but he knew about it-Doc had seen her and told him once.

Matt closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind of everything except the inevitable task he was about to perform.

His fingers were shaking as he began to clumsily untie the blood-soaked bandanna. He found that the wound was swollen even worse than it had been yesterday.

Matt suddenly wished that he had some whiskey-aside from acting as a desinfectant, a few good swallows of it certainly would have made it a little easier.

Holding the blade into the flames, he waited until it was blackened with soot and good and hot. Then he commenced to wipe it clean on the shred of fabric.

Taking a slow, deep breath, he moved the knife closer to the wound.

For a moment, his right hand hovered indecisively above his thigh and suddenly, he wasn't so sure anymore whether he could go through with it.

Doc Adams-damn it-how he wished Doc was here now.

Matt pressed his lips together, trying to steel himself for what he was about to do. His fevered body was shaking worse now than it had before, and he knew that it wasn't just from the cold.

He hesitated. Despite the frigid air, beads of sweat had begun to form on his forehead, running down his cheek and neck in small rivulets. The hand, clasping the small pocket knife, was trembling.

Matt inhaled sharply through clenched teeth as the tip of the blade pressed against the sensitive flesh.

Do it, dammit, he told himself angrily when his hand refused to obey. He gulped in a lungful of air and held his breath-he couldn't allow himself to be squeamish now.

With one swift motion, he drove the blade down into the wound.

The pain-racked cry that spilled from his lips moments later, echoed loudly across the prairie.

.

.

He had covered a lot of ground yesterday before nightfall. But despite his efforts, he had found no sign of the missing Marshal.

Yawning, Chester extricated himself from the thick woolen blankets he had wrapped himself up in last night in hopes to keep from freezing. It had worked, and he had slept warm and comfortable within their confines.

A bright blue, cloudless morning sky greeted him as he looked up. The frigid night chill which still hung in the air, was slowly being chased away by the warm rays of the rising sun.

The trees were glistening with quickly melting hoarfrost, and the snow which had been knee-deep only a few days ago, was now compacted down to a hard, crusty layer. Soon, it too, would be gone. Snow often melted as quickly as it fell in the moderate climate of Kansas.

Chester was thankful for that; it would make his search a little easier. He stood up and stretched to relieve some of the soreness he had woken up with.

He let his gaze travel across the prairie, trying to decide which way he would continue his search. It was almost like searching for a needle in a haystack, and his heart sank a little at the realization. They had only known the general direction in which the Marshal had headed in pursuit of the two men.

Chester decided on continuing towards the Pawnee River. He was determined not to return to Dodge without Mister Dillon unless he absolutely had to. He had made Miss Kitty and Doc a promise, and he had all intentions to fulfill it.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he decided against starting a fire and making coffee. Instead, he had a quick breakfast of some jerky and dried apples on which he was munching on while he gathered up his gear.

Soon, he had the two horses saddled up and packed, and he was ready to continue his search.

.

.

.
"It sure's quiet today."

Kitty's eyes traveled over the almost empty saloon. It was still early afternoon, and she was standing at the far end of the counter, listlessly peeling a hard-boiled egg. She hadn't slept much last night; her worries about Matt had kept her awake once again.

Bill Pence looked up from the glasses he was polishing.

"Why don't you go upstairs and rest some," he suggested. He had noticed earlier how tired she had looked when she came downstairs. "I'm sure, I can handle things down here for a while. " He cast her a confident smile.

Kitty shook her head and gave him a little smile of her own.

"I'll be fine, Bill."

She knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep, even if she tried.

Bill nodded and turned his attention back to the glasses. He understood.

The shadow of Rip Toland darkened the entrance as he stood, his hands on top of the batwing doors, briefly glancing around the empty saloon. A grin began to spread across his face when he took notice of Kitty. With one swift motion, he pushed the swinging doors aside and entered, heading straight for her.

"Hello, red," he drawled, his lip curling into what was supposed to be a smile as he came to a halt beside her. "Can I buy you a drink?"

He casually placed his forearm onto the counter, facing her.

Kitty didn;t even bother to look up.

"No thanks," she replied curtly.

Right away, the smile vanished from Toland's face. He tensed visibly.

"What's the matter," he hissed. "Think you're too good to drink with me?"

Slowly, Kitty lifted her gaze. She looked him straight in the eye. Her face was hard, unsmiling,

"I don't drink with the likes of you," she replied coldly.

Toland regarded her for a moment, then shrugged.

"Well, suit yourself, red."

He turned towards Pence and tossed a coin onto the counter.

"Gimme a bottle," he growled.

Moments later, a bottle of rye, along with a glass was placed in front of him. Silently, he pulled the stopper and proceeded to pour himself a glass. He downed it with one swift motion and loudly thumped the empty glass back down.

"Say," he then addressed Kitty again, regarding her speculatively. "I haven't seen your friend, that crippled deputy today."

He reached for his bottle, briefly taking his eyes off her as he poured himself another drink.

Kitty pressed her lips together, determined to ignore him, but that didn't deter Toland any.

"He hasn't gone to fetch Dillon, has he?"

Kitty glared at him with blazing eyes.

"I wouldn't tell you if I knew," she spat.

Toland chuckled derisively as he picked up his glass and quickly downed its contents.

"Tell me," he said, not willing to rest the subject just yet. "I heard Dillon's pretty good with that gun of his..."

That was it. Kitty had enough.

"You'll die finding out, mister," she snapped at him coldly. Without another word, she whirled around and stalked off.

Slightly taken aback by the vehemence of her last words, Toland stared after her, but he caught himself quickly.

"Well, we'll see about that," he muttered tensely in a low, teeth-clenched voice. Then he turned and proceeded to pour himself another glass.

.

.

He had done it. It was out. The task of cutting the bullet from his leg had afforded the Marshal tremendous effort. The pain had been worse than any he had ever experienced before, and he was surprised that he hadn't passed out. Now he sat exhausted, his head cradled against the trunk of the red cedar tree. The slug, deformed and bloody, was resting in his sweaty palm, the fingers of his left curled loosely around it. His other hand was resting on his thigh, still clasping the pocket knife.

After a while, Matt slowly opened his eyes and glanced down at the wound; it was throbbing sharply and blood was oozing from it, quickly soaking into the tan fabric of his pants. The blood loss wasn't a concern to him; he knew that it looked worse than what it actually was. He was more worried about the infection which had already set in. He prayed that he hadn't waited too long as he slowly began to tighten the bloody bandanna around his thigh again.

By now, the sun had reached its highest point in the sky and shone down warmly onto the prairie; the snow glistened as it continued to melt steadily into the already soggy ground. Matt raised his head and closed his eyes, enjoying the comforting warmth of the rays as they caressed his face, their gentle touch reminding him of Kitty's.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open; a distinct rustle in the thorny undergrowth nearby had caught his attention. There, no more than a few yards away, sat a gray jackrabbit, nibbling away at the sparse grass that was peeking through the melting patches of snow.

As if suddenly sensing the Marshal's presence, it raised its head to listen, ears twitching.

For a second, Matt stared at the animal, not quite believing that it was actually there. His right went for the colt at his side. If he wanted to regain some of his strength, he needed nourishment.

The gun felt heavy to his weakened hand. With effort he raised it and took aim.

Alarmed by the clicking sound as Matt's thumb pulled back the hammer, the rabbit took a few short hops and then stood still to listen again.

Matt held his breath, trying to steady his trembling hand as he adjusted his aim.
Blinking, he desperately attempted to focus on the animal, but his hand was shaking too much. The shot missed. The rabbit leapt in panic and then bounced off before he could fire a second shot.

A frustrated moan escaped Matt's lips. His shoulders sagged forward as he dropped the hand, holding the gun.

.

.

The sharp crack of a single gunshot, echoed loudly across the prairie. Startled by it, the chestnut suddenly bolted sideways, almost throwing Chester from the saddle.

"Whoa, there," the Marshal's assistant tried to calm the nervous animal as he firmly tugged on the reins.

He quickly regained control of his mount. Intently, his eyes began to search the horizon, attempting to pinpoint the direction the shot had come from.

It was difficult to tell where it had originated exactly, but Chester was pretty certain that it had come from behind a ridge, about a mile or so to his left.

It was Pawnee Creek.

He stretched himself tall in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the treeline ahead. It's brown surface was dotted with white patches of snow.

The shot had definitely not come from a rifle; it had sounded more like a handgun.

Experience had taught him to distinguish between the two with fair certainty, and he remembered that the Marshal's Winchester had been in the rifle boot when Moss had shown him the saddle at the livery yesterday.

Chester heart gave a small leap; it had to be Mister Dillon. Determined, he picked up the reins and spurred his mount forward into an easy canter, heading towards the ridge.

.

.

Matt's disappointment over the rabbit didn't last very long; with or without food, he had to get moving. He knew that he had to use what little strength he had left and try to make it as far as he could. The closer he could get to Dodge, the better his chance of someone finding him would be.

After several unsuccessful attempts, he finally managed to stand up, clinging to the tree for support. His fevered body was shaking with the effort and yet at the same time, it felt strangely weightless. For a moment, he stood uncertain, and then, gathering his determination, he took an unsteady step forward.

As he did, spots began to dance in front of his eyes, and the world around him began to waver. He shook his head, trying to chase away the unwelcome sensation, but he only made it worse.

Stumbling forward, he managed several unsteady steps. Suddenly, his legs gave out and he collapsed, hitting his head on a large rock as he fell. The world around him quickly dissolved in a blur as the Marshal slipped into darkness.

.

.

At first, Matt fought off consciousness as it slowly began to return, pushing it from him as it insistently nudged the edges of his mind. He was feeling warm and no longer in pain. He wanted to remain that way; nothing else mattered anymore.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the muffled voices that seemed to be drifting to him from somewhere far away. He didn't care what they were saying.

Voices?

His eyes sprang open at the sudden realization. Confused, he ran a hand across his face and glanced around.

Where was he?

The room he found himself in, was suffused with the soft glow of daylight which filtered through drawn curtains, giving his surroundings a slightly hazy appearance.

He suddenly realized that he was lying in a bed. His gaze wandered down over the warm quilt covering his body, and suddenly, he knew where he was. This was Doc's bedroom.

But how did he get here?

The voices grew louder now, and he heard the sound of footfall as someone approached. Matt turned his head towards the door to his left as it was opened moments later.

"Well, by golly, about time you woke up, Matt."

Doc Adams was happy to see that his friend was finally awake. He took a quick swipe at his mustache, his eyes resting pleased on the lawman.

Doc's excited proclamation had Kitty and Chester rush from the adjacent office. For a second, the two stood on the threshold, staring at the Marshal in silence as if having trouble believing their eyes.

A smile of tremendous relief flitted across Kitty's pale features. She rushed over and sat down beside him. Folding her small hand over his much larger one, she squeezed it gently.

"Oh, Matt..."

Matt swallowed and tried to return the smile.

"Wh-what happened...how'd I get here?"

His mouth had difficulty framing the question, and his voice sounded hoarse and strange to him.

Doc took it upon himself to explain.

"Well, Chester here went out lookin' for ya" he said, quickly nodding towards the young man who was standing inside the doorway, beaming at the Marshal. "He found you out there close to Pawnee Creek three days ago an' brought you back here."

"It sure wasn't easy," Chester added, nodding. "I tell ya...for a moment there, I wasn't so sure if I could keep you on that horse, Mister Dillon...you just kept on wantin' to slide right back off. I reckon, you don't remember that I had to tie you to your horse?"

"Horse?"

Matt stared at him blankly as he tried to lever himself up on his elbows. He didn't even remember riding a horse, much less being tied to one.

"Well, I didn't think you would," mused Chester, scratching his head. "You was kinda feverish there." He paused before adding with a grin. "But you sure was talky, Mister Dillon..."

"I was?"

Chester nodded enthusiastically, chuckling a little.

"Oh, you sure was. You know, you kept callin' for Miss Kitty, sayin' that..."

"It's all right, Chester." Matt interrupted him quickly, holding up his hand to stop the flow of words. Judging by the expression on his assistant's face, he wasn't so sure whether he wanted to hear what his fevered mind had allowed to come across his lips.

Tiredly, he put his head back onto the pillow, and Doc took it as a cue.

"Well, now that's enough, Chester. Matt's still weak an' needs his rest."

He stepped around the bed and sat himself down opposite Kitty.

"Here, let's have a look at you, Matt."

He pulled the blanket down a little and placed the head piece of the stethoscope on the Marshal's chest.

There was absolute silence in the room as Doc examined the Marshal. Finally, he nodded, and with a satisfied grunt pulled the listening device from his ears.

"And? What's the verdict, Doc?" Matt glanced up at his friend.

Doc regarded him somberly for one long moment.

"I'd say you're pretty lucky. Considering the shape you were in when Chester brought you back. That leg...the infection was pretty bad."

He shook his head and paused for a moment. "How's your head feel?"

Matt reached up, suddenly aware of the bandage that was wrapped around his head.

"What happened?" he asked confused. He didn't remember hurting his head.

Doc thoughtfully scratched the nape of his neck.

"You could've hit it when you fell." He shrugged. "You're probably gonna have some dizzy spells for a while, so I want you to try an' take it easy, Matt. I'd say, another two weeks in bed and you'll be as good as new."

"Two weeks?" the Marshal protested immediately. He didn't have the time to lay around for two weeks; he had to find Jeb Wilkins' partner.

He was smart enough to keep his last thought to himself though, knowing that it most likely would start an argument.

"Well, now don't you start arguin' with me," groused Doc, determined to nip Matt's objections in the bud. "I did a fine piece of surgery on that leg of yours and, by golly, I'm not gonna have you tear it all open again!"

Each word was emphasized by a stab of Doc's finger to the lawman's chest.

Matt made a slight face, but refrained from answering. Deep down he knew that Doc was right. Besides, there was no sense in arguing with him, the doctor usually ended up having the last word anyway.

"Tell me, Matt" the physician then said. "How long has it been since you had anythin' to eat?"

The Marshal tried to think but couldn't come up with an answer.

"I don't know, Doc," he finally confessed.

Doc winked at Matt as he rose.

"Well, I'm gonna fix that."

"Kitty, see to it that he eats somethin'," he grumbled as he began to shuffle around the bed. "And now, if you don't mind...you're not the only one who needs me. I got other patients to look after."

With a quick nod at Kitty, he disappeared out into the office.

"Well, I reckon, I better go an' see about the mail," said Chester as he wagged his thumb over his shoulder. "Don't you worry now, Mister Dillon. I'll take care of things."

He gave the Marshal an assuring smile before he too, slipped out the door.

Matt nodded his approval and then turned back to Kitty. His lips drawn into a half smile, he pushed himself up on his elbows again.

"Well, you heard the doctor's orders. I wouldn't mind havin' a nice steak with some potatoes and..."

"Oh, I don't think so, cowboy." Kitty interrupted him immediately. "There's some soup waitin' for you on Doc's stove."

She smiled and gave his chest a gentle pat before she rose from the bed.

"You keep resting. I'll go an' get you some."

"Soup?"

Matt tried not to sound as disappointed as he felt. He exhaled loudly and dropped back down onto his pillow.

Well, come to think of it, this wasn't so bad; as long as Kitty was waiting on him, he didn't mind eating soup.

Still feeling quite weak, he closed his eyes and had soon fallen asleep again.

He probably wouldn't have rested so easy if he had known of Rip Toland's presence in Dodge.
.

.

.

Rip Toland planted himself in Chester's path.

"Howdy, Chester," he drawled lazily with a lop-sided sneer.

Startled, Chester came to an abrupt halt when found himself looking into the outlaw's ruddy face. He had been on his way over to Doc's office to bring Mister Dillon a change of clothes.

Immediately, his features darkened. He automatically tightened his grip on the package when he noticed Toland staring at it with interest.

"What's it that you want, Toland?" he grumbled irritated as he tried to decide whether it would be safe to simply step around him.

The other folded his arms in front of his chest. He shifted his gaze from the package to Chester.

"Ya know, I been thinkin'," he said. His eyes bored into Chester's. "Dillon's been gone for a long time now."

He paused briefly and then added. "A little too long, if you ask me."

Defiantly, Chester held the outlaw's stare.

"So? What's it to you?" he shot back immediately. He knew that he wouldn't stand a chance against this gunman, but he simply refused to be intimidated by him.

Rip Toland watched the young man intently through narrowed eyes.

"Rumor has it that the Marshal's back here in town...hidin' out somewhere like a coward..."

But Chester refused to be baited. He held his ground.

"Well, you heard wrong! Mister Dillon ain't back yet...an' even if he was, he surely wouldn't hide from the likes of you!"

But even though Chester tried to sound as firm as he could-inwardly, his heart was beating wildly.

Was Toland bluffing?

The only ones who knew about Mister Dillon being back, were Doc, Kitty and Moss Grimmick. He was certain that neither one of them would have mentioned it to anybody.

Toland gave Chester a nasty grin.

"I ain't so sure about that," he said. He paused briefly and then stabbed a calloused finger at the young man's chest. "Tell you what. I'm gonna keep a close eye on you from now on, Chester."

"You do that," the Marshal's assistant dared him angrily, "but I tell ya one thing...it ain't gonna make no difference whatsoever!"

With that, Chester stepped around him and continued down the boardwalk toward Doc's office as fast as his stiff right leg would allow him.

For a moment, Toland stared after him, obviously pleased with himself. A devilish grin began to spread across his broad, ruddy face, and then he headed for the Long Branch.

.

.

"You know, Kitty," garbled Matt through a mouthful of sandwich, "I sure could get used to this."

Grinning at the pretty redhead who was sitting beside him on the bed, he nodded at the tray which held the remains of his lunch.

Kitty arched a bemused brow as she watched the last of the sandwich disappear in Matt's mouth.

I bet," she remarked dryly. "Well, you enjoy it because it's not goin' to last much longer."

She reached for the tray and placed it on the chair beside the bed before turning to the lawman again.

"Doc wants you up, working that leg."

Matt stretched himself a little. With a contented sigh, he leaned back against the headboard and folded his hands behind his head.

"He does, does he," he muttered lazily.

It had been six days now since Chester had found and brought him back to Dodge, and despite Doc's objections, Matt was eager to get out of bed and back to his routine.

He watched idly as Kitty began to smooth out his blanket.

"Well, maybe I should let Chester keep that badge for a little longer," he teased her. "I kinda like you waitin' on me..."

His remark earned him a good-natured swat to his leg; unfortunately, it was his bad one.

In an instant, Matt shot up straight in bed.

"Ouch!" he howled in obvious pain.

Kitty was horrified when she realized what she had done. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

"Oh, Matt...I'm sorry...are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he lied through clenched teeth as his hand began to carefully rub the abused appendage through the covers.

But he quickly managed a weak grin when he saw the remorseful expression on her face.

"It's all right, Kitty, really," he assured her again as he gently seized her by her arms and pulled her down to him.

His assurance had the desired effect and she relaxed.

Kitty eyed the lawman speculatively for a moment, then suddenly curled her nose.

"You know, you sure could use a bath, cowboy..."

She regarded him with a mixture of amusement and affection and then reached out to lovingly brush a stray curl from his forehead.

Matt cast her a distinctly mischievous grin.

"Hmm. Yeah, well...that among other things..."

He gently brushed her cheek with his right hand, slowly trailing down to trace the outline of her chin.

Those blue eyes-along with his boyish charm, were something that Kitty had always found hard to resist. Smiling, she leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his lips.

That was all the encouragement Matt needed.

With a playful growl, he slipped his hands around her back and pulled her tighter into his embrace, more than eager to return the favor.

Suddenly, the door to Doc's bedroom was flung open, bringing their intimate moment to an abrupt end.

"Well, I got ev'rythin' you was askin' for, Mister D-" Chester began, but the words died in his throat. He froze dead in his tracks and quickly averted his eyes from the couple.

"Oh, I-I'm sorry, Mister Dillon...I-"

Matt frowned at the unwelcome intrusion but caught himself quickly. He let go of Kitty.

"Hello, Chester," he muttered irritably.

Kitty straightened herself.

"It's all right, Chester, Matt and I were just talkin'."

She cast the Marshal a quick, meaningful glance which told him that they would continue their "conversation" some other time.

"Oh." uttered Chester uncertain, not believing a single word. "Well, anyways," he said as eager as the Marshal and Kitty to change the subject. "I got your clothes here, Mister Dillon."

He produced the wrapped package from behind his back and held it out to the Marshal.

Matt hastily plucked the package from his outstretched hands.

"Thanks, Chester."

He cast Kitty a quick, somewhat guilty look; he had hoped that she wouldn't be here when Chester returned with his clothes.

"Your clothes?"

Suddenly, Kitty's eyes widened with understanding. He had waited purposely until Doc had left town this morning before sending Chester for his clothes; probably in hopes of leaving the office before the physician returned.

She regarded the lawman suspiciously.

"Matt Dillon...you're not thinking of leavin' Doc's office, are you?"

Now Matt looked even guiltier.

"Look, Kitty," he tried to reason, though already knowing that it probably wouldn't do any good. "I can't let Chester do all the work."

He would have liked to say something else, but Matt somehow didn't feel that Kitty's temper should be tested at the moment, especially since she already had that certain look in her eyes.

But before she even had a chance to say anything, the sound of a gunshot suddenly drew their attention.

Alarmed, the Marshal looked towards the window.

"Well, what's goin' on down there?"

Chester flinched.

"Oh, no," he muttered to himself, immediately thinking of Rip Toland.

Matt turned to his assistant.

"What's the matter, Chester," he asked, "you know what that's all about?"

Chester swallowed hard; he had to tell Mister Dillon about Toland.

He cast Kitty a quick glance, hoping she would understand. Nervously, he took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out where to begin.

Arms folded in front of his chest, Matt looked up at Chester who was giving him a distinctly embarrassed half-smile.

"Well?"

Chester nervously cleared his throat.

"I reckon there's somethin' you oughtta know, Mister Dillon..."

.

.

.

Kitty watched helplessly as Matt began to strap on his gun belt.

"Matt," she pleaded, "don't go lookin' for him. You're in no shape."

She knew that it probably wouldn't do any good, but she had to try anyway.

He ceased to fumble with his belt buckle as he looked at her, briefly considering her plaintive entreaty.

He sighed. "I don't have a choice, Kitty. Toland's already killed one man. He needs to be stopped."

He turned his attention back to the buckle and tightened it.

There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence.

Kitty was beginning to feel more than just an little frustrated when she realized that pleading wasn't getting her anywhere.

"Tell me," she now asked sharply, "what does it take to worry you, Matt?"

Matt exhaled wearily. He straightening himself. He could have told her at least a dozen things that worried him, but somehow, he was pretty certain that she already knew. Clamping down hard on any retort he might be tempted to make, he bent back down to tie the leather strap around his thigh instead.

Kitty shook her head in mute anger. Sometimes it was impossible to tell whether it was the badge or his pride talking. It didn't really matter-most of the time, they went hand in hand with Matt anyway.

He cast her a quick glance then pulled the colt from its holster to check it.

"All right, look...I know you two did what you thought was right," he said patiently, "but the truth of the matter is, you shoulda told me right away."

He opened the loading gate and took a cartridge from his gunbelt, filling the empty chamber with it.

His mind wandered back to the trial four months ago in which Rip Toland's brother Lew had been convicted of murder and sentenced to be hung. Ever since then, he had been wondering whether Toland would show up in Dodge to make true on his promise of killing him. Now he finally had. Unfortunately, he couldn't have picked a worse time.

Chester gulped nervously.

"Well, you can judge me if you want to, Mister Dillon, but you just was in no shape there to stand up to that Toland-fella..."

Kitty's eyes moved down to the Marshal's bandaged leg. She shook her head.

"He's still in no shape, Chester. But that sure's not goin' to stop him from tryin'..."

She raised her eyes and cast the lawman a rather sour look.

"Well, seein' that I'm not needed here anymore...I might as well go back to the Long Branch."

With that, she whirled around and stalked out of Doc's office, loudly thudding the door shut behind herself.

Chester's face screwed up in a rather pained expression.

"Well, glory be..."

Secretly, he had always admired Kitty for her confidence and temper, but he didn't like it when he or the Marshal were on the receiving end of the latter.

He turned back to Matt.

"Ya know, I was just a-thinkin', Mister Dillon," he said slowly. "Maybe Miss Kitty's right...maybe you just oughtta let me go an'..."

"An' get yourself killed?" Matt interrupted him testily. "No. It's me who he wants...I might as well get it over with."

He paused for a moment as a feeling of light-headedness suddenly assaulted him. He remembered Doc's warning. Annoyed, he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the unwelcome sensation.

Chester watched him, deeply worried. He knew that the lawman, in his present condition, was no match for Rip Toland-but he also realized that pointing this out, would most likely make no difference.

With a mutter of disapproval, his eyes followed the tall Marshal as began to awkwardly limp towards the door.

Matt's face scrunched up and an indrawn hiss of pain came across his lips when he put his full weight on the wounded leg. The injury was causing him more discomfort than he would have liked. He clenched his teeth and slowly hobbled over to the door, grabbing his Stetson from the coat rack in passing.

He paused on the threshold and turned.

"Well,...you comin'?"

Reluctantly, Chester set out to follow the Marshal.

"Yes, sir," he muttered, silently resolving to get the spare revolver from the jail and stay as close to Mister Dillon as possible from now on.

He would make sure that nothing happened to him.

.

.

When the two men came up to the Long Branch moments later, they were met by a small crowd standing outside on the boardwalk. When Bill Pence took notice of them, he broke away from the others. He extended his hand in greeting.

"Marshal, good to see you back."

A concerned look began to spread across his face when he noticed the Marshal's pronounced limp, but he refrained from commenting on it.

Matt quickly shook the proffered hand while his keen gaze quickly scanned the crowd.

"What happened here, Pence?" he asked.

Bill Pence shook his head, still having a hard time believing what he had just witnessed.

"It was this Toland-fella. He started a fight with this young kid and then shot him down just like that."

Again, the Marshal let his gaze travel over the men gathered on the sidewalk; Rip Toland wasn't among them as far as he could tell.

He turned towards the entrance and pushing the batwing doors aside, entered the saloon.

There, right in front of him, sprawled out face-down on the floor, was the body of the cowboy Toland had shot. The colt had flown from his grasp and was now lying a few feet away by the counter. A puddle of dark red blood was slowly spreading from underneath the body, soaking into the cracks of the wooden plank flooring.

Matt's jaw tightened. He didn't bother with turning him over-he could tell that the young man was beyond help. There was no sense in leaving the body here until Doc returned.

He turned to his assistant.

"Chester, get a couple of men and take him over to Crump's, will ya?"

Chester nodded in affirmation. For another second, he continued to stare appalled at the murdered cowboy. Then he turned to some men standing close by and enlisted their help.

Matt turned to the curious bystanders that had formed a half-circle around the body.

"All right, men," he said. "It's over...break it up."

Murmuring among themselves, the men slowly began to disperse.

Matt pushed his Stetson back to wipe the sheen of sweat from his brow that had formed there. Annoyed, he realized that he was feeling dizzy again. He blinked several times and shook his head a little before sweeping his gaze over the bar room.

"If you're lookin' for Toland...he's gone," said a voice suddenly behind him.

He turned. It was Kitty. Matt couldn't help but notice how pale and shaken she looked.

"You seen this happen, Kitty?"

She nodded, shifting her gaze from the Marshal to the body.

"It was terrible...the kid didn't have a chance," she said softly. "Toland picked a fight with him and goaded him into drawing."

Kitty lifted her eyes, fixing them on Matt.

There was no trace of the earlier anger in her eyes; all he could see now was worry and a certain sadness. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder and regarded her concerned.

"You all right?"

Immediately, Kitty turned away.

"I'm fine, Matt," she assured him a little too quickly.

Matt pressed his lips together, but didn't say anything; he had already figured that she most likely would still be upset with him.

"Here," said Pence suddenly from behind the counter as he placed a glass in front of Kitty. "You look like you could use one."

With an encouraging smile, he proceeded to pour her a drink.

Kitty accepted the glass gratefully.

"Thanks, Bill."

She quickly downed the drink and replaced the empty glass on the counter.

Pence turned to the lawman. He held up the whiskey bottle.

"Can I get you one, too, Marshal?"

Matt raised his hand and shook his head. "No, thanks, Pence."

A drink was the last thing he needed right now. Turning his attention back to Kitty, he glanced at her sideways, about to question her some more about Toland when Chester suddenly stepped up alongside him.

"Well, that poor soul's taken care of, Mister Dillon," he said.

Matt nodded absently.

He had to find Toland, and he had to find him quickly before the man had the chance to gun somebody else down. It was pretty obvious that the outlaw was baiting him, trying to draw him out.

"Look, you better go on back to the office and stay there," he said to Chester, thinking it safer for his assistant not to come along.

"The office?" the young man began to protest immediately, "but Mister Dillon..."

"Come on, do as I say," Matt interrupted him immediately, sounding a little harsher than he had really intended to. He definitely didn't want to take a chance on Toland gunning for Chester.

Surprised by the vehemence of the Marshal's words, Chester backed down.

"Yes, sir," he grumbled reluctantly, leaving little doubt that he was less than pleased.

That wasn't exactly what he had in mind. He cast the Marshal one final uncomprehending glance before he turned and limped off.

Matt's eyes followed Chester as he disappeared through the swinging doors. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before turning to Kitty once more. For a moment, he hesitated as if waiting for her to say something, but she simply continued to stare at the empty glass in her hand.

"Well, I see you later, Kitty," he said finally when the silence became too awkward.

Without waiting for an answer, he tipped his head and turned to go.

Conflicting emotions warring uncomfortably in her mind, Kitty turned and let her gaze follow him as he limped from the saloon. The warning to be careful was on her lips, but somehow, she couldn't bring herself to say it out loud. It was one of those moments when she wasn't sure what to hate more-his badge or his pride.

.

.

Even though the snow was completely gone by now, the early March nights were still cold, and tonight wasn't any different. A sharp chill hung in the air, causing fog to stream from the Marshal's lips with every breath he exhaled.

For the last hour or so, he had been walking the streets of Dodge, searching every saloon and pool hall for Rip Toland, but so far, he hadn't found him. His leg was bothering him more than he cared to admit; every step was sending a sharp stab of pain shooting through it. If that wasn't bad enough, he was also beginning to feel a little light-headed again.

He turned from the side alley behind the Lady Gay saloon and found himself back on Front Street. The street appeared deserted and quiet, but for all he knew, Toland could be waiting for him almost anywhere.

Matt stopped in front of the saloon and leaned his hand against one of the posts in an attempt to take some weight off his aching leg.

He was completely unaware that his every move was watched closely from the shadows by not only one, but two figures.

The tinny sound of the piano and the clinking of glasses, mingled with the loud banter of the patrons, carried out into the street to him.

Matt dropped his head to glance down at his leg. It was bleeding again. The bright lights from the saloon spilled out onto the boardwalk, and he could clearly see the slowly growing red stain that was seeping through the bandage and the tan fabric of his pants.

There was nothing he could do about it now; he had to find Toland first and deal with him. He lifted his head, moving his eyes slowly around the street. He knew that the gunman was waiting for him.

But where?

The thought that the vengeful outlaw might not be interested in a fair showdown suddenly occurred to him and it only added to his growing uneasiness.

Suddenly, the doors to the saloon were flung open. The Marshal jerked around in alarm; his muscles tensed as his right went for the colt at his side.

The two intoxicated cowpokes that came falling through the doors, however, barely took notice of him; after briefly glancing at him with rather unfocused eyes, they commenced to stagger past him, clambering loudly down the boardwalk.

For a second, his fingers continued to twitch above his gun, then Matt slowly relaxed his defensive stance. His hand dropped to his side. He could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest. His eyes followed the two men as they stumbled along, singing loudly.

Kitty's words suddenly hit him again. He's still in no shape.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, he knew that she was right. He tried to shake off the dizziness that seemed to come and go more frequently now.

Pushing himself off the post, he limped back out into the street. He wished that Toland would show himself and get it over with.

The seemingly endless walking around was beginning to wear on him, but then again, maybe that's what the gunman wanted to accomplish. Matt was pretty certain that Toland was aware of his injury.

He paused again and let his gaze travel down the length of Front Street. For some reason, he suddenly had the distinct feeling that he was being watched.

"Dillon!"

Toland's sudden shout filled Front Street.

Matt stiffened and his hand jumped for the colt as he whirled around.

The street was empty.

The gunman's amused laughter echoed loudly through the street and reverberated off the surrounding buildings when he saw the Marshal's confusion.

Matt's face darkened at the realization that the other was obviously toying with him. His eyes began to slowly search the nearby buildings.

"Come on out an' show yourself, Toland!" he growled.

"I don't think so, Dillon," sounded Rip Toland's voice again. "I had some time to think these last couple of days while you were busy hidin' from me!" He paused and gave a derisive chuckle.

Matt's intent gaze continued to scan the roof tops of the buildings to his left. Too many places to hide, he realized with a stab of frustration.

"That so?" he called back.

He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head to rub his forehead when he suddenly felt another spell of dizziness come on.

Damn it, he angrily thought to himself as he desperately tried to shake it off.

Toland, wherever he was hiding, was obviously watching him closely.

"What's the matter," he snickered nastily, "sick?"

The Marshal didn't bother answering, prompting the gunman to give a contemptuous laugh.

"Say, I heard you're pretty handy with that gun," he then said speculatively.

"Some seem to think I am," volunteered Matt cautiously, hoping to keep Toland talking long enough to locate where he was hiding.

He was fairly certain that the gunman was concealing himself somewhere to his left-most likely in one of the alleyways. His right hand readily poised above his gun, he slowly began to turn.

"Well, I'm not gonna give you a chance to prove it, Dillon!"

Rip Toland's voice was hard and unpleasant. "My brother didn't get a chance either."

Matt didn't like what he was hearing. He knew that it would be a waste of time to try and reason with Toland.

"What're ya gonna do? Shoot me in the back?" he asked.

"Yup. I reckon that's about the size of it," stated the other flatly.

Matt knew at once that he meant it.

The thought sent a chill down his spine.

"Yeah, I mighta known," he muttered darkly to himself.

"Why don't you come on out an' face me like a man, Toland?"

There was a hard challenge in his voice. Every man had his pride, and Matt hoped that Toland wasn't any different there.

"No more talk, Dillon!" the gunman answered sharply, proving that pride wasn't something, he particularly cared about.

Seconds later, Matt heard the tell-tale clicking of a hammer being pulled back.

Immediately, he twisted himself a half turn, his right hand leaping for the gun at his side.

The sharp crack of a shot being fired suddenly shattered the silence.

.

.

It all happened too fast.

With a roar, the bullet left Toland's gun, rendering the sharp crack of a rifle shot which rang out almost simultaneously, undetectable. The slug from the gunman's revolver missed the Marshal by a hair and struck the ground instead, kicking up dirt before ricocheting off with a whine.

Behind him! Toland was behind him!

His heart was beating wildly at the realization.

Matt wheeled around, extended his gun arm, and-froze.

A figure was emerging from behind one of the buildings to his left. On unsteady legs, it staggered drunkenly out into the street. As it stumbled into the bright square of light which was cast into the street by one of the windows of the Lady Gay saloon, Matt was able to see that it was a man.

Rip Toland.

There was an expression of utter disbelief on the outlaw's face as he came to a halt a few yards from the Marshal. His right hand, still clutching the revolver, was hanging loosely by his side while his left was draped over a nasty wound in his stomach. With unfocused eyes, Toland looked down at the blood that was quickly spilling out from between his fingers. Then he lifted his gaze to the lawman.

Matt could tell by the look on his face that the gunman couldn't understand what had happened to him-and neither could he.

Rip Toland opened his mouth, but not a sound came out. Instead, a fine trickle of blood began to run down his chin, trailing down his neck where it soaked into the collar of his shirt. With seemingly tremendous effort, he began to lift his gun hand, attempting to take aim at the Marshal.

Immediately, Matt tensed, adjusting his own aim, but Toland's hand dropped quickly, lacking the strength to go through with it. Suddenly and without as much as a sound, he collapsed to the ground.

For a moment, the Marshal stood frozen to the spot, his colt still pointing at Toland. He couldn't understand what had just happened. He knew that he hadn't fired the shot that had killed the gunman.

"Mister Dillon?"

Chester's voice sounded anxious as he suddenly materialized from the shadows of an alley to the Marshal's right.

Slowly, Matt lifted his head. His eyes fell on the rifle in Chester's hands, and suddenly, he understood. He holstered up his gun.

Chester quickly looked the lawman over, concern in his eyes.

"You all right there, Mister Dillon?" he wondered.

Matt, looking very white and strained, drew a tired breath.

"Yeah...I'm all right, Chester," he said wearily.

Out of the corner of his eye, he took notice of the quickly growing crowd as people, curious to see what was going on, began to fill the street.

There was a long silence.

Chester's mind worked feverishly. He already knew that Mister Dillon was most likely going to be upset with him for disregarding his orders, but that mattered little at the moment; he had saved the Marshal's life by following Toland around.

Chester recalled how he had run into the gunman earlier on his way to the jail after Mister Dillon had ordered him there. Toland had stopped him on the boardwalk and told him laughing that he knew about the Marshal being at Doc's office, 'hiding out like a coward' as the outlaw had put it. Chester had known right there and then what he had to do.

He swallowed hard; what Mister Dillon was about to say to him now wasn't important-the Marshal was alive and that was all that mattered.

Ignoring the murmuring crowd that had begun to surround them, the young man took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He lowered his gaze to his boots.

"I know what you're gonna say, Mister Dillon," he started to say.

"Chester," said Matt.

"...an' I know I oughtta be kicked in the head for not listenin'," the young man continued, kicking absently at a small rock that was embedded in the muddy ground.

"Chester..." Matt tried again, this time a little louder.

But Chester was not listeneing.

"Now you can judge me if you want to, Mister Dillon," he rambled on instead. "But I'm not..."

The Marshal took a deep breath.

"CHESTER!"

Chester's head snapped up. He regarded the Marshal quizzically.

"Yes, Mister Dillon?"

"Thanks."

"Thanks?" echoed Chester blankly, clearly not understanding.

Matt gave him friendly clap on the shoulder.

"Yeah. Thanks for watchin' my back."

"Oh?"

Slowly, it began to sink in that he wasn't in trouble. The expression on Chester's face immediately lightened and a big smile began to spread across his face.

"I reckon, I did pretty good, didn't I?"

He beamed at the Marshal, clearly pleased with himself.

Matt gave him a good-natured smile.

"Yeah, you sure did, Chester."

He drew in a tired breath and held it for a moment before expelling it as he ran a shaky hand across his face. That sure had been a close one. The realization that Toland would have probably killed him, had it not been for Chester was sobering, and he had no more trouble admitting that Doc and Kitty had been right.

As he looked up, he noticed a large group of people standing outside the Long Branch. Kitty was among them. Their eyes locked for a brief moment before Matt's attention was suddenly drawn away as Doc began to push his way through the crowd.

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

His little black leather bag clutched in his right, he pursed his lips as his eyes bored into Matt's for a second or two.

Then he took a swipe at his mustache, quickly glancing the lawman over to make sure he was all right before he knelt down beside Rip Toland. Moments later, he lifted his head and shook it slowly as he rose back to his feet.

Matt took the cue and turned to his assistant.

"Take care of him for me, Chester, will you?"

The young man nodded. A busy night for Percy Crump, Chester thought to himself as he motioned several men to give him a hand with the body.

Doc stepped up to the Marshal again, his eyes fixed on the bloody bandage. His bushy eyebrows knitted into a frown.

"Matt, I wanna see you in my office," he grumbled.

Without waiting for an answer, he side-stepped the lawman and began to shuffle down the street towards his office.

.

.

Satisfied, Doc regarded the fresh bandage around the Marshal's thigh.

"Well, that just about oughtta do it," he muttered with a nod.

Matt levered himself upright and swung his legs over the edge of the exam table.

"Thanks, Doc."

The physician mumbled a vague reply and then shuffled over to the wash basin by the window.

Matt raised his eyebrows.

Ever since he had walked into Doc's office an hour ago, the physician had spoken barely more than a few words to him. It was pretty obvious that Doc was upset. And Matt couldn't really blame him; after everything they had been through together, the many times he had pulled him through after he had been shot, Doc had definitely earned the right.

His mind drifted back to the day almost six years ago when he had first set foot into Dodge. He had been young and inexperienced, and Doc had taken a special interest in him right from the beginning. He had taken him under his wing, given him support and advice whenever he had asked for it-and sometimes even when he didn't.

Over the years, the doctor had become somewhat of a substitute for the father, Matt had never had.

Matt cast the physician a quick glance but remained silent; experience had taught him that it was best to just wait and let Doc make the first move.

He rose to his feet and began to tuck the hem of his shirt back into his pants, watching as the physician briskly washed his hands. The tense silence which seemed to hang over the office, could almost be felt.

Finally, Doc spoke.

"By golly, Matt...sometimes I just don't understand you at all," he groused as he turned and began to dry his hands on a towel. "You know, that Toland-fella could've killed you out there."

Without looking up, Matt continued to buckle up his belt.

"Maybe so...but you know that takin' that kind of chance is part of my job."

But Doc was not ready to put the subject to rest just yet.

"You sure took a heck of a chance this time, goin' out there as sick as you were," he shot back irascibly.

The Marshal didn't answer and reached for his gunbelt. He knew that Doc had to get it off his chest and the quickest way to placate him was by not arguing back.

There was a long moment of silence. Finally Doc huffed loudly.

"Oh, fer heaven's sakes...I don't know why I keep talkin'. You're not gonna listen anyway, are you?"

Matt stopped fumbling with his holster and looked up.

"Well, it's all right, Doc. I reckon, it's part of your job to tell me what you think," he replied, carefully making sure to keep his tone and expression neutral.

"Yeah, but whether you're gonna listen...that's another thing," Doc retorted grumbling, but the tone of his voice was definitely softer now.

Matt noticed it, too. He shrugged.

"I don't know...you do make sense."

A mischievous smile suddenly began to twitch the corners of his mouth, and he simply couldn't resist. He added teasingly. "Once in a blue moon anyway."

That remark definitely didn't go down too well with Doc.

"Oh, I do...do I? Well, I'll be..."

Astounded, the physician shook his head.

"The nerve..." he muttered to himself. Then he turned to Matt.

"Do you know that there happen to be lots of folks out there that gladly pay for my advice?" he then challenged indignantly as he wagged a finger in Matt's face. "Tell me...when's the last time you paid me for my services?"

He stuck out his chin defiantly and gave a curt nod, convinced that the Marshal couldn't answer that one.

A broad grin slowly began to spread across Matt's face and the tension was finally lifted.

"How about all the business I send your way?" he wondered as he picked up his Stetson, pointing with it at Doc."That oughtta be worth somethin'..."

"Business?" the doctor sputtered incredulously, not quite believing what he was hearing. "What business? Dead cowboys don't pay their doctor bills, Marshal!"

Matt slapped his Stetson on.

"Well, seems to me if you can't keep 'em alive long enough..." he shot back.

Doc harrumphed and quickly swiped at his mustache, for once at a loss for words. He threw the lawman a rather disgruntled look.

Matt knew immediately that he had outstayed his welcome. He figured it'd be better to leave while he was still ahead. He started to limp towards the door.

"Well, if you're through with me, I'll head on back over to the office."

Doc waved his hand dismissively.

"Oh, I'm through with you all right," he grumbled. "Go on...get outta here...I'll send you a bill!"

Muttering something else under his breath in which the words 'no respect' and 'young snapper' were distinguishable, he grabbed the hurricane lamp from his rickety desk and began to shuffle off towards his bedroom.

Matt smiled. He knew the physician too well to take him seriously.

"Night, Doc," he called after him before slipping out the door.

.

.

By now, it was well past one in the morning. Carefully, so as not to break his leg wound open again, he wrapped both hands around the railing and began to slowly hobble down the wooden stairs.

He exhaled relieved as he finally, after what seemed a long time, stepped off the last step and onto the boardwalk.

Allowing his leg a moment to rest, he let his gaze sweep over Front Street. It was once again deserted and quiet, and there was nothing left to remind of the shooting that had taken place just a little earlier. The body of Rip Toland had been moved to Percy Crump's and the spectators had found their way back into the confines of their warm homes.

Matt was more than ready to go home, too.

The events of the day had taken their toll on him and the only place he wanted to be right now was the jail where his cot was waiting for him.

Well, if he was truthful, there was one other place he'd much rather be, but he wasn't so sure if he was welcome there at the moment.

He heaved a sigh and commenced to make his way over to his office.

A chilly night breeze was brushing his face as he approached the Long Branch moments later.

As he glanced at the by now darkened saloon, he noticed a small figure, standing in the shadow of the overhang.

.

When Kitty saw him approach, she straightened and pulled her shawl tighter around herself. She watched as he held on to one of the posts and slowly clambered up onto the raised sidewalk and then proceeded to limp towards her.

"Can't sleep?" he wondered softly when he came to a stop in front of her.

She lifted her gaze up to him and a small smile passed across her face. To her, the shooting had just been another painful reminder of how dangerous Matt's job was; she wasn't angry anymore. She was just glad that he was alive.

"I just needed some fresh air," she replied quietly.

Matt smiled down at her knowingly. Kitty couldn't fool him, just as he never seemed capable of fooling her. He decided to keep his thoughts to himself though; he knew better than to push his luck.

"I see," he said, smiling knowingly.

Kitty couldn't help but feel a little annoyed by his grin. Even though she wasn't upset anymore, she definitely didn't want to make it too easy on him.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

Matt pushed his Stetson back.

"You know, I was just thinking," he began as he inched a little closer, "I still haven't had my bath and..."

"...and you figured you could see about getting one here," Kitty finished as she looked at him with a bemused smile.

He certainly didn't waste any time with small talk tonight, she thought amused.

Matt shrugged.

"Well, can't blame a man for tryin'..."

A devilish smile began to twitch the corners of his mouth.

"Besides...we never got around to finishin' our talk..."

Kitty raised a bemused brow.

"Ah," she said. "I didn't think you'd forget."

By now, she couldn't help but openly smile, and her earlier resolve quickly began to weaken.

She gave him a gentle nudge and turned, ready to head back into the saloon.

"Well, come on, cowboy...let's see about getting some hot water for you."

Matt quickly placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.

"It doesn't have to be in that order you know..."

Kitty stopped, allowing him to slip his arm around her waist and pull her against his chest. She turned in his embrace to look up at him.

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?"

Matt gave her a toothy smile.

"Because you know me too well?" he wondered, and not waiting for an answer, he gently turned her back towards the door and began to usher her along.

It didn't really matter which came first-he knew that he would enjoy both.

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THE END