Dry Route to Dodge
A Gunsmoke Story
by MAHC (Amanda)
Chapter Nine: Into the Depths
POV: Matt
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters, but I love them.
"Matt?"
The echo of his name, at first so lovingly said, didn't hold the same sentiment. In fact, it held a much more ominous emotion.
He spun around, grimacing at the fresh wave of pain and dizziness that movement caused. He swallowed, and noticed the rawness of his throat, the shallowness of his breath. Not now. Not now. The reality of the situation pounded inside his chest.
"Matt who?"
Crocker was going to draw. Matt knew it. He had looked into the eyes of too many gunmen over the years not to recognize it for a certainty.
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither man moving. The marshal's world narrowed to those dark eyes, reading his intent, seeing the hand hover without even shifting his gaze. Between heartbeats, he evaluated the odds. He was tired and hurting and most probably now sick. Crocker was fresh and healthy – and already standing and squared, his hand resting on his gun. Not very good at all.
But it didn't matter a bit, because Crocker was going to draw. Matt knew it.
Time slowed as it always did in such moments. No one breathed. No one blinked. Then, something barely flickered behind the outlaw's eyes, almost indiscernible, but it triggered an instinctive reflex in the marshal, and his brain clicked into automatic. Without conscious thought, his arm swung around, palm sliding over the butt of his pistol as his fingers found their familiar places on the metal. The gun was up and firing, as much a natural part of him as his own flesh.
The action twisted him around as he half stood, pain exploding in his leg and sizzling through his entire body. With a groan, he crashed back onto the rough floor of the station, head slamming against the bed frame, darkness sweeping across his vision so that he never saw the fire burst from Crocker's gun at the same instant.
He tried to fight it, but he was drowning under the sea of pain, struggling vainly to breathe, sinking farther and farther into the abyss. Before long he would be too deep, too far down, to kick free, pulled into the depths forever. Conscious thought faded with the enticing sensation of floating peacefully to the bottom.
"Matt!"
The word shattered his calm, drilled through to the small part of his brain that still tried to fight.
Kitty!
He grabbed onto that small part, empowered it with sheer force of will, kicked upward, swam with heavy arms toward the surface. Kitty needed him. Kitty needed him. He had to help her, had to save her. He was almost there, could see the shimmer of the surface just above him. Finally, gulping, he broke through and pried open his eyes, almost surprised to find that he wasn't dripping wet. He came to some level of consciousness just in time to see Crocker step over him and level the gun right at her.
"Kitty!" His scream tore through the air along with the bullet.
He groaned, grabbing at the bed and dragging his body up from the floor. Teeth gritted against the agony, he threw his shoulders and chest over her.
Crocker still stood, his hard eyes watching them, and Matt's muddled brain could only instruct him to stare back. He should do something, shouldn't he? But somewhere deep inside, he told himself he already had.
The outlaw's gaze faltered just a bit, falling from the couple on the bed to his own body, and Matt saw those eyes widen as they watched the crimson stain soak his chest and stomach until the entire front of his shirt glistened with his own blood. As Crocker lifted his gaze again to stare in astonishment at the weary, injured man who had just killed him, the gun fell from his fingers and clattered on the floor.
"Dillon," the marshal ground out in answer to the gunman's earlier question. "Matt Dillon."
Crocker's eyes unfocused and glazed over as the life drained out through the two holes Matt Dillon had opened in the outlaw's body. Arms spread, eyes wide, but unseeing, he crashed back onto the floor just as Angus Skinner skidded to a halt against the door frame, thin chest heaving.
"What the hell – " he began, his gaze jerking from the dead man to Matt then back again. After a moment of assessment, he pursed his lips and regarded the marshal with a gleam of admiration. "You arright?"
Dropping his own gun, Matt fell back against the bed and took a breath, then another. His head pounded, his cheeks burned, fresh blood trailed down the side of his head where he had knocked it against the bedpost, his leg raged from hip to ankle, and he couldn't seem to bring his eyes completely into focus.
"Sure," he managed thickly, trying to pull his legs under him to stand. A man ought to stand at a time like that, ought to be able to take his own weight.
He made it to one knee before the whole world splintered around him and he swirled back into the depths that had tried to claim him earlier, too weak to fight the current any longer.
XXXX
"Matt?"
Slowly, the darkness retreated from the persistent nagging of his own consciousness. He became aware of low murmurs and shuffling footsteps just past his grasp. It was a familiar sensation, one he had experienced too many times through the years. The first order of business was to evaluate his own condition, to see what his next course of action might be. He concentrated on any pain that might alert him to weaknesses he would have to overcome in order to fight, if necessary.
A muffled throbbing in his head could be ignored, a swimming dizziness possibly pushed past. He moved lower, not even bothering with the aches of shoulders and back. Those came with the territory. Everything seemed to be manageable until he made the mistake of trying to move his legs. The blast of fire that raced through the right limb at his slight shift took his breath, and he couldn't suppress the involuntary gasp that accompanied it. Damn. If he had to move quickly, to defend himself or anyone else, that could prove to be a formidable deterrent.
Trying to pull memories to the surface to determine exactly why he was in such shape, he suddenly had a flash of clarity. The thoughts flew by in a matter of seconds.
Kitty's father.
The trip to Kansas City.
Kitty's illness.
The stage wreck.
The trek to the stage stop.
Crocker.
Crocker.
Kitty.
Oh God.
"Kitty!" He tried to shout it, but the name came out only as a groan to his ears. Still, it must have been loud enough to draw attention, because someone stepped to him, touched his shoulder.
"Sorry, Matt. It's just me." The familiar gruff voice spread over him like a balm.
With effort, the marshal dragged open his eyes, peering into the face that hovered over him. It was a kindly face, and one that smiled down on him now as it had many times before.
"Doc?" he whispered. Candlelight threw flickering shadows against the gray walls of the stage stop station, creating an eerie backdrop for the physician's head. So it was night. He must have been out several hours.
"'Bout time."
"Kitty?" he asked insistently. Surely Doc realized Kitty was sick. Surely, if he were there with them he had tended to her. Was she all right? Had Doc gotten there in time?
"Hey, Cowboy." That smooth tone played over his ears, and he sighed, relieved beyond his own ability to control the tears that burned his eyes.
The doctor stepped back to make room for her as she perched on the side of the narrow bed and rested her hand on Matt's chest. He stared at her, not completely comprehending what had taken place. The last time he saw her, she was terribly ill, barely able to talk, lying helpless on the bed he now occupied. And Crocker was –
"Where's Crocker?" Matt wanted to know.
"Crocker?" Doc raised a brow.
"The man – "
"Dead," Kitty said softly, her own eyes shimmering as she looked at him.
Right. Vague pictures of the outlaw sprawled on the floor floated into his mind.
Doc understood. "Skinner said his name was Smith, or at least that's what he went by. You knew him?"
Matt nodded, closing his eyes with the fatigue and persisting dizziness. "Deke Crocker. Wanted in four states."
"Well, not any more," the doctor informed him. "Festus and Skinner buried him."
He opened his eyes again. "Are you – all right?" he asked Kitty, covering her hand with his own against his chest. Her hair was a little more tamed now, her face cleaned of the grime of the trail, and she didn't seem sick at all.
"I'm fine," she assured him. "You, on the other hand – don't take this wrong, but you look like hell, Matt."
"You look beautiful," he whispered, and he meant it.
She smiled. "Sure."
"You're really all right?" It seemed much too fast. Surely she couldn't have recovered in one afternoon.
"Much better. Doc says you'd make a fine physician."
Adams cleared his throat. "Now, I wouldn't go that far," he protested, the humor clear in his tone. "Still, you did a good job, Matt. If you hadn't gotten her away from that stage – It was a fool thing to do, understand. No telling how much more damage you did to your leg with that stunt." Then he smiled and shook his head. "Saved her life, though."
Waving a hand dismissively at the praise, he started to sit, only to discover himself flat on his back again, two sets of hands against his chest.
"Whoa, there," Doc was scolding. "You're a while from gettin' up, yet. That's leg's in bad shape, Matt. Plus, you've had a pretty rough time since I got here two days ago."
The marshal stared at him, confused. "Two days?"
"Two days," Kitty emphasized. "You've been sick, Matt. Your fever just broke this afternoon." She blushed. "Apparently, I gave you the flu. I guess maybe we should have skipped that night in Kansas City. I'm sorry about that."
Matt's eyes softened in memory. He wasn't sorry about that night in Kansas City – even if it did give him the flu.
"Well," Adams said, clearing his throat again and straightening. "It's time for Festus to be back. I'll just, uh, check outside."
Reluctantly, the marshal pulled his gaze from Kitty's. "Festus?"
Shrugging, the doctor said, "He and that fellow Skinner have struck up a bit of an acquaintance. Must have something do to with their similar bathing habits. They took off about noon toward the stage wreck. Planned to bury the driver."
Matt looked at Kitty again, disentangled his hand from hers and reached up to push a lock of hair back from her face. From the corner of his eye, he saw the doctor step out the door into the night, his retreat not subtle at all.
"You're really all right?" he prodded again.
Her answer was to lean forward and kiss him, not too passionately, since he was far from strong himself, but with enough emphasis to dispel any concerns he had about her health. In fact, when she drew back, he found it a bit hard to catch his breath.
"Point – made," he gasped.
She laughed that genuine laugh that he loved. "It'd better be."
"How long ya think Doc'll be out there?" he wondered, raising his eyebrows, and sliding his hand down to rest at her side, his thumb barely brushing the swell of her breast.
"Not long enough for you," she returned, moving his hand. "Not that I'm not tempted, Cowboy, but I'm not sure you're quite up to it, yet."
He started to tell her he could get up to it, but she shifted a bit and jarred his leg, and his body convinced him maybe he was seriously overestimating his current abilities. In consolation, he let her wipe his face and torso with a cool rag, realizing as she did that he was bare-chested. If Doc had to tend to his leg, he would have had to –
He lifted the covers and peered down, blushing.
"Your clothes are hanging out back," Kitty explained casually, continuing her ministrations. "Doc had to cut off your pants your leg was so swollen. I mended them as best I could. They'll get you back to Dodge."
The blush deepened. It wasn't so much that Kitty saw him – nothing he had was a mystery to her anymore – but that Doc and Festus had been there when she –
Then her hand rubbed across his chest, and he decided it didn't really matter. She was here and alive and well. And Crocker was dead.
He let his eyes close, concentrated on her soft touch and calm voice as she talked about nothing and caressed him back down into the waters that no longer swirled or tried to tug him into their treacherous depths. This time he floated serenely, gentle waves rocking him back and forth and soothing his battered body. This time, he willingly let himself sink into the comfort of her arms.
And this time he didn't even try to fight his way back.