Imperfection

A Gunsmoke Story

by MAHC (Amanda)

"Imperfection is the greatness of man."

Ernst Fischer

1899-1972

Chapter Five: Hard Man to Catch

POV: Matt

Spoilers: "Seven Hours to Dawn;" "The Badge;" "The Bullet;" "Hidalgo"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters. Shoot.

His water was long gone, but Matt Dillon didn't notice, couldn't calculate his odds, wasn't able to manage much level of thought beyond simply existing. He vacillated between bouts of fiery pain that coursed through his body and periods of almost total numbness when he could barely feel himself on the saddle.

What little bit of logical thought that was left to him kept pestering, telling him that this was the end, that he simply couldn't keep going, that it was foolish even to try. But an equally persistent voice of passion challenged him, told him he could make it, reminded him of what he would lose if he didn't.

Kitty.

If he gave up, if he just let his body surrender to the persuasive forces of pain and something far past exhaustion, he would lose her. And he couldn't let that happen. So he drew all of his waning strength to that end, to that focus. Instead of the desolate flat land before him, he tried to see her beautiful face. Instead of the rough saddle under him, he tried to feel her soft body. Instead of the sweat and dirt, he tried to smell her heady perfume.

"Kitty," he whispered, almost overcome as his world transformed, as he was enveloped by the sight, feel, and smell of her.

"Keep going, Cowboy," she urged. "Keep going. I'm waiting for you."

And he knew she was. She always was. No, he couldn't lose Kitty. Whatever it took, he couldn't lose her.

So, somehow, he plodded on – or at least hung onto Buck, who plodded on. But their pace had slowed, stretching out whatever distance remained between them and Dodge, using up precious time. And he began to wonder if it may be too late for even Kitty to save him.

XXXX

It could have been hours or only minutes later when he heard them. Even in the near-delirious state he swam in and out of, Matt Dillon had spent enough years on the trail to recognize the sound of hoof beats from a good distance. He usually could make quite accurate predictions as to how many horses and how fast before any visual confirmation. This, time, though, through the hazy consciousness he fought to maintain, he counted himself lucky he heard them at all.

More than one, he thought. And they were traveling at a gallop, apparently no longer concerned about stealth. He figured whoever it was had watched their prey deteriorate to the point he would be of no trouble to them at all, an easy target who probably couldn't even find the butt of his pistol, much less draw with any speed. Blinking twice in a futile attempt to clear his vision, he contemplated his options:

Make a run for it? They'd drill him before he could spur Buck on.

Try to draw and shoot it out? In his condition, he would be lucky to get the horse turned around before he was dead.

Turn and negotiate? Risky – as if the other choices weren't.

Surrender? They'd probably kill him anyway.

None of those choices appealed to him particularly. Surely there was another way. He just wished his brain could find it, could push past the thickness that filled his head and find coherent thought.

If he turned, acknowledged that he was aware of their presence, they might shoot him right then, not giving him the chance to make a stand. It would probably be the smart thing for them to do, if not very gallant. Maybe he should wait until they called him. Maybe they weren't following him after all. Maybe he was simply a stranger to them –

"Dillon!"

Maybe not.

It took only a gentle tightening of the reins for Buck to stop obediently. Matt grimaced with the jerk to his body and swallowed in an effort to regain some clarity. There was no choice now; he had to turn. Leaning slightly to the left, he urged the horse around to face the man – or men – who had shadowed him tenaciously for over a week. With a darkly humorous thought, he figured maybe they had earned the right to kill him, they certainly had been patient.

His eyes tightened when he saw them, even through the fuzziness. Not one. Not two. Five of Mando's gang had apparently followed him, bent on avenging their leader's death. Even at his best, Matt Dillon would have been sorely tested to take down five men. At the moment, he didn't stand a chance.

He opened his mouth to speak and found that he couldn't, so he settled for the best stare he had.

"We have come for you, gringo," one said unnecessarily. "You killed Mando."

He continued to stare.

"The people have sent us to avenge him."

He doubted that.

"They have no leader now. You have left them helpless."

He tried to lick his lips, to get enough moisture in his mouth to speak, but it was a fruitless effort. Didn't matter, anyway, they were going to kill him.

"Law!"

His head snapped up at the voice, unbelieving, confused. But there in front of him, astride one of the horses, sat Lucero, very beautiful and very angry. His eyes squinted to see her, to try to make sense out of her being there.

"You left me, Law!" she yelled. "You killed Mando, then left me alone! I was someone with Mando. Now I'm nothing!"

No, he tried to argue. You weren't someone. You are now. But he couldn't make a sound more articulate than a garbled groan.

"You left me alone!" she cried, but as he tried to focus in on the wavering form, something changed; her hair transformed from straight, dark tresses to bouncy curls of fiery red that were very, very familiar.

"Kitty?" he tried to say with no success.

"I told you not to leave me!" The olive skin lightened to alabaster.

His head pounded as he fought to comprehend. The Mexican woman had disappeared, and in her place stood a furious, trembling Kitty Russell, her eyes accusing, her tone on edge with disappointment.

"I can't do this anymore, Matt," she said, shaking her head. "I can't keep waiting for you to come back." Her hand came up, holding a pistol pointed at his chest. "I can't keep living not knowing if you're alive or dead."

Stunned, he tried to reach out to her, to talk to her, to ask her what the hell she was doing, but he couldn't speak, couldn't move.

"I can't wait for you anymore. I have to put you out of my misery. I have to."

He heard the gun cock, saw her finger squeeze the trigger, and still his feverish brain could not make sense of what was happening.

"Kitty?" he finally managed to croak, but she didn't budge.

He wanted to tell her that he was sorry, that he knew it wasn't fair to ask her to wait for him, but that the thought of her was what brought him back alive so many times. He wanted to tell her those moments spent in her arms were the only times he truly felt at peace. He wanted to tell her he would give it all up if it meant keeping her with him. He wanted to tell her he loved her.

But he couldn't.

"Matt?" she asked, giving him a final chance.

His mouth opened to say all those things, but the words turned to sand in his throat.

With an infinitely sad expression, she leveled the gun again. The others drew their guns, as well, all aimed directly at him. Knowing it was useless, he could do nothing else but let his hand drop to the holster at his hip. But he couldn't shoot Kitty. Dear God, how could he shoot Kitty?

His fingers relaxed around the handle, intent on letting go, but the others had seen his move. With Kitty leading the way, they opened up with ferocity. He had time only to look into her eyes, to see the anger and loathing burn their blue depths to red. Fire exploded in front of him, tearing through his body and blasting him off Buck.

He didn't even feel it when he hit the ground.

XXXX

Matt Dillon wasn't sure why he wasn't dead. He should be dead. He had just been riddled with at least five bullets, all at short range. Hard to survive that. Of course, he did consider that he might actually be dead and just not know it. Still, the ground seemed quite substantial under his body, and the coolness of the air spread real chill bumps across his skin and allowed a bit more clarity to part the fog in his brain.

Cautiously, he peeled open one eye and looked around. It was dark, which explained the cooler temperature, and he seemed to be quite alone, no vigilantes from Mando hovering over him, no scorned Mexican woman waiting to punish him – and no fed-up Kitty pointing a gun at him.

She hadn't shot him after all. With clearer thoughts, he allowed himself a humorless grunt at the hallucination. Of course Kitty hadn't shot him. His hands came up to run across his chest and stomach, drawing a grimace as he touched the burning, infected wounds. But that was all he found, just the old wounds. No one had shot him – not recently, anyway.

Sighing hard, he grimaced when the movement triggered a wave of nausea and pain. The half-healed back injury reminded him of its presence again, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but he grabbed onto that pain, that beat, that proof of life, figuring that he must have finally lost consciousness and fallen off Buck. Even as much as he hurt, it was certainly preferable to death, but not the most ideal situation since he wasn't at all sure that he could drag himself back on the big horse who waited patiently a few feet away.

So he decided maybe he would just lie there for a while, give Buck a rest, and ponder his predicament – and it was, indeed, a predicament. He wondered what the good folks in Dodge would think if they could see him now.

To many in that town – indeed, across Kansas – he had become more than a man. He had become Marshal Dillon, the formidable, unbeatable, unwavering symbol of law enforcement – perfect. But he knew better. He knew how imperfect he was – every single day when he pushed his abused body out of bed, stretching strained muscles, easing stiff joints, trying to ignore the nagging proof of years of injuries in the line of duty. He certainly had the marks to prove it, scars that ran across shoulders and chest and down sides and back, and over arms and legs. Scars that ached in the cold and burned in the hot. Scars that brought unpleasant memories.

No, he thought, that wasn't entirely true. There was at least one thing pleasant associated with those scars: the particular attention Kitty gave them when they were alone. If he closed his eyes, he could feel her fingers sliding over the marks, some fresh and tender, others old and barely noticeable. But she knew each one intimately. In those times, he let her touch, explore, knowing she re-lived each moment that created the scar. He could also, if he let himself, but usually it was much more enjoyable just to lie back and relish the feel of her soft hands healing him with warmth and love. He had never stopped her searches, but sometimes the pain in her eyes during those moments brought a quick tightness to his throat, and he had to turn her in his arms and distract her from the task. She was usually willing to be distracted, too, thank goodness.

That last night before he headed out after Mando, she had lain in his arms, her hand moving over the scars again, tracing them, remembering.

XXXX

As usual, she had started with the oldest one and worked her way across his body to the newest one. After a minute, with her hand resting on one of the marks Mace Gore's men had provided him, he heard her groan softly.

"Kitty?"

He could still picture her face, tear-streaked and devastated when she entered the Long Branch that morning. And he never would forget the sheer incredulous joy that swept over those same features when she saw him, shot up and slumped – but very much alive – in that chair. Her wildly demonstrative greeting held no doubt about her feelings for his resurrection, and even if he had possessed the strength to dampen her welcome in front of Festus and Doc, he didn't have the desire. Instead, he melted into her embrace and tried to ignore the pain even that caused.

But it was certainly nothing compared to the pain he knew she had felt ever since, pain that she couldn't hide every time he faced danger. She didn't think he saw it, but he did.

In an effort to comfort, he pulled her closer. "You okay?" he asked, already knowing that she wasn't.

"Sure."

With a sigh, he brushed his lips against her temple. "Kitty, I'll be back in a few weeks." He hoped.

"Sure."

Her hand moved to the scar so near his heart, the one that estranged them when she last decided she couldn't take it anymore, the one that reminded him daily of how close he came to losing her.

"I'll be as fast as I can," he soothed, but it was an empty promise.

To his relief, her tense expression melted into seduction.

"Cowboy, you can be fast on the trail, but there are some things that just need to be done nice and slow."

Grateful, he let the desire flare in his eyes as well as other parts of his body. "I can do slow, too," he reminded in the same tone she had used.

"Yes, you surely can," she agreed, kissing the scar.

With a pleased grunt, he twisted to bring their bodies more in line, but an awkward turn shot pain through his back and he couldn't stop the second, harsher grunt.

"Matt?"

Damn. "I'm fine," he insisted, trying to buzz her neck in distraction.

For a while, she allowed his diversion, but when her hand slid around to his back and ran over the sensitive scar that came far too close to leaving him helpless, he caught it.

"Kitty," he insisted, "I said I'm fine."

"Uh huh."

"Don't you believe me?" he challenged, warming his voice with seduction and promise, but unable to mask the plea that also tinted it. He wanted this night to be good and fun, with no burdens, no worries. Those would come soon enough.

He watched her contemplate the choices, tried to tell her with his eyes what he wanted – what he needed. Finally, she smiled.

"Guess you'll have to prove it to me," she challenged back.

Thank you. Thank you. "Guess I will."

And he did, concentrated every ounce of desire he had for her, which overwhelmed him each time they were together. He moved to make this night one she couldn't forget, in case it became their last. And she seemed to want to do the same, pressing her hands over each scar again, then moving to areas that bore no scars except for the marks of passion her mouth and fingers left.

He rocked their bodies together in a bold rhythm that built and built, obliterating any thoughts but those of yearning and desire. When they finally lay exhausted in each other's arms, he tried not to think too much about what lay ahead, tried only to live in the moment, to remember the feel of her skin and the smell of her hair and the taste of her lips. It would fortify him through the drought from her.

XXXX

The sound of hooves clopping over rocks and dirt drew him abruptly out of the pleasant memory that had brought a twitch to his body even in his battered condition. He shifted, grimacing at even that much movement, and wondered if this was another hallucination, if his ravaged brain simply could no longer distinguish reality from illusion. This time, he heard only one rider, coming more slowly than before, looking. For him?

Perhaps the darkness would hide him, protect him since he couldn't protect himself. But one glance around told him it was a full moon – big and round and almost as illuminating as the sun. The sounds slowed as they neared, and then stopped altogether. Boots crunched on the ground and Matt dragged in enough strength to look up.

He found himself staring at a silhouette backed by the bright white of the moon. The figure was slight, but the shadow of a wide sombrero distorted the shape of his head. So, they had caught up with him after all. He knew, of course, that he was helpless. His entire body burned with pain and fever. He couldn't even turn his head away, couldn't lift a hand in greeting or supplication.

Being a lawman, he had always accepted that violent death was a very real and likely possibility. After that acceptance, he had thought little about it, knowing it only caused useless worry, and could produce too much caution on his part to do his job. Still, occasionally he had pondered ways he might meet his end. Shot down in the middle of Front Street headed the list, but ambushed in a back alley by one of his myriad enemies ranked right up there, as well. Succumbing to natural dangers while he trailed outlaws had promise, too. But however it happened, he always hoped he could die standing his ground, upholding his ideals and the law. Not lying almost blind with fever and already so close to death he could feel its icy claws around his heart.

He wondered how Kitty would take it. She'd be awful mad at him; that was certain. The thought almost made him smile, if he'd had enough strength to move even one muscle. This was why he never felt as if he could settle down, never wanted to burden her with the weight of a husband and a family. What could he promise her except that she would wait for days or weeks at a time for him to return, never knowing for sure that he was? Or maybe that she was almost certain to see him gunned down right before her eyes one day – or even worse, be gunned down herself in his name.

And maybe that was really what scared him – losing her because of what he did, because of who he was. He had made a reputation of being a strong man, virtually indestructible. But if Kitty died because of him, he was certain his own destruction would follow quickly.

His final thoughts weighed heavy with guilt. What if they dumped his body in some ravine? He would most likely never be found. That would be worse for Kitty, not knowing, waiting and wondering. Of course, his assassin could just leave him there. He knew with certainty he would be dead by morning with no effort at all on anyone else's part.

But the man hadn't trailed him for over a week just to let him die on his own. No, he figured there were plans for him, and they didn't promise to be pleasant. The boots stepped closer, the sombrero dipped as its owner took a closer look. Matt heard a rough grunt.

"Gringo Lawman," said a voice thick with accent, "you are a hard man to catch."

He squinted, tried to see the face, to identify his killer for some strange self-satisfaction, but the night and his own condition obscured the sight. His hand twitched with instinct toward his holster, sought the familiar handle of his pistol, but his fingers brushed only empty leather. The fall must have knocked it loose.

This was it, then. Not at all how he figured he would go. Disappointing.

"I'm sorry, Kitty," he breathed to the woman who waited for him miles away – who would never have to wait for him again. "I'm sorry."

TBC