Imperfection

A Gunsmoke Story

by MAHC (Amanda)

"Imperfection is the greatness of man."

Ernst Fischer

1899-1972

Chapter Six: Stay in the Buggy

POV: Doc

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

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters, unfortunately.

Doctor Galen Adams sipped absently at his beer, letting the ponderous thoughts that had chipped away at his confidence sink even deeper into his brain. It was early for the Long Branch; few customers patronized the saloon before lunch, but the doctor had found it to be the most comforting place in town at that time. Today, though, he found no solace in either the ale or the atmosphere.

At least he had persuaded Kitty to join him, although her usually bright company was muted by worry and fear – and by a foreboding sense that they should all be grieving. With a physician's eye, he noted the tired lines that broke the smooth planes of her face, saw the dark circles under her eyes, ached at the pain behind her pseudo-pleasant expression.

Matt had been gone over a month, and while that was not unprecedented, he had never been away so long without some contact – with Kitty, at least. A month of tracking a Mexican outlaw alone over the border where he certainly would find no friends of a U.S. Marshal. A month of his friends wondering what had happened. A month of watching the edges of Dodge for that big buckskin to trot back in. A month of creating all sorts of dire scenarios about his fate.

A month.

A month was a long time, and Doc was no longer able to ignore the ominous sensation that he might need to brace himself and address the possibility that Matt Dillon wasn't coming back. It was bad enough to think it himself, but the more withdrawn she became, the more he felt he needed to broach the subject with Kitty, as well.

But it took all morning and the better part of two glasses of beer to stuff him with enough fortitude to do it. He glanced up from his beer, took a breath, downed another gulp, took another breath.

"Kitty," he said, tentatively. "Have you been – have thought what you might do if – "

He faltered, realizing she had not heard him, was staring off in the general direction of the swinging doors.

"Kitty?" he prodded.

Still no response. Gingerly, he placed a hand on her arm, jerking it back when she jumped. "I'm sorry," he said.

She smiled in apology, and the sadness in her eyes twisted his heart. This would be harder than he thought.

"Kitty," he began again, "it's been – it's been over a month."

The sadness hardened. "Doc – "she warned.

But he persisted. "Don't you think you need to consider that Matt – "

"Don't," she said again, voice sharp.

"I know you don't want to think about it, but – "

Her hands pushed up from the table, and she stared down at him, eyes snapping with anger and fear and pain. "Don't," she repeated with even more force. Then her lips began to tremble and she didn't quite catch the sob that pushed at her throat. The next word came out in a whisper. "Please."

Facing reality was important, but he was damned if he would deliberately cause her pain in the face of a direct plea. With a nod and swish of his mustache, he sighed, sat back, watching her bowed head, and gave some time to considering what Kitty would do, what the town would do, for that matter if –

Matt Dillon had been a U.S. Marshal for 18 years, serving Dodge and Kansas more loyally than any king could expect from a subject. He had paid the price, too. More injuries than even Doc could count. Long hours in the saddle on the trail with no hot food or soft bed. But the worst was the theft of his chance to be happy – truly happy. Sure, Doc had seen him laughing and amused, had watched him be relaxed and rested. But he wondered if Matt truly was happy in a deep, satisfying sense, wondered if the key to that happiness was waiting – had been waiting for 17 years for the dense lawman to see.

After a while, those bullet wounds had to get old, those long trail rides tedious and not nearly as rewarding. But Doc wondered if that key to happiness would still be hanging around when Matt finally came to his senses. He hoped so. Looking at Kitty then, he ached for her, wished he could reassure her, could tell her Matt surely would be trotting into town any minute.

But he couldn't, of course. And so he just sat with her, offering what silent comfort he could for as long as she needed it.

The doors to the saloon parted, and a man walked in, eyes glancing about the room, searching. After a brief hesitation, he stepped to the bar.

"May I help you?" Sam asked with his usual customer courtesy.

The man pushed his hat back a bit, revealing a thatch of dark hair, and leaned on the counter. "I'm lookin' for Deputy Haggen," he said.

Doc straightened in his chair and took more focused notice of the man. He was stocky, average height, several days' growth of beard shadowing a face that fell just short of handsome. But the most significant characteristic about him was the flash of silver at his chest.

"Festus isn't here right now," Sam told him carefully. "Newly O'Brien's our other deputy. He's more than likely at his shop."

"Obliged," the man said, nodding once and turning.

"Excuse me," Doc interrupted, rising. "I'm Doctor Adams. Can I help you?"

The man let out a quick breath. "Not anymore, Doc."

"Pardon?"

He lifted his brow and extended a hand. "Seth McMannis. I'm a Ranger outta Texas. Could've used your help a day or so ago, but not anymore."

Doc frowned, taking the hand, a heavy feeling settling in his gut. "What do you mean?"

"Run across a fella out on the plains – in bad shape. I tried to tend him, but he was too far gone. Didn't get anything out of him except the word 'Dodge.' Figured he may be from here." He paused, then added more softly, "He's wearin' a U.S. Marshal's badge."

That heavy feeling began to churn. "Where – where is he?" Oh God.

"Over the back of my horse. Big fella. Didn't make for an easy ride, I can tell ya that. Heard you folks were missin' your marshal. I thought maybe – well – "

Kitty still stood, face bone white, eyes wide. Doc placed a hand on her arm, as much to steady himself as to help her. Swallowing so he wouldn't be sick, he whispered, "Show us."

They moved together to the doors. Doc lifted a quick, but sincere prayer before he stepped onto the boardwalk. A crowd had already gathered around the ranger's bay, curious about the long, blanketed body over its flanks. The only things visible were the boots and a touch of pants legs. Both were beige, and too familiar.

He felt Kitty's fingernails digging into the flesh of one hand. With the other trembling one, he reached out to lift the wool off the dead man's head. Death had already begun to ravage the body, but it had not yet obscured the features so much that he couldn't recognize Matt Dillon.

Or not recognize him.

Oh God. Oh God.

With such relief that he had to take a step back, Adams dropped the edge of the blanket and sighed, tears in his eyes. "It's not him," he breathed, then turned to Kitty. "It's not him."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he patted her gently. It wasn't him. Thank God, it wasn't him.

McMannis smiled slightly. "Well, glad to hear that, except I'm not sure who this poor fella is – or was. You got an undertaker?"

"Just down the street," Doc supplied.

"I'll leave him here, then. Don't really need his company on my way back. I hope you find your marshal."

As the ranger walked his horse toward Percy Crump's place, Doc escorted a shaking Kitty back into the Long Branch. For the moment, they had been spared, but Dodge now had one more mystery on its hands. In addition to wondering what had happened to their own marshal, they also had the puzzle of who the dead lawman was, and, although nobody said so out loud, everyone considered the possibility that there was some connection, one that didn't promise to be particularly pleasant.

XXXX

It had been not quite a day since Seth McMannis deposited his corpse with them, just over two days since Festus had headed out to find Matt, hopefully not in the same condition as the other lawman. Dodge had settled into an uneasy routine. It seemed as if any rider brought the entire town out of houses and stores to look until they saw it wasn't the man they waited for. The stage was met by unprecedented crowds, baffling its emerging passengers.

Everyone watched. Almost everyone, anyway.

Each day that passed with no sign of Matt, Doc worried about Kitty. She had virtually confined herself to the Long Branch, sitting at that back table, eyes on the door. Doc and Sam seemed to be the only ones she talked with, and even those conversations were brief and rare. He knew she couldn't continue. If Matt were – if Matt were dead, Kitty had to keep living, and he had to make sure she did. Matt would want it that way.

With difficulty, he pushed back the well of grief that bubbled too close to the surface these days. Chances of ever seeing Matt again – alive or dead – had dwindled to almost none. As painful as it was to accept, he knew it was absolutely essential to Kitty's well being to do so.

Settling himself next to her in the salon, he tried a smile, even though he didn't expect a response. "Kitty," he greeted quietly.

She met his gaze, then let her eyes shift back to the door.

"Buy you breakfast?" he asked hopefully. She hadn't eaten a decent meal in two weeks.

"Maybe later."

"It'll be lunch later," he teased, pleased to see a small smile in return.

"Maybe lunch, then," she amended, then turned her full attention to him so certainly that it startled him. "I've been thinking," she began, "about what you said."

"What I said?"

"The other day, about – about facing the fact that Matt – " She swallowed. "That Matt may be – may not be coming back."

His heart ached for her, for all of them, and he placed a hand over hers and nodded.

"I'll probably go back to New Orleans," she said. "Not that I wouldn't miss you and – and everyone, but Dodge just – just wouldn't be the same, Doc."

He only nodded again. What else could he say?

"He's why I stayed."

"What?"

"Matt. He's why I stayed here. Did I ever tell you that?"

He smiled, not surprised. "No."

"When I got off that stage seventeen years ago, I had every intention of eating as fast as I could, stepping right back onto that coach, and getting the hell out of Dodge."

"What happened?" he wanted to know, curious as always about any rarely revealed personal tidbit between the two very private people.

"I saw Matt," she said simply. "My God, he was big, and handsome, and – and I decided maybe I'd give Dodge a try for a few days."

"Seventeen years later – "

"Yeah. So you see, if Matt's not here – well, I'll be going back home."

He understood, but the loss of both Matt and Kitty would be life altering, for all of Dodge, he imagined. Certainly for him.

She touched his cheek. "I'll sure miss ya, Curly. You've been a good friend to me, and to – to Matt." Her eyes glistened. "I just can't believe he's gone. Even after all these years of knowing it could happen. Even after thinking it did with Mace Gore – "

Doc flinched, still sensitive after all these years about letting her think Matt was dead, even if it was to save his life. He knew she had forgiven him, but that still didn't mute the guilt.

And now she was leaving. And Matt was dead. And things would never be the same again.

"Doc!"

Burke's call shot through the doors of the Long Branch, the urgency in his voice an unsettlingly familiar sound.

As quickly as he could, he hustled through the saloon doors to see the freight manager sprinting across the street toward them, stopping so suddenly that Kitty barreled into him from behind.

"Miss Kitty!" Burke added in surprise as he stumbled to a stop before them.

"What in tarnation is it, Burke?" Adams snapped, trying without success to keep the alarm from his voice.

"It's Festus! I met him coming back into town as I was headed out to deliver a new Singer machine to Mrs. Purdy out on the Cimarron Road. You know her old one just up and quit. Shouldn't have, because it's guaranteed – "

Doc felt the blood rushing into his face. "Burke!" he growled. "What about Festus?"

"Oh. Well, like I said I ran into him comin' in and he said you need to come quick."

Not Festus, too. Please, not him, too. "Is he hurt?" Doc asked.

"Well, no, I don't think so – "

Impatiently, Adams frowned. "Then why do I need to come quick?"

Burke pondered a moment, then shrugged. "I guess it's 'cause the marshal's in pretty bad shape. I think – "

The doctor grabbed Burke's arms hard, barely resisting the urge to shake him. "The marshal! You mean Matt's with him?"

"Yeah. Didn't I say that?"

"No, you did not." His heart pounded. It was Matt. It was Matt! "Burke, why the hell didn't you – "

Beside him, Kitty pulled away to grab Burke's arm, almost jerking it out of socket. "Matt?" she prompted urgently.

Rubbing his shoulder, Burke said, "Festus and a Mexican are bringin' him in."

"Bringing him in?" Doc glanced at Kitty and saw her jaw clench as she fought for some semblance of calm. "What the Sam Hill are you doin' here, Burke?" he demanded. "Why aren't you helping him?"

"Festus send me on ahead to tell ya. Said he needed ya right quick."

He turned to tell Kitty to wait for him, but she had sprinted out into the street, skirts flying, before anyone could say another word. The only thing he could do was to follow her as fast as he was able.

"Where are they?" he called back at Burke, his pulse racing.

But the field manager only pointed. At that moment, three horses appeared at the end of Front Street, a familiar, grizzled rider on Ruth, an unfamiliar, sombrero-topped rider on an equally unfamiliar bay. But the third horse, the big one in the middle, and its rider were what caught Doc's attention, his eyes burning at the sight.

Buck clopped slowly, as if he knew his companion needed a smooth, easy pace. The big man astride him was bent low over the mane, chest almost touching the horn, his right hand holding the reins loosely, his left hand pressed over his right side. Festus and whoever was with him held their hands out tentatively, as if anticipating his imminent fall.

But he was alive. Alive!

The citizens of Dodge froze, all eyes on the man they had been waiting for. Unconcerned about the spectacle she might make, Kitty ran toward him, her hands reaching out, touching his left leg. With obvious effort, he slowly turned clouded blue eyes to her. Doc drew up next to them, his fingers automatically moving to the marshal's arm. It wasn't hard to feel the fever on his skin, see it in his cheeks.

"Kitty." Matt managed to rasp, the relief evident in his voice even through the pain and exhaustion.

"Hey, Cowboy," she choked back, tears trailing down her cheeks as she clutched at his thigh.

His hand moved from his side to cover hers, and Doc sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the blood drip from it. "Kitty," he said again, but it was more of a moan this time.

Alarmed, Adams opened his mouth to order those around them to help Matt off his horse, but before he could speak, the marshal's eyes slid closed, and his head dropped, and the big body collapsed over the horse's neck.

"Matt!" He wasn't sure if he or Kitty yelled the name, maybe both.

Instantly, at least ten hands thrust out to catch the marshal's shoulders and waist as they did their best to lower him onto the ground. Festus leaped off Ruth and grabbed Buck's reins to keep him from accidentally tromping on his vulnerable master.

"Easy, now," Doc directed. "Move back."

Matt's face was scorched with sunburn, his lips cracked and bleeding. Dust and dirt clung to his thick hair, and sweat stained his clothes. But those weren't the most ominous sights. It didn't take a trained eye to see the darkened bloodstains that soaked his chest and abdomen, the violent rips in his vest and shirt.

"Doc," Festus said, voice thick with emotion and exhaustion, "is he gonna be aright?"

Adams held the deputy's gaze only long enough to convey his uncertainty.

Kitty knelt at his shoulder, and Doc tried not to flinch as he ripped open the stained shirt and bared the marshal from neck to belt. Two angry red tears, swollen and bleeding, marred his chest and abdomen. Two more bullets. Two more mistakes.

"Somebody's doctored him some already," Doc noted, running his hands over the wounds and drawing a groan from the marshal. "Dug the bullets out. He'd started to heal, but looks like the trip home aggravated them."

"Agustin took care of him, but he was still too weak to travel. I told him that."

He jerked at the unexpected voice that came from Festus' companion and found himself gazing into a pair of black – and beautiful – eyes. With a small smile, the Mexican swept off the sombrero, releasing a mane of dark hair.

"By golly," Doc breathed, as he looked at the woman.

He didn't know how he had missed it before, except that the wide hat and oversized poncho hid her assets well. He wasn't sure who she was or what connection she had with Matt – maybe he didn't want to know. That thought drew a twinge of shame to him. Matt wouldn't –

"Doc?" Kitty's urgent prompt reminded him she was there.

Filing away that curiosity for later, he turned back to the marshal, whose breathing had grown labored and shallow. He wished he could tell her Matt would be fine, wished he could pat her hand and reassure her that their stubborn marshal would be on his feet in no time. But he couldn't tell her anything, didn't know anything, except that Matt Dillon was again seriously injured, and was again barely hanging onto life.

One glance at Festus told him the deputy had exhausted his strength just getting Matt back to Dodge. Gesturing toward Burke, Sam Noonan, and a couple of other townspeople, he ordered, "Get him upstairs."

"Gently," Festus cautioned, then whispered, "Stay in the buggy, Matthew."

"Doc?" Kitty asked again, anguish ravaging her features.

He sighed. "I don't know, Kitty. I just don't – if we can get the infection under control he stands a chance."

Stands a chance. It was the best he could offer her.

It took six men to haul the tall lawman up the stairs into Adams' office, his body dead weight in their arms. But they made it and deposited him on the examining table with as much care as they could. Doc thought briefly about how many times Matt had lain on that table, how many bullets he had dug out of the courageous and responsible – and danged foolish – marshal. He couldn't help but wonder if their recent ordeal on the Gold Train had been made moot by these latest bullets, if Matt had gone through all that pain and agony only to die anyway three months later.

No, he told himself. Stop and just focus on the present, on saving his life now. Again.

As the others stood around, fretting and worried and unsure what to do, he pushed Matt's shirt off his shoulders and assessed the damage. Under closer inspection, the angry red areas looked even worse, and he heard Kitty moan next to him. But he couldn't spare any attention to comfort her.

Gritting his teeth, he used his scalpel to open up the infection, wincing as the vile fluids seeped out. Matt jerked beneath his hands and hissed, throwing his head back with the pain.

"Burke, you and Sam come over here and hold him," he ordered, pleased to see that they followed immediately, each man taking a side and bracing against the marshal's broad shoulders.

Even though the injured man probably didn't hear him, he found himself murmuring soothing assurances. "Just hang on, Matt," he said. "You're gonna make it." He sincerely hoped he was uttering the truth. "I know this hurts." That certainly was the truth.

As Adams dug deeper into one of the wounds, searching for all the infected tissue, swabbing thoroughly with an alcohol-laden cloth, the wide chest arched up in revolt, and he almost dropped the probe. "Hold him!" he snapped to Sam and Burke, then gestured to two more men. "You get his legs!"

They threw their bodies against the marshal, but Matt bucked again and groaned at the rough treatment. Feeling as if he were trying to break a bronco, Doc decided to call in reinforcements.

"Kitty!"

Shaken and pale, she slipped up next to him and caught the marshal's large hand in her own. "Matt," she whispered. "Matt. It's me. It's Kitty."

Amazingly, the big lawman calmed, the writhing slowed. She ran a hand over his tousled hair and bent close to his ear. "I'm here, Cowboy. I'm here. I love you."

Doc wondered if anyone else had heard that endearment, and was grateful he had. Matt stilled beneath his hands and groaned her name. With his sleeve, Doc swiped at the perspiration that ran down his face, aching for Matt while at the same time angry with him. What the hell had he thought he was doing, going after that damned Mexican by himself like that? Why the hell was every outlaw his responsibility? And who the hell let him come back in such bad shape?

But the questions were rhetorical, at least the first two. Doc knew very well what had led Matt down that trail, and what had brought him back.

It took almost an hour, but with Kitty's help, the wounds were finally cleaned and freshly bandaged, and the doctor took a deep breath, praying that it was enough, hoping that it wasn't too late.

Now that the immediate needs were met, he cut the marshal's filthy clothes away, letting Sam tug the pants off and wondering if Kitty's right hand man might have done that before for an exhausted lawman who had climbed the back stairs late one evening and collapsed inside her door. But, of course, the bartender had never even whispered a word of his almost-certain knowledge of Matt's and Kitty's private times together. Doc wouldn't expect him to start now.

With clean washcloths, he and Kitty did their best to wipe the grime and blood from Matt's body before he pulled a sheet up over his waist and called himself done, at least for the moment.

"Doc, will he – " she asked, unable to finish the question.

He blinked and tried to smile, although his heart wasn't in it. "I – I hope so, Kitty."

"You hope so?" she asked, stricken, her hand clutching Matt's tighter. "You hope so?"

He yearned to guarantee it, but he just couldn't. "I hope so," he affirmed.

Sighing, she sank into the chair next to the table, leaning over to place a tender kiss on the marshal's cracked lips. "Stay in the buggy, Cowboy," she urged, echoing Festus. "Stay in the buggy."

With embarrassed coughs, the other men excused themselves and left the office to join the vigil that had begun on Front Street. Wearily, Doc gathered the blood-sodden towels and stepped back to give Kitty some time alone, hoping it wouldn't become a moment of farewell.

All he could do now was wait. It was all any of them could do.

TBC