The two men rode silently into Dodge, unnoticed by all but the old stableman, Moss Grimmick, and all he saw was two drifters coming off the trail, pulling their pack horse behind them. They passed the freight office, and several saloons before they spotted the General Store and the small sign next to it advertising the sawbones on the second floor.

Larry looked up at the light in the front room. "Looks like the town doc's in...and it's a lucky thing for us. Mike wouldn't hold with us goin' back an' tellin' him we couldn't find a doc..."

The two men dismounted and tied their horses up at the bottom of the stairs. "I don't think it's gonna matter much, Larry."

"You think Joey's gonna die, Stan?"

"You ever seen a man pull through a belly wound like that?"

"Nope."

"Me neither..." He tugged at his hat slightly.

"Don't matter nohow... Mike wants a doc for the kid, so a doc he'll git..." Larry noticed how quiet Stan had suddenly become. "What?"

Stan shrugged. "I ain't never killed nobody before, Larry."

Larry stared into his eyes. "You panicked, didn't you?"

"Guess so. I didn't mean to kill him. I just wanted to wound him, stop him from comin' at us."

"Now you ain't no different than the rest of us, Stan."

Stand didn't comment, but somewhere deep inside, he felt sick, as though he had violated more than just the law of the land. The two men quietly ascended the stairs. Larry peered through the window at the top of the landing, and saw a solitary man standing next to a table, his back to the door, working on something.

"Looks like he's rollin' pills 'r somethin'," Larry said.

"Let's get it done."

The two men opened the door, and the man at the table turned. "You two fellas need somethin'?"

"Yeah," Larry said as he pulled his gun, "we need a doctor."

"Now you wait a second, mister, you got no call to pull yer gun."

Stan pulled his then. "What about me, do I got call?"

"Now look--"

Larry moved forward quickly, grabbing the man by the shirt. "--Nevermind, Doc, we ain't got time to argue with you. Just get that bag yer fillin' up and let's go."

"Mister, yer makin' a big mistake, I'm not--"

Despite the fact that his hand was shaking, Stan shoved his gun into Chester's ribs. "--If you wanna live past right now, you'll get your bag and get movin'..."

"Wull forevermore...you fellas just ain't listenin' to me, ya see--"

But Chester didn't finish speaking before Larry's gun handle landed on the back of his head, sending him sprawling onto the floor in a heap.

Larry bent over, picked Goode up and slung him over his shoulder. He turned to Stan. "Get his bag and let's go."

Chester moaned and reached for his head in pain: then he remembered what happened. He opened his eyes quickly and saw three men staring down at him. He scowled deeply, swallowing hard.

"Who are you men?"

"Who we are ain't as important as what we can do to you, Doc, if'n you don't do like we say," Mike said.

"Look mister, like I tried to tell these two thugs of your'n, I ain't a doctor."

Mike glared at Larry who said, "He's lyin', Mike, we found him in the doctor's office, puttin' supplies in that thar bag of his."

Mike looked at Chester. "I think you'd better stop your lyin' and git to fixin' like you wuz brung here to do."

Russo pulled Chester up by the shirt and shoved him toward a bunk with a man on it. Chester could feel the sweat begin to trickle down him as he neared the wounded man, realizing he was scarcely more than a boy, and had a gunshot wound in his belly the size of an orange. Goode licked his lips as he ran a hand through his dark hair. He turned back to look at the one called Mike.

"Mister, this boy's pretty badly hurt. He needs a doctor."

The anger that played across Mike's face sent Goode's heart into his throat. Russo grabbed Chester by the collar. "Now look you, I done know he needs a doctor, that's why yer here, so git to fixin'!"

Chester's voice raised in fear and frustration, "Mister, I ain't lyin'! I ain't a doctor!"

Mike pulled his gun from his holster and shoved it into Goode's stomach. "You'd better rethink that, mister, because if he dies, you die."

Chester swallowed hard but tried to keep his voice even, "How do ya expect me to do somethin' when I ain't got no bandages or nuthin'..."

Stan tossed Doc's spare bag at Goode. "Here, Doc."

With shaking hands Chester picked up the bag, set it on the table by the bunk, sat down on the cot's edge and opened the clasp. He peered into it and found the square, white cloths that he had seen Doc use to stop bleeding. He pressed it into the wound and the young man howled in pain, causing Chester to jump.

Mike gripped Goode's shoulder from behind. "What kinda sawbones are you, anyway?"

Chester turned to look at the man, his face pale and sweaty from the fear of hurting the young man any further. His voice was dark, "I done told you, mister. I ain't no doctor, and this boy's gonna die if we don't get him one."

"If you ain't the town doc, what wuz you doin' in his office, stockin' up his bag?" Larry asked.

"I'm a friend of his, and this here is his spare bag. I was just helpin' him out by puttin' supplies in it while he was out on a call. He asked me ta do it before he left." Chester glared then at Mike. "I done tried to tell 'em I weren't no doctor, but they wouldn't listen to me. My name is Chester Goode, and I work for Marshal Dillon."

The anger on Mike's face worked itself into fury as he turned on Larry and Stan, pulling his gun from its holster. He gripped Larry by the collar, pushing him into the nearest wall.

"Mike, take it easy," Larry pleaded, "it weren't my fault!"

"Joey's in a bad way, and instead of gittin' a doctor you brung me a friend of the marshal's?" Mike roared. "I oughta kill you one piece at a time!"

"Mike," Stan said calmly, "maybe things'll work out fer us even better this way."

Russo turned toward Stan, pointing the gun at him. "Sure you want ta open that trap of yers just now?"

Stan forced himself to remain cool. "Well, we got us a friend of the doc's, who's also a friend of Dillon's. And the way I heared it, the doc and Dillon are as tight as it gits."

"What're you drivin' at?"

"Larry and I can go back to town and git the Doc - he'll come cuz we got his friend Chester here."

"Yeah, and then Dillon'll come after us with a posse, you idiot!"

"Not if we tell him we'll kill his two friends here..."

"You're wrong, mister," Chester stated, "Marshal Dillon ain't gonna be blackmailed by you, not even to save me or Doc."

Stan shook his head. "That ain't the way I heared it." He looked at Mike. "How bout it, Mike? Dillon'll sure to be out after us for the robbery in Meade anyway; we can buy us a get away and get Joey fixed up if we have Chester here and the doc."

Mike holstered his gun and pat Stan's shoulder. "That thar's right good thinkin', Stan. Right good." He glanced at Larry. "You and Stan ride back into Dodge and wait fer that sawbones to come back - and this time, git the right man." He grabbed Chester's hat from the table, shoving it toward Stan. "You show him this as proof that we got his friend, and you tell him if'n he don't come, Chester Goode'll be good and dead. Then you leave word for Dillon that we're takin' his friends with us, and they stay alive as long as he keeps his distance. We'll turn 'em loose at the Mex border." He glared at Chester. "In the meantime, you do what you can fer Joey, and if he dies, I'll kill you, and the doc."

Chester turned back to Joey and tired to clean the wound: but even Chester could see that the boy didn't have a chance in hell of surviving...