Diligently, Adams had removed the bullet, sewn up the arteries and then closed the wound, all the while knowing that the poor boy didn't have a prayer; but it was buying Chester time, and since he couldn't save Joey, that was the doctor's main concern. Throughout the night, he had given Joey laudanum to help ease his pain, and as expected, the boy had grown quiet and pale. He checked his pulse and then gently lifted his eyelids: it wouldn't be long now. Adams put a soft hand on the young man's forehead; if he could feel it, the warmth of a human hand might give him a small measure of comfort. Doc glanced over at the two outlaws, both of whom had dropped off to sleep, deciding that the immobile Adams didn't need to be watched. And as the doctor adjusted his position slightly, he realized they were quite right. Broken at the lower femur, the pain in his leg was excruciating each time Doc tried to move the slightest bit.
He let out a low breath of air trying to dull the ache in his leg; but he badly needed a splint or the distress was going to become unbearable. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and realized he was extremely thirsty. Adams glanced over at the table where there was a canteen, but it was too far for him to reach, and he knew he couldn't limp over to it. He looked down at the glass of water by the bunk, but that was for the boy, and in case the dying young man needed some water in his last moments, Doc Adams wasn't going to be the one to deny him for the sake of his own comfort. Joey moaned in pain, and Doc brushed his hand softly over the boy's brow.
"Easy Joey, easy son."
"Mike...where's Mike?"
"He's asleep," Doc answered softly, "you want me to wake him fer ya?"
"No," the boy shook his head weakly. "I don't want him to see it."
"See what, boy?"
He licked his chapped lips. "Me dyin'...he always said I wuz weak; I don't wanna see it in his eyes while I'm dyin'." Adams picked up the glass of water with one hand and Joey's head with the other, pouring a little water into his mouth. "Thanks," Joey said.
Doc gently set his head down on the pillow and the glass back on the table. Thinking he was going to leave him alone, Joey grabbed the doctor's hand. Adams looked into the hazel eyes and could see the fear. He held the boy's hand in between both of his, softly rubbing it.
"Don't be scared, son, I'm right here with ya."
The boy swallowed hard. "Who are you?"
"I'm Dr. Adams, from Dodge City."
"I always wanted to see me a town like Dodge..."
The boy nodded at Adams as his eyes fluttered closed. Doc gently set Joey's hand down and checked his pulse once again. He put his watch back in his pocket and laid a strong hand on top of the boy's. He swallowed hard trying to push the dryness from his throat and leaned his upper arm against the back of the chair, allowing his forehead to press into his hand. The doctor in him knew he should wake the outlaws; but Chester deserved as much time as the old man could buy him, so Doc simply closed his eyes and tried to rest, despite the throbbing in his broken limb.
Chester had walked about two miles, in case Stan was watching, and then he had doubled back, sneaking through the trees before the clearing, hiding himself in the large bushes nearest the shack. He knew from the look Doc had given him when he examined the boy that Joey Russo wasn't long for the world, and that Adams was simply trying to buy Chester's life and enough time to get away. But Chester couldn't leave him alone like that; Doc was too special a person and far too important a man to risk losing. Chester watched for any sign of movement within the shack, but there had been none for hours. His eyes felt droopy, but he didn't dare fall asleep.
Wearily, Goode looked toward the east and could see the twinges of first light. He wondered if Joey Russo had made it to another dawn, or if Doc had lost him sometime during the night. Whichever way it was, it would most likely become known soon enough. Chester looked around for some kind of weapon to use, but there wasn't much. He found an old branch that had fallen from a tree; it wasn't really heavy enough, but it was at least a bit thick, and it was the only thing available. Chester tested the weight of it against his left hand, and figured at the least it could stun a man enough to maybe gain some kind of edge in a fight.
But Stan and Mike had guns; Chester would have to find a way to get close enough to club one of them over the head before they knew he was there, and given how bad off Doc's leg looked, the physician was going to be of little or no use. Goode felt his stomach flutter a little. Doc hadn't appeared to be in the best of shape several hours ago, and Chester wondered how surgery and a long night's vigil were wearing on him. Yet worrying would do nothing to help the situation. He would simply have to lie in wait for an opportunity to present itself.