It had taken Dillon most of the night to follow the tracks of the two horses which finally trailed through some trees and into a clearing: and there was a shack with four horses tied up in front of it. Dillon gently spurred Buck back up into the wooded area, where he dismounted and tied the gelding to a sturdy trunk. He pulled the rifle from its scabbard and headed down toward the low bushes closest to the dwelling to get a better look.

As first light began to appear in the east, Dillon was startled when he was jumped from behind, a hand covering his mouth. "Mr. Dillon," the soft voice whispered.

Matt turned on the ground, glaring at Goode. "Chester! What are you doing?"

"Wull, I didn't want you to call out, Mr. Dillon, or worse," Goode eyed the rifle, "shoot me!"

"What the hell are you doing out here and where's Doc?"

"Oh that stubborn ol' goat's inside." Chester's dark brown eyes implored Dillon's patience. "He told Mike Russo that he wouldn't help his brother if Russo didn't let me go."

Dillon frowned. "I can't believe that worked with a hard case like Russo."

"Only because the boy's in such a bad way, Mr. Dillon, and he was wailin' in pain, and Doc just sat back in his chair and did nothin'..."

Dillon's eyebrows arched. "That doesn't sound like Doc..."

"Well there ain't nothin' Doc can do to save him, Mr. Dillon, I seen that as clear as day on Doc's face when he first looked at him. All he can do is maybe make it a little easier for him."

"Russo know that?"

Chester shook his head. "No. I don't reckon he'd a let me go if he'd thought that."

"No, probably not." He could feel Chester hadn't given him all of it. "Is Doc okay?"

Goode looked down. "No. His leg's broke, Mr. Dillon, and from the look of it, it's pretty bad."

"Can Doc move at all?"

"Not really. It looks like it's broke at the knee, and was painin' him something fierce, although you know Doc, he didn't say nothin'."

Dillon's lips pulled into a straight line. "So even if we can get in there and take them, Doc can't get out of the way."

"Not by himself, no sir."

"All right. Then we'll see if we can jump them out here."

"It could be a long wait, Mr. Dillon."

"If Russo's brother is that bad off, I doubt it, Chester."

"Mr. Dillon...what if Russo just kills Doc right then and there? I mean if his brother dies..."

Matt didn't want to try and answer it, nor did he want to think about it. "I doubt he'll do that, Chester. He's gonna see Doc as his ticket to the border; he's not gonna kill him that easily."

But Goode noticed that Dillon's voice lacked its normal assuredness, and it left him feeling chilled despite the warm humidity of dawn.

Stan quietly arose and put a pot of coffee on the stove. He then walked over to Adams, noting that the old doctor's hand was resting on Joey's, as if he had tried to comfort the kid. The old man's leg was terribly swollen and his forehead had broken out with a fevered sweat. Stan saw the half-empty glass of water on the table by the bunk and the almost empty bottle of laudanum next to it, and it dawned on him that the doctor must have saved both for Joey. But the kid no longer looked like he was breathing.

A slight panic filled him and his eyes darted to Mike: yet he decided against waking him right then. He glanced once again at Adams, and tried to comprehend what would cause a man in his condition to forgo helping himself in order to ease a young outlaw who had been doomed before the doc had ever arrived. Stan shook his head: he had forgotten that doctors were a breed unto themselves with a set of values and ethics that most folks could not understand.

He gently shook Adams' shoulder. "Doc?" He whispered. "Doc?"

"Hmmm?" Adams started awake and stared at Stan before remembering where he was and why. "What is it?"

"I think the kid's... you know..."

Adams didn't even look at Joey before saying, "Yeah, he's dead." Stan stared at him and the old man said, "I lost him during the night."

"Why didn't you wake Mike?"

Adams looked hard into the man's eyes. "If you were me, would you have?"

"I see your point." He watched Adams swallow hard. "You want some water?"

"I'd appreciate some, yes."

Stan pulled the canteen from the table and handed it to the doctor, who unscrewed the top and gulped down a large amount before handing it back to the outlaw.

"You could have had some of that water in that glass there..."

"No I couldn't. I didn't know how much the boy might need and it's not as if I could just get up and get more."

Stan nodded. "That leg looks pretty bad."

"I need a splint..."

"No," said Mike as he stood up, stretching. "We ain't gonna fix you up until Joey's fit to travel." Doc exchanged a glance with Stan and Mike scowled. "What?"

"I'm afraid your brother didn't make it, Russo," Doc said calmly.

"What?" Mike roared. He yanked his gun from its holster and held it tightly against Doc's head. "You let him die?"

"I didn't let him die, Russo. He never had a chance really..."

Russo cocked the pistol. "I should have killed you when you first got here, you stinkin' ol' sawbones!"

"Mike," Stan said evenly, "if you kill him, we don't have anything to barter with if the law comes after us."

"I don't care. He killed Joey, and now I'm gonna kill him."

"I didn't kill him," Doc growled, "you did that when you involved him in a bank robbery..."

Mike backhanded Doc hard across the face, drawing blood from the corner of his mouth, an ugly bruise quickly forming on his cheek. "I'm gonna kill you, you son-of-a-bitch..."