The agony-filled screams that suddenly pierced the dawn sky made Chester start, and only Dillon's hand on his shoulder kept him from bolting toward the door of the shack.

"Mr. Dillon," Chester cried, "we can't just sit out here while they're hurtin' Doc like that!"

"I know, Chester," Matt growled through clenched teeth, "but stormin' in there with guns blazin' will only get him killed."

"We gotta do somethin'!"

Realizing there was no more time to keep the element of surprise, Dillon could only think of one thing to do. He handed Chester his shotgun. "Stay here and don't make a sound."

He stood and walked out of the bushes toward the shack, using the outside well as cover. "Russo!" He called, "Russo! It's Marshal Dillon from Dodge. Throw out your guns and come out with your hands in the air."

The sounds of movement and Doc's cries ceased. After a stretch of silence, Russo yelled out to Matt. "Unless you want this sawbones in here to get a bullet in his head, I think you'd better let us ride outta here, Dillon."

"Can't do that, Russo. You murdered three people in Meade. I have to take you in."

Chester stared hard at Dillon from the cover of the bushes, shocked by what he was hearing.

"Give yourself up, Russo, it's your only chance."

"I mean it about the doc, Dillon. I'll kill him."

"You kill him, Russo, and you're a dead man."

"I ain't comin' out Dillon, unless you promise me a free ride, and I ain't givin' you the doc here."

"Damn," Matt muttered under his breath; Russo wasn't going to buy his bluff. "All right, Russo, I'll let you ride out of here if you let Dr. Adams go."

"No deal, Dillon," Russo yelled, "we take the doc with us as insurance."

Matt licked his lips; he was getting nowhere fast, except that Russo was no longer pounding on Doc. "I need to think about it, Russo," Matt answered, trying to buy time.

"Sure Dillon, you think about it, but don't take too long...it could be unhealthy for the doc here."

Dillon moved back to the bushes where Chester was hidden. "He called my bluff."

"Well, he knows damned well you ain't gonna do nuthin' to hurt Doc," Chester agreed. "I'm awful worried about him," he added quietly.

"I know, Chester. I know."

Doc tried to lie as still as he could, allowing some of the stabbing pain in his leg to subside. Russo hadn't beaten him much; it had been the jostling of the broken limb that had caused Adams to collapse in pain. He felt his upper body being lifted as a blanket was put under his head. He opened his eyes.

"Tell me what to do for ya, Doc," Stan said, "and I'll try."

Doc's brow furrowed. "Why in the hell would you help me?"

Stan looked down, an emotion Doc couldn't name coloring the outlaw's face. "Doctors is a special breed. I know that." He looked into the pained blue eyes. "I just don't hold with killin' a sawbones is all..."

Adams could sense there was much more to it, but all he said was, "You ever put a splint on a broken leg before?"

"No. But I seen it done."

"All right." Adams looked at the young man's face as it paled with fear. "You sure you're up to this, boy?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Mike walked over to them. "Don't you touch him, Stan. We ain't fixin' him up. Not with Joey lyin' there cold." He glared down at Adams. "I want him to suffer, just like my brother."

Stan's voice was calm, assured, "Mike this man tried to ease his sufferin'; I saw that even if you coudln't."

"He let Joey die because he was my brother..."

"No, he didn't."

"What're you sayin'?"

"He's a doctor, Mike. Sawbones' take an oath. They help anyone who needs 'em, they don't make judgments about what folks done to need a doc's help."

"You don't know what yer talkin' about."

"I read medicine for awhile with a doctor in Amarillo, Mike. I know a little bit about it."

Mike made a noise of disbelief with his mouth, turned and walked back to the window where he could keep an eye out for Dillon.

Doc's voice was soft, unthreatening, "Why'd you quit, son?"

Stan smiled at Adams as he reached for a bottle of whiskey. "Can't make no money bein' a doctor."

Adams stared right through him. "That's true enough."

Stan held Doc's head up and poured a little whiskey into his mouth. "That oughta take some of the edge off."

"You could have given me the rest of the laudanum ya know..."

"Savin' that for after I set this leg. You're gonna need it more then."

Stan filled a bowl with some water, doused a cloth in it and put it on Doc's forehead. Adams watched as Stan broke a chair to use its legs for a splint, and tore strips of a sheet to use as ties.

"I don't need to tell you anything about this, do I..."

"Guess not, Doc." He pulled a small leather strap from Adams' bag and placed it between Doc's teeth. "I'll go as fast as I can, Doc, just try and bear it out." He looked into the light blue eyes. "Ready?"

Adams nodded and Stan gripped his left leg with one hand above the knee and Adams' ankle with his other. He yanked the hand holding the ankle hard toward himself, setting the bone back in place at the kneecap. The doctor screamed in agony through clenched teeth, and then passed out.