"Mr. Dillon, what're we gonna do?" We can't just sit out here forever..."

"I know that," Matt growled. Feeling immediate regret, he pat Goode's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Chester...I'm worried about getting Doc out of this in one piece."

"Yes sir," Chester nodded.

Matt had thought hard on the situation for the better part of an hour, and still he couldn't think of a solution that would bring doc out alive. If they rushed the shack, Russo would just shoot Adams, and then maybe take either Dillon or Chester out before they could get him. And Matt was unsure how many other men were in there who could handle guns. It was too risky. If he let Russo ride away with Doc, he felt certain the outlaw would just shoot the old man somewhere out on the trail. There was only one possibility, and Dillon was going to have to try for it...

"What's Dillon doin' out there anyhow?" Mike complained. "It's goin' nigh on two hours and he ain't said nuthin'..."

"Probably thinking about his options."

"You fix that ol' sawbones so's he can ride?"

"I've set his leg, but he can't ride for long, Mike. He'll just slow us down. I say we take him with us only long enough to secure a head start."

"If he slows us down, how's that gonna work?"

"Dillon'll have to stop and take care of him if we leave him out there; he can't leave the old man out on the prairie in the condition he's in to fend for himself. He'll have to get the ol' sawbones back to Dodge, and by the time he's done that and gets goin' out after us, we'll have a whole day's head start."

Mike pursed his lips and turned back around, thinking.

Adams groaned and Stan knelt next to him. "How do ya feel, Doc?"

"Let hurts like blue blazes..."

"Yeah, I know. Here," he said as he held Doc's head up, pouring a little laudanum into his mouth, "this should help a bit."

Doc observed the young man as he cleaned up the surgical instruments Adams had used on Joey, packing up both of Doc's bags for him: the care in his motions was indicative of a man other than the one Stan appeared to be.

"It wasn't the money," Adams said.

"What?"

"You didn't give up doctoring because it didn't pay enough money."

Stan shook his head. "You're a pretty smart ol' goat, ain'tcha."

"Just observant."

"Sawbones I was readin' with was a dedicated, wonderful surgeon who'd have helped the devil himself if he'd come askin'. One day some men came, said they had a friend who'd been thrown from a horse out on the trail. Ol' Doc took his bag and rode out with 'em." Stan stared intently into Doc's steady eyes. "He never came back. Sheriff found him two days later in some cabin, shot, stripped of his clothes, what little money he had, stolen, his bag and his horse, gone. He had removed a bullet from some outlaw, and in payment, they killed him so he couldn't identify them." Tears welled up in his eyes. "The worst part is the fact that he wouldn't have said a word to nobody. He would have considered his silence sacred. They didn't have to kill him."

"So you gave up medicine."

"Who needs it? Nobody pays you, and eventually you either die pauper with no family to comfort you, or some stinkin' outlaws kidnap you and kill you after you've done what they want. No thanks."

After an awkward silence, Adams looked down at the splint on his leg. "You did a pretty good job on that."

Stan gently wiped the cuts and bruises on Doc's face with a wet cloth. "You should get some rest while you can."

"Why are you ridin' with Russo?"

Stan shrugged. "It just sort of happened, and now I'm in too deep."

"It's never too late, son."

"It is this time, Doc. I'm the one who killed the sheriff in Meade."

Adams frowned. "I don't believe that."

"Believe what you want. I killed him. I didn't mean to...I'm a pretty lousy shot when it comes right down to it. I just wanted to stop him, and aimed at his leg. But instead, the bullet hit him in the chest. If I'd tried for that, I woulda hit him in the leg..."

Adams took one of Stan's hands in his own. "Any man's hand has the power to kill; damn few have the ability to heal." He shook his head in disgust. "What a waste."

Stan yanked his hand away. "You don't have to look on the waste much longer."

"Yeah. Mike'll see to that."

"He ain't gonna kill you."

"You gonna stop him?"

"If I have to."

Stan stood and walked over to the table, and sitting down in a chair, poured himself a drink.