Chapter Nineteen

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As the day wore on, Doc was forced to watch helplessly as the Marshal's condition steadily worsened. The fever continued to rise and his sleep grew increasingly restless despite the administration of larger doses of laudanum. By now the whole room smelled of it. The heavy, camphor stink of the opium-based drug hung cloyingly in the air and made it thick, hard to breathe.

Refusing to acknowledge his own rapidly growing exhaustion, the doctor continued to tirelessly sponge Matt's face and chest with cool water in hopes of getting the fever under control.

"Come on now, Matt, you gotta fight this," he murmured encouragement as he dragged the cool cloth across his friend's sweat-laced brow, the words spoken for his own benefit as much as for the Marshal's. "You can do it, old boy, come on now."

But if the Marshal heard him, he gave no indication. His eyes remained shut tight as he shifted on the bed, groaning softly from time to time. He was bathed in sweat, his breathing labored. Heat continued to flame angrily from the infected area on his shoulder and twice more, the doctor cleaned the wound, washing it with the only thing he had at hand-Luke's whiskey. Every time, Matt tossed fitfully through the entire procedure, his body convulsing, his face a grimace of pain at the blistering sting of the alcohol when it touched the inflamed wound. And every time Doc had struggled to restrain the much stronger man until the buffeting agony had passed and the lawman had collapsed limply back against the pillow.

The afternoon was wearing thin, inching close to evening without much change in Matt's condition. In Doc's opinion, he only seemed to be getting worse.

Unable to sit any longer, he finally stood up and thrust his hands into the pockets of his worn trousers. He wished Chester would get back with the much-needed medications, but at the same time found himself doubting that they would be able to make a difference.

In an attempt to ease the growing restraints of his frustration, he began to pace the floor, the bristling strike of his heels echoing loudly through the otherwise quiet house.

He had just given Matt the last dose of laudanum. But though the lawman was sleeping peacefully for the moment, the doctor couldn't stop the involuntary stray of his eyes to the bed. The deep, drugged sleep had-if only temporarily-erased all traces of pain from his friend's face. The awful writhing was quieted. He lay still with barely a rise of his chest to show that he lived at all. His body had finally relaxed and stretched out in slumber and now lay the full length of the bed. Modesty had long ago given way to practicality as the doctor worked to save Matt's life, leaving the lawman covered from the waist down only by a thin quilt.

Doc reached for the coffee he'd nursed for the last thirty minutes and took a sip. It was only lukewarm and quickly growing bitter. With a disgusted scowl, he set the cup aside and crossed to the window, glancing out across the dusky landscape.

Outside, the hard, packed dirt yard was stained with the ruddy glow of the dying sun as it settled into the cradle of the hills far to the west. He noted absently that the shadow from the barn was long enough now to reach the side of the house.

Suddenly, his eyes caught sight of movement on the top of the rise and a short moment later, a wagon, pulled by a team of horses came into view. It was silhouetted only briefly against the skyline and then disappeared as it blended with the dirt road that wound its way down the hillside.

Doc breathed a sigh of relief. Chester had finally returned.

Fifteen minutes later, the pocket watch in one hand, he was stooped over the bed, checking Matt's pulse when he heard the welcome creak of the front door as it was swung open.

Above the tell-tale, irregular clomp of Chester's booted feet, he could discern the soft, light footfalls of a woman's step drawing near; it died abruptly on the threshold to the bedroom.

Doc snapped the watch closed and replaced it to his vest. There was no need for him to turn; he already knew who was standing behind him. Shoving one hand down into his pocket, he tugged at his earlobe with the other. He was already dreading the next few minutes, knowing the pain it was going to cause Kitty having to see Matt in the shape he was in, but then again, he saw no way of avoiding it.

Suddenly, he felt old and very, very tired. He turned slowly and took a step away from the bed. "Come on in, Kitty."

Her eyes touched Doc's in brief acknowledgment and then slid to the bed.

She moved her lips, but no sound came out. The word "Matt" never made it to an audible level as she stood for a long moment, just staring in disbelief at the still figure stretched out on the bed in front of her. Despite Chester's gentle attempts to prepare her for what to expect, seeing him now came as a complete shock to her. Slowly, hesitantly, she finally began to move closer, her eyes fixed on the man lying before her. The man she loved.

Doc moved aside as Kitty lowered herself onto the edge of the mattress.

Matt. Biting down hard on her lower lip, she leaned forward and reached out a shaky hand to touch the tips of her fingers to his brow, gently letting them trail down the side of his face. She was startled by the blistering sting of heat emanating from him.

Her throat dried up completely and her face began to work in useless effort to choke back a sob. She could hardly believe that the man before her was the same tall and handsome cowboy she had breakfast with only three short days ago. The tan embedded in his face was now overwritten by the unhealthy flush of fever, a bruise was beginning to deepen around a blood-encrusted gash on his right cheekbone and his damp hair was tousled over a forehead, sheened with sweat.

Out of its own accord, her hand reached up, attempting to smooth the unruly curls back in place. "He's gonna have black eye, Doc," she murmured, half to herself, unable to tear her eyes away from Matt.

A black eye. What a foolish observation. Surely the least of his worries, she chided herself.

A hand came to rest on her shoulder, squeezing it gently, understandingly. It was Doc's. "I wouldn't be surprised, Kitty," he said softly. He felt her shoulder tremble beneath his touch as she still mindlessly tried to stroke the stubborn curl back in place.

Forcing down the lump in her throat, Kitty finally lifted her anxious gaze to look into the doctor's face. She was disturbed to find it carefully and professionally shuttered. This was unlike Doc. She stared at him, trying to read something-anything, from his expression. Doc?" she finally said, fearing-she didn't dare let herself think what it was she feared. "He gonna be all right, isn't he?"

The lines of strain were evident in the older man's face. His troubled eyes contemplated the Marshal's waxen features. With slow deliberation, he dragged a hand across his mustache, hesitating. "If I could tell you, Kitty, I could tell me," he said at last, deciding it was best to be straightforward with her. "He took a bullet to the shoulder and he's lost a lotta blood-an awful lot. I got the bullet out, but what damage it's done I can't tell just yet. Biggest problem right now is the infection. I think he's got a good fightin' chance to pull through all right if we can get the fever to come down."

He had tried to keep his tone carefully neutral, but Kitty was well aware of the thread of uncertainty in his voice. The cold knot of dread that had been in the pit of her stomach ever since yesterday, suddenly unraveled itself and rose into her throat to choke her. The thought of losing Matt was terrifying, unthinkable. Her gaze turned back to the unconscious lawman and she traced her fingers down his forearm until her palm closed gently on the bones of his big wrist. The fingers curled slightly and she could feel the faint rhythm of his pulse jumping beneath his skin. It assured her somewhat.

Slowly, her hand brushed lower over the back of his hand, painfully noting the lacerations and crusted blood that still covered his knuckles. A hand, huge and callused, strong and powerful, yet at the same time also incredibly gentle. She knew what tender touch it was capable of-knew from firsthand experience. It hurt to see it now lying limply draped across his stomach, devoid of any strength, incapable of simple movement. Her fingers gently closed around it. "You hang in there, cowboy, you hear me?" she whispered. "Don't you dare die on me now." A single tear splashed onto the back of her hand where it clasped Matt's.

Doc's comforting hand settled back on her shoulder again, but Kitty barely took notice of it, finding herself unable to take her eyes off the man she loved.

"S'cuse me, Doc-"

The physician raised his head to find Chester standing in the doorway.

Holding a tightly wrapped package in one hand, the young man stepped into the room with two long, limping strides. "Well, here you are," he said as he held it out to the physician. "I got ev'rythin' you asked for."

Doc's brow creased with a slight frown. "By golly, where 've you been?" he groused as he accepted the parcel and immediately began to tug the strings off. "I been wonderin' about you."

Chester scratched his forehead as though not knowing exactly what to do with himself. "I'm sorry that it took me so long, Doc," he apologized. "I'm just as sorry as I can be...but I had to go an' get Shiloh to keep an eye on that Stanton over at the jail, an' then I had to find me a couple of fellas to come out an' give us a hand lookin' for Biggs."

The idea of having more than just one man looking for the missing outlaw somewhat mollified the doctor. "Well, that's good," he grumbled with a nod.

Chester's gaze slid from the doctor to the Marshal, his expression suddenly changing to one of worry. "How's Mister Dillon?"

Doc was busy scrutinizing the parcel's contents, pleased to notice that everything seemed to be there. "He's about the same Chester," he said without looking up.

"How about the fever, Doc? He still gots the fever?"

The doctor nodded slowly, the movement one of grave concern as his own eyes tracked back to Matt. "He sure does...it hasn't broken yet."

Chester studied the physician intently for a long moment. He looked tired and worn, the strain of the last two days mirrored in his weary eyes. His hair was mussed, stray strands curling haphazardly over his forehead, adding to the lines of fatigue etched into his face. Yes, Doc looked definitely troubled, a step shy of exhaustion. "Ya know what I think you oughtta do, Doc? I think you oughtta go an' get a little rest, let Miss Kitty here spell you for a while."

Doc looked up, as if surprised at the suggestion. He gave Chester a long, considering look and realized that he was right. His gaze slid to Kitty who nodded her agreement. He scratched his ear. "All right," he said at last, "I think I will. I sure could do with some coffee."

"Well, Mrs. Crandall's out there, makin' some right now," offered Chester as he pointed towards the door. "She left them young'uns with Ma Smalley, figurin' we could use an extra hand here."

Doc nodded in agreement. "Well, that we sure can."

He turned to Kitty again and pointed out the wash basin on the bedside table. "Kitty, why don't you see about keepin' Matt cool for me? I'll be right outside if you need me."

His hand gave her shoulder a final, reassuring pat and Kitty reached up, briefly folding her hand over his. "Sure, Doc."

Satisfied, the doctor turned. "Come on, Chester," he said as he began to usher the jailer towards the door.

Quietly, the two men slipped from the room, leaving Kitty alone with the unconscious Marshal.

The door closed with a soft click and Kitty automatically turned her attention to the bowl sitting on the bedside table. Dipping a cloth into the cool liquid, she wrung off the excess moisture. "Here, Matt," she whispered softly, "this'll help." Gently, she began to drag the rag over his face and neck, stroking aside the glistening beads of sweat.

Matt moaned softly at the touch of the cool cloth against his sweaty brow but didn't waken.

Dipping the cloth a second time, Kitty now gently smoothed it over the so familiar planes of his chest and stomach, taking care to avoid the immediate area close to his shoulder wound.

Matt shifted and groaned beneath her ministrations, his sleep growing more restless. His breathing became uneven and ragged as he tossed his head on the pillow. He mumbled something, but his words were slurred by the fever, making them indecipherable.

"Sshh," she soothed him as she continued to tenderly dab his face with the soft, dampened cloth, trying to loosen the last of the blood and dirt from his skin that Doc didn't have time to bother with.

Matt's eyelids twitched slightly. There was something about the tone that made his restless movements cease. For a moment, his pain was forgotten as he tried to focus on the familiar voice, the soothing reassurances penetrating his feverish mind. Then he felt something soft on his cheek, the touch a blissful anchoring presence.

He recognized the hand, recognized its soft and tender touch. Instinctively, Matt turned his head into it, seeking the comforting warmth of the familiar hand.

Encouraged, Kitty continued to gently stroke his sweaty face and murmur reassurances. Eventually, she soothed him into submission and his raspy breathing gradually slowed to a more steady rhythm.

From the main room, the mingled voices of Doc, Chester and Millie drifted into the bedroom. She couldn't make out what they were saying and didn't really care-the only thing that mattered right now was the man lying before her.

Outside, the sun had faded from the sky and the deep twilight had begun to settle among the cottonwoods. Inside the little house, Kitty pulled the chair closer to the bedside as she prepared herself for the long, arduous vigil.

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Sam Parker whistled softly to himself as he let his sorrel mare pick her own way along the dirt trail leading towards Miller's Bend. The path he was following was not a road in any true sense. It was a route sketched on a map laid down in his own mind. He knew where he was headed, and he knew the way he had to go to get there.

The rancher was a happy man today. In his pocket was a substantial amount of money. Money he had made from the sale of his cattle.

It was later in the day than he would have liked and he was looking forward to getting home to the comfort of his ranch house and getting something good to eat from his wife's kitchen. After a sketchy breakfast and nothing all day, he was so hungry, he had a hollow pain behind his belt buckle.

It was very quiet in the fading heat of a bright summer's evening, almost a little too quiet, but Sam didn't notice. His mind was on an incident that had taken place in town earlier. Chester Goode, Marshal Dillon's assistant had gathered the men folk of Dodge outside the jail, informing them that the lawman had been shot by Dan Biggs and that he needed to organize a posse. Some men had shied away upon hearing the name of the notorious outlaw, but most of them had readily volunteered to give a hand in bringing Biggs to justice. It hadn't surprised Sam in the least; Matt Dillon, with his keen and unwavering sense for justice, was well-liked and well-respected by the citizens of Dodge.

Caught up in the excitement, he had briefly considered joining the search party himself, but thoughts of the man they were going after had caused his budding courage to falter rather quickly.

No, he wasn't a hero-nor was he a fool. He hadn't lived to reach his fifties by trying to be either one and he wasn't about to start now. Besides, he reasoned with himself, the Marshal got paid to keep the peace. The chance of getting shot was just one of the risks that came with being a peace officer. Dillon could hardly expect another man to do his job for him and risk his life.

For some reason-maybe it was his conscience speaking on account of the callous thought, Sam suddenly began to feel strangely uneasy.

As he looked around to orient himself, he realized that he was only but a few miles from the Crandall's homestead, the place where this Biggs was said to have disappeared. The fact only added to his uneasiness.

The rancher picked up the reins and pulled his mount to a halt. He straightened in the saddle, the leather creaking beneath him with the movement. His body tensed and every slow, measured movement betrayed his concentration as his alert, amber-colored eyes moved about.

The dusky landscape with its green flecks of buffalo grass and small groves of trees, lay serene all about him. But still, he couldn't help the sudden, disturbing feeling that he wasn't alone anymore.

Somebody was out there with him.

The daylight was fading fast and Sam had to strain his eyes to penetrate the murky twilight. The warm air was filled with the rasping of crickets and cicadas and the end-of-day squawking of birds. Nothing seemed amiss, but he still couldn't shake the eerie feeling that had overtaken him.

He lifted his hand to scratch at the spiky gray stubble that clothed his cheek.

It was probably just his hunger making him imagine things, he finally decided. Maybe he'd better get on his way. Resolutely, he reached for the reins.

But Sam Parker never got around to picking them up.

Without warning, something suddenly came hurling through the air, striking the mare on the rump with a dull thud.

Tossing her head, the animal whickered in surprise and pain alike, reared then bucked and bolted, kicking her hind legs high in the air.

It caught Sam completely off guard. Before he could do anything about it, he felt himself leave the saddle, barely managing to kick free of the stirrups as he started to fly.

The next thing he knew, he was tumbling and rolling, hitting the rocky ground with teeth-rattling force. Something sharp dug into his arm, and his head took one bang and then another.

Reins and stirrups flying, the horse disappeared along the trail in a flat run. The quickly fading rattle of its hoofbeats rang in Sam's ears as he lay dazed belly-down in the dust, trying to catch his breath. His head was aching fiercely where it had struck repeatedly against the scattered rocks and he groaned.

Suddenly, he became aware of a new sound. A shuffling, scurrying noise as if someone was approaching on foot. Sam struggled to roll himself onto his back even as the dark shadow of a man fell over him.

The rancher blinked, desperately trying to focus on the looming presence before him, but his surroundings were like images viewed through cracked glass-off center and watery.

"Who-who are you?" he managed to get out as he continued to rub at his eyes, trying to rid them of the dirt and fine grit that filled them.

There was no answer; all Sam could hear was a man's raspy breathing.

The sound of it chilled him to the bone. Frantically, his right groped for the gun at his side, but it was gone.

"Lookin' for this?"

The voice was unfamiliar; the tone soft, yet with a clearly dangerous, almost menacing edge to it.

Blinking desperately, Sam finally managed to clear his vision just long enough to get a brief glimpse of the man who was towering over him, his colt grasped tightly in his right.

But it wasn't the gun that caused the rancher's features to widen with horrified recognition; it was the stranger's face.

It was also the last thing Sam Parker registered before the butt of the colt smashed into his temple, sending him spiraling down into the black abyss of darkness.

to be continued...