Chapter Twenty-three

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Kitty rushed to the window and pushed the lace curtain aside to look out. What she saw made her gasp.

"Oh, no!" she murmured without realizing it as she clapped a hand over her mouth. She could see Millie standing at the foot of the porch stairs, a distraught Carrie in her arms. But it was the figure that was standing inside the open door of the barn that made her heart skip a beat.

It was Dan Biggs.

And that wasn't the worst of it; little Rory Crandall was hanging limply in his grasp, the barrel end of a colt dug into his scalp just behind his ear. A sudden weakness dragged at her, her heart pumping in rapid, heavy beats. She was faintly aware of the bedroom door being flung open and the rushed, uneven strike of booted feet against the floor boards.

Seconds later, Chester came up alongside her, quickly taking in the entire disturbing scene with one hasty glance through the dust-streaked window panes. His jaw dropped. "Oh, my goodness," he murmured horrified.

The two exchanged a helpless glance, neither one able to speak. Then he swung back around and vaulted back towards the bedroom as fast as his stiff right leg allowed.

"Mister Dillon! Mister Dillon!" he gasped as he cleared the threshold at such speed that he almost collided with Matt's bed. "It's him all right!" One hand flung out in the direction of the doorway, he used the other to steady himself against the cast-iron footboard. "It's that Biggs-fella! An' that ain't all...he's got the boy!" His panicked eyes met the Marshal's. "Oh, what're we gonna do?" he fretted as he raked an agitated hand through his hair.

Matt's eyes narrowed. But before he had a chance to respond, Biggs' rasping voice suddenly thundered loudly across the yard.

"DILLON! I WANT EV'RYBODY OUT HERE, INCLUDIN' YOU, AN' NO TRICKS OR THE PUP'S GONNA DIE! YOU UNDERSTAND?"

The sound sent a chill down Matt's spine. Unbidden images of how the outlaw had shot him in cold blood suddenly sprang up in his mind. With effort, he forced the disturbing picture aside, concentrating his thoughts on how to best deal with the situation. He knew that Biggs wouldn't hesitate to make true on his word and kill the boy. That, and the fact that there were more innocent lives present that the outlaw posed a danger to, left very little room for options.

Matt eased himself up higher against the headboard. He shifted his gaze back to his assistant, and inevitably to Kitty who had come up behind the young man, her features pale and drawn. He looked from face to face. They were both watching him, waiting to see what he was going to do. Matt already knew she wasn't going to like very much what he had in mind. He suddenly wished Kitty was back in Dodge. He drew a deep breath and glanced towards Chester again, purposely avoiding her eyes. "Where's he at, Chester?" he wanted to know.

Chester pointed with his hand into the direction of the doorway. "Well, he's a-standin' outside the barn, right in front of them doors," he answered.

Matt chewed at his lips and nodded slowly. He knew what he had to do. His face hardened with resolve. "Chester-"

"Yes, Mister Dillon?"

"I want you to go out there an' see if you can talk to him, tell him I'll need some time."

Chester started to acknowledge him, but then suddenly froze as it began to dawn on him what the Marshal was implying. His face fell. "T-time," he sputtered taken aback, "wh-what do you mean? You ain't fixin' to go out there, ain't you?"

"Matt, you can't do that," Kitty protested at once. She stepped up to the footboard. Her fingers curled around the top rail. "You're too sick-"

But Matt's features remained unyielding, his eyes determined in his sweat-sheened face. He understood how she felt, but an argument with her was the last thing he needed right now. A life was at stake, a young and innocent life, and he couldn't-wouldn't take any chances with it. He made a clipped motion with his head towards the doorway. "Chester, go and take Kitty with you."

The young jailer looked less than pleased. "Mister Dillon, you sure that's-" he began to object, but the Marshal cut him off before he had a chance to finish. "Do it, Chester."

Chester swallowed hard, torn between loyalty and obedience to the man that he looked up to and a deep concern for his safety. "Yes, sir," he muttered finally as obedience gained the upper hand. His troubled brown eyes flicked from the lawman to the pretty redhead beside him who was staring at the lawman with utter disapproval.

"Come on, Miss Kitty," he said quietly, looking and sounding just as anxious and miserable as she did. He gently took hold of her elbow and began to steer her towards the doorway.

For one brief moment, Kitty was too stunned to object. Following Chester's lead, she took two despondent steps and then abruptly stopped and turned. Her pretty face was white and strained, her eyes now dark with fear. "Matt, please don't do this...you know he's gonna kill you if you go out there."

Their gazes locked across the room and the pain and anguish he saw reflected in the depths of her eyes stabbed him to the very soul. For one long second, Matt hated himself for having to do this to her, for having to cause her such pain, but then his thoughts turned to the little boy whose life depended on him. Five years ago, he had pledged to uphold the law, to serve and protect-with his life if necessary. His life didn't belong to him anymore, it belonged first and foremost to the people that needed him, relied upon him. He was a man with obligations. He couldn't allow himself to be selfish, let his love for Kitty or the nagging fear, he couldn't help but feel, prevent him from doing his duty.

His face set into hard lines of determination in an effort to keep it from revealing the anxiety that lurked so close beneath its surface, just waiting to rise and give him away. He nodded at her. "Go Kitty."

The finality in his curt demand was such that brooked no argument, and not even Kitty dared to question it. For another second she continued to gaze into his eyes, right past the carefully erected guard. She could plainly see the uncertainty that he was so hard trying to hide from her. Her words of pleading, of frustration, of love, went unspoken. She knew that Matt had already heard them in his heart. This time, she didn't object as Chester's gentle hand touched her elbow, and she allowed him to usher her from the room.

The moment the door closed with a soft click, Matt expelled the tense breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He shoved the quilt aside. The bedsprings squeaked as he gingerly swung his legs over the side of the bed to plant his bare feet on the cool surface of the plank floor. For a moment, he simply sat, his good elbow resting on his knee, his head hung as he waited for the room to stop spinning.

Then he reached for his pants. Putting them on, however, was harder than he had imagined; his fingers felt like putty as he one-handedly struggled to put buttons through holes and lace the leather strap of his belt through the buckle to catch the prong.

A bird was singing in the big cottonwood right outside his window and the leaves rustled softly, stirred by a mild summer breeze. Muffled bits and pieces of the conversation between Biggs and Chester drifted through the open panes.

"-hurt...doin' the best he can-"

"-don't give a damn if he's hurt...want him out here now!"

It was apparent from what Matt could hear that Biggs was in a rather agitated state of mind. There was no doubt in his mind that the outlaw wouldn't hesitate to kill the boy if he felt that he was being tricked. The realization only spurred him on to greater hurry. He began to awkwardly fumble with his stiff leather boots and succeeded in pulling them on fairly quickly, considering the fact that he only had the use of his right hand.

Still, the ordinarily simple task of dressing himself was already taking its toll on his weakened body. Thick, glistening beads of sweat stippled his brow, tracking down the sides of his face in thin rivulets as he straightened back up. He ran a shaky hand across his face to wipe them away and then reached for his shirt. His fingers dug into the coarse fabric of the faded garment that Chester had brought back with him from Dodge the other day, drawing it into his lap.

He realized quickly that this wasn't going to be easy.

"-you...not...tryin'...trick me..." A broken shred of Biggs' warning carried to his ear, urging him on.

Matt gulped in a lungful of warm, stale air to brace himself against the pain he was certain he was about to experience. Then he carefully removed his left arm from the sling, temporarily straightening it so he could slide it into the shirt sleeve.

An immediate sharp, stinging pain in his shoulder wound was the reward for his action, forcing him to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out. Keeping his teeth clamped down on his lip, he managed to resettle the arm in the sling and draw the shirt across his back to finish putting it on. The brief ordeal left him winded and panting for breath and he didn't bother with buttoning it up, leaving it untucked and hanging loosely over his belt.

Slowly, unsteadily, he struggled to his feet, trying not grimace at the dull pain that at once knifed through his shoulder again. He suddenly felt light-headed and slightly nauseous, and he realized that standing upright proved even more difficult that he had thought. His legs felt wobbly, his knees wanted to buckle. A shaky hand groped for the cool metal of the cast-iron headboard, clutching it for support, and for a second, he stood very still as wave after wave of weakness drifted over him.

Damn it, he cursed himself, angry at the fact that he seemed to have so little control over his own body. Pull yourself together, Dillon.

He dragged an uneven breath into his lungs and raised his head to focus his gaze on the door, quickly calculating the distance. The slightly fuzzy image of the dark rectangle, set off against the lighter wall, seemed a mile away where in reality he knew that it was no more than a few paces.

Matt blinked and shook his head, desperately trying to clear it. If he was to stand any kind of a chance against Biggs, he needed his wits about him. He forced his fingers to unclench from the headboard and reached down to slip the colt from its holster. Propping the weapon against his belly, he one-handedly managed to slide back the loading gate to assure himself that all six chambers were loaded. Satisfied, he restored the gun to the holster and lifted the heavy leather rig from the bedpost. He slung it over his shoulder, knowing that he would need help putting it on.

Suddenly, Biggs' voice rose above the yard again, this time addressing the Marshal directly.

"DILLON, BETTER GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE, I AIN'T GOT MUCH PATIENCE LEFT!"

The sound of the outlaw's agitated voice heightened Matt's fear for the boy's life apace. There was no more time to lose, he had to get out there as quickly as possible. Luckily, the worst of his weakness had passed by now. His hand let go of the bedpost and he took several deep breaths before taking a first, cautious step. The leather soles of his boots scraped across the floor boards as he struggled to muster up the strength to lift feet that seemed weighted with lead. Doggedly determined, he took one unsteady step after the other, slowly closing the short distance between himself and the door. The dark rectangle of the door beckoned from only a few feet away. One more step and his sweaty palm finally closed over the door knob like a drowning man's hand clutched for the life-saving rope.

Kitty turned away from the window and the frightening scene that was unfolding out in the yard when she heard the bedroom door swing open with a soft squeak of the hinges. Her face, already drained of most color, paled even more at the sight of him, and her hand flew to her mouth when she noticed the crimson stain that was blossoming brightly on his shirt at the left shoulder. There was no doubt in her mind that he was in no condition to take on Biggs.

His good arm braced heavily against the door jamb, Matt fought to ignore the obvious signals his overwhelmed body was giving him. He felt fatigued and faint. His shoulder throbbed with pain, a needling sensation that had him grit his teeth to force it silent. His breathing was coming ragged and fast. Already, the shirt clung to his back, sticky and damp with sweat, and he was remotely aware of the warm and tacky moistness that was soaking the gauze covering his injury.

Kitty hurried to his side. As much as she was afraid for Rory-right now, she couldn't help feel even more afraid for the man she loved. Her earlier resolve not to plead with him again suddenly vanished.

"Don't do this, Matt, please," she implored once more. "You're in no shape to go out there-" She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Her trembling hand closed over his forearm to silently enforce her desperate plea.

Matt kept this gaze on the floor, finding it difficult to look her in the face. She was right. He was in no shape, but he had no other choice. "I have to," he said quietly.

His words, simple as they had been, had been spoken with deep conviction, a fact that wasn't lost on Kitty. She suddenly felt as if all the steam had been let out of her. Her hold on his arm slackened as he finally lifted his gaze to meet her eyes squarely. In the slightly hazy light of the room, Kitty saw the unwavering resolve reflected in the depths of them but there was also something else in there, something that he was unable to hide from her. It was a palpable touch of fear. She instinctively knew that it wasn't just fear for Rory's life.

Matt was fully aware of her probing gaze. "Look, I don't have a choice," he said heavily. "I can't take a chance on him hurtin' the boy."

But Kitty wasn't ready to accept that just yet. "There has to be another way," she insisted desperately. Had they fought for his life and nursed him back to health only to have Biggs kill him now after all?

At her words, Matt shook his head slowly. His voice, as he spoke was soft yet firm, laced with resignation. "There's no other way, Kitty."

At that moment, it became painfully clear to her that he was speaking the truth. She caught her bottom lip with her teeth in silent anguish as her hand slipped from his arm.

For another moment, he stood in silence, staring down at her from his much greater height, not knowing what else to say. Warm afternoon sunlight slanted through the lace curtains of the window, giving the room a slightly hazy appearance. Looking at her with the sun shimmering in her red hair, he felt a well-remembered burgeoning in his chest, a feeling of love, of possession and of pride. She was a beautiful woman, a fine woman. She was his woman. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, what she meant to him, but somehow, he found himself unable to. He straightened away from the door frame and pulled the gunbelt from his good shoulder, holding it out to her. "You mind givin' me a hand with this?"

Without a word, she took the gunbelt from him and wrapped it around his waist, holding it in place for him so that he could fasten the buckle.

When Matt was finished, he brought his good hand to rest on her shoulder. "Thanks, Kitty," he murmured quietly.

She didn't answer, didn't even look up. All she could do was turn aside helplessly and close her eyes as she felt warm tears slowly running down her cheeks.

Outside, Biggs had apparently exhausted the last of his patience. "DILLON! YOUR TIME'S UP!" his belligerent voice boomed across the yard again.

Matt's jaw clenched. He drew a deep breath. The expansion of his lungs sent another sharp stab of pain racing through his shoulder and down his back, but this time, he barely took notice of it. He dragged an unsteady hand over the back of his neck, wiping up sweat. Then he squared himself.

Kitty could see the knotted muscles at the hinge of his jaw. She knew that there was nothing more that she could say or do to make a difference. Silently, she moved aside, watching as he stumbled past her towards the front door. His steps were unsteady, uneven and she could see the effort it afforded him to walk.

"Matt."

He could feel her eyes on his back and hesitated. His hand paused on the door knob, the metal cool and smooth beneath his sweaty fingers.

Kitty came up behind him and reached out to put her hand on his forearm. Her touch felt warm through the coarse fabric of his shirt sleeve, but he could also feel that she was trembling.

He swallowed hard. He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all right, but he knew that he couldn't make such promise, so he remained silent. There was nothing to say, nothing anyone could do. He had to go out there and face Biggs no matter what the outcome. He drew another long, deep breath and straightened. The ever-so faint look of reluctance was gone from his face, replaced by grim determination as his fingers turned the door knob with one swift motion. The door swung open with a harsh creak and Matt walked out into the world for the first time in over a week to face the man that wanted nothing more than see him dead.

The afternoon sunlight was as bright as any he could ever remember seeing. It glanced off the roofs of the barn and the other outbuildings. It shone through the leaves of the great cottonwood tree that stood off to his left, turning them to translucent gold. It shone brilliantly on the hard-packed dirt of the yard, dazzling him with its whiteness. Matt's eyes began to smart and he squeezed them into small slits until they could adjust.

His gaze skimmed across the yard. A single sweeping glance was enough for him to see everything there was to see: Millie, with Carrie in her arm, was standing a little off to the left side of the porch with Chester. The outlaw, silhouetted against the sunlight with the brightness spilling over his shoulders was instantly recognizable; he was standing a good thirty yards away, in front of the barn. The gun in his right was pointed at Rory's head who was hanging limply in Biggs' brutal grasp.

Matt swallowed, his throat tightening at the sight. His heart thrummed in his chest. His stomach was tight, felt weighted with lead. Slowly, unevenly, he began to descend the porch steps, one at a time, holding on to the post for support. At his approach, the tabby cat wisely leaped from the step where she had been sitting, licking her paws and retired hastily around the side of the house.

"Lookin' good, Dillon!" He heard Biggs snicker across the yard. "Remember what I promised you? One bullet at a time. You got the first one, now it's time for you to get the rest!"

His chest was heaving with heavy breaths and it took Matt a moment to collect himself as his feet moments later finally touched solid ground. His voice, as he spoke, sounded strained, holding distinct traces of the effort it had cost him to drag himself from his bed and out into the yard.

"Let the boy go, Biggs, this is between you an' me."

Ignoring Matt's demand, the outlaw's lip curled in a derisive sneer to reveal his discolored teeth. "How's that shoulder, Dillon? Still hurtin' you?" he snickered. "How'd you like another bullet in it? I reckon that would hurt somethin' fierce-"

Matt didn't respond, refusing to play Biggs' game any more than necessary. But for the briefest of seconds, a shadow of fear flickered on his face as unbidden memories of his ordeal once again flashed though his mind.

Biggs instantly recognized it for what it was. He grinned wolfishly. "Time to finish our li'l game, Dillon," he hissed.

Matt breathed in carefully. There was a buzzing in his head and his legs felt weak. Sweat was uncomfortably trickling off his brow, running down the sides of his face to soak into the collar of his shirt. "Let him go, Biggs." His voice was flat, the tension inside him under iron control as he began to stumble forward. He took a wobbly step, then another. The sound of the dirt scrunching beneath his boots as they dragged across the earth was loud in his own ears.

The outlaw snorted. "How about I put a couple o' bullets in your knees first, Dillon? What d'you think of that?"

Matt stopped short, still a good twenty yards from the barn. He jerked his head at the limp body of little Rory. "The boy. Let him go."

Now Biggs' face darkened, angry that his taunts hadn't elicited the desired response. He glared at Matt, who was swaying slightly, with a look less than contempt. "Seems to me you ain't in the position to make any demands here, Marshal," he hissed angrily.

Matt felt a slow trickle of sweat trace a path down his spine, but he suppressed the awareness of his discomfort. His world was now centered on only one man, everything else vanished from his thoughts. "You always hide behind others like a coward, Biggs?" he wondered with deliberate provocation. "Aren't you man enough to face me by yourself?"

He knew good and well that he was taking a huge chance, but that was exactly his intention; if he could get Biggs to move the gun away from Rory's head and take a shot at him, he figured he could at least get one shot in of his own. And he would make sure to make it count.

The challenge was exactly perceived as such and the sneer on Biggs' face instantly slipped into a snarl. His charcoal eyes darted to the Marshal's colt as if now noticing it for the first time. "Don't you call me a coward, Dillon!" he shouted agitatedly. His black eyes were blazing with fury, his disfigured features contorted into a grotesque mask. "Now throw that damn gun down, or I swear I'm gonna kill the kid!"

To make his point, he shook the terrified boy as if he was nothing more but a rag. The colt in his other hand moved slightly so that the sunlight flashed off the metal.

Matt's eyes narrowed. His voice, despite the state he was in, was firm and low with a deadly edge to it as he spoke. "Biggs, you hurt that boy, I swear so help me, I'm gonna kill you...if it's the last thing I do."

For the first time, there was a flicker of uncertainty in the outlaw's eyes as he realized his dilemma. He couldn't shoot both at the same time. The gun in his hand wavered ever so slightly as he was torn between shooting the boy and risking to be shot by Dillon in return, and forgetting about the boy and putting a well-aimed bullet into the lawman instead.

Matt's intent gaze was focused on the outlaw's eyes, waiting for that infinitesimal flicker that would give away Biggs' intentions. He knew he was taking a huge risk, but he was counting on the other's fierce determination to see him dead to come through.

Across the distance, the two men locked eyes.

Matt stood, legs slightly apart, carefully flexing the fingers of his right. He wished, his left arm wasn't strapped to his chest; it made him feel unbalanced. He could feel the rapid swell of his heart, the heightened flush of breath in his lungs. A trickle of sweat seeped from beneath the hair at the base of his neck and slid on his shoulder. A barrage of images hurled through his mind in the matter of seconds. Kitty, Doc, Carrie, the Crandalls.

He heard the shrill caw of a black crow somewhere off in the distance and then his concentration funneled into razor-edged sharpness.

Time slowed, stretching to the breaking point, every second turning into an agonizing length of time. Matt felt his heart hammering against the inside of his rip cage, heard the soft hiss of his own breath as he waited for the outlaw to make his move.

"All right," Biggs suddenly spat with frightening finality, "if that's how you want it-"

But what happened next, was something that neither man had counted on.

to be continued...