Remy hadn't wakened when they rode into Dodge that night. Matt laid him on the front cell bunk, locked the cell door and went for Doc while Chester rode to Grimmick's livery, leading Buck and Remy's horse.

When the marshal returned to the jailhouse with Doc, Chester was standing by the cell bars, gazing at the motionless patient. "He ain't long for this 'ere world, Doc."

Brows wrinkling, Doc gave Remy a penetrating look as Matt unlocked the cell door. "Not a'tall. He'll live . . . and make a full recovery. Well that's what I'm here for, isn't it?" Doc said when Matt and Chester looked at him. "Water heated, Chester?"

"Yeah. I'll fetch it."

Doc sat on the cell bunk, listened to Remy's heart, peeled back his lids and touched his face. "We need to get water in him first. He's severely dehydrated."

"We couldn't get him to drink, Doc," said Matt. "He's been out since daybreak. We couldn't wake 'im."

"Waking him shouldn't be too hard. He's not that far gone. What's his name?"

"Trace Remy."

Doc swiped a vial of smelling salts under the prisoner's nose. His nostrils twitched and his thick lashes fluttered. "Trace Remy. Wake up." Trace stirred, sighed and settled back in his stupor as though shunning awareness and all it entailed. Doc patted his face. "Wake up, Trace." Doc put the vial close to Remy's fine sharp nose and held it there.

Remy snorted and his eyes blinked open, glazed and fever-bright. "Water," he whispered. Chester had filled a pail cold from the outdoor pump, and he handed Doc the dipper. Doc splashed a dollop of tonic in the water, held Remy's head and put the dipper to his mouth.

The patient gulped it down, and as Doc examined the wound, Remy's dark-green eyes cleared of a sudden, lighting, it appeared, from his soul instead of the fever. The patient's thin body thrilled slightly under Doc's hands. "Who's the beautiful lady?" said Remy.

The marshal, Doc and Chester looked at Kitty. "Hello, Kitty," said Matt, and Chester said, "Miss Kitty."

"You're back." Kitty smiled at Matt. "I thought you might be back tonight. I came here lookin' for you when you didn't show at the Long Branch. I see you caught your horse thief."

"My name is Trace Remy and I never shot a man."

"Is that so," said Kitty. "Well my name is Kitty Russell. I shot a man or two in my time, but just cuz I had to."

For the first time since Matt caught him, Remy grinned. "I only ever stole horses from rich concerns. Stage lines, big breeders, like that." Kitty stood near the bars, nodding and gazing at Remy.

Doc took a chloroform bottle and cloth from his bag. "Have to put you back to sleep a spell, Trace. The wound needs deep cleaning and stitches, and it's too raw and painful to do it while you're awake."

"No. Please, I want to stay awake and look at Miss Kitty. Pain is nothing with an angel close by."

Kitty snickered. "A fallen angel, maybe."

"Never, my dear," Remy said softly. "You are the fairest vision I ever saw."

"Thank you."

"Doc, if you dosed 'im up stiff with morphine, he could maybe stand the pain," Chester timidly suggested. Except when Doc treated Chester himself, he didn't often dare to offer advice. "Remy looks a sight stronger since Miss Kitty come in. You're a better cure than any medicine, Miss Kitty."

"That's so . . . ." said Doc.

"Well. What girl could resist passing the time surrounded by such admirers. Matt?" Kitty said brightly.

"Hmm?"

"You didn't say anything."

"About what?" Matt asked. Kitty's brilliant blue eyes glared sparks at him.

In half a tin cup of whiskey, Doc mixed morphine with ten drops of sweet spirits of nitre for fever and sepsis. Chester peered at the potent medicine as Doc stirred. "That's gotta powerful kick for a weak body like Remy, Doc."

"Chester . . . . I know what I'm doing," Doc snapped. "This will kill the pain and put him to sleep whether he wants to or not. He needs sleep to mend."

"Jest sayin'."

"Well don't say. Kitty can assist me here. If you will, Kitty."

"Alright," Kitty said. Remy stared wild-eyed at her and let out a cry which held no sound of pain.

"Jest tryin' ta help," said Chester.

"You are, Chester," said Matt.

"Course you are," Doc said. "I need you to bring water, clean cloths and such. Er, Chester?"

"Yeah, Doc?"

"You already helped save this man's life. Honeycomb you gave 'im on the trail, probably kept the infection from killing him."

"Ole feller what took me in when my pa died, swore by honey fer ever' ailment. Recollect 'im givin' me a big spoonful whenever I took sick," said Chester.

Grimacing and grunting as Doc thoroughly washed the wound, doused it with carbolic acid and stitched it, Remy kept his eyes fixed on Kitty's face. Though his eyes watered, he did not weep as he had like a leaking pump on the trail back to Dodge. "Don't that beat all, Mr. Dillon?" Chester said aside. "Way he toughened outa the blue? Must be on account of Miss Kitty."

"He wants to look strong in front of her," said Matt.

"But she don't really make 'im strong?"

"No, Chester. Remy is weak and childish, and he likely always will be. He draws strength from Kitty's presence as he would from any beautiful, spirited young woman. Empty man like that drains every bit of vitality from a woman, leaves her a husk."

"You sound a l'il disgusted, Mr. Dillon. You were more patient with Remy's natural afflictions on the trail. Seemed you pitied 'im."

"Kitty wasn't on the trail," said Matt.

"You cain't be worried Miss Kitty's growin' an interest in a feller like Trace Remy. She's kindhearted an' Remy's a pitiful sort. Nothin' else."

"I know, Chester. It's not that. Seeing Kitty nurse him makes me recollect just what Remy is for some reason."

"You still got the heart ta speech the judge on 'is behalf?"

"I told Remy I would," said Matt.

Doc finished stitching the wound and sprinkled healing powder. Remy went to sleep as he bandaged the wound. The fever flush was gone, replaced by a pallor. Sweat rivulets trickled down his face. "He'll be fine," said Doc. "I'll check on him tomorrow. Nothing like a pretty girl to help a man heal."

Matt put his arm around Kitty. "Chester will nurse him 'til he mends. Kitty's done her part."

Kitty smiled up at him, and Matt's expression softened as he met her gaze. He was thirty-two years old then—his first year in Dodge—and his face was young and handsome, his skin taut, unlined and smooth and his look often boyish. Matt would start looking rugged in four or five years, and though Kitty would always love everything about his face—love looking at him through the nineteen years they were together—in later years she would no longer think him beautiful. She never minded that. Her own beauty gradually started fading some seven years after meeting Matt, when Kitty turned about thirty-three. From the beginning through the duration of their time as lovers, he had a way of regarding her with a tender look he never bestowed on anyone else—no other woman, man, child or babe—only Kitty Russell.

Matt***************************************************************Dillon

When Matt captured him, Remy had a wallet containing five-thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills buttoned inside his vest. No doubt ill-gotten gains from selling stolen horses, but there was no proof, so the money was his. Matt did not confiscate or mention it in his written report.

Remy asked the marshal to use some of the money to buy a fine suit, white linen shirt and black tie, new boots and a hat for his day in court. When he stood before the judge on that day, the prisoner pled guilty to horse thievery.

"May I speak as a character witness, Your Honor?" Matt said.

"A character witness. For a horse thief?"

"Trace Remy was dishonest in the past, but he was never violent," said Matt. "And he says he only stole from rich men. I believe him."

'Which only means Mr. Remy is not so bad as some of his ilk. A milder degree of lawlessness is not a mark of good character, Marshal," the judge admonished.

"He's more weak than bad," said Matt. "And his senses aren't quite sound."

Remy startled, his eyes widening at Matt. "Turncoat!" the prisoner yelled. "You promised to put in a good word for me!"

The judge leaned forward in his chair and with a keen expression regarded the horse thief. "Mr. Remy, I'll not tolerate outbursts in this courtroom. Now perhaps you don't grasp that by questioning your competence, Marshal Dillon is speaking on your behalf. You should be grateful instead of accusing him of betrayal."

Remy looked goggle-eyed, his mouth open. "I don't understand," he said. "I . . . I don't get the drift of what is happening here."

"I'm explaining to the judge that the usual penalty for horse thieving is too harsh for a man of your sensibilities, Trace," Matt said. "That's what I'm leading up to."

Remy stared blankly at Matt, then there was a shifting in the prisoner's expression. His eyes cleared and brightened.

"Marshal, have you evidence that five years at Leavenworth would be harder on Trace Remy than any ordinary man?" the judge asked. "He doesn't look at all infirm."

"Mr. Remy is thirty-eight years old, yet he cries easier and more often than a boy of ten would in the same distress. And not just a few quiet tears. He has long weeping spells. That's not normal for a grown man, Your Honor."

"That is a sign of unsound mind in a man," the judge agreed.

"And he can't stand pain or discomfort any better than a young'un," Matt went on. "The prisoners at Leavenworth would brutalize this sort of man. Maybe the guards would, too."

Saintly Judge Benedict, as he was called, seemed always to be faintly smiling even when he spoke stern words and pronounced sentencing, which in all save the worst cases tended to leniency, and he never condemned even the worst men to death. The Saintly Judge had an open, patrician face with a soft yet steady expression—intense and intelligent—a calm voice and perpetually twinkling eyes. "Mr. Remy, are you penitent? Do you intend to stop stealing horses?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you thought of any honest work you might like to do?" said Judge Benedict.

"I know a lot about horses. Tending them and all."

"Do you know what a veterinarian is?" the judge asked.

Remy shook his head, and Matt nudged him. "No, sir, Your Honor," the prisoner said.

"A veterinarian is a horse doctor," said Benedict. "I know a Mr. Jamison, lives three miles outside town. He needs an assistant but he can't afford to pay a man because Jamison treats poor folks' horses for free."

The judge rested his forearms on the table before him and folded his hands. "Marshal Dillon tells me you have money sufficient to take you comfortably through a few years. No one you stole from testified that you shot at them. The incidence of calling Matt out and drawing on him when he took you into custody was a matter of some concern to me. However, he says you were desperate and acted contrary to your nature.

"Considering these circumstances in your case, perhaps you are a fitting candidate to work off your . . . uh, two-and-a-half-year sentence with Ken Jamison. You'll receive no wage for your work, Mr. Remy. This would be your restitution to the people of Kansas for horse thievery."

"I don't have to go to prison at all?"

"Not if this proposition is acceptable to you."

"What if Mr. Jamison wants nothing to do with me? He might figure a fellow like me would steal him blind."

"Ken is a friend of mine," said Benedict. "He's housed lawbreakers under convict leasing before." Remy tensed and went pale, seeming to shrink into himself. "You've nothing to fear from Ken," the judge reassured. "He is a kindhearted man. You'll stay in his home and eat at his table, and he will provide your room and board.

"If you steal from him or leave the grounds without his permission, Ken will tell Marshal Dillon, and Matt will track you down and jail you. In which case I'll have no choice but to commit you to the penitentiary for the remainder of your sentence. Do you understand the terms of your restitution, Mr. Remy?

"Don't be afraid, son," Judge Benedict soothed as if Remy was eight years old instead of thirty-eight. "You're facing a very fortunate situation here."

Remy pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his wet eyes, and Matt patted his shoulder. "Trace is overcome by your goodwill on his behalf, Your Honor," said the marshal.

"Well Matt, I see you're right about the prison environment being overly harsh on this man. Answer one last question to seal our agreement, Trace," said Benedict. "The State encourages honest employment after offenders serve their time. What are your plans when you finish your sentence?"

"I – I'm not sure. In two-and-a-half years I'll know all about treating sick and injured horses. Maybe I will be a horse doctor."

The Saintly Judge nodded approval. "Very good, then. Matt will ride with you to Mr. Jamison's place. This court is adjourned." Benedict tapped his gavel and rose from his chair. He was never heavy-handed with the gavel. The noise startled the convicted and acquitted alike.

Matt met his friends that night for dinner at Delmonico's. "Our horse thief got off easy, didn't he," said Kitty. "Chester says The Saintly Judge leased him out to the horse doctor for just thirty months."

"Remy woulda fell sick 'n died at Leavenworth, maybe," said Chester. "Or a priz'ner thar mighta kilt 'im. Feller like that's a target ever'where he goes."

"He takes on a lot and he's a little unhinged, but he's a sight stronger than he looks," said Doc. "Look how fast he mended from the bullet wound and sepsis. You and Chester caring for him on the trail, Matt, helped pull 'im through. You helped, too, Kitty. Your visits perked Remy up like nothing else."

"He was hurt and I felt for him. I know you didn't want me passing the time with him, Matt, but there was no harm in it," said Kitty.

"I know, Kitty. A weepy querulous man like Remy saps strength from most women. I guess I forgot you're not like most women."

"I'll take that as a compliment," said Kitty.

"It is." Matt smiled at her, then sobered. "I scarce thought of Trace Remy as a horse thief from the moment my aim went high in the dark and the bullet hit him instead of his gun."

"You see him as a friend?" said Doc.

"Forevermore, Doc, Remy's way too fretful and ungrateful ta be Mr. Dillon's friend. He drove us distracted on the trail an' in the cell is what he done."

"He was just a sick wounded man to me," Doc calmly replied. "I've treated much worse than Trace."

"He was hurting on account of me. It wasn't that hard to be patient with him," said Matt. "What I thought on most was keeping him alive."

"Remy's not Matt's friend, Doc," said Kitty. "Matt is his friend."

"I stand corrected," Doc said. "How long will this friendship last, Matt? It's bound to entail unending sacrifice."

"Huh?" said Chester.

"Befriending Remy might get burdensome," Doc explained.

"Maybe. Time will tell, Doc. Men change," Matt said.

END