"The sun hasn't come up on the day that Matt Dillon can't take care of himself. Now you believe that. You just believe it."
—Doc Adams "Hostage!"
And Waiting….
Doc Adams sat in his office at his old wooden desk, legs crossed, drinking his first cup of morning coffee, reading a medical journal from back East. The sweet smell of early autumn and the lively noises from a bustling Front Street drifted in through his open window. The publication in Doc's hands was six months old. He'd had it for four, and had finally gotten around to reading it this morning. Or at least had started to. Doc was trying to concentrate, but his mind kept drifting back to two people. The two most important people in his life. One, like a daughter to him. The other, like a son. Both everything to one another.
It was now the second morning past when Matt was due home at the latest. He was still gone, with no word as to where he might be. Doc had told Kitty at the Long Branch last night not to worry, that Matt Dillon could take care of himself. Matt had been in many a dangerous situation before, and he had always come out alright.
Well, maybe not always alright. There had of course been the gunshot wounds, the stabbings, the beatings, the exposure to the elements, the touch-and-go surgeries….Doc thought back to the last such surgery, about two and a half months prior. The one where Kitty had stood staunchly by his side, assisting as he'd struggled to extract another two bullets from Matt, as he'd struggled to keep him alive.
Doc had hated to ask her to do that. He knew exactly how Matt Dillon and Kitty Russell felt about each other. He had been there, after all, that fateful morning in Delmonico's when their eyes had first landed on each other. Had been there in the months since as their friendship, and their love, had taken root and grown.
Yes, Doc had hated to ask Kitty to assist him, but then he hadn't had much choice, had he? His mind drifted back to that night and the situation he had faced—the extensive blood loss that had occurred before he'd ever even started the surgery, the mere millimeters that not one but both bullets had been from striking vital structures in the chest which, had either bullet struck or had he managed to damage while extracting them, would have resulted in nearly instant exsanguination….
Adrenaline shot through Doc with the memory of that surgery. Okay, so Matt very often wasn't alright, but regardless….Matt Dillon could take care of himself.
Now irreversibly distracted from his academic pursuits, Doc put down his journal, removed his spectacles, and took a few moments to pray….
A half hour or so later, Doc made his way down Front Street's sunny boardwalk toward the jail, taking a moment to politely return the salutations of the many townspeople he passed. Doc didn't show it, but he was anxious to get to Matt's office. He wanted to have a word with Chester. As he finally reached the jail and entered, he saw Chester standing behind Matt's desk, loading cartridges into a rifle. His saddlebag was out on the table, along with provisions for a few days as if he were going out of town.
"Goin' somewhere, Chester?" Doc asked with a frown, an uneasy feeling settling in as he closed the door behind him and stepped down into the jail.
"Yeah, Doc, I am." Chester stopped what he was doing and looked up, a worried expression on his face.
"Doc, first thing this mornin' I sent a telegraph ta the sheriff in Hays askin 'bout Mister Dillon. He said that trial ended three days ago, Doc, 'n that Mister Dillon left directly fer Dodge….Doc, anyway ya think on it, Mister Dillon shoulda been home by now. So, I'm gettin' my things 'n I'm gonna go out 'n look fer 'im."
"Kitty know?" Doc asked, swiping his chin, his mind naturally going to the strong yet tenderhearted girl that he loved so much.
"Yeah, Doc, she does," Chester replied with a sad look on his face. "She stopped by 'ere a few minutes ago, askin' if I had any word from Mister Dillon."
Doc felt the familiar icy tentacles of fear clutch his heart as he thought of all the things that might possibly be afflicting Matt right now, things he had no way of knowing about, and thus no way to make better. Knowledge was the blessing, and the curse, of being a physician—knowing every detail about all of the things that could possibly be wrong, even when you were powerless to stop them.
Doc shook himself out of his brief reverie and decided to go to the one person he had any chance of helping right now. As he opened the door to head out to find Kitty, Doc turned one last time to Chester. "Chester."
Chester again stopped loading the rifle and looked up at Doc with those big, brown eyes, "Yeah, Doc?"
Doc looked at him pointedly, "Bring 'im back, Chester." He added with a nod, "And….and you be careful."
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Matt Dillon was slowly becoming aware of a few things.
First, pain. Terrible pain. A throbbing in his head, a searing in his ribs, an aching in his back. Matt knew what this pain meant, had experienced it a time or two before. He'd been beaten. Badly.
Matt next started to become aware of male voices echoing softly in the distance. Slowly, the voices became clearer, more distinct. Matt shook his head, trying to shake off the ringing in his ears and pay attention to what was being said. Two men were arguing, that much was clear. But Matt could only make out a few words and phrases here and there….
"That stagecoach driver, Drake."
"...a United States Marshal, Jim!"
"Already seen us….gotta kill 'im….NOT gonna hang, Drake."
"You kill him, every lawman in the...miles from Dodge, Jim."
Drake. Drake. Drake. Matt's brain was still foggy, but suddenly, everything slid into place. Matt now remembered a wanted poster sitting on his desk from several months back. Two men—one, William Drake, the other, Jim Clyde—wanted for robbing a stage and killing its driver about ten miles outside of Garden City.
That's what had been bothering Matt about that man. Not Johnson. Drake. The beard was new, the hair was longer, but the eyes and the scar were the same. Matt berated himself for not remembering until now. He had to pull himself together. Had to somehow arrest these men and get back to Dodge. Back to Kitty.
Matt tried to open his eyes, but couldn't quite succeed. He thought the sun was perhaps blinding him, so he tried to bring his hands up to block the light. But that didn't quite work either. It was then Matt realized his hands were tied behind his back. He was seated on the ground, propped up against something hard, possibly a large rock. Matt slowly tried to wriggle his hands out of what was restricting them. Rhythmically he moved them against the ground, trying to gain even an inch closer to freedom. Matt wasn't sure he was making any progress but he had to keep trying.
Every bit of his body seemed to hurt—not that he could really differentiate anymore which pain was which. His arms ached as he worked to free himself, probably from being beaten while he was unconscious, he thought with simmering rage. Matt tasted iron from the blood in his mouth. He turned his head to the side to spit, barely forming enough saliva to do so. His lip split as he worked out the kink in his jaw. The burning in his left lower back and abdomen was the most concerning, however, and was worsening by the minute. He was in bad shape. After only a few minutes of trying to free himself, but what felt like hours, Matt Dillon again slipped into unconsciousness….
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Matt wasn't sure how long he'd been out. He awoke to the feeling of being cold, and to the annoying sensation of something tapping his face. Repeatedly. And the rest of his body. As he came to, Matt realized that something was rain….beautiful, wet, glorious rain. He tried again and realized he could now open his eyes, although his left was half swollen-shut. He looked around. He was still at the camp, but he didn't see anyone now.
Matt opened his mouth and tried to catch what he could of the rain, to at least wet his parched lips and mouth. He again tried to move his hands to cup some rain, before remembering that they were still bound. But this time, his wet hands slid—a little, yes definitely—more than before. Matt couldn't resist a smile as he realized the rain puddling under him had muddied his hands enough to allow for some movement. And whichever of the two men had secured the ropes, be it Drake or Clyde, they were certainly no expert in knot tying.
Matt supposed he should be thankful that he hadn't been shot point-blank while unconscious. He remembered the argument he'd overheard earlier. Clyde had clearly wanted to kill him, but Drake hadn't. At least the disagreement over it had perhaps bought him some time.
Thinking of Drake and Clyde...Matt couldn't see them, and he couldn't hear them anymore, but that didn't mean they weren't around. He was ever cautious as he moved, aware that he could be discovered at any moment. Matt patiently, diligently, worked his hands loose from their rope. Finally, his hands slid out of their restraints. Now if he could only get his hands on a gun. Matt was just about to spring up and try to make an escape when he heard Drake and Clyde returning to the camp. He quickly lowered his head, pretending to be unconscious.
And waited….
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Matt continued to feign unconsciousness, waiting patiently as Drake and Clyde stood over by the fire talking. He was trying to form a plan as to how to overcome them. Ideally, he would wait until they were separated, try to overtake one using the element of surprise, and then get his hands on a gun. That was the plan. Now to see if he could put it in place.
He didn't have long to wait. Clyde sat down on a rock by the fire with his back to Matt and poured himself a cup of coffee. Matt heard Drake tell Clyde that he'd be back, he was going to check on the horses. As soon as Drake was out of sight, Matt slowly rose to his feet. His heart pounding in his chest, he approached Clyde slowly from behind. Finally, when he was close enough, he lunged forward, tackling the man off the rock.
The two fought fiercely, which was no easy feat for Matt, who was weak, dehydrated, and injured. Matt wrestled Clyde to the ground, then through the mud, throwing punches, alternatively strangling the man, then being strangled. Clyde got one, two, three left gut punches in, atop an area just under Matt's ribs that had already been extremely painful. Matt felt the breath sucked out of him and almost passed out from the pain. Somehow, he remained conscious.
Clyde kept reaching for his gun, finally pulling it free from his holster. He had his hand on the trigger and slowly, inch by inch, Clyde moved the end of the gun up towards his target—the chest of the big man he was fighting. Matt was lying below Clyde on his back, face grimacing, teeth bared, trying desperately to get an upper hand in the fight. With his last remnants of strength, Matt shoved the gun away from his body just as it went off. Matt felt a jolt as Jim Clyde landed on top of him. Dead.
Matt rolled Clyde off of him, breathing heavily. That fight had taken almost everything out of him. Matt saw stars and stayed on his knees for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He rose slowly, picked up Clyde's gun and stuck it into his waistband. After a quick search, he located his gun belt and Colt with the men's belongings. With great difficulty, he strapped it on.
Just as he had completed the task, he heard movement from the bushes. Drake was back.
"Jim, them horses is all….taken care of," Drake stopped short, open-mouthed, looking at his partner, dead on the ground, then at Matt. Drake's hand hovered over his gun.
Matt stood equally still, gun drawn, pointed at Drake. "Drake, you're comin with me. I'm takin' ya back to Dodge," he said.
"No, Marshal. Ya aint." Drake stood his ground, looking scared, determined not to be taken anywhere.
"Unbuckle your gun belt. Throw it down over here." Matt did not want to kill this man, felt somewhat beholden to him after he had argued to spare his life.
"I didn't kill that stage driver, Marshal….that was Clyde. I ain't gonna hang for somethin' he did…." Drake's voice was taking on a desperation that Matt was unfortunately all too familiar with.
"I'll see to it you get a fair trial," Matt offered, knowing he was running out of time to convince the man. "I'll testify for ya, Drake, tell 'em that ya argued with your partner here ta keep me alive. I promise."
Matt looked into the man's squinting gray eyes, silently trying to convince Drake to not force him into killing him. It was no use. Drake foolishly went for his gun. One more shot ran out, and William Drake fell to the ground next to his partner.
His six-shooter still smoking, Matt gasped for breath and held his abdomen, which now felt like it was on fire. He stood over both men's bodies, grimacing. Two more men he'd had to kill.
Matt found Buck on a line with the other horses. Somehow, miraculously, he was able to saddle his horse. He had to stop several times, breathing heavily, chilled, heart pounding, weak as a newborn pup. Finally, Matt put his foot in the stirrup and tried to mount the buckskin.
He couldn't do it.
His vision was now tunneling, he felt like he was going to vomit, and a cold sweat had broken out all over his body. Waves of dizziness and nausea threatened to overtake him at any minute, and the pain in his abdomen became unbearable with every movement.
Knowing his time for getting help was running out, Matt tried once more, unsuccessfully, to mount Buck. Finally, his last vestiges of consciousness slipped away, and he collapsed to the ground next to his horse with a definitive, sickening thud.
tbc