Defend Me from my Friends

Chapter Twelve: Ramblings

POV: Kitty

Kitty watched, horrified, as Matt's head snapped back, blood spraying, his big body thudding to the ground in one instant. Then he lay unmoving, a crimson pool growing beneath his head.

The scream was ripped from her throat as she tore from Layton's grasp. Vaguely, she heard Cantrell say, "Leave her be," as she rushed to the sprawled body. Somewhere behind her horses galloped away, somewhere outlaws made their escape, somewhere justice was cheated.

But she didn't care. None of that mattered. Nothing mattered except the bloodied body of the man she loved. Falling to his side, she cried out his name, gathering his head in her lap, his blood soaking her skirt, smearing her hands. She touched his face, ashen and slack.

"Matt! Oh, God. Oh, please God, no! Please!"

On the forsaken prairie, alone except for the wind and dust, Kitty Russell's world fell apart.

XXX

Leaning her head against the rough cabin wall, she lifted a weary hand and rubbed at her eyes in a vain attempt to soothe the gritty, raw feeling of being awake for almost two days straight. Her body ached from sitting in the unforgiving straight chair or on her knees, bent over the rough pallet for hours at a time. But each time she felt despair she watched his chest – that strong, broad chest – rise and fall, up and down, as the air went in and out. Glorious evidence that he was alive, that her world had not fallen apart – not yet.

Two days earlier, her hands and clothes smeared with his blood, she had bent over his battered body, grief-stricken and sobbing, unable to believe he had been snatched from her in that one horrible moment. But as she clutched him to her, rocking in anguish, a shudder ran through his limp frame, and he drew a ragged breath. With a cry, she pulled back, staring at his bloodied face, almost overcome with relief.

"Matt! Oh my God, Matt!"

Her hands ran carefully through his matted hair, over the wound she thought had killed him. A deep groove carved its way from just above his temple toward the back of his head for about three inches, but the bullet hadn't pierced his skull. She almost laughed with the realization, lifting her eyes skyward and breathing a deep prayer of thanks.

Still, she knew the shot had only compounded the damage of his other injuries, and his best chance lay in her ability to keep him alive until she could somehow get word back to Dodge. Steeling herself both physically and emotionally, she wiped away the tears and set to the formidable task of dragging him into the cabin.

Her arms and backed ached, and her muscles trembled by the time she finally managed to heave him through the doorway and far enough into the cabin to secure them inside. Knowing it would be impossible to get him onto the narrow, rickety bed – and not completely sure it was strong enough to hold him anyway – she contented herself with two rat-gnawed quilts spread on the floor and a threadbare blanket for cover.

Pushing away what was left of his shirt and tugging off his pants and union suit, she gently wiped as much of the blood away as she could, gritting her teeth, unable to quell the tears as she revealed the multitude of vicious tears and bruises from head to knees. Even not counting the head injury and leg wound, he was in bad shape, his stomach and back mottled purple and black and covered with swollen welts.

"Oh, Matt," she had groaned in misery. "Oh, I wish Doc were here. What am I going to do?"

But she knew what she was going to do – whatever she had to do to keep Matt alive. She slipped off her petticoat and used Matt's pocket knife to cut strips. Then she hauled a bucket of water from the well and tenderly sponged off his face, chest, and stomach, wincing as her ministrations made even clearer the harsh marks left by the outlaws' blows.

But she was most concerned about the leg wound he had gotten the night they took her. It had re-opened, blood soaking through her make-shift bandages almost as fast as she could rip new ones.

She knew the danger of internal bleeding from the beating he had taken. He was already running a fever, most likely because of the leg. She desperately wished Doc were there, and wondered if she should take a chance on leaving Matt alone in order to go back to Dodge to get the physician, but they had no horse, no wagon, nothing. She would walk if she had to – if it meant saving Matt, but she wasn't sure he could last long enough without someone at least trying to hold down the effects of fever.

And so she sat and waited. Waited for him to wake up. Waited for him to come back to her.

"Mister Dillon!" The call startled her, dragging her from fitful sleep. Heart racing, she scrambled to the crude cabin window, almost collapsing in relief when she saw the familiar lanky frame of Chester Goode. Flinging open the door, she rushed out, her hair flying wildly, not caring a whit that her face was scrubbed clean of paint, her dress tattered, dusty, and blood soaked.

"Oh, Miss Kitty!" he cried, dismounting and limping toward her. "Thank goodness! I was afraid – "

"Is Doc with you?" she asked abruptly.

"Well, no, he ain't. He's tending to – are you all right?"

A low, tortured groan drifted from inside the cabin. She saw Chester's eyes widen.

"Is that – "

"Matt's hurt bad, Chester. We need Doc."

"I know, but – but Doc cain't – oh, forevermore. Them filthy robbers!"

Another groan, this one louder and more agonized, interrupted them.

"Matt!" She ran back toward the cabin as Chester looped the reins of the horse around a scraggly bush and followed her. The cabin was dark, chilled, the uneven logs unexpectedly efficient at keeping out the heat. Even so, the long, restless figure that writhed on the hard ground was drenched in sweat. She saw Chester wince at the bloody head, the bruised cheek, the battered chest and ribs.

"Oh, my goodness," he breathed, genuine empathy coloring his tone. "What happened to him, Miss Kitty? He was fine when I – well, 'cept of course fer the leg – "

"They beat him, Chester," she said, her voice hard with fury.

"Who beat him?"

"Jake Layton – and Glenn, Glenn Cantrell," she spat the names out as if they nauseated her.

"Cantrell b-beat Mister Dillon?"

"Shh, Matt," she soothed, kneeling at his side and struggling to keep his body still, to prevent more harm from his thrashings. Without looking at Chester, she conceded, "I guess Cantrell didn't beat him directly, but he did shoot him."

"Shoot him!" Chester gasped.

"In the head."

"What?"

"Good thing it just kind of grazed him, even though it's a pretty deep graze."

Chester stared, open-mouthed as Kitty turned Matt's head slightly to show him the raw slash. "Cantrell and them other fellers robbed the bank," he told her, condemning them even more.

Kitty nodded. "I heard them talking about it. They get away with a lot?"

"I don't know. I come out here straightaway when Louie told Doc and me where you was."

This time, Kitty smiled sadly and turned toward Chester. "Louie must have told Matt, too. I wish now he hadn't."

"It was kinda an accident he told us, but I guess it's a good thing he did." He frowned down worriedly at the marshal. "What else you reckon's wrong with him?"

"I think he's got broken ribs, Chester. And I'm afraid maybe – well, maybe something's busted up inside, too. He's been mostly out of his head since it happened."

'He's just been a'lyin' here on the floor?"

"I couldn't get him on the bed by myself," she told him defensively, then allowed a slight smile at Chester's chagrin. "Maybe together we can do it."

"Yes'm. I'm sure we can."

Even with Chester's help it was no easy task hauling the marshal's long, solid frame off the floor and onto the narrow bed, but they managed, hoping that his sharp grunts indicated only pain and not more damage.

Kitty straightened a quilt over his body, frowning as she felt the fever radiating from it. "Bring me some more water from the well, would you, Chester?"

"Surely, Miss Kitty," he agreed, his own soft brown eyes tightening as he watched Dillon's head move restlessly back and forth and heard the mumbled ramblings. "Don't you worry." But she heard exactly that in his voice.

That night, Chester sat by the door in case Cantrell and the others returned, as Kitty continually sponged cool water over Matt's heated skin, across the broad chest, down the flat stomach, around the muscled biceps. Since they were in mixed company – even though it was just Chester – she kept a quilt draped over his hips, but left the swollen leg uncovered, exposing as much of his body to the coolness of the air as she could.

She had just nodded off briefly when he began to thrash.

"Lieutenant!"

Leaning in, she ran a hand over his forehead, alarmed that, despite her efforts, the fever seemed to be rising. "Shhh, Matt," she soothed.

But his fevered mind was lost in another time and place. "Lieutenant's – dead! I got him, Lieutenant! I got – oh, God! Glenn – No!"

Kitty's eyes widened at the agonized cry of that name. The war, she realized, amazed that it was the first time she'd ever heard him speak about it, the first time his nightmares – and there were plenty of those – had dredged up the certain horrors of that experience. As she listened to more of his distraught ramblings, the pieces fell in place.

"Fall back! Head for Thomas' corps – " His thrashing grew wilder; his sweat soaking the mattress beneath his head.

"Miss Kitty?" Chester pushed open the door and thrust his head into the cabin.

"He's burning up!" she cried as the other man hurried to her side.

"What can I do?"

"More water. Get cooler water from the well."

He snatched the bucket up and limped quickly outside.

Fighting to stay calm, she swabbed the cloth over Matt's neck and chest, desperate to cool him off. Finally, he settled, his voice falling to a hoarse whisper.

"I'm sorry, Glenn. I'm sorry – "

"It's okay, Matt," she soothed, brushing the hair back from his damp forehead. "It's okay."

"Sorry, sorry – " He trailed off, unconsciousness claiming him once more.

Water sloshed on the floor as Chester burst back in. "Here's some – oh, is he – is he better?"

"For now," she decided. "But he needs Doc. You'll have to go get him in the morning, Chester."

"But I cain't leave you here alone," he protested.

"I'll be fine." Her gaze lingered over Matt's battered features. "He needs more care than we can give him."

"Well, I reckon so, but – "

"Go."

"Yes'm."

At dawn she watched as he left reluctantly, glancing back at her at least three times before he disappeared over the small rise. Sitting again by Matt's bedside, she entwined his long fingers with hers and prayed he could hang on until Doc returned.

TBC