Defend Me from My Friends

by MAHC

Chapter 15: Us Menfolk

POV: Matt

Despite Doc's prediction, Matt didn't drop after half a mile. He didn't even drop after a mile and a half. In fact, he managed to stay in the saddle for over ten miles before his body finally collapsed against the horse's neck and tumbled onto the hard prairie.

About three miles into his search, he had picked up a trail that looked as if it had been made by three or four horses running hard. A closer look – as close as he could get without risking a dismount – showed occasional patches of blood along the way. He wondered who was hit, didn't know if he wanted it to be Glenn or not.

After five miles, his head started swimming, and he clung to the saddle horn and the bay's mane to keep his seat.

By ten miles, he could barely tell the sky from the ground; the earth spun dizzily before him, and, even though he fought with all of his waning strength, he lost his desperate hold on both consciousness and the reins.

His last thought before darkness enveloped him was that Doc and Kitty were right. He'd tell them so – if he managed somehow to survive.

xx

"Mister Dillon? Mister Dillon?"

Matt Dillon blinked twice, winced, and squinted. The sweaty, worried face of Chester Goode hovered over him, haloed by the sun's glare. Closing his eyes against the bright pain, the marshal groaned and shoved one hand beneath him, pushing up against the hard ground, prickly with stiff prairie grass.

"Let me help ya'," Chester offered, and Matt felt his aching body hauled up until he sat, legs thrust out, shoulders hunched over, head cradled in his own hands. "Are ya' arrite?"

Hell no. "Sure."

"You just set a minute 'fore we git ya' on a horse and back ta that cabin," his friend directed, leaning over him.

"No," Dillon managed past the swirling vision and nausea that suddenly swept over him. Swallowing gingerly, he added, "Can still – follow their – trail."

Chester's teeth clicked impatiently. "Forevermore, Mister Dillon! Them fellers is long gone, and you ain't in any shape ta' ride after nobody anyway."

Unable to deny the truth in what the other man said, Matt raised his head, the acknowledgment of defeat deep in his reddened eyes. He felt beaten down even past the physical bruises and tears Layton and his men had left. Guilt weighed heavily on him. This was his fault. If only he had checked out Glenn to start with, if only he had sent that telegram to Pueblo earlier, if only he had been more careful when he confronted them in Kitty's office. If only he had done all those things, Kitty wouldn't have been taken, the bank wouldn't have been robbed, Bodkin wouldn't have been shot. This was his fault, and now he couldn't make it right, couldn't do a damn thing about it. If he gave up now, by the time he was well enough to go after them, Glenn and the others could be anywhere.

"Mister Dillon?" The alarm in Chester's voice forced his eyes open, and he found himself sprawled on the ground once more, no memory of lying – or falling – back down. Steeling himself to raise his battered body again, he rolled up onto his hands and knees, facing the low ridge that had been his aim only a few minutes – or was it hours – before. He squinted at the wavering dark cloud that drifted skyward just beyond it. Then he opened his eyes wider when his vision sharpened.

"Chester," he said, wishing his voice held more strength.

His assistant bent, offering an arm for support. "Yes, sir?"

Taking the arm, Dillon grunted as he pulled himself to his feet, hanging onto Chester until his own legs proved they weren't going to give out on him. His success was tenuous. Fighting for breath, he nodded toward the ridge. "There," he gasped. "Smoke – over that – hill."

Chester followed his gaze. "Ya think it's them, Mister Dillon?"

"I – think." I hope.

But the normally gentle voice was firm. "'Cept I don't figure it matters none, even if it is. You can't do nothin' about it, not the shape – "

Placing a shaking hand on Chester's shoulder, he insisted, "I can't – let them get – away. Not – now when they're – so close."

"Mister Dillon, I just can't let ya do it. Doc'd have my hide, and, my goodness, Miss Kitty too. I hate ta think what she'd say if – "

He looked hard into the kind brown eyes, his own eyes asking for the promise even before his lips voiced it. "I need your – help, Chester."

"Aw, now Mister Dillon that ain't fair. You know I'd help you anyway I could, but goin' after them men when yer all – well, it's just crazy. I mean even a posse – "

"I'm asking, Chester."

His friend stopped talking and stared at him for a long moment. Matt saw the conflict on his face. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, Chester shook his head. "I know I'm gonna be sorry, but l – well, I can't just let ya' go off by yerself, can I? Miss Kitty'd skin me fer sure."

An expression that came close to a smile softened Matt's pained features. "Thanks," he whispered.

A broader smile answered him. "Yes, sir. Long as you tell Miss Kitty I tried ta talk ya out of it. You know women don't understand what us menfolk have to do sometimes – "

"I'll tell her." Matt tried to steady himself and found Chester's left arm around his waist and his own arm slung over the other man's shoulders. In no position to protest, he accepted the assistance. "Help me – get back on your horse."

"My horse? Don't ya want to ride Buck?"

"Better stick with – yours," Dillon said, not even looking at his own mount. "Not as – big. Easier to – get on."

Nevertheless, it was with considerable effort that Chester heaved him into the saddle, having to move behind and push the marshal's wounded right leg over as Dillon braced his left one in the stirrups, forcing himself not to cry out when agony screamed through the ravaged thigh. After he was finally mounted, sweat trailed down his face and dripped on his trembling hands as they clutched the saddle horn.

"Now, are you sure you wanna do this?" Chester asked doubtfully, swinging himself onto the big buckskin. "I mean, I could get you back ta' Dodge, an' then we could get us that posse – "

"I'm sure," Matt managed to grind out between clenched teeth. Taking as deep a breath as he dared, he dug his left spur into the bay's flank and clicked him forward, reckoning he had about fifteen minutes to figure out just what he would do with Layton and his group – assuming he was still conscious when he got there.

TBC