Defend Me from My Friends

by MAHC (Amanda)

Chapter 16: Pot Shots

POVs: Matt

" – an' then I told ol' Joe if he was ta use real cow beef for his steaks instead of mule, he might get more of them customers he's complainin' about goin' ta that little Mexican place edge of town – "

Chester's voice droned on, sounding more and more like a pesky fly buzzing beside Matt's ear. The marshal blinked sweat from his eyes and braced his body for each torturous clop of the horse's hooves as they plodded on, trailing Layton and Glenn Cantrell.

"You been ta that place, ain't ya, Mister Dillon? Now, I'm no Mexican, that's fer sure, but I believe them's about the best tortillas I ever eat. 'Cept I kindly forget it's there, ya' know, being so far out – "

Matt found his eyes closing against his will and forced them back open, peering blurrily at the landscape, no longer flat but now broken by an outcropping of rocks to the right and a low ridge of trees straight ahead. His first thought was that maybe they could rest under the trees for a spell. His second was that if he got off the horse, he'd be done for, and they'd never catch Glenn and Layton. His third made him lean forward and squint hard, lifting a hand to shield his vision from the sun's glare. The smoke they had seen miles back continued to swirl above the rise.

" – and they could be usin' mule meat for all I know, too, but I reckon I don't mind a bit if it tastes so – "

"Chester."

" – good with all them spices they put on – "

"Chester!"

The zing of a bullet sent Matt ducking as a chunk of dusty sod kicked up beside him. Another zing was followed immediately by the dull thud of lead plowing into horse flesh. The bay screamed, bucked, then crashed to the ground. Matt threw himself clear just before the dead weight would have pinned him, his shoulder slamming against the hard earth, his head bouncing off the prairie floor.

"Mister Dillon!" Chester called, panic in his voice. "Mister Dillon!"

Stunned, the marshal lay still for a long moment, fighting to catch his breath. When it did return, he had to clench his teeth together to avoid his own scream.

"Mister Dillon? You all right?"

Yeah. Sure. Dragging in a shaky breath, Matt ignored the question and asked hoarsely, "Shot – come from – that ridge?"

After a moment's hesitation, Chester said, "Yes, sir, I believe so."

Matt glanced past the horse's flank just in time to see the flash of another rifle blast. "Get down!" he yelled, flattening himself behind the carcass. Fire burned across his left bicep, but he didn't spare a moment to see how much damage the bullet had done to the hard muscle. The sound of a slap and hooves galloping told him Chester had sent Buck off toward safety. That meant they were both on foot – or on bellies at that point.

"Can you make those rocks?"

"Well, yeah," Chester figured. "But, Mister Dillon, I can't leave you out here in the open for them fellas to take pot shots at."

"You just go for the rocks, draw some fire – but be careful," he directed, as if he had a foolproof plan. In fact, he had no plan at all. His head pounded, and the rest of his body throbbed so much that he could barely concentrate on the moment, much less the future, even if it was just seconds away.

He watched as Chester scrambled behind the natural shield, then yelled, "Glenn Cantrell!" as best he could, not completely sure his weakened voice would carry all the way to the ridge.

A barrage of gunfire answered him, some bullets plunging into Chester's unfortunate bay, others whizzing past Matt's ears. After a moment, he heard Chester return fire and took a quick breath when the outlaws turned their attention toward the outcropping.

When the echo of shots faded, a hard voice called from the ridge. "Dillon?"

"It's me, Layton," he answered, grimacing at the pain that effort caused.

"Son of a bitch!" the outlaw screamed. "Damn you, Cantrell, you were s'posed ta kill him!"

Swallowing to muster another bit of strength, Matt called out, "I'm here to – take you in, Layton!"

A high cackle echoed across the expanse between them. "You are, huh? Cantrell might not have killed ya, but you ain't in no shape ta bring me in, I guarantee thet."

Matt waited a few minutes, partly because he was trying to figure out what Layton would do, partly because he didn't think he had the energy to yell back quite yet. Before he could do anything else, however, he felt himself being hauled up from behind the protection of the horse. Resisting as best he could, he tried to twist in the stranglehold, getting a glimpse of a familiar snarling face before being thrown back to the ground. Matt groaned, fighting to gain his feet, only partly successful before Ox's massive fist smashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling again.

If the contest had taken place in Dodge, odds makers would have given Marshal Dillon the advantage, even though the other man stood almost head-to-head with him and outweighed him by a good forty pounds. Usually, their lawman could outfight and outsmart any two-bit challenger. But that was in a fair fight, and this bout was far from fair. Ox pummeled Matt another five or six times before he pulled back to grin down at the battered, bleeding marshal.

"I'm gonna finish whut Cantrell shoulda," he growled, tugging a knife from his boot.

Blinking blood and sweat from his eyes, Matt watched the gleaming blade come at him, aimed right at his midsection, poised to rip him open. He swiped frantically at his hip, his hand falling on an empty holster. A fierce yell exploded from his lungs, mustered by a last effort to evade being gutted by the lunging outlaw. Using the burst of energy, he rolled to his left, gasping as the tip of the weapon sliced across his ribs. It only delayed the inevitable another few seconds, he knew, but instinct for survival ran deep, especially when he thought about the redhead waiting for him back at the cabin. As he pushed up on his hands and knees, bracing for Ox's final thrust, he glanced down, almost laughing when his eyes spied the pearl handle of his pistol lying next to his left thumb. But his attacker was already on him, arm raised for the fatal stab. He grabbed the discarded Colt, fingers snapping around the barrel. With no time to turn it and fire, he swung with all his fading strength, smashing the gun into the side of the outlaw's head. Ox jerked but recovered almost immediately. Mustering one last effort from the last trickle of willpower he would have sworn had run dry, Matt slammed the butt of the pistol against the big man's temple, a hard whoosh of air expelled from his lungs as Ox collapsed on top of him.

Unable even to push the dead weight off, he lay there, eyes closed, gasping for breath, fighting pain and nausea and encroaching unconsciousness. Through pounding ears, he heard footsteps crunch over the dry prairie grass, closer and closer until his abused body was finally relieved of the oppressive bulk. Sucking in a grateful breath, he opened his eyes, working to focus on his rescuer.

"Chester," he rasped.

"Sorry, Marshal," the rough voice answered. "Chester ain't gonna be comin' ta help ya."

Matt squinted at the figure above him, but he didn't need to see to know who it was. "Layton."

All he heard in response was the cocking of a pistol.

TBC