Defend Me from My Friends

by MAHC (Amanda)

Chapter 17: Gut Shot

POV: Matt

Despite his cavalier approach to the possibility of his own death, Matt Dillon had, on occasion, considered how he might meet his end. Most of the scenarios took place on Front Street as he faced off with one too many gunslingers. A few involved perishing on the prairie at the hands of bushwhackers. Not one of them had him drifting away peacefully in bed at an old age.

As much as he hated giving scum like Layton the satisfaction of killing a U.S. Marshal – of killing him, he figured it was as likely an end for him as any other.

His vision was still blurred as he peered up into the ugly, twisted features, ignoring the black barrel of the pistol staring him in the face. He had never been one to give up, but he had felt the last reserves of strength drain from his body when he took down Ox. He doubted he could even lift a finger to point accusingly at his killer. The sharp sorrow that cut at his heart was not for himself but for Kitty. Her fears would finally be realized, and there was nothing he could do about it.

I'm sorry, Kitty.

Layton sneered above him, straightening his aim so the bullet would hit right between the eyes. At least, Matt thought, it would be quick. If he just had a few more minutes to catch his breath, to make one more attempt. The outlaw's finger squeezed the trigger, but Matt Dillon kept his eyes locked with the other man's, catching a surprising gleam of admiration.

"Layton!"

The gun swung from Matt as the outlaw turned, already firing in the direction of the call. Managing to lever up on an elbow, Matt stared at the crumbling body of Glenn Cantrell, pistol swinging then dropping from his hand.

"I though you wuz fast, Cantrell," Layton sneered. "You couldn't beat a runny-nosed kid."

Taking a breath, Matt reached out to grasp his own pistol but grimaced when he saw the cracked chamber, broken when he smashed it against Ox's hard head.

Layton swung back around, face contorted in a combination of hatred and triumph. "And now for you, Mister Lawman."

Pressing his lips together Matt sucked up enough strength to crawl to his knees, intent on at least giving Layton a fight before he went down, but while he was still struggling up, a rifle shot shattered the air. The outlaw's body flew backwards, sprawled on top of the dead bay, a gaping hole in his chest.

"Mister Dillon!" Chester called, limping and running toward him, the barrel of his shotgun smoking, one side of his head matted with blood. "Oh my goodness, Mister Dillon! Are you all right?"

Mustering a weak smile, Matt said, "I could ask – you the – same thing."

"A coupla them fellas tried to git past me, but they ain't gonna be a problem no more." He rubbed at the wound. "Kindly wish I hadda seen 'em earlier though."

Nodding, Matt let his eyes show how glad he was that his friend wasn't seriously injured.

Chester squinted at Ox's hulk. "He alive?"

"Dunno," he breathed. "Tie him up anyway."

"Yes, sir."

"Cantrell?" Matt asked, lifting his right arm.

Chester shook his head as he offered his hand for assistance. "He jest ran right past me and hollered fer Layton. Didn't even fire after he done drew."

Gaining his feet, he stared at Glenn's body, forgetting for a moment about all the bad things and remembering the youthful adventures they shared. Forcing back pain and weakness, he stumbled toward Cantrell, falling to his knees beside the wounded man, heart sick when he saw the volume of blood that pulsed from ragged hole in his gut.

Grimacing, Glenn looked up at his old friend. "See yer – noggin – is still hard – as ever," he gasped.

Bracing an arm around Cantrell's shoulders, Matt lifted him carefully until Glenn groaned with the movement. "Hang on, Glenn. I'll get you to Doc." But he saw death's shadow already darkening the ashen face.

Cantrell gasped and shook his head. "Ain't gonna – need no – sawbones." He tried to smile but the effort fell short. Blood splattered Matt's shirt as Glenn coughed roughly and rasped, "Shouldn't'a – got ya' – into this." Shouldn't'a got her – "

"What happened, Glenn?" he asked. "You could have beaten him easy."

"No – bullets," Cantrell wheezed. "Stupid, huh?"

Matt shook his head, expression tortured. "I'm sorry, Glenn. I wish – " Hesitating, he debated whether or not to say anything else. What good would it do a dying man for him to purge his guilt?

"Reckon we're – even now."

"Glenn – at Chickamauga – I didn't see you until – I didn't know it was you, or I wouldn't have fired – "

Cantrell tried to focus his eyes on Matt's face. He was fading fast. "What?"

"Chickamauga. Horseshoe Ridge. I didn't know –"

Cantrell's eyes were glassy, and Matt could see he was fighting to stay conscious. Then he choked out a strangled laugh. "Ya think you – shot me?"

Matt's anguished eyes told the story.

Another laugh that quickly ripped into a cough sprayed more blood from Cantrell's lips. "Hell, Matt – all these years – "

"I should have told ya then – "

"It was – Harp," Glenn said, voice weak now, barely more than a breath.

Matt stared at him. "Harp? But – but Harp was – was on your side."

"And he couldn't – shoot worth shit," Glenn added, breaking off another painful laugh. "Put a – minié ball in – my leg."

Minié ball? Visions of firing his new Spencer carbine flashed across Matt's memory. Years of guilt, of second guessing, of what ifs dissolved with the realization. But he found that it made little difference at the moment. "Glenn, I'm sorry."

"Still figure – yer responsible fer everything." Shaking his head feebly, Glenn said, "Layton's saddlebags – bank money."

"I'll get it, Glenn. You just don't – "

But the dying man clutched Matt's shirt, literally hanging on with the last of his strength. "Listen – other money – Kitty's – office – hid behind – crate of rye. Jake – don't know – " Another cough wracked his body.

"Glenn – "

"Didn't lie 'bout – that. Yers – buy – ranch or somethin' – take her – with ya. She don't need ta – put up with – drunks like me – pawin' her no more."

"I'll get you on your horse – "

Glenn laughed feebly. "Ain't ya never – seen a man – gut shot before, Marshal?"

Matt worked his jaw hard.

"I'm done fer."

"Glenn – " Matt couldn't say more.

"Wuz good ta see yer – big ol' self – again." The smile was still on his face when the last breath left his body.

Slumping back, Matt lifted a hand to close Glenn's staring eyes, then dropped his aching head, his eyes falling on the useless gun. Fingering the cool barrel, he sighed and cursed the uncharacteristic moment of forgetfulness that had gotten Glenn killed.

"Mister Dillon?" Chester called softly from behind him.

Matt blew out a tentative breath and lifted the pistol, frowning as his thumb smoothed over the cylinder. Looking into it, he stared for a long moment. Then, teeth gritted, he turned the cylinder click by click as one bullet dropped to the ground, and another, and another. When he was done, six bullets lay beneath him.

'Mister Dillon?" Chester said again.

Carefully placing the gun beside Glenn's body, he braced a hand on the grass and pushed up, his body and mind numb. He thought he tried to stand, He thought he tried to turn toward Chester. He thought he tried to thank him for saving his life. But hazy realization dawned that he only succeeded in falling flat on his face, his vision going black before he hit the ground.

TBC