Marshal Dillon moved about his office in a stupor. He had not had a fully clear line of thought since he had read Kitty's letter the previous week. He somehow managed to go about his duties, but his head was in a muddle.

He had sensed, from her previous letters, that something was amiss in St. Louis. He could not put a finger on anything in particular, but as the days went on, the feeling that Kitty was in some sort of trouble grew. In fact, he had been planning to ask Festus to watch after Dodge for a few days so that he could travel to St. Louis and make sure that she was alright when her last, fateful letter came.

Matt had not been able to bring himself to tell anyone, not even his closest friends, its contents. He slyly had asked Doc whether he had heard from Kitty, hoping to get more information on her whereabouts and plans. But the physician had answered in the negative. Sam had gotten a very short letter from her, instructing him to run the Long Branch as usual until he was sent further instructions. Matt privately suspected that the next letter to her barkeep would include directions to put the place up for sale.

His heart was crushed. He had known, for a long time, that he cared deeply for Kitty – but it was only now, when she was gone forever, that he knew exactly how much he loved her. It seemed ludicrous that he had ever dragged his feet on proposing marriage to her. What had he been thinking? She was the only woman who had ever meant anything to him. She could have settled down with any bachelor in Dodge long ago, but she had chosen to stay by his side, nursing him through bullet wounds and stab injuries. And he, fool that he was, had not given her any commitment for all her sorrows and sacrifices!

He could not blame her for leaving him and starting afresh. But he would blame himself till his dying day for his foolishness.

The sounds of a commotion in the street broke into his thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, through the window, Matt saw a wagon being driven hastily down Front Street, and a crowd beginning to gather around it. The man steering the team of horses was screaming at the top of his lungs,

"Is there a doctor in this town? If there is, get him! Quickly!"

Sighing, Matt put on his hat and walked into the street. Doubtlessly, someone had been shot, and he would need to investigate the circumstances.

Plowing his way through the crowd, which seemed even louder and more curious than usual, he looked at the frenzied driver.

"What is all this about?" the lawman asked in his usual authoritative tone.

Breathless, the man gasped out,

"I need help, Marshal. A stagecoach overturned into a ravine earlier this morning, about ten miles north of here. Fortunately, the driver was not injured, and as he was familiar with the route, was able to find his way to my father's house to ask for help. We got his passenger free of the wreck, but she is in a really bad state, and we knew that Dodge was supposed to have the only doctor within a hundred miles. I brought her here as quickly as I could."

"Alright, then, why don't you-," all further instructions died on the marshal's lips when he glanced into the wagon.

Red hair, mussed and scattered upon a white pillow met his eye. He realized that the woman was attired in a traveling dress he had seen dozens of times. And then he saw her face, and felt his knees nearly buckle under him.

In one movement, he leapt into the back of the wagon, and with a shaking hand, touched her deathly white cheek.

"Kitty?" he gasped. She did not stir.

In horror, he surveyed the ugly bruises which had formed on her arms and her collarbone. He was clumsily feeling for a pulse in her neck when Doc suddenly joined him in the back of the wagon.

Matt immediately recognized the look on the physician's face, and knew that Kitty's condition was even worse than he had thought. Reflexively, he reached out to pick her up and bring her upstairs to Doc's office.

"No, Matt!" Doc Adams gently scolded. "Her spine can be broken for all I know. We'll need some sort of stiff plank to use as a stretcher so that any such injures are not exacerbated."

Some of the bystanders promptly procured a long board and helped the Marshal gently transfer the unconscious woman to it. Then they carried their beloved Miss Kitty to Doc's office.

Matt's hands trembled as he gently slid her off the plank and onto the bed in the infirmary room. The other men turned and left. Doc took one look at the lawman's pale face, and laying a hand on his arm, said,

"Go and sit at my desk and collect yourself. I need to focus on her now."

Matt opened his mouth to protest, but remembered that every moment that he engaged Doc in debate was a moment that Kitty's care would be delayed. Unwillingly going out, therefore, he shut the sickroom door behind him, fervently but silently praying that Doc would emerge very soon with encouraging news.

…

An hour and a meticulous exam later, during which Kitty had not so much as stirred or uttered a sound, Doc straightened up and sighed. He walked over to his basin, dipped a piece of flannel in it, and with tenderness wiped her unconscious face, removing the last remaining streaks of her makeup as he did so. He then put on his stethoscope again and listened to her lungs, and picking up her hands, observed the spots of discoloration in her palms one more time, as if hoping that something would cause him to change his diagnosis. But, unfortunately, his mind was made up.

Although he was not a man to pry in other people's affairs, he walked to the handbag that Kitty had been carrying on the stagecoach, and which had been brought along with her to his office. There were questions that he needed answered, and if the lady was insensate and unable to answer them, going through her belongings for hints would have to do.

He pulled out the nearly-empty packages of powders and tonic which Kitty had been prescribed in St. Louis. Doc Adams shook his head. She had to have been feeling badly for awhile if she had taken so many medications. He guiltily recalled how fatigued she had looked during her last few days in Dodge. As the town doctor and her friend, he should have realized that something was wrong!

He continued to go through her things, until he found the item which he had expected to find there.

Sighing resignedly again, Doc knew that he had to go and give Matt the news. The man was likely completely frazzled by now.

Exiting the infirmary, he was instantly accosted by the marshal, who asked in a nervous, trembling voice,

"How is she, Doc?"

The physician rubbed his mustache and looked away.

"Well, she's breathing, Matt, but just barely. She must have hit her head quite hard, which is the reason that she is still unconscious. By some miracle she did not have any broken bones and her spinal column appears intact, but her ribs and her limbs are very, very badly bruised. I don't think that she has any internal bleeding; if she had, she would be gone by now. But the injuries that she does have are bad enough, and that is not all that she is fighting."

"What do you mean by that, Doc?"

"I wish that I could spare you any additional worry, Matt, at a time like this, but there is something that you ought to know." He took a deep breath. "Even before the accident, Kitty was a very sick woman."

The marshal regarded him with a shocked gaze, and Doc,inhaling deeply again, began to explain his diagnosis.