The marshal peered into the dimly lit cell. The young stranger was lying as the drovers had dumped him: facedown, hands bound behind him. Well, he could lie there for a while yet, just as long it took the law to settle things outside. "Stay with him," he ordered his deputy. "If he starts going crazy again—"

"Well, I reckon I'll just tap him over the head with this here scattergun," the scruffy lawman drawled. "Don't you worry about a thing, Marshal."

The tall marshal exited the building, nearly having to duck his head in the doorway. The deputy immediately put his feet up on the desk, the shotgun cradled in his arms. No sense wasting time just sitting when he could waste time sitting and napping.

A pleasant dream of a girl with corn silk hair and blue eyes was abruptly interrupted when a loud crash sounded in the law office. "What in Tarnation!" He nearly tipped his chair over when he tangled his large spurs together in an attempt to get his feet to the floor. Finally standing, he swung he barrel of the shotgun, looking for the intruder, and knocked over a near-empty pitcher of water. Muttering angrily, he kicked the metal pitcher away from his foot. "That fool Co-manch, more'n likely playin' tricks on me!"

His suspicions were not ill-conceived; a certain half-breed resident of the town was prone to tricking the deputy. However, in this case, the man was nowhere near. The noise had been produced by another source, one that was now moaning. The deputy put down the shotgun on his desk, rubbing his face, trying to conceal his embarrassment. Lucky for him, the sole witness of his near-fall had just fallen himself and was too busy studying the floor under his face.

The deputy scuffled over to the cell bars, alarmed. "Boy, did you take a spill?" He received no response, but the boy did turn over slightly so the weight of his face was no longer on his nose. The deputy squatted down to be at a closer level to the prisoner. "Sorry we got you trussed up like that. Marshal said to leave you like that, though, since you weren't so right in the head earlier."

"Don't reckon I'll ever be right in the head again." His voice was so low the deputy thought he might have misheard him, but one look at the boy's face told him enough. Though many mistook the deputy to be slow in the head because of his backwoods vernacular and mannerisms, he had a depth of feelings and was extremely perceptive on the moods of others. Using these gifts, he wisely remained silent.

He stood when he heard steps on the boards outside. It was a local townsman, Rob. "Marshal wants you over at Doc's. Says to hurry over. I'll keep watch here."

"Obliged to you, Rob." He looked down at the boy on the floor. "Maybe you could help that poor fella up onto the cot, if he has a mind to be up there."

He strode down Front Street toward Doc's office, running into the town blacksmith on the way. "Howdy there, Co-manch. On my way to Doc's."

The man's Comanche heritage had earned him the nickname, though he lived as a white man. "I suppose I'll tag along, see if I can be of some help."

The two men walked companionably to the doctor's office, turning into the alley to find the marshal waiting with a wagon. Peering over the edge of the buckboard, the deputy took into a gruesome sight: two bodies, both young and able looking. His gawking was interrupted by the marshal. "Help me get him up to the office. Be careful with him; he's still alive."

Sure enough, the man was still breathing, if just barely. The deputy and the blacksmith gathered the man in the arms. He was a dead weight and it took most of their strength just to lift him out of the wagon bed. Doc was waiting at the top of the stairs, wishing for the umpteenth time that his office was on the first floor. "Hurry up!" he commanded gruffly. The two staggered up the steps, panting. The marshal cast a blanket over the remaining body, a large man with dark hair. "No hurry for this one," he murmured to no one in particular.

He followed the procession up the stairs. The two young men had laid out the body of the injured man on Doc's table. Doc was already removing the man's clothes with the assistance of the blacksmith. The marshal watched silently, his deputy beside him. The squinty-eyed man removed his ten-gallon hat to wipe his face with a large bandanna. "What happened, Matthew? These two fella's get hit by a train?"

The marshal shook his head gravely. "No, Festus, one had a horse fall on him, at least what the boys are saying down at the corral. The other was beaten in a fight."

Festus shook his head. "Not a good way to go, havin' some poor horse roll over you. You know, I had this cousin once—"

The blacksmith turned toward the marshal, a pair of pants in his hands. He held them out. "Look familiar, Matt?"

Matt accepted the trousers, noting there was nothing especially significant about them…but the beaded belt caught his eye. "Sure does. Reminds me of a certain bracelet a certain blacksmith likes to wear."

Doc broke into the conversation. "When you three are finished gabbin' about the origins of my patient, I'd sure like some help."

"Sure, Doc, what can we do?" Matt asked.

"Well, this poor boy's whole left side is pretty well boogered up. Near as I can tell, he's got broken ribs, a busted arm and collar bone, and I don't like the looks of that leg either. So, I'm gonna go about settin' the bones, and I don't know if y'all have noticed, but he has a body that we're all probably all jealous about. I just don't fancy getting my face busted on account of a riled patient. So, if you don't mind…."

"Right. Festus, come around this side. Quint, you lay across his legs there." Matt took position at the boy's muscular torso, Festus holding the good arm against the table. "Go ahead, Doc."

The boy did have a body that most men would be jealous for and women would swoon over, for he rocked the table and the three men as the doctor set the broken bones and wrapped his ribs. When they were finally finished, he was on the brink of consciousness. "There, there, son," the Doc said gently. "Take some of this, it'll make you feel better." He tipped some laudanum into the boy's mouth, pleased when it was swallowed. All relaxed when the boy's impressive muscles went slack and he fell into deep unconsciousness.

Festus wiped his face again. "Dad-burn it, Doc, why didn't you give that stuff to him before? I was liable to bust a gut tryin' to hold this bear down."

"He wasn't awake enough to swallow properly. Then he was. The exercise was good for you, Festus," he ended, smiling.

"You want us to put him on the bed, Doc?"

"Yes, Quint. Try and make him comfortable. Matt, let's go take a look at the one downstairs."

"Was just going to ask you that, Doc," the tall marshal said, opening the door. A small crowd had gathered below, mostly cowboys that were at the scene. They all removed their hats when Doc lifted the blanket after climbing into the bed. "No head injuries, near as I can tell…."

A rancher stepped forward. "Marshal, I saw the whole thing. Jeb just went crazy and ran at the horse the other one riding. It was on account of him that bronc fell into the fence and crushed that boy you got upstairs. The smaller one got after Jeb when that happened." The rancher shook his head. "It sure was somethin' else, Matt. That boy was livin' rage. Had the face of death, he did. Anyway, don't see as to why Jeb's dead. The boy did nothing but hit him a few times, then throw him on the ground. One of the boys noticed he was dead not too long after that."

Doc straightened up. "Where did he hit him? In the head?"

The rancher nodded. "Yeah, some, but it seemed that Jeb's gut was hurting him. He folded up when the boy hit him there."

Doc unbuttoned Jeb's shirt, revealing massive bruising on his abdomen. Matt whistled softly. "That boy must have a fist of iron! Look at that…."

"No, look at that," Doc pointed. "No man's fist has ever caused a mark like that." The distinct outline of a hoof print was barely seen on the purple flesh, only visible because of some broken skin. "Near as I can tell, Jeb must've been kicked by that bronc right before the fight. He was probably already hemorrhaging before the boy got to him. Wouldn't have been much I could have done for him, even without the fighting."

Matt nodded, satisfied, and Doc covered the man's face once again. "Thanks, Doc. Think maybe you can go look at that boy in the jail? He was pretty well shaken up."

"Sure, Matt. Come along, Festus," he called. The deputy's head popped through the office doorway. "I'll need a lawman to open the cell for me."

"Comin', Doc, no need to yell at me."

Matt watched the two unlikely friends walk away on the boardwalk, Festus spelling out some outlandish tale and Doc contradicting every word of it. He smiled a bit, glad to find something amusing in all the chaos. He turned back to the rancher. "Jeb was one of your hands, Hank. You want to press charges for assault?"

Hank shook his head slowly. "No, Marshal. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Jeb was asking for it. He goaded that boy into fighting him and fought dirty, and what he did to the other…well, I sure hope he makes it." He stopped for a moment, pursing his lips. "You tell either of them if they need a job after this is all over, they can look me up."

Matt nodded, admiring the man's attitude. "Will do, Hank. Thanks for all your help. Be seeing you."

Matt wearily walked back to his office, hoping for some peace and quiet. A commotion emerged from the small building, eliciting a groan from the weary lawman. "What now?" he groused.

Stepping inside, he was greeted by a sight that may have made him laugh under different circumstances. The young man he had locked in here earlier was sitting on the floor, his back in the corner of the cell. His still-bound legs were extended in a kicking position. Festus and Rob were standing at a safe distance, arms held out. "Now, boy," Festus was saying, "Doc here just wants to check you out. I'm just gonna cut them ropes off'a you."

The man was eyeing the knife in Festus' hand, suspicion on his youthful features. Matt strode forward, saying, "Festus, Rob, what are you doing? Come out of there!"

"Well, shucks, Matthew. I just wanted to turn him loose, is all."

"So you go at him with a knife?" Matt rubbed his face. "You and Rob go on over to the Long Branch and get yourself a beer. I'll help Doc."

Festus and Rob walked out, the deputy muttering under the noise of his spurs. Matt shook his head, smiling at Doc, who returned it. The two friends entered the cell, the doctor seating himself on the stool and Matt crouching next to young man, who looked at him distrustfully. He looked terrible; he was completely filthy, his face was streaked with sweat and blood and with what Matt suspected to be tear-tracks. "Well, son, how 'bout letting Doc here look you over?"

The young man just hunched his shoulders, arms twisting against the ropes. Matt glanced over at Doc; the man just shrugged and moved in. The boy flinched his face away when Doc tried to wipe it with a wet cloth, but the wall prevented him from going too far. Doc finished cleaning up the boy's face without too much fuss and continued his examination by poking at the boy's ribs, gathering no response. He shrugged at Matt, saying, "Well, I don't think there's anything wrong with him that I can fix. I best be gettin' back over to that other fella."

The old man left, the door closing softly behind him. Matt stood, pulling out his folding knife. Keeping the blade closed, he asked, "Want me to cut you loose? Or are you going to be all temperamental again?"

The boy ignored him, so Matt simply sliced through the ropes around the boy's ankles. His legs fell apart limply. Matt grabbed the boy's arm, pulling him up, and then dumping him on the cot when the young man offered no assistance. Matt crossed his arms crossly. "I sure don't know what your problem is. You act like somebody kicked your dog."

The young man continued to pretend that Matt didn't exist, so the marshal pulled him forward and cut the ropes around the boy's wrists. His arms fell to his sides, his hands purple and wrists raw.

Matt turned to leave the cell when a force struck him from behind. Lights flickered in his vision as he toppled forward, falling into the bars. He turned as he slid to the floor, blurry eyes struggling to stay open. He saw the once despondent man standing over him with the stool raised. "What…are you doing?" the marshal slurred.

The man grabbed Matt's gun from its holster, spinning the cylinder to check if it was loaded. "Sorry, marshal, no hard feelin's. Just gotta job to finish."

Realization struck Matt like a lightning bolt. "Wait," he rasped, trying to grab the boy's leg as he pushed past, but he did not stop. He had his mind set on killing a man who was already dead.

It took Chad all of two minutes to spot the doctor's shingle. He ran down the street, colliding with the pretty lady saloon owner when she stepped out of a shop. "Hey!" she yelled. He barely managed to catch her before she fell.

Ever the gentleman, he nodded at her. "Excuse me, ma'am."

A footstep sounded on the boards behind him. "Miss Kitty, what—Hey! You! Stop there!"

Just those few words told Chad who was back there: that fool deputy. Not even bothering to look at the man, he charged toward the stairs to the doctor's office. He flew up the steps, taking a couple at a time. He burst through the door, gun drawn. The doctor and a man he didn't recognize were standing next to a low bed in the corner. Both looked up in shock at his arrival, but the younger, dark haired one was the first to speak. "Who are you?"

The doctor murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "He's the one from the jail." He spoke to Chad. "Boy, what are you doing? Put that gun away."

Chad pointed the weapon in their direction. "Just step aside. Over there." They both complied, but the young one looked ready to spring into action. Chad stepped forward, pulling back the hammer, trying to detach himself from what he was about to do. He knew he would more than likely hang after the deed, but he didn't care. He had thought long and hard, and though he knew nothing could bring Joe back, ridding the world of one less killer would be a way to keep the world's balance. However, Chad was no murderer. Could he really play the part of an executioner?

His mind was forced to make a decision when he heard the deputy start to come up the steps. He darted across the room, finger tightening on the trigger, just as the doctor said, "No, don't!"

Chad looked into the face of the man who killed his friend…and all the blood left his head. That wasn't…. For the first time in his life, Chad fainted, falling to the floor bonelessly, the gun thudding on the wood beside him.

He woke up to find himself back in the cell, only this time he was not bound. Groaning, he sat up, holding his head. Falling on a floor hurt, but it was his brain that hurt the most, what with the unbelievable shock he had just experienced. He heard a noise in the outer office. It was the marshal, who had stepped up to the bars and was staring at him. The man had a bandage around his head from where Chad had hit him. Chad pointed at it. "Sorry about that…." He trailed off, confused. "It's just that…I heard somebody say, 'he's dead.' I just had to…I just wanted to…."

The marshal held up a hand. "Son, I know what you wanted to do, and I'm sorry we didn't tell you that your friend was still alive. We just thought you knew."

"I understand, sir." He swallowed uncomfortably. "Did I kill that bronc buster? He's dead?"

"I'm afraid so," the lawman answered. Chad felt an imaginary noose tighten around his neck until the other man continued, saying, "But apparently it wasn't you who killed him, Well, not technically. He was kicked by that horse in the stomach, caused him to bleed inside. Your little fracas just sped it along a little."

Chad felt relief spread over him. "Does that mean…."

"Yes, you're in the clear for that. But you did assault an officer of the law, and for that—"

Chad shot to his feet, his hands grabbing the bars. "Please, sir, I am so sorry for what I done. You have to understand, I was just trying to get even for my friend…." He hung his head. "Looking back, I don't think that I would have been able to do it. Not really. I wanted to, but it's not in me. I know that now."

The marshal observed him in silence for a moment before saying, "I believe that, son. However, you stirred up quite the nest of hornets in my town. I like to keep things quiet and peaceable."

"Right," Chad nodded. "If you let me out, I'll leave just as soon as I can get a horse."

"What about your friend? Are you just going to leave him? It'll be some time before he can recover."

Chad looked up, earnestness in his eyes. He knew what he had to do. "Yessir, I'll do just that. Joe has put up with me for too long. It's my fault he's hurt…and I can hardly live with myself for what happened." He stalked toward the small window in the back of the cell. "The worst day of that boy's life was the day he met me." He buried his face in his hands. "I'm trouble, bad news. A man like me can't have friends. I should know that by now…. Who am I kidding? I've known it all along. Just tricked myself into believing it." He turned back to the marshal. "I'll leave tonight if you'll let me. You'll never see me again."

The marshal nodded. "Alright, if that's the way you want it. Your things are all here; the hotel manager brought them over." He opened the cell door. It wasn't even locked. "Just sort out what's yours and I'll send the rest over to Doc's." He brought out some things from behind his desk. "One of the men down at the corrals brought up these." It was Joe's gun belt, knife, and hat, as well as Chad's hat and gun. He looked inside the hat. "Chad Cooper?"

"Yeah, that's me." Chad stepped out of the cell and picked out his saddle bag and bed roll. He stuffed his gun back into his holster and put the Stetson on his head after dusting it off.

"I think that's everything," said Chad, nearly losing his resolve when his hand brushed against Joe's hat, the one that Chad had chosen for him. The marshal stacked up what was left in a neat pile. He started to pick it up but Chad stopped him. "Thanks, I'll…take it."

The marshal looked deep into Chad's eyes, and Chad felt waves of compassion rolling off the man. They kept looking at each other until the marshal finally relinquished his hold on the items into Chad's hands. "Alright, but be careful. Doc didn't exactly like the way you made your entrance before. I'd try knocking first if I were you."

Chad nodded. Moments later he was doing just that. The doctor opened the door, his face guarded and a pistol in his hand. "Whoa, I ain't drawing on you," Chad said hastily. "I'm just bringing by my friend's things." The doctor stared at him a moment, but then stepped aside, allowing Chad admittance. He set the items on a chair just inside and looked around. The doctor was the only one in the room besides Joe, so Chad was able to walk unhindered across the wood floor, stopping next to where his friend lay.

The doctor came to his side. "He's lucky. His ribs barely stood up to the weight of that horse falling on him. But, with a little rest, he'll be fine."

He didn't look fine. Bruises were prominent on the visible portions of his shoulder, but most of his skin was covered by the bandages wrapping his collarbone and the splint on his arm. Lumpy places under the blanket signified a splint was on Joe's leg as well. Joe coughed a bit, his face looking pained even in unconsciousness. Chad wanted to make it all go away. If he could take the hurt into himself, he would do so, in a heartbeat. He hesitantly reached out a hand and touched Joe's cheek, a somewhat intimate contact that seemed odd even to himself. But this was a goodbye, one that meant forever. Though part of him wanted exactly the opposite of what he was about to do, the rational part of himself knew that this was right. It was time to think of someone other than himself for a change.

"Goodbye, pard," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

He turned away, nearly bumping into the doctor. The man's weathered face was grave but caring, and he spoke softly. "You care a lot about him, don't you? I bet he feels the same about you, too. You really going to just ride off and leave him here?"

Chad sighed. Did he have to explain himself to everyone? This town sure was nosy. "It's for the best."

"For you, maybe," the doctor said gruffly. "At least leave him a note, explaining things."

Chad rubbed the back of his neck. If it meant getting these people off his back, fine. "Alright. Got some paper and a pencil?"

"Over here, at the desk."

Some time later, his note was written, though Chad knew that Joe's reading abilities were still rusty. Chad himself had helped Joe some during some late night lessons with Wishbone back on the trail. Therefore, he tried to keep it simple and wrote in easy-to-read print. Leaving it and Joe's items in the care of the good doctor, Chad took one last look at the best friend he had ever had. It was for the best, or so he kept telling himself. Joe would be much better off without Chad around to get him into trouble constantly. The door clicked behind him, the sound mimicking that of the gate to his heart.