The bullet, hot and deadly, only grazed his left forearm, but left a painful, deep groove. The vigilant lawman had had barely a second to intervene, grabbing the drunken cowboy's gun arm as the weapon discharged towards the terrified, new young saloon woman.

"Ugh! You'd think by now, after so many years of so many gunshots, that I would be used to it," he grumbled to himself, gripping the profusely bleeding wound with his right hand, "but there is nothing like the burn of a bullet."

"Matt! Is it bad?" Kitty had hurried over after a quick glance to ensure that her head barkeep, Big Sam, was comforting young Sheila, who was shaking and crying after staring down the drunk's gun barrel. Festus had looked in over the bat wing doors in time to witness the incident, and had rushed in to grab the grinning, sagging drunk.

"Nah, 'just a flesh wound,' as they say," the Marshal replied, giving the worried woman a comforting smile while realizing how many time she had been there when he was hurt. "Doc told me years ago how my wounds are harder on Kitty than on me, and, God love her, I believe him."

"Oh Matt," the lovely red-haired woman thought, "how many more times will this job wound and scar your wonderful body? Or worse…" She had grabbed a clean bar cloth before hurrying over, and now expertly wrapped it tightly around the bleeding wound on the muscular forearm. Her luminous sky-blue eyes met his intense, clear-blue ones, and the looks exchanged were full of understanding, care, concern, and deep feeling for the other. Each felt the other's pain and love. "There!" Now get over to Doc's! Festus has that drunk under control."

"I sure DO, Matthew! He don't even know what he almost done, and what he done did ta ya! Ya listen ta Miss Kitty now, and I'll take this stewed little rabbit ta the office and pour him inta a cell!" Glaring at the bedraggled man hanging by his shirt collar from his right hand, the Deputy Marshal gave a disgusted grunt and dragged his prisoner towards the door, spurs vigorously jangling.

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"Well, I'd better get up to Doc's to get these stitches out before the old grump has a fit!" Matt grinned to himself five days later as he pulled on his faded red shirt, soft old leather vest, and then buckled on his gun belt. As he opened the front door, he paused and took in a deep breath of the fresh early morning Spring air, then grabbed his big, weathered Stetson from the nearby top peg on the wall, pulled it over his thick red-brown curls, and strode out. His old friend had told him to come back early on this morning and that they could then go on to breakfast together. "And I'll pay, as usual!" he thought, chuckling at the years-long "game" of him always buying their meals together while he never paid Doc for his medical care. Both would be offended if this ever changed.

Reaching the steep stairs up to the doctor's office home, Matt paused a moment before ascending, favoring his arthritic right leg, badly injured at least twice in long ago gunfights. Glancing at the handrails, he was glad that the newer one along the wall now made it easier for Doc to climb up and down so often. "That old boy once told me that his knees are as old as he is!" he thought, shaking his head in amusement. Opening the door, he walked in, tossed his hat on the desk and sat down on the side of the examination table. "Morning Doc!" he said in his deep, warm voice, looking over at his old friend. The doctor had his back to him, washing his hands in preparation, and only grunted a reply. Smiling, Matt studied the man he knew so well. Doc Adams was short and feisty, his still-strong forearms visible with his shirt sleeves rolled up as he washed. "Hmmm…his hair sure has more white than I remember, and is thinning some," he mused. But when his friend turned around, drying his hands and arms, the grey-blue eyes were as sharp as his words.

"'bout TIME you got here! Not everyone can lallygag around like an overpaid public servant!" His words could not hide the grin behind the hand swiping over his mustache. "Matt sure is still a fine specimen of a man, even after all of his hard lawman years. Hmmm…can't even detect a touch of grey in that longer mop of brown curls he's sporting, but those eyebrows sure are bleached out now," he ruminated, watching the big man unbutton and roll up the left sleeve of his shirt.

"Doc, you said before breakfast, NOT at sunrise!" His big grin filled his face with the many creases earned by countless hours under the hot, unsparing Kansas sun. Watching the familiar swiping motion, he now noticed how white the neat mustache had become. "When did that happen?" he wondered. "I guess we all age so gradually that even those always around us don't notice."

"Let me see that arm now," Doc said as he unwrapped the bandage and closely examined the wound, making low, approving sounds. "Looks fine, Matt. I'll get those stitches out in a jiffy!" Glancing up at his patient, the older man studied the familiar face. "When did that handsome visage get so weathered?" he thought. "Hrmmp! That fresh, smooth-faced young man used to rile me something fierce years ago! So sure of himself and so brash! But that was before I learned how smart and careful he really was. And how morally fine." Carefully snipping a suture, he quickly plucked it out with a pair of long tweezers.

"Yikes, Doc!" Matt said as he flinched. "Whaddidya use there? Strips of buckskin?! That's almost as bad as the TURPENTINE ya poured on it first!"

"Hurt ya some, huh?" the doctor asked with a small grin, peering up over the top of his wire-framed spectacles.

"Just wait 'til I have to take care of YOU someday!" Matt said with an answering grin, always enjoying their banter. He thought back on how the small doctor's initial rough gruffness and even bad temper towards him had made him ponder his own actions as a young lawman, and become more thoughtful in his actions without losing his sense of fun. "That old man taught me a lot about people and myself," he thought with a slight shake of his head as he watched Doc work on his arm. "And he's sure patched me up plenty of times over the years!"

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Thirty minutes later, Doc and Matt were sitting at a table in Delmonico's, eating a hearty breakfast, enjoying the food and quiet companionship. They never felt a need to chatter on, although each enjoyed the other's comments. Now as they ate their dried apple pie, and sipped on good, fresh coffee, they looked up simultaneously and their eyes met as they silently chewed.

"I can't imagine Dodge without Doc," Matt thought, smiling at his friend's wrinkled tan suit, unruly hair, and intelligent grey-blue eyes.

"I can't imagine this town without Matt being our lawman," Doc mused, admiring the peaceful strength the big, broad-shouldered man projected, the lined face so full of experience and a hard kindness.

As they parted in opposite directions out on the wooden walkway, each to his own office, they glanced back at each other and recognized the rare gift of a fine, trusted and true old friend.

End