Jess had almost been tempted to stay and wait for his fate in bed, but there was still too much of his fighting spirit left to sit passively by. No matter how much pain it caused him, he still had that survival instinct inside that pushed him on. As he fell out of the window, the pain in his chest shot throughout his entire body, and his whole world went black for several seconds. He lay in the mud for many moments before his senses returned. Then, pushing himself to his knees, he staggered to his feet and limped as quickly as he could away from the impending shootout.
"Pa, is there goin' to be some shootin'?" The little boy's question was heard by all the men who stood around the sheriff's office, tightly clutching their various firearms. Lucas McCain lowered his rifle. Kneeling down so that he was on that same level as his son, he said gently,
"Yes, Mark, I think there will be some shooting. And I don't want you mixed up in it."
"A shootout's no place for a boy," added Ben Cartwright. Mark looked into his father's eyes, his own full of concern.
"But Pa, what if something happens to you? You might need me to help!" Lucas grabbed Mark's shoulder.
"I know you want to help, Mark, but you can help me best by staying out of this fight." Tears began to well up in the boy's eyes, and he quickly threw a hand up to brush them away. A bit of moisture appeared in Lucas's eyes, along with several other men in the room who were watching the touching scene. "Mark, I want you to go out the back door here and find a place to hide in one of the shops across the street, and don't come out until I come to find you. You promise me you'll do that?" Mark nodded with tears rolling down his cheeks, and threw his arms tightly around his father. Lucas wrapped his son in his own hug. After several moments, they released, and Lucas said softly to his son, "All right, you do what I told you." With a quick nod, Mark sniffed and turned to run out the back door. Lucas remained kneeling where he was. It was only when a few sniffles from some members in the room broke the silence did he realize where he was. He stood up slowly.
"That's quite a boy you've got there," said Ben Cartwright as he approached the Rifleman and placed a hand on his shoulder. Lucas nodded without turning, still looking at the open door that Mark had run out.
"Yes, I know." After a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, the man in black, Paladin, roused himself and drew a deep breath before announcing,
"Well, I suppose it's time that we make our way to the doctor's office and pick up Jones." Though everyone knew that they would not make it into the office, no one said anything. Everyone simply made themselves ready for the impending clash. Bret Maverick fingered his pistol, while his brother took his out and inspected it closely. Hoss Cartwright shifted his gunbelt into a more comfortable position. Adam Cartwright stared attentively out of the front window at the swiftly darkening evening. Little Joe had one hand on his belt as he stared at the floor and chewed on a piece of straw. Roy Coffee looked at one and then another of the gathered members, trying to figure out the differing motivations that brought each man to that point. He would have been very far from the mark if he'd put his thoughts into words.
Finally, Paladin made a move for the door, and simultaneously every man made a move to follow. Grabbing the handle, he looked back at the gathering behind him.
"This is it. Wait for them to make a move first before you start shooting." Then he opened the door slowly and stepped onto the street, followed by the rest of the men in the office.
Though he was soaked to the bone, the rider did not slack his pace. His chestnut gelding breathed heavily but responded willingly to his request for more speed. The marking on the chestnut's face was like a blaze that was interrupted in the middle, like something that was missing a piece and was therefore incomplete. And that was exactly how the rider felt. He was riding towards Reno, where he hoped to find that missing piece, and he only hoped he wasn't too late.
A shop that was for rent was the first empty building that Mark came to, so he ducked inside, still sniffling and occasionally wiping his eyes. Every moment he expected to hear gunshots, and he knew that with every report he would wonder if one had found its mark in his father. This thought brought new tears to his eyes. Therefore, between his sniffles and the tears obscuring his vision, he did not hear or see a person enter through the back door. Only when he had calmed himself a little did he hear movement, and then someone letting out a sharp exhale. He froze, but curiosity got the better of him, and he crept forward to investigate. As he came around the corner, he saw a young man on the ground, propped up against a wooden crate. His dark hair was all mussed up, and he looked up at Mark with half-closed eyes. His labored breathing spoke eloquently of something that was badly wrong with him. Only when Mark saw the dark stain that was spreading on his chest did his eyes grow round.
"What happened to you, Mister?" The wounded man drew in several shallow breaths before he could muster up a nearly inaudible reply.
"Got shot." Mark came closer and knelt down.
"What can I do to help?" The young man's long eyelashes fluttered several times as he tried to force his eyes to stay open and focus on the boy's face. When he finally succeeded in looking straight at the boy, his breathing sped up, so much so that it began coming in gasping heaves. Mark could feel panic rising in his own chest as saw the young man fighting for life, and he felt that something he said had brought about this change in his condition. "What's the matter, Mister? Oh, please don't die now. Please, Mister!" Mark pled with the dying man, even though he knew pleading wouldn't make any difference if he really was dying. Finally, between heaving breaths, the young man was plainly trying to get out a word, or maybe a name.
"A-" he tried, but was interrupted by his own labored breathing. "An-" he tried again, but once more could not finish. Close to tears again, Mark leaned in so close that he was only inches from the young man's sagging head.
"What is it, Mister?" Finally, gathering up all the strength he had left, the wounded man raised a trembling hand and placed it on the boy's shoulder. Inch by inch, he raised his head and looked into the boy's eyes.
"Andy," he gasped. Mark shook his head, not knowing what the man meant. But he wasn't done. With tremendous effort, he tried to continue. "Get-" he managed, and then was just beginning another word, "Sl-" when his eyelids fluttered closed and he slumped limply to the side. His hand slid off of Mark's shoulder. The boy was afraid to make a move at first, but finally he put out a trembling hand to feel for any signs of life in the man's chest. The weakest pulse he had ever felt was still pumping through his veins, but it was so slight that Mark wasn't greatly cheered. He rose to his feet and was about to run and look for the doctor's office when he remembered that was where the shootout was about to take place. Only then did he realize who the unconscious man was. Looking down at the figure on the floor, with the bloody stain on his shirt, Mark tried to rustle up some antagonistic feelings toward him, but they wouldn't come. All he felt was sorry for the wanted man.