Chester paced the length of the office, stopping in front of the stove to check on the pot of coffee. The sweat poured off of his brow and he wiped it with a rag from his back pocket. He stared down at the steaming pot and smiled slightly at the incongruity in drinking a hot liquid on such a scorcher of a day in Dodge. The marshal had the right idea when he headed across the street to the Longbranch for a few beers with Miss Kitty; but someone needed to keep an eye on Doc.

Poor Doc. He shook his head at the sadness he felt over the old man; while it was true that Doc Adams liked to try and ruin Goode's day with one feisty comment or another, the marshal's assistant recognized the ribbing for what it was: the only way Doc knew how to show his love for people close to him. Chester poured himself a mug of coffee and took a sip.

He grunted, making a face. "Too much chicory..."

The voice from the back room startled him. "Don't understand why you Southerners ruin your coffee with chicory anyhow..."

Chester walked through the connecting door to see Doc standing at the front of his cell, his strong hands gripping the bars tightly. The pale blue eyes appeared lined with age, and tired from days without proper rest, yet far more lucid than they had looked recently.

"D-doc?"

The intense blue pierced him. "What?"

Chester moved next to the bars. "Are...are ya all right?"

"How could anyone be all right locked up in this hellhole?"

"Well now, Doc, Mr. Dillon only done that to ya 'cause he was afraid you was gonna hurt yourself."

"The only one who's gonna get hurt around here's Voss, and I'll see to that personally!"

"V-Voss? Who's Voss?"

Doc grunted. "As if you didn't know."

"Well Doc, I don't..." Adams glared at Goode, but didn't respond. "Doc...don'tcha know me, Doc?" The pale blue eyes continued to stare into the chocolate brown, but Dillon's assistant began to understand that it wasn't him that the old man was seeing. "Doc? It's me, it's Chester. Chester Goode, Doc. You know me."

Adams grabbed the man by the shirt then, causing Chester to drop his mug of coffee, yelping in surprise.

Doc's voice sounded low and dangerous, "You're damned right I know who you are, Carp, and if you think you're gonna break me, you're wrong. I can take more. A lot more. How about you?" Adams roughly pulled Chester into the bars, Goode's head connecting harshly with the metal. Just half a chance, Carp, that's all I need. Just half a chance and I'll kill you with my bare hands."

"D-doc ...Doc...p-please let go, Doc." Chester's voice took on a pleading quality, "I don't wanna hurt you none, Doc. Please don't make me hurt ya none."

But Adams didn't let go: instead, his right hand, which Chester only knew as an instrument of healing, began squeezing the air from his friend's windpipe. "Having trouble breathing, Carp?"

"Doc!" Chester wailed, "Please, Doc!"

And Goode had to choose between hurting the old man or choking to death. With all his might he punched Adams hard across the cheek through the bars. When Adams still didn't let go, Chester pounded him again, this time clipping the old man in the temple, sending him reeling backward and to the floor, unconscious.

Horrified by his own instinct for survival, Chester gripped the bars tightly, leaning his bloody head against them. "Doc," he cried, "Oh Doc..."

Shaking with fear over what his own violent act had done, Chester sank to the floor, still gripping the cell bars in his hands. Tears of guilt and panic poured from his eyes, as he stared at the small doctor who lie as still as death on the cell floor.

February 15, 1864

"It appears that Union HQ has thought of everything," the major commented.

"You sound surprised, Major Conrad," Wilkins responded.

Conrad smiled. "Not surprised so much as duly impressed, Dr. Wilkins."

Kramer pressed his ear to the crack between the bookcase and the wall in Wilkins' office, trying to pick up as many details about the escape as he could from the meeting in the tunnel, although why he was doing it, he wasn't sure; he had yet to go to Voss with any of the information. Kramer checked the watch he kept hidden in his sock, next to the confederate-issued knife; he needed to get back before anyone noticed his absence, and also to check up on Adams. The guards had taken the young lieutenant from the bunkroom much earlier than usual, and it didn't leave a good feeling in Kramer's stomach. He shook his head; such emotions would weaken him, and in a game of such deep-seated duplicity as the one they were all playing, emotion could prove fatal.

Kramer had just begun to nod off when the guards opened the door to the bunkroom, tossing a small man inside. The corporal waited until the guards were gone, before seeing to the downed man who he knew was Adams. He gently rolled the young lieutenant over onto his back, eliciting a groan.

"Doc? Doc, you all right?"

Adams moaned, then rolled to his side, spitting up blood. Kramer gently examined the man, and realized that they hadn't kept the beating to his body, evidenced by the ugly bruise forming on his left temple. Knowing Voss, such a change was not good news.

"Jesus, Doc," Kramer whispered, "this looks bad."

Adams gripped the corporal's shirt and said, "I need Wilkins, please..."

And then the young surgeon passed out.

Adams came to on the exam table in the triage room. He felt strong hands holding his shoulders down as he tried to move.

"Easy, just lie still boy." He recognized Wilkins' voice and relief covered his face. Wilkins ran a soft hand over the young man's brow. "You've got a slight concussion from that blow you took on your left temple." Adams opened his eyes then and winced in pain. "It hurts, I know."

"Is he gonna be all right?" Kramer asked.

"Yeah," Wilkins said, "he's a pretty tough little scrapper, although this beating was a bad one." The old doctor looked at his protégé then. "Any idea why Voss stepped it up on you, son?"

"No..."

Wilkins pat the young surgeon on the shoulder. "We'll have to put a stop to it then, won't we?"

Adams looked at him sharply and Wilkins winked; grinning, Adams winked back. "Yeah."

Kramer looked down, not wanting to give away the fact that he'd understood the underlying meaning of their exchange. But it reminded him of the fact that he needed to make a choice: either report to Voss, or come clean with Wilkins and hope the doctor would help him escape Libby. If not, he'd face a confederate firing squad for certain.

---

February 16, 1864

He observed Adams going about his rounds, but could tell that the lieutenant was far from all right.

"Doc...why don't you take a break?" Kramer offered, "I'm sure one of the other assistants can cover you this afternoon. You had a rough night last night."

Adams smiled at him. "Nah, I'm fine, Roy, just a little stiff and sore today, that's all." He winked at the corporal then. "Besides, we wouldn't want these rebs thinkin' they got my goat, now would we?"

Kramer swallowed slightly. "Uh, no, Doc, no, I suppose we wouldn't."

"Good, then I won't have to worry about you tryin' to practice medicine any more this afternoon, especially on me!"

Adams smiled widely at the man, and Kramer chuckled, but it disappeared in his throat when he realized Carp was standing next to him.

"Major Voss wants to see you, Kramer."

"Me? What does he want with me?"

Adams exchanged a worried glance with Roy, and Carp growled, "He don't tell me why, blue-coat, just that it needs doin'. Now move..."

Alarm rising in his belly, Adams watched Carp march Kramer from the room, and as quickly as his pounding head would allow, the young doctor went in search of Dr. Wilkins.

---

"What the hell does Voss want with Kramer? He's just a corporal for God's sake."

Adams shook his head. "Maybe he's bored with me." The young surgeon looked hard into Wilkins' eyes. "You don't suppose Voss has caught on about tonight?"

Wilkins frowned. "The timing is surely suspicious enough, but I don't see how...unless..."

"Unless?"

"Elizabeth expressed concern some time ago that perhaps the confederates had their own man on the inside."

"A union officer?"

"Well, not a union man, but a man among you, yes." Panic began to rise in Adams' eyes and the old doctor pat his arm. "Don't worry boy, we've got an ace in the hole..."

"We do?"

---

"Yes. I want to see all of the incoming prisoners in here, now." Carp stood staring at him. "Get moving, man. NOW."

The sergeant shrugged, stepped through the door and then brought the men in a line, into the room. "Them's the men of the 9th Massachusetts Volunteers, sir."

The man looked over the ragtag group of men with disdain. "I'm Captain Erasmus Ross, clerk of Libby Prison. You will place all of your items of value on this desk in front of me before proceeding with the guards to the infirmary...those of you who can walk, in any case."

A union colonel growled, "You ain't gettin' nuthin' of mine, you stinkin' reb."

Ross stepped up to the man, his smile never wavering as he struck his fist across the colonel's jaw. "If you intend to survive, Colonel Starkey, I suggest you begin by doing what you're told. If the guards catch you with anything other than your pants and shirt later on, I promise you, you won't live to regret it." He turned sharply to Carp and the other guards. "See to it that these vile yankees don't leave with anything of value."

"Yes sir."

Ross walked out and stepped into the waiting room outside Voss' office, only to discover Kramer standing with his ear to Voss' door.

"You! Boy! What do you think you're doing?"

Kramer turned to find Ross standing there, and his blood turned to ice in his veins. "I...I... well, Major Voss called me up here, and I...I've been waiting to see him an awful long time."

"With your ear to his door?"

The clerk's mean-spirited treatment of union officers was well-established, and Kramer knew that Ross had no idea he was a confederate officer, and he wasn't about to tell him now. But given what the corporal had just heard at Voss' door, he needed to get to Wilkins, and fast. But unfortunately he could only think of one way to do it.

In a split second, his decision about which side of the line he was on had been made.

Kramer lunged for Ross, landing a hard right cross to the man's jaw. Ross grabbed Kramer by his shirt and punched him in the face, followed by a hard jab in the gut, sending Kramer backward into a small table, knocking its contents to the floor. Kramer slowly stood and took a running start at the clerk, causing both of them to tumble over, slugging each other as they rolled and tossed. The door to Voss' office opened then, and the major stepped out.

"What is the meaning of this?" But the two combatants kept on, oblivious to Voss. "Oh for land's sake..."

Voss bent over and pulled Kramer up by the shirt collar in one hand, and Ross in the other. He stared hard at his clerk. "What in the hell happened?"

"This...this...yankee was listening at your door, and when I asked him about it, he slugged me. Surely as a confederate officer, I am not expected to allow a piece of blue-coat trash to manhandle me in such a way."

Voss sighed. "No, captain, no." He glared at Kramer. "Get inside my office," he growled.

Kramer moved into the office, and his face turned white as he realized that the man he had heard telling Voss all about the impending yankee escape was the man he knew as a union officer, Major Conrad.

Kramer stood quietly, saying nothing, but he could feel the sweat begin to trickle down the back of his neck as he felt Conrad's eyes on him. After a few words outside with Ross, the major walked in, closing the door behind him.

"Kramer, what in the hell were you doing out there?" Realizing he needed to play his part, he glanced over at Conrad, and then saying nothing, stared at Voss. An impatient sigh issued from the major's lips. "Corporal Kramer, meet Colonel Tanner, whom I believe you already know as Major Conrad."

Kramer turned to the taller man, extending his hand. "It's a pleasure to find out that we're on the same side, sir."

Tanner smiled, shaking his hand. "I've never heard a shred of that Georgian accent, Kramer, well done."

Voss spoke up again, "Colonel Tanner has been under deep cover for more than a year now as a union officer."

Kramer's eyes lit up with understanding. "And that's how your unit came to be captured and brought to Libby..."

"You're quick, corporal," Tanner commented. "I needed to pass along a lot of key information about General Grant and his plans, and it seemed like the easiest way to do it." Kramer waited for the man to mention the impending escape, but instead he said, "I've seen you working in the infirmary with Wilkins, haven't I?"

"That's right. I have more contact with all the men that way."

"Indeed." Tanner stood then and turned to Voss. "Well, major, I need to get back before anyone misses me. You know what to do."

"Yes, colonel, I do. And colonel... good luck."

He glared at Voss and eyed Kramer. "Yes, well, thank you."

Tanner walked out, closing the door behind him, and Voss smiled at Kramer; but the grin was not a pleasant one and it sent Kramer's skin crawling. "So tell me, Kramer, have you had any luck with rooting out the union spy?"

And Roy Kramer knew the bid was in: he was headed for a firing squad, or worse...

---

He could barely open his eyes, but felt someone gently tapping his bruised cheek. "Kramer, come on, man. Wake up, corporal. Let's go..."

Kramer roused slightly and stared into the face of Erasmus Ross, and he tried to break away. "Easy, Kramer, strange as the fates would have it, we're on the same side." Kramer stared wildly at him and he smiled. "That is two men who are pretending to be with the South in this war."

"But how...?"

"It was pretty obvious after Voss was finished with you. Look," he handed Kramer a confederate uniform, "put this on, go down the front hallway and out the front door. A colored man will find you and tell you where to go from there."

Kramer eyed him suspiciously, and Ross rolled his eyes. "We don't have a lot of time, Kramer, Voss is lining up a firing squad for you now." Still Kramer stared at the man. "All right, look, I know you were a confederate spy planted with the union men; but I also know that you've been aware of the planned prison break for at least two days and you've said nothing. I indeed believe that you've changed your mind about where you stand in this war."

"Voss found out...how?"

"Conrad..."

"His real name's Tanner."

He shoved the uniform harder into Kramer's chest. "Put it on and get moving."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

"I have to warn Wilkins that Voss is going to put a stop to the escape."

"My good man, Voss has no intention of putting a stop to it."

"What?"

"He wants Tanner to get out as Conrad and back behind the union line, then he'll just kill the rest of the escapees, and Wilkins as well."

"But-"

"-Look, I'll warn Wilkins; the union men can take care of Tanner once he's out, but right now, I've got to make some subtle changes in this plan or it's going to get bloody. Put on the uniform and get out of here while you still can."

Before Kramer could argue further, Ross left the room. Still shaking from the beating he took, the corporal put on the confederate gray and started down the front hall, surprised that no one tried to stop him. But his conscience nagged at him as he neared the door; there was no guarantee that Ross was who he claimed to be, and if this was just a way for Voss to get Kramer out of the building so they could shoot him, then Wilkins would go ahead with the escape, and more than a hundred men might die, including Doc Adams - and of all the men, it was the young surgeon to whom the former confederate officer owed the largest debt.

And Roy Kramer recognized the opportunity that God had placed in front of him.

---

The men had slowly been seeping into the tunnel through Wilkins' office for the past two hours, waiting for the time that they could slip out into the water without being noticed, swim upriver, then head toward the Mason-Dixon line. Colonel Rose turned to Major Hamilton.

"Are your men ready?"

"Yes sir."

Rose turned to the man he knew as Major Conrad. "Are your men accounted for?"

"Almost all, sir. Waiting for the assistant surgeon, Adams."

"I thought he was on my team," Hamilton said.

"Last minute change from Wilkins," countered Conrad.

They once again fell silent, as they waited for the appointed time in the dark tunnel.

---

Adams stared into the saddened old eyes of the man who had become like a father to him. "Not much to say after all this, is there?"

"There's a lot to say, boy, but finding the courage to say it..." The old man couldn't finish the statement and he smiled at Adams. "You take good care of yourself, son."

"I'll do my best." The pale blue eyes flicked up to meet the older ones so like his own. "You be careful around here; these walls seem to have ears..."

Wilkins nodded, but was too choked up to speak. Impulsively he pulled the young man to himself, holding him like a father would a son he knew he'd never see again. Adams held the old man tightly, his own eyes stinging with tears. The bookcase behind them moved slightly and Conrad appeared.

"Adams...get in the tunnel, it's getting close to time."

"Yes sir."

He looked at Wilkins once more and held out his hand. "I'll never forget you, Dr. Wilkins."

"Nor I, you, little scrap." When the old man shook Adams' hand, he deposited two items in it. "I put these in a safe place when you first arrived. I figured if you made it, you'd want them back."

Adams gaped unbelievingly at the silver pocketwatch and the .36 caliber Navy that had belonged to Dr. Charles Bell. He stared into the light gray eyes smiling at him, but found his throat was too closed down with emotion to speak.

"You remember what I taught you, ya young whelp. Find your place and stay where you're needed, doctor."

Adams stood in the entryway of the tunnel. "You did save something from this war, Dr. Wilkins. I wouldn't have made it without you."

As Adams started to leave, the door to Wilkins' office burst open, and Kramer, dressed in a confederate uniform, his face bloodied and bruised, stumbled in. "Dr. Wilkins...they know! The confederates know about the escape, and-" Kramer stopped in his tracks as his eyes met with those of Colonel Tanner.

Tanner pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants, and before Kramer could say another word, fired. The corporal dropped like a sack of flour to the floor, grabbing the wound on his chest.

"Kramer!" Adams screamed as he knelt next to the corporal, ripping the uniform open to look at the wound.

Tanner shoved the gun back into his pants. "Don't waste your time on him, Adams, he's a confederate spy."

Adams looked up at Major Conrad sharply. "You don't know that..."

"Look at his uniform, boy. How else would he have come to be dressed like that?" He turned to Wilkins. "You were right to be worried about a spy in our midst, doctor."

Wilkins knelt next to Adams and examined the wound. Realizing there was nothing to be done, he gently covered his protégé's hands with one of his, stopping him. The pale eyes bore into him, and Wilkins shook his head. "Let him go, boy. You know as well as I that there's nothing to be done."

Adams looked down and Kramer grabbed the young surgeon's shirt. "Doc," he whispered, "Doc..."

Wilkins stood and walked back toward Conrad, shaking his head.

"Don't try to talk, Kramer," Adams said, "just lie easy."

"I was working for the South, Doc...but I didn't tell Voss about the escape...I swear I didn't, but Voss knows..."

Tanner started toward Kramer, but Wilkins restrained him with a hand on his arm. "Leave him be, Conrad."

Wilkins and Tanner looked on as Adams leaned his ear down to hear Kramer's final words. They watched as he grasped the corporal by the lapel in anger, but then lowered him gently to the floor in death. Adams closed Kramer's eyes and let out a long sigh of air before standing back up. After a moment he turned to look at Wilkins and Tanner, and his pale eyes were glaring with betrayal.

"Adams," Tanner said, "let's get going. The guards will have heard that shot and they'll be here any second."

But Adams didn't move.

"What's the matter, boy?" Wilkins asked gently.

Adams stared hard at Tanner as he answered Wilkins. "Kramer admitted that he was a spy, Dr. Wilkins, but he just whispered to me that he wasn't the only one."

Wilkins moved next to Adams, who never took his eyes off of Tanner. "Who did he say it was, boy?"

Tanner pulled the gun from his pants. "I guess this is the end of the line for our little charade."

Adams took a step away from Wilkins. "You can't kill us both, Conrad - or should I say, Colonel Tanner?"

"The boys' right," Wilkins added, "You can't win here..."

"It's Colonel Tanner, you vile turncoat," he said to Wilkins, "and I can win. The guards will be here soon enough, and that'll suit me just fine. Whether I kill you or they do makes little difference, you'll be just as dead."

The voice from behind them caused Wilkins and Adams to turn. "I thought I heard a shot," the captain said, the gun in his hand menacingly cocked. He looked down at Kramer's body. "Odd, I thought that man was a blue-coat..."

Adams swallowed hard: the last thing they needed was the damn blowhard clerk who worked for Voss. His eyes glanced over at Wilkins, who looked strangely calm.

"It's about time someone showed up," Tanner growled, putting his gun back in the waistband of his pants. "I need you to eliminate these two, Ross, and the escape can move forward as Major Voss and I have planned." He looked strangely at Ross then, realizing the man was alone. "Where are the rest of the guards?"

"I told them to stay out of this corridor..."

"Why'd you do that?"

Ross moved into the room, standing between Adams and Wilkins. "I told them that Major Voss set up some blue-coat executions and that when they heard shooting they were to remain at their posts."

Tanner smiled. "Clever way to keep them clear. The fewer of our people who know about this infiltration of the union army, the better I suppose."

"I quite agree."

And Ross pulled the trigger, dropping Tanner where he stood.

Adams stared unbelievingly at Ross who put his gun back in its holster. Ross glared at the young man. "What?"

"Just glad you're on our side is all..." He looked at his mentor. "That's some ace you stacked the deck with."

Wilkins winked. "He gets the job done."

Adams glanced at the single shot in Tanner's forehead. "I'll say."

"What about Voss?" Wilkins asked Ross, "Do we need to abort?"

"Too late for that. Voss knows about you, and for all I know, Elizabeth too. He has to be eliminated."

"How?"

"I sent a note to him telling him I uncovered a plot of escape and that I was headed here to put a stop to it. He should be here shortly because the last thing he wants is for me to interfere..."

Wilkins nodded and turned to the young surgeon. "All right boy, it's time for you to go."

Adams nodded and glanced down at Kramer. "You'll take care of him?"

"Yes." He looked his protégé in the eyes. "What did he tell you?"

"That he was the one who killed Jimmy, but that he hoped that God might not condemn him to hell for eternity since he tried to help us in the end." Adams shook his head sadly. "He said he wanted to be buried as a union soldier."

"I'll see to it, son," Wilkins said, "don't you worry. Now get going boy, and god's speed."

Tears filled Adams eyes as he gripped the older man's solid hand in his. "It's been an honor serving with you, captain." Adams took a sharp step backward, straightened up and for the first time since he'd known Wilkins, saluted him. Then he quickly turned and disappeared through the small tunnel door.

"Come on," Ross said, ignoring the misty eyes of his comrade. "Let's get these bodies out of here."

"Don't move a muscle, gentlemen," Voss' cold voice said from the doorway to Wilkins' office. Ross swore under his breath and Voss smiled, stepping aside to allow Carp into the office with him. "Erasmus, you do surprise me...I would never have guessed you as a turncoat. But you have played your role well."

Adams froze in the tunnel as soon as he heard the major's voice. He looked at the pocketwatch Wilkins had given back to him, and thankfully the man had wound and set it. Adams took off at a run and made the full length of the tunnel in less than a minute. Rose jogged to meet him as he saw him coming.

"What the hell happened, lieutenant?"

"There's been some trouble, colonel."

"I heard shooting...where's Major Conrad?"

"Conrad won't be coming. He was a confederate officer named Tanner."

"Oh my God, he knew the whole plan-"

"-Yeah. Look, I need to go back and help Dr. Wilkins."

"Adams, we can't wait, especially if the gray-coats are onto us."

"Don't worry, I'll catch up. Good luck, colonel."

Rose nodded and quickly moved toward the waiting union prisoners. Without looking behind him, Adams ran back through the tunnel as fast as his legs would carry him...

Matt and Kitty walked in the front door of the jail, expecting to see Chester there, but he wasn't in the office.

"Now where do you suppose he got off to?" Dillon said to Kitty. "Chester!" Dillon called as he walked into the room with the cells. "Chester, where are-" Matt froze. "Kitty, bring the keys!" Matt knelt next to Goode, who was leaning against the bars, weeping. Dillon looked into the cell and his heart stopped. He shook his assistant's shoulder. "Chester? What the hell happened?"

"I killed him, Mr. Dillon," Chester cried, "I didn't mean to do it - you know I'd never hurt Doc, but-"

Dillon shook him hard. "-But what?"

"He had a holt of my neck, Mr. Dillon, and I couldn't breathe, he was chokin' me so hard..."

"Oh Matt..." Kitty said when she saw Adams on the floor of the cell.

Dillon stood, taking the keys from her. "Can you see to Chester?"

Dazed, she nodded and knelt next to Goode. "Come on, Chester, come with me."

"No ma'am, I'm stayin' here."

Kitty gently pulled the distraught Chester into her, patting his back. She watched Dillon as he knelt next to Doc, who didn't look like he was breathing.

She couldn't keep the tremor from her voice, "Matt?"

Dillon gently rolled Doc over, pulling the small man's upper body into his arms. He felt for a pulse at Doc's neck and relief filled him.

"He's alive."

"You hear that, Chester?" Kitty said, "Doc's still with us. Now calm down..."

Matt carefully checked the bruises at Adams' temple. "Doc?" Gently he pat the old man's cheek. "Come on, ol' boy." But Adams didn't respond and despair filled every inch of the big man's frame. He fought the sting of sadness with anger as he looked at Goode. "Why'd you have to hit him so hard, Chester? Doc's not a large man...what the hell were you thinking?"

"I didn't mean to, Mr. Dillon, you know that I...I didn't wanna hurt him. I just didn't have no choice. Doc isn't a big man, but he sure has strong hands."

Kitty looked at Chester's throat. "Matt, he's got some bad bruises on his neck."

"You didn't have to hit him so hard, Chester," Dillon growled.

Guilt and sadness consuming him, Chester broke away from Kitty and quickly left the room, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"Matt," Kitty scolded, "I know you're scared about Doc, so'm I, but I can't believe you lashed out at Chester like that. You know he didn't do it on purpose."

Dillon pulled the old physician protectively into his chest, his voice full of regret. "I know that, Kitty," he said quietly, "I'm just..." He took a breath trying to control his spinning emotions. "I just hate this..."

She walked into the cell and knelt next to Dillon. "I know you do, cowboy." She raked her fingers through Matt's hair. "If Doc could, he'd tell you to settle down." Her crystal eyes filled with tears. "He'd tell you to stop making a fuss, and to quite treatin' him like a baby." Slow tears rolled down the lawman's cheeks as he nodded at her. She brushed away the moisture from his face. "Doc's a strong man, Matt; we have to hold onto that." He nodded again, and she stroked her hand over his brow. "You want me to take him?"

Dillon shook his head. "No. I'm gonna put him on the cot, I'd like to stay with him for awhile."

Hearing the unspoken request to be left alone, Kitty smiled and kissed his forehead before standing up. "Sure, Matt, sure. I'm gonna see to Chester."

He called to her when she was at the door. "Kitty...tell Chester I'm sorry."

"I will, Matt. You take care of Doc."

She left, softly closing the connecting door behind her...

"Both of you, up against the wall," Voss ordered, waving his gun at them. Then he smiled as he put away his gun, and turning to his sergeant he calmly said, "Carp, kill them."

"No!" Adams screamed as he plunged from the tunnel, his .36 Navy in his hand. Carp squeezed off a minie ball, hitting Wilkins in the belly, and as the old surgeon went down, a blind rage overtook Adams as he pointed his weapon at the sergeant, firing several shots into him, cutting him down before he could get off another bullet. But in his rage over seeing Wilkins shot down, Adams had forgotten about Voss; and the major had the cold level on the young surgeon from behind.

"Drop it, Adams. And you, Ross, don't so much as twitch."

But Adams remained frozen in grief and anger, the gun shaking slightly in his hand, as he stood in between Voss and Ross. His eyes looked hard into the unarmed clerk's, the silent message plain; Adams was going to turn and fire on the major, and Ross would have mere seconds to pickup a weapon and finish the job if Adams missed. Ross nodded almost imperceptibly and Adams smiled at him, knowing that his sacrifice would not be wasted.

"Drop it Adams," Voss growled, "I'm not gonna tell you again."

"Duck, boy!" Wilkins screamed, still lying where he had fallen only moments before.

Without thinking, Adams obeyed his mentor, dropped and rolled to the side. Wilkins fired the gun in his hand, and Voss fell, blood trickling from his mouth. Overwhelming pain in his belly caused Wilkins to drop the smoking gun to the floor, as he gasped for air. Adams went to him, ripping the old surgeon's shirt open. He assessed the wound, but couldn't see through the tears that had clouded his eyes as he blotted at the blood with a cloth that Ross handed him. Wilkins cried out in pain, grabbing the young surgeon's hand, hard.

"Stop, boy," the old man wheezed, "please..."

Adams slammed his eyes shut against the searing pain in his heart. "No," he whispered. "No..."

Wilkins held the hand in his tenderly. "It's all right, son. It wasn't in vain..." The old doctor caressed the strong hand of his protégé. "You're a good boy, Adams, and I love you the way I did my son." A strange little smile curved his face then. "It's funny...but death gives you the courage to say it..."

The old man's eyes fluttered closed and his head rolled to one side, the last of his breath pushing through his lungs. A single sob escaped Adams' lips as he pressed his forehead into their clasped hands. The hole in his heart was unbearable, and the young man knew that for the rest of his life, he'd feel a little bit lonely. Ross put a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder.

"You'd better go, Adams. I'll see to Dr. Wilkins."

After a long moment, the pale blue eyes looked up at him, tears still clouding them; but there was a strength in the setting of his jaw. "I'm staying."

"What?"

The doctor looked at the man who had taught him so much more than just medicine. "Find your place, do the best you can, and stay where you're needed." He looked at Ross. "I'm needed here now, and I'm staying."

"Whatever you say, doctor."

The tears in his eyes softly fell down his cheeks, but he smiled at the clerk. "Most people around here call me Doc..."

Dillon easily lifted the doctor up, stretching him out on the bunk. He pulled up a chair and sat in it, drawing Doc's hand in between his, holding it tightly.

"I've never been one to say prayers, Doc, you know that. You've always believed strongly enough in the Almighty for both of us." Dillon paused, wetting his lips, forcing the emotion in his chest back down. "But now I figure it's up to me..." The big man swallowed hard, pushing the lump in his throat away. "I don't know how to ask this right; given how lucky I've been over the years, I probably got no right askin'..." Dillon leaned his forehead on his two hands which were still clutching the doctor's. "I'm askin' for Doc, even though I know he'd never ask for himself." Matt closed his eyes tightly against the tears that fell down his cheeks. "I know it's not an even trade, but if you've gotta take a soul, please let it be mine." Dillon's voice began to tremble with emotion as he no longer had the strength to hold it back. "Please God," he wept, "don't take Doc from us; don't take him away from me-"

And Matt Dillon lost the battle for control over his languishing heart. He wept hard, gripping Doc's hand so tightly between his own that his knuckles began to turn white. The large tears dripped onto the hands clasped strongly against his forehead, his heart threatening to burst in the agony of his grief. And somewhere deep inside Galen Adams, an emotional thread broke, snapping him from his waking hell. Dillon felt the strong, caring hand on his face, gently caressing his cheek, and Matt stared into a concerned and lucid sea of pale blue.

"Matt..." Adams couldn't keep the panic from his voice, "Matt, what is it? What's the matter, son?"

"What's the matter?" He echoed, staring into the confused eyes of his old friend. Dillon took a deep breath. "Doc...are you okay?"

Doc realized then that they were in a jail cell, that his head hurt, and that he felt wrong somehow. "I...I don't know," he stammered. Panic colored the pale blue again. "Matt, what the hell's goin' on?"

Dillon moved to sit on the edge of the cot. "You've been sick, Doc. Really sick."

Adams looked at the confines of the jail cell and shivered, despite the overwhelming heat of late July in Kansas. He pierced Matt with his steely gaze, his tone laced with incredulity, "Sick?"

"You've been hallucinating." Dillon swallowed hard, knowing he needed to explain why Adams was locked in a cell, and he knew it was going to hurt the old man. "I'm afraid you haven't been yourself for quite a few days now..."

Adams let his head fall back onto the pillow, recollections of the past few days flashing in his mind. He groaned in pain as he reached for his bruised temple. "Did you hit me?"

"No...I'm afraid Chester did that."

"Chester? Why the hell did he hit me so hard? Doesn't he know a blow like this on a man's temple can kill him?"

Dillon pulled Doc's hand off the bruise and tilted the old man's head toward him. "Lemme see it..." He gingerly pressed on it and Doc winced. "Sorry ol' boy. He clipped you pretty good." Doc pushed up until he was sitting next to Matt, but he felt dizzy. He held his head in his hands. "Doc, why don't you just lie back and rest for a few minutes? You've had a pretty tough time of it, you know..." Doc nodded, and gently Dillon put a hand under the old man's head and leaned him back down on the bunk. The pale blue eyes were full of pain, but Matt could see it wasn't just from his bruised face. "You wanna tell me about it?"

Doc's eyes shifted away. "I've never talked about it, Matt, not to anybody." The pale blue eyes turned back to meet Matt's caring face. "But I suppose if I'd talked about it with you, this might not have happened. It's not good fer a man to keep things bottled up inside him; not things like this."

"Libby Prison?"

"Yeah."

"I've heard that place was hell. How long were you there?"

"From mid-1861 until the end of the war."

"That's almost four years, Doc."

"Yeah. Four years of hell." He smiled slightly then. "But fer as awful as it was, Matt, I wouldn't be the same doctor if I hadn't gone through it."

"You tellin' me it made you a better doctor?"

"Yeah, it did. But it damaged me as a man..."

---

When Kitty wandered back into the jail several hours later, she found Matt asleep in the chair by the bunk in the back cell, his hand holding Doc's. Quietly she crept into the cell, intending to blow out the lantern still aglow on the small table. The voice from the cot made her jump.

"Don't wake him yet."

She turned sharply toward the man she thought had been asleep on the cot, and although it made her ashamed, she felt a surge of fear. "Doc?"

The pale blue eyes intently studied her in the lamplight, and they flashed a terrible guilt, knowing that he had tried to harm her. He swallowed hard. "Yes, honey?"

She sat softly on the cot. "You're okay now, aren't you?"

"If you call being stiff and sore with a bruised temple okay," he said with mock annoyance, "then yes, I suppose I'm okay."

She reached across his body and grasped his free hand. "You scared me."

"You'll never know how ashamed I am about that honey..."

"No, Doc, I don't mean that; I was scared I might lose you forever."

He squeezed the small hand in his. "Well you didn't, so don't you give it another thought."

Her crystal eyes pierced his with their concern. "You talked it out with Matt?" He nodded. "Will you be okay now, Doc?"

He nodded again, but felt the guilt of the fear in her eyes land in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm sorry I put the three of you through this, Kitty, I guess I just never realized how much my time at Libby had haunted me until Haskett mentioned it the other day. And..." He shrugged. "Well, I never faced any of it, and it sorta just tumbled me down." He pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed it. "I don't want you to worry, Kitty, it might take a little bit of time, but I'm gonna be okay."

"What brought you out of it, Doc?"

Doc looked away for a moment, thinking, then he turned his eyes back to face her. "I'll let Matt tell you about that, honey..."

Understanding, she brushed her hand through Doc's hair. "Somethin' between you boys, huh?"

He shrugged, smiling shyly. "Kinda."

"You know, you could do with a good night's rest." He winced when her fingers brushed against his bruised temple. "Oh Doc, I'm sorry." She gently rubbed his cheekbone with her thumb and then the back of his head with her fingers. "I'll bet that head of yours hurts like hell..."

"Yeah, Chester gave me a good one."

"He feels awful about it, Doc." She let go of his hand and put both of hers on his face, tilting it to better examine the damage in the low light. "This looks pretty bad, you know." She winked at him. "Maybe you should see a doctor."

He gave her a stern look, and then his face dissolved into a smile. "You volunteering?"

She laughed softly. "Sure, handsome. What can I do to make it feel better?"

He tapped his own forehead with his index finger. "A little kiss right there oughta do it."

She leaned down and kissed him softly on the brow, brushing her hand over it. "There. Anything else?"

He shook his head. "No. I think you filled the prescription. Now go away and leave me alone, and take this big marshal with ya, I'd like to have my right hand back now."

She gently shook Dillon's shoulder. "Matt? Come on, cowboy, Doc needs to get some sleep."

"Hmmm?" His eyes opened, and he quickly let go of Adams' hand. He looked up at Kitty. "How long've you been here?"

"Not too long." She pulled him up by the arm. "Come on, Doc's tired..."

Dillon looked down at the old man. "You gonna be all right by yourself, ya ol' country croaker?"

"Yes," Doc growled in annoyance, "I'll be fine by myself! I don't need some kinda nursemaid!" He glared at the man he loved like a son. "And if I did need one, you can bet I'd ask Kitty! She's a helluva lot prettier to look at than the likes of you!"

"Uh-huh." He arched an eyebrow. "You sure you wouldn't be more comfortable in your own bed at home?"

"First you lock me up in here, and now you want to throw me out on the street! I'm too tired to move, ya young whelp. Besides, in case I have a relapse and want to eliminate someone in the middle of the night, I'd like to be sure you're close at hand."

Dillon laughed then. "Get some sleep, ol' boy."

Kitty walked out, and when Dillon hit the door, Doc softly called to him, "Matt?"

"Yeah, Doc?"

The pale blue eyes stared intently into the shimmering ones, and the old man swallowed hard, loosing his nerve. "Good night," he muttered.

Dillon's brow furrowed slightly in concern. "You all right?"

He nodded. "Yeah..." Then he mustered a growl, "Get outta here!"

Smiling, Dillon walked out, softly closing the connecting door behind him so that Doc could get some sleep. Adams stared after the big marshal for a moment, his mind reeling back to another lifetime, when he had been the young man. And he realized that Dr. Wilkins had been right: he just hoped Dillon would be there when death gave him the courage to tell Matt that he loved him like a son.

It was his only measure of devotion.

The End