"I thought we could settle this like men."

BOOM!! Down.

"You thought wrong dude."

Doc blinked twice. He felt positively sick to his stomach. Marty was down, shot. The fallen boy remained motionless. The crowd began to ease toward Marty. Bulldog Tannen got right up to his body and laughed triumphantly. He kicked him once before heading towards the saloon with his friends cheering and hollering the whole time. When Tannen and his gang were out of sight Doc made a mad dash toward Marty and collapsed at his side.

"Marty? Marty! Marty. Oh my—Marty please." Marty looked up at him, eyes pleading. Doc saw the blood seeping from his chest and onto the dirt. He ripped his friend's shirt open revealing the extent of the damage. A large bloody whole on his right breast. Very close to his heart. Maybe too close. "Oh, Marty no!" Marty jerked and grunted. "I-I I'm cold and I-I-I" "Shh. Don't try to talk son." Doc had to fight to keep his emotions in check which were coming dangerously close to the surface. Doc looked up at the stricken crowd. "Help! Somebody help!" No one moved. But there came a shout from beyond the crowd. "Emmett! Emmett!" Clara came bursting through the sea of people. "Oh Emmett I--." She saw Marty. "What happened?" She quickly took a place next to Doc. "Tannen. He was going to shoot me but Marty. Marty wouldn't let him. So he shot him. Tannen shot Marty," he growled with a cold fury. "We've got to get him to a doctor." Said Clara. "No! I can take care of him. Let's just get him back to my shop and I'll take care of him. I can take care of him." Clara looked unsure but was getting a sense of how much Emmett needed the boy so she nodded in agreement. Finally they got Marty back to Doc's, the boy gasping and panting the whole way. Doc quickly cleared a space on his bed. "Here bring him here." He ordered. The pair carefully placed the struggling form onto the bed. He had lost an awful amount of blood.

"Marty, Marty look at me! Look at me! Can you hear me? Can you see me?" asked Doc. "Yeah." Marty breathed. "Help." "That's what we're doing. You're going to be just fine you'll see." None of them really believed these words. "Clara go and get my kit. It's in those cabinets up there." Doc was holding a cloth hard over the wound trying desperately to stop the bleeding. Clara was soon back at the bedside handing Doc tools as he called for them. After 45 minutes of screaming and struggling Doc sighed. "It's too deep." "What?" "The bullet! It's too deep. I can't get it out." Dejectedly they bandaged Marty up and the ailing time traveler soon fell into a restless sleep.

Doc and Clara watched over him deep into the night. Doc had been trying to think up a plan. Nothing, nothing, aha! "Clara, when does the next train go through here?" "Wednesday around 7:00 a.m. I believe." "Marty may live 'til then." "Emmett what are you getting at?" "We go ahead with my original plan. Return to 1985 by train on Wednesday, then I get Marty to a hospital and his life might be saved." "They could save him in the future?" asked Clara. "They can." Answered Doc. "Emmett he looks so--." "I know," Doc nodded sullenly. "Do you really think he can live until Wednesday without treatment? I mean that's two days off." "He has to. It's my fault." Clara looked confused. "I knew when I invented the time machine that there would be risks but I didn't care. Then I had to go and drag Marty into it." He paused, then continued, "If he dies I am to blame."