Sully sat cross-legged on the porch of the clinic, his back braced against the wall.  His head was tipped back, his eyes shut.  His hands rested lightly on his knees, palms down.  Anyone passing by would have assumed he was sleeping; and perhaps there had been brief moments when his overtaxed mind had drifted into a light, uneasy doze.  But for the most part he had been praying—praying that Michaela survived the surgery, praying that Andrew could repair the damage wrought by the bullet, praying that afterward Michaela would magically open her eyes and be well and strong again.

     A small part of his mind told him he must prepare himself--that he dare not hope too much.  If the worst happened, he'd have to go on, somehow finding the strength to endure for his children’s sake.  But  without Michaela, he would be living only a shadow-life; a gray, incomplete existence, because half his heart and soul would be gone.

     From nearby he heard the Reverend's voice ask softly, "Loren, how long has it been?"  There was a pause, then he heard a minute rattle and a small click—the sound of a pocket watch being taken out and opened.

     "Aw," he heard Loren grumble, "Damn fool watch stopped."

     The Reverend's voice, sounding mildly amused, "You forgot to wind it again."  He added softly, "Still, we should be hearing something soon, shouldn't we?"

     "Wish I knew," Loren murmured.  Sully could almost feel Loren looking over at him.  He wondered what Loren was thinking.  At least he could be sure that Loren was concerned about Michaela, regardless of what the storekeeper felt about him.

     A few quiet minutes passed, then Sully felt a light touch on his shoulder.

     "Sully?"

     He opened his eyes to see Grace standing over him.

     "Grace," he said, sitting up straighter and scrubbing at his face with his hands.  Grace regarded him kindly.

     "Sully, you look like you haven't eaten or slept for days.  I'll bring you some food from the café."

     He gave her a slight, grateful smile.  "Thanks Grace, but I ain't hungry."

     "You need to keep your strength up, for Dr. Mike and for the children.  You won't be any good to them if you get sick too," she chided gently.

     "You're right," he admitted.  "But—“

     "You got to look out for yourself too, Sully," she said.

     He swallowed.  "Grace, I'm sorry for lyin'—for disappointin' you and Robert E."

     "We figure you had your reasons," she answered.

     "I just—I hope you won't hold Michaela responsible for any of this," he said quietly.  "It was all my doin'.  She was just protectin' me."

     "You remember that Robert E. once killed a man?" she said, just above a whisper.  "Now I wasn't there when that happened, but if I had been, I would have stood by him.  That's what you do for the people you love."

     Sully  didn't trust himself to speak.  Grace just patted his shoulder.

     "I'm gonna bring you that food now," she told him.  "Robert E. had to go back to the livery, but we'll be waitin' for word about Dr Mike," she added, and walked away in the direction of the café.

     Sully got to his feet.  He stretched, flexing his stiff muscles and placing his hands in the small of his back, feeling it crack.   Behind him, he heard the wood of the bench creak as Loren and the Reverend also stood up.

     Loren's hesitant steps came up behind him.  Sully turned to face him.  Loren looked discomfited, but no longer angry.

     "I need to be gettin' back to the store," he said gruffly.  "Be sure to send word when Dr. Mike's operation is over."

     "I will," Sully said.

     "I'll be prayin' for Dr. Mike," Loren added.

     "Thanks Loren—I appreciate that," Sully said simply.

     "You—need anything—you know where to find me," Loren said awkwardly.

     "Well, now that you mention it, Brian will  be needin' someone to talk to," Sully ventured.  "Someone he loves and trusts."  Impulsively he added, "Maybe even someone to go fishin' with."

     Loren's eyes met his own, and an unspoken message passed between them.

     Sully lowered his voice and said, "Loren, anything Brian might have known, but kept to himself--was to protect me.  It hurt him—to keep things from the people he loved.  And I'm truly sorry for puttin' him in that position.  I'm sorry for lyin', period.  But it was safer for the people I—cared about—not to know anythin' about my actions.  I didn't want people to be hurt any more than they already were."

     Loren hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his vest.   He stared off down the street, then down at the ground, and finally back at Sully.  "I . . . 'spose I can understand that," he said at last.

     "I'm glad," Sully said.  He put out his hand, and after a brief hesitation, Loren took it.  They shook, Sully holding Loren's grasp a fraction longer than was necessary.

     "Sully," said the Reverend, his cane extended before him as he walked over to join the two men.  "I'll be organizin' a prayer service for Dr. Mike.  We're all hopin' she pulls through."

     Sully grasped Reverend Johnson's hand as well.  "I'm grateful, Reverend," he answered.  "Would you thank everyone—for Michaela and for me?"

     "Of course," the Reverend said.  "Remember Sully, the Lord is with Dr. Mike—and with you."

     "I'll try to keep that in mind," Sully said.

     Loren guided the Reverend off the porch, and they proceeded slowly up the street toward the mercantile.

     Sully watched their progress.  A wagon trundled down the street, momentarily obscuring his view.  When it rolled past, Sully spotted Hank coming toward him from the direction of the sheriff's office.  He hadn't seen Hank leave the clinic after his meeting with Dorothy—it must have been during  the brief period when he had been asleep.

     Hank's dusty black hat cast a shadow over his features.  From this distance it was impossible for Sully to read his expression.

    But he could clearly see the gun belt slung low on Hank's hips, and the sun glinting off the five-pointed star on his vest.  He found it somewhat jarring to see Hank wearing a badge, but he had to admit that there was a certain logic to it.  Hank had coveted the job for a long time.  Some might say it was because he had a craving for power and a need to dominate others.

    Ironically, however—given the antipathy between Hank and himself—Sully could see beneath the surface, and he understood that there was much more to it than that.  On the face of it, they were very different men, with radically differing visions of the world and often opposing priorities.  But in one very important sense, Sully recognized a member of his own "tribe."  He and Hank each had a strict moral code—a set of rules that governed each of their lives, to which they faithfully adhered.   For Sully, it was the path instilled in him by the Cheyenne--a-reverence for nature, and the spirituality of all living things, coupled with an aversion to violence unless absolutely necessary.   For Hank, it was the "law of the land"—the belief that he had the right to protect and defend himself and his property regardless of the circumstances, which often meant resorting to violence.

    But in their individual ways, Sully and Hank each possessed his own unique brand of integrity.  They might not like each other, but they respected one another.  A perfect case in point was Hank's defense of Sully to McKay.   Hank may have resented Sully for helping the Indians at Palmer Creek, but he also knew that Sully was a man of honor--and incapable of physically harming anyone he loved.   When McKay had tried to suggest otherwise, Hank had been compelled to "set him straight."

    In the time Sully spent ruminating about the differences between himself and the long-haired saloon-keeper, Hank closed the distance between them.  He approached Sully, and nodded briefly.

    "Hey," he said.

    "Hank," Sully responded.

    "Any news?" Hank asked, inclining his head toward the door of the clinic.

    "Not yet," Sully answered quietly.

    Hank nodded again, and absently fingered the butt of the gun on his hip.  "Yeah, well, I just come from the telegraph office—got Horace wirin' sheriffs in Denver, Manitou, Soda Springs—and everywhere in between."

    "So was Dorothy able to give you a good description?" Sully asked.

    "Yeah, though there ain't much to go on.  She couldn't see his face real clear, and she said he was dressed in plain clothes.  There was one thing, though--she said he was wearin' a big gold and ruby ring.  She noticed it because he didn't look like the type  to be ownin' fancy jewelry.  She thinks maybe he stole it.  If he did, he may be wanted for robbery and that'll make him a lot easier to find."

    "Good," Sully said.

    Hank took off his hat and pushed his long, wavy hair back from his face.  The colorful scarf knotted around his neck fluttered in the breeze.  He stared across the way at the damaged facade of his hotel.  Sully sensed that there was something else Hank wanted to say, and he waited patiently, fully prepared for Hank to finally vent his rage over the Indian raids and the destruction of his business.

    Prepared as he was for Hank's anger, Sully was almost shocked at what came next.

    "Dorothy said somethin' else," Hank began, studying the brim of his hat as if he'd never seen it before.  "This guy—she said he talked about bein' in the saloon when I—“ he cleared his throat.  "When I was talkin' about you bein' alive, and blamin' you for the raids.  He--he heard me blamin' Michaela too—for hidin' you and lyin' to the town about you bein' dead."  Hank slowly raised his eyes to meet Sully's.

      "Dorothy said he wanted to punish Michaela for what you did," he said, and then added after a moment, "No, that ain't right.  He wanted to punish Michaela for what *I* said you did."  He was silent for a few seconds, then with difficulty he went on, "It—looks like what happened to Michaela was my fault.  If this guy hadn't heard me goin' on about you causin' all the trouble, he wouldn't have got all riled up and he might never have gone after Michaela.

    "I owe ya an apology," Hank said stiffly.  "If all this was my doin', I'm sorry.  And if—“ He paused, then corrected himself, "when—Michaela gets better, I'll tell her the same."

    Sully realized what it had cost Hank to make such an admission, and to apologize to him, of all people.  Again, he was struck by the irony of the situation.  Hank was blaming himself for the ambush in exactly the way Sully blamed himself for the attack, and for everything he'd done in the past that had led up to it.  And Sully's sense of honor--his own internal code—would not allow him to let Hank shoulder all the blame for this tragedy.  There was more than enough blame to go around, he thought wearily.

    "That's—decent of you, Hank," Sully said, after a pause.  "But it ain't fair to let you take all the blame for this—not when I own such a big piece of it myself."

    "What are ya talkin' about?" Hank asked.

    "I set all this in motion months ago," Sully said.  "Michaela and Dorothy are just the latest ones to pay the price."

    "But this guy—whoever he is—went after 'em because of what I said," Hank persisted.  "Dorothy heard him say it flat-out."

    "He may have been in the saloon, and he may have heard you talkin', but that don't mean it was you that set him on the path," Sully told him.  "We don't know that he wasn't already after me when he came here.  Fact is, we don't know anything about him at all."

    "Well I mean to find out," Hank vowed grimly.

    "So do I," Sully echoed softly.  "So do I."