Sully stood on the porch of the clinic, watching twilight fall over Colorado Springs, as behind him, the army soldiers stood guard.  Here and there, kerosene lanterns lent a warm glow to the facades of the buildings.  Across the way,  the outline of the Gold Nugget was becoming steadily more indistinct in the gathering darkness.  Lights glowed dimly in a few of the upstairs windows, but the ground floor of the saloon was dark, its shattered windows and door boarded up.  It would be a few days before Hank and Jake would be able to reopen.

     Sully felt a nagging anxiety at being away from Michaela's bedside.  He hadn't wanted to leave her, but Matthew, Brian, Marjorie and Rosalind had been waiting patiently for their chance to see Michaela, and Andrew had instructed that only one or two people be in the room at a time.

     Perhaps it was for the best.  The cool evening air was helping to clear his head, and reinvigorate him.  He knew his "second wind" was only temporary—he was desperately in need of rest, and was aware that he was courting collapse.  But the idea of sleep, with Michaela in such fragile condition, seemed incomprehensible.

     Andrew had come out to him a few minutes before to report that there was still no change--just as he'd reported every hour on the hour since Michaela's surgery had ended.  With each succeeding negative report, Andrew's expression had grown progressively more grave.  Sully continued to pray that Michaela would turn a corner during the night, but he was becoming less and less hopeful that she could pull out of this on her own.  With each passing hour, Sully's certainty grew that Andrew would have to resort to a transfusion to save Michaela's life.

     Sully tried to tell himself that Michaela's survival didn't depend solely on Andrew, however.  Somewhere, out in the first fall of darkness, he knew that Cloud Dancing was performing a ritual of healing, petitioning the spirits to give Michaela the strength to recover.  He closed his eyes, sending his thoughts out into the night, adding his prayers to those of his "brother."

     After a few moments he opened his eyes.  The street was nearly deserted, but a tall, lanky figure was approaching the clinic, his boot heels sounding unnaturally loud as they struck the wooden boards of the sidewalk.  As the man drew closer, Sully could discern his long hair, and the badge on his chest glinting in the lamplight.

     "Evenin'," Hank said as he reached him.

     "Hank," Sully responded.

     "I saw Jake earlier," Hank remarked.  "He was lookin' kinda peaked—“ the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, "but he said Michaela made it through the operation.  That's good," he added somewhat awkwardly.

     "Yeah," Sully answered.  "But she ain't out of the woods yet."

     "She wake up?" Hank asked.

     Sully shook his head.

     "She will," Hank said.  "'Fore ya know it, she'll be bossin' all of us around just like always."  A smile hovered around his mouth.

     A hint of warmth touched Sully's eyes.  "You might be right," he conceded.

     "'Course I'm right," Hank said confidently.  "Michaela's one stubborn woman.  She ain't gonna let a little thing like a bullet keep her down."

     "I—appreciate you comin' by and askin' after her," Sully said.

     "Sure," Hank said.  "But that ain't the only reason why I come.  I've got some news about the fella that shot her."  As he spoke, he took a fresh cigar from a pocket of his shirt.  Withdrawing a wooden match from the same pocket, Hank struck the match on the sole of his boot, and with a tiny hiss it erupted into flame.  He stuck the cigar between his teeth and held the flaring match to its tip.  Once the cigar was drawing well, Hank shook out the match and cast it into the street.

     Sully fixed him with an intense stare.  "Tell me," he said.

     "I got a wire from the sheriff in Denver," Hank told him, the cigar smoke floating up to wreath his head.    "He's got a fella in custody right now, charged with assault, that fits the description I sent, right down to the ruby ring.  Seems he beat up a workin' girl in a bar called 'The Lucky Strike.'  She remembered him real clear, 'cause he cut her in the face with his ring."

     "Who is he?" Sully asked tensely.

     "He wouldn't give his name or answer any questions," Hank replied.  "But don't worry—he will."

     "What do you mean?" Sully said.

     "I'm takin' the first train out to Denver in the mornin'," Hank said.  "Once I get ahold of him, he'll talk."

     "How can you be so sure?" Sully asked skeptically.

     "'Cause right now he's only wanted for assault.  But if he's the one we're after, he's gonna be facin' a charge of attempted murder.  If he don't want to find himself swingin' from a rope, instead of livin' out his days in prison, he'll tell me what I want to know."

     Sully considered what Hank had said.  For the first time, he found himself feeling grateful--even glad--for Hank's willingness to threaten, intimidate, or even use violence to get what he wanted.  Sully was aware of a slight revulsion  at these feelings; but mostly, he wanted Hank to do whatever was necessary to break this man—to hurt him the way he had hurt Michaela.  His only regret was that he couldn't be there to do it himself.
 
     Sully studied Hank's face.  The glowing tip of the cigar illuminated Hank's high cheekbones, while casting his hooded eyes into shadow.

     "I gotta ask you," Sully said finally.  "Why are you doin' this?"

     "I don't get your meanin'," Hank said, the light from the cigar describing bright patterns in the darkness as he moved his hand.

     "Goin' after Michaela's attacker like this, when there's been so much bad blood between us.  Seems the last thing you'd want is to do me any favors," Sully answered.

     "You're right about that," Hank confirmed.  "I ain't forgot how ya helped the Injuns, and what it's done to me an' everyone else.  But I'm sheriff here now, and it's my job to track down anyone who tries to hurt a member of this town—whether I like 'em or not.

     "'Sides," he added, exhaling a plume of smoke, "I still hold myself partly to blame for all this."  He hesitated, then added, "I guess—I'm doin' it for me as much as you and Michaela.

    "Understand me," he said.  "I don't like how she covered for ya all this time, but—I 'spose I can understand it.  Leastways, I ain't surprised.  And I gotta give her credit—she's  a gutsy woman," he admitted unexpectedly.  "I admire that.  And she didn't deserve what happened to her."

     "No, she didn't," Sully agreed, choosing not to address Hank's accusation of Michaela's complicity in his actions, within earshot of the army soldiers.

     The two men stood in companionable silence for several minutes—adversaries on opposite sides of the law, yet drawn together by an extraordinary set of circumstances.

    Hank leaned against a post of the clinic porch as he smoked.  Finally, with a sigh, he straightened and threw the remains of  his cigar into the dirt of the street.  Stepping down off the porch, he ground the butt to dust beneath his heel.

     "I'll be goin' now," he stated.  "I'll come and see ya soon as I get back, and let ya know what happened."

     Sully nodded.  "I'll be waitin'.  And Hank—“

     The saloon-keeper stopped.

     "Good luck," Sully said.

     Hank touched his fingers to the brim of his hat, and crossed the street to his saloon.  He walked toward the rear of the building and rounded the corner, disappearing from sight.

     Sully looked up at the sky, where one by one, the stars were winking into existence.  The moon hung above, its mysterious "face" floating in the darkness.  Sully wondered what secrets it held.  Was it giving him a promise of recovery for Michaela, or was it warning him of even worse times to come?  He let out a shuddering sigh.  Only time would tell . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

     Sully was just thinking that he should go back inside and see if he could rejoin Michaela, when Sgt. McKay emerged from the darkness.  It seemed to be his night for visits from the "enemy," Sully thought wryly.  While he certainly didn't welcome the appearance of McKay, Sully recognized the inevitability of it.  He had succeeded, for a time, in putting off a discussion with McKay of his alleged "crimes" at Palmer Creek, but Sully knew that he and McKay were destined to get into it sooner or later.  With an internal sigh, Sully accepted that it might as well be "sooner."

     "Good evening, Mr. Sully," McKay said neutrally as he stepped up on the porch.

     "Evenin'," Sully answered briefly.

     "I'm told that Dr. Quinn came through her surgery," said McKay.  "I'm glad to hear it."

     "Really?" Sully said cuttingly.  "I find that kinda hard to believe, Sergeant."

     "I suppose I've earned your sarcasm and distrust," McKay conceded surprisingly.  "But I am quite sincere.  Your wife is a fine doctor.  She's treated many of my men, always showing them kindness and giving them the best of care, regardless of what her personal feelings might be.  After you 'disappeared,' Dr. Quinn showed herself to be a woman of great courage and determination.  She never gave up hope that you were alive, going out to look for you day after day.

     "I hoped she had come to trust me—that she understood I was NOT like my 'predecessor,'" McKay went on.  "I thought she accepted that I truly desired to help when I asked her to tell me where you and Cloud Dancing had gone, so I could reach you before Sgt. O'Conner.  I thought she believed me when I pledged to do everything I could to make sure you were sentenced to life in prison, instead of hanging--if she would just tell me where you were.  She was truthful with me then, and I believe that in the beginning, after you fell from the cliff, she honestly didn't know where you were, or whether you were alive or dead.  But as time passed and it became obvious that she knew you were alive and was covering for you—“

     "I TOLD you Sergeant," Sully interrupted, "Michaela didn't have nothin' to do with—“

     McKay held up his hand.  "Mr. Sully, can't we speak plainly, at last?  You know, and I know, that Dr. Quinn has been well aware of your whereabouts for several weeks now.  Whether or not you've been helping the renegades, and whether your wife had knowledge of or participated in those actions, is open to debate.  But the time has come for us to lay all our cards on the table."

     "And what if I said that Michaela did find me, and kept it a secret—would you punish her for that?" Sully said.  "She was shot and nearly died, today—ain't that punishment enough?   She may STILL die—for the 'crime' of lovin' me and tryin' to protect me."

     McKay looked concerned. "But I understood that she was going to be all right," he said.

     "She came through the surgery, but she's far from all right," Sully said grimly.  "She lost a dangerous amount of blood, and her condition is still critical.  Andrew was hopin' she would begin to improve as the hours passed, but she ain't 'comin' back' like she should.  If she ain't better by mornin' . . . "  his voice trailed off.

     "I see," McKay said quietly.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Sully—I'm truly sorry. "

     Sully hated to admit it, but McKay's words rang true.  He seemed to have a genuine admiration and respect for Michaela.  At least—according to Michaela—there was one thing in his favor:  he was not another O'Conner.  What kind of man he would turn out to be remained to be seen.

     Softening toward McKay a bit, Sully said, "Sergeant, since it looks like we're goin' to be spendin' a lot of time together, you may as well call me 'Sully.'"

     "Very well," McKay agreed.  "Can we sit down?" he added, indicating the bench outside the clinic door.

     Sully nodded.

     They went over to the bench and settled themselves.  McKay glanced at his men and nodded slightly.  In response to his signal, they left the porch and walked a few yards away.

     "So now we have privacy," McKay said.  "I hope you'll feel you can speak freely."

     "I'll do my best to answer your questions," Sully allowed.

     "I'm glad to hear it," McKay answered.

     "So," said Sully, leaning back and folding his arms.  "What do you want to know?"