Sully stood by Michaela's partially open window, gazing out at the night.  A soft breeze gently stirred the lace curtains, cooling his flushed cheeks.  Though the hour was late, Rosalind, Marjorie and Brian hadn't been able to bring themselves to go to bed, and they clustered now on the porch of the clinic, quietly awaiting some sign of a change in Michaela's condition.

     Earlier, for the benefit of the guards, Matthew had made a point of announcing that he was going out to the homestead to tend to the animals, and would return to the clinic in the morning.  Sully hoped that Cloud Dancing's meeting with Black Moon had been successful, and that he and Matthew had been able to rendezvous at the cave.

     Upstairs, Dorothy was resting comfortably.  Sully had looked in on her briefly upon re-entering the clinic, after checking on his sleeping daughter in her room down the hall.

     A few feet away from him, Michaela also slept on.  But Sully knew that her sleep was not natural, and he swore that he would never ask God or the spirits for anything again if they would  only answer his prayers and make Michaela open her eyes.

     But so far, neither God nor the spirits seemed to be listening.  Andrew had said little the past few hours, but Sully knew Michaela wasn't improving—If anything, she was slipping further away.

     Sully found himself thinking of Cloud Dancing's son, Walks on Clouds, and how angry he had been when he'd lost his fiancee, Little Moon, to the typhus epidemic that had ravaged Black Kettle's tribe a few years before.  In his grief and agony, Walks on Clouds had cried out that if he could see this disease—if he knew where it came from--he would go there and fight it.

     Sully felt the same way.  He desperately wanted to fight what was happening to Michaela—to stop death from stealing her away from him.  But death was an enemy with no form or face—an invisible predator who stalked her by the hour, looming closer and closer.  And he was powerless before it.

     A movement further up the street caught his eye.  Two figures were coming slowly toward the clinic—one preceded by a cane which stretched out before him:  Loren and the Reverend.

     As Sully watched, a third figure approached them from the direction of the barber shop—Jake.

     Then, as if by a silent signal, the three men were joined by a fourth person, then a fifth, sixth and seventh.   As the group emerged into the light of the kerosene lamps illuminating the exterior of the clinic, Sully identified Horace, Robert E., Grace and Anthony.

     The new arrivals joined his family members on the clinic porch, and Sully could hear the soft murmur of their greetings to one another.  He couldn't make out their words, but he knew that Loren, Jake and the others were asking about Michaela.  How he wished that there was more positive news to tell them!

     Sully turned away from the window.  It was painful to listen to the voices of his friends and loved ones, when here in Michaela's room the silence was so deafening.  He sank down onto the chair by her bed, and reached out to touch her face.  As he gently caressed the softness of her skin, and her shining hair spilling over the pillow, he searched in vain for some sign that she was waking—or that at least she was  aware of his presence.  But her position hadn't changed, and she slumbered on—her spirit somewhere far away, out of his reach.

     He could feel the cold fear stealing over him again—that Michaela was leaving him to journey to a place where he couldn't follow.  He couldn't let that happen.  He couldn't—he wouldn't!--let death separate them.  She was too young—it was too soon.  If death was trying to pull her from his arms and take her into the next world, then he HAD to find a way to "go there and fight it"—and bring her back.

     "Michaela," he said softly.  "Can you hear me?  I'm right here with you, lookin' at your sweet face and wishin' you would open those beautiful eyes and look back at me.

     "You've had a nice, long rest, and that's good—I'm gonna make sure you do nothin' but rest till you're completely well—but Sweetheart, you need to wake up now.  You need to wake up so we know you're all right.  We need to hear your voice—talkin' about doctorin' with Andrew,  teasin' with Brian, singin' a bedtime song to Kates—even doin' a little 'meddlin'' in everybody's life."  A small smile tugged at his mouth.  "We miss hearin' your voice, Michaela—we miss you.

     "*I* miss you."  He felt his throat begin to ache as the tears started in his eyes.  With a determined effort, he pushed the misery back down inside.

     "Won't you please open your eyes for me, Michaela?" he implored her.  "Those amazin' eyes that aren't like anybody else's I've ever known . . .  I love your eyes, Michaela.  I live in your eyes, just like you live in my soul.

     "I know I don't tell you these things like I should.  I know lots of times I hide my feelins'—I ain't sure why.   Maybe it's because so many people I've loved have left me.  I guess I thought if I didn't open my heart—if I didn't say "I love you"—they wouldn't leave.  Or it wouldn't hurt so much if they did.  But I'm sayin' it now, Michaela.  I'm sayin' it, I'm shoutin' it, I'm yellin' it from the mountain top—I LOVE YOU—and I need you to come back to me.  I need you to hear me, and come back from that dark place where I can't go . . . "  He stared at her again, praying for some flicker of recognition—but there was nothing.  No matter—he would keep trying.  He WOULD make her hear him.

     "It's all right," he said calmly.  "Even if you can't tell me right now, I know that some part of you can hear me—so I'm just gonna keep talkin' till you wake up just to hush me."  He gave her a crooked little grin, then  picked up her hand, and threaded his fingers through hers.

     "There's somethin' I got to tell you," he said after a moment.  "Somethin' I did that you ain't gonna like, but somethin' I had to do.

     "I turned myself in, Michaela.  I know it ain't what you wanted, but I had no choice.  I had to get you to the clinic—I had to bring you to Andrew so he could help you.  So now the secret's out—everyone  knows I'm alive and I'm under arrest.  But I wouldn't let them take me to the jail.  I made sure of that.  I wouldn't let them take me away from you.  And I ain't gonna leave you—I swear."

       "Maybe it's for the best, me turnin' myself in," he went on philosophically.  "At least it's over now.  No more lyin' and sneakin' around, no more makin' you and the kids cover for me, no more endless nights of starin' at the ceilin' of the cave, wishin' I was in our bed with you in my arms.

     "I know how much you wanted this plan to work—and I tried it your way; Michaela, I really did try.  But hidin' from the law—‘stead of makin' a stand and facin' the consequences—just ain't the path to peace or honor.  And I couldn't let you make any more sacrifices for me—you've given up too much already.  You nearly gave up your life!--and I won't let you pay that price.  Not for me.

     "I don't know what the future holds, Michaela.  From all the studyin' Matthew's done, and the soldiers he's questioned, it seems like we got a good case.  The army just ain't got the proof they need to convict me of murder or treason.   There weren't any witnesses to the fight between me and O'Conner, and though McKay saw me at the reservation, he didn't see me settin' off the dynamite, or torchin' any shacks, or shootin' at any soldiers.  All he saw was me tryin' to help Cloud Dancin'.  Matthew says that accordin' to the Constitution, the army needs at least two witnesses to an act of treason to convict.  And so far as we know, they only got McKay.

     "Talkin' of McKay, I think maybe you were right about him.  We had a real interestin' talk a while ago, and the one thing I'm sure of is that he ain't anythin' like O'Conner.  I ain't got him totally figured out yet, but he seems like he's willin' to be fair.  At least he heard me out, let me tell my side.

     "I told him I'd answer his questions, and I did—to a point.  Nothin' I said was a lie—exactly—but—“ here he smiled again slightly, "I didn't admit to nothin' either.  And I stretched the truth where you and the kids were concerned.  I did it for your sake, Michaela—for all of you.  I want to keep you all out of it.  I don't want McKay blamin' you for any part of this.  I ain't sure, but I think I made him understand.  I don't believe he wants to hurt you.  Fact is, he's got a lot of respect for you, and he's got a debt on you  for takin' such good care of his men.

     "'Course he ain't finished with me yet—not by a long shot.  But I think I can handle the rest of his questions—at least I'll try my best.

     "I'll say this for him—he don't seem the type to rush to judgement—he seems to care about the truth.  I think he's honest—maybe even honorable.  It just may be all right.

     "But—as reasonable as all that sounds, it could still all come to nothin' in the end.  It seems to me, most times, that justice ain't so much about the facts, as it is the whims and politics of the people involved or doin' the accusin'.

     "I ain't saying' all this to frighten you, Michaela.  I just want to be honest with you, like I know you'd want me to be.  I didn't talk to you before Palmer Creek, like I should have.  Maybe if I had, everythin' would be different now.  But there's no goin' back.

     "I'm just sayin'—I think we need to be prepared.  If—it goes bad for me, I want to make sure that you and the kids will be all right--that you'll be taken care of.   I promise you I'll see to that, no matter what happens.

     "But I'm makin' you another promise too:  I promise to fight this, in every way I can.  I'm gonna do my best to win, and get my freedom.  So I can come home to you for good.

     "But you got to make me a promise in return.  You got to promise to fight to get better—to get well.  So that you'll be standin' in the door of the homestead waitin' for me when I come home to you."

     He bent over her and gently kissed her lips.  He still held her hand within his own, and he clutched it even tighter.

     He thought again of Cloud Dancing, making his offerings to the spirits, asking them to send their healing strength to Michaela.

     Sully had no sweat lodge, no healing herbs, and no campfire over which to scatter them.  Nonetheless, he closed his eyes and tilted back his head.

     "Grandfather," he whispered.  "I ask your help and guidance in this healing."  He began to chant softly in the ancient ritual Cloud Dancing had taught him.

     Holding fast to Michaela's hand, as if he could infuse the healing energy from his body into hers, Sully offered his prayers to the spirits.

     Outside, his friends and family maintained their quiet vigil.  Yet as the sound of Sully's voice broke the stillness, one by one their eyes drifted to the soft glow of Michaela's window, as Sully's song floated out on the starry autumn night.