Matthew knocked on the door of the sheriff's office, and then, without waiting for an invitation, turned the knob and went inside.

     "You're out and about early," Hank greeted him.  He lounged in the chair behind his desk, his feet, clad in worn leather boots, propped on the desk top.  Two or three telegrams lay stacked on the desk in front of him.  Hank flicked his long blonde hair back over his shoulders and reached down to slide open a drawer of the desk.  He took out a cheroot, and a box of matches.  Languidly he stuck the cigar between his teeth, struck a match and ignited the tip.  Casually he tossed the burned match into a spittoon in the corner.

     "Had to bring some things into town for Dr. Mike and Sully," Matthew explained briefly.

     Hank exhaled a plume of smoke and regarded him lazily, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, the cigar pinched between his thumb and forefinger.  "So what do ya want?" he asked.

     Matthew glanced at the small stack of telegrams.  "I was wonderin' if you'd heard anythin' more about Flagg, or found out more about what happened in Denver—how Bancroft killed himself, or how Flagg got away," he answered.  "Any of those wires about them?"

     "One," Hank said.  "I telegraphed the sheriff last night, demandin' an explanation.  Got his reply first thing this mornin'.  Seems Bancroft found a broken piece of metal in the frame of his cot—scraped his arm across it and tore it wide open.  Bled to death in record time."
 
     "What about Flagg?" Matthew persisted.  "He was in a separate cell—how could he get the drop on the deputy if he was locked up?"

     "Turns out he wasn't in another cell," Hank replied.  "The night before, the deputy'd brought in a few boys who'd been in a bar fight, charged with drunk and disorderly.  There weren't enough cells to hold 'em all, so the sheriff had to double up—he stuck Flagg in with Bancroft.  When the deputy found Bancroft, and leaned over the body to see if he was still breathin', Flagg snuck up behind him, grabbed his gun from the holster and cracked him 'cross the skull.  Then he just strolled out, neat as ya please."

     "Damn!" Matthew swore, in a rare use of profanity.

     "He was stupid all right, and no mistake," Hank commiserated with him.

     "Well, has the sheriff got any leads? Has anybody spotted Flagg—or know what direction he's headed?"  Matthew said impatiently.

     "Nope—no leads, no clues," Hank said flatly.  He regarded Matthew levelly.  "But *we* know what direction he's headed—don't we?"  He puffed on the cigar.

     "Maybe—maybe not," Matthew said reluctantly, not wanting to accept that Dr. Mike and Sully were most likely still targets of Flagg's vengeance.

     "Come on, Matthew—you had this job once.  Did your share of chasin' after outlaws too, as I recall.  Even caught a few, with Marshal Burch's help.  You know as well as I do that Flagg ain't gonna give up.  He's probably just as crazy as the old man was—and just as dangerous."

     "Well what about McKay's men?" Matthew persisted, still grasping at straws.  "They turn up anythin' yet?"

     Hank lowered his feet to the floor and stood up.  He walked over to a small table against the wall, which held a dented metal coffee pot and two tin cups.  Pouring coffee into one of the cups, he looked back over his shoulder at Matthew.  "Want some?" he asked.

     Matthew shook his head.  "Are you gonna answer my question or not?" he demanded.

     Hank returned to the desk, his cup in one hand, the cigar in the other.  Reseating himself, he looked up at Matthew.  "I ain't seen McKay yet this mornin'," he answered.  He sipped from the cup and set it down on the desk.  "Though I figure if his men had found somethin', he woulda come over here and told me."

     "He might," Matthew said guardedly.  "Unless maybe he has his hands full with other things."

     Hank looked at him sharply.  "What do ya mean?"

     "Well, there might be military matters in camp that need his attention," Matthew said vaguely, wary about letting Hank know of McKay's agreement to release the Indians.

     Hank was still scrutinizing him closely.  "Seems like maybe ya know what them 'matters' might be," he said pointedly.

     "McKay don't confide in me," Matthew said, deciding to bluff it out.  "If there's anythin' he thinks you need to know, he'll tell you.  Right now, all I care about is findin' Flagg before he finds Dr. Mike or Sully.  If you can help me, then fine.  Otherwise, I'll just have to do it on my own."

     "You thinkin' of goin' after Flagg yourself?" Hank asked.

     "I might," Matthew allowed.

     Hank took a last puff on the cigar and pitched it in the direction of the spittoon.  Taking another swallow of his coffee, he leaned back and said, "You're a fool if ya do.  Flagg ain't no one to mess with—he tried murder once.  He won't hesitate to do it again—only next time he might not miss."

     "Well somebody's gotta stop him!" Matthew exclaimed.  "As long as McKay's determined to keep Sully in the dark, someone's got to look out for him and Dr. Mike."

     "McKay said he'd protect 'em," Hank reminded him.

     "Since when are you such a fan of McKay's?" Matthew said.

     "I ain't," Hank replied.  "But McKay's army—he knows his job."

     "I just don't like sittin' around here doin' nothin'," Matthew said in frustration.  "I feel like we're a bunch of sittin' ducks."

     "It's still smarter to stay here in town where ya got plenty of back-up, then go after Flagg half-cocked and probably get yourself killed," Hank advised him.

     "I can handle myself," Matthew said defensively.

     "Right—I'll tell 'em to put that on your tombstone," Hank told him sarcastically.  After a moment, his features softened slightly.  "Use your head, Matthew," he said in an eery echo of Sully.  "Let me and McKay handle this.  When Flagg shows up, we'll get him."

     Matthew stared at him.  "Yeah—but will Dr. Mike and Sully still be alive after you do?"

* * * * * * * * * *

     Sully sat on the side of Michaela's bed, staring off into space.  The rays of the westering sun slanting through the window bathed the room in golden light, and turned the wood of the chessboard propped between he and Michaela to the color of warm honey.  Colleen had thoughtfully brought the chessboard, as well as a small selection of books, to help her mother while away the hours and days of her recovery.

     Michaela watched the warm sunlight play over her husband's features, dustmotes dancing in its beams.  Sully's eyes were abstracted, his thoughts turned inward.  Michaela's gaze traveled downward, to where Sully's hand rested on his medicine pouch, his fingers absently stroking its worn softness.  Next to him, a few chess pieces lay scattered on the blanket.  His pile of captured pieces was noticeably smaller than hers.

     "Sully?" she said softly.

     "Hm?" he answered distractedly, then his eyes cleared and he focused on her.  "Sorry—guess I was wool-gatherin'.  Did you move?"

     "No," she said.  She picked up the board and put it aside.  "Perhaps it would be best if we played later," she suggested.

     He gave her an apologetic smile.  "I guess my mind ain't been on the game," he said.  "Would you rather I read to you?"  He picked up the books stacked on the nightstand and looked through the titles.  "Colleen brought us Walt Whitman—and here's Emerson, your favorite."

     "Perhaps later," Michaela repeated.  She fixed her amber-green eyes on his.   "Are you thinking of your mother?" she asked.

     He nodded.  "Yeah, guess I was.  Hearin' what Rosalind had to say, made me think I never really knew her.  Listenin' to Rosalind talk about her as a young girl—one with hopes and dreams for the future, happy, laughin'—made her real to me in a way I hadn't felt since I was a little boy."

     "That was Rosalind's 'gift of wisdom' to you," Michaela said, smiling gently.

     "Yeah," Sully agreed, sharing her smile.  Silence fell between them, and his gaze drifted off again.

     Michaela reached out and touched his hand that cradled the medicine pouch.

    "Sully, it's time," she said quietly.

     "Time?" he echoed.  "Time for what?"  His gaze sharpened as he looked at her.  "You mean time for more morphine?  Are you hurtin' again, Michaela?" he asked, his eyes studying her more carefully.

     She shook her head slightly.  "No, I'm fine.  I mean, it's time for you to tell me."

     "Tell you what?" he asked.

     "Everything," she said.  "All you know about what happened that day, and why it happened.  And most important, what's going to happen to you."

     "I don't know, Michaela," he began evasively.  "It's so quiet and peaceful right now, just the two of us, alone together.  Why spoil it by bringin' up all that?"

     "You promised," she reminded him, looking at him significantly.

     "I know—and I aim to keep my promise.  But you're still so weak.  I don't want to upset you by talkin' of the shootin'—bringin' up a lot of bad memories," he protested half-heartedly.

     "I'm not nearly as fragile as you seem to think," Michaela told him.  "And I believe that those memories must be far worse for you than they are for me," she added intuitively.  "But keeping it all inside does no good, Sully.  The memories and bad feelings only fester.  You need to talk it out—just as you did when you told me of your mother.  Just as importantly, I need to hear it—all of it," she stressed gently.

     "All right," he agreed reluctantly.  He was quiet for a moment, then said, "What you said, just now--about Rosalind givin' me her 'gift of wisdom'?  So many people have shared their wisdom with me—Cloud Dancin', Black Kettle, Rosalind, you—“  He picked up her hand from the coverlet and stroked it.  "But if I have all that wisdom, why do I keep makin' the same mistakes?"

     Michaela regarded him compassionately.  "Why do you say that?" she asked gently.

     "'Cause it's the truth," Sully answered in a low voice.  "I know—you think I'm feelin' sorry for myself again.  But that ain't it, Michaela.  I've made mistakes—grievous ones.  Some so bad they cost innocent people their lives—like the man I killed in the war, and the Indians and soldiers at Palmer Creek.  I know there ain't no goin' back from what I did, but their deaths will still haunt me to the end of my days.

     "But my worst mistake is the one I made with you," he added bitterly.

     "Whatever could you possibly mean?" Michaela said, genuinely shocked by his statement.

     "That day—the day you . . . got shot--I knew there was somethin' wrong," he admitted, almost in a whisper.  "I knew it 'fore you even left my sight.  I knew you were ridin' into danger—you and Dorothy both.  I could feel it, deep in my gut.  But I didn't do nothin'.  I just let you go off alone, unprotected.  I should have been with you, Michaela.  If I had, you never woulda been hurt.  You wouldn't have almost—died.  I can't forgive myself for that."

     He was staring down at his lap, as if ashamed to meet her eyes.  Michaela reached out and cupped her hand beneath his chin, forcing him to look up at her.

     "There is nothing to forgive," she said firmly.  "And you can't know that we would have been spared if you'd been with us, Sully.  If you *had* been there, you might have been the one who was shot—you might have been killed!  I don't know anything about the man who attacked us, but I  know enough to realize that he must have been watching the homestead, waiting for us to leave so he could follow us.  It's only by the grace of God that he didn't know you were there, or he certainly would have gone after you.  He made his hatred of you very clear to Dorothy and me.

     "Sully, you did what you had to, remaining at the homestead.  We couldn't risk your being discovered and arrested—‘  Michaela broke off awkwardly as she realized that the day's tragic events had ended with precisely that result.  The irony of her statement was not lost on her husband.

     "One way or the other, it seems I was destined to be found out," he said fatalistically.  "The difference is, you wouldn't have been hurt, or Dorothy beat up.  The only person who would have paid for my crimes would have been me."

     "Sully, in the past you've said that giving in to guilt—asking yourself 'what if,' or thinking 'if only'—serves no purpose.  I believe you were right.  A bad thing happened.  But it's over.  Dorothy's getting better--I will recover.  We need to move forward now, get beyond it.  And we will—I know that—once we've talked it all out," Michaela finished soothingly.

     "I think it's gonna take more than talkin' to fix things this time," Sully said softly.

     "It's a beginning," she insisted, gently but firmly.  "The start of the healing—for me and for you."

     "More of your 'wisdom'?" Sully asked, with the ghost of a smile.

     "If you like," Michaela said, her answering smile one of love and encouragement.

     "All right," he agreed again.  Michaela covered his hand with hers.  The small gesture seemed to give him courage.

     "I guess, the first thing you got the right to know is who shot you—and why," he began . . .