Michaela blew on her hands to warm them, then clutched the quilt tightly to herself once again.  She wished she could get up and walk around, warming herself with the exercise.  But if she could get up and walk around, she wouldn't need Sully to come back and rescue her—she could just go back to her room on her own, she thought wryly.

     "I believe the cold is beginning to affect my senses," she thought to herself.  She sighed aloud, then looked back out at the street, searching in vain for some distraction to keep her mind occupied until McKay finally let Sully go so he could return to her.

     But there was nothing of interest.  Only the facade of the Gold Nugget, light spilling out through its open door, the indistinct figures of customers silhouetted in the windows.  The same sight she had been watching for hours, it seemed.

     No creature stirred outside except for Sully and McKay, neither of whom she could see.  When would McKay LEAVE? she thought again, beginning to feel a little desperate.

     Michaela felt rather than saw the motion of something across the way.  She was staring morosely at the porch of the Gold Nugget, when she seemed to sense the merest flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye.  As the thought registered belatedly in her mind, she turned sharply to look at the side of the building.  She could make out no detail; the spot was a nest of shadows.  Nonetheless, she stared hard into the darkness for several moments, waiting to see if the movement repeated—progressively more unsure as the seconds ticked by if there really *had* been a movement, or whether her eyes were merely playing tricks on her—the more likely explanation.

     There!  There it was again!  A shadow shifting, changing shape, growing taller.  She stared, mesmorized by the sight, too startled for a moment to think of being alarmed.

     Apprehension claimed her in the next moment, however.   Without being conscious of her action,  she instinctively drew back from the railing, as if to conceal herself.

     Michaela became aware that she was feeling the same sense of menace she had experienced in the clearing.

     No! she thought.  No, it *can't* be happening again.  He's in jail—Sully swore to me he was in jail!

     The shadow detached itself from the others and eased slowly forward, stopping just short of the corner of the building.  Michaela watched with a horrid fascination.  She could make out even less detail about the appearance of this figure than she had been able to discern with McKay.  It was impossible for her to distinguish even if it was a man or a woman.  And yet the conviction within her was absolute and unshakable, that the sinister intruder was indeed Flagg, come back to finish what he'd started.

     The rational part of her mind told her it couldn't be—Sully had been convinced that Flagg was safely locked away in a jail cell in Denver, and Sully would not lie to her.  But the deeper, more visceral part of her—what Sully would call her gut—possessed a different knowledge.  People had been known to escape imprisonment—she and Ely Parker had even helped Sully to escape from a federal prison in the heart of Washington, DC!  If the two of them, unpracticed in the art of subterfuge, had been able to accomplish such a nearly impossible feat, was it so hard to believe that Flagg could have managed to do the same thing from the much smaller and far less heavily guarded Denver jail?

     Michaela strained her eyes, trying desperately to get a glimpse of the intruder's face.  She was torn between wanting him to move nearer so she could identify him, and existing in abject terror  that he would come any closer.

     Another movement, causing her to flinch.  She hugged the quilt around her shivering body, her heart racing and her mouth dry.  The figure inched forward once again, moving beyond the wall of the building, but keeping low, so as not to be noticed through the railing of the porch.  Two large barrels, which no doubt had formerly contained  beer, stood side by side along the front of the porch, providing the intruder convenient cover.  Though from her vantage point Michaela could detect the man huddled behind the kegs, from where Sully and McKay were standing, he was effectively blocked from view.

     Cautiously the dark figure raised his head above the barrels.  Though his hiding place was shadowy, the bright light issuing from the saloon illuminated the small section of street enough that Michaela could finally see his face.

     In that instant, three things registered on her consciousness:   a pair of soulless, murderous eyes—eyes she had seen before, in the face of her attacker; the dim, metallic gleam of the gun in his hand; and the direction in which that gun was pointed—toward Sully.

* * * * * * * * * *

     For a moment Michaela felt as if she couldn't breathe.  Her shaking hand went to her mouth in horror.  It took all the strength within her to stifle the scream that wanted to erupt from the very depths of her soul.

     She felt as if she were trapped in one of her worst nightmares.  One in which she saw her loved ones in danger, and wanted to warn them, but she was paralyzed—unable to speak, unable to move.  This reality was like that nightmare come to life.  She couldn't call out to Sully without alerting Flagg, and physically she couldn't reach him.

     She could try to walk, but she doubted that she could  take even one or two steps without collapsing.  And even if, somehow, she could make it all the way downstairs, by the time she reached the bottom, Sully could be dead.

     But she had to find a way to warn him!  She couldn't just sit here helplessly and let this unspeakable drama play out before her eyes.  She couldn't let her husband die.

     Feverishly Michaela tried to think of some way to get Sully's attention without Flagg knowing, but it was no use.  She had two choices—calling out, or going to Sully herself.  The latter was impossible.  That left only the former.

     She prayed that the sound of her voice would startle Flagg long enough to allow Sully to dive for cover.  His reflexes were excellent, his senses finely tuned.  Perhaps there was a chance.  Her presence might even be an effective enough distraction to draw Flagg's fire away from her husband completely, giving McKay a chance to reach his gun.

     There was no time to ponder further.  Flagg could fire at any moment.  She had to act.

     Michaela looked closely at Flagg, chillingly aware that at any moment he might look up and spot her here on the balcony.  But his gaze was firmly fixed on his target.  Taking a deep breath, she threw back the quilt and locked her hands around the arms of the chair.  Summoning every bit of her strength,  she slowly raised herself to her feet.  Her muscles shook, and a wave of vertigo washed over her, but she pressed her lips together grimly and refused to surrender to it.  After a moment, it receded.  She stood  rigidly still for a few seconds, preparing for what she must do next, her eyes locked on Flagg.  Thankfully, he still had not noticed her, continuing to stare fixedly at Sully.

     Her arms trembling, Michaela let go of her chair with one hand and reached out to grab the rail of the balcony.  Supporting herself with that hand, she let go of the chair completely and grasped the rail with both hands, leaning on it heavily.  The vertigo was threatening to return.  The blood roared in her ears.  She felt as if she were looking at the scene below through the wrong end of a telescope, the images receding away from her to tiny pinpoints.

     She recognized that she was very close to fainting, and she forced herself to take deep gulps of the cold night air, warding off the blackness that hovered on the edges of her vision.

     Slowly, her surroundings resumed their proper proportions, and her light-headedness faded.  She continued to breath deeply, fortifying her strength.

     Flagg was on the move again!  He crept around the barrels, still out of sight of Sully and McKay, and sidled, crab-like, to the concealment of the water trough in front of the saloon.  She saw him cock and aim the pistol.

     No more time.  It was now or never.

     "SULLY!" she cried.   "By the saloon!  LOOK OUT!"

     After that several things happened very fast.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Just as Michaela had anticipated, the sound of her voice caused Flagg's head to whip upwards.  He sought the source of her scream and his eyes found and locked with hers.  With one swift motion, he brought up the pistol.

     Simultaneaously Sully leaped off the porch, his frantic eyes taking in the sight of Flagg aiming at his wife, who stood defenselessly above.  "MICHAELA! Get down!" he bellowed as Flagg fired.

     The bullet whined off one of the uprights of the balcony, carving out a sizeable chunk of wood, but missing Michaela by several inches.  The shock of the bullet coming so close—or perhaps just instinct—caused her to let go of the railing and crumple to her knees.

     Sully and McKay crouched near the ground as McKay fired a volley of shots in Flagg's direction.  The gunman ducked down behind the trough as the bullets screamed harmelssly over his head.  McKay squeezed off another shot, then he and Sully heard a sound that filled them with dismay--the click of a hammer falling on an empty chamber.  Frantically, McKay fumbled for bullets to reload.  Off to their right, the music from the Gold Nugget jangled to an abrupt stop.  Sully was peripherally aware of figures rushing to the windows and door of the saloon to peer at the commotion outside.

     At that moment, Sully saw Flagg emerge from behind the trough and raise his gun to fire again.  Without stopping to think, Sully made a flying leap and tackled McKay, knocking him to the ground, as Flagg's gun exploded behind them.

     As they hit the ground, McKay heard one more gunshot--this one much closer—and then, an eerie silence.

     Stunned, for several seconds McKay could only lay face down in the dirt.  But as his senses slowly began to return to him, he became aware of a heavy weight pinning him down from above.  Summoning his strength, he got his hands underneath him and pushed himself upwards, causing the weight to slide off.  Dust and sweat ran in his eyes.  Breathing heavily, he blinked rapidly to clear his vision, and staggered to his feet.  Turning, he saw Sully lying on his back, his eyes closed and blood pooling from a wound in his shoulder.  More blood soaked the ground beneath him.  In horror, McKay dropped to his knees beside Sully's body.  Dazed, he looked toward where he had last seen Flagg.  The attacker's body was flung awkwardly over the trough, face up to the sky.   His gun hand hung down, the fingers still clutching his pistol, which dragged in the dirt.  His other  hand trailed in the water.  Hank Lawson stood above him, both hands gripping his own gun, which was trained on Flagg's chest.  However, as McKay watched, Hank slowly lowered his weapon.  He slipped  his gun back in its holster, then pressed his fingers to Flagg’s throat.

     Hank noticed McKay watching.  As the sergeant continued to take in rapid, hitching gulps of air, he choked out, "Is he--?"

     "He's dead," Hank called back.  He backed away from Flagg's body, then strode quickly toward McKay and Sully.  As he approached, he asked, "You hit?"

     McKay shook his head.  Hank reached them, and stared down at the blood staining Sully's shirt.

     "Sully?" Hank said, his voice a little unsteady.

     McKay placed his fingers against Sully's throat, and felt a pulse beating sluggishly under his hand.  "He's alive—but you'd better get Dr. Cook—now.  And see to to Dr. Quinn—she’s up there, on the balcony—she may have been hit.”

     His face pale in the dimness, Hank looked at Sully a moment longer, then glanced upward at the balcony.  Swallowing hard, he turned and ran for the clinic.