Sully lounged desultorily in the waiting area, seated on a bench of yellow pine which stretched the length of the wall.  Worn smooth over time, yet unrelieved by cushions, it was hard and unforgiving beneath him.  Yet it was still preferable to the harsh wind whipping down the train platform with its freight of cinders and grit that stung his eyes and scoured his face.  Five minutes exposure to the elements had driven him indoors, along with a few other passengers similarly forced to travel on this bleak and blustery afternoon.

     According to the calendar, spring was just around the corner.  Just days prior to Sully’s trip to Denver, Colorado Springs had enjoyed an unusual stretch of balmy weather, the temperature hovering near seventy degrees.  But in the past week the “Ides of March” had asserted themselves with a vengeance, pelting the region with soaking rains, raw temperatures and biting winds that sliced through his heavy buckskin jacket as if it were paper, chilling him to the bone.

     His meeting with Welland Smith and the senator from Washington had run long, leaving him barely enough time to bid them a hasty farewell in the lobby of his hotel, before rushing off to the depot in time to catch his 3:00 train.  He knew that if he missed this one there would be another in the morning.  But he’d promised Michaela he would return tonight, and he aimed to keep his word.  It had been three days, but felt more like three weeks.  Their separations always stretched out interminably for him, and he suspected Michaela felt the same way.

     But it seemed that all his haste had been for nothing—3:00 PM had come and gone with no sign of his train.  Moreover, there was no word on what had happened to it or when it would arrive.  Apparently he was the only person traveling to Colorado Springs.  The few other passengers with whom he’d shared the waiting area had been bound for points east; and thus had no knowledge of his train headed south, which would pass through Colorado Springs en route to its final destination of El Paso.  He’d checked the ticket window, only to find the agent vanished from his little cubicle.  Then, a short time later, two conductors had passed through the waiting room, deep in conversation, but Sully’s attempt to waylay them for information had gone unheeded.  The departure of the east-bound train and its contingent of passengers a quarter of an hour earlier, had left him alone.  Since then, he’d been sitting here twiddling his thumbs—or at least that’s how it seemed—wondering dismally whether he would have to wire Michaela that he wouldn’t be returning home till tomorrow after all.

     He glanced down at the knapsack beside him, bulging now with gifts for the family.  Among them was a cunning little stuffed dog, vaguely resembling Wolf, that he’d glimpsed in a shop window and been unable to resist for Katie—as well as a small but exquisite bottle of French perfume for Michaela.  He knew she would chide him for spending so much on her—too much, she’d say—but he didn’t care.  Just the thought of her beautiful skin scented with that dizzying fragrance caused his head to reel—and made him all the more impatient to get home.

     Sully’s eyes wandered around the room, taking in the bare, dirty floor, its scarred surface studded with the dull gleam of brass spittoons scattered about.  He frowned slightly in distaste, then his gaze moved upward to a large blackboard dominating the paneled wall across from him, the departure time of 3:00 PM still scrawled across its surface.  Adjacent to the blackboard hung a clutter of public notices and wanted posters.  His shoulders slumped.  Had there ever been a more uninspiring place to be, or a more useless way to spend one’s time?  He thought not.

     The sound of voices issuing from beyond the exit to the train platform made him sit up a little straighter.  Perhaps now he’d finally learn something.

     “The train to Colorado Springs was ‘sposed to leave at three o’clock sharp!” Sully heard someone say stridently.  “I been freezin’ my tail off out here for better ’n a half hour.  What the hell’s goin’ on?”
 
     “Sir, I already told you—I have no word on the delay,” came a harried voice in return.  “As soon as we receive information I will make an announcement.  In the meantime, you’re more than welcome to shelter inside the station.”

     “Well ain’t I lucky,” the first speaker drawled sarcastically as the door opened and the owners of the voices entered, bringing a blast of glacial air with them.

     The first man to appear was obviously the ticket agent, slight of frame and nervous of posture, his eyes shaded by a visor bearing the insignia of the railroad.

     His tall, rangy companion followed close on his heels, towering over the hapless agent.  He was clad almost entirely in black, his dark vest and trousers covered by a severely cut wool coat that hung to his calves and accentuated his height even more.  A dusty black hat crowned his head.  From beneath its wide brim, a cloud of wind-blown blonde curls spilled over his shoulders.

     Sully watched him, bemused, wondering how long it would take for Hank Lawson to notice his presence.

     “Is there someplace close where a man can get some ‘fortification?’” Hank inquired peevishly, trailing the clerk to the entrance of his cubicle.  The skittish agent pulled a bunch of keys dangling from a metal ring out of his pocket, then selected one and clumsily fitted it into the lock of the door.

     “If I understand you correctly, Sir, there are a number of saloons in the vicinity,” he said rapidly as the lock released and the door swung inward.

     “And what if the train comes and goes in the time it takes me to buy a bottle and get back?” Hank demanded.

     “I’m afraid that’s your problem, Sir,” the agent responded unsatisfactorily.  Adroitly he slipped inside the booth, closing the door in Hank’s face.  A moment later a green shade descended behind the grate of the ticket window.

     Hank stared at the window in disgust.  “Hell of a way to run a railroad,” he grumbled, dropping his carpetbag on the floor and then pulling off his gloves and stuffing them in his pockets.  He reached inside his coat and extracted one of his ubiquitous  cigars.  Sully waited, not speaking, as the barkeep lifted the globe of an oil lantern on the wall and touched the tip of the cigar to the flame, puffing assiduously until the stogie was drawing well.  Eschewing the spittoons, he casually tapped cigar ash on the floor.  Only then did he raise his eyes to observe Sully watching him.

     “Hey, Hank,” Sully greeted him casually.  “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”

     Hank nodded ever so slightly, his eyes barely registering his surprise.  “I could say the same.”  He strolled over to the bench opposite Sully’s and seated himself.  “Ya got any idea what the hold-up is?”

     Sully shook his head.  “I asked everybody I could—nobody’s been able to tell me nothin’.”

     Hank’s expression was dour.  “Or nobody’s been willin’.”  He hunched further inside his coat.  “Bitter out there,” he remarked after an awkward pause.

     “Yeah, it is,” Sully said politely.  “But there wasn’t no need for you to stand out in the cold.  Why didn’t you wait inside?”

     “I was too restless to just sit around,” Hank said after a fraction’s hesitation.  “I had ta get out and stretch my legs.

    “So what brings you here?” he abruptly changed the subject.  “Last I knew, ya didn’t cotton ta bein’ in the city.”

     “Still don’t.  But I had business.”

     Hank raised an eyebrow.  “Yeah?  What kind?”

     “Protectin’ the Red Rocks.  Tryin’ to get the government to declare the land a national park, like they done in Yellowstone.  I had a wire from Welland Smith that he was comin’ to Colorado with a senator from Washington who’s sympathetic to my ideas about savin’ the land.  Said if I could get to Denver, they’d make the time to meet with me.
So . . .”  He shrugged.

     “Welland Smith,” Hank echoed.  “Oh yeah—that fella that helped Michaela get ya off.”

     “Michaela didn’t ‘get me off,’” Sully repeated coolly.  “She brokered an agreement.  And Welland Smith was just the man appointed by President Grant to represent the government in the negotiations.”

     “And who put the idea inta Grant’s head to appoint him?  ’Sides, givin’ it a fancy description don’t change the fact that ya committed treason at Palmer Creek and got off scot-free.”

     Sully sighed, recognizing the futility of trying to alter the man’s opinion.  “Look—it’s over and done with.  I ain’t gonna change your mind about me or what you think I did, so what’s the point of arguin’?”

     “No point.  Just—yer awful lucky with your friends, Sully.  So what are ya plannin’ ta do ta get this national park?”

     “Gonna start with tryin’ to get the government to repeal—or at least amend—that Homestead and Minin’ Law they passed last year,” Sully said, trying to ignore Hank’s sarcasm.  “Try to keep them from takin’ even more land away from the Indians, and sacrificin’ it all to minin’,  railroads or homesteadin’.”

     “I mighta figured.  Yer stirrin’ up trouble again, tryin’ ta stop progress or keep decent, hardworkin’ folk from makin’ a fresh start out here.”

     “I ain’t tryin’ to ‘stir up trouble’ or hurt innocent people,” Sully objected.  “But progress to some is death to others, Hank.  I’m just tryin’ to save the Indians’ lives, and protect all the natural wonders in Colorado for future generations.”

     Hank looked unimpressed.  “Real noble—but I heard it all before.  ‘Sides, you never bothered to explain what happens to all them homesteaders that packed up everythin’ they had in the world to come west and start over.  Or the miners thrown outta work if the mines close and they can’t prospect for new ones.  Ya gonna just kick ‘em all out?”

    “That’s what the government’s been doin’ to the Indians!” Sully exclaimed, unable to stop himself.  “The ones they ain’t already killed, that is!”  He took a breath, then more neutrally went on, “But . . . wrong’s wrong—no matter whether it’s the Indians or the whites gettin’ hurt.  There should be room for everybody, if the government would just see reason.”

     “The country’s got a right to expand,” Hank declared.  “Folks got the right to seek opportunity without a lotta Injuns gettin’ in their way.”

     “And who told you that—Hazen?” Sully inquired coldly.
 
    For the first time Hank’s mouth curled into a slight smile.  “He seemed to have the right idea ‘bout a lotta things,” he said, referring to the reservation superintendent’s habit of profiting at the Indians’ expense.

     “And of course you agree with him.”  Sully’s eyes were hostile.

     “We all wanna make money,” Hank said expansively.

     “Not all of us.”

     “Oh yeah, I forgot—‘cept for you.”

     Sully was fed up with sparring.  “It’s clear you and me are on opposite sides of this and we’re always gonna be—“

     “Ya got that right.”

     “—so let’s just drop it,” Sully finished wearily.

     “Fine by me.”  Hank drew on his cigar again, staring moodily at a point past Sully’s shoulder.

     It occurred to Sully that Hank had yet to state the reason for his own presence here.  He scrutinized the saloon owner.  It seemed as if something else was on the man’s mind apart from their disagreement and his annoyance over the train delay.

    “What brings you to Denver?” he asked curiously after a moment.  “Somethin’ to do with the Gold Nugget?”

    “No.”  There was a long pause, and Sully thought the saloon keeper wasn’t going to say anymore.  Then, in a subdued manner markedly different from his previously challenging tone he added, “I come . . . ta see my kid.”

     Sully’s interest was immediately piqued.  “Zack?  Been a long time since I seen him.”  He calculated the years in his head.  “He must be . . . what?  Eighteen now?”  He shook his head, stunned by the passage of time.

    “Close,” Hank said.  “Birthday’s in September.”

    “Hard to believe.  Seems like only yesterday Michaela and me found him hidin’ in the closet at Miss Ruby’s.  So how is he?”

    The saloon keeper met Sully’s eyes, his expression inscrutable.  Sully felt a trace of disquiet steal over him.  “He’s all right, ain’t he?” he asked more urgently.  “Nothin’s wrong?”

    “Guess that’s a matter of opinion.”

     Sully’s unease deepened.  “What do you mean?  He ain’t sick, or hurt . . .?”

     Hank removed his hat and placed it on the seat beside him, then leaned back against the wall, the top of his head barely grazing the bottom of the blackboard.  His cigar had burned down to mostly ash by now, but he didn’t appear to notice.  “Nah, nothin’ like that.”

     “Well, what then?  Is there some kinda problem at his school?”

     “Nope,” Hank answered.  “He’s doin’ real good.  That Miss Wellman, the one that runs the school?  She’s gonna put a bunch of his drawin’s and paintin’s in this art show the school has every year.  She said she’s sure he’ll be swamped with—what do ya call it?—commissions, that’s it—once he graduates.  She even said some rich folks in Denver are already showin’ interest in his work.”

     “Good for him.  So what’s the problem?”

     “Did I say there was a problem?”

     “Didn’t have to.”  Sully waited the space of a couple breaths, then tried again. “What’s wrong, Hank?”

     Hank rose to his feet, pitching the butt of his stogie at the nearest spittoon and  moving restlessly around the small circumference of the waiting room, finally pausing to face Sully.  He looked on the point of speaking, but was prevented from answering as the door to the train platform opened suddenly, admitting one of the conductors on a gust of frigid air.

     Both men looked at the conductor expectantly, but he ignored them, merely tapping on the door to the ticket agent’s booth.  After a moment he was granted admittance and he disappeared inside, leaving Sully and Hank to share a look of mutual frustration.

     However this time their patience was taxed only briefly.  The conductor re-emerged from the office almost immediately, and walked over to Hank.

     “You the man waiting for the train to Colorado Springs?”

     Sully stood up.  “We both are.  What’s the story?”

     “Locomotive broke down just outside Fort Collins,” the conductor replied.  “Train’ll be laid over at least two days for repairs.  Won’t be any more runs to Colorado Springs or points south till Friday the soonest.”

     “This day just gets better ‘n better,” Hank muttered under his breath.  He strode over to the bench and retrieved his hat, then snatched up his bag.  “I’m outta here.”  He moved toward the exit to the street.

     “Hold up!” Sully said sharply, stopping the saloon keeper in his tracks.  He turned back to the conductor.  “Couldn’t the railroad bring in another locomotive to replace the one that broke down?”

     “That would take longer than the repairs,” the conductor told him, extinguishing his brief spark of hope.  “Has to come clear from the train yards in Stockton.”

     “I see.  Well, that’s that, I ‘spose.”  He sighed and squared his shoulders.  “Guess we better head for the stagecoach office,” he said to Hank.

     “Yeah,” Hank grumbled, shooting the conductor a poisonous glance.

     “Better hurry,” the conductor advised, pulling his watch from his waistcoat and consulting the time.  “Last stage pulls out at four o’clock.  You got less than ten minutes.”

     “We’ll never make it,” Hank announced in disgust.

     Always the optimist, Sully thought wryly.  However aloud he said, “We can make it.  The stage leaves from over by the livery.  That ain’t so far from here.”

     “Well let’s go then.”  Hank took the gloves from his pockets and slipped them on.

     Sully nodded and slung his pack over his shoulder, then started to follow Hank toward the exit, tugging on his own gloves as he went.  But he suddenly froze as a thought struck him.

     Hank was out the door and on the street before he realized Sully wasn’t behind him.  He retraced his steps and poked his head back in the waiting room.  “C’mon!  What’s keepin’ ya?”

     “Michaela,” Sully said, his expression anxious. “She’s expectin’ me tonight.  She ain’t gonna know what happened—I gotta wire her.”

     “There ain’t no time!” Hank quashed the idea.

     “Then we gotta make time!” Sully insisted.  “I ain’t gonna cause Michaela needless worry—“

     “If we don’t leave now, we’re gonna miss the stage for sure,” Hank declared.  “Then who knows when we’ll make it back?

     “What’s worse?” he went on, as Sully stared at him mulishly.  “Lettin’ her wonder for a few hours, or not gettin’ home till God knows when?  Stage’ll reach Colorado Springs by dawn.  That ain’t so bad.”
 
    The barkeep studied Sully through narrowed eyes.  It looked like he was starting to weaken.  Hank pressed his advantage.  “’Sides, ya know the agent here will notify all the other agents along the line,” he said persuasively.  “That knothead Horace’ll get the word and pass it along to Michaela.  She won’t be wonderin’ for long.”

    “She’ll find out what happened to the train, but not what happened to us,” Sully objected.  “She’ll still be worryin’ about where I am or when I’ll reach her.”

    Hank’s uncustomary stretch of patience abruptly reached its limit.  “Your gum-flappin’s gonna cost us our ride home!”  He glared at Sully.  “I’m leavin’—with ya or without ya.  Now are ya comin’ or not?”

    Sully expelled a sigh, then readjusted his knapsack.  “I’m comin’.”

    Choosing not to waste time or breath on a reply, Hank spun on his heel and strode rapidly away as Sully reluctantly followed.