When he entered the examination room she was by the window, her breath fogging the glass as she peered out at the sodden darkness.  He knew she was pining for the sight of a familiar, buckskin-clad figure, and he felt a stab of guilt that he had no news to tell her.

     Making a half-hearted attempt to distract her from her worry, he said, “Tryin’ to look between the raindrops, Dr. Mike?”

     But she wasn’t paying attention.  And even if she had been, she was in no mood for humor.   “Tell me once again, Matthew,” she requested, turning to look at him with an intensity that made him instantly regret his feeble gibe.  “What exactly did Horace say?”

     “You know everythin’ I do,” he said.  Nevertheless, he repeated the contents of the telegram from Denver that Horace had shared with him a short time before.

     “And there was nothing else?” she pressed him.  “Nothing about the passengers?”

     He shrugged helplessly.  “I’m sorry, Dr. Mike.”

     Michaela looked back at the window.  “Why didn’t Sully wire?” she muttered to herself.  “He always sends word . . . always.”  The worry lines in her forehead deepened.

     “If he can,” Matthew added.  “Maybe he couldn’t, for some reason.”

     “It’s not as if he were out in the wilderness,” she murmured.  “The telegraph office is just a short distance from the hotel.  If he was forced to stay another night he would have let me know.”

     “Telegraph wires mighta gone down ‘fore he got the chance,” Matthew speculated.  “Horace said it could happen, with the storms movin’ through.”  He regarded her sympathetically.  “I’m sure he’s safe, Dr. Mike.  He’s probably in his room right now, warm and dry and wishin’ he could let you know he’s all right.”

     “But what if he isn’t?” Michaela contradicted, her voice tight with anxiety.  “What if he’s out there somewhere, cold, soaked to the skin . . . he could catch pneumonia,” she fretted.

      “Dr. Mike, don’t go borrowin’ trouble,” Matthew said soothingly.  “If he couldn’t take the train, then he probably took the stage.  And if that’s the case, we won’t see him ‘fore mornin’ at the earliest.”

     “But could the stage travel in this type of weather?” Michaela persisted, unable to take reassurance from her son’s words.

    “Rain and mud could be a problem,” Matthew confirmed.  “But if that’s so I’m sure the driver would stop and wait till the storm’s passed.  Or he might even decide to turn back.

    “On the other hand, they mighta made it to the way station and decided to hole up there till the rain stops,” he suggested.  “For all we know, Sully could be there right now.”

     “I suppose you think I’m being foolish, worrying this way when Sully has been in far worse scrapes,” Michaela said.

     “You’re just bein’ you,” Matthew told her indulgently.  “Like a mother hen who can’t rest till all her chicks are safe in the nest.”

     “You know me too well, Matthew.”

     “Yeah, I do—and I bet I can guess what you’re thinkin’ right now.”

     “What would that be?”

     “You’re thinkin’ of goin’ out lookin’ for him,” Matthew said, reading her thoughts with disturbing accuracy.

     Michaela’s startled expression confirmed his suspicion, but an instant later her features smoothed into a neutral mask.  “The idea may have crossed my mind . . .”   However a swiftly darted glance at Matthew told her he wasn’t fooled.  “All right, yes—I want to go after Sully,” she admitted.  “And don’t waste your breath telling me what a foolhardy scheme it is—I already know.”

     “Then why are you even considerin’ it?” he asked.  Now it was her turn to gaze helplessly at him.  “Dr. Mike, there’s no proof that anythin’s happened to Sully—and every reason to believe he’s safe.”

     “Quite right,” she agreed.

     “And the last thing Sully would want is for you to go traipsin’ through a storm in the middle of the night, soaked to the skin, maybe freezin’ to death, searchin’ high and low for him when he probably ain't even out there!  Dr. Mike, Sully’d never forgive himself if somethin’ happened to you on his account.  And he’d never forgive me for lettin’ you go.”  Matthew’s eyes pleaded with her to see reason.

    “Again, you’re absolutely right,” she said.

     They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds.  “You need my help packin’ supplies?” he asked finally.

     Tears gleamed fleetingly in Michaela’s eyes, and her hand stretched out to squeeze his.  But then she became businesslike.  “Yes, I can use your help.  And we’ll need to find a way to get word to Colleen and Brian.  We're lucky to have Colleen here at home," she added, referring to her daughter's arrival from her school in Denver, only that morning, for a weekend visit.  "I just hope that she won't have to delay her return to college because of Sully's--disappearance."  Goosebumps erupted on her skin and Michaela hugged her arms to herself, looking suddenly both vulnerable and fragile.

    "We don't know that Sully's missin'," Matthew reminded her calmly.  "And there's no use borrowin' trouble 'fore we know what's what.  Let's just take things one step at a time.  We'll finish here, and then stop at the homestead on the way outta town," he promised, then moved to assist her as Michaela determinedly shook off her unease and quickly began to fill her medical bag with supplies.
* * * * * * * * * *

    He was alive—at least, he thought he was.  But the world had become a jumble of confusing images—ominous shadows shot through with lurid flashes of orange and red, all of it pressing painfully against his eyes.  Unable to make sense of what wa happening—unable to be certain, even, if this was reality or just a dream—he lay absolutely still for several moments while his overtaxed mind puzzled the mystery.

    But gradually, subtly, he became aware of something else—a new element that lent credence to his suspicion that whatever was happening to him was real.  An odor—acrid, sinister . . . familiar . . .  His throat felt like it was closing up, his lungs labored to fill with air.  His eyes stung, tears pooling at the corners and trickling down his cheeks.

    A spasm of violent coughing seized him, racking his body and awakening an intense, suffocating pain in his chest.  A groan erupted from deep in his gut, but he didn’t have enough air to let it out.  Black dots danced at the corners of his vision, and he realized he was losing consciousness.  Part of him longed to give in, to block out the terrifying reality and surrender to the velvet black of oblivion.  He felt himself letting go—

    —and grimly fought the temptation, forcing himself to open eyes watering relentlessly from the smoke . . . drawing slow, shallow breaths that didn’t torture his chest quite so badly . . .  It was coming back to him now, little by little.  Riding in the stagecoach, arguing with Hank . . . and then, with no warning, something huge and mysterious that violently turned the world upside down, tossing the bulk of the coach around as if it were no bigger than a child’s toy.

    Hank!  Oh God, was he even alive?  Desperately Sully’s eyes darted around the wreckage of the coach, its interior an alien landscape now that it rested on its roof, the floor above his head.  Flames outside cast flickering patterns of light and dark around him, barely visible through the thickening smoke.

    He would have to move—to find Hank, to learn if he was alive . . . to get both of them out before the coach exploded or they burned to death.

    But first he had to determine his own condition.  He’d injured something inside his chest—that much he was sure of.  Maybe a cracked rib, maybe more than one . . .  He prayed it wasn’t a lung.  He’d heard Michaela say that folks could live with just one, but . . .

    What was he thinking?  If he couldn’t move, couldn’t get them both out of here in time, his physical condition wouldn’t matter.  This burning wreck would become their coffin.

    His right arm was free, his left pinned behind him.  Gingerly he lifted his right arm, extending the elbow and carefully flexing his fingers.  No pain.  Good.  He lowered the arm, propping his elbow on the floor (no—the roof, he corrected himself wearily) to bear the brunt of his weight.  Even more carefully, he pulled his other arm loose.  But even that tentative movement ripped another fusillade of coughing from him.  He couldn’t mute his groan of agony, weeping with fear and exhaustion.

    I can’t . . . can’t do this, he thought, gasping for air.  It hurts to move, to breathe . . . it hurts so much . . .  His head fell back, his consciousness narrowing again to a tiny pin point.  I’m sorry, Michaela . . . I tried . . .  I love you . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

    Matthew felt Michaela go rigid on the wagon seat beside him.  “Sully!” she gasped softly as her hand went to her heart.

    Matthew pulled back on the reins, drawing the horses to a stop.  Rain dripped from the brim of his hat as his eyes sought hers in the darkness.  “What is it, Dr. Mike?”

    “Sully’s in trouble,” she whispered.

    “What do you mean?  What kinda trouble?”

    “I . . . I’m not sure—“  Michaela’s face worked as she tried to articulate the icy sensation that gripped her.

    Matthew put his gloved hand over hers.  “You gotta stop worryin’ so much, Dr. Mike.  I’m sure Sully’s fine—“

    “No!”  Matthew recoiled at her fierce tone.  “He’s not fine.  Something is very wrong.  I felt it.”

    “Felt what?”  He regarded her in confusion.

    Her words were slow in coming.  Finally she said, “It was as if—as if his very spirit passed through my heart . . . ”  She was crying quietly now, but didn’t seem to be aware of it.  “But he felt so—so cold.  He’s not fighting,
Matthew . . .

    “Sully, no!” she implored suddenly, her face white and strained as she stared into the night.  “You can’t give up!  Don’t let go, please!  I’m coming!”

    “Dr. Mike—“  Matthew was staring at her in genuine worry now.  But she didn’t care.

    “Drive—there’s not much time.”  She stared straight ahead.  Eying her uneasily, Matthew picked up the reins once more and clucked to the horses.  The wagon rolled forward.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Sully . . .  Sully, it’s time to open your eyes and wake up.  You have to wake up now.  Sully, WAKE UP!

    “Michaela?” he mumbled.  He had barely enough air to form her name.

    Don’t leave us, she pleaded.  We need you.  I need you . . .

    I can’t, he said to her in his mind.  I tried, but it hurts too much.  I can’t
 breathe . . .

    You have to try again! she scolded him.  You have to make yourself do it!  Not just for yourself, but for Hank—

    Hank don’t need me, he argued.  He made that clear.  He hates me . . . said I ruined his life . . .

    He may not have a life without you!  Sully, you have to escape from the coach or you’re going to die!  I’m begging you, don’t leave me—I couldn’t bear it . . .  He thought he could feel her tears, wet on his cheeks.  Or were they his own . . .?

    I don’t want to leave you, he told her.  But I don’t think I can make it . . . I ain’t strong enough . . .

     You have to try, she exhorted him again.  Just get out of the coach.  I’ll do the rest.  I’m coming, my darling.  Just hold on, I’m coming . . .

     “Michaela?” he rasped again, as her voice dwindled away.  “Michaela, don’t go . . .”

     He heard a groan emanating from his right.

     “Hank?” he choked through another round of coughing that tore at his lungs.  How was he going to do this, he thought desperately.  He couldn’t even help himself, let alone Hank . . .

     There was another groan, followed by weak coughing.  Without quite knowing how he did it, Sully braced his chest with his right hand, then carefully moved his legs, pulling them in toward himself and then extending them again.  All right, they worked.  If his legs could support him he could crawl.  Maybe even walk, if he could get them both out of here alive.

     Slowly he rolled to one side, then placed the flat of his hands on the surface beneath him to brace himself.  Arduously he got his legs under him, and then he was on his knees.

     He stopped to rest, holding his chest again as he forced himself to take shallow breaths.  He needed something for the smoke.  His hand went to his belt and he withdrew his knife.  Teeth gritted against the pain, he pulled the tail of his shirt free, then plunged the knife into the material, dragging it downward to rip through the cloth.  Two more rips of the knife and the ragged section of cloth was free.  He repeated the process, and within a few moments he was clutching two remnants of the material.  He returned the knife to his belt, then pressed one piece of cloth to his face, shoving the other in his pocket.  The grinding cough seized him again and he huddled miserably, a fist pressed to his chest, his other hand holding the material over his nose and mouth.

    Finally the spell began to ease, and Sully gathered his strength.  “Hank,” he croaked.  “Hank, can you hear me?  We gotta . . . gotta get outta here.  Hank!”  There was no reply.  But he’d heard the saloon owner before.  At least he was still alive.

    Sully ducked his head and began to move forward, supporting himself with one hand while breathing through the filter of his shirt.  Weakly he shoved one knee forward, then the other, almost immediately encountering an obstacle.  He could just barely make out Hank’s form through the billowing smoke.  The barkeep was awkwardly crumpled in the corner, his head resting against a shattered section of the bench he’d been sitting on just a short time before.  One side of Hank’s face was visible, an ugly cut creasing his temple.  Dark red blood oozed into his blonde hair and down through his stubble of beard.

    Sully pressed his fingers against Hank’s throat, searching for a pulse.  After several agonizing seconds he found it.  It was thready and rapid, a sign that the saloon keeper was most likely in shock.

    “Hank!” he said again urgently.  “You gotta wake up.  You gotta help me.  We gotta get out—“

    Hank’s eyelids flickered.  Encouraged, Sully grasped his shoulder and shook him gently.  “That’s it . . .  You can do it.  C’mon, Hank, open your eyes . . .”

    The barkeep’s eyes opened, albeit narrowly.  Tears slipped from the corners, mixing with the blood on his face.  “What happened?” he mumbled.  Slowly his eyes focused and he took in his surroundings.  “Where are we?”

    “To answer your first question, I don’t know,” Sully said hoarsely.  “As for your second, I think maybe . . . at the bottom of the ravine.  ‘Fore I got knocked out, I remember fallin’.

    “But however we got here, we’re in trouble now,” he added.  “If we don’t get outta this coach, we’re gonna die.  Here,” he said, pulling the other remnant of his shirt from his pocket.  Gently he turned Hank’s head toward him and laid the material across the man’s nose and mouth.  He lifted one of Hank’s hands and placed it over the cloth to hold it in place.

    Hank started coughing, then gave a sharp cry of pain.

    “What is it?” Sully asked quickly.  “Where’s it hurt?”

     “Leg,” Hank choked.  “Think it’s broke.  And my head . . .”

    Sully’s heart plummeted.  How was he going to get Hank out of here if the man’s leg was broken?  He peered at Hank’s leg through the smoke, dismally noting the shard of bone poking through a bloody tear in his trousers.  It looked serious—as bad as the break he’d had after his fall from the cliff the year before.  It had taken him nearly two months to heal, and only then because of Michaela’s skilled and constant ministrations.

    But the leg might not be the worst of Hank’s injuries.  Even in the smoky confines of the coach, Sully could tell that Hank’s face had a disturbing grayish pallor.  What if the cut on his head was more serious than it appeared?  His skull could be fractured.  He could have another of those “compressions”, the same as he’d sustained back when Myra was going to marry Horace.  With a stab of guilt Sully recalled that the earlier injury had been his fault—his doing.  He’d only been trying to protect Myra and the others from Hank’s drunken gunplay when he’d pegged that chunk of wood at him.  All he’d intended to do was knock the pistol from the man’s hand.  But the poorness of his aim could have cost the barkeep his life.

    Yet despite Sully’s regret over the past, he knew better than to blame himself for what was happening in the present.  This accident had clearly been an act of God or the spirits, and beyond his power to control.  Nonetheless, fear twisted inside him at the realization that Hank’s life was in his hands—a life that might be extinguished if he couldn’t free them both from this deathtrap.

    Pushing the grim thought away, he said, “Your head’s bleedin’.”  Gingerly he touched his fingertips to the man’s temple.  “How’s it feel?”

    Hank winced.  “Like . . . somebody’s poundin’ my skull with a hammer.”  He swallowed, his pallor turning greenish.  “Not to mention . . . makin’ me sick.”

    “You probably got a concussion,” Sully said, inwardly praying that was all it was.  “Is your vision blurry?  How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”  He raised two fingers.

    “Who can tell . . . with my eyes waterin’ so bad?” Hank answered peevishly.

    “All right, all right—guess there’s time for all that later,” Sully agreed.

    “How . . . ‘bout you?” Hank managed.  “You hurt?”

    Another fit of coughing seized Sully, and it was Hank’s turn to watch him in alarm.  When the coughing eased and the pain retreated, he said breathlessly, “I’m . . . pretty sure I got . . . some broken ribs.  Can’t tell if it’s worse.  But that don’t matter now.  We gotta get out . . . ‘fore this whole thing goes up.”

    “How’re . . . we gonna do that?” Hank asked, glancing apprehensively at the door of the coach, which seemed solidly welded in its frame.  “Me with a busted leg, and . . . you near as bad?”

    Sully’s eyes followed Hank’s to the door of the coach, then he studied the dimensions of the interior, mentally calculating the distance from the door to the opposite wall.  “My arms and legs ain’t hurt.  I think . . . if I brace my back against the wall, I can kick out the door.  Then it’s just a matter of gettin’ you through the openin’.”

     Hank shook his head, the movement causing him to grimace.  “Ain’t . . . gonna work,” he said.  “I can’t move with this leg, and . . . I’m so dizzy I . . . can’t see straight.  Just . . . leave me be.  Get out while ya can, and . . . save yerself.”

     "I ain’t leavin’ you,” Sully told him.

     “Don’t be a fool!” Hank exploded, then groaned again as his head throbbed.  “I can’t move, and . . . you can’t take my weight.”

     “You can move, ‘cause you got to!” Sully said sharply.  “All you gotta do is . . . use your arms to drag yourself to the openin’.  Once you’re there I . . . can help pull you through.”

     “There . . . ain’t no time,” Hank objected.  “Look at them flames!”  Warily Sully glanced out the window to where fire continued to burn in defiance of the rain.  A chill went through him as he realized the saloon keeper was right.

     “Then we got no time to argue!” he said stubbornly.  “C’mon, Hank—you gotta help me now!”

     “I told ya . . . just leave me be . . .”

     “No!” Sully contradicted.  “We’re both gettin’ outta here—“

    But the barkeep closed his eyes.  “Can’t,” he mumbled.  “Ain’t . . . got the strength.  Get yerself free.  Go home to yer family—“

     “Hank, don’t do this!” Sully demanded.

     “—and look out for Zack,” Hank whispered, as consciousness deserted him.