The water rushed by their feet, hurrying its freight of mud and debris before it as it plunged over the incline to their left.  A severed tree limb spun wildly as it passed them, disappearing instantly from view.

     “No way we can ford this in the wagon, Dr. Mike,” Matthew announced, hunching his shoulders against the rain lashing at his back.  Water boiled yellowly in the light cast by his lantern.  “The current would take it in a second.”

     Michaela stared across the expanse of the washout to where the road to Denver continued on its course, mud-slicked and concealed in mist.  “Then we’ll unhitch the horses and lead them across on foot,” she said.

     Matthew peered into her eyes.  Raindrops, like tiny jewels, sparkled in his faint scruff of beard.  “You don’t realize how powerful that current is.   I ain’t sure we could even get the horses across.  If either of us slips and falls, or the horses lose their footin’—“  He broke off as he realized she wasn’t listening.  She seemed oblivious, in fact, to everything save the short section of road visible beyond the washout.

    “Dr. Mike,” he tried again.   “If Sully’s on the stage, and if the stage even made it this far, then they had to turn back.  There’s no point in riskin’ our lives tryin’ to cross and goin’ all the way to Denver, just to find that Sully’s back safe at his hotel—or that he never got on the stage at all.”  Still Michaela remained transfixed by the sight of the road.

    “Sully would never forgive me if I let anythin’ happen to you, and I could never forgive myself.  Please, Dr. Mike, let’s just turn around and go back,” he entreated.  “We can make it home by sun-up.  By that time the telegraph lines will probably be fixed and you can send Sully a wire—or maybe there’ll be one waitin’ from him—“

    She turned to him suddenly.  Water streamed from the brim of her hat and strands of wet, tangled hair clung to her cheeks.  But her eyes burned with a zeal that spurned the storm raging all around them.  “Wagon tracks!” she announced.  “And horses.  Look!” She seized him roughly by the shoulders and turned him so that he faced the road.

    Matthew stared across the water.  The road stretched a short distance beyond him, glistening in the narrow cone of lantern light.  There did appear to be a jumble of hoof prints in the mud, accompanied by a faint set of parallel tracks.

    “I see what you’re talkin’ about,” he conceded.  “You’re right, it could be wagon tracks, but the rain’s washin’ them away pretty quick.  ‘Sides, there’s no guarantee they came from the stage.”

    “Who else would be abroad on a night like this?” Michaela asked.  “This is open country Matthew, all but deserted.  The only sign of civilization we’ve seen for miles is the way station, and the agent confirmed that the stage never arrived.”

    “That just proves my point,” Matthew reasoned.  “If it was the stage, they got as far as the washout, saw there was no way to get across, and turned back to Denver.  Look,” he said, raising the lantern higher and gesturing with his other arm.  “You can even see the curve in the tracks from where they turned around.”

    Michaela followed his pointing finger.  For a moment she was silent, but then she murmured, “No.  No, there’s something wrong.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “Look at the direction of the tracks,” she said.  “They turn toward the edge of the slope.  The driver would never turn the rig in that direction, especially in the rain.  There’s not enough room to maneuver—it would be far too dangerous.  And look there!” she added suddenly, pointing herself.  “Those bushes—they’ve nearly been torn out by the roots!”

    “The storm—?“ he said doubtfully.

    “No,” she said.  “Not the storm.”  Abruptly she left his side and hurried to the top of the incline.  Hastily Matthew followed her, grabbing her arm with his free hand and pulling her back.

    “Dr. Mike, are you crazy?  You take one wrong step and you could go over the edge!”

    Again she ignored him, peering down into the darkness at the base of the ravine.  “Oh my God,” she whispered.  “Oh my God . . . SULLY!”

* * * * * * * * * *

    “Oh no, you don’t!” Sully muttered.  “Don’t you die on me!”  He put his face up close to Hank’s.  “You ain’t checkin’ out that easy—you hear me, Hank?  You ain’t givin’ up!”  Lightly he slapped the unconscious man’s cheek.  “Wake up, Hank!”  He slapped the barkeep again, a little harder this time.  “Wake up, damn it!”

     Hank stirred again.  His eyes opened a crack.  “Leave me be, I told ya,” he rasped.  “There ain’t no time.  Ain’t . . . no chance.”

     “I ain’t lettin’ you quit,” Sully told him, breathing painfully through his makeshift mask.

     Hank’s eyes opened a little wider.  “Walls are gettin’ hot,” he gasped.  “Can’t ya feel it?  Fire’s gonna burn through any minute.  Get out while ya . . . still got time.”  Again Sully knew the saloon keeper was right.  He wasn’t even touching the walls of the coach, yet he could feel the heat radiating off their surface.

    “Just—do me one favor . . . ‘fore ya go,” Hank went on, his voice dropping to a whisper.  “Won’t take long.”  With an effort he raised his head, and looked down at the holster on his hip.  “Use my gun, and—get it over with.  Then take all the money I got and—give it to Zack.

     “He . . . gets everythin’,” Hank said, forcing the words out.  “All the savin’s I got in my strongbox . . .  My share o’ the Gold Nugget . . .

    “He can . . . sell out to Jake.  Won’t make him rich, but it’s a start.  Maybe . . . he’ll finally learn he can . . . do it on his own . . . That he don’t need no rich folks . . . doin’ him favors . . . That he don’t . . . gotta change . . . to please nobody else.

     “Make sure . . . Zack gets it all,” Hank repeated.  “Everythin’ I got in the world, ‘cept—“  He took a labored breath.  “’Cept . . . that picture he drew of his ma.  I want . . . you and Michaela to have that.  Michaela . . . she was real good to Zack.  Cared for him like . . . he was her own.  And you should . . . have somethin’ . . . to remind ya . . .”  His cornflower eyes met the deeper blue of Sully’s.  To remind you of Clarice, Hank’s eyes seemed to say.  After all, you could have been Zack’s pa.

     “Just . . . keep an eye on him,” the saloon owner concluded, summoning all his strength to make this last request.  “Make sure . . . he’s all right.  That he . . . gets everythin’ he needs.”  He eyed the gun again.  “And now . . . put an end to it, and get out.”

     “No.”  Sully’s tone was implacable.  “I ain’t gonna use that gun to make it easy for you.  And I ain’t lookin’ after Zack, neither.  That ain’t my job.”  He swallowed, hating himself for how he sounded, but unable to think of any other way to reach the barkeep.  “I ain’t gonna take on your—your burden—just ‘cause you didn’t have the gumption to hold on.  You wanna die, Hank?  Fine.  But then you’ll be leavin’ your son without a father.  You’re the only pa he has, the only one he’s ever known.  You leave him now, he’ll be all alone in the world.”

     “He ain’t . . . no burden,” Hank said, anger making his voice stronger.  “He’s worth ten o’ you!  He’s smart.  He’s . . . got talent.  He’s gonna be somethin’ one day.”

     “Maybe so, but what’s the difference?” Sully jeered.  “You ain’t gonna be around to see it.  And you know what, Hank?  Even if Zack is a success—even if he gets famous—someday he’s gonna look back, and he’s gonna ask himself:  What did he do it all for?  Not for his pa, that’s certain.  ‘Cause his pa was too gutless to fight.  And I’m gonna make sure he knows it, Hank.  I’m gonna tell him all about his coward of a pa, who didn’t care enough about his son to stick around!”

     Hank’s eyes were lethal.  “I’ll bury you first.”

     “Yeah?” Sully taunted.  “Well, you’re welcome to try.  But it’s gonna be kinda hard if you’re dead.”

    “I’ll show ya who’s gutless!” Hank growled.

     “Talk is cheap.”

     “Just  . . . help me up . . . and then we’ll see who the real coward is!”

     Sully reached out and seized Hank’s hand.  The other man’s fingers tightened around his own.  Despite the crippling pain in his chest, Sully couldn’t suppress a smile.  “Like I always suspected,” he said with a trace of affection.  “You’re just too blamed ornery to die, Hank.”

     Hank glared at him.  “And don’t you ferget it.”

* * * * * * * * * *

    “Sully!” Michaela screamed again, freezing Matthew’s blood.

    “Dr. Mike—“

    “The stagecoach!” she said desperately.  “It’s on fire!”

     “I know—I see it,” he said.  “But that don’t mean Sully’s inside—“

     “Even if he isn’t, there could be people trapped in there who need help!” Michaela insisted.  “But I know Sully’s one of them, Matthew—I feel it in my heart.”

     “Dr. Mike, there’s no way to get down there,” he pleaded with her.  “You could get hurt, maybe killed—“

     “I have to reach him, Matthew,” she said, the determined tone of her voice somehow overriding the shriek of the wind.  Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes dark and intense.  “I have to find a way.”

     Matthew bit his lip, his stomach clenching with fear and indecision.  If anything happened to Dr. Mike, how would he live with it?  How could he ever face Sully?  But . . . if Sully was down there, maybe dying, while he just stood here, scared and helpless . . .

     “Maybe . . . I could find a spot, where we could climb down . . .”

     “Do it,” Michaela told him.

* * * * * * * * * *

     “Hey . . .  Ya still with me?”  Hank’s voice came to him faintly.  With an effort, Sully tried to hang on to consciousness.  But it was so much easier to surrender . . . to give himself up to the beckoning darkness . . .

     “Hey!” Hank repeated, his words closer and sharper now.  “If you go under . . . we really are done for.”

     Sully shook his head, trying to clear it.  Blearily his eyes sought Hank’s.  “Sorry,” he managed after a moment.  “Guess I kinda . . . grayed out for a while.”

   “Yer entitled,” Hank told him, unexpectedly kind.  “Musta been hard on ya . . . kickin’ out the door.  But ya done it.  Leastways now we . . . got a fightin’ chance.”

     Another coughing spell shuddered through Sully’s frame, leaving him breathless and trembling.

     “Easy,” Hank cautioned.  “Rest yerself a minute.”

     “We ain’t . . . got a minute,” Sully wheezed.  “It’s now or never.”  He eyed the other man gravely.  “It’s your turn, Hank.  I’m gonna need every bit of help you can give me now to . . . get us out alive.”

* * * * * * * * * *

    “Surely we’ve gone far enough now, Matthew!” Michaela insisted over the keening of the wind, twisting around on the wagon seat to face him.  She was chillingly aware of the minutes slipping by.  “We’re losing precious time!”

    “Slope still looks dangerous,” her son said doggedly, his eyes alternately shifting from the road to the embankment that was now on their right.  “If we try to make it down and it all collapses like it did back there, we’re done for!”  He met her gaze, his eyes unflinching.  “Since you’re set on doin’ this, Dr. Mike, I’m gonna find the safest possible place to climb down.”

    “But the farther back we go, the longer it will take us to return to Sully once we reach the bottom!” she fretted.

    “At least we’ll be alive to reach him!” he said.  “We won’t do Sully no good if one of us gets killed.”

    “But he might not have the time to wait!  He may be terribly injured, unconscious . . . unable to help himself.  Or the stagecoach could explode . . .”

    “I know you’re scared for him, Dr. Mike.  So am I.  But there ain’t no choice.  ‘Sides, there’s somethin’ you’re forgettin’.  It ain’t just that we need to find a spot where we can get down to the bottom of the ravine.  We gotta think about bringin’ Sully back up again after we find him.  It’s too steep and treacherous along here.  We need to find a spot where the footin’s solid and the grade of the slope is easier.  It’s the only hope we got of rescuin’ him.”

    “I know you’re making sense, but I’m so frightened that we’ll be too late,” Michaela said miserably.

    “I remember from when we passed by here before, that there’s a place not too much farther on where the land levels out a good bit—maybe enough that we can bring the horses,” he told her.  “If I’m right, it’ll make things lots easier.”  Her hands were knotted together in her lap, icy cold despite her gloves.  Suddenly she felt the warmth of Matthew’s hand covering her own.  “Just be patient a little longer, Ma.  I swear to you we’ll find him—and bring him home.”

* * * * * * * * * *

    This time he did black out.  He came to sometime later with no clear sense of how much time had passed while he remained unconscious, yet with a vivid recollection of extricating Hank and himself from their burning prison.  Tucked away in a corner of his mind was gratitude that at least they’d made it out.  They were free now, no longer in danger of suffocating or burning to death, breathing mercifully clean air.  But as he lay on the ground, too weak to move, Sully couldn’t deny his fear that the physical toll of their escape might prove as fatal to them, in the end, as the fiery death they’d so narrowly avoided.

    He remembered Hank’s scream as he’d pulled the barkeep’s body through the opening, unable to protect the man’s shattered leg from the trauma of being dragged from the ruins of the coach and across the slimy, rutted ground.  In a way Hank had been crying out for both of them, articulating not only his own agony, but also the indescribable pain Sully was suffering but didn’t have the breath to express.  By the time Sully had hauled Hank’s body the few excruciating yards to safety, the saloon keeper was already unconscious, and Sully hadn’t possessed the strength to try to rouse him before he, too, fainted.

    Slowly he became aware that at least one thing had significantly changed since he’d passed out.  The storm had apparently moved on, taking its cargo of wind and rain with it.  The night (or was it actually closer to dawn?) was calm and peaceful, the silence filled only with the muted roar of water cascading over the embankment and rushing by in the artificial stream created by the washout.  Just beneath that sound, he could discern the crackle of flames consuming the remains of the stagecoach.  Both he and Hank were covered with mud, but at least they hadn’t traded death by incineration for death by drowning.  Of course it was too soon to know whether they would finally suffer death from exposure.

    There was a sudden boom that reverberated off the walls of the ravine, and Sully’s head snapped up in time to witness flaming shards of wood and debris erupting into the darkness, fiery tails streaking behind them like a profusion of tiny comets arcing across the sky.  A burning fragment whickered past him, nearly close enough to graze his cheek, and instinctively he threw up his arms to shield his face.  Seconds later a fiery piece of metal landed in the stream a few feet away, emitting an audible sizzle as it plunged into the muddy water.

    A dark cloud of ash blocked out the sky, settling down over the scene as whisper silent as new-fallen snow.   The ash stung his eyes, drawing tears, and Sully used the ripped fragment of his shirt to wipe them away, leaving streaks of mud and soot across the material.

    He twisted his head and looked over at Hank’s body sprawled next to him.  There was no doubt about it—the saloon owner was down for the count.  Even the ear-splitting blast of the explosion hadn’t caused him to stir.  He was obviously still unconscious—perhaps comatose.  Or he might even be—

    But Sully refused to allow himself to consider that possibility.  Hank’s hand was within reach of his own, and he extended his fingers and grasped the man’s wrist.  Hank’s flesh was chilled, but Sully could still detect a faint pulse.  The barkeep was holding on, at least for now.

    However Sully was certain that the same couldn’t be said for the driver on their doomed journey.  He suddenly realized that when he and Hank had been trying to find a way out of their danger, not once had either of them attempted to call out to the stagecoach driver for help.  Perhaps because each had known in his heart that there was no way the man outside would have been able to survive.

    If he lived through his, he would have to come back here, Sully resolved.  Find the body of the driver and give him a proper burial, and then look for his next of kin, if he had any.  Maybe there was even something he and Michaela could do for the man’s family—

    Michaela.  He remembered now.  He’d heard Michaela’s voice before, talking to him, telling him he had to help Hank.  Telling him not to give up.  Because—

    I’m coming, my darling.  Just hold on, I’m coming . . .

    But that was impossible—wasn’t it?  He couldn’t have heard her . . . she couldn’t have been with him.  He’d been hallucinating—that was the only explanation.  Just his desperate imagination working overtime . . .

    No, if he and Hank were going to make it, he’d have to do it on his own.