Sunday 25 March, 1870

     For the next half hour I sat and listened to Dr. Mike tell a story that I would have sworn was a fairytale—if it weren’t for what she knew about the shameful crime I committed years ago, and my  desertion from the army—two ugly pieces of my past I couldn’t deny.

     Her description of our trip to Washington—meeting General Parker, and the testimony she gave on behalf of the Cheyenne, which led to us being invited to the White House—gradually made the fantastic notion of me being appointed to a job by the President seem to make more sense.

    But even though Dr. Mike’s story had a “happy ending” of sorts—we accomplished what we’d set out to do, and I was pardoned by the President—still, the whole time she talked I couldn’t bring myself to meet her eyes.  I was too ashamed, too guilty, thinking of the man I’d killed during the war, and the pain I’d brought to his wife and his children.  Knowing I was set up—and even learning that I’d finally been able to prove it—did nothing to help my guilt.  An innocent man had still died, by my hand.  Nothing could ever erase that fact, or wipe the stain of blood from my conscience, or my heart.

    I’d blocked out that part of my life for a long time—I guess through a kind of “amnesia” of my own making.  There was a bitter sort of irony in that.  But Dr. Mike’s words brought it all flooding back.  I saw myself again as I has been on that horrible day, crouched behind a rise overlooking the army camp with the scope of my rifle trained on my target.   I remembered how I watched and waited, as the man I believed to be a confederate criminal innocently shaved outside his tent, never dreaming that these would be his last seconds on earth.  My mind recoiled in guilt and pain as I saw him fall, and then heard the copious weeping from his heartbroken wife and children as they fell on his lifeless body.

    I had sought to bury that memory forever—but inevitably it had  come out, as all lies are wont to do in the end.  But it wasn’t just the disgrace of my crime made public, that hurt so bad.  It was knowing how much I’d disappointed the people I cared about most, that was the worst.  Dr. Mike had told me earlier how the Cooper kids had always looked up to me—especially Brian—and my gut twisted as I thought of what a hollow example I had turned out to be.   She told me too, that Brian thought I was a hero for saving President Grant—but I couldn’t stand to hear it.  There was nothing brave or noble about me.  This so-called “hero” had feet of clay.  I was just a coward who’d made a terrible mistake in his past and hadn’t had the guts to own up to it.

    I still had no recollection of my friendship with Dr. Mike; but discovering that she knew all about my sin bothered me too, deep inside—in a way I couldn’t begin to fathom or describe.  Thinking that once I might have had her respect—and that I might have lost it forever—gave me a strange and overwhelming sense of loss.  Not for the first time, I found myself wondering about us—how we came to be friends, and  why it was that each of us seemed to be such an important part of the other’s life.  On some level in my mind, I knew that there was more to our relationship than met the eye—an important unspoken truth I had yet to learn.  But as soon as the thought came to me, I found myself shying away from it—as an animal in the wild shies from a human touch.  I wanted to know—I was afraid to know.  It made no sense, and as her story came to an end, I felt more confused than ever.

    “I . . . guess you don’t think much of me, after finding out what I done,” I said finally, grateful for the shadows in the room that hid the stain of mortification I wore on my face like a sign proclaiming my guilt.

    “On the contrary, Sully,” she said, her voice compassionate.  “What you did was not your fault.  You were tricked, and used—and as a lieutenant in the army, you were forced to obey orders, or risk being court-martialed on charges of insubordination.”

    “Better that, than what actually happened,” I said bitterly.  I finally looked her in the eyes.

    “I KILLED a man, Dr. Mike.  There ain’t no getting around that, no matter how bad I might want to.  Worse, I didn’t have the courage to answer for what I done.  I ran away, and tried to pretend it never happened.  I can’t defend that, and neither can you—kind as you are to try.”

    “Sully—we all understand what happened.  But more importantly, we know how deeply sorry you are for what you did, and that you’ll carry the pain of that memory for the rest of your life,” she said.  She leaned forward, looking at me earnestly.  “Sully, we could never condemn you.  We love you—and if you feel you need our forgiveness, you have it.  You just need to forgive yourself.”

    “You—you love me?” I repeated, seizing on her unexpected use of the word—not just in relation  to the children, but to herself.

    She drew back from me suddenly, trying to make it appear as if she was just shifting position in her chair.  But she couldn’t quite disguise the startled, even guilty look in her eyes.   She made a business of arranging her skirts, and brushing her hair back over her shoulders so that she’d have an excuse not to look at me.  But finally she seemed to recognize that she owed me an answer of some kind.

    “Of course we love you,” she said at last, drawing a protective mask over her features.  “You’ve been a wonderful friend to us all, Sully.  Even more than that, you’ve come to be like family.  We would always care about you and support you, no matter what happened.”

    I felt unsure of myself then, thinking that maybe I’d misunderstood what I thought I saw, or read more into her reactions than what was actually there.  But a moment later, when she didn’t realize I was looking, I caught a different expression in her eyes—a deep, nearly mournful longing—that suddenly made me feel as if she had reached inside me and squeezed my heart.  I gazed at the beautiful green-gold of her eyes, dusted by thick dark lashes, then followed the graceful curve of her lips and the long, delicate line of her throat.  My pulse quickened and my heart started to race as my eyes continued their journey, traveling down the length of her hair, then moving slowly across the lush swell and shadowy valley of her breasts, the gleaming gold of an antique broach nestled seductively within.

    I had a sudden, overpowering urge to take her in my arms and kiss her—knowing with an instinctive certainty just how her lips would feel against mine—soft, warm, yet excitingly firm.  I knew that the taste of her skin would be sweet, and. that her hair would have the faint scent of lilacs—intoxicating and thrilling my senses.  I wanted to mold her body next to mine, and bury my face in her hair, running my fingertips down the sensuous length of her back.  I wanted . . . oh, I wanted . . .

    “I believe we’ve talked enough about the past for now,” Dr. Mike said suddenly, breaking in on my amorous thoughts, and I felt a hot blush burning my face and neck—but this time it wasn’t shame about my past that had put it there.

    I simply nodded, temporarily incapable of coherent speech.  Uncomfortably I shifted on the edge of the bed, hands squeezed into fists and nails biting into my palms as I tried to discourage the physical reaction she had brought out in me.  I could only imagine how horrified she would have been to see the outward manifestation of my secretly passionate thoughts.

    Finally, when I thought I could speak normally again, I thanked her for spending time with me, telling me more of the truth about my past and trying to help me deal with it.

    “I’m glad to help you, Sully,” she said sincerely.  “I can’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to lose a part of your life—but it takes a very special sort of courage to accept what’s happened to you and somehow learn to move on.  I admire you—more than you could possibly know.”

    “I hope I can continue to earn your admiration,” I said shyly.  “A lot more and a lot better than I done before.  I—I hope I won’t disappoint you again.”

    “You’ve never disappointed me,” she said softly.

    We stared at each other, our eyes locked together; and for an instant, I felt like I was balanced just on the edge of everything finally becoming clear—that knowledge was about to burst upon me in a blinding flash of clarity.

    But then she dropped her eyes, and the moment was gone.

    “Will you reconsider your decision about joining us for dinner?” she asked persuasively after a pause.

    The corner of my mouth tugged upward in a small smile.  “Yeah, all right,” I agreed.  “I think—I’d like that after all.”

    “Good,” she said.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER TEN

     Michaela’s head rested against the back of the rocker.  Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t sleeping—not this time.  She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—sleep again until they finally found Sully and brought him home.  Alive, or . . .  A look of exquisite pain crossed her features, and a few errant tears escaped from beneath her closed eyelids to slip down her cheeks.

     She and Matthew had done everything they could here at the homestead to prepare for their imminent journey.  With the coming of dawn, the four of them would ride into town, and Michaela would pack their saddlebags to overflowing with medical supplies, and then solicit Grace’s and Robert E.’s help to look after Colleen and the ailing Brian.

     At Michaela’s insistence, Matthew had gone to bed a short time before, to get some much needed rest in anticipation of the rigors of their search.  She had promised him that she would do the same, but for the second time that day, she had been guilty of bending the truth with one of her children.

     Now that she knew of Sully’s desperate condition, Michaela could not afford to sleep.  She needed to be awake and aware, so that she could try to touch Sully with her thoughts, and send him the healing strength and power of her love.  If mentally she could just help him hang on, sustaining him somehow until they could reach him . . .  Perhaps—perhaps there was a chance.

     Michaela recognized the absurdity—the irrationality—of her belief.  But was it any more absurd than the reality of what had already happened?  A vision in a dream which had revealed to her with absolute certainty the knowledge of Sully’s mortal peril?  She and Sully shared a bond—mysterious, inexplicable—yet completely undeniable.  Regardless of how foolish it might seem to anyone else, Michaela would trust her instincts.

     “Ma?”  said a voice by her ear, startling her so that she jerked in her chair.  Michaela’s eyes flew open to reveal Brian standing next to her, clad only in his nightshirt, his legs and feet bare.

     “Brian!  What are you doing up?” she exclaimed softly.  “You’re sick—you should be in bed, Sweetheart.  And the floor is far too cold for you to be pattering about in bare feet.”  Michaela laid her hand on his brow, checking for fever, and studied him for other signs of illness.  But though his face was flushed from sleep, Brian’s skin was cool to the touch and his eyes were clear.  She breathed a small sigh of relief.

     “I woke up, but then I couldn’t get back to sleep,” Brian told her.

     “Is your throat sore?” Michaela asked sympathetically, taking the afghan from her lap and wrapping it around him.

     “A little, but that ain’t why,” he answered.

     “Does something else hurt, Sweetheart?” she inquired in concern.

     “No,” he replied.  “It’s just—I heard you and Matthew talkin’ before—‘bout Sully.”

     Michaela looked at Brian apprehensively.  “You heard what we were saying?” she asked.

     “I couldn’t make it out, but I heard ya say Sully’s name, and ya sounded real sad,” Brian explained.  “Matthew, too.  I got to thinkin’ about Sully and missin’ him.

     “Is somethin’ wrong with Sully, Ma?” he asked.  ‘Is that why you’re worried?”

     “You’re a very perceptive young man, Brian,” Michaela answered, trying to give him an optimistic smile.  “Yes, I confess that I am rather concerned for Sully.  I was planning to tell you in the morning, but I suppose we should talk about it now.”  She opened her arms.  “Why don’t you sit here in my lap?” she suggested.

     Brian regarded her doubtfully.  “Ain’t I too old for that now?” he asked a trifle regretfully.

     Michaela smiled at him again.  “Perhaps—but it can be our secret,” she said.  “No one else needs to know.  Besides, I need a hug!” she added truthfully.  Brian climbed carefully onto her lap and wrapped his arms around her. Michaela held him close, her chin resting on his head.

     “Why are ya worried about Sully, Ma?” Brian asked again, his cheek pillowed on her shoulder.

     “Well, it all started with a conversation Sully and I had the other day, when he told me that he missed Cloud Dancing and wanted to find him,” she began quietly.  The soft murmur of Michaela’s voice rose and fell as she gently told Brian about Sully, trying as tenderly as possible to prepare her child in case the worst happened.

     “He ain’t gonna die, is he, Ma?” Brian asked fearfully, when she’d finished.

     “I’m sure he’s fighting as hard as he can to stay with us,” she told him, stroking his tousled hair.  “I’m going to fight too.  I won’t give up, Brian.  I promise you that,” she vowed, gazing into his eyes.
Brian returned her gaze, reassured.

     “You can save him, Ma—I know ya can,” her son said confidently.  Michaela hugged him tightly, praying that Brian’s faith in her was justified.

     “Back to bed now,” Michaela told him at last, giving him a kiss.  “You need your rest to get well, and we have a very early start in the morning.”

     Brian stretched and yawned.  “All right, Ma,” he assented, his eyelids heavy.  He stood up and crossed the room to the sleeping alcove, but then stopped and faced her as he reached the curtain.

     “I’m gonna pray for Sully—ask God to keep him safe and help him get well,” he told her.  “Do ya want me to say a prayer for you, too?”

     “Yes, Brian—I would appreciate that very much,” Michaela answered, swallowing over the lump in her throat as she regarded the precious face of her youngest son.  He disappeared through the curtain, and Michaela leaned back in her chair once more to await the dawn.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Cloud Dancing gently placed his hand on Sully’s chest, prostrated by grief and barely able to accept the evidence before him—that his closest friend and the brother of his heart, was dead.

     For the first time since the medicine man had encountered him on the trail, Sully’s face wore a look of peace.  But Cloud Dancing could take no comfort in Sully joining the spirits.  He had been too young, with too bright a future, and too many people who loved and needed him.

     Cloud Dancing had preached acceptance to Sully when the younger man had  questioned the fairness of the Great Spirit taking back one of His own.  But now the medicine man realized that *he* was the one who questioned.  He couldn’t rid himself of the conviction that it hadn’t been Sully’s time—that there had been no excuse for this to happen.  But his lack of acceptance made no difference.  His brother was gone, and no amount of rage or lamentation would bring him back.
Slowly, deliberately, Cloud Dancing reached inside his coat and withdrew his knife.  He pushed back his coat sleeves, preparing to rip the sleeves of his tunic and use his blade to symbolically slash his arms in the Cheyenne ritual of mourning.

     Tears coursing silently down his cheeks, he was about to begin chanting the mourning dirge when his eye caught a movement that made his heart lurch in his chest.  Doubting the evidence of his eyes—almost certain that it had only been a trick of light and shadow—Cloud Dancing nevertheless stared desperately at Sully’s hand resting on the ground beside his lifeless form.   Sully’s body doubled, then trebled in his sight as tears distorted his vision.  Impatiently he scrubbed his hand across his eyes, then intently stared again, praying with all his might.  For several long seconds there was nothing, and the hope which had flared inside the medicine man plummeted to black despair.  And then he saw it.  Sully’s fingers twitched—once, twice, a third time.

     Nearly faint with relief and gratitude, Cloud Dancing leaned over his friend and pressed his ear to Sully’s chest.  A moment later he was rewarded with the faint sound of a heartbeat.  There was no doubt.  Sully was still alive.

     Cloud Dancing resheathed his knife and moved quickly around to Sully’s head.  He slid his hands under the unconscious man’s armpits, and dragged him gingerly across the ground closer to the fire, taking care to move his head as little as possible.

     Once in the illumination of the firelight, Cloud Dancing took the cloth he had used to protect his hands from the heat of the cooking pot, and dampened it with water from Sully’s canteen.  Gently he began to sponge the blood from Sully’s scalp, his heart in his throat as he gradually revealed the head wound.  A few seconds later, weak with thanks, he determined that the bullet had not penetrated Sully’s skull, but only grazed it.  The bleeding had already stopped and the wound had begun to clot.  Still, the track of the bullet’s passing was raw and ugly, and would require stitches.  Cloud Dancing knew that he could utilize a strand of horse tail to sew the wound himself, but it would be clumsy, and he preferred not to make the attempt under these frigid and primitive conditions.  It would be much better to simply pack and bandage the wound until he could get Sully to Michaela, who possessed the sanitary conditions, fine silk thread and delicate skill necessary for such a procedure.

     He took some yarrow root from his leather bag and gently packed it into the bullet wound.  Then, extracting his knife once again, he slit the hem of his tunic and tore off a wide strip, pressing it over the wound and around Sully’s head.

     Several minutes had elapsed as Cloud Dancing tended to Sully’s injury, but now he glanced over at Bloody Knife’s body, realizing that the scout could awaken at any time.  The medicine man covered Sully with the blanket, then picked up his medicine bag, and yanked the rawhide drawstring free.  He crossed the clearing to where Bloody Knife still lay face-down on the ground.  Drawing the Indian’s wrists together behind his back, Cloud Dancing bound them tightly with the rawhide.  He stood, intending to return to Sully, but then stopped, staring down at the senseless scout.  Cold fury raged in the medicine man, and unconsciously his hands balled into fists at his sides.  He thought how easy it would be to slit Bloody Knife’s throat as he lay there, helpless.  He could hide the body where it would never be found.  No one would ever know what had happened, or who was responsible.  Custer would suspect—in fact he would be certain—but he wouldn’t be able to prove it.  And even if he could, it would be worth the sacrifice of Cloud Dancing’s own life, to punish the man who had come so close to taking the life of his brother.  Who might still be responsible for Sully’s death.  His brother was deathly ill and now further crippled by a gunshot wound—there was no guarantee that he would even live to see home.

     Cloud Dancing walked over to the campfire and picked up his knife from where it lay on the ground.  He held the weapon aloft, watching in fascination as the firelight played across the gleaming, razor-sharp surface.  Then he lowered the knife and stroked the flat of the blade across his palm.

     Cloud Dancing retraced his steps to the unconscious Indian.  His hand clenched around the handle of the knife as anger hummed and vibrated through him.  Speculatively, he stared down at the body of his enemy.

* * * * * * * * * *

     The house had never been so quiet, nor Michaela’s feelings of loneliness more palpable, than during those long hours before they could leave on their mission of rescue.  In the pre-dawn silence, she padded from one of her sleeping children to the next—tucking in their blankets and softly stroking their hair, reassuring herself that with her sons and daughter at least, all was well.

     Her restless steps finally and inevitably took her to the window.  She stared out at the blackness, unable to detect anything but her own haggard reflection gazing back at her, her eyes like dark pits in the pale oval of her face.  She reached out and pressed her hand against the frigid cold of the window pane, wishing she could physically reach Sully with her touch, even as she mentally sought to reach him with her mind.

     But there was no reply to her probing thoughts—no indication that Sully might somehow be hearing her across the vast stretch of distance that separated them.  She wondered if Cloud Dancing’s spirits were watching over him.  Her own God was silent, either deaf or immune to her prayers.

     As she turned from the window at last, a movement outside caught the corner of her eye.  She hurriedly moved to the oil lamp behind her, turning down the flame to a tiny glimmer to reduce the reflection in the glass.  Then she returned to the window, peering out at the night.  Large, soft flakes of snow dipped and swooped outside, carried on the whims of the wind.  Few and intermittent at first, they quickly multiplied to a thick and steady curtain as she anxiously watched.

     The snow which had been threatening since before Sully left—that she had tentatively begun to hope would pass them by—had finally fulfilled its promise.  Only to Michaela, it was a curse.  What more could happen, she thought dismally.  How much more danger would Sully—would they all!--have to endure before they could bring him safely home again?

     Her heart accelerating in her chest, Michaela hastily went to rouse Matthew.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

     For the rest of his life, whenever he thought back to this defining moment, Cloud Dancing would always wonder what would have happened next had fate not intervened to take the decision out of his hands.  As he raised the knife over the neck of his unconscious captive, something cold and wet brushed his cheek, as gentle and delicate as a lover’s kiss.  He raised his free hand to his face, as he stared upwards toward the dark and menacing sky.  Flat, fluffy flakes of snow whirled and capered above him, as if dancing to a tune from an invisible flute.  Rapidly they increased, falling softly but continuously toward earth.

    Abruptly waking from the murderous trance that had consumed him, Cloud Dancing slowly put his knife away, then went to his small collection of belongings.  He hesitated briefly, then withdrew one of his own extra blankets.  He carried it back to Bloody Knife, reluctantly draping it over the Indian’s body.

     He hastened to Sully’s horse, readying the animal for the arduous journey to come.  Gone were Cloud Dancing’s worries about cold, frostbite, or keeping Sully astride their mount.  Only one goal remained for him now—to somehow get them both safely out of the mountains and the rest of the way to the homestead ahead of the snow, which would pursue them relentlessly every step of the way.

     The medicine man completed his preparations, then extinguished the campfire, kicking dirt over the last glowing embers.  In the sudden and absolute darkness, he leaned over Sully’s still form.

     “It is time, my brother,” Cloud Dancing whispered, sliding his arms under Sully’s body and lifting him as tenderly as if he were a child.  “We are finally going home.”