Monday, 26 March, 1870

     It’s three o’clock in the morning, but my mind is filled with thoughts of my evening with Dr. Mike—and how it ended—so that I can’t sleep.

     It was a strange sensation, being in the homestead after so long.  Well, that ain’t quite right.  As far as I could recollect, I hadn’t set foot across the threshold of the place since I left it for the last time after Abagail died.  But according to Dr. Mike and the kids, I’d been a frequent visitor ever since I offered to let it to her for a dollar a month when she first arrived in town.

     (It’s confusing, sometimes, keeping track of “her” time and “mine.”  I wonder if the day will ever come when it finally becomes “our” time?)

     Anyway, I wasn’t sure how I’d feel, seeing it again, being reminded of all the memories with Abagail . . .  Dr. Mike knew without my saying it what I was thinking—(I still can’t get over how she does that)—and she asked me if I was sure about this visit as we were leaving the clinic.

     “If it helps, Sully, the homestead is much changed,” she said, leading me to her wagon.  “All of your—former belongings—have been moved out to the barn, and of course the children and I have added our own personal touches.  And over a year ago, you also expanded part of the structure to give us more room.  Hopefully the changes will make things easier for you.”

     “That’s—thoughtful of you,” I replied after a moment.  “I appreciate it.”  She started to get into the wagon, and without thinking, I put my hand under her arm and lifted her up.  She gave me a quick glance, her cheeks sort of pink, then looked away, focusing her eyes straight ahead.  “Thank you,” she said politely.

     She reached for the reins, but I stretched out my hand to stop her.  “I’ll drive,” I said.  “After all—“  I gave her a crooked smile—“I know the way.”

     “Oh—of course,” she said, favoring me with a small smile in return.  She slid over on the seat and I climbed up and settled myself, intensely aware of the feel of her body pressed against mine.  She seemed to notice it too, and slid over a little further, putting a small space between us.

     We headed out, both of us feeling awkward outside the familiarity of the clinic.  Suddenly, we weren’t “doctor and patient” any more,  but something else.  What, I couldn’t be sure.  I gripped the reins, glad of the excuse to watch the road so that I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes.

     As we left the outskirts of town and the road opened up before us, I searched around in my mind for something to talk about.

     “How did the kids get home?” I asked finally, unable to come up with anything better.

     “They walked,” she answered.   “They often do, after church.  And the weather has been so mild since that cold snap finally broke—“  She stopped suddenly, then awkwardly resumed, “That is, it seems as if we’re going to have a warm spring after all.”

     “What cold snap?” I asked.

     “A few weeks ago, the weather was unusually bitter,” she answered after a pause.  “The, uh, the ‘last gasp’ of winter, I suppose you would say.”  Her tone sounded odd, and I wondered what it was about a spell of cold weather that would disturb her.  It seemed like I was always wondering, these days, about the “hidden meanings” of things.  Over and over, it appeared to me like she would say one thing, while really talking about another.  I felt like I always had to be alert and listening to figure out what she truly meant.

     “Was there a blizzard?” I asked curiously.  “Did folks get hurt?”

     “No, nothing like that,” Dr. Mike answered.  “It’s just—well, you wouldn’t recall, and we didn’t mention it to you, but you were exposed to the severe cold when you went to the mountains in search of Cloud Dancing.  Apparently you had contracted what should have been a mild catarrh, from Brian.  You didn’t begin to exhibit symptoms until after you’d reached Cloud Dancing.  Unfortunately by then, your exposure to the elements had already reduced your resistance, allowing the infection to grow out of control, making you gravely ill.  It’s what complicated your recovery from the bullet wound.”

     “I . . . don’t remember nothing about those first few days, it’s true,” I acknowledged.

     “You were unconscious through the worst of it,” Dr. Mike confirmed.  “Perhaps that was a blessing.  By the time you regained your senses, the fever had broken and the infection was starting to abate.”

     “You got me to feeling better real quick,” I told her.  “I’m grateful, Dr. Mike.”

     “My skill really had very little to do with it, Sully,” she said.  “Fortunately you’re young and strong, with a powerful constitution, and an equally powerful will to live.  Those were the elements that were truly responsible for your recovery.”

     “That may be so, but I also had a good doctor,” I said, turning to deliberately look her in the eyes.  “I know how bad it was, Dr. Mike.  Cloud Dancing told me what I went through.  Truth is, he said I probably wouldn’t have made it, except  for you.”

     She looked at me in startled surprise.  “You saw Cloud Dancing?” she said.

     “Yeah,” I said.  “It was sometime during the night after I first woke up in the clinic.  I was pretty groggy when he came, and I didn’t have a real clear sense of time.  But I know it was late, so you were probably sleeping.  Anyway, Cloud Dancing said the spirits told him I’d come around, and he wanted to see how I was.  He didn’t stay but a few minutes, but he was there long enough to tell me that I’d been real sick—that I’d nearly died.”

     ”Did you tell Cloud Dancing of your memory loss?” she asked curiously.

    “To be honest, I ain’t sure,” I replied.  “Like I said, things were still hazy for me.  I don’t recall much of our conversation.  All I can really remember is that it was good to see the face of my friend, and that he promised me I was going to be all right.”

     “Of course he didn’t tell you of the danger he was in,” Dr. Mike surmised.

     “You’re right about that,” I confirmed.  “He’d never say or do nothing to make me worry about him.  He just told me that I was in good hands, and that I owed my life to you.”  I stole a glance at her.

     “Cloud Dancing is very generous,” she said, the rosy color in her cheeks deepening to scarlet.  She looked down at her lap.

     “Cloud Dancing always tells the truth,” I said clearly.

     Our eyes met again, and a strange sort of energy seemed to pass between us.  My senses were humming, like the vibration of a telegraph wire.  I could tell she felt it too.  This time the decision to turn away was mutual, as if neither of us was ready to take the moment to its conclusion, whatever that might be . . .

      I cleared my throat.  “So, you told me how I got appointed as Indian Agent, but not much else,” I said, trying to turn the conversation to something less awkward.   I risked another glance at her.  “Have I done a good job?”

     She looked relieved at the change of subject, and then her eyes warmed even more.  “Oh yes,” she said with conviction.  “You’ve done a wonderful job, Sully.  Despite a host of problems—unreasonable rules, lack of cooperation from the army, broken promises from the government . . .   You did everything in your power to make the lives of the Cheyenne easier while you had the chance.  And now, with this new reservation at Palmer Creek—“

     “New reservation?” I interrupted.

     “Yes,” she said after a short hesitation.  “After—Washita—the government chose to round up Indians of differing tribes and  put them all together on one reservation.  You were assigned to be the agent.”

     “But many of the tribes are enemies!” I protested, angrily wondering how much further the government would go to destroy the Indians’ way of life.

     “Yes, that’s true,” she acknowledged.  “That was your argument when you first heard of the government plan.  You felt so strongly that you threatened to resign your post.”

     “What happened?” I asked.  “Did I go through with it?”

     “You went so far as to travel to the army camp at Wrightwood with your letter of resignation,” she replied.  “But during the course of your journey, something apparently changed your mind.”

     “What?” I said, finding it hard to believe I’d go back on my decision.

     “I’m not quite sure,” she said after another hesitation.  “You—didn’t speak to me about it at length—at least not at the time.”

     “But I told you later?” I persisted.

     The landscape had been growing more and more familiar as we drew closer to our destination.  Just as she seemed to be debating how to answer, we rounded a bend in the road, and the homestead emerged from a screen of trees, nestled at the base of a gentle hill.

     “Look!” Dr. Mike said quickly.  “We’re here.”

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

     (Sully paced back and forth in the dusty earth of the yard, retracing his steps over and over along the length of the building.  Several feet away, scrupulously keeping his distance, stood Loren, accompanied by Maude.

     Why was it taking so long? he thought for perhaps the hundredth time.  It had been hours since Charlotte had arrived to take control of things.

     “I’ve never known it to fail,” she’d said as he helped her down from her wagon.  “Give babies a choice of comin’ at a civilized hour, or waitin’ till everyone’s sound asleep, and they’ll pick the middle of the night every time.”  She smiled.  “Least they could let a body get a good night’s rest first.”

     Sully gave her a sickly smile.  “She’s right in there,” he said nervously, pointing unnecessarily at the cabin.

     Charlotte glanced at the building.  “I sorta figured that,” she said indulgently.

     “Oh—yeah,” Sully responded, embarrassed.

     The midwife peered up into his face.  “What’s the matter, Sully?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.  “You’re lookin’ kinda peaked.”

     “Just a little nervous, I guess,” he confessed, his stomach doing flip-flops.  “Do Loren and Maude know?” he added.

     “They were right behind me—they should be pullin’ in any time,” Charlotte told him.  She gazed at him admiringly.  “That was a real clever thing you did, sendin’ that pet wolf of yours into town with a note for me.  As soon as he started barkin’, Brian woke up.  He and the other kids are lookin’ after him now.  Brian surely loves playin’ with that animal,” she added.

     “Wolf loves him too,” Sully said.  “I knew if I gave him somethin’ with Brian’s scent on it, he’d head straight to you,” he explained.

     “Lucky you had Brian’s bandanna,” Charlotte remarked.

     “Yeah,” Sully agreed again.  “He left it behind when the kids were out here visitin’ last week.”

     A shriek suddenly issued from the house, and Sully blanched.  Charlotte patted him on the shoulder.  “Guess I’d better get in there,” she said.  He nodded emphatically, his face greenish-white.  Charlotte smiled again.  “Don’t you worry now,” she told him soothingly.  “Women been givin’ birth since time immemorial.  “Fore you know it, that baby’s gonna be pokin’ its nose out at the world.”

     Another yell came from within the cabin.  Charlotte squeezed his shoulder and hastened up the steps and inside the house.

     Sully agitatedly brushed the hair back from his forehead and began to move restlessly around the yard, praying that at any moment he would hear the welcome, blessed sound of a baby’s cry.

     But it hadn’t been any moment.  A quarter of an hour went by, and Loren and Maude arrived.  An hour passed, then two, as the cries from the cabin came more and more frequently, their stridency growing steadily harsher.  With every pain-wracked scream he heard, Sully’s anxiety worsened.  Maude’s face was a pale, worried oval in the darkness.  Loren also had an uncustomary pallor, but his eyes were cold and resentful as he regarded Sully.

     Yet a third hour ticked by, and still there was no word from Charlotte.  Even more ominously, for the past ten minutes or so there had been so sound at all—neither cries of pain, nor the sound of a baby’s wail.  Sully stared fixedly at the front door of the homestead, his face growing more and more haunted.

     Suddenly the door opened, bathing the porch in a pool of warm lamplight.  Charlotte stepped outside and moved toward the steps, as Sully hastened across the yard to meet her.  He felt rather than heard Loren and Maude come up behind him.  Sully waited at the base of the steps, his eyes watching Charlotte nakedly as she descended.

     “Is it here?” he said rapidly.  “Is it born?  I didn’t hear no baby’s cry.”

     Charlotte reached him.  There were streaks of blood on her hands.  Compulsively she wiped her hands on her apron as she regarded Sully, her eyes dark with pain.

     “Sully—“ she began, her voice low and heartbroken.

     He stumbled back a step, the blood roaring in his ears.  “No—“ he whispered.

     Charlotte glanced compassionately at the shocked faces of Loren and Maude, then stepped off the bottom step and approached Sully.  She gripped his arms and looked up into his ashen face.

     “Sully, you gotta listen to me now,” she said gently.  “The baby . . . She—she didn’t make it.  Her color was blue when she came out.  I tried the best I could, but I was never able to get her to take a breath.”

     “She?” he repeated harshly over the sick lump in his throat.  “It was—a little girl?”

     “I’m so sorry,” Charlotte told him softly, tears glimmering in her eyes as she looked at each of their faces.

     A freezing coldness reached icy fingers inside him as he stared at Charlotte’s sorrowful features.

     “Abagail?” he whispered.

     Charlotte swallowed hard.  She reached up to lay a gentle hand on his cheek.  “She started bleedin’,” she said with difficulty.  “I think—maybe somethin’ got torn inside.   I did all I could, but . . .”  She bit her lip.  “If we’d only had a doctor—then . . .maybe . . .”  Her words dwindled away.

     “No!” Maude gasped, breaking down into tears.

     “Is she gone?” he asked dully, the iciness inside spreading out to numb him all over.

     “She’s still alive,” Charlotte managed.  “But—you better go to her now . . .  Better hurry.”

     Sully brushed past her and started mechanically up the steps.

     “You!” Loren shouted behind him.  “You caused this!”

     “Loren, don’t!” Maude implored in mingled grief and horror.  Her husband ignored her.

    “Ya stole my baby from me—my little girl—but that wasn’t good enough for ya!” he raged. “Ya wouldn’t be happy till ya took her away from me forever!  You’re responsible!  You killed her!”
 

    Sully heard Loren’s hateful words but they washed over him, unheeded.

    “Loren, hush!” Charlotte urged him gently.  “You’re in shock—you don’t know what you’re sayin’—“

    “I know,” Loren muttered bitterly, his voice thick with tears.  “I know.”

    Sully opened the door of the homestead and stepped inside.  Slowly he approached the bed where she lay, his legs trembling as if they would no longer support him.  He fell down on his knees at her bedside.  Her face was turned away from him, and his eyes fastened on the pale curve of her cheek.  He reached out shaking fingers to take her hand, which lay limply on the coverlet.

    “Sweetheart—can you hear me?” he choked in a desolate whisper.  “I’m here now.  I’m with you.  You’re—you’re gonna be f-fine . . .”

    Her head turned slowly.  Sully recoiled in horror as he saw Michaela’s eyes looking up at him.

    “No!” he cried out in wretched anguish.  As he watched, her eyes fluttered shut as her hand slipped from his grasp.

    “No!” he repeated frantically, taking her lifeless body in his arms and hugging her to his chest.  He rocked back and forth, his tears falling on her face like rain.

    “Don’t leave me, Michaela,” he whispered, intoning the words like a litany.  “Oh God, please don’t leave me.  Don’t leave me . . .”

     The light began to dim, and with it his awareness—shrinking down, down . . . dwindling to the tiniest  pinpoint . . .till finally, there was nothing left at all.)

* * * * * * * * * *

     “It ain’t a good idea, Dr. Mike,” Matthew said.  He raked his hand through his hair, his fatigue-shadowed eyes regarding her soberly.

     Michaela froze in the act of pulling on her boots.  She stared up at him with a stunned expression.  “What are you talking about?” she exclaimed.  “It was you who was so intent on going in search of him, Matthew!  Are you backing out of your commitment now?”

     “’Course not,” he said quietly.  “I have every intention of goin’ after Sully soon as it’s safe to travel.  But it ain’t safe now, Dr. Mike.”  He walked over to the window and gestured toward the glass.  Large, soft flakes of snow fell is a dense, steady screen.  “Look at it out there,” he said.  “Visibility’s gettin’ worse.  And there’s already an inch or two on the ground, coverin’ up the landmarks.

    “If we start out now, while it’s still dark, we won’t be able to see a foot in front of our faces,” he went on.   “Findin’ our way will be rough—if not downright impossible.  If we lose the trail, or our sense of direction gets turned around—well, the consequences could be real serious.

    “Dr. Mike—we won’t do Sully any good if we get lost, or one of us gets hurt,” he concluded gravely.

    “Then what’s to be done?” Michaela entreated him, her eyes stricken.  “We have to help him, Matthew!”

    “And we will,” her son promised, hunkering down in front of her and taking her hand in his.  “It’s only another hour or so till dawn.  I swear, Dr. Mike—soon as it’s light, we’ll leave.”

    “But by then twice as much snow could be on the ground,” she protested.  “Won’t that make traveling just as difficult—if not worse?”

    “It’s still better than stumblin’ around in the dark,” he maintained.  “Least we’ll have the light.  And who knows—this may let up by mornin’.”

    “But time is of the essence, Matthew,” she said desperately.  “Sully was shot in my dream.  And he was already deathly ill.  For all we know, even as we speak, he—he  could be dying . . .”

    “Don’t let yourself think like that,” Matthew urged her.  “’Sides, I don’t believe it.  Sully’s strong—even sick and hurt like he is now.  He ain’t done yet.  I’d be willin’ to stake my life on it.”  He looked deeply into her eyes.  “It’s gonna be all right, Ma,” he said softly.

    Michaela clutched Matthew’s hand tightly, praying that this time, her son’s instincts were better than her own.

* * * * * * * * * *

     The first fingers of dawn were stretching across the sky as Cloud Dancing guided the horse carefully through the soft drifts, the animal’s hooves kicking up small bursts of powder as it moved along.  Sully sat in front of him, his head and torso slumped over the horse’s neck.  Cloud Dancing’s arms were wrapped around his friend, holding onto the reins.   A deep and persistent ache had settled into the medicine man’s limbs, the muscles taut and sore from the strain of supporting Sully’s unconscious weight over the many miles of their journey.   Even after descending out of the mountains, Cloud Dancing had chosen not to waste time by stopping to construct a travois.  Speed had been of the essence, despite the fact that the use of a litter would have relieved his burden.  All that mattered had been getting Sully to Michaela, regardless of the physical cost to himself.

     Thankfully, Cloud Dancing realized, their arduous journey was nearly at an end.  Dimly through the swirling screen of snow, he could make out the clump of trees ahead that signaled the final bend in the road before they reached the homestead.  He pressed his heels into the horse’s sides, urging the tired animal forward as they covered the last quarter mile to their destination.

     A few minutes later, they rounded the turn and the homestead was revealed, its facade shrouded by a lacy curtain of white.  The cabin seemed to slumber in its niche at the base of the snow-covered hill, the only outward sign of life a wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney.  In spite of his exhaustion, and his persistent fear for Sully, Cloud Dancing was conscious of a feeling of relief—even optimism—that they had reached their goal in the face of such daunting odds.  He leaned forward, his mouth near Sully’s ear.

     “We are here, my brother,” he said.  “We are here.”  Spurring the horse yet again, Cloud Dancing rode the final few yards to the homestead.

* * * * * * * * * *

     “Brian, be sure to bundle up,” Michaela instructed, slipping on her coat and covering her head with a wide-brimmed hat.  “Colleen, could you help him please?  And then would you bank the fires in the stove and hearth, and put out the lamps?”

    “Sure, Ma, “ Colleen answered, hastening to fulfill her mother’s request.

     “Matthew, did you load the saddle-bags?” Michaela asked anxiously.

     “Everythin’s packed up and ready to go ,” her son assured her, the crown of his hat and shoulders of his coat dusted by a powder of snow from his preparations outside.

     Michaela checked Brian critically to ensure that he was bundled to her satisfaction.  A stocking cap was pulled down low on his head, and his features barely protruded from the thick scarf wrapped about his neck.  A heavy coat, thick gloves and rugged boots completed his costume.  Colleen was similarly attired.

     “Can we go now, Ma?” Brian asked eagerly, his concern about Sully somewhat blunted by his anticipation of an adventure in the snow—even if it was just a trip to the clinic.

     “Well, if everything is ready, then yes, it’s time to leave,” his mother answered, gazing around her anxiously to see if she had forgotten anything.

     Matthew noted her anxiety and the reason for it.  “You thought of everythin’, Dr. Mike,” he assured her again.  “Let’s get started.”

     Michaela nodded.  “You’re right,” she agreed.  “Matthew, please bring the horses from the barn.”

     “I’ll come with ya!” Brian offered.

     “All right,” his big brother agreed.  Brian ran ahead of him to open the door.  He stopped stock still in the doorway.  “Hey,” he exclaimed.  “Somebody’s comin’!”

     Michaela looked toward him sharply, unable to imagine who could be abroad at this hour and in such inclement weather.  Not some medical emergency, she prayed.  Not now!  How she could turn away a patient who needed her?

     She hurried to the open doorway, followed by Matthew and Colleen.  They watched as the visitor approached, unable to discern anything beyond the vague, dark shape of a horse and rider.  But wait—were there *two* riders astride the horse?  Michaela strained her eyes to see more clearly.

     Suddenly a faint, trilling sound reached them.  A familiar sound, like the call of a mockingbird . . .

     “Oh my God!” Michaela gasped, her hand going to her throat.

     “Cloud Dancin’!” Matthew said at the same moment.  In a flash he was out of the house and bounding down the steps to the yard.  Michaela watched as he ran to meet the rider, his boots kicking up sprays of snow in his wake.

     Michaela stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.  Her entire body shook.  She hardly dared to hope that Cloud Dancing had been able to make it home, and that he’d brought Sully to her.

     But a moment later, her eyes confirmed what her heart and mind had been afraid to believe.  Matthew was standing by the horse, his arms outstretched to receive the slumped body of one of the riders as the other swung his leg over the horse’s back and jumped to the ground.  They were close enough now that Michaela could plainly see Cloud Dancing’s black hair blowing in the wind, and Sully’s blonde-brown hair, partially obscured by the bandage wrapped around his head.  Together, Cloud Dancing and Matthew carefully bore Sully to the house, his unconscious body supported between them.

     Her paralysis breaking at last, Michaela backed away from the door to allow them room to enter.  As she got her first sight of Sully’s face,  his eyes closed and his skin bleached to a deathly pallor, her heart plummeted in despair.  Was he even alive?

    “Sully is badly hurt and sick—he needs you,” Cloud Dancing greeted her breathlessly.

     “I know,” she said softly.  The medicine man accepted her statement, showing no sign of surprise at her knowledge.

     Michaela followed her son and friend as they carried Sully to the bed and gently laid him down.

     “My medical bag, Matthew,” Michaela said briefly, dropping onto the bed and leaning over Sully.  Matthew snatched it up from where it rested on the dining table and brought it to her.  Michaela hurriedly unfastened Sully’s coat and ripped the edges of his shirt apart.  She fumbled with the clasp of her bag, her trembling hands feeling large and clumsy.  After a moment she managed to open the bag and withdraw her stethoscope.  She put the instrument to her ears and placed the bell over Sully’s chest.  The shallow sound of a heartbeat came to her.  Quickly she placed her fingers on his throat, searching for his pulse.  A second later she felt its weak, rapid rhythm.

     Michaela’s eyes went to the bandage on Sully’s head.  “How bad?” she asked, looking quickly up at Cloud Dancing.

     “The bullet did not pierce the skull,” he told her.  “He was lucky.”

     Michaela’s eyes closed briefly as she breathed a deep sigh of relief and gratitude.

       “The bleeding stopped on its own,” Cloud Dancing elaborated further.  “But the wound will need to be sewn.  I thought it was safer to wait and bring him to you, rather than do it myself.  I packed the wound with yarrow root.”

     “You did exactly what I would have,” Michaela told him.  “Thank you.”  She took a small pair of scissors out of her bag and gingerly cut through the clumsy, slightly blood-stained bandage, easing the cloth away from the wound.  She studied the injury, carefully pushing Sully’s hair aside to probe gently around the edges.  As Cloud Dancing had reported, it was not life-threatening, and inwardly she thanked God once again.  Deciding the head wound could wait while she ascertained Sully’s other symptoms, Michaela picked up the bell of her stethoscope again and pressed it to the quadrants of Sully’s chest.  Her face paled as she listened.  She kept her eyes averted from the faces of her children anxiously watching, so they would not see how frightened she was.

     Michaela placed her hand on Sully’s forehead, nearly recoiling in shock as she felt the extreme heat radiating from his skin.  His fever was dangerously high.  In dismay, she realized that every aspect of her vision had come true.

     “Colleen,” she spoke again, trying hard to keep her voice steady.  “Fill a basin with cool water and bring me some cloths.”

     “Right away, Ma,” her daughter answered.  As she waited, Michaela checked Sully’s eyes, lifting the lids and examining the pupils.

     Colleen brought the basin of water, laying it on the bed next to Sully’s body.  She handed her mother a small pile of folded linen.  Michaela took one of the cloths and immersed it in the basin, then squeezed out the excess water and laid the compress across Sully’s forehead.
 

     “How is he?” Cloud Dancing asked quietly.

     Michaela looked up at him briefly, cutting her eyes to Brian and shaking her head slightly.  Almost imperceptibly, the medicine man nodded.

     “Brian, I could use your help,” she said calmly.

     “Sure,” he answered with alacrity.  He had shed his coat, scarf and hat while she attended to Sully, and now he joined her by the bed.  “What can I do, Ma?” he asked solemnly.

     “Take one of these cloths, and dampen it in the water, then bathe Sully’s face, neck and chest,” Michaela instructed.  “We need to get his fever down.”  She stood up from her place on the bed and pulled the quilt over Sully’s body up to the chest.  Then she stood back to allow Brian to take her place.

     Brian nodded, and carefully sat down beside Sully.  He wet a cloth and gently began to press it to Sully’s skin, treating his responsibility with the utmost gravity.

     Michaela moved away from the bed, gesturing to the others to join her across the room.  The four of them gathered in the corner, positioned so that they could keep an eye on Sully as they talked.

     “How is he, Ma?” asked Colleen, echoing Cloud Dancing.  “Is the bullet wound bad?”

     “Ironically, that may be the least of his problems,” Michaela replied, her eyes haunted as she stared at the man she loved.  “As Cloud Dancing told us, the bullet merely grazed the scalp.  I could detect no visible sign of compression in the brain, though I won’t know for sure until he regains consciousness.  I’ll need to monitor him carefully.  However, Cloud Dancing did an excellent job of cleaning and packing the wound to survive the journey.  I should be able to stitch it without difficulty.”  She paused.  The others watched her soberly.

     “It’s his other symptoms that have me worried,” she confessed finally.  “There’s the fever, which is extremely high.  I can give him bark tea for that—“

     “I tried,” Cloud Dancing told her.  “It did not work.”

     “The infection was probably too severe,” Michaela surmised.  “I’ll try quinine instead—it should help.  But—“ She broke off.

     “What is it, Dr. Mike?” Matthew asked.

     Michaela sighed heavily.  “His lungs are congested,” she said.

     “Consumption?” asked Cloud Dancing, no stranger to this white man’s disease that—along with many other such illnesses—had decimated so many Indian populations.

     “No, not consumption,” Michaela replied.  “It’s true, consumption also infects the lungs.  But I’m afraid that what Sully is suffering from is pneumonia.”  At her mention of the word, the expressions of her children and friend grew even graver.

    “Ordinarily, I would be optimistic that Sully’s youth and vitality would help him overcome the infection,” she went on, her voice not quite steady.  “But he’s been so weakened by his ordeal, and his body is under such assault—“  She swallowed, her eyes dark with despair.

     “I’m afraid . . . he may lose the battle.”