Monday, 3 April, 1870

     This is the first chance I’ve had to write anything down since it happened.  Fact is, even if I’d had the time, I didn’t have the heart or the stomach to record and relive the horrifying details.  Even now, three days later, the memory still sets me to trembling all over with rage—and fear.  I try to draw serenity from the peacefulness of the night sky above, it’s soft fabric sewn with a million glittering stars, but its majesty has no power to comfort me.  Before me, the campfire burns, but its heat can’t penetrate the icy coldness at my core.

     Across the fire the others slumber, their blanket-wrapped forms vague shapes in the darkness.  Nearby, Matthew stands watch.  But sleep eludes me.  Truth is, I’m relieved—every time I attempt to close my eyes, I’m assaulted by nightmares that bring me awake in terror, a scream caught in my throat.

     I won’t rest again until I find her.

* * * * * * * * * *

     The fire out at last, I made my weary way toward the clinic.  Around me others were dispersing as well, heading to various destinations.  Every inch of my skin and clothes was blackened with soot, and rivulets of sweat ran down my face.  A fine drift of ash blanketed every visible surface, and above my head an acrid pall of smoke hung over the street, stinging my eyes and nose and making my throat feel like sandpaper.

     I spotted Matthew with Ingrid near the meadow.  As I watched, they parted, her eyes following him anxiously as he took his leave.  I stopped, waiting.  He started to head toward the clinic, then noticed me and changed direction, angling over to where I stood.  His clothes were as filthy as mine—his hat, formerly pale gray, now nearly black.

     “You all right?” he asked as he reached me.

     “Yeah.  You?”

     He nodded.

     “Anybody hurt?” I said.

     “Nothing too serious, far as I know.  Some minor burns, and a few people overcome by the smoke.”

     “Your ma will take care of them,” I said.  He nodded again.  A sudden thought occurred to me, and I felt a stab of alarm.  “Kids all right?” I asked sharply.

     “They’re fine,” Matthew said quickly.  “I talked to the Reverend—he said that before he came over here, he made all the children promise to stay in the schoolhouse till their folks could come fetch them—told the older ones to look out for the younger ones.”

     I sighed in relief.  “Good.  Maybe you could head over there and pick them up.”

     “Sure—soon as we check on Dr. Mike and make sure she’s okay,” Matthew agreed.

    “How about Michaela’s ma?” I inquired further.  “She accounted for?”

     “I spotted her in the café before the fire started.  I figure when all this was going on she was well out of it,” Matthew replied.

     “That’s a relief,” I answered.  “I wouldn’t want Michaela worrying.”

    “You hear anything about how the fire started?” Matthew asked after a moment.
.
     I shook my head.  “About all I know for sure is that it wasn’t dog soldiers this time.”

     “Hank’s probably fit to be tied, though,” Matthew commented.

     “Yeah, he’s mad all right—more so because he ain’t got nobody to blame—at least yet,” I replied.

     “Sure is mysterious, happening out of the blue like that,” Matthew went on.

     “I’d like to know who was behind it,” I concurred.  “But right now all I care about is seeing your ma.”

     “Same here,” said Matthew and fell into step with me as I resumed walking.

     As we approached, we saw Brendan coming from the other direction, heading toward the water trough in front of the clinic.  He reached it and hunkered down, plunging his hands into the water and splashing it liberally over his face and head.

     We came up beside him.  He looked awful, the black and blue of the shiner around his eye competing with the soot, sweat and water streaking the rest of his face.

     “You all right?” Matthew inquired.  Brendan looked up at us, his injured eye almost swollen shut, and the other one closed nearly to a slit from the smoke.  Slowly he rose to his feet, droplets of water dripping from the ends of his hair.

     “Yes, I’m fine—“ he began, then broke off as he was seized with a violent fit of coughing.  Without thinking about it I clapped him on the back, keeping it up until the racking cough finally subsided.

     “You don’t sound so fine,” I remarked.

     “I suppose the smoke affected me,” he said.
 
    “You should let Michaela take a look at you,” I told him.  “She uses chloroform to ease coughing spells and breathing problems.  She helped Matthew’s fiancee with her asthma.”

    “Yeah,” Matthew chimed in.  “Fixed her right up.”

    “I know Dr. Mike is a skilled physician,” Brendan commented.  “Thanks for the suggestion—I’ll do that,” he added,  his breathing still a little harsh.

     I hesitated for a long moment, then said, “You, uh—you done good.”  I cut my eyes toward the saloon.

     He followed the direction of my glance.  “I was glad to help.”

     “Yeah, well—we appreciated having an extra set of hands.”
 
    “Are you both all right?” he inquired in his turn.

     I hazarded a small smile.  “Dirty and tired, but nothing that a dunk in the creek and a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

     “That sounds like a good prescription for all of us,” he agreed, risking a smile of his own.

      I bit my lip, thinking of my promise to Michaela.  Now was probably as good a time as any.

      “Look . . . I’m, uh, I’m sorry—for hitting you like I done,” I ventured.  “Even though I was mad, I had no call to use my fists.”

     “To be honest, I can’t say that I would have done any differently, had I been in your place,” Brendan said frankly.  He paused, then continued, “I apologize as well, for the way I goaded you . . . the things that I implied.  Michaela—that is, Dr. Mike—made me see I was wrong.”  He hesitated again, then added, “Is everything—all right?”   He didn’t have to explain what he meant.

     “We . . . worked it out,” I replied.

     “I’m relieved,” he said.  “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for causing dissension between you—at least, no more than I already have.”
 
    There was an awkward pause, then impulsively I stuck out my hand.  “Let’s just—forget about it,” I suggested.  “What do you say?”

     He regarded me levelly, then accepted my proffered hand and pumped it briefly.  “It never happened,” he said.

     “Good enough,” I replied.  Matthew watched us curiously, but didn’t comment, recognizing that this was something between just the two of us.

     “We were just on our way to the clinic to check on Michaela,” I spoke again, changing the subject.  “Why don’t you come along?  Michaela can see to that cough of yours, and we could all do with some cleaning up.”

     “She’s alone?” he asked quickly, looking concerned.

     “I had no choice—everything happening so fast and all,” I responded.  “But I made her promise to lock all the doors while we were gone.”

     “Well, then—I’m sure she’s all right,” he said.

     “Yeah.  Still, I’ll feel better once I see her,” I remarked.

     “Agreed.”

     The three of us made our way to the main entrance of the clinic, and I knocked on the door.

     “Michaela—we’re back,” I called out.  “Let us in.”  We waited, seconds ticking past.  I tried that door, then the other one, but they were both locked, just as she’d promised.

     “Michaela!” I repeated, knocking louder.  The seconds crept by once more and still there was no response.  Matthew and I looked at each other uneasily.

     “Maybe she’s upstairs and couldn’t hear you,” he suggested.

     “Yeah—that’s probably it,” I replied, trying to ignore a twinge of apprehension.  I stepped back out into the street, looking up at the balcony that fronted the upper story of the building.

     “Michaela!” I shouted, willing her to open the doors and step out on the balcony,  But the doors remained closed.  My apprehension grew.  Fact is, now that my senses were heightened by anxiety, I realized that the whole place had a deserted feel to it.   I rejoined Matthew and Brendan.

     “Go around back—check that door,” I told Matthew.  He bobbed his head and took off, cutting through the alley.  Brendan and I waited tensely, not speaking.  Within moments he was back.

     “Locked,” he announced, breathing hard.  He took a moment to get his wind, then said, “Maybe she left the clinic after all.  You know Dr. Mike—how hard it is for her to stay put if she thinks folks are in trouble.  Besides—remember she thought you were worrying too much?”

     “Yeah . . .” I said slowly.  “All that’s true—“ I broke off and turned to Brendan.  “Would you check around town?   Ask if anybody’s seen her?”

     “Of course,” he said promptly, and headed in the direction of the mercantile.  I watched him go, a knot of fear starting to form inside me.  Matthew must have seen it in my face.

     “What is it?” he said soberly.

     “I don’t think that’s what happened, Matthew,” I told him.  “Michaela may have thought I was over-reacting, but she also knew how serious I was.  She made me a promise—she wouldn’t break it.  Besides, if she thought people were hurt, the logical place she’d go is the saloon.  And we know she’s not there.”

     “So what are you saying?” Matthew asked, the concern in his eyes deepening.

     “I ain’t sure . . .”  The sweat dried on my skin as I felt a sudden chill.

     “Sully—you think . . . maybe something happened to her?  That maybe she’s lying in there sick, or hurt . . .”   He swallowed, his skin paling under the mask of grime.

     Instead of answering, I ran to the front window and peered through the panes.  It was dim in contrast to the brighter day outside, and I had to wait a moment for my eyes to adjust.  Once I could see clearly though, I didn’t know any more that I had before.  There was no sign of Michaela, and everything seemed the same as always—

     There was something laying on the examination table.  Something that gleamed in the muted light coming through the window.  Something that looked like . . .

     I bolted back over to the clinic entrance, Matthew watching me anxiously.

     “What is it?” he demanded.

     I threw myself against the door.  It rattled in its frame, but didn’t give way.  I rammed it again.  Still it held.

     “Sully—what is it?  Is she in there?” Matthew repeated, now nearly frantic.

     “No—I don’t know!” I gasped, hitting the door a third time.

     “Then what . . .?”

     On my fourth try the door burst inward, taking me with it.  I stumbled, nearly falling, but managed to catch myself.  Then, on legs that suddenly felt too weak to support me, I made my way over to the examination table.  Matthew was right on my heels.  With shaking fingers, I reached for what I’d seen.

     Michaela’s cane—or what was left of it.  The silver handle intact, but the shaft broken in two, with no sign of the other half.  Matthew stared down at the broken walking stick, then up into my eyes, his face going even whiter.

     “What happened?” he whispered harshly.

     My heart was galloping in my chest, the fear clutching me in an iron grip.  But somehow I had to keep my wits about me for Matthew’s sake—and Michaela’s.

     “Look around,” I managed.  “See if you can find anything—any clues . . .  I’ll check upstairs.”

     Immediately he began to move around the room.  I went out in the hall and began to go through the rest of the building, grimly opening one door after another, investigating every room, always with the same negative result.  I reached the recovery room opening onto the balcony, and hastily crossed to the French doors.  I tried the handles—and they opened easily.

     No—please no, I thought silently.

     “Sully!” Matthew called up to me.  Even separated like we were, I could hear the panic in his voice.

     I raced to the stairs, and practically vaulted to the bottom.  As I ran back into the main room of the clinic, I saw Matthew standing like a statue.  I stopped short, feeling physically ill as I saw what he held in his hand.

     The other half of Michaela’s broken cane—the end drenched in blood.

* * * * * * * * * *
 

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

     Mutely Matthew held out the shattered portion of the walking stick, blood glistening darkly on its tip.  Sully accepted it with hands that shook visibly.

     As he stared down at the grisly evidence of the terrible occurrence that taken place here—perhaps only minutes ago . . . and mere yards from where he’d been—the strength ran out of his legs and he sank to his knees.  His trembling fingers touched the crimson smears defacing the cane, and came away streaked in red.  It was still wet—still fresh.

     As he rubbed the blood between his fingertips, staring at it in horrified fascination, the feel of it—the sight of it—made him physically ill.  He crouched on the floor, holding the terrible relic in his lap as he took deep, shuddering breaths, grimly willing down the gorge that rose in his throat.

     What had he done to her, came Sully’s thoughts, black and tortured.  What had that monster DONE to her?

     He thought of how precious the cane had been to Michaela, because of all it represented:  her adoration and respect for her father; but also her father’s love and respect for her.  He remembered the glow of pride in her eyes as she’d shown it to him.  Could it have only been hours ago?

     He thought of how he’d sworn to Michaela that he’d never let anyone or anything take her away from him.  He’d made her a sacred promise, but he hadn’t been able to keep it.  Just as he’d failed to keep his promise to Abagail to protect her, years ago.  The fear that had dogged his steps since this agonizing ordeal began . . . the shadow that had trailed him since the beginning . . .had finally fulfilled its dark promise.  The nightmare had finally come to pass.

     Harsh, racking sobs rose up inside him, violently seeking release—but desperately, he held them in check.  If he allowed himself to crack—if he broke down now—there was no hope.  Somehow, he had to believe that Michaela was still alive—and if she was, then he would travel to the ends of the earth . . . he would offer up his own life, if that’s what it took—to save her.

     “It don’t have to be Dr. Mike’s blood,” Matthew said rapidly, kneeling down next to Sully.  “It looks like she mighta fought back.”  He swallowed, then added, “She coulda fought back—couldn’t she?”

     Sully raised tormented eyes to the young man.  As he saw fear desperately warring with hope in Matthew’s face, he knew that he must somehow lock his own anguish away, and call on every ounce of strength he possessed, to be strong for the children’s sake—for *their* children’s sake.  Matthew, Colleen and Brian were counting on him.  Michaela was counting on him.  He’d failed them once—he wouldn’t fail them again.  He swore it on the souls of all those he had loved and lost before.

     Sully summoned his resolve.  Matthew was waiting for him to make things right—to give him hope.  To give them all hope.

     He reached out his hand and squeezed Matthew’s shoulder.  “You’re right—it don’t have to be Dr. Mike’s blood,” he agreed.  “It’s probably his.”  He hands clenched around the broken cane.  “I hope it’s his,” he muttered darkly.  “I hope he’s sufferin’ the tortures of the damned.”

     “But if he’s hurt, won’t that make him more dangerous?” Matthew asked soberly.

     “Maybe,” said Sully.  “But if he’s losin’ blood, it could also make him weak.  Maybe weak enough for your ma to fight him off.”

     “You think it was *him*?” Matthew said.

     Sully looked into the young man’s steely blue eyes.  “What do *you* think?” he answered quietly.

     “But how? How, Sully?  How did he get in when Dr. Mike4 had everythin’ sealed up tight?  The locks on the doors—they weren’t jimmied or tampered with . . .”  Matthew stared at him helplessly.

     Wearily Sully got to his feet, followed by Matthew.  “Balcony doors were unlocked,” he said bleakly.

     “Damn!” Matthew cursed, slamming his fist against the doorframe in frustration.  “Why didn’t she lock them?”

     “I don’t know,” Sully sighed.  “Maybe she didn’t think she needed to, maybe she forgot.  Maybe—she didn’t get the chance . . .

     “But whatever the reason, Matthew—it don’t make no difference.  I shoulda known.  A locked door or closed window wasn’t about to stop him—he was bound to get to her, no matter what.”

     “Which is why he set fire to the saloon,” Matthew stated.

     “Exactly,” Sully said grimly.  “What better way to distract me—distract both of us—and get us away from the clinic?  It was the perfect set-up to raise a commotion and keep most of the men in town busy while he slipped off with your ma.”

     “But not everybody was fightin’ the fire,” Matthew pointed out.  “What about the folks who were left in the café—like Grace, or Dorothy or even Dr. Mike’s ma?  How could he get Dr. Mike past them without bein’ seen?”

     “Maybe somebody *did* see ‘em,” Sully countered.  “Maybe Brendan’ll bring back good news.
But—if not . . . well, there were ways he coulda done it.  If he was in disguise, and your ma was conscious and on her feet—he coulda walked out the rear entrance with her—then forced her away with a gun stuck in her back, and nobody woulda been the wiser.

     “And if she was . . . unconscious—“  He stopped a moment, trying to control the tremor in his voice.  “He coulda wrapped her body in a blanket or a quilt or somethin’ . . . slung her over his shoulder and escaped off the balcony.  He’s big, and strong—and your ma weighs next to nothin’.  Then all he’d need is to have horses or a wagon waitin’ to take her out of town.”  Sully fixed his gaze on Matthew.  “If a quilt or blanket was missin’ from the clinic, would you be able to tell?”

     Matthew shrugged, shaking his head.  “But maybe Colleen would know,” he offered hopefully.

     “Maybe,” Sully agreed.  “It’s all right—it don’t matter, for now.  Did—did you find anythin’ else?” he added after a moment, his voice not quite steady.

     “Looks like Dr. Mike’s medical bag is missin’,” Matthew told him.  “What do you ‘spose that means?”

     “Means she’s alive,” Sully said resolutely.  “That’s what I’m gonna believe.  That’s what I got to believe.  Why else would he take it?  Or take Michaela, for that matter—if he was just gonna k—“  He choked over the word, unable to voice it—then walked toward the window and stood staring out, his back to Matthew.

     Matthew came up behind him, laying his hand on Sully’s shoulder.  “You’re right,” he said.  “She’s alive, Sully—and we’re gonna find her.”
 
    Sully swallowed hard, forcing down the tears that threatened to spill.  He took a deep breath and turned to face the young man.  “We *are* gonna find her, Matthew—that’s a promise.”  He took a step away from the window and his boot struck something small and hard which rattled away across the floor.

     Startled, he looked down at the floorboards, his eyes combing their worn and weathered surface, unsure of what he was searching for, but knowing somehow that he’d recognize it when he found it.

     There—by the washstand—something pinkish-red and roughly oval, appearing to be nothing more than an ordinary stone.  For an instant his heart constricted in disappointment; nonetheless, he moved over to where it rested and bent to pick it up.

     As he’d suspected, it was a stone, deep rose in color, its texture worn smooth over the passage of time.  But as he turned it over in his hand, he was surprised to see an image carved into its surface. It looked like a primitive representation of a mountain goat, or perhaps a sheep.  But not like any kind of sheep Sully had ever seen.  This creature had large, prominent horns.

     Matthew studied the image over Sully’s shoulder.  “Looks Indian,” he commented.

     “Yeah,” Sully agreed.

     “Is it Cheyenne?”

     Sully shook his head thoughtfully.  “No, not Cheyenne.  But I don’t think its Arikara either,” he speculated, referring to Bloody Knife’s tribe.  “This looks old—real old.”

     “You ever see anythin’ like it before?” Matthew inquired further.

     “No, sure haven’t,” Sully replied.

     “Maybe Cloud Dancin’ would know,” Matthew suggested.

     “He might—but there’s no time to go lookin’ for him to find out,” Sully replied.  “Sides, if I went to Cloud Dancin’ with this, he’d insist on comin’ along when I search for your ma.”

     “But don’t he have a right?” said Matthew.  “Bloody Knife came after both of you in the mountains.  Wouldn’t Cloud Dancin’ feel he was entitled to justice, just like you?”

     “It’s true—he has a right to his revenge,” Sully acknowledged.  “But it could be even more dangerous for Cloud Dancin’ to make this trip than it is for me.  The Cheyenne got other enemies, Matthew.   Not to mention he’d be making himself a target again for Bloody Knife—maybe Custer, too.  I don’t want to be responsible for puttin’ him in that kind of danger on my account.

     “But even more than that . . .  The moment Bloody Knife took your ma, this became my fight.”  Sully regarded Matthew with eyes the color of flint.  “Cloud Dancin’ would understand that.”

     “But if you don’t know what this is, and you can’t ask Cloud Dancin’—how are you gonna figure out where it came from?” Matthew asked him.

     “I don’t know what it is . . . but there’s somebody who might.”  Sully’s eyes were determined as he looked at Matthew.  “Go find Brendan for me and bring him back here,” he said.

* * * * * * * * * *

     But it proved to be unnecessary.  At that moment, Brendan appeared in the entryway.  Beyond him Sully and Matthew could see a knot of people gathering outside.  Apparently Brendan’s questions concerning Michaela’s whereabouts had raised curiosity among the townsfolk.  The young archaeologist stared at the door canted slightly on its bent hinges, and the splintered frame where the lock assembly had been wrenched from its housing.

     “You broke in?” he said, venturing slowly into the room.  “Has something happened to her—was she hurt, or . . .?”  His voice died away as he realized that Michaela was nowhere in sight.

     “She’s gone,” Sully announced briefly, the pulse beating in his throat.  His eyes said the rest.

     “He took her?” Brendan managed, his voice barely above a whisper.  “He actually got in here and took her while we were—“  Knowledge dawned in his eyes.  “The fire,” he said.

     “You got it,” Sully replied.  “He staged the whole thing just to get us away.”

     “Oh, God,” Brendan muttered, raking his hand through his wet hair.  After a moment he added, “How did he get her past us without being spotted?”

     “You know what it was like out there,” Sully reminded him, gesturing toward the street and the damaged saloon opposite.  “It was crazy, confused . . . you could barely see, for the smoke.  “’Sides, he might have taken her out through the back . . . “  He stared at Brendan.  “What did you find out?  Did anybody see her?” he asked urgently.

     Brendan shook his head regretfully.  “No—no one.  But I have to tell you that there are people wondering now what’s become of Dr. Mike—including Mrs. Quinn,” he added warningly.  “I did my best to treat the whole thing casually, and asked her to remain at the café until we could bring her some news, but I don’t think she’s going to be content to wait for information.”

     “We’ll deal with her and everybody else later,” Sully answered, feeling that right now, Elizabeth was the least of his problems.  Returning to the issue at hand, he said, “What about Bloody Knife himself—did anyone recall seeing any strangers in town?  Anybody who hasn’t been here before?”

     “Sully—“ Matthew broke in reluctantly.  “There are lots of new folks streamin’ into town with the railroad comin’ in a few weeks.  Some real tough-lookin’ characters, too.  He coulda blended right in
 . . .”  His face was shadowed with guilt at having to dash Sully’s hopes.  “I’m sorry,” he added lamely.

     “Don’t feel bad,” Sully attempted to mollify him.  “It was a long-shot.  You’re right—there *are* plenty of new folks in town, and Bloody Knife was countin’ on that.  It fit right into his plan.”

     “Are you sure it was the Indian?” Brendan asked.  “Do you have some kind of proof?”

     “Not exactly,” Matthew said.  “But we found these—“   He held out the top of Michaela’s cane, and pointed to the bloodied other half still cradled in Sully’s hand.  Brendan swallowed with difficulty.

     “Is that—her blood?” he said slowly.

     Matthew shook his head.  “We ain’t positive.  Maybe it’s his.  The one thing we do know for sure is that there was some kind of struggle, and we’re thinkin’ that maybe Dr. Mike fought him, hit him with the cane.  I guess it wasn’t enough to stop him though, ‘cause . . .”  he trailed off, his voice trembling slightly, then cleared his throat and added, “And Dr. Mike’s medical bag is missin’.”

     Brendan considered all this for a moment, then said, “Perhaps that means it wasn’t the Indian.  It might have been someone looking for drugs, such as morphine or opium . . .  William’s told me about soldiers injured in the war who developed a dependence on morphine—he called it morphinism.  He said that once they became slaves to its effects, they’d do anything to get it—lie, steal, even commit violence.”

     “Yeah, we know about that,” Sully said.  “There was a young fella here in town—the son of one of Michaela’s friends—who got so desperate for the stuff he broke into the homestead once.  Scared Colleen within an inch of her life and shot at Matthew, so Michaela was forced to shoot him.  She wound up havin’ to take his leg.

     “Michaela did her best to wean him from the morphine, though it was hell for everybody concerned,” he went on.  “But finally, it looked like she’d done the trick.  He seemed real sorry for what he’d put everyone through, and he appeared to be more content and ready to start a new life.  But then, a few days later, he was gone—along with all the money in Loren’s cash box.  I guess—it just had too strong a hold on him.

     “Don’t know where he is now—nobody’s heard from him since,” he finished gravely.

     “How tragic,” Brendan said sympathetically.   “For his mother, for Michaela and her children . . .  But the effects of his dependency sound very much as William described them,” he went on.  “So isn’t it possible this could be a similar occurrence?  Perhaps even the same young man?” he added.

     “Anythin’s possible,” Sully responded.  “But if all this person wanted was morphine, why take Michaela?  Why not just steal what he needed and leave?  When this young fella broke into the homestead, he didn’t care about nothin’ but gettin’ what he wanted and gettin’ out.”

     Brendan raised an eyebrow, conceding the logic of Sully’s statement.  After a pause he said, “But there still doesn’t seem to be any definitive proof that it was the Indian scout who did this.  How can you be so sure?”

     Sully’s expression was implacable.  “I’m sure.”

     “And there’s somethin’ else—“ Matthew spoke up.

     “That’s right,” Sully broke in, stepping closer to Brendan.  “We need your help.”  He held out his hand, the unusual stone resting in his palm.  “What do you make of this?”