Tuesday, 18 April, 1870

Evening

     The doc keeps telling me I need to rest.  Fact is, he threatened to give me something to knock me out if I can’t get to sleep on my own.  Any other time I’d never resort to those measures, but now I’m beginning to think it’s the only thing that will help.  Even the chamomile I asked them to brew for me didn’t work . . .

      I can’t remember the last time I slept.  I try, again and again—but when I close my eyes all I can see is Bloody Knife—his eyes soulless and empty, and the glitter of his blade as it slashes into my flesh
 . . .  All I can hear is Michaela screaming, freezing my blood . . .  I remember thinking that it would be the last sound I would ever hear . . . that the echo of her agony would follow me down into death and haunt me for
eternity . . .

     And when I’m not fighting the images of what happened, I’m thinking about Michaela . . . the horror of what she went through, the desperate condition she was in when I found her—and whether she’ll be able to recover from all that . . .

     I thought finding Bloody Knife at last would put an end to my torment, one way or another.  How foolishly wrong I was.  About that, and so many other things . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

    After my head hit the rock I was too dazed to know much of anything.  I saw the blood oozing from my chest but it seemed like it wasn’t connected to me, and I couldn’t feel any pain—at least, not then.  I remember Bloody Knife glaring down at me, his eyes like red-hot coals, and the knife poised above me, about to strike . . . but it was unreal, dreamlike, and I could only hold onto my senses long enough to whisper a final goodbye to Michaela, sending her my spirit, before I left my earth life.

    I must have closed my eyes—maybe because my consciousness was fading from the blow to my head, or maybe it was from loss of blood . . . or maybe because I couldn’t face the moment of my own death.  I don’t want to believe it’s because I was a coward . . . I hope it was only the unbearable prospect of being parted from Michaela, that made it so hard for me to accept my fate.

    I’m getting maudlin again.  I can’t seem to help it.  I’ve been like this ever since we got here—depressed, guilty, ashamed . . .  going off alone and keeping to myself for fear of breaking down in front of the others.  I’d never experienced nothing like this before—my emotions so confused and out of control—and it scared me.  Finally, out of desperation, I asked Doc Hunter if he could explain it.  The good news, I suppose, is that he didn’t seem nearly so worried as I was.  He said it it was a normal reaction to everything I’d been through—my exhaustion, my injuries, my worries over Michaela—but most of all, to my coming so close to dying.  The way he put it, was that I’d held my emotions in check for so long, through losing Michaela and going after her—and then nearly dying when I found her—that it was like a damn had finally burst inside me, letting all the feelings come flooding out.  He said it wasn’t permanent—that with time the melancholy would fade as I healed in my mind and in my body.

    Doc Hunter is a good man—wise and compassionate—and I wanted to believe in his explanation.  But I couldn’t—because in my heart I knew what was wrong with me even before I asked.  And it wasn’t something the doc could cure, or even understand—because he didn’t know my sin.  For so long I’d despised my enemies for having no honor—but in the end, I was no better than they were.  And I wondered how Michaela could ever respect me, or want me, again . . .

    I know I’m avoiding the subject.  It’s kind of ironic—even funny, in a perverse sort of way.  I’d give anything to forget this whole nightmare—to blot it all out.  But now, when I pray for amnesia, the memories are stubbornly, relentlessly clear.  It’s painful to write about—more shameful still to remember.  But I made a promise to myself to be honest in these pages, to record everything—therefore I’ve got to see this through to the end.

    So . . . where was I?  Oh, yes.  The attack.

     My eyes.  Closed.  And then a gunshot.  At first my mind couldn’t fathom the sound.  How could it be?  Where had  it come from?  My friends had no weapons—they’d been forced to give them up.  Bloody Knife didn’t have a gun—at least none that I’d been able to see.  Of course there was no end to his treachery . . .

     But it wasn’t the sound of the gun that drove the fog from my head and made me open my eyes.  It was the voice.  A voice I knew—a voice I despised—that had no business being here in the wilds of Nevada.  And yet . . .

     The first thing I knew was that Bloody Knife was gone.  I couldn’t take it in for a moment, and then I saw him, lying sideways on the ground and clutching his leg while blood pooled out beneath his fingers.  Somebody had shot him, but far as I knew, it couldn’t be Matthew or either of the others.  Which left only . . .

     Custer.  I managed to turn my head in the direction of his voice, sure that my mind was playing tricks, positive that there must be some other explanation.

     But no.  It was no dream, no trick of my imagination.  There he was—as real, as solid, as smug and preening as I’d ever seen him.  And he’d just saved my life.

     I couldn’t grasp it.  None of it made sense.  But I quickly realized that in this case, I wasn’t the only one at a loss.  Everybody—Matthew, Hank, Brendan, Michaela . . . all of them were frozen, staring in shock at the army officer.

     Michaela was the first to recover.  She clutched at Matthew’s arm and looked in my direction, frantically saying something to him I couldn’t hear.  Matthew’s paralysis broke then, and he jumped up and started toward me.

     “Mr. Cooper,” Custer spoke again, stopping Matthew in his tracks.

     “I’m seeing to Sully,” Matthew announced, staring at Custer defiantly.  “He’s hurt—he needs attention.”

     The officer nodded slightly, granting his permission.  “But keep your distance from my scout,” he warned.

     “Don’t worry,” Matthew told him flatly.  “He can bleed to death for all I care.”  He reached me and crouched down at my side.  “Sully—you all right?” he asked anxiously.  His gaze flickered quickly  over my cloudy eyes and the blood on my shirt.  “No, you ain’t,” he answered his own question.  “Sully, Dr. Mike wants me to bring you over to her so she can tend to you,” he explained to me carefully.  “Think you can stand?”

     “She ain’t in—no shape—for doctoring,” I managed.

     “I agree—but you know Dr. Mike,” he said lightly.  “She won’t take no for an answer.  Anyway, how about it?  Can you get to your feet if you lean on me?”
 Rather than wasting energy on a reply, I tried to stand on my own, but my head swam and I stumbled.  Matthew lunged to catch me.  “Hank!” he bellowed over his shoulder.  “I need help!”

     The barkeep came running, and a moment later I felt strong arms on both sides lift me up and support me over to where Michaela sat on the ground, looking like the slightest puff of air would carry her off.

     Her face seemed to pale even more as she saw me.  Yet somehow, frail as she was, she couldn’t deny her doctoring instincts, and she began to examine me just as if we were in the clinic.

     “Matthew, my bag,” she requested, her tone crisp, as she took my pulse, peered into my eyes and then turned her attention to my wound.  “I want to examine you for signs of concussion or other injury, but first we need to stop the bleeding,” she told me, glancing around to include everyone in her remarks.  “I need something to apply pressure to the wound,” she instructed Matthew as he brought the bag to her side.  He opened it and hunted quickly through the contents, bringing out a folded piece of linen.  “Press it firmly to Sully’s chest,” she told him.  She turned her eyes to me.  “The gash is wide and fairly deep,” she said.  “But thankfully it missed the vital organs.  You’ll need stitches and rest, but I believe that once the cut is cleaned and sewn, it will heal completely.”

     “You ain’t in no condition to be stitching anybody up,” I protested.  I glanced at Matthew.  “Make her listen,” I said.  “Her hands are painful—crippled up from the damp—and I don’t want her using up her strength tending to me.”

     “I’ll help,” Matthew immediately placated me.  “Whatever needs doing, Dr. Mike—stitching Sully up, or anything else—just talk me through it,” he added to his ma, paling a little himself at the prospect of poking me with a needle, but determined to help in whatever way he could.

     “Thank you, Matthew, but I don’t think that will be necessary,” Michaela told him.  “I believe if we pack the wound with yarrow root and then bandage Sully’s chest firmly, he can wait until we can get him to the nearest doctor.

     “I’d do it myself, but I don’t have the control—the precision—I need right now,” she added to me.

     “Even if you could, I wouldn’t let you,” I told her firmly.  “I don’t want you fussing over me, Michaela—I’m all right.”

     “No, you’re not,” she contradicted softly.  “But you will be.  Thank God, you will be,” she added to herself, her voice trembling a little.  After a moment she shook herself slightly, then turned again to Matthew.  “There’s a bottle of chlorine water for disinfecting the wound, as well as a pouch with some dried yarrow root in my bag,” she said.  “We’ll  sponge away the blood and clean the cut.  Then we’ll add some water to the yarrow root, make a paste, and apply it to the wound—after which we’ll bandage.”

     “I’ll bring the water,” Brendan offered, but then stood helplessly, looking around for something to carry it in.

     “There’s a tin cup in the cave—but it don’t hold much,” I said.

     “I’ll go back up to the ridge—fetch the canteens and the other supplies,” said Hank, and took off in the opposite direction.

     “While we’re waiting, let me examine you more closely for concussion,” Michaela said to me, businesslike.

     She tilted my chin up and looked into my eyes again.  “Follow my finger,” she instructed, passing her index finger slowly from right to left in front of my eyes and observing the results.

     “Michaela—“

     “Any dizziness?” she asked.

     “He had some when he tried to stand up,” Matthew offered helpfully.

     “What about now?” Michaela asked me.

    I shrugged, uninterested in my own condition.  “I don’t know—maybe a little,” I said.  “Michaela—“

    “Nausea?” she questioned.

    “A little,” I admitted.  “Michaela, I don’t want you fretting about me, or hurting yourself more trying to care for me.  You’re the one who needs a doctor—“

    “Hush,” she said briefly, and gently probed the back of my skull.  “There’s a swelling here,” she added after a moment, as her fingers encountered the bump on my head and I winced sharply.  “I’m sorry,” she apologized.

    “I believe you have a concussion, and I’ll want to observe you carefully over the next twenty-four hours,” she went on.  “But barring any complications, you should recover completely.  I’m wary of giving you strong medication at present, but when we get the water, we’ll brew you some willow bark tea.  That should ease the pain.  Depending upon your progress, perhaps later I can give you laudanum if necessary.”

    “*You* ain’t going to do nothing but lay in a bed and get well,” I told her.  “We’ll find another doctor, and he’ll tend to me if I need it.  *After* he tends to you.  You got to take it easy, Michaela,” I said, gently removing her hand from me and replacing it in her lap.

    She opened her mouth to protest but froze as Custer, apparently tired of being ignored, wandered up to us.  He touched his fingers to his hat.

    “Dr. Quinn—I’m sorry that we should have to meet again under such circumstances,” he began politely.  “What is Mr. Sully’s condition?  And yours, of course,” he added hastily.

    “We’ve both suffered injury,” Michaela replied stiffly.  “But fortunately, I believe we will both recover.”  She made herself look to where Bloody Knife still lay on the ground.  “General, your scout also needs attention.  The bleeding must be stopped, or he’ll die.  After I’ve seen to Sully’s injuries—“

    “You ain’t going within ten feet of him!” I said sharply.

    “Sully—“

    “I mean it, Michaela,” I said, implacable.  “You ain’t lifting one finger to help that—“  I bit down on the obscenity that rose to my lips.  “You ain’t helping him,” I repeated grimly.

    “Sully, I can’t watch someone dying and do nothing,” Michaela said.  “Not even if it’s someone I despise.  I’m a doctor,” she reminded me gently.  “It’s my duty to save lives.”

    “It ain’t your duty to save *his* life,” I muttered.

    “Sully, please—“ she said, distressed.

    “Your ethics are most commendable, Dr. Quinn,” Custer interjected smoothly.  “And I thank you for your willingness to help, in view of what you endured.  But your efforts won’t be necessary, as it happens.  I’m camped with two of my aides just over that rise.”  He pointed to a hill beyond the cliff and the waterfall.  “They can give Bloody Knife the attention he requires until we can transport him back to army headquarters.”

    “Why help him at all?” Hank asked rudely as he returned, saddlebags slung on his shoulders and canteens dangling from his hands.  He let his burdens slide off and drop to the ground, glancing murderously at Bloody Knife, then turning his flinty gaze on Custer.  “He’s a miserable excuse for a man—even for an Injun,” he went on.  “He damn near burned down my saloon, kidnapped Dr. Mike and tried to kill Sully twice.  Why don’t you save the army the cost of a hanging and just let the life bleed out of him?”

    “Your anger is understandable, and your ‘suggestion’ duly noted, Mr. Lawson.  But *I* will decide the disposition of my scout,” Custer told him.

    “What are you doing here, anyway?” Hank demanded, finally voicing the question none of us had had the opportunity to ask.  “Where’d you come from?”

    A half-smile tugged at Custer’s mouth.  “Why, from the same place you did—Colorado Springs,” he said blandly.

    “You know what I mean,” Hank retorted.

    “If you’re asking if I’ve been following you, the answer is no,” Custer replied.

    “You ain’t been tracking us?” I said suspiciously.

    He shook his head.  “No, Mr. Sully, far from it.  When Bloody Knife committed this—act—I was away on leave, visiting my wife, Libby.  It distresses her when my military campaigns keep us separated for months at a time.  She worries about my safety—legacy of the war, I suppose,” he mused.  “At any rate, periodically I must go home to reassure her.”  He broke off as he realized that none of us gave a damn about his domestic troubles.  “Well, no matter,” he said.  “The point is, I had no knowledge of my scout’s activities until I returned to Colorado Springs.  Had I suspected Bloody Knife’s intentions sooner, none of this would have happened,” he added.

    My expression told him what I thought of that claim.  “Then how did you know to find us here?” I challenged him.  “The Nevada desert ain’t exactly a stroll around the corner from Colorado Springs.”

    “You know as well as anyone how rapidly news travels in a small town,” Custer said.  “When I returned to Colorado Springs, I read an account of the kidnapping in the Gazette.  Mrs. Jennings’ article made mention of the fact that a posse of four men, including Dr. Quinn’s fiancé, had gone in pursuit of the suspected kidnapper.  It required little effort on my part to make some discreet inquiries, and learn the details.”

    “Not from our family or friends,” I said with certainty.

    “No, you’re quite right,” Custer said regretfully.  “Your friends and family were definitely not forthcoming.  However, my investment of an afternoon in the saloon produced gratifying results.  It’s not hard to loosen a few tongues for the price of a whiskey or two,” he added.

    “Still—even knowing Red Rock Canyon was our destination couldn’t have lead you to this exact spot,” I accused.  “Unless you already knew about it.”

    “I might have been—familiar—with the location,” Custer admitted.  “Not from first-hand experience, mind you, but because Bloody Knife had spoken of it before.  Something about a failed love affair,” he recalled vaguely.  “A Paiute woman—the daughter of a chief—whose father refused to sanction her union to Bloody Knife because of his mixed blood.  They drove him out, I believe.  Pity,” he added casually, sounding no more concerned or sympathetic than if he were discussing an animal instead of a man.
 
    “I wouldn’t know about any involvement Bloody Knife had with the Paiutes.  But as far as how you knew to come to Red Rock, you’re lying,” I said flatly.  “You knew about this place because you sent him here.  You been behind this since the beginning.  Who was it who ordered Bloody Knife to kill me in the first place?”

    “I never ordered him to ‘kill’ anyone,” Custer replied levelly.  “I sent him on a legitimate mission to find the fugitive medicine man, Cloud Dancing.  And I suggested that he keep a watch on you, in the hope that you might lead us to our target.  I instructed Bloody Knife to apprehend the Cheyenne and bring him back to headquarters for trial.  However I did not order him to kill the Cheyenne, nor did I instruct him to take any violent action against you.  In fact, you were only involved insofar as your activities to aide and abet a fugitive.”

    “What happens now?” Hank spoke up again.  He jerked his head toward Bloody Knife.  “To him?”

    “As I said before, I will handle the situation,” Custer said enigmatically.

    “You’re going to let him go,” Hank said softly, ominously.  “That’s it, ain’t it?  He ain’t going to stand trial, he ain’t going to hang—you’re just going to brush this under the carpet like it never happened.”

    “Not true,” Custer denied.  “He will be punished.”

    “Not like he deserves,” I said, the rage boiling up inside me.  “A slap on the wrist and that’s all.”  Ignoring my dizziness and pain, I got to my feet, the anger coursing through me giving me the strength.  I regarded Custer with loathing.  “Do you got any idea what Dr. Quinn suffered at his hands?” I went on dangerously.  “Kidnapping, starvation—his constant threats to her life?  To mine?  The army would hang him for a lot less.  And you’re gonna protect him.”

    “I am taking the only practical course necessary under the circumstances,” Custer persisted.

    “Practical for you,” I said contemptuously.  “Well if you ain’t going make him pay for what he done, then I will.”  I started to move toward the Indian, staggering slightly as I drew my knife from its sheath.

    “Sully, NO!” Michaela cried out desperately.

    There was a moment of absolute silence, and then a small metallic sound—that of a hammer being engaged.

    “Stop right there, Mr. Sully,” Custer said coolly, his pistol aimed at my heart.

* * * * * * * * * *

 
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

    “What do you think you’re doin’?” Sully demanded.

    “Saving you from yourself,” Custer said evenly.

    Sully regarded him in amazement.  “That’s rich,” he said after a moment.  “As if I didn’t know you’d just as soon gun me down as look at me.”

    “You seem to forget that I saved your life mere moments ago,” the officer reminded him pointedly.

    “Yeah—for your own reasons,” Sully scoffed.  “It surely wasn’t ‘cause you drank of the milk of human kindness.”

    Custer sighed and shook his head ruefully.  “As I observed at our last meeting, Mr. Sully, you’re so very predictable.”  He took a few steps closer to Sully, continuing to keep the gun trained on him.  “You don’t get it, do you?” he asked.  “You don’t understand that I’m trying to prevent you from ruining your life.”

    “Is that right?” Sully said sarcastically.  “How noble.”

    “That’s right,” Custer echoed, disregarding the barb.  “Use your head, Mr. Sully.  If you kill Bloody Knife in cold blood, I will have no choice but to arrest you for murder and take you back to stand trial.  You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison—or you’ll hang.  Either way, you will be parted from Dr. Quinn forever.  Is that worth a moment’s revenge?”

    “What do you care?” Sully shot back.

    “I don’t,” Custer said flatly.  “Not about you.  But it seems a shame to make Dr. Quinn suffer for your hot-headedness.  Besides, I feel a certain—responsibility—for what’s happened.  He is my scout, after all, even if he acted without my authority and in direct violation of my orders.”

    “That’s it,” Sully said slowly.  “That’s why you want to stop me from killin’ Bloody Knife.  You don’t care about him, just like you don’t care about me.  You’re just tryin’ to save your own skin.”

    “I am adhering to army regulations,”  the officer said neutrally.

    “You sayin’ you’d let the army string Sully up for riddin’ the world of a crazy, murderin’ Injun—‘cause of *regulations*?” Hank spoke again, regarding Custer with contempt.  “After all the evil things the Injun did?  What kinda justice is that?”

    “General Custer ain’t interested in justice,” Sully pointedly answered Hank.  “All he cares about is coverin’ this up so the army’ll never know what his ‘favorite scout’ did in his name.”  His voice dripped with venom.

    “You’re extremely lucky, Mr. Sully,” Custer cut in.  “I realize you have—cause—to feel bitter.  Therefore, I am going to ignore your aspersions on my character.  But if I were you, I’d listen carefully to what I’m going to say, if you cherish any hope at all of having a future.”  Sully’s eyes remained coldly hostile, his expression mirrored in the faces of Michaela and their companions.  However for the moment, he was silent.

    “Bloody Knife did terrible things,” Custer began frankly.  “That is a fact—one which I do not dispute.  I did not order him to take matters into his own hands—that is another fact.  However, I am, to a certain degree, responsible for his conduct.  In that assertion, you were essentially correct.  I confess that it would—“  He hesitated.  “—reflect ‘badly’ on me, shall we say, if Bloody Knife’s crimes were to become public knowledge.  If you murdered him, I might be able to cover up Bloody Knife’s disappearance—even possibly, your own crime.  But there are citizens back in Colorado Springs who know what’s happening here, and who might start asking questions.  Questions neither of us would want to answer.”

    Sully’s eyes narrowed.  Custer noted the look.  “Yes, you heard me,” he went on.  “Trust me, Mr. Sully—you wouldn’t want your murder of Bloody Knife to become public any more than I.  Despite everything he’s done—despite the injury he’s caused you, Dr. Quinn and Mr. Lawson—the fact remains that he is a member of the 7th Cavalry, entitled to all the military protection afforded him by that status.  Which would include a trial and almost certainly a guilty verdict for the man who deliberately caused his death.”

    “I would never advocate that Sully commit murder,” Brendan spoke for the first time.  “But with all due respect, General Custer, if the extraordinary circumstances drove Sully to such an act, are you suggesting that the army wouldn’t take into consideration his extreme duress?  This Indian committed terrible crimes against both Sully and Dr. Quinn—kidnapping, attempted murder . . .  The army surely couldn’t disregard all that—“

    “Murder is still murder, Sir—particularly when it’s premeditated,” Custer replied.  “And when it’s perpetrated against a member of the army, it becomes a matter for military law.”  He turned back to Sully.

    “Think about it, Mr. Sully,” the officer said more quietly.  “You would incur a life sentence, or perhaps even pay with your own life—for the death of a man who caused you grievous harm.  And not only you.  Dr. Quinn, her children—anyone close to you would be permanently scarred by your actions.  Is that what you truly want?  I understand you’re about to marry.  Can you honestly tell me that if I offered you the chance to walk away from all this right now—to have the life you planned—you wouldn’t want to take it?”  Custer regarded him shrewdly.

    “I ain’t a coward,” Sully said coldly.

    “No—just a man consumed with foolish pride and bent on revenge—two things that may very well get you killed,” Custer responded.  “The same things that drove Bloody Knife to do what he did.”

    “That sounds real admirable and all, but I notice you keep glossin’ over your true reason for all this,” Sully reminded him.  “Savin’ your own neck.”

    “We would be—helping each other, that’s true,” Custer conceded.  “I don’t deny it.  But you would be alive—and free.  A more than equitable trade for ‘turning the other cheek’—wouldn’t you say?”

    “You mean, for makin’ a deal with you,” Sully said scornfully.  “A prospect that turns my stomach.”

    “I never said you had to like it,” the officer said crisply.  “Do you think that I relish being allied with you?  Think of it as an ‘unholy alliance’ if you wish—I really couldn’t care less.  I’m interested only in results, as you should be.

    “What do you say, Mr. Sully?  Are we agreed?” Custer concluded.  He held up a cautionary hand.  “And before you answer, I would advise that you seriously consider how Dr. Quinn or her children might respond to the question.  You may find that their feelings don’t necessarily echo your own,” he added, glancing knowingly at Michaela and Matthew.

    Sully stood silently, a tempest of black thoughts raging in his mind—fury that Bloody Knife and Custer might escape the punishment they deserved; self-loathing that he could even consider going along with Custer and condoning his and Bloody Knife’s actions; and finally, helpless anger at Custer’s inescapable logic.  Almost reluctantly, he allowed himself to look at Michaela.  Her eyes were haunted, pleading; confirming his bitterest realization of all—that Custer was right about her, too.

    Michaela didn’t care about revenge—about making Bloody Knife pay for hurting her.  She wanted the man she loved.  Alive.  Nothing else.  From the moment he’d found her, she’d begged him not to confront Bloody Knife, not to sacrifice himself.  What would it do to her if he disregarded all that?

    Sully felt his hate, his need to hurt Bloody Knife uncoiling inside him.  A need so strong it was like a physical thing—an animal with pointed teeth and razor claws, straining for release.  Unconsciously his fist clenched around the knife.

    How could he just let Bloody Knife walk away?  How could he allow Custer to protect the scout, and himself?  It would be like denying Michaela’s pain, her suffering.  And most of all, her right to justice.  What kind of man would he be if he allowed that to happen?

    But what kind of man would he be if he wounded Michaela beyond healing, beyond recovery?  If he threw his life away and destroyed hers in the process?  He could never hope to receive forgiveness from Michaela, or from the spirits.  He would never ask for it, because he would be damned.

    He risked another glance at Michaela.  Her eyes, washed with tears, begged him, entreated him—their language so expressive he could hear the words in his mind.  (I LOVE YOU, her eyes spoke to him.  I NEED YOU.  DON’T DO THIS—DON’T LEAVE ME.)

    Sully took a deep breath, then slowly returned the knife to his belt.  He lifted his chin and fixed his gaze on Custer.  “If I agree—what then?” he asked.

    The officer lowered his gun and met Sully’s eyes.  “Bloody Knife wasn’t responsible,” he said levelly.  “For the initial abduction of Dr. Quinn, or her subsequent injuries.  I will personally attend to Bloody Knife’s punishment, and there will be no mention of your name in connection with his.  In return, you will pledge to keep the secret of Bloody Knife’s involvement in Dr. Quinn’s kidnapping.  You and I will agree never to speak of this again.  And then you can move forward with your life, and I can proceed with mine.”

    “What about the folks back in Colorado Springs?” Sully persisted.

    “It’s easy enough to fabricate a story for their benefit,” Custer told him.  “You were pursuing the wrong man.  Though the evidence suggested Bloody Knife; in fact it turned out to be a stranger who assaulted and kidnapped Dr. Quinn.  A stranger who, unfortunately, got away.”

    “You got it all figured out, don’t you?” Sully said bitterly.  “Talk about your silver-tongued
devils . . .”

    “While we’re standing here debating morality and trading insults, my scout is bleeding to death,” Custer replied bluntly.  “Make a decision, Mr. Sully.”

    “I got another question,” Sully forestalled him.  “What about Cloud Dancin’?  What happens to him?”

    “He’s still a fugitive,” Custer replied.  “I have no control over the army’s pursuit of him.”

    “Not good enough,” Sully said sharply.  “If I say yes, I want the soldiers called off, and Cloud Dancin’ left alone to go in peace.”

    “I, personally, will not actively pursue him,” Custer said after a moment.  “However, if I am ordered by my superiors to apprehend him, I will have no choice but to obey.  To do otherwise would risk suspicion, insubordination, or worse.  And then the entire story would come out.

    “That’s the best I can do,” he concluded.  He eyed Sully speculatively.  “So what will it be, Mr. Sully?  I want an answer, now.  Do we have an agreement?”

* * * * * * * * * *

    Sully closed his eyes briefly.  Forgive me, Michaela, for what I have to do, he thought.  Forgive me for being a coward—for needing to stay with you even more than my need to destroy the man who hurt you so badly.  Forgive me for making a deal with Custer—for selling my soul to the Devil—because it’s the only way we can be together.  I promised you justice—but now all I can give you is myself.  I hope it will be enough . . .

    Forgive me, Cloud Dancing, his thoughts continued their desolate course.  Forgive me for dishonoring you by not getting the justice you deserve.  Forgive me for allying myself with your enemy—so that I can have a life with Michaela . . . so that I can try to protect you and keep you alive . . .  I hope someday you can understand the choice I had to make—

    “My patience is wearing thin, Mr. Sully,” Custer’s voice intruded.  Sully opened his eyes and faced the officer.

    “All right,” he said dully.  “You win.”

    “This agreement must extend to everyone,” Custer insisted, glancing around at the grim faces regarding him.  “All of you must pledge not to breath a word of what transpired here.”  No one spoke, but no one refused.

    Apparently it was good enough.  Custer finally relaxed and holstered his gun.  “You made the right decision,” he said heartily, extending his hand for Sully to shake.  Sully glanced at the officer’s proferred hand in disdain, his arms remaining at his sides.  After a moment Custer withdrew the gesture.  “Well, then,” he added awkwardly.  “I should fetch my aides, so that they can take Bloody Knife back to our camp.”

    “The bleeding should be stopped and his wound treated before you attempt to move him,” Michaela told the officer.  “If you like—“  She glanced at Sully who was standing silently, his face closed and still.  “I can advise your aides on how to proceed,” she finished lamely.

    “Thank you, Dr. Quinn.  I’m sure they would appreciate your expertise,” Custer responded.  “Perhaps we can be of assistance to you as well,” he continued.  “I have two wagons at my disposal.  I would be happy to lend one of them to you and your companions, to transport yourself and Mr. Sully to the nearest doctor.”

    “We don’t need nothin’ from you,” Sully said shortly.  Michaela looked up at him apprehensively.

    “In fact, we do, Sully,” she said softly.  “I don’t believe I can sit a horse, and you’re in no condition to ride—not     until after you’ve had medical attention.”

    “Then we’ll build a travois,” Sully said, his eyes stubborn.

    “That takes time,” Michaela pointed out.  “Time we really don’t have.  We have no idea where the nearest doctor is, or how long it would take us to get there.”

    “Dr. Mike’s right, Sully,” Matthew spoke up.  “She needs attention, and so do you, soon as possible.”  He pitched his voice lower.  “I know how you must be feelin’—how angry you are,” he added.  “I don’t blame you.  But right now we gotta think about Dr. Mike.”

    “Long as Custer’s offerin’, might as well take him up on it,” Hank spoke up.  He leaned in closer to Sully.  “The whole thing stinks to high heaven,” he commiserated quietly.  “But ya did the only thing ya could.”

    “I don’t want to talk about it,” Sully said curtly.

    “I’m just tryin’ to say that everybody understands,” Hank persisted.  “Ya had no choice.  Ya got no call to feel ashamed—“

    “You deaf?!” Sully snapped.  “I said I didn’t want to talk about it!”  He turned his back on Hank and moved away, his gait unsteady.

    Hank raised an eyebrow.  “No need to take my head off,” he observed, but without rancor.

    Michaela stared after Sully helplessly.  She felt as if she were torn in two.  Part of her wanted to exult with joy that Sully was safe—that in the end, he’d been strong enough to resist his murderous impulses, and his desperate need to punish Bloody Knife.  But the other part of her ached with grief for him—sensing intuitively what it had cost him to surrender to Custer.  Sully had sustained grievous wounds this day, and only some of them were on the outside.

    He had survived Bloody Knife.  He would live. But she wondered if he would be able to survive what came after.  Was there an antidote to guilt?  To shame?  And if so, would she ever be able to help Sully find it?