(Author's Note: This story contains an alternate ending to the DQMW episode "Safe Passage". I wrote it before seeing the episode and knowing only part of the plot. When I saw it I discovered my story could fit well in it, except for one inconsistency: in the episode Michaela and Sully follow the Indians to the Tongue River Valley, while I assumed they came back at once to Colorado Springs. I was tempted to change the circumstances, but I like "Safe Passage" too much. So I adapted my story to it as well as I could, keeping the inconsistency. Beyond that, my story is perfectly mainstream.)



    A life had been taken that should not have been taken.
    Runs In The Rain sighed, heaving in his hand the small leather pouch which hung from his neck. It held all that his son had ever deemed worthwhile. A mountain lion's tooth, some dried flowers, a silver-speckled stone. The glory of the fight, the beauty and safety of the land. The sum of his young existence, before he started running with the Dog Soldiers. He was yet unmarried, so there were no woman's locks in it. He had asked his father to make it for him, to keep him safe; he would have added the rest in the course of his life, a long long life, full of joy and love. But there had been nothing else. On the very day Runs In The Rain had made the pouch, his son had been killed by the white man's disease with Black Moon's warriors. Runs In The Rain had come all the way from the Tongue River Valley to give it to him.
    Useless now. All useless.
    The old man let the medicine pouch fall on his chest and lifted his tired eyes. The two soldiers flanking him straightened up and saluted. The tall white man in the sky-blue greatcoat was coming out of his tent to talk to him once again. He pushed himself to his feet, leaning on his staff.
    "So," began the man, stopping before the old Cheyenne with his fists on his hips. His attitude was not menacing, just firm. "Have you decided to tell us why we found you wanderin' in the woods?"
    Runs In The Rain caught a whiff of loss and wasted chances, feeling anew the heavy load that had fallen on his shoulders when he had seen his son's dead body.
    "Why don't you answer me?" insisted the soldier, frowning, but without raising his voice. "Today's the day Black Moon surrenders to us. We'll have peace at last. You wanna interfere with this?"
    "No."
    The soldier nodded, taking in at a glance his frailty, the burden of cares. "No, I s'pose not," he said more gently, with the ghost of a smile. "But then why?"
    Runs In The Rain weighed him silently. This was a good man. "I am here for you," he answered at last.
    "For me?!"
    "You could die today."
    "I know," was the calm answer. "I've always known."
    Under that clear, open stare, Runs In The Rain made his decision.
    "Take off your hat," he said, grabbing the leather thong of the medicine pouch.
    Uncomprehendingly, the soldier complied anyway and bowed his head. The old man took the pouch and slipped it on his neck.
    "It is not your day yet, Sergeant McKay," he said.

    The day was fast approaching sunset. McKay emerged from the prison tent rubbing his wrists and his unshaven face. It had happened at last. Black Moon's warriors were free to go North with Cloud Dancing; Major Morrison was in custody and would do no other harm. He was relieved. No more dying needlessly, at least in Colorado Springs.
    McKay turned briefly back towards the tent where Black Moon lay dying and experienced a moment of sad admiration. At the end of his life, the Indian chief had shown honour and good sense. The sergeant wished he could have done something more for him.
    He straightened up, walking away from the tent. He had misplaced his hat somewhere. Buttoning up his jacket he felt the slight bulge of the Indian medicine pouch. A faint curiosity stung him, but he dismissed the thought. Sully and Dr. Quinn were coming towards him.
    "We wanted to thank you, Sergeant," began Sully eagerly. "You did all you could for us. From the beginnin'."
    McKay smiled and just tilted his head.
    "You are welcome to our house anytime," added Dr. Quinn. She was radiant with joy. "If the garrison does not go away at once, would you like to have dinner with us?"
    "I'd be delighted," answered McKay. He looked at Sully's encouraging countenance, finally relaxed. The man had been restored to all he held most precious, and the sergeant felt an emptiness at the bottom of his own heart. Sully was about the same age as he, and had seen a lot of pain in his life. Yet here he was, with a beautiful, caring wife and a bunch of promising and cheerful children. There was no envy in McKay, just a deep longing.
    A sudden thought struck him. He blinked. "Where's the old Indian?"
    "What old Indian?" asked Sully.
    "We found him in the woods this mornin'. Did he rejoin the others?"
    "I don't think so, Sergeant. I saw only Black Moon's young warriors."
    McKay turned and walked towards the tents. "I gave orders to free him. If he hasn't joined 'em..." As he passed the prison tent he noticed the flap moving. He stared a moment, then strode to it and threw aside the flap, stepping inside.
    Major Morrison stood there, pointing a gun at Black Moon's prone figure.
    "Put it down," said McKay coldly, wondering how on earth could he have walked out of custody and got a weapon. He was dismayed to feel Sully and Dr. Quinn enter the tent behind him. This was getting dangerous.
    The Major waved the gun in their direction. "Get out."
    "Stop that, sir. He's already dyin'."
    "I know." Morrison's eyes were shining with a fanatical madness. "I don't want to be robbed of my vengeance."
    "What vengeance! Major, put down that gun - "
    Morrison took aim at the unconscious Black Moon.
    "Don't do that!" exclaimed Michaela, her compassion instinctively pushing her to stop him. Then, horrified, she whispered, "He's already dead."
    The Major swung around. McKay threw himself forward, and the gun went off.
    Michaela let out a cry, and Sully stepped around her and ran to grab Morrison and disarm him. Astonished, McKay lowered his eyes at the darker stain spreading painlessly on the dark blue cloth of his jacket. His knees gave way under him.
    As the guards took out the Major, Michaela knelt on the floor of the tent by McKay's side. At that close range it had been a square hit in the left side of his chest. In despair, she pushed his loosely tied neckerchief out of the way, then started unbuttoning his jacket and shirt to help him breathe. "Sully, quick, a carriage, must get him to the clinic..." Sully ran out, shouting something at the soldiers. She looked at the ugly wound and pressed her hand on it to staunch the bleeding.
    McKay saw the lights of the camp go slowly out. He tried to make out Michaela's face and held out a hand to grab her arm silently.
    "You'll be all right," whispered Michaela, smiling at him. Blood welled up under her hand. Her heart floundered. She looked down at the sergeant's handsome face through a veil of tears and saw his eyelids getting heavier, felt his hand slide away. "McKay, look at me..."
    Her pleading voice faded with the last of light. The old Indian was wrong, was McKay's final thought, filled with unfathomable regret.
    "No!" screamed Michaela. She searched frantically with her free hand for pulse or breath. She shook his unresisting form. Someone from behind took her gently by the upper arms and helped her on her feet.
    "Oh, Sully," she whispered, turning to look into her husband's shocked eyes. She rubbed her hands together, drenching them in blood, and started to sob. Sully held her in silence, laying his face on her shoulder.

    Corporal O'Malley was an old subordinate with no hopes of advancement and no ambitions either. He was fond of the sergeant, who could have been his son, had he ever had the good sense to marry that girl in Philadelphia, all those years before. How wrong he had been. And now his sergeant lay cold in an open coffin of clear wood on the floor of his own tent. It was not right, no sir. And yet that's the way the story goes. Eternal love ends fast, young people die before their elders. He had seen it too many times.
    O'Malley thought McKay would appreciate a good old Irish wake. None of the soldiers had stayed, though. Pity. They said there were movements outside the camp, and a constant watch was needed. The corporal suspected that, though they loved their sergeant as much as he did, they were feeling a little creepy. It was an icy moonless night, he admitted, and full of strange noises. But nothing could have uprooted O'Malley from where he sat, perched on a camp stool, leaning his head against one pole of the tent, a flask of bourbon within immediate reach. McKay deserved that.
    The single lamp hanging from the roof threw flickering shadows all around the tent. From one of these shadows behind O'Malley, a hand slipped unseen under his chin and broke a small scented flower.
    The corporal saw nothing and felt nothing. All he knew was that one moment he was looking mournfully at the pale still face of Sergeant McKay, the next he had a slight headache and the coffin was empty.

    McKay was faintly aware of being stretched out on the ground. He was in the open, at night. Cold air chilled the sweat on his face and chest. Somewhere close by was a source of light and warmth, and voices. He opened his eyes. Around him was his family. Ma was stirring some soup in a bowl, smiling. Pa leaned against the mantelpiece with his pipe, talking to his favourite uncle. And yet his uncle had died in the war, and his modest home had never resounded with the soft, steady beat of many drums. He tried to rise and a sharp throbbing pang jolted him.
    "Do not move," said a voice.
    "... hurts," whispered McKay in pain and fear.
    "Yes," said Cloud Dancing. "It has to."
    The sergeant tried to close his eyes, but he kept seeing. He saw the faces of all the men killed by his hand, from a young Confederate soldier as scared as he had been, to the last Indian he had shot. In a pitifully smaller circle he saw all the women of his life. A red-haired girl at school. The compassionate entertainer who had taught him all he needed to know and hadn't even wanted payment. ("I'd pay you, big boy," she had said.) His fiancée who hadn't waited for him during the war. Some fleeting encounters. Michaela Quinn. Now that was amusing.
    He almost laughed, but his chest seemed in flames. He was afraid again. He couldn't see anything now. The drums were faint. "What's happenin'," he panted.
    "Calm down," said a distant voice in the Cheyenne language. "Breathe."
    "Can't." He gulped down a burning mouthful of air. "Help. Please."
    "We are here. Hold tight."
    He wasn't aware he held anything. What he saw afterwards, what he felt, made him scream. Mercifully he passed out again.

    The pounding on the door was low but urgent. Michaela ran down the stairs with a lamp, followed by Sully. He went to the door and said warningly "Who's there?"
    "Cloud Dancing," was the answer.
    Astounded, Sully opened the door. Sure enough his friend was standing there, and behind him was an old Cheyenne he didn't recognize. "Thought you were on your way to the Tongue River Valley."
    "Forgive me, Sully, but we need Michaela's help. Runs In The Rain's son is badly injured."
    Michaela felt a cold shiver. She had never seen Runs In The Rain, but she'd had her share of badly injured men that day. The memory of McKay's death still tore at her. "Where?" she asked.
    "Twelve miles from here, in the Stone Bear Glade."
    "Let me get my instruments," said Michaela, turning away.
    Sully returned his attention to Cloud Dancing. "How'd it happen?"
    "He was shot by the soldiers."
    Brian appeared in his nightgown, sleepy. "What's up, Pa?"
    "There's an emergency, Brian. Mind the homestead while we're gone, will you? Look after Katie."
    In a moment Michaela was ready with her leather overcoat and her bag. Sully already had his pants and shoes on and just slipped his jacket over his shirt. They got out in the biting cold, saddling the horses with numb fingers. The night ride was silent, the hoofs echoing weirdly through the darkened forest.
    The Stone Bear Glade was alight with a couple of fires. Some Indians were sitting here and there. On a bed of leaves lay a man covered with a blanket up to his chest. A white man, mused Michaela dismounting. How could he be the old Cheyenne's son? She took her bag and ran to him, falling on her knees beside him. Even before she touched him she felt something was out of place... or back into place. She looked at his face and let out an exclamation.
    Sully was approaching fast. "What's the matter, Michaela?"
    She covered her mouth with both hands. "It's McKay," came the muffled answer.
    Unbelievingly, Sully knelt on the other side of the man and gave him a good look. It was McKay all right, unconscious but alive and breathing, his face hollowed by the shadow of a beard. Dazed, Sully looked at Cloud Dancing, who stood in silence, arms folded over his striped blanket. The old man beside him was leaning on his staff.
    "But... but I felt him die!" articulated Michaela.
    "The bullet barely grazed his heart," replied Cloud Dancing calmly. "We took it out. Now he needs a doctor to recover fully."
    She firmly got hold of her professionalism. She checked McKay's pulse, then looked under his eyelids. "He's very weak, but it seems he'll make it." Her gaze fell on the medication on his smooth chest, half-hidden by the blanket, and she recognised the expert work of a Cheyenne healer. Beside it hung the medicine pouch. "What's that?"
    "A man died who should have lived," answered Runs In The Rain. "A man now lives who should have died. Nature is back in balance."
    Before the bewildered Michaela could reply, McKay's eyelids fluttered open. His chest heaved with a deep sigh. The shadows around him coalesced slowly into familiar faces in the warm firelight. "Dr. Quinn," he whispered. He felt somewhat embarrassed, though he couldn't remember why.
    She smiled warmly. "How do you feel, Sergeant?"
    "Thirsty," he answered in a voice faint but steady.
    A woman got up from one of the fires with a bowl. At a nod from Cloud Dancing, Sully slipped his arm under McKay's back and helped him into a sitting position. The sergeant's hands were a little shaky, but he was able to grab the bowl and gulp down some of the steaming infusion. A lock of light brown hair had fallen on his forehead, and his face was quickly regaining colour.
    Michaela struggled to think straight. "There could be brain damage," she whispered to Cloud Dancing. "His heart had stopped, I'm sure of that. He was not breathing anymore..."
    "That is how it seemed to you," he smiled, looking at McKay. The sergeant was now laying down again without help, blanket drawn modestly up to his shoulders, and was talking quite coherently to Sully, inquiring about that &!$£*%#@§ Major Morrison.
    Michaela let out a relieved breath. "I still don't understand..."
    "You do not need to," answered Runs In The Rain.

    "That is how it seemed to you, Corporal," answered Michaela flatly, closing her bag. She put it down on the sunshine-covered grass and folded her arms. "You do not need to understand."
    A furious O'Malley stared at her, shaking his finger. "I insist, Doctor. I wanna indict 'em Injuns for stealin' a corpse."
    "But there never was any corpse," she replied patiently.
    "Then I wanna indict you for malpractice. We coulda buried him alive, for Heaven's sake!"
    "But you didn't. And indict me if you like, it wouldn't be the first time."
    Sergeant McKay came out of his tent, tying his neckerchief. "Stop harassin' the Doctor, Corporal," he said, not without fondness for his subordinate. "So, Dr. Quinn, am I able to travel?"
    "You've regained your strength, Sergeant, but I would wait a few more days, if I were you."
    "There's a veritable turmoil in Denver. They received the report of my death an' now they think I better stay dead, so they can accuse Morrison of murder, too. Gotta convince 'em myself. An' I don't know whether they informed my family. No, I must leave at once."
    "Be careful. Don't overexert yourself. Keep me informed of your health."
    "I will."
    "Eat regularly. Sleep eight hours per night. Should you feel any pain -"
    "Doctor," he said, lifting his eyebrows.
    Michaela smiled.
    Truly, nature was back in balance.

The End