March had been warm and sunny, apart from the occasional shower; but April in Colorado Springs was drizzly, whipped by a mischievous wind that slipped into all the cracks and folds and turned the hills into a feast of still-wintry colours and new greens, waving on the background of an eerie, stormy sky.
    Some townsfolk and travellers had found refuge into the Gold Nugget, warmed by the solicitous company of Hank’s girls and even by his watered-down stuff. Jake was leaning against the counter, fiddling with a clean glass. “Teresa’s at the Post Office, she’s waitin’ for some books,” he was saying thoughtfully. “An’ ya know, I think she’s preparin’ some surprise for our anniversary.”
    Hank grinned. “I can just imagine what kinda surprise you’d like to have.”
    Jake shrugged. “Oh well... nature gotta make its course, I s’pose.” But he was disappointed, that much was plain to see.
    Hank leaned towards him. “Listen, that happens. Some get knocked up at once an’ some need a li’l help, if ya catch my drift. For example, ya gotta...”
    Hank couldn’t finish his piece of advice, because a new patron walked through the door. Just one like all the rest, smallish, saddlebag slung across his shoulders and hat down to his eyebrows, a rifle on his back. Hank could not tell what it was that made him look up, and Jake, and most customers too. Maybe an ancient instinct, because when the newcomer came closer, asking for a room in a clear, undisguised contralto, it was obvious to everybody that it was a woman.
    Hank and Jake stared in astonishment as she put down her heavy saddlebag, took off her hat and ran the back of her gloved hand on her forehead. “So? Are you going to give me a room or not?” She spoke precisely, with a soft, liquid slur that Hank was not able to place. Her dirty hair was tied at the back of her head, and her tired eyes shone grey in her grimy face.
    Hank collected himself. The lady looked fairly young, and probably pretty after a good bath, with a small, regular face and svelte figure. She didn’t try to pass for a man: she was simply travelling in the most comfortable way. He wondered if she had a skirt in her baggage. “Sure I got a room for ya,” he said. “But this ain’t a place for lone women. Better ask at the boardin’ house.”
    “I’ll have to find something to do too,” she said. “I was hoping you could use some help with cleaning or waiting on the patrons.”
    Hank looked at her with the beginning of a smile. “Your Ma an’ Pa wouldn’t be happy about it.”
    She shook her head. “Got no one.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Fiona McCool.”
    “Nice to meet ya, Fiona,” he said, extending his hand, She grasped it firmly. “I’m Hank.” He forgot to introduce the Mayor of the town standing beside her, but Jake, mouth agape at her boldness, had forgotten about it himself.
    “Hank,” she repeated, shaking his hand. “I was talking of something respectable to do, of course.”
    “Of course,” Hank nodded. He was intrigued. The idea of luring her into his troop of entertainers hadn’t crossed his mind - she just wasn’t the kind - but he found himself wishing to test how far her respectability went, and enjoying the prospect. He lowered his voice. “A woman travellin’ alone... You must know a lot of the world.”
    “I do.”
    “Well... then we can find an agreement.” He leaned towards her, elbows on the counter and face in his hands, fingers straying through his hair. He let his gaze wander over her fine, dirty features. “I could offer you some sort of partnership,” he said in a low voice. “A fair exchange. How about it?”
    She looked at him, unflinching under his examination. Then she straightened her shoulders. “Sure, we can find an agreement,” she said aloud. The men looked at her. “You want to talk about it? Let’s go in the back and get through with it.”
    Hank slowly lifted his face from his hands, nonplussed. He arched his eyebrows, then looked straight at Fiona. He was a man who sincerely enjoyed the leisurely company of women, so he would have preferred to take it slow. But to be challenged openly like that, in front of Jake, his patrons and his girls... For a lesser man, it would have been a menace to his manhood. For Hank, it was enticing. He grinned. “Sure,” he said. “Please - this way.” Fiona picked up her saddlebag. He walked around the counter, then led the woman towards the rooms in the back.
    The men whistled and cheered. Jake was plain shocked. A part of him was disgusted at the woman’s immorality. Deep inside, he regretted that nothing of the sort had ever happened to him before his affections were engaged. But then again, he thought ruefully, he would surely have botched it. He was no Hank.
    Automatically, he slipped behind the counter to give a hand in the absence of the owner, and a lengthy absence it could have been. But he hadn’t had the time to even pour the first customer’s glass, when Fiona reappeared just as she had gone out of the barroom, followed by a cloudy Hank. They reached the doors amid the silence. “I’m going to tend to my horse,” she said. “We have an agreement, Hank, haven’t we?”
    He nodded slowly.
    “Please, refresh my memory, Hank,” she prodded him, so that everyone could hear.
    Hank bristled. “A room in exchange of a thorough cleanin’ of the saloon, an’ some help behind the counter for a week,” he admitted reluctantly.
    “And?...”
    “An’ no ‘partnership’.”
    She smiled for the first time, a thin, cold smile. “That’s good, Hank. It will be a pleasure working for you.” She shouldered her saddlebag and went out in the humid afternoon.
    Jake was staring speechless at Hank. The barkeep pushed a strand of hair behind his ear, shrugged slightly and regained his place behind the counter.
    “What happened?” whispered Jake.
    Hank busied himself with some glasses, then looked at him. “She pulled a foot-long knife on me out of thin air,” he said in the same tone. “Looked willin’ an’ able to use it. Tell ya what, a woman uses those arguments, she got a right to do as she pleases.” He smirked in wondering admiration, and went back to his business.

    Loren was dusting the counter aimlessly, looking forward to the first customers of the morning. The uncertain weather made him nervous. It was that time of year - when he remembered his promise to Marjorie, to go and see the places they should have visited together. Instead he was still there, watching life unfold in front of his eyes, and having to remember every time what his true place in Colorado Springs was... everybody’s father and grandfather, fallible but indispensable, the memory of the town. It was enough for him - most of the times.
    The bell rang, and he had the surprise of seeing the new lady come in, the one who had taken a room at the Gold Nugget a couple of days before. He had heard extravagant stories about her by Hank and Jake, but face to face she looked like a completely ordinary person: a slim woman, no more than thirty, straight blond hair tied at the back of her head with a green ribbon, a not unattractive freckled face, and a sober brown dress she had brought with her from wherever she came from. “Good morning, Mr. Bray. I need some more of that soap, please.”
    “Sure, ma’am. Anything else?”
    “Thanks, I’ll have a look around.”
    She wandered towards the shelves in the back, looking interestedly at the dresses and materials. Loren thought she probably couldn’t afford most of them, otherwise she wouldn’t be boarding at the Gold Nugget. He didn’t approve of that - but then again, it seemed the lady held the highest standard of behaviour. What a mystery.
    The door opened again, and Colorado Springs’ resident Army representative stepped in. Loren greeted him. “Mornin’, Sgt. McKay.”
    “Mr. Bray.” The sergeant lifted his fingers to the brim of his hat for the lady at the back who had turned to look at him. He did a small double-take, seeing her surprised stare. But probably she just wasn’t used to the sight of soldiers in town. He stepped briskly to the counter, his uniform dusty and spattered with rain. “You got it?”
    Loren looked at him in all innocence. “What?”
    “You know what,” whispered McKay, impatiently.
    “Oh, yes, I seem to remember,” Loren said unhurriedly. He had come to believe the burly sergeant wasn’t a bad addition to the townsfolk, sort of reassuring; but McKay was also a nosy, conceited fellow, given to ordering people around, and Loren liked to put him in his place now and then. “Well, you didn’t come to pick it up, so maybe I’ve sold it.”
    McKay's eyes widened. “Sold it?! I thought I had been clear!” He looked behind his shoulder, but the lady seemed engrossed in the clothes. “Since Alison saw that comment in the Gazette, she ain’t talkin’ ‘bout nothin’ else.“ He lowered his voice. “Last summer she remembered to send me a new neckerchief for my birthday, an' we weren't even officially engaged.” Had they ever been, wondered Loren. “So I wanna get her somethin' special for her birthday, an' it's next week, and...“
    “Books are on that shelf,” Loren said, resolving to enjoy the little game just for a few moments more. “If I didn’t sell it, it’s there.”
    McKay snorted, turned and went to peruse the shelf of books.
    Fiona was staring unseeingly at the flowery patterns. From the moment the sergeant had set foot into the store, her eyes had filled with tears, and she was fighting to keep her countenance. She clenched her teeth.
    It’s only the beginning.
    Bending his knees, McKay scanned the last row of books, then rose and turned sharply. “It ain’t here,” he said. “How could you be so careless, Mr. - “ He stopped when he saw what Loren was holding up. He exhaled a half-laughing breath. “Were you pullin’ my leg?”
    “Was I?” Loren looked at the fine brown leather cover of the book, with the golden engraving of a sea monster, the fanged, spouting kind that surfaced in the corner of old maps. “Why she wanna read a tale of fishermen?”
    McKay took it and leafed through it lovingly, as though he already imagined it in Alison’s hands. He had chosen the best edition within his means. “Dunno. She says it’s the story of an obsession. I’ll borrow it from her when she finishes it - tho’ it’s pretty thick.”
    The bell rang again. Loren looked behind his shoulder, then quickly hid the book under the counter. McKay turned. Talk of the devil - but the new customer was no devil at all, quite the contrary to the sergeant’s eyes.
    “Hi, Alison,” he said softly.
    A big basket of grocery under her arm, Alison looked at him. “Hi!” She smiled and came forward to stand in front of him. “I didn’t know you were in town, I - “ Her feigned surprise crumbled. “I saw the horse outside.”
    “Just got in for some provisions. Dropped by at the farm, you weren’t there.”
    “I was chatting with Dorothy, you know how it goes, stopped to buy the Gazette, she started telling me about Cloud Dancing... How are you?”
    “Not bad, thanks.”
    “Any more exploding storerooms? When I told Sully, he said he’s keeping track of all you blow up, says when you overtake him you’re winning something.”
    She feared she had been too disrespectful. But he smiled and shrugged. “He got every right to say that. You all right?”
    “I’m fine. Are you...”
    “Gotta be back to the fort at once.”
    “Oh.”
    Their fingers had crept towards each other, touching and caressing and gently entwining until they were practically holding hands.
    “May I ride with you to the farm?” he said softly.
    “I’d be glad to. Just let me pay for this.”
    McKay turned towards Loren and was surprised to see him holding out his book wrapped up in brown paper. “Your law book, Sarge.”
    “A law book?” Alison asked.
    “Yeah, ‘course, gotta know where one stands, you see,” McKay explained assuredly. He looked gratefully at Loren and nodded at Alison’s basket. “I’m payin’ for the lot.”
    “But McKay...”
    “Come on, let me,” he told her, tilting his head.
    She melted into a warm smile. “All right.”
    They went out arm in arm, he holding the basket. Loren followed them with a contented sigh, patting his apron.
    Fiona came back, empty-handed as expected. “Are they courting?” she asked casually.
    “Courtin’? Good Heavens, no! They’re married!”
    “They seemed a bit shy about each other.”
    Loren lowered his voice. “Seems last month they did a pretty big blunder. He wanted her to live with him at the fort an’ she refused. She looked miserable for days an’ he didn’t set foot in town until today - well, maybe he went to her farm, but I don’t think so. I wasn’t givin’ a chance to those two... Married too soon, if you want my opinion. I seen couples as lovin’ split up for good. I believe they realised they were makin’ a mess of their marriage an’ decided to play it safer. Young people shouldn’t worry too much about the future - that’s somethin’ you learn when you ain’t got that much future to worry about.”
    Fiona looked at him with a look of reproach. “Come on, Mr. Bray,” she said with a slight smile. Then she nodded towards the door. “Do they have any children?”
    “No, no, she been pesterin’ Dr. Mike for months, but lately she seems to have given up... tired of gettin’ a negative, I s'pose. Don’t know what’s wrong, they’re both healthy. But then again, he’s never home. Too bad... Alison’s a nice girl, looks a lot like my Abigail - my daughter, Sully’s first wife, died in childbirth. ‘Cept Abby had such beautiful blue eyes, an’ Alison’ s are black.”
    Fiona looked as though that mass of information upset her. Loren had a sudden thought. “Hey, girl, you ain’t fancyin’ Sgt. McKay, by any chance?”
    She lifted her eyes on him. “He’s a handsome man.”
    “So they tell me - but listen here, no matter what troubles they may be goin’ through, he got eyes only for Alison.”
    “Who’s Sully?” she asked, as an afterthought.
    “Well...” Loren sighed. “Hard to define Sully. Dr. Mike’s husband. Mountain man. Works with the government - or against it, I never really got it. You may not have seen him yet, he don’t come into town often. Bit of a lone wolf.”
    “I see. And Cloud Dancing? Sounds like an Indian name.”
    “Yep. A Cheyenne. Obnoxious fellow...” Loren shook his head. “But trusty enough, as Injuns go. Hey, why you askin’ all these questions?”
    She smiled with unexpected sweetness. “I’m trying to get the feel of the town. And you seem so knowledgeable.”
    He broke into a happy smile. “Why, sure, anytime. So. Just the soap? All right, it’s 25 cents.”

    Alison reached her farm, escorted by McKay riding by her side. As she stopped the wagon in front of the house, he dismounted and took the basket of groceries. She opened the door for him and he went inside.
    The warm sunny kitchen smelled of coffee and spices. McKay suddenly felt sick at heart. His gaze flickered towards the room in the back. Don’t even think about it, he told himself. He put the basket on the table and turned towards Alison. “Gotta go.”
    She nodded and walked out again with him. Gloomily, she watched him mount in the saddle, gather the reins and stare at the pummel. Then he lifted his face, and his eyes were clear and playful under the brim of his hat. “Wanna take a ride with me?”
    Alison stared at him, astonished. McKay held out his hand to her. She grabbed his arm, and the pummel with her other hand, and he pulled her up, making her sit in his lap, both legs down the side of the big horse. He put his left arm firmly around her waist, pressing her against himself, and took the reins with his right. “Hold tight.”
    “You bet,” she said with a smile, locking her arms around his neck.
    “Yah!” The horse sprang forward at a gallop, and Alison gave a joyful exclamation as the wind surged in her face, and suddenly all of her certainty, her very life, was McKay’s arm clasping her in a wild, bouncing, thundering world. She had already ridden the “li’l one” by herself, but always at a canter at most - while McKay’s style of riding was pretty reckless when necessary, confident in his horse’s qualities and power and in his own skill, and now he held nothing back. They reached the bend of the road in one breathless flight and stopped abruptly, the horse’s head plunging immediately towards the grassy edge, McKay’s arm beginning to unwind from her waist but keeping her close until she had recovered her bearings.
    “Whew.” Alison breathed deeply, then laughed aloud and coughed in the cloud of dust. She felt all flushed and sweaty, fluttery in the stomach. She lifted her eyes and found McKay looking at her with a pleased smile. Her lips were dry - and so were his when he kissed her, but his mouth was cool and quenched her thirst. That shiver in her belly spread through her whole body in a small earthquake of ecstasy.
    She held tight to him for a moment, then let him go. He let her down, wordlessly, still smiling. He lifted his fingers to his hat and started away again.

    That evening at the Cafe, Fiona ate alone, looking at the passers-by. Hank, Loren and Horace watched her from their table.
    “Seemed alright to me,” Loren said. “Concerned about gettin’ to know the town, solicitous ‘bout people, an’ all that. She just gotta learn to keep her thoughts off Sgt. McKay.”
    Hank narrowed his eyes. “She just dares to look at him, I’ll give her hell, after she’s been so picky with me. What’s he got more ‘n me, anyway, beside those damn yellow stripes of his?”
    Horace raised a disapproving glare on him.
    “An’ then she never eats at the saloon,” Hank added.
    “No wonder,” said Grace, coming to collect the empty plates. He grinned, and she loosed a withering glance on him. “An’ neither do you, so what d’you expect?”
    “Touchy,” said Hank, theatrically putting a hand on his heart.
    “That’s touché for you,” she let him know.
    At the neighbouring table, Dorothy was having dinner with Cloud Dancing, who did not refuse Grace’s meatloaf once in a while. In March she had been to the Tongue River Valley together with Sully and Michaela, who wanted to check on the conditions of the Cheyenne tribe. Now Cloud Dancing had just been to Denver for a congress on Colorado’s statehood and was spending some days in town. He saw Dorothy straining to hear, and gave her a mild warning look. She blushed, caught, then said, “Oh well, it’s my duty to be informed,” and turned towards Loren. “You know what, I’ll go and ask her somethin’.”
    “But Dorothy...” Loren said. Too late: she was already up and stalking towards the younger woman.
    Fiona smiled at her. “Do sit down. So, what is it you want to know?”
    Dorothy stared. “Sorry. Was it that obvious?”
    “I guess I’m not your usual stranger in town. And the town is small. So...”
    Seeing them begin to talk, Hank, Loren and Horace nudged each other and got up. When they reached the two women, Fiona lifted a calm look on them. “Mr. Bray, Hank, Mr. Bing.”
    Loren and Horace occupied the two remaining places. Hank stood behind them, suspiciously eyeing the Cheyenne.
    “I know you’ve all been wondering about me,” she said, “but there’s no mystery, really. I’m just trying to find something to do.”
    “Where you from?” asked Loren.
    “Ireland. My folks came here in ’47, when I was a child.”
    “You don’t sound like you been here all your life,” said Hank.
    “I’ve spent the last ten years in my homeland, working for a living. I’ve studied a little. But it’s hard, and the money my brother gave me is finished. So I came back here.”
    Hank arched an eyebrow. “I thought you said you had no family.”
    She lifted a steady gaze on him. “You asked about my parents. They died years ago, away from their land -“ She dabbed at her already clean plate with the last piece of bread. “The destiny of Catholics.”
    By then, more people had gathered around them - Jake and Teresa, Grace and Robert E with little Isabel, Reverend Johnson escorted by Sheriff Simon. “Are you a Catholic?” Teresa burst out. “So am I!” She pushed forward with unusual determination, to talk closely to her. “I am Mayor Slicker’s wife and the teacher of the town. I would like to talk to you, to know about your land...” She glared at the curious townspeople pushing forward.
    Fiona looked around, and found herself the focus of the townsfolk’s attention. People were settling on tables and astride chairs, some smoking their pipes, all delightedly expecting a story.
    She pushed her chair back - there was a little bustle behind her, but they managed to make room for her - and stared at the darkening sky. Words came from her like water from a fountain. It wasn’t easy to explain to those frontiermen and women about St. Patrick, about the Norman feudal lords coming from England, the slow tightening of England’s grip, the loss of their lands and then the repression of their religion, the last great battle on the lovely banks of the Boyne. But it was a story she had told herself so many times. “It got worse and worse, people died... I could mention to you some of Ireland’s martyrs, Kevin Barry, Wolfe Tone, Robert Emmet. Fifty years ago we Catholics weren’t even allowed to own land.”
    At this, the women in the audience started whispering to each other.
    “And now?” Grace asked, interestedly leaning forward.
    “A people can’t be subjugated,” she said. “We obtained emancipation from the Duke of Wellington himself in ’28, but Ireland is still institutionally a part of England. Famine struck us hard in ’45... that was when most of us emigrated here. But we’re still fighting, on both sides of the ocean. Back home, Charles Parnell is building up a movement of support to be elected to the British Parliament and work to obtain autonomy from England. In him lie all our hopes.”
    The Colorado Springs townsfolk were staring at the thin Irish woman, dazed by those names and shades of tragedy. Cloud Dancing, a bit to the side, seemed to ponder her words, his face lit up by a deep emotion. “It’s a terrible story,” Dorothy said softly. “I had heard something about it, but it seemed so distant. How - how can you stand it, here, alone, so far from home?”
    Fiona stared at the table, moved by their compassion. “I have my faith, my dead, my memories. I find friends, sometimes. And I have my songs.”
    “Would you like to sing for us now?” Loren asked.
    “It’s late, and I don’t know...”
    “Come on!” exclaimed Grace.
    She looked at them. The evening was indeed growing late, the last red in the sky vanishing into a clear azure, the first stars peeking out in the cobalt east. Someone lit a lantern and put it on the table. In the sudden silence, she heard the crickets chirp in the meadows and the distant roll of a wagon. She let her hands fall into her lap, closed her eyes, and began to sing.
    They were staring at her as she sang about some fallen Irish hero, astonished by the depth of her pain, by the sweetness of her voice shaping out the wistful melody. Teresa wiped away a tear. Grace was listening to her, her hands clasped against her lips as though she was praying. Fiona’s voice rose to a desperate peak, breaking on the words with loneliness and grief, her face lifted as though sending a vain appeal to the dark sky.
    When the song ended, there wasn’t a single dry eye in the congregation. Grace stepped forward and grasped Fiona’s hands. “That was beautiful,” she whispered.
    The young woman looked at her, still taken by the unearthly magic of the song, and smiled, a childish, sweet smile. Then her gaze got lost in the flickering of the lantern.

    It had taken some time, but finally Grace’s Café had emptied of its maudlin customers. Some had gone to close the evening at the Gold Nugget, but they too were now safely asleep or in the arms of some girl. Fiona had excused herself early, going up to her room with a heavy pace.
    Now the barroom was empty, too. For some reason, Hank didn’t feel inclined to go to bed. He was sitting at a table, playing lazily with a bottle and glass, more than actually drinking. When the doors swung back, his hand dropped instinctively to his gun. “Who’s there?”
    The approaching figure could have been menacing. The man was big and tall, with saddlebag and travelling clothes. “Good evening to you, sir,” he said. “You have a room for me?”
    Hank’s hand relaxed, but his instinct was prodding him to be cautious. The man spoke in the same Irish accent Fiona used, if slightly rougher.
    “Sorry, we’re full.”
    The man came forward in the light. He had blue eyes in a well-natured but hardened face. He looked a bit like Sergeant McKay, and seemed even larger. “Even a hayloft would do.”
    Hank shook his head and opened his hands.
    “You the bartender?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I’m looking for a woman, thin, blond, goes by the name of Fiona McCool.”
    His instinct had been right. Hank pretended to think about it. “Never heard of her.”
    “You sure? She was coming to Colorado Springs.”
    “No strange women around. Maybe she missed the train.”
    “No, she was on horseback.”
    “Maybe her horse got lame. Sorry, man. What’s she to you? Wife, lover? Sister?”
    “I’m just trying to keep her out of trouble. Really. I don’t mean her any harm. You got to tell me where she is.”
    “Can’t help ya.”
    The man kept staring at him in silence. “Well, then,” he concluded, “should you see her, tell her Micheál Donnelly’s looking for her.”
    Hank was not sure about the first name: it had sounded like “Me-hall”. “Yeah, an’ where should I tell her to look for you?”
    “Is there someplace else where I may sleep?”
    Hank shook his head. “Try Manitou.”
    Donnelly looked at him with steady eyes, weighing him. “All right,” he said at last. “Have a nice sleep.“ He backed out and disappeared into the night.
    When the doors had stopped swinging, Hank let out a deep breath. He downed half a glass of whisky and got up from the table. He turned towards the stairs in the back, and there was Fiona, looking at him.
    “Thanks,” she said.
    Hank smirked and came towards her. “Who was that?” he enquired. “Your brother? Or maybe he’s the reason why you givin’ the eye to Sgt. McKay?”
    “That’s none of your business,” she said coldly.
    “Such gratitude,” he said, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.
    “But you do have my gratitude,” Fiona whispered.
    Hank stared at her. She looked like she had been asleep in her dress; her blond braid was coming undone, and some silky strands brushed her cheeks. She didn’t turn her gaze away. He had shrugged away thoughts of her up to that moment, and he had every intention to continue to do so, except that his hands moved on their own and took her waist. She didn’t resist. He pressed her to himself and lowered his face to kiss her. Fiona reached up for his shoulders, surrendering for a moment to the warmth of life and passion.
    Then she pushed him away. She looked at him with a sort of regret and shook her head. Hank watched her go up the stairs, head and shoulders straight, her cheap brown dress rustling against the wooden steps.

    Corporal Winters was sprawled face-down on the upper bunk, fast asleep. Someone shook him out from whatever dream he was having. He turned his face in confusion. “Wassup?” he grumbled.
    “Get down, corporal,” said McKay’s low voice. “I need a volunteer. Come outside with me.”
    “It wasn’t me!” the young man protested, rolling on his back and rubbing his eyes.
    “Wasn’t you done what?”
    “Nothin’.”
    “Alright. Come outside. Don’t wanna hear no questions.”
    “No sir.”
    Winters climbed down, trying not to disturb the trooper sleeping in the lower bunk. They made their way towards the door of the NCOs’ dormitory, among the snores of the men. One coughed in his sleep. Winters stumbled on an invisible stool close to the end of the line of bunks. “Hey, who’s there?” called a voice.
    “Go back to sleep, Flaherty,” McKay whispered.
    “Sure, go back to sleep, you makin’ a frightful racket, you know?”
    “You been makin’ a worse racket all night - both ends,” McKay answered curtly.
    “Look who’s talkin’, Princess on the Pod...”
    McKay located the door, pushed Winters outside and closed it silently after himself.
    The night air was cool and clean, as opposed to the tang of a score of sleeping soldiers in a small enclosed room. Winters tried to stand to attention with some dignity, despite the fact that both of them were in their underwear.
    “Now listen to me carefully, Winters,” McKay instructed him. “I want you to tell me where Sully is this very moment.”
    The corporal almost burst out, then remembered: no questions. “He’s right where you an’ I should be, sir. In bed with a beautiful lady.”
    “You positive about this?”
    “I ain’t too informed of his movements, but I don’t recall that he left town lately, sir.”
    “Good. Now, will you be so kind as to revise for me the events followin’ the Palmer Creek uprisin’, two years ago, in relation to Sully?”
    Winters stared at him. Either his commander had gone completely nuts, or he had in mind some deep and convoluted plan that he sure wasn’t going to reveal to the likes of him. He drew a deep breath. “Sully let the Indians escape - fought with O’Connor an’ fell off the cliff - hid in the cave - was pardoned, you know, the one good thing Morrison did, God blast his twisted soul, an’ sir, had I been there, I’d’a never arrested you, I’d - “
    “Yeah, yeah, ‘preciate that. Stick to Sully.”
    “That’s all, sir. Went home with Dr. Mike an’ their family.”
    “Safe an’ sound.”
    “Yep. No big trouble since.”
    McKay nodded. For a moment he looked absently relieved. “Thank you, corporal. You may go back to sleep.”
    “Yessir.”
    They went back into the barracks. Winters had managed to remain partially asleep through the whole ordeal. As soon as he hit the bunk he went out like a light, oblivious of Sgt. McKay’s weird questions.

    “Horace,” said the quiet deep voice.
    He lifted his head from the latest wire and stared into Hank’s blue eyes. “Mornin’. What shall I do for you?”
    Hank let out a small breath. “I ain’t sure.”
    Horace looked impatiently at him. “Hank, I got a job to do, and...”
    “Yes, yes. How can one make enquiries about a person?”
    “Well, it’s just a wee bit illegal, Hank.”
    “But if this person’s involved too in some illegal activities, it’s right to enquire, ain’t it?”
    Horace sighed. He hated it when that barkeep took the long winding road to get to something. “Why don’t you go ask Sheriff Simon, Hank?”
    He sneered. “Whaddaya think he knows. An’ besides, I already had a peek into his office while he was out chattin’ with Grace. The person I’m lookin’ for ain’t in his Wanted list.”
    “Hank!” exclaimed Horace, appalled. Then a sudden thought struck him. “Wait a moment... you wanna know ‘bout Fiona?! That’s it!”
    Hank glared at him. “Horace, you gonna help me or not?”
    Horace looked at him askance, then rubbed his chin. “If she’s just entangled with some paltry frontier marshal, forget it. But if she did somethin’ bad in more ‘n one state -“
    “Never said anythin’ ‘bout ‘she’.”
    “Alright,” said Horace, exasperated, “if this person is wanted across the country, there’s a clerk in the archives of a St. Louis paper who owes me a good turn. Maybe he can find somethin’ about h - about this person...”
    “Right. Wire him.”
    “Need a description, Hank.”
    “Man called Michael Donnelly, I ain’t sure ‘bout the first name. ‘round forty, taller ‘n me, built like a wrestler. Brown hair, blue eyes. Irish accent. Looks like he’s been travellin’ long.”
    Horace’s eyes widened. “What’s he gotta do with Fiona?”
    “Dunno. You seen him somewhere?”
    “No. I’d remember him.”
    “I need to know all about him.” Seeing Horace’s earnest and diffident stare, he added: “Oh, hell, he came to the saloon last night, lookin’ for her. She didn’t wanna see him. Don’t look like he’s a menace to her, but I wanna make sure. You satisfied now?”
    Horace thought about it. “If he’s her fellow countryman an’ they know each other, maybe she travelled with him. If I add her name an’ description, it’ll be easier to find him.”
    “Don’t wanna put her on no Wanted list.”
    “I’ll make clear she’s just an occasional companion, maybe a relative.”
    “Right. A relative. Sister or somethin’.”
    “I’ll keep her outta this.”
    Hank nodded. “Good.”
    “I’m doin’ it for her,” Horace answered grumpily. “Not certainly for you.”

    The afternoon was growing late, and shadows were already falling from the mountains. Sully was chopping wood beside the homestead, waiting for Michaela to come back from the clinic. He wanted her advice in writing a letter to Welland Smith. He needed to convey his alarm about the Red Rocks situation, about the fact that they didn’t seem able to keep suspicious strangers away from them. If necessary, he was ready to bring the letter to Washington himself - although the prospect of leaving his family tore him inside.
    Katie was playing with some sticks, building a little house among the flowers, safely away from the splinters. Wolf was sleeping beside her; since the day she had taken her first steps, he rarely left her. Sully saw her lift her golden head and look interestedly at the trail in front of the house. He put down the axe and went to see what was the matter. A rumble of hooves, and Sgt. McKay appeared.
    “Hey,” Sully greeted him. “Didn’t know you were in town.”
    “I got the night off,” McKay explained, getting down from the saddle. “Wanna celebrate Alison’s birthday - there’s still a few days, but I don’t know if I’ll be here on the actual date. I’ll go to the farm presently, to take her to dinner at Grace’s. But Sully - can I talk to you first?”
    “Sure,” Sully said. He dusted his hands on his pants and was about to lift Katie, when McKay stopped him.
    “I’d rather not talk in front of her.”
    Sully looked at him, perplexed. “Alright,” he said. He sat down on the steps, so as to keep a watchful eye on Katie’s building enterprise.
    McKay took off his gloves and put them in his belt, then took off his hat. He seemed haunted. He sat down beside Sully. “This’ll sound very strange,” he began. “I had a nightmare tonight, an’ it was about you.”
    “About me?”
    “Yes. I - “ He snorted and ran a hand through his hair. “I dreamed I had captured you after the Palmer Creek uprisin’.”
    Sully was surprised, and suddenly uneasy. “And?”
    “And I hanged you. With my own hands.”
    It had been such a close call that Sully felt his heart race faster. McKay looked painfully pale. “But it didn’t happen,” Sully said.
      “No,” McKay conceded. “An’ I wanna tell you, I think I’d have never let it happen. Command wanted to hang you, but they’d have needed to find someone else to do it. I ain’t for killin’ civilians, especially when the case is so doubtful an’ the civilian got a family. Had there been a trial, I’d have spoken on your behalf.”
    Sully was astonished at the intensity of McKay’s words. “I know this,” he said softly.
    The sergeant looked up at him with anguished eyes. “Then, why the nightmare?”
    “I don’t know... your overworked conscience, probably.”
    McKay sighed. “Today I keep askin’ myself... what if I had caught you at once, with my men still lyin’ dead on the ground, when I was shocked an’ furious...”
    “No.”
    “But what if...”
    “McKay, no matter how furious you were, you’d have never killed me in cold blood. You don’t have it in you. You’d have had a trial, maybe truly wanted to play judge, jury an’ executioner, but Michaela’d have never let you do that, you know.”
    The sergeant stared at the little child playing in the sun. “Sully, in the dream I didn’t let her talk. I had her taken away at once, to be sentenced to life in prison.”
    Lazily, Wolf got up and stretched. Suddenly interested in what Katie was doing, he nosed up to her house and sniffed it, making it collapse. Katie squeaked and cuffed him with her chubby little hand. “Bad Woof! Bad!” Wolf flattened himself on the ground, nose between his paws, looking up in awe at her.
    Sully tore his gaze from his daughter and turned slowly towards the sergeant. “McKay - that wasn’t you! That was O’Connor you dreamed about.”
    McKay lowered his forehead in his hand. “Sometimes...” He lifted his face again. “Sometimes I don’t know what the difference is.”
    “You kiddin’, man?” Sully stared at him. “McKay, are you totally out of your head?”
    “I may be,” McKay whispered. “Those nightmares - they feel real. Tonight I had to wake up my trustiest man an’ have him tell me you were safe, before I started persuadin’ myself it was all a dream.”
    “So it’s happened before?”
    McKay nodded. “Often it’s about me in the war, or with the Indians. Sometimes it’s Alison, an’ she’s in danger... Tonight for the first time it was about you.”
    Sully looked closely at him. “An’ when you wake up, you have a splitting headache?”
    The sergeant stared. “How do you know?”
    “Happened to me too. Cloud Dancin’ says it’s ‘cause the whole person ain’t in balance. You’re worried, an’ so your body an’ your mind react...”
    “I know what worries me,” McKay snapped, “it’s quite a lot, an’ there ain’t a thing, a single thing on earth I can do about it! So I’d like my mind an’ body to quit reactin’, thanks, ‘cause they just makin’ the situation worse!”
    They hadn’t even noticed that Katie was standing in front of them, a bit fazed by McKay’s outburst, but otherwise fearless. She edged up to Sully, looking diffidently at the big soldier.
    “Wanna see my 'ouse?” she peeped at last.

    “He’s a what?”
    Horace waved the wire under Hank’s nose. “I don't know either. But that’s what it says here. They recognised the description, not the name. If he’s the same man, he’s wanted for treason by the British government.”
    Hank grabbed his wrist, snatched the wire and read it. He looked around at the quiet, late-afternoon road. The rain was holding, but the atmosphere held a sort of silvery shimmer which made all colours stand out strangely.
    “Whatever it is, I don’t want 'em in my town,” Jake said firmly.
    “Wire don’t mention Fiona,” Hank retorted, “she got nothin’ to do with him an’ all this Irish business. She wants to avoid him. So leave her alone.”
    Jake threw a sideways look at Hank. Right at that moment, Matthew came out of the Gazette, busily reading a stack of paper. The three men elbowed each other.
    “Hey, Matt!” Hank called, hiding the wire. “Come over here.”
    “Hank,” said the young man, approaching. “Jake. Horace. What’s the matter?”
    “We’d like to buy you a drink,” said Jake, urbanely.
    Matthew looked at him, lowering his eyelids. “What’s up, Jake?”
    “Well, you're a learned man...“
    Hank snorted impatiently. “What the hell’s the Brotherhood... what was that?”
    “The Fenian Brotherhood,” Horace supplied.
    Matthew thought about it. “Ain’t the first time I hear this name,” he said. “It’s an Irish freedom movement of some kind. Has it gotta do with Fiona?”
    “No,” Hank snapped. “It’s gotta do with a man who’s searchin’ for her.”
    “Here it says they tried to invade Canada in '66,“ Horace added, “to disturb the British.“
    Matthew nodded slowly. “From what I know, they’re pretty reckless. Plottin’ political murders, stealin’ to support the cause an’ the like.”
    “Don’t want that kind in my town, I told ya,” Jake insisted.
    “If he’s wanted by the British,” Horace said, “what can we do?”
    “If he’s caught here, I think the British could ask us to extradite him,” Matthew said.
    “To do what?” said Jake.
    “To send him back to ‘em, so that they can try him an’ convict him. But I ain’t too sure about it. I’d have to look it up.”
    Hank threw a glance at Jake. “So it won’t be too difficult to get rid of him, if he comes back to town.”
    “S’pose so,” grinned Jake. He put an arm around Matthew’s shoulder. “Alright, Matt, we’ll buy you that drink. An’ can you tell us somethin’ more ‘bout this extradition thing?”

    Fiona had been working at the saloon for five straight days, and had obtained the afternoon off. She was coming back from the stream just outside the town with her scant laundry in a basket. She had a spare skirt, and Hank had given her a blouse; she had wondered about its origins, but she had accepted it. She was glad to have found a bit of solitude.
    She was about to exit the sparse wood, all new and alive and smelling of wet earth, when a man emerged from the trees. She jumped in alarm, ready to fight, then she recognised him.
    “Good evening,” she greeted him. “Cloud Dancing, isn’t it?”
    “Ha ho,” he answered, nodding. He wore his bow and quiver, but his pouch was empty. “I am glad to see you. I wanted to talk to you. The spirits guided you here.”
    Fiona looked around and noticed a small lean-to among the bushes. “Is that yours?”
    “Yes. I slept here.” He laid his weapons under the lean-to. “My hunt has not been very good today.“
    “I thought that you - that Miss Dorothy... sorry, it’s not my business.”
    He smiled. “Dorothy and I have our own way of spending time together,” he said, leaving her to wonder what he meant. “Fiona, yesterday your tale touched my heart.”
    She lowered her eyes. “You like the idea that we are killing each other just like we are killing you?”
    “No. I like the idea that we are not alone in our plight. I have been travelling, taking part in the white man’s meetings. I believe that if we want to reach a peaceful accord we have to know each other. I am trying to spread the knowledge of the Cheyenne tribe, and of the whole Indian nation - and I am also trying to know the white man better, so that one day we can find a common ground. And when you told us how your people is persecuted, I saw you as a kindred soul.”
    Fiona put down the laundry basket.
    “How do your people resist their oppressors?” Cloud Dancing asked.
    “We kill them,” she answered bitterly.
    He seemed disappointed. “But this way you make yourselves no better than they are.”
    “It’s a war.”
    He stared at her in silence for a little while. “That is what I thought about our struggle with the Army,” he said with sadness. He started walking about, looking at the wild flowers. “My son was killed in a row between Dog Soldiers - if the Army had not chased us, he would have had no motive to be there. Then, my wife was killed with our chief Black Kettle and countless others at Washita. Have you heard of it?”
    She nodded.
    “I wanted war, too.” He turned his shoulders on her, oppressed by the weight of memories. “I wanted them dead.”
    As Fiona looked at his back, a strange cast came over her thin features. Her eyes seemed to heat up from inside, like piercing, incandescent points. She bent her knees and reached down with her right hand, until she had hiked her gown above her calf. She wore good riding boots, and inside the right boot, a shining knife. She drew it, silently.
    Where are your spirits now, Cloud Dancing?
    “I could not see what very few see,” Cloud Dancing went on. “Blood brings blood, war brings war, until there is no good side anymore, no turning back... and at the end all is really lost.”
    Fiona swallowed and tightened her grip on the knife.
    “But then it changed. I meditated, and talked with my friends... and I realised that life is the answer. It takes life to fight. If you want to beat an opponent, you must both be alive at the end. Otherwise, you will have gained nothing.”
    Fiona ran the back of her hand over her eyes. Clamping her jaws in rage and frustration, she slipped the knife back inside the boot. Just in time for Cloud Dancing to turn.
    “Do not look so sad,” he said kindly. “I hope one day you find the same way too. All of you.”
    “Thank you, Cloud Dancing,” she whispered.

    Michaela had been detained at the clinic by a particularly lengthy visit. Sully waited on the porch. Cloud Dancing had met with him after his failed hunting session. Sully hadn’t told him about his conversation with McKay yet; but his thoughts kept returning to that hellish summer of ’72.
    “I have been thinking about it too,” Cloud Dancing said. “I do not know why.”
    “Maybe the scar will never go away,” Sully wondered glumly.
    “Usually, scars do not go away. But sometimes they stop hurting, after a while.” Cloud Dancing looked at the sky. “I have talked with the Irish woman.”
    “They say she's a bit strange,” Sully mused.
    “I did not find her strange, Sully,” Cloud Dancing answered. “I saw a young woman very sad, and very tired of the war.”
    Kindly but firmly, Michaela pushed Mrs. Lacey and her four children out of the clinic. A look at the eldest’s tonsils had degenerated into a general check-up of the whole brood, prompted by the anxious mother. Michaela watched them go away reassured, and jokingly widened her eyes at Sully, getting rid of her apron.
    “You let her pay you?” he said.
    “I did,” she smiled. “Things have been going well at their homestead.” She took her wide hat and locked the door.
    Sully just shook his head amusedly.
    They went to pick up Brian and Katie at the Gazette. Brian asked if he could eat with Sara Sheehan, and they watched the two kids stroll happily towards the Cafe, Katie held by her hands between them, in the tracks of Cloud Dancing and Dorothy. This was the kind of sight that warmed Sully’s heart.
    “He’s growing up so fast,” Michaela sighed.
    Sully kissed her cheek, bending his head to reach under the brim of Michaela's hat. “But Katie’s still little. An’ I’m still waitin’ for news of that other thing too,” he added in a low voice.
    She looked at Sully with a glint in her eyes. “Sully! I don’t know yet.” She leaned her hand on his fringed buckskin jacket and kissed the corner of his mouth. “But you’ll be the first to know.”
    At the Cafe, another welcome sight greeted them. McKay and Alison were seated at a table in the corner, over the remains of dinner, and he had pushed his chair close to hers to watch her open her birthday gift. She was chirping happily and teasing him about a law book. When they were close, she noticed them out of the corner of her eye and raised a beaming gaze on them. “Sully, Michaela. Look at what he gave me.”
    Michaela took the book Alison was handing her. “Moby Dick!” she exclaimed. “My father wanted so much to read it, but never had the time...”
    “I’ll lend it to you,” smiled Alison.
    Sully looked at the cover. “Is it a story of the sea?”
    “Yes, and much more. It’s the story of a man who feels himself sorely wronged and wants to have revenge, he’s obsessed by it. Dorothy’s article said it’s about all humanity.”
    “No less,” said Sully, admiringly. He gave it back to Alison. McKay was sitting beside her, an arm on the back of her chair, and looked relaxed, basking in her happiness. Sully was relieved.
    They reached their table. Most of the other customers had already finished; but they were not leaving, rather they gravitated towards Fiona’s table. She had cleared it, and Grace had brought her a low, wide basin which she had filled with water. She was staring into it by the light of a lantern, and her face was intent and almost unearthly. Robert E was sitting before her in patient wait.
    Hank and Preston were standing to the side, looking at her. Michaela motioned to them. “What’s happening?”
    “Fiona’s scrying the water,” Preston said pompously. “She says she can read the future.”
    “Oh no,” sighed Michaela, “another Princess Nizamova.”
    “Not at all,” Preston said, a bit puzzled. “She refuses to be paid. To think that I had offered her to hire a room at the Chateau and let her perform in style - with a little percentage for me, you know, just to get even with expenses...”
    “Yeah, sure,” drawled Hank.
    Preston threw him a cold look. “It’s the same thing you wanted to do at the saloon,” he pointed out, “and without added costs.” Hank just blew a smoke ring.
    Robert E went away, satisfied that his business was going to grow and prosper. He and Grace hadn’t dared to ask anything on the future of their daughter. His place was taken by Horace, who, to everybody’s surprise, asked unashamedly if Myra and Samantha were ever coming back. Fiona said yes. He left the Cafe, clutching those words like a shining gem, uncaring that Hank pointed out to him that, the way he had put the question, it could mean they were coming to visit, and nothing more. Then it was Loren’s turn, and he asked whether he would find again someone to love. But before Fiona had had the chance to look into the bowl, he touched the surface and said it didn’t matter, he preferred not to know.
    By then, Sully and Michaela were almost through with dinner. They were surprised to see McKay and Alison walk up to their table. “How’s it going?” McKay asked. “Looks interestin’.”
    “Don’t tell me you want her to read your future!” Michaela said in a low voice. “I thought you were a down-to-earth man.”
    “I’m curious,” McKay admitted.
    “She’s sincere,” Sully considered. “She’s not doin’ it for money. This ain’t too different from some things Cloud Dancin’ does. I’m gettin’ curious myself.”
    Preston smiled wickedly. “Careful, ladies, your husbands are getting curious of this pretty foreigner...”
    McKay turned sharply towards him.
    Sully got up. “Leave him be,” he said to the sergeant, with a scathing look at the banker. “So, whatcha gonna ask?”
    “Something irrelevant,” Alison suggested. “I’d be a bit frightened, otherwise.”
    “Got it,” McKay said. When the chair was free, he sat in front of Fiona.
    She looked up at him in surprise.
    “Can you tell me if Alison’s crops will be good this summer?” McKay asked.
    “Talk about irrelevant,” Alison whispered to Sully, but in a laughing way. Although she didn’t really believe in that weird ceremony, she couldn’t have stood him asking something personal about his life.
    Fiona looked at him, nodded and bent her head on the bowl. She drew her hand over the surface of the water, without touching it, but causing ripples anyway. She waited for the ripples to die down. From where he sat, McKay couldn’t see the reflection of the lantern. It looked like she was staring into a dark, bottomless well.
    Fiona narrowed her eyes, moved her hand over the water once again, then looked back at him. “It should be something you’re directly involved with,” she said. “Otherwise I can’t make the prediction to you.”
    “I am directly involved,” he said.
    She tried again. She looked into the water, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, but this doesn’t seem to be true. I - I don’t know how to explain this to you, but... Maybe I could see the crops, but not in relation to you. You’re not in the picture. It’s like you’re asking something with which you’re not concerned.”
    McKay was puzzled. “Of course I’m concerned. We’re talkin’ about my wife’s farm. My farm, in a way.”
    Fiona looked unhappy. “There’s nothing more I can tell you. It’s like you aren’t going to be there in the summer.”
    McKay blinked. He nodded, then got up. Alison looked alarmed. “What does it mean, you won’t be there in the summer?”
    “It could mean anythin’, Alison. It could be I’ll be away on a mission.” He took her by the arm. “It could all be her fancy.”
    Sully watched them, wondering. He looked at Fiona. She seemed upset. She was turning the bowl on itself as though to erase the failed vision. He sat before her. “Will you read somethin’ in my future too?”
    Fiona looked at him. “I will,” she said, but her voice was suddenly shaking. She stopped the bowl; the surface kept vibrating. She was leaning against the table, and she was trembling. She straightened up. She tried to draw her hand on the water, but her hand was trembling too, and she was forced to close it in a fist.
    “What’s happenin’?” Sully asked.
    Fiona shut her eyes. “I can’t read your future, Sully.”
    “Why?”
    She opened her eyes again, and Sully had a strange feeling that she was looking at him from a great distance, from beyond an unpassable barrier. She spoke in a low voice, so low that he could barely make out the words.
    “The dead can walk again, Sully.”
    He felt a shiver, as his life seemed to be turned inside out. For a moment not even Michaela’s warm presence at the nearby table could quench his primeval terror. Then he wished only to be far away from there, safe in his house, in the arms of his wife.
    Fiona refused to speak anymore.

    When McKay and Alison arrived at the farm, the weird happenings at the Cafe were all but forgotten. The sergeant’s worries were focussing on a more immediate matter.
    They went into the house. The kitchen was cold and dark. Alison lit a candle and went into the bedroom to light the fire in the small hearth in the corner. McKay followed her. He drew a deep breath and looked around. “I missed this place.”
    Alison acted all mundane. “You’ve been away quite a lot. Been spending your pay in Manitou?”
    He blinked. “In Manitou? What for?”
    She smiled. “Never mind.”
    He touched her arm. “Would you like to read something to me?”
    She clasped her book. “From this?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’d be glad to.”
    He meant to spend a quiet moment with her, as he hadn't been able to do since the Fort Lafayette fiasco. Passion was in abeyance now - although he felt keenly his desire to press all of her sweet body against his. She laid down her light cotton shawl and took off her shoes, then propped some pillows against the headboard and comfortably sat on the bed with the book. After a moment of uncertainty he imitated her, and, stripped to his sky-blue trousers and white shirt, he lay down beside her.
    “Dorothy quoted to me something from near the end,” Alison said. “It was very beautiful. Let me see if I can find it again...” She leafed through the book. “Ah, here it is.”
    He curled up close to her with his head on her shoulder. She smiled and started reading, holding the book with one hand, the other straying in his hair.
    “What is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it; what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings, I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time; recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself; but is an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike. And all the time, lo! that smiling sky, and this unsounded sea! Look! see yon Albicore! who put it into him to chase and fang that flying-fish? Where do murderers go, man! Who’s to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar? But it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the air smells now, as if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we how we may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amid greenness; as last year’s scythes flung down, and left in the half-cut swarths...”
    McKay was silent, and Alison feared this could not have been the best part to read. Maybe Queequeg’s antics were more entertaining. But at last he said thoughtfully: “There’s a lot of pain in it.”
    She turned her head to look at him in surprise. “Yes,” she said slowly. She flicked through the pages again: she already knew there was no happy end. “Pain can drive one crazy.”
    He was quiet for some moments more, his arm across her, his hand gently caressing her side. “There’s somethin’ strange in town,” he whispered. “Grandpa would say I’m bein’ fey. That Irishwoman - she got pain inside, too. An’ Sully - tonight he was troubled when she said that thing about the walkin’ dead. I think he believes she was speakin’ of him.” She felt him swallow. “We’ve been talkin’... I had another of those dreams.”
    She remembered his uneasy night at Fort Lafayette. “About the Indians?”
    “No. About Sully. I dreamed I hanged him.”
    “Oh God, Terence, no...”
    “I know, I know, I could never have done it. But I can’t bring myself to deny it completely, an’ that dream’s hard to shake. I wonder if we’re all goin’ crazy - an’ what’s the pain that haunts us.”
    “I don’t know about the woman... and Sully, he’s a good man, I can’t imagine what it could be. But you, you...” She put the book down and laid both arms around him. “Terence, my love...” She kissed his creasing brow. “There will be peace, one day.”
    He could not answer. He let her search for his mouth and linger there in the sweetest of kisses, while her hand warily moved over his chest and started unbuttoning his shirt. But Alison’s thoughts kept coming back to worrisome things. She felt his warm, smooth skin under her fingers, his now hurried heartbeat. And she felt those two scars - an old one in the abdomen, rough and star-shaped, and a more recent one, impossibly small, in the left side of his chest. Each of those wounds should have killed him. She had come across them first in a moment when questions would have been unlikely; and later, she had learned to take them as a matter of fact. But now, in the sudden relaxation, a strange connection formed in her mind.
    She lifted his face from his. “Terence - I know you don’t like to talk about it, but what about that time when you got shot, two years ago? Michaela told me you remained in a coma for hours, so deep that they thought you were dead. Could it be that the nightmares...”
    He shook his head and looked up at her. “No. It ain’t that. The nightmares got worse only recently - an’ they had started earlier than that.” He breathed deeply. “Around the time Sully was lost. Sometimes I think they started that very day... at the bottom of that cliff, with a comrade killed, a missin’ man, an’ a brave woman who was tryin’ not to cry, tryin’ to believe...” He opened his hands in the air. “Talk about pain... there was such a heavy load of it, I felt it slam into me, start echoin’ inside, made worse by my knowledge that I was an active part in it.” He clenched his fists on his chest. “I don’t think it ever stopped. It was useful at times - it showed me the way. But the echoes, the dreams, they’re still there.”
    She brushed his hair back from his forehead. “They will go away, in time.”
    He smiled. “Yes.” He reached up to touch her face. “They always do when I’m here. Here with you, my lively spring kitten.” He gently pulled her down over him.
    She caressed his ear with her lips. “Soon we’ll have to start planning your birthday, my hot summer star.”
    It’s like you won’t be here in the summer.
    McKay stared at the ceiling, pierced by a cold shiver among all the deliciously warm ones that Alison’s movements were stirring inside him. He shut his eyes tight and suppressed it. It was not summer yet.
    Alison felt his arms tighten around her. He rolled over with her, pressing her into the pillow, and started unbuttoning her dress, between kisses, her hands on his, guiding him. Thunder washed over them, the rain on the shutters just a whisper. Outside, flashes of lightning swept the countryside, and the soil began pooling with water among the grass. Inside, there was nothing but warmth, sweetness and peace.

    Fiona stayed at the Cafe long after the last client was hurriedly gone and Grace had put away the bowl and locked the cupboards and the kitchen, running home with her husband and her daughter. Instead she remained there, sitting at her table beside the fence, under a lean-to, staring out in the night at the unseen woods and hills drenched with rain amid the crackles of lightning. At last she got up and went back to the Gold Nugget. She packed up her few things - some grooming items, a watch, a stack of old letters tied with a fraying string. On the small bed she left Hank’s blouse, carefully folded. She put on her masculine clothes, tied her gun at her side and slung her rifle on her shoulder. Then she slipped out into the night. It was still raining a little, although the worst of the storm was on the hills now. She saddled her horse and led it away, silently, towards the bridge and the darkness beyond.
    On the bridge, a man was waiting for her on his horse.
    “Good night to you, Fiona,” he said in his rolling voice. “It's been a long time.“
    She froze in the saddle. “Micheál - let me go.”
    “You’re endangering our cause.”
    “All you think about is the cause!”
    “And you’re endangering yourself, little Fiona.”
    Her expression softened. “I’m used to danger.”
    “But this is useless. Come away with me. Forget about it.”
    “I can’t forget about it!” she exclaimed, rough as a sob. “Would I be here, if I could forget? I’ll forget, maybe, afterwards...”
    “No, you won’t. It’ll just be worse.”
    “Micheál, for the last time, let me go or...”
    “Or what?”
    Fiona turned brusquely. Somebody uncovered a lantern, and around them stood Hank, Jake and Loren, armed to their teeth.
    “Get down, Donnelly,” Hank added. “Knew you were up to somethin’.”
    “Since when are you responsible for the town’s safety, Hank?” Fiona asked dryly.
    “He ain’t,” Jake answered, “but I am. Get down, both of you.”
    “Wait a moment,” exclaimed Hank, “she don't...”
    “You heard her,” Jake said. “She’s in it up to her ears. Whatever ‘it’ is.”
    “What’s up, girl?” asked Loren. “If you’re in trouble, why didn’t you tell us?”
    Dorothy had heard some commotion, had looked out and seen the light. When she came down, half of the town had had the same idea, and they were crowding half-dressed around Fiona and Donnelly. Daniel pushed through them. “What’s happenin’ here?”
    “Late as usual, Sheriff,” Hank commented.
    Jake pointed at Donnelly. “That man there is wanted by the British government. He’s a member of the Fenian Brotherhood. Rebels to the British Crown. An’ she’s his accomplice. Arrest 'em, Sheriff.”
    There was a murmur in the crowd. Daniel stepped forward. “Better give me your weapons, both of you,” he said calmly.
    Donnelly complied. By his side, Fiona did the same with her pistol and rifle.
    “Fiona!” exclaimed Hank. “What were you up to?”
    She sighed. She looked at Donnelly, then at the townsfolk. She shrugged slightly. “I wanted to rob Preston’s bank.”
    “What!?” Preston pushed forward, wearing his best damask dressing gown. “How dare you!”
    “I dare,” Fiona’s voice rang out, “in the name of the cause of Ireland!”
    They looked at her, puzzled. “You mean... like you told us the other day?” said Reverend Johnson, who had appeared across the bridge and didn’t need his sight to perceive the milling crowd and the glare of the lanterns. “Against the British?”
    Fiona looked gratefully at him. “Yes, Reverend. We need funds to fight. We're here to support our motherland any way we can.”
    “Robbing banks?” sneered Preston.
    “Why not? We have been systematically robbed for centuries!”
    “But not by me!”
    “By your ancestors, no doubt,” she spit back.
    Daniel grasped Fiona’s reins. “You’d better get down.”
    “Sheriff...” said Donnelly. They fell silent at the sound of his voice. “I knew what she meant to do. I tried to stop her. She’s done nothing yet. You aren’t requested to extradite us. If you let us go, I’ll take her away, and I promise we’ll never set foot in Colorado Springs again.”
    “I don’t think I can do that...”
    “They did nothin’ here, yet,” said Dorothy.
    Everybody turned to look at her. “You on their side, Dorothy?” Jake asked, astonished.
    She lifted her chin. “Yes. I think their cause is just.”
    “They’re fightin’ for their rights,” Robert E said, in a quiet voice that nonetheless resonated in the silence.
    “They only want to live peacefully in their country,” Grace added.
    “And practice their religion!” chimed in another female voice.
    Jake turned. “Teresa! Whatcha doin’ here?”
    She looked at him proudly. “Oh, nothing, Jacob, I just woke up in the middle of the night and my husband was not there with me, what do you think I should have done?”
    He lowered his gaze, humbled. Then he turned to Daniel once more. “But if we let them go, they’d go robbin’ banks somewhere else. An’ what would they do with the money? Support a rebellion, kill other people? I tell you, Sheriff, I still don’t like this.”
    Daniel nodded, rubbing his chin. “You have a point, Jake.”
    People were muttering and shaking heads all around them. The men of European origins didn’t look so sure of the issue. But the women, the people of Shantytown, the Mexicans, even some of the Jewish and Swedish settlers were for Donnelly and Fiona.
    “Jake - this is a political matter,” said Daniel at last. “It’s their concern. I don’t think we should get involved in it.”
    “That would be the easy way out,” said Jake. “It’s cowardly. Besides, there’s certainly a bounty on their heads...”
    Hank glared at him. “Will you shut up?”
    “Watcha gonna do, Jake?” Daniel asked. “Take this decision by yourself? Or summon the Town Council here an’ now? To send ‘em back to be judged by someone else? How cowardly is this?”
    Jake glared at him, convinced that Daniel was just being overly sentimental. But the truth was that he indeed didn’t know what to do. His indignation had died down in the face of his lack of competence on the matter. It would indeed have been easy to call someone from Denver and deliver Donnelly and Fiona in their hands, to do with them what they thought best. But the fact that so many in town were on their side, and Teresa among them... And even if he summoned the Town Council, what were his chances? Against him he would have that old softy Loren - Robert E, whose opinion was clear - Dr. Mike! - and Hank, who had clearly lost his marbles over the Irish girl. He had no chances. And frankly, he didn’t care enough for the Irish cause to fight over a matter of principle.
    “Alright,” he grumbled. “Daniel, give ‘em back their weapons. Don’t you ever show your faces in this town again.” He turned his back on it all.
    “Bless you,“ said Donnelly.
    “Right,“ Jake replied gruffly. He reached Teresa. “Come back home,” he said in a whisper, putting his arm about her shoulders, “you shouldn’t get cold, an' you need to rest...” She kissed him thankfully on the cheek.
    Daniel motioned Donnelly and Fiona to cross the bridge. To Hank’s disappointment, she didn’t even turn to look at him.
    The crowd began dispersing, commenting among themselves. Dorothy, her shawl on her head, was scribbling furiously in her notebook, trying to shield it from the rain which was getting harder.
    “Well,” said Loren, relieved, “it was all for the best!”
    “Loren,” Hank said, with unaccustomed patience, “if she wanted to rob the bank for the cause, if that’s the only reason she was here... can you explain why the hell we found her tryin’ to leave the town?”

    Michaela woke up in the middle of the night, feeling cold. She held out a hand and found Sully’s place empty. She opened her eyes, quickly adapting them to the darkness of the room. Outside there were still flashes of lightning, and she saw him standing before the window, looking out.
    “Sully?...”
    He turned to her. “I’m here.”
    “What’s wrong? Can’t you sleep?”
    He was so silent that she threw back the covers and got up, straightening her beautiful flannel nightgown, padding barefoot on the floor boards. “Sully,” she whispered again.
    “I can’t stop thinkin’ ’bout what she told me,” he confessed.
    “She?... Fiona? About the dead that walk again?”
    He nodded.
    Michaela tightened her lips. “Sully, I don’t know why two intelligent men like you and McKay tried such a stunt. It’s obvious it meant nothing.”
    “There was also McKay’s dream,” he pointed out.
    “And that’s probably the reason for it all. He’s upset about something and he passed it on to you. You influenced each other.”
    “What if he was right? What if he was meant to kill me? Or what if I was meant to die at the bottom of that cliff with O'Connor? I should be dead by now. Some say there’s a destiny, an’ it’s inescapable... Maybe that’s what she meant.”
    She put her arms around his waist. It was hard to keep a level head and a soothing voice, when those words awakened in her some of the worst fears she had ever known. There had been moments when she had been afraid of McKay - although never as mortally as of O’Connor. “Sully... let’s suppose McKay could have killed you back then. He didn’t. He wouldn’t, now. The past is gone.”
    He slowly shook his head, grasping her hands tight. “Not yet, Michaela. Can’t tell you why, but I feel the past’s back for a reckonin’... whether between me an’ him, or otherwise, I don’t know.” He sighed. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll talk with Cloud Dancin’.”
    “All right. Tomorrow. Now come back to bed.”
    He let her take his hand and draw him back to his still-warm place. He lay down with his head on her breast, waiting for sleep. She remained awake long after him, unable to deny that feeling of oppression that weighed on them all.

    “All right... steady now... almost there!”
    McKay craned his head to watch the bottle as he held up the bucket of milk, pouring it carefully into the funnel. He filled the bottle, then looked into the bucket and saw there was still some milk. “May I...”
    “Sure, go ahead. I’ll give you a bottle to bring to the fort.”
    McKay poured the remaining milk in a glass and drank it lustily. “Ahh... that’s good.”
    Alison smiled, putting the corks on the bottles. “Milk’s always good when the cow is loved, well-fed and kept happy.”
    “If I was a cow, I’d make the best milk in the West,” McKay said noncommittally, replacing the glass on the sideboard.
    Alison stared at him, then squealed with laughter and threw her arms about him. “You soldier!” They shared an amused kiss, and she laid her head on his shoulder. “Come home soon,” she whispered.
    “I will,” he answered with a smile in his voice. He let her go and turned to get his things. She watched him put on his jacket and belt, and then his hat. He couldn’t resist and embraced her once more, while she played with the yellow chevrons on his upper arms. Then he stepped back, moved to the door and opened it. Outside it was sunny, after the storms of the night.
    Alison sighed, turning around. She saw the bottle of milk on the table. “Uh, don’t forget this,” she called after him, grabbing it.
    McKay stepped on the porch and turned towards the barn, and there at the edge of the porch stood Fiona with a cocked rifle in her hands, aimed straight at his head.
    His heart stopped. There was no cover. Death had two eyes - the barrel of the gun, and Fiona’s coldly aiming one. Absurdly he thought about a trip he had made once on a train, the rattle of the wheels.
    Then Fiona opened both eyes and looked, really looked at him above the barrel. McKay saw her resolve fade away and be replaced with a shattering pain. He didn’t notice his heart start beating again. She uncocked the gun -
    Alison ambled on the porch with the bottle of milk, took in the scene, screamed “NO!” and threw the bottle with all her strength. It hit the already recoiling Fiona in the shoulder with a thump, bounced and exploded on the floor boards. McKay, shaken out of his trance-like immobility, threw himself forward to grab the woman. Fiona turned on her heels and started running away, towards the cover of the woods.
    “Stop!” She was slender and fast, but McKay’s legs were longer. Splashing in the puddles he reached her in a few strides, lunged and grabbed her by the waist, smashing her to the muddy ground. She turned like a snake and slammed the butt of the gun hard against his throat. The sergeant fell back with a strangled cry, and Fiona extricated herself, jumped up and ran into the woods.
    Alison was on him in no time. McKay coughed and wheezed, kneeling in the mud, holding his livid throat. She unbuckled his holster, took out the gun and fired a shot in the air to call for help. Then she held his shoulders, trying to help him breathe.

    “You were lucky,” Michaela said. McKay was sitting on the porch, all but squirming while she checked his throat. “With that blow she could have crushed your windpipe.”
    He tried to say something.
    “Will you be quiet?” she snapped. “You can’t talk yet!”
    “You mean that sliver of a girl disabled him just like this?” Hank asked.
    “A good move,” Sully considered, grimly. “She ain't strong enough to knock him out. But goin’ for the throat, blockin’ his breath, she was sure to shake him away.”
    “But why didn’t she just shoot him?”
    Sully shushed him. “What are you doin’ here anyway, Hank?”
    Hank shrugged. “Keepin’ an eye on things.”
    Alison was sitting protectively beside McKay. Michaela finished dressing the sore spot with a liniment, then got up and motioned to her. They moved a little to the side.
    “Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.
    Alison nodded, looking sick.
    “Are you sure?”
    Alison shut her eyes. “Michaela, I just saw someone point a gun at my husband. I’ll have to be all right, sooner or later.”
    The doctor nodded and put an arm around her. “I’ll send you one of my relaxing potions. You’ll feel better.”
    Alison’s control wavered. “She was aiming at his face,” she said in a sob.
    “Shhh, he’s all right now. He’s fine. Nothing happened.” She grabbed her shoulders, ready to support her in a fit of crying, but Alison pressed her hands on her mouth and no tears came.
    Daniel came riding back from the woods. “No trace of her,” he said, dismounting. “Donnelly’s nowhere to be found either.” Hank smirked and shook his head.
    McKay raised a hand to feel his sore and now sticky throat. “Didn’t wanna kill me,” he whispered painfully.
    “Alison’s not so sure,” Sully said, looking at the two women standing some yards away.
    The sergeant shook his head. “At first - then she changed her mind. Wasn’t gonna fire. Dunno why.”
    “Whatcha tryin’ to tell me, Sergeant?” said Daniel. “That if we find her, we don’t have to shoot on sight?”
    Michaela swooped down on them. “I told you not to talk!”
    Sully got up and put a hand on her shoulder. “You can go back to the clinic, Michaela. I’ll stay here a little, take care of ’em.”
    “I gotta - “ McKay began.
    Sully nodded at him. “I think Brian can go up at the fort, warn ’em you ain’t comin’ back just now.”
    McKay stared at Alison, looked back at Sully and nodded.

    When the others had gone, Alison said she was going to “lie down a bit”. McKay and Sully sat at the kitchen table, and Sully accepted a glass of milk.
    “Ain’t the first time someone points a gun at me,” the sergeant said, turning the bottle ruefully in his hands. He spoke with a little more ease, although evidently it was still paining him. His brush with death had happened too fast for him to get scared, but now it was starting to hit him; Sully could see it in his eyes. McKay rubbed the back of his hand on his mouth. “But Alison - You’ve seen her. She gets sick with worry. Really, it’s like she was ill.”
    “She’s tough. She’ll get over it.”
    McKay looked at Sully. “This happen often to you?”
    Sully stared out of the window. “Happens to me - seeing Michaela run risks every day. When it’s not some contagious illness, it’s a violently delirious patient or an emergency rescue. Last week she checked a stallion’s inflamed foot ‘cause he seemed in pain... a frightenin’ beast, would make your horse look like a pony.” He shrugged slightly, his blue gaze softening. “It ain’t easy, day by day... but that’s the way she is, an’ I respect her choices.”
    McKay nodded. It was not the first time that Sully encouraged him to look at Alison the way Michaela looked at Sully himself. A bizarre cross, but he wasn’t in the mood to find it funny. He leaned back on the chair. “Who’s that woman, Sully? What's she want with me?”
    Sully brought back his eyes on him. “Wanna hear somethin’ you may not like?”
    “Go on.”
    “Could be she got a crush on you.” McKay looked so astonished that Sully was brought to smile. “You don’t look at other women, don’t mean other women don’t look at you. I discovered this at my expense.”
    McKay said nothing.
    “Then she sees you’re happily married, an’ decides that if she can’t have you, nobody can.”
    The sergeant nodded slowly. “Guess it could be. When I saw her at the Mercantile two days ago, she looked at me in a strange way. My God... I even looked back at her, ‘cause it was weird. Didn’t mean to give her ideas.”
    “Maybe that’s it.”
    McKay stared a little more into nothing, then shook his head decisively. “Nah. Sully, that woman’s a professional fighter, seein’ what she done to me, that much is certain. But why wantin' me dead?” He looked up. “She talked to Cloud Dancin’. Maybe she wants to avenge the Indians.”
    “She got the wrong man, then,” Sully said.
    McKay closed his eyes. Then looked up suddenly. “The Fenian Brotherhood, you said?“
    “Yes.“
    “That invasion of Canada in '66... I was there, you know. I had managed to be posted in Buffalo, wanted to stay a bit with my family after the war. They moved me to Denver the followin' year. The Fenians crossed the borders at Ridgeway. We were ready to support the Canadian Army. But there wasn't much to do - the Fenians had already been destroyed."
    “So it ain't possible that she holds you responsible for somethin' happened there?“
    “I don't know - I don't know. Don't think so. I knew their leader, John O'Neill, he was a Union colonel... but we'd never met after the war. Hell, I ain't never killed no Catholics, not that I know of, at least - just Indians 'n' Rebels,“ he said bitterly.
    Sully looked at him with concern. “Had any more dreams or headaches?”
    “No. Does me good, bein' here at home.” Suddenly he was struck by a thought. “That’s what she meant - that I wasn’t gonna be here in the summer... ’cause she planned to kill me!”
    Sully nodded slowly. “It may be. But then... what does that walkin’ dead thing mean? Did she know about your dream?”
    “No. Only you an’ Alison know.”
    “An’ Michaela.”
    “Of course.”
    Sully nodded with a sort of fatalism. Though having probably no trace of Scottish blood, he was being as fey as McKay. “All this must mean somethin’,” he whispered. “Otherwise she’s just crazy... an’ we can’t look for sense in her actions an’ words.”
    McKay shook his head. “She ain’t crazy, Sully. I saw it in her eyes, she’s as sane as you an’ me. So, it's gotta mean somethin’.”
    They looked at each other in a tense silence.

    Horace ran breathlessly to the saloon in the drizzly sunset, waving a wire. “Hank! Hank!!!” When the barkeep appeared, he handed him the wet piece of paper. “Got news,” he gasped. “In Washington too they recognised Donnelly’s description - they’re indeed Fenians, both of ‘em, an' the girl was identified...”
    Hank squinted, trying to make out the words in the poor light. Then suddenly, shockingly, everything was as clear as day.
    “Gotta find Sully,” he said instinctively.
    “Said he’d stay a while at Alison’s, to check on ‘em...”
    “Right. You go to Alison’s. I’ll go to Michaela’s.” He ran to get his horse.
    “Hank, shouldn’t we warn Daniel...” No answer. Horace shrugged, and sped back to his office.

    Alison had slept till lunchtime and was back to her usual self, up and fighting, fear and weariness notwithstanding. She had encouraged Sully to stay for lunch. Afterwards, she had gone out for her chores on the farm, while the two men had a long conversation in the kitchen, with Sully doing most of the talking.
    By sunset, he was ready to go.
    “It’s started to rain again,” he said, looking out from the porch.
    “I’d invite you to dinner too, but I know you’re wanted elsewhere,” said McKay.
    Sully smiled. “Thank you.” He nodded at Alison. “Have a nice evenin’... an’ keep your eyes open.”
    “Sure. Goodbye, Sully. Thanks to you.”
    They watched him mount his horse and trot away on the trail that led to the homestead, beyond the hills. Then they went back into the house. Alison started lighting all the candles she could find.
    “I thought you wanted to save on ’em,” McKay said quietly.
    “I want to keep guard on this house, tonight. You heard Sully.”
    “She won’t come back.”
    “Have you already forgiven her?”
    McKay shook his head. “Mark my words, Alison, I ain’t a forgivin’ man, quite the contrary. It’s just that I still don’t know what to think of her - an’ my instinct tells me she ain't a danger to us.”
    She took his hand. “What do you mean, you ain’t a forgivin’ man? If that was true, you’d be out of here already.”
    He smiled and looked down at his hand between hers. He pulled her in his arms. “You protected my life today.“
    “I wasted a good bottle of milk.“
    McKay shivered with the memory of danger and the desire to push it away. “Alison...“ He was on the verge of saying something very emotional, not sure if he even knew the words to say it. He kissed her face, whispering her name again. He hoped he could dissuade her from standing guard. He wanted to hold her in his arms all night, if just to feel her sleep, no matter that the throbbing pain in his throat distracted him.
    A rushing noise outside pulled him back on the earth. It was no thunder, rather someone approaching on horseback on the wet soil. Alison stiffened and looked around for her old gun. Then the someone called out. “Alison! Sgt. McKay! It’s Horace, open the door!”
    McKay ran out. Without dismounting, Horace exclaimed: “Where’s Sully?”
    “Went home five minutes ago, what’s the matter?”
    “We gotta find him, he gotta know this!” And Horace handed him the now next-to-illegible wire. But the light from the candles inside the house was strong, and McKay stared at the words, his face ashen.
    “What’s the matter?” cried Alison.
    “Horace, run after him, you may still catch up with him, I’ll follow you,” McKay said. He tried to stuff the wire in his belt, but it shredded. He ran to the barn.
    Alison was seized by panic. She went after him in the rain. “Don’t go.”
    McKay flung open the barn door. He caught her and took her face between his hands, as she all but crushed his wrists. “Alison,” he said, low and earnest, “right now, concerning Fiona, I’m the safest person in the whole world.”
    Then he told her why.

    Sully was galloping towards his home, steadily but with caution. The rain didn’t bother him, but he knew he had to put his horse in the barn, or else he could get fungus or worse. Suddenly the beast seemed to plunge down under him, propelling him forward to roll on the ground, and the first thing he thought was that he had been too fast and that the mud had played a dirty trick on his horse. He held out his hands and stopped in the damp grass, dragging himself to his knees at once...
    ... and felt the cold of a metal barrel against his temple.
    “Fiona,” he whispered, lifting his hands.
    “Farewell, Sully,” she said.
    “Fiona,” he repeated, turning his head and his eyes to look at her in the dusk, trying to gain time, “why?”
    She just cocked the pistol.
    He would never have the time to reach his tomahawk. “You must at least explain to me... why am I the walking dead?”
    “You got me wrong, Sully. You’re just going to be dead.” She smiled, and that smile suddenly brought upon Sully a chilling wave of disbelief. Her finger moving on the trigger, she added, “But the dead do walk again.”
    In that instant Sully understood beyond reason who stood by him, and knew he was going to die.
    Fiona pulled the trigger.
    The pistol clicked.
    “No!” she cried. Sully’s hand dropped to his tomahawk, while he tried to push her away. But Fiona had a knife in her hand, so he had to stop her with his right hand and try to reach the tomahawk with his left, unable to get at once his footing on the damp ground, astonished at the strength of the woman - and she just let go of the pistol and passed the knife in her right hand, slashing forward once and ripping Sully’s shirt, unmindful of the rumble behind her, slashing once again, too fast for him to catch her, and going for the throat...
    A hand closed on Fiona’s wrist and another one on her shoulder, and she was brusquely pulled back and forced to abandon the knife, which fell in the mud with a sickening burble. She tried to kick back, but this time McKay had the advantage of surprise, and grabbed both of her wrists while he held her clasped against himself. She fought him, hissing and growling, and it was like restraining a mountain lion, but McKay was determined not to let her go. Seeing she was blocked, Fiona threw back her head and screamed in frustration, screamed like a banshee to the sky.
    Numbly kneeling on the grass, Sully stared at her. So did Horace, who had arrived that very moment, easily overtaken by McKay even riding bareback. Michaela, Cloud Dancing and Hank appeared too, with a lantern, and Michaela jumped down from Flash and ran to her husband to check that he was unharmed.
    Sully put an arm about her shoulders and looked around. His horse had gotten back on its feet and seemed all right. In the grass, he could barely perceive a rope pulled tight between two trees. Horace’s and McKay’s horses had stopped in front of Sully’s, thus avoiding other dangerous falls. Cloud Dancing noticed it, dismounted and went to cut it loose.
    Fiona’s screams subsided. She suddenly looked empty and spent. McKay felt her sag in his grasp, and loosened it. Horace started, alarmed, but the sergeant stopped him with a look. Fiona remained barely upright, looking around at Sully and at each of them with a tired, lucid stare. Then she started crying quietly. She leaned backwards against McKay, turned and put her arms around him, desperately sobbing against the front of his blue jacket, her eyes tightly shut. He held her in silence, going as far as to rock her a little. Alison was approaching on her horse too, provided with another lantern, and exchanged with McKay a look of deep, knowing compassion.
    Sully looked at Michaela’s fair face, as though to assure himself he was walking in the world of the living. Then he blinked hard and looked at McKay and at the woman in his arms, whose murderous fury had almost killed both of them. “It’s impossible,” he whispered.
    McKay shook his head with a grimace. He still had trouble swallowing. “It’s the truth,” he said simply. “McCool’s an alias. She’s really a freedom fighter - but above all she’s really from a family of Irish immigrants... an’ her brother, like so many Irish lads, joined the Cavalry...”
    “... and one day he was killed on a mission,” Michaela concluded slowly.
    “Killed fightin’ the Injuns, that’s prob’ly the news that reached her,” Hank added.
    McKay nodded, looking down at Fiona. “An’ when you inquired, it turned out he had fallen to his death while strugglin’ with an outlaw...”
    “... after probably blaming the whole situation on the commander of the local garrison,” Michaela realised. McKay nodded.
    “Who’s a sergeant like your dead brother was,” Sully said, slowly understanding, recovering his breath, “an’ so you didn't have the heart to avenge yourself on him.”
    “But you deserve to die!” cried Fiona throught her tears. “You killed my brother!”
    Sully matched her deadly stare. At last, looking into her fiery grey eyes, he knew why they had all been so plagued by nightmares and memories and ill omens, what presence had haunted their deepest heart, unbeknownst to their mind. “Fiona... it was an accident.” He felt he couldn’t shield her from the truth. “Your brother tried to kill me. He wouldn’t listen. He made my life a livin’ hell, an’ in the end he destroyed himself.”
    “No,” she sobbed. “No, he wasn’t like that. He wrote to me. He sent money home. If he had something against you, there had to be a reason!”
    “Not reason enough to kill me.”
    Fiona shook her head in rejection, rubbing her shoulder. McKay thought he had accidentally hurt her, then remembered Alison had hit her hard with the bottle of milk. Before she could retort they heard hooves on the muddy trail. Daniel and Donnelly were approaching.
    Fiona looked at her comrade with narrowed eyes. “It’s you who took away my ammunition.”
    “A cautionary measure, little Fiona,” he said with a slight smile. McKay wondered whether the rifle had been unloaded too.
    “What happened?” Daniel asked. “What’s everybody doin’ here? ... Hank? Horace?”
    Sully exchanged a look with McKay, and they remained silent.
    Daniel sighed in frustration. “Oh well, nobody wants to tell me, no matter. This woman’s under arrest for tryin’ to kill Sgt. McKay.”
    McKay kept staring at Sully. Then he turned. “Sheriff, I withdraw the accusations.”
    “What? But this mornin’...?”
    “Doesn’t matter.”
    Fiona whirled on him. “My brother was right... you’re a damn fool!” she cried mockingly. “Had you caught Sully like you were required to do, he would still be alive!“ Then she addressed Sully. “And you? Aren’t you going to denounce me?”
    “For what?!” exclaimed Daniel.
    “For what, indeed?” Sully said. Michaela was staring at him, astonished, worry and sweet hope chasing each other in her eyes.
    Fiona exhaled slowly, shaken and dumb. “Such nobility,” she whispered, with the attempt at a cynical smile. She turned to Cloud Dancing. “I wanted to kill you, too. Are you forgiving me?”
    Cloud Dancing was astonished. “Since you did not kill me... it seems you listened to what I was telling you," he said at last, slowly.
    Her whole world, her reason of life, had been turned upside down in the last few days, or even in the last ten minutes. She grabbed at her rage and revenge, trying not to give in to confusion.
    “You’re making a mistake, Sully,” she snapped. “I’m not different from my brother.”
    “Yes, you are,” Sully said. “You’re alive.”
    Fiona’s eyes filled again with tears, but this time she fought them, looking at him with chin raised.
    “I can’t say I get it,” said Daniel. He ignored Hank’s not-too-whispered comment and went on, “For the last time, Donnelly, get out of here, you an’ your girl.”
    Sully felt he owed his life to most of the people present - to Donnelly’s thoughtfulness, to McKay’s timely arrival, even to Hank and Horace. He wished he could say more to the Irishman. But he just grinned, then he rode close to Fiona and held out a hand to her, open and unconditioned. After a moment of hesitation, she accepted it, and he dragged her up behind him. He nodded at Sully and the others and turned his horse.
    Hank caught Fiona’s look one moment before they rode away. He thought he saw just a flicker of gratitude, of something, in her eyes... then they were gone, and he was asking himself what the hell he was thinking. He shrugged. He exchanged a nod with Sully, then gave a solid slap at Horace’s horse, and they both sped towards the town.
    “I hope someone will explain somethin’ to me, some day,” sighed Daniel. Then he followed Hank and Horace in the darkness.
    “Are you all right, Michaela?” Cloud Dancing asked, holding Sully’s horse by the reins.
    Michaela drew a deep breath. Her cheeks were shining. She had relived the past in the most painful manner - but now it was gone, forever. She turned to Sully and let him embrace her. “Is it possible that we’ve laid a ghost to rest?” she asked.
    He looked into the distance, where Donnelly and Fiona had disappeared. “I don’t know. I hope we gave peace to a livin’ soul.”
    She kissed him. “To more than one, in that case,” she said.
    At these words, Sully turned and saw that McKay had jumped again on the back of his horse and was rejoining Alison.
    “McKay,” he called aloud, “I hope dreams won’t plague you again, after tonight.”
    The sergeant looked at him in silence. Then he sought Alison’s eyes, and nodded. “I’ll drink to that.”

THE END