As Alison drove her wagon in front of the telegraph office, Horace looked out of the window and waved at her. She stopped by the side of the building and dismounted.
    "A letter from your sister, Miss Lowell," he called out.
    "Ah... thank you, Horace," she said, approaching to take it in the welcome shade of the porch. The last thing she wanted now was to hear from Susan. She missed her keenly, and couldn't have stood either some bad news or the girl's innocent cheerfulness about how great her marriage was. She put the letter in her pouch and was about to turn away.
    "You all right, Miss Lowell?" asked Horace worriedly. "You look pale."
    Alison was tired of looking pale to all and sundry. She was quite sure Michaela had not said a word about her predicament to anybody. She must be in a really bad shape, then. She reassured Horace and walked quickly away. She had to go to the bank, and a little stroll would do her good.
    She passed before the livery. The Reverend had brought his horse to Robert E, and was listening to the blacksmith's advice about the grooming of the beast. He at least would not notice anything wrong with her. Alison made a note of trying to talk to him, some day. When she felt like it. Maybe he would have words of comfort for her. She hastened even more, furious with herself. Talking to the Reverend would surely be good for her soul; but she had to stop thinking like a widow.
    She would stop thinking that soon enough, one way or the other. It was ten days now. News from the Red Needle could arrive any minute.
    Alison stopped at Preston's bank. "Welcome, Miss Lowell," he greeted her, rising from his desk. "You are one of my most conscientious clients. Always punctual with payments."
    She nodded tightly, handing him the dollar bills. He gave her a receipt and offered her the updated balance of her account to sign. As she sat by the desk and took the pen, her hand began to shake.
    "Anything wrong, Miss Lowell?" he enquired with irritating courtesy.
    "Just tired, Preston. That's all." She traced a clumsy signature and got up.
    "Ah yes, of course," smiled the banker. "Fort Lafayette is situated quite in an uncomfortable position, isn't it? As a matter of fact I think it's even farther from your farm than from the town. It must be some fifteen miles or maybe more. A rather tiring ride, if often repeated."
    Alison looked at him with deadly calm. "Don't do that, Preston," she warned him.
    "Do what, Miss Lowell?" he asked innocently.
    "Don't insult my intelligence and yours. It's beneath you. You'd just make yourself more enemies, and you don't need that."
    Preston looked at her with a slight frown. Alison turned and got out.
    She dropped by at Loren's store to buy some buttons, then walked on towards the Gazette to get a copy. She threw a look at the old stable behind Robert E and Grace's house, pierced by the memory of her short-lived Temperance League and of all that had happened because of it. She tried to see if Robert E had rented it to somebody else, but the stable seemed closed. Alison went on, full of sweet and sad recollections, and found herself on the porch of the Gold Nugget.
    Ordinarily she would have gone by without a pause, but this time something made her slow down her pace almost to a standstill, while all strength seemed to seep out of her muscles. Sitting with his back to the open window she could see a soldier, talking loudly and animatedly. It was a bright morning, and his figure was in full light. He wore a sergeant's three yellow stripes on his sleeve.
    Alison took a deep shaking breath. Terence McKay was not the only sergeant in the US Cavalry. At a second glance this one was shorter than him and bony, with thinning sandy hair, and his bearing and gestures were all wrong. How could she ever mistake this guy for her tall and reserved cavalryman? She almost moved on, then a word stopped her again. She leaned quietly against the wall and listened, aware that she made a very peculiar tableau on the porch of that dubious resort, but too curious to leave.
    "... stung me right on the nose, by God! Fat hairy bumblebee as big as yer pretty hand, darlin'. Face all puffed out, couldn't e'en open me eyes. Did me a bad bad service, yessir. I was meant to go up in the mountains with me braves to take on some brigands, an' what they do, they give the mission to another chap. So right now he's up there takin' all the glory an' here I am all alone." His lady friend patted his cheek, while he fondled absently the frilly lace of her corset.
    Alison entered the Gold Nugget. All eyes turned on her. Hank leaned his elbows on the bar, intrigued. Jake, who was hanging in there for old times' sake and a chat with his ex-partner, lifted the brim of his hat with his thumb. "Mornin', Miss Lowell," he said, a little uncertainly.
    She just threw the Mayor a small smile and went to the sergeant's table. He and the couple of girls he was with stared at her like everybody else.
    "May I have a word with you?" she asked him.
    "Sgt. Flaherty at yer service, ma'am," he answered without getting up, balancing on the back legs of his chair.
    She came closer. "Where did you say that bumblebee stung you?"
    "Right here," he said, pointing. "Straight on me nose."
    Alison swung and hit him flat with her right fist. The soldier toppled backwards, missed the window by inches and crashed into the floor amid the fleeing of his girls.
    Hank's jaw dropped open.
    "Ouch," said Jake with a flinch.
    The sergeant began picking himself gingerly up from the floor, shaking his head. Without another look, Alison went out.
    "Chair's broken?" inquired Hank.
    "Not likely, not the chair," answered Flaherty, still dazed.
    "Let her go, then." The woman had spirit, whatever it was that had prompted that reaction.
    "Maybe we should call Dr. Mike," wondered Jake. "For Miss Lowell, I mean," he added, tapping his brow with his forefinger.
    "No, no," said Flaherty, getting back his hat from one of the girls. "Reckon I know what it's all about. I'll talk to her." He ran out after Alison.
    The young woman was once again walking towards her wagon, shaking her sore hand and breathing freely, elated. There was very little she was afraid of in town, those days. She heard the fast step behind her. "Wait a moment, Miss! Gotta talk to you!"
    She turned. Flaherty caught up with her. He was trying to staunch the bleeding from his nose with his neckerchief, but underneath he was grinning. "You McKay's sweetheart, eh?"
    "None of your business." She moved on.
    He followed her. "No, no, ma'am, I just wanted to tell you it was rude of me. I know everythin' about you. He told me."
    "I bet."
    "Truly! Terry an' I are best of friends."
    "Terry, indeed."
    "Why, what do you call him?"
    "I don't call him that."
    "Anyway - Flaherty, he told me, while I'm gone keep an eye on the lady."
    "Get lost, Flaherty."
    "All right, all right," said he, panting to keep her pace. "McKay hates me guts, an' he's gonna give me hell. I love him, though. Straight chap. It's not me fault, truly wanted to be up there in his place. An' about that glory thing, forget it. You know what one says to the ladies."
    Alison had reached the wagon. She refused any help to mount and took the reins.
    "Listen, ma'am," said Flaherty, wiping away the last of the blood from his face. "I'm sure he'll make it. Go home and relax, he'll be all right."
    That touched her. She nodded briefly, then tsked to her horse and started away.
    
    "What's that, sir? Another bumblebee?"
    Flaherty dismounted inside the fort and made a rude gesture to the private addressing him. It would have made a great story: knocked down by McKay's woman. Yet he did not dare to spill a word about it. The lady would skewer him, and his comrade would skin him like a rabbit when he got back.
    Would he ever get back? he wondered.
    He mounted the steps which lead to the watch tower. He had still half an hour before he was scheduled to supervise repairs to the northern barracks. He saluted the sentry and leaned out. Fort Lafayette dominated the valley, though the trees obscured most of the view of Colorado Springs. The Rocky Mountains towered behind, and the air that day was very clean, allowing the view of the small rivulets that fell from the cracks in the distant rocks.
    Flaherty was not much of a poetic soul. He turned his back on the Rockies to watch the straight road leading from the woods to the entrance of the fort. He made out a movement, just as the sentry let out a cry.
    "Someone's approaching!"
    He grabbed the field glass and focused on the narrow dusty stripe of trail coming out of the trees. Sure enough there were some riders advancing slowly alongside it. He moved slightly to avoid the reflex of the sun in the lenses, and distinguished clearly the shades of blue of their clothes.
    "It's them!" he cried. "It's McKay's party!" As the sentry relayed the announcement below, Flaherty tried to recognize someone in the group. The first thing he realised was that they were fewer than when they had left. A whole third of the squad was missing. With a suddenly heavy heart, the sergeant scanned the line which began to be clearly visible. There were five or six civilians following on foot. Prisoners. A couple of travois were tied to the horses, and some soldiers, though able to ride, were clearly wounded.
    At last Flaherty was able to make out the leader of the group. He rode slowly, an exhausted soldier on an exhausted horse, swaying with the slow plunging of the hoofs, leaning slightly backward on the saddle, one fist defiantly on his hip and the other on the pummel with the reins. His dirty greatcoat was thrown over his shoulders, buttoned just at the neck. His face was battered and drawn and he looked straight ahead from under the brim of his hat, a hot, murderous stare. It was Sergeant McKay.
    Flaherty let out a whoop of triumph and ran down the ladder.
    
    McKay stopped just inside the gate and dismounted wearily, with a grimace of pain when he set foot on the ground. He found himself at once surrounded by Irishmen. Sergeant Flaherty was shaking his hand and prattling about, while Corporal O'Malley was trying to drag him to safety, looking worriedly at the dried blood on the back of his collar. He acknowledged briefly their support, then turned to the corporal. "See to the wounded," he said, feeling in his mouth the coppery taste from his split lip as he spoke. "The men must eat an' rest. Give water an' food to the horses. Put the prisoners in jail." He threw a glance to Corporal Winters, laying on one of the travois with a bloody and bandaged leg, then turned away and strode towards Headquarters.
    A sentry at the door looked strangely at him, but made no move to stop him. He unbuttoned his coat that was getting heavier by the minute and handed it with his hat to the soldier, then swung open the door. His commanding officer was standing behind the desk, head down, looking at some documents. After the fast walk McKay felt a ringing in his ears, and his vision clouded over. "Captain Coleman," he said, leaning with his hand on the door frame and closing his eyes, "I lost ten men in a mission I'd deemed useless. I ain't gonna do that again." He grabbed the three yellow chevrons on his sleeves. "Please accept my resig - "
    "Private McKay!" exclaimed the officer in surprise.
    What have I done this time, thought the sergeant before he registered that it was not Coleman's nasal voice, that coming towards him was a big, weather-beaten fellow with no-nonsense eyes and a lopsided grin. Memories of many battlefields came in a flash upon him. It was Colonel Marlowe, his commanding officer for the duration of the war, one of those who did not run at Bull Run, and his squadron with him, and with them the young McKay.
    The sergeant was at a loss for words. Marlowe grabbed him by the shoulders. "Good heavens, man, you look awful. Didn't you get my message?"
    "What message, where's Coleman," whispered McKay, blinking.
    "Busted for bribery. Mission's been cancelled."
    McKay leaned his back against the wall, closed his eyes and started sliding towards the floor.
    Marlowe firmly took his arm and held him up. "Now there, lad. Come on, try to stand. Where're your quarters?"
    The sergeant answered something inaudible. "Oh well, lie down here in my room, I'll send somebody." Marlowe opened the door, dumped the nearly unconscious McKay on the bed and ran out, almost colliding with Corporal O'Malley. "He lost a whole lotta blood an' looks like he got no food or sleep for days. Smitty!" he bellowed. "You sober? Well, get in there anyway, have a look at the sergeant."
    O'Malley looked really happy. "May I send somebody to inform Sully, sir?"
    "Who?"
    "One of the townsfolk, a mountain scout. McKay'd given him an errand, wanted to speak to him at once on his return."
    "Well, it surely ain't that urgent. You'd rather - "
    "Beggin' your pardon, colonel, it is urgent."
    "McKay's out cold, man, he's in no condition to chat with mountain scouts. Now listen to me an' - "
    "Please, sir, the sergeant was very clear about it."
    Marlowe considered the obnoxious corporal. No wonder he'd never arrived any further than that, at his age. "All right, go an' fetch this Sully," he conceded, exasperated. "But fetch a real doctor too."
    
    Alison was sitting peacefully in the porch with Bella, preparing peas for dinner. She liked that relaxing task that sent the little round pods spinning in the bowl. The sun was reaching the zenith, and altogether it was pleasant being in the shade. Bella's husband, Abe, was working in the field.
    "He'll come in dirty an' hungry," huffed the woman, "an' guess who he'll come whinin' to."
    Alison knew it was not a real complaint. Most of the time she too worked in the field under the sun. "That's because you're there for him, Bella," she answered, smiling.
    "Hah, one day he'll come back home and he won't - " She looked intently at the trail that lead to the farm. "Look there, who can it be at this time of day?"
    Alison turned and what she had briefly managed to forget crashed down coldly on her. A rider was approaching fast, raising a cloud of dust. It was Sully.
    She jumped to her feet, upturning noisily the chair. Bella said something she didn't hear. She couldn't see his face, his expression. Oh God, please, let it end quickly, let me know fast, I can't stand this a moment more. Then she saw him waving widely.
    She started running, meeting Sully at the gate, unable to believe the joy she felt. "Is he dead?" she asked in a small voice.
    "He's back, Miss Lowell," he said at once, still out of breath.
    "But he's not dead?"
    "I told you he's not!" answered Sully with laughter in his voice. "He's just a bit beaten up, but he'll be all right."
    "How is he?"
    "Coupla broken ribs, superficial cut on the head, some minor injuries. Michaela's with him right now."
    "Then he's not dead," whispered Alison obsessively.
    "He's alive, Miss Lowell!"
    Bella had caught up with them. "What's the matter, Alison?"
    "Mind the farm," she cried running away towards the stable. In a moment she was out on her black mare, dizzy and almost dumb. She sped after Sully towards Fort Lafayette, beginning to feel happy, so happy, deliriously happy.
    She found Marlowe and Michaela outside Headquarters, talking quietly. She dismounted and ran towards them.
    "In there, Alison," smiled Michaela. "He's all right."
    Marlowe was fascinated by the turn of events. "Needed a scout for this? Somebody owes me an explanation - 'scuse me, ma'am, go in. Wouldn't want you too to fall into my arms, though you'd be waaay better than Sgt. McKay."
    Alison sped into the office and through the bedroom door. McKay was just rising from the bed, turning towards her. He had heard Dr. Quinn say her name outside. He gazed at her on the threshold: she was as beautiful as a sunrise.
    "McKay," she said. He wore only his breeches and his chest was bandaged, but he stood on his own feet. As she came towards him she noticed a cut near the corner of his lower lip. Then he embraced her and they heard and saw nothing more for a full couple of minutes.
    McKay was holding her lightly; only his hands were clamped on the fabric of her dress. Alison remembered he was wounded and drew back. "Sit down," she entreated him gently. He stepped back to sit on the edge of the bed, and she followed him, as far as to stand between his knees. She looked down at his haggard face and feverish eyes and let him put his arms about her waist, caressing his tousled hair and encouraging him to lay his head on her breast. She needed support too, so she leaned a hand on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
    "Alison," McKay whispered. "Are you all right?"
    "I am, now," she smiled, dismissing with a breath all those terrible days as if they had never existed. "Are you?"
    "They killed ten of my people."
    "I know, Terence."
    He drew a deep breath. "I was ready to resign. Colonel Marlowe says he still needs me an' my stripes up here at Fort Lafayette. I told him I'd think about it. After all he's my first commandin' officer in years who's actually sane." He took her by the hand and made her sit beside him. He looked like he was waiting for her comment.
    "It's your job," Alison said, feeling surprisingly lightheaded. "You're better at it than anybody else. You have the heart for it. It's hard, but I can't imagine you in any other way than with the uniform you're... er... you're not entirely wearing now."
    McKay smirked oddly, trying to spare his broken lip. She touched his face more tenderly. "How do you feel?" she asked again, very softly, their lips almost touching.
    "Terrible," he answered in the same way. "Hurtin' all over. An' right now I'm still too tense to feel all the soreness. It'll hit me bad tomorrow."
    "You must sleep now. I'd like to be here when you wake up to help you with a hot bath."
    "Wouldn't be proper," said McKay, caressing the curve of her lips with his fingers. "I'm afraid I'll have to take my bath alone. Gonna get myself clean. We two have some business in town tomorrow."
    "We have what busi -" It dawned on her like a stroke of lightning. She stared at him, watching him lift his gaze from her mouth to her eyes, assured and loving. "T-tomorrow?"
    "If you're still willin', that is."
    Alison felt a wave of joy, softer than that surge of wild relief when she had seen Sully wave at her, deeper than the excitement of a single night of love, safer than that kiss out in the cold of Windy Creek, more lasting than the thrill in church when he had come to sit beside her, back then. She smiled. "I am willing, Terence," she said, and kissed him carefully, wanting to hold him tight but knowing that he hurt at being half-turned towards her and that now she had to leave him. Leave him for the last time. For their last night apart.
    She let him lie down, exchanging a few small whispered words with him. She did not stir from his side until she saw him quietly asleep, breathing regularly, his heartbeat soft. Even then she stood for some minute more looking at him. Then she turned and left the room.
    Sully and Michaela were still sitting close to each other just outside Colonel Marlowe's office. They rose when they saw her. "Go home and get some sleep, now," Michaela told her.
    They turned to the horses. After the raw, immediate emotions of having back her loved one, Alison was beginning to imagine what must have happened, and felt proud of him. "So he made it, after all," she said, taking the reins. "He conquered the Red Needle."
    "As soon as he gets better we'll have a talk about it, man to man," said Sully with a glint in his eye.
    "Sully," Michaela warned him, jokingly.
    "Why?" asked Alison, looking from the one to the other. "What did he do up there?"
    "Blew it up."
    "What?!"
    "That's right. He blew up one of the most important landmarks of our country. You could call it the Red Rubble, now." Sully could not keep up the façade and cracked a smile.
    Alison started tittering. "Sorry, Sully, I - " Suddenly she was laughing so hard that she had to lean her arms on the saddle, shaking. She let go of the reins and collapsed on the steps of Headquarters, laughing until tears streamed down her face.
    
    Pulling the wide brim of his hat over his eyes against the low late afternoon sun, Hank considered that McKay looked like he had just got out of a cathouse brawl rather than a church. The uniform did him some good - if you were the uniform kind, of course, which Hank was not. The former Alison Lowell, a bunch of wild flowers in her arms, looked quite smart in her hastily embellished Sunday turquoise dress and her silver necklace, that much had to be said. A sly one, that McKay. No small deal finding a golden wedding ring on such short notice. He must have had it ready for some time.
    Everybody cheered the newly married couple, out of affection for one or the other. When husband and wife finally looked at each other after the kiss, Hank considered he had never seen the sergeant smile that way. Or his bride either.
    Teresa Slicker embraced Alison just after Michaela and Dorothy, and immediately followed by Grace, while Sully, Robert E and Sheriff Simon crowded around McKay. A knowing Cloud Dancing gazed at the scene as though the spirits had never had a doubt about it all.
    Jake sauntered up to Hank, throwing a vaguely amused look over his shoulders. He leaned on the fence beside his ex-partner.
    "This time looks like the Army's here to stay," he said out of the corner of his mouth.
    Hank took a deep lungful of smoke from his cigar, then grinned wickedly. "We'll see."

The End