Title: The Mountain Man
Author: aka "Jake"
Rating: NC-17 (Warning: contains explicit language, violence, 
adult situations, and sexual content.)
Classification: Historical AU, MSR, Guilty Pleasure, MT/SC, 
ST/MC 

Summary: The year is 1865 and Dana Scully is headed west at 
the request of her father, who wants her to marry a lieutenant 
under his command -- a man she has never met. Her future seems 
set, until she encounters an alluring Montana mountain man. 
Will she bend to her father's will or surrender to her own 
passions?

Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, et al, are 
the property of Chris Carter, FOX, and 1013 Productions.

Author's Notes: My last fic was a long sci-fi colonization 
story. This time around I wanted to write a more romantic 
story, pure guilty pleasure, something that might be 
classified as a "Chick Fic." You know the sort of story I mean 
-- the kind you curl up with on a rainy evening after a long, 
difficult day. No deep thinking required, just a tale about 
the wild frontier, manly men, and a confused damsel, who must 
choose between two loves.

Betas: Much appreciation to xdksfan and mimic117. Thanks, too, 
to KP for providing several insightful suggestions. 


“Love is seldom logical, and its fears and misgivings are apt 
to warp the faculties.” -- James Fenimore Cooper, "The 
Pathfinder," 1840 

------

Chapter 1 

The Dauntless journeyed upriver, her twin stacks billowing 
ash, her paddlewheel churning the Missouri's muddy water. She 
was bound for the goldfields of Montana Territory. Picks, 
barrows, panning sieves, and other provisions filled her main 
deck. Rowdy miners crowded the boiler deck above, their 
attention focused westward, their eyes bright with 
anticipation. 

The year was eighteen-sixty-five and the discovery of gold was 
luring men by the thousands from the old battlefields in the 
east to the Rocky Mountain Front, a wilderness previously 
inhabited only by Indians and a handful of hardy trappers. 
Prospectors and entrepreneurs were rushing to Grasshopper 
Creek, American Fork, and Alder Gulch, bent on striking it 
rich or making a fresh start. 

Dana Scully was headed to Montana, too, although it was a 
sense of duty, not a desire for riches or adventure, which 
prompted her journey. Her final destination was a military 
outpost in Flatwillow, two-thousand miles northwest of St. 
Louis and a month's journey from Geneva, New York, where she 
had recently graduated from Hobart College.

Lacking the enthusiasm of her fellow passengers, she stood 
apart on the aft deck, leaning against the rail and peering 
down at the turbulent river. Her nerves felt as unsettled as 
the current, her future as murky as the silt-filled water. In 
her gloved hand she clutched a letter, an edict from her 
father, sent last May. She had read it so many times she knew 
its contents by heart. 

"Beloved Daughter," it said, "I heartily congratulate you on 
the completion of your medical studies. I am filled with pride 
as I reflect upon your considerable accomplishments. That 
said, I cannot encourage your notion of relocating to the 
former Confederacy to lend aid to a hospital there. While 
commendable in principle, your aspirations are naïve and 
fraught with peril. Our nation faces a long, uncertain 
transition from war to peacetime. The south is no place for a 
woman without husband or father to lend protection or 
guidance. 

"You would do well to consider your sister's imprudence and 
learn from her mistakes. Melissa risks not only her physical 
wellbeing, but her immortal soul as she drifts across Europe 
without purpose or escort. Your mother and I are at once 
outraged and heartsick with worry. I am determined not to lose 
you as we have lost her. To that end, I have arranged for your 
passage to Fort Culbertson. We have need of a doctor here, 
should you desire to practice your avocation. I have contacted 
your brother Charles, who will be in New York on the 13th to 
accompany you on your journey to Montana. 

"Your mother and Bill Jr. are eager to see you and send their 
deepest affection. I am keen to introduce you to a lieutenant 
under my command, a fine soldier and decent fellow, who I 
believe would make an excellent husband for you. 

"I trust you will be a dutiful child and return to me without 
argument or regret. Your safety and happiness are, as always, 
my utmost concern."

The letter went on for two more pages, extolling settled life 
on the western frontier and praising the virtues of an 
obedient daughter. It was signed, “Your devoted father, Cap 
W.S.S.”

Dana had been looking forward to practicing her new medical 
skills where they were most needed, in the war-ravaged south, 
but she could not disappoint her father. She loved him. 
Worshipped him, to be precise. She trusted his counsel and 
craved his affection. Above all, she wanted to make him proud 
of her. 

To please him, she had stayed with his Aunt Olive while 
attending Hobart College, submitting without complaint to the 
elderly woman’s early curfews, endless lectures on morality, 
and persistent condemnation of Melissa’s scandalous behavior. 
Dana worked tirelessly to earn high marks and receive her 
letters in record time. She endured the condescending 
attitudes of instructors who believed medicine was not an 
appropriate occupation for a woman. And now, after all her 
efforts, she was abandoning her dream of making a difference 
in the south to travel west instead, where she was expected to 
marry a man of her father's choosing...a man she had never 
met. 

A hawk keened overhead and Dana lifted her gaze to the prairie 
beyond the river. Prong-horned antelope foraged on 
bitterbrush, while a lone fox hunted frogs in the bulrushes by 
the shore. Further west, the Rocky Mountains jutted from the 
grassland like giant, bleached vertebrae -- the "backbone of 
the world" according to the autochthons. The sight sent a 
chill across her shoulders and she shivered, despite the warm 
August sun. 

"Morning, Sis." Charlie's cheerful greeting startled her as he 
joined her at the rail. He planted a wet, affectionate kiss on 
her cheek. 

"It's early afternoon," she corrected, tucking the letter into 
her skirt pocket.

"Is it?" He tipped his head back and squinted into the bright 
sun. His unruly hair and rumpled suit belied a good night's 
sleep.

"You were up gambling all night, weren't you?" she accused.

"Not *all* night. I kept Mrs. Woolsey company on the 
forecastle for a couple of hours before dawn."

"And stole a kiss among the spars and hawsers, no doubt."

"More than a kiss, dear sister." He winked and gently elbowed 
her ribs.

"You're a scoundrel, Charles Scully. She's a married woman!"

"And I'm a married man. So what?"

"So what would Father say?"

"Very little, I imagine. Certainly not the dressing-down you 
would get if he were to learn about your little affair with 
Dr. Waterston. What did you say his area of expertise was? 
Anatomy? Biology?"

He was teasing, but even so Dana felt a rush of blood heat her 
face. "Little affair indeed; we shared but one kiss." She 
reached up to straighten the stickpin in his tie. "Father must 
never learn of it, Charlie. You promised you wouldn't tell."

"And I'll keep my promise. As long as you don't lecture me on 
my lack of morals." A smudge of rouge darkened his otherwise 
spotless collar. "Deal?"

She nodded, then leaned into him and pressed her cheek against 
the rough fabric of his tweed coat. He smelled of stale 
whiskey and cigar smoke, but she delighted in the steady beat 
of his heart beneath her ear. He was her confidante, her 
favorite brother and best friend. She adored his easy, 
accepting nature, and would feel the lack of his company when 
he continued his travels beyond Fort Culbertson. A writer by 
trade, he was headed to Oregon to document the progress of 
Manifest Destiny for voracious readers back east. His vivid 
accounts of life on the frontier had graced the pages of many 
of the nation's most popular magazines. Cultured city dwellers 
clamored for his tales of outlaws, Indians, and bawdy 
adventure.    

He plucked at her sleeve. "You're looking especially lovely 
today." 

She was wearing her most elegant ensemble: a silk Zouave 
jacket with matching skirt in an intense emerald green, a 
color intended to complement her hair. Braid-and-ball fringed 
her waist-length jacket. The coat's cutaway front revealed a 
chemisette with tatted collar, pinned at the neck by a 
scrimshaw brooch, a graduation gift from her father. 
Undersleeves with lace cuffs, whiter than the Rockies' snow-
capped peaks, draped her kidskin gloves. She wore a spoon 
bonnet of the latest fashion, elaborately trimmed with ribbon, 
cording, beads, and other passementerie, bought at outrageous 
expense from Devlin & Company, one of New York's finest 
ladies' shops. 

Ordinarily she preferred more practical attire. She had worn 
nothing but plain garments throughout her long journey...until 
today, the last day of her travels.

"Did you dress for him? This man Father wants you to marry?" 
Charlie asked.

"Certainly not. I spilled tea on my day dress at breakfast and 
am soaking the stain," she lied. Her day dress was packed away 
without a spot on it in her trunk, along with her other 
ordinary skirts and shirtwaists.

Her father would judge her showy costume harshly, she knew; 
such finery was unsuitable for frontier life. Which was 
precisely why she had chosen to wear silk and ribbons today, 
she realized. Dismayed by her father's plans for her, she 
wanted him to know her feelings, but lacked the courage to 
voice her displeasure.

"I look ridiculous, don't I?" Her rebellion was childish. She 
should return to her stateroom immediately and change.

"You look lovely." 

Twisting one of the small pompoms on her jacket, she avoided 
her brother's kind, gray eyes. "Have you met him? This 
lieutenant of Father's?"

"Yes, last spring. He seemed an upright sort." Charlie looped 
an arm around her waist and whispered into her ear, "Not at 
all like me."

She glanced at his roguish smile. "Thank goodness for that." 

He chuckled. "Lieutenant Skinner is a lot like our dear 
brother Bill. A serious man. Bound by duty and honor. I doubt 
he's ever bet a nickel on cards...or kissed a married woman. 
Righteous behavior makes a man appealing, doesn't it?"

It should, but the men Dana favored seemed always full of 
mischief and mystery. They ignored convention and lived life 
on their own terms. Like Charlie. Like Daniel Waterston. 

She stepped away from her brother, shamed anew by her short-
lived liaison with her former teacher. Her father would be 
outraged to learn of it. She withdrew his letter from her 
pocket and carefully unfolded it. "I'm sorry," she said, more 
to her father than to Charlie. 

"Sorry for what?"

She glanced at Charlie's rumpled suit. One of Mrs. Woolsey's 
long blonde hairs clung to his sleeve. "I envy your 
recklessness."

"I know you do. And it's unfortunate the rules of propriety 
are stricter for women than for men."

"Propriety--" She crushed her father's letter in her fist. "To 
hell with it!"

"Dana!"

"I mean it, Charlie. It isn't fair. Men are free to do as they 
please, while women are held to a higher moral standard."

"Rules of morality exist for both sexes and you know it."

"Inequitable ones." She pinned him with an angry stare. "For 
example, why am I required to have a chaperone while you, my 
baby brother, are allowed to roam the forecastle alone at all 
hours of the night?"

"I wasn't alone, remember?"

"You know what I mean." 

"I do. Truly. But it is an issue of safety, Dana. I'm the last 
to champion the rules of society, as you know, but I 
understand the minds of men, and can say with absolute 
certainty that a woman is not safe alone in the west. The 
frontier is a free-for-all. Outside of Fort Culbertson's 
protective gates, Flatwillow is a sorry collection of saloons, 
brothels, and gambling establishments. Its citizens are 
uneducated, violent drunkards, who would eagerly take 
advantage of your sex if allowed the opportunity. A woman 
requires a guardian here, a man to stand up for her and speak 
on her behalf."

"I prefer to speak for myself."  

"Is that so?" He glanced at her crumpled letter. 

"Yes, it is. I'm perfectly capable of making my own decisions. 
I don't need a man telling me what to do." She waved the 
letter at him. 

"So you plan to confront Father?" His eyes gleamed at the 
prospect.

She would not challenge their father, they both knew. Wearing 
city attire was as far as she dared take her defiance. She may 
want to say no to Captain Scully's demands, but in truth she 
loved and trusted her father, and would not disappoint him, 
not the way Melissa had.

Unwelcome tears filled her eyes. Wanting to hide them from 
Charlie, she turned to face the foreign landscape. She was 
surprised to see an Indian there, sitting astride a piebald 
horse at the river's edge. As he watched the boat pass, his 
gaze rose to meet hers. 

Feathers adorned his long, chestnut hair, which was plaited 
into a thick braid that hung over his right shoulder and fell 
nearly to his waist. He wore a buckskin tunic, fringed along 
the arms. A heavy necklace of gleaming, curved claws 
ornamented his broad chest. 

Bill Jr. had described the local natives in his letters. 
Savages, he called them, who regularly raided supply convoys. 
According to him, they had scalped six soldiers last spring, 
including his boyhood friend, John Petty. They stole the 
company's horses and left the men to bleed to death in the 
grass. 

"Look, Charlie," she said, both frightened and excited by the 
Indian's bold stare. "Is he Blackfoot?"

"Definitely not."

"Shoshone?"  

"No, nor is he Crow or Cree. He's not an Indian at all, Dana. 
He is a white man." 

"White?" She blinked in surprise. The stranger's face was 
deeply tanned, his jaw beardless. He wore knee-high leather 
moccasins. Colorful geometric patterns decorated the cuffs and 
edging of his leather tunic. "Are you certain?"

"He's sitting on a McClellan cavalry saddle. There is a rifled 
musket in his carbine boot. Most telling, however, are his 
officer's britches."

"Then he's a soldier from the fort. A scout, perhaps. Or 
interpreter?"

"Judging from the steel leg-traps and pelts hanging from his 
pack, I'd say he's a trapper. A mountain man."

Mountain man? She pictured a satyr: half man, half goat.

"The last of a dying breed," Charlie continued, sounding 
wistful, "now that beaver are all but hunted out."

Unexpectedly, the stranger released a high-pitched whoop, as 
frightening and impassioned as a coyote's howl. Startled, Dana 
dropped her father's letter. It tumbled down to the river, 
where it was swallowed by the giant paddlewheel. 

As if pleased by her loss, the stranger grinned, spurred his 
horse, and galloped away. He raced across the flat, grassy 
basin toward Fort Culbertson, which was just coming into view 
around a bend in the river. 


-------

Chapter 2

A welcome rush of air cooled the sweat on Mulder's face and 
neck, and the ground blurred beneath the thudding hooves of 
his horse. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the 
grassy, wet scent of the river basin, so different from the 
pine forest of his mountain home. 

The woman on the riverboat captivated his thoughts. Her fiery 
hair had first caught his attention, but it was her brazen 
stare that held him spellbound at the water's edge, his heart 
hammering so loudly he could hear little else. Beguiled by her 
beauty, he had hooted like an overexcited child. 

"She must think I'm an imbecile," he muttered and pressed his 
thighs to his horse, urging it to gallop faster.

The woman's fashionable attire was a rarity in this rough 
country, where white women tended to be either poor soldiers' 
wives or whores at the local brothel. Marriage was the most 
likely reason she would abandon the comforts of eastern 
society to move to a wilderness as harsh and unforgiving as 
Montana. But the young man beside her was a relative, Mulder 
was certain, not a husband or fiancé. Given their similar 
features, they had to be brother and sister.

Brothers made formidable chaperones, in Mulder's experience. 
Not that he was one to shy away from a challenge.  

It took him only minutes to reach the village of the Stay-by-
the-Fort People, as the Blackfoot called the Indians who 
camped outside Culbertson's garrisoned walls. He slowed his 
horse and picked his way around the tepees, searching out the 
lodge of his friend Few Tails. Curious eyes followed his 
progress. Several men nodded in greeting as he passed.

Mulder found Few Tail's wife, Good Thunder, sitting outside 
her tepee, stitching porcupine quills to a child-sized tunic. 
Waist-length hair fanned her shoulders and a band of braided 
sweetgrass circled her delicate neck. Fringe and geometric 
patterns adorned her antelope-skin dress. On her feet she wore 
the traditional dark-colored moccasins that gave the Blackfoot 
tribe their name.

Three girls, aged four to ten, squatted beside her. A baby 
slept in a cradleboard an arm's length away. Good Thunder did 
not smile or put down her needle when Mulder dismounted, but 
the oldest girl leapt to her feet. "Oki, oki," she called in 
greeting as she ran to him.

Her younger sisters scampered after her. They crowded around 
Mulder, giggling and embracing his legs.

"How are my favorite girls?" he asked, using their language. 

"Good," they replied.

"I lost a tooth," the middle one said, showing him the gap.

"So you did!"

"Me, too," the youngest claimed, although she was missing no 
teeth.

Mulder ruffled her hair. "I see it has grown back already."

The eldest, a willowy girl named Chases The Morning, took hold 
of his hand. "You have been gone a long time, Mulder."

"Has it been so long?"

"Since snow covered the ground." She gazed up at him, her dark 
eyes earnest. "You should visit more often."

"I'll try to do better."

She smiled. "Did you bring me something?" 

"Maybe." He lifted her easily onto his horse. "Check my 
saddlebag."

She snaked a hand into the bag and pulled out a porcelain-
faced doll dressed in calico and lace. "Oh!" she squealed and 
held it up for the others to see.

"Share with your sisters." He lowered her to the ground.

Chases The Morning and the other girls ran off, presumably to 
show their new doll to their friends.  

Mulder untied a bundle of ermine tails from his saddle and 
presented them to Good Thunder. 

"Fine quality," she said, fingering them gently. "They will 
make an impressive headdress." 

Mulder set the furs on the ground beside her. "Is Few Tails 
around?"

She pointed her sewing needle at the closed door flap of her 
tepee. "He sits with Red Crow. The old man is very ill. It is 
good you have come."

Red Crow was Few Tails' grandfather, already an old man when 
Mulder first met him three years ago. According to the tribal 
elders, he had been a formidable warrior in his youth, but it 
was his spiritual side that Mulder appreciated most. Sitting 
at Red Crow's fire, Mulder had listened eagerly as the old man 
recounted legends about Kut-o'-yis, Sacred Otter, Bear Woman, 
and others. Red Crow described supernatural beings with 
magical powers and it was the mystical aspects of these 
stories that fascinated Mulder most. He wanted to believe the 
dead sometimes returned to life, that people could transform into 
animals and back again, and heroes traveled to the heavens to 
live among the stars.

He pushed the skin door open and ducked into the tepee. A 
small fire crackled in the hearth, adding to the oppressive 
August heat. The scent of sage hung in the smoke-filled air. 
Red Crow lay beneath a heavy buffalo robe, only his head 
visible. His sunken eyes were closed, his breath raspy and 
shallow. Enflamed pustules spotted his face. 

Mulder recognized the illness. Smallpox. It spread like 
wildfire wherever white men traveled and had decimated Indian 
villages throughout the west.

"How is he?" he asked Few Tails, who was sitting cross-legged 
beside his ailing grandfather. 

Few Tails wore only a loincloth and moccasins. His hair was 
arranged in typical Blackfoot fashion: three long braids and a 
twisted topknot. His expression was serious, but not sad. 

"He travels the good road to the day of quiet." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Do not be. He has laid much meat at our hearth. He has seen 
the two faces of truth." Few Tails rose, warmth in his eyes 
for his old friend. "It is good to see you again, Mulder."

"I wish..." Mulder watched Red Crow struggle for breath. 
"Chases The Morning told me I don't visit often enough. I see 
now that she's right."

"Sit." Few Tails extended an arm toward the fire, then 
retrieved a pipe from a nearby parfleche. "Let us send a voice 
to the Spirit of the World." 

Mulder sat while Few Tails filled the sacred pipe with red 
willow bark. Four strips of painted hide hung from the pipe's 
long stem. They symbolized the four quarters of the universe: 
the black represented the west, where Thunder Beings were said 
to live and where rain originated; the white stood for the 
north, a place of great cleansing winds; red was east, home to 
the day-break star and wisdom; and yellow was south, which 
sent summer each year. An eagle feather dangled from the pipe, 
signifying the One Which Is Like A Father. Its presence was a 
reminder to the smoker that his thoughts should rise as high 
as an eagle in flight. Bison hide on the mouthpiece paid 
homage to the earth, the Mother of all things: grasses, trees, 
birds, animals, and men. Mulder had been told it was only with 
the power of these forces that a man could face the winds. 

Few Tails offered the mouthpiece first to the One above. Smoke 
drifted heavenward, sending a spiritual voice to the powers 
that are one power.

"Now let us smoke together so that there may be only good 
between us." He passed the pipe.

Mulder slipped it between his lips and drew on the stem. The 
willow bark tasted bitter. He preferred Virginia tobacco, but 
supplies had dwindled during the war. Like most southern 
commodities, it was almost impossible to come by now.  

"You have a new baby," Mulder said, smoke sifting from his 
nostrils. He returned the pipe to Few Tails. "Another girl?"

"A son." Pride tinged Few Tails' voice. He sucked on the pipe 
and held the smoke in his lungs. After a moment, he released 
his breath and asked, "How goes your search?"

"Nothing new."

The elk teeth on Few Tails' armband rattled softly as he 
passed the pipe back to Mulder. "There has been talk about a 
white woman, around the age you seek, living north of Ookáán 
River in Cuts To Pieces' lodge. I was told a Frenchman brought 
her there." 

Could the woman be Samantha? Mulder scarcely dared let himself 
hope.

"Cuts To Pieces -- doesn't sound too friendly. Is he 
Blackfoot?"

"Cree."

"Damn." Mulder had traded with many different tribes over the 
years, but never the Cree, primarily because they had been 
leading war parties against the Blackfoot for as long as 
Mulder had been friends with Few Tails. "Who's the Frenchman?"

"Pierre Vaillancourt. He is dead. That is all I know."

Mulder bit back another curse. "It's like I'm chasing a 
ghost."

"Perhaps that is your answer."

"You think my sister is dead?"

"It is possible she was taken by spirits, not men, and is now 
living in a world where you cannot go." 

Mulder set down the pipe. "I've considered the possibility on 
more than one occasion, believe me."

His recollection of the terrible night Samantha disappeared 
did not mesh with the generally held belief that she had run 
away and was subsequently kidnapped by Indians. Instead, he 
remembered a thunderous roar, like a passing train, shaking 
his parent's house. Dishes fell from their shelves. 
Candlesticks tumbled from the mantle. The room filled with 
blinding, white light. Samantha screamed and Mulder lunged for 
their father's musket, which hung on the wall above the stone 
hearth. He could still feel its cold weight in his hands as he 
fumbled with the powder, loaded the gun, raised it to his 
shoulder to take aim. But by then, there was nothing to aim 
at, and his sister was gone.

Later, when his parents returned from their evening in 
Raleigh, he tearfully described what had happened. They hadn't 
believed him. No one did. His story was too fantastical, the 
ravings of a traumatized boy, they thought. 

Red Crow moaned in his delirium, drawing Mulder's attention 
back to the present. Beads of sweat glistened on the old man's 
fiery cheeks.

Few Tails picked up a scrap of deer hide and tenderly mopped 
the sick man’s brow.  

"When Grandfather was a boy, he had visions of Thunder Beings 
from the west. When the visions came, they came with terror, 
like a thunder storm. But after they passed, he was happier 
and stronger. He said the terror of his visions showed him the 
greenness of the world, the wideness of it, the earth's many 
colors. He said this was because wherever the truth of vision 
comes upon the world, it is like rain, and the world is better 
after the terror of the storm."

Mulder yearned to experience the truth of Red Crow's boyhood 
visions. Such insight might lead him to his sister, or, 
barring that, to peace of mind.

"I have something to show you," Few Tails said, setting aside 
the cloth. He rose and rummaged through one of several 
medicine bundles that hung from the tepee's poles. He pulled 
out an egg-shaped stone about sixteen inches long, which he 
set heavily in Mulder's hands.

The object's narrower end was broken off and a hardened, fist-
sized face with bulging, stone eyes and a duck-like snout 
peered out from the inside. A small, four-fingered hand 
gripped the upper edge of the opening. 

The face reminded Mulder of drawings he had seen on cave walls 
in the territories to the south, depictions made by a tribe 
called Anasazi -- ancient aliens, according to legend, who had 
disappeared 500 years earlier, vanishing without a trace.

Like his sister.

"What is this thing?"

"No one knows."

"Where did you find it?"

"The Falling Off Place. Near Two Medicine."

Mulder had visited that particular eroded mountainside last 
spring after hearing stories about footprints of giant lizards 
pressed into the stone there.

"Care to trade for it?"

"Perhaps." Few Tails eyed the leather scabbard hanging from 
Mulder’s belt. It held an Ames rifleman’s knife with a twelve-
inch blade, carved wooden handle, and brass crossguard, worth 
more than twenty fine beaver pelts. 

Mulder withdrew the knife and presented it handle first to Few 
Tails. "Take it."

Few Tails chuckled. “It is lucky you are a good trapper, 
Mulder, because you are not such a good trader.”

Mulder managed a wry smile. He was called Crazy Fox by most of 
the soldiers at the fort, in part because he would trade 
utilitarian goods for objects they deemed worthless. His 
mountain cabin was filled with amulets, totems, bone rattles, 
buffalo-calling stones, and other dubious treasures for which 
he had spent a small fortune. 

"An ordinary hunting knife...there's no magic in that, Few 
Tails. But this" -- Mulder lifted the stone -- "has 
possibilities." 

He shifted the object to the crook of his arm and stood. “I’ll 
be back to see how Red Crow is doing after I finish my 
business at the fort.”

“Good. We will smoke the pipe again and roast some meat. Maybe 
trade some more. I think I would like to own your horse and 
your rifle. Perhaps you would like another stone.” 


-------       

Chapter 3

"There's your new home." Charlie pointed over the rail at the 
fort.  

Dana's heart sank. The garrison was little more than a 
dilapidated trading post. Its timber blockade with humble gate 
offered seemingly scant protection against attack. A square, 
two-story bastion anchored the northwest corner and overlooked 
the mining community of Flatwillow, located a quarter mile 
upriver. Portholes for cannon and rifles pierced the 
blockhouse walls. On the roof, a flag hung limply on its pole, 
its stars and strips proclaiming Montana Territory in the name 
of the United States of America.

Dozens of tepees dotted the landscape around the fort, their 
hide coverings decorated with fanciful symbols. Wood smoke 
curled skyward from their upper openings, spreading a resin 
scent across the river basin. Deerskin-clad men and women went 
about their business -- scraping animal hides, drying fish, 
conversing -- while naked children splashed in the shallows at 
the river's shore, their happy shrieks riding the afternoon 
air like birdsong. To the east, a herd of pinto ponies grazed 
on acres of undulating grass.

The paddlewheel slowed as the Dauntless neared the fort. A 
small gathering of people waited on the dock, eager to collect 
shipments.

"There's Bill! And Father!" Charlie gave an enthusiastic wave.

Bill Jr. returned the greeting, while Captain Scully remained 
unmoved, shoulders back, expression stern. Both men wore blue 
army frock-coats, swords, and crimson sashes. Yellow shoulder 
straps and trouser welts indicated their status as cavalry 
officers. The brims of their nearly identical hats were curled 
up on the right -- their sword arm side. 

It had been four long years since Dana had kissed her father 
goodbye and six since she had last seen Bill Jr. They looked 
older and rougher, their faces weathered by life spent 
outdoors. Dana raised a gloved hand and a fleeting smile 
cracked her father's sober countenance, evidence of the deep 
love he held for her and all his children. He was a family man 
at heart, she knew, never happier than when wife, sons, and 
daughters were at home, safe beneath his roof. 

Her fears of the future ebbed. Despite his plans for her, her 
father represented security and happiness, and she was 
overjoyed to see him.

A quarter hour later, they were standing together on the dock. 
Bill pumped Charlie's hand while Dana hugged her father. 

"How is my Magnet?" he asked, using his pet name for her, 
borrowed from her favorite book, "The Pathfinder," by James 
Fennimore Cooper. Tenderness tempered his customarily gruff 
tone. 

"Cap," she whispered, also referring to a character from 
Cooper's book. Her throat tightened and she was unable to say 
more. She kissed his cheek and was delighted to feel the 
scratchy tickle of his whitening beard.

"Hey, what about me?" Bill Jr. interrupted too soon. He tugged 
her from her father's embrace and hugged her hard, lifting her 
to her toes. "How are you, Sis?"

"Quite well, now that I'm here. It's been a long journey. Not 
that Charlie hasn't kept me entertained."

"I can imagine." Bill Jr. set her back on her feet and eyed 
his brother with suspicion.

Cap frowned, too. Aware of his son's weaknesses, he often 
judged Charlie harshly. "Thank you for bringing her safely to 
me, Charles," he said stiffly. 

"My pleasure, sir."

Uncomfortable with the tension between her favorite men, Dana 
asked, "Where's Mother? I thought she would be here to greet 
us."

"She's home preparing for your arrival." Cap relaxed a little. 
"She's talked of little else for weeks."

"I hope you're both hungry," Bill said. "Mother has made a 
veritable feast for your homecoming. There's enough food in 
the house to feed the entire regiment!" 

"Sounds wonderful," Dana said. "Breakfast was hours ago, and 
it was little more than cold toast and black tea." 

"Then let's get you home and settled," Cap said. "Boys, see to 
the baggage while I deliver your sister to her mother."

"Yes, sir." Bill Jr. corralled Charlie with an outstretched 
arm and steered him back to the boat.  

Dana slipped a gloved hand through her father's arm. "It's 
wonderful to see you again, Father."

"I'm pleased to hear you say so, Magnet. I was worried." He 
guided her up the incline to the dusty road that led to the 
fort.

"Worried? Why?"

"Your last letter...and this city frock you're wearing." He 
squinted with obvious disapproval. "I know you, Dana. You're 
not happy to be here."

"That's not true. I'm delighted to be with my family again."

"But you have no desire to settle in Montana."

"I had other plans, Father."

"Foolhardy ones."

His judgment stung. Rebellion rose in her gut, but she refused 
to argue with him and spoil their reunion. "You mentioned the 
fort has an infirmary where I might work. Could we visit it on 
our way to the house?"  

"Dana, your mother is eager to see you. A tour can wait until 
later."

The road curved uphill to Culbertson's fourteen-foot-high, 
timber gate. The gate was propped open and guarded by two 
armed soldiers. Captain Scully returned their salutes without 
breaking stride as he led Dana into the fort.

The blockhouse cast a shadow over the entrance and Dana felt a 
chill as they stepped inside.

"Shade feels good." Cap mopped his brow with the back of one 
gloved hand.

"The heat must be hard on the men."

"Not half as grueling as the cold in winter. Montana is a land 
of extremes, Dana. A man must be tough to survive here. A 
woman, too." He eyed her silk dress and lace chemisette.

She raised her chin, but remained silent on the subject as 
they stepped back into the hot sun and continued their stroll. 
He wanted only what was best for her, she reminded herself.    

The road split at the garrison's broad, grassy quadrangle. The 
western avenue led to a livery stable, storage warehouses, and 
the enlisted men's quarters. A sergeant shouted orders to a 
unit of soldiers on the green. Beyond them at the far end of 
the parade ground stood a collection of tidy, two-story plank 
houses.

"Who lives there?" she asked.

"We do. And the other officers' families. A representative of 
AFC, too." Cap directed her to the eastern promenade. He set a 
steady pace, identifying various buildings as they passed. 
"Carpenter's shop. Kitchen and mess." He gestured broadly. The 
aroma of boiled onions and marrow soup floated on the scorched 
air, causing Dana's stomach to growl.

Sparks flew as a blacksmith shaped horseshoes outside his 
shanty, his hammer clanging loudly against the anvil. He 
worked without shade; sweat streaked his flushed face and 
pooled in the creases of his sooty neck.   

A sign proclaiming "The Flatwillow Picayune" hung above the 
window of the next establishment. A wizened man with 
muttonchops and spectacles waved to her from behind the glass.

"A newspaper?" Dana asked. 

"We're not as uncivilized as you might imagine." Cap nodded at 
the man without smiling. "Watch your step," he warned Dana. 

She veered left, narrowly avoiding a pile of fresh manure. Her 
billowing skirt stirred a cloud of buzzing flies.  

A jutting porch roof protected sacks of feed outside the trade 
store, the busiest place in the fort, it seemed. Men and women 
bustled in and out of the shop, carrying parcels and loading 
horses and wagons. Axe handles, picks, and shovels leaned 
against the outer wall, on display beside the open door. The 
shopkeeper stood on the boardwalk, barking orders to a 
broomstick-thin boy who scurried to clear space for an 
incoming shipment from the Dauntless. Beyond the threshold, 
bolts of fabric in rainbow colors brightened the interior like 
baskets of flowers at a funeral. 

A lone Indian exited the store with an armload of dry goods. 
He headed for a narrow gate in the stockade fence beside the 
shop, where a knot of uniformed men loitered in the heat. A 
straight-backed lieutenant wearing spectacles and a grim 
expression inspected the Indian's packages, then opened the 
gate and released him from the fort. Another feathered man was 
beckoned inside. A queue of Indians waited their turn beyond 
the little door.

"What's going on?" Dana asked.

"They come here to trade."

"So why not let them in?" The heat was intense and the line 
appeared long.

"We've found it prudent to manage their numbers inside the 
fort."

Dana recognized the next buckskin-clad man allowed through the 
gate; he was the stranger she had mistaken for a savage on the 
plain earlier, the mountain man. He carried his saddlebags 
slung over one shoulder. Half a dozen glossy fox pelts dangled 
from his left fist. He paused to converse with the soldiers.

Something he said made them guffaw...all but the straight-
backed lieutenant, who remained stone-faced. 

"Lieutenant Skinner," Cap called out and the soldiers jerked 
to attention at the sound of their captain's voice.

Dana's heart skipped a beat. Skinner was the name of the man 
her father wanted her to marry. Was she about to meet her 
future husband? 

She looked more closely at the serious-faced lieutenant. His 
clean-shaven jaw was firmly set, his mouth a grim line below a 
neatly trimmed mustache. His nose had clearly been broken more 
than once. Broad-shouldered, with the neck of a bull, he 
appeared a formidable man. 

Unlike the soldiers, the mountain man showed no deference to 
her father's rank. In fact, he paid scant attention to the 
captain at all, but boldly raked Dana from shoes to bonnet 
with his gaze. A crooked smile played on his full lips and his 
hazel eyes sparkled with blatant curiosity.

"At ease." Cap approached the men, then clapped Skinner's arm. 
"How fortuitous to run into you here, Lieutenant. Allow me to 
introduce my daughter, Dana."

"Miss Scully." Skinner removed his hat. His bald scalp was 
several shades paler than his tanned brow. Not a speck of dirt 
marred his dark uniform or spit-shined boots, despite the 
clouds of dust that rose like mist from the baked ground, 
hinting that this seemingly chance encounter might be no 
coincidence at all. "My pleasure."

Dana nodded, feeling awkward and more than a little nervous to 
be meeting the man her father had chosen for her. "Pleased to 
make your acquaintance, Lieutenant."  

If the lieutenant was equally nervous, he did not show it. 
"The Captain has told me a great deal about you, Miss Scully."

"Is that so?" What had Cap told this "upright" man, as Charlie 
had described the lieutenant? That she was headstrong and 
would require a strict husband, a man capable of reining her 
in, breaking her of all her unacceptable habits, like thinking 
for herself or speaking her mind? Lieutenant Skinner certainly 
appeared up to the task. His expression was impenetrable, his 
physique daunting.    

The mountain man cleared his throat, softly demanding their 
attention and saving her from blurting out her fears.

"Pardon my manners," Skinner apologized. "Miss Scully, this is 
a friend: Mr. Mulder."

Mulder bowed slightly. "Tsá kaanistáópííhpa?" The foreign 
words slipped from his tongue like warm honey into a teacup.  

Cap glowered at him, face reddening. "Mr. Mulder! We are not 
heathens sitting around a campfire in the wilderness. You are 
in the company of a lady. I insist you speak proper English." 

"My apologies if I have offended the lady." Mulder appeared 
amused by the captain's ire. "I merely inquired after her 
health."

"I'm quite well, thank you, Mr. Mulder," Dana said. "And you?"

"Soká'pi."

Cap cleared his throat. His scowl deepened.

"It means 'good,'" the mountain man explained. 

"Are you fluent in the local dialect?" she asked.

"I know enough to get by."

"Could you teach me a phrase or two?"  

"Dana!" Cap protested, precisely as she had known he would.

"What harm is there, Father? I've come all this way to live in 
the west; certainly I can learn a bit of the native language."

"A lady has scant need to speak Blackfoot or any other Indian 
dialect, no matter where she is living." Cap sniffed with 
obvious disdain.

She turned away from him, smiled sweetly at the mountain man, 
and asked, "Please, Mr. Mulder? One phrase? A simple one that 
won't cause injury to my tongue."

His gaze flitted to her mouth and he cocked an eyebrow. Had 
her request shocked him?

Frankly, she had shocked herself a little. One didn't speak of 
one's tongue to a stranger. Particularly to a man. But 
something about him had emboldened her. 

"As you wish, Miss. And so as not to cause undue strain to 
that tongue of yours," -- his slanting grin widened -- "let's 
start with an easy one: inihkatsimat."

"In-ih-kat-si-mat." Her mouth twisted awkwardly around the 
unfamiliar syllables. "What does it mean?"

Skinner supplied the translation. "It means 'help.'" 

"This is a ridiculous waste of time!" Cap blustered. 

"Not at all, Father," Dana said. "'Help' is a very handy word 
to know. Teach me another, Mr. Mulder." 

"Stop this unseemly exchange, Dana," -- Cap glared at her -- 
"before you give my men the wrong impression." 

Dana glanced at the lieutenant. He appeared uncomfortable, it 
was true, but he had seemed that way from the start. Was he 
offended by her brazenness? 

Mr. Mulder clearly was not. Smiling, he said, "Some other time 
perhaps, Miss Scully."

"I would enjoy it, Mr. Mulder, and hope to see you again 
soon." In an effort to win back her father's approval, she 
addressed Lieutenant Skinner. "I hope we will have the 
opportunity to meet again as well, sir, so we might become 
better acquainted."

"That is my hope as well, Miss Scully." He gave a respectful 
bow.

"No time like the present, Lieutenant. Would you join us for 
dinner?" Cap asked.

"Father..." Dana began to object. She had hoped to spend time 
alone with her family on their first evening together, not 
entertaining a stranger. Particularly this serious man. Was 
Cap really so eager to marry her off?    

Lieutenant Skinner unexpectedly came to her rescue. "Miss 
Scully has had a long journey, sir. Perhaps she is in need of 
a few days rest before being assailed by dinner guests."

"That's most understanding of you," she said, relieved. 
"Father, might we invite the lieutenant to join us for dinner 
on Saturday instead?" 

"But your mother was expecting--" Cap's jaw snapped shut, 
giving away that this meeting was no chance encounter, just as 
she had suspected. 

An uncomfortable silence followed. Mr. Mulder, who had been 
listening to their exchange with open interest, took the 
opportunity to speak.

"You dropped something earlier, Miss Scully," he said. "A 
letter, was it?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it was."

"What's this?" Cap found his voice again. "What is he talking 
about, Dana?"

"It was nothing, Father. I spotted him on his horse beside the 
river as we were coming in. Which reminds me, I owe you an 
apology, Mr. Mulder."

"For what offense?" Mulder asked, clearly surprised. 

"I mistook you for a savage when I saw you earlier today. I 
thought...given your appearance...well, I'm sorry for my 
presumption." 

He did not appear the least slighted. "I don't take your 
confusion as an insult." His eyes twinkled like a mischievous 
boy's. "After all, it's not the natives who are the savages 
here."

The barb was clearly aimed at her father, who bridled. "You 
would do well to remember where you are," Cap warned. 

"You're as much a trespasser here as I, sir," Mulder said 
calmly. "We stand upon Indian land."

"Hogwash. Montana Territory belongs to the United States 
government."

"Who stole it from the Blackfoot." 

The veins in Cap's temples began to throb visibly. "Providence 
generously supplied this great continent for the development 
of our country's liberty and federated self-government."

"I've heard that rumor." Living alone in the mountains had 
evidently stripped this stranger of his manners.

"You mock me, Mr. Mulder. Expansionism is both obvious and 
certain, we both know it. Oregon and Texas are proof of it." 

"The Indians and the Mexicans might take a different point of 
view."

"You speak like a traitor! Is that your intent?" 

To Dana's surprise, Mulder did not back down. He took a step 
forward to stand toe to toe with the captain. He pitched his 
voice low. "Your beliefs do not grant you the right to kill 
innocent women and children, Captain." 

Bill Jr.'s letters had described numerous raids against the 
Indians, but always in retaliation for serious offences. There 
was no mention of attacks on women or children. She could not 
imagine her father allowing such heinous crimes to take place 
under his command. Mr. Mulder must be misinformed. 

"I'll not argue with a man who has so little understanding of 
the situation." Disgust pinched Cap's brow. "You consort with 
murderous heathens, yet have the audacity to come to my fort 
to conduct your business -- business which I have every reason 
to believe lends aid to my enemies. I demand you leave here at 
once and not return. You are no longer welcome at Culbertson."

"I'll go happily on my way as soon as I've sold my furs." He 
raised the pelts. 

"You'll not receive one cent for those goods, Mr. Mulder. Not 
here."

"In that case, consider them a gift." He let the furs drop at 
the captain's feet and turned to Dana. "Pardon me, Miss. My 
ability to irritate others seems a habit I cannot easily 
break." He offered a sad smile before turning and walking 
away. He left the pelts lying in the dust.

She barely knew what to make of this strange man. His 
allegations cast doubts on her father's actions and beliefs, 
on his life's work. He had essentially accused Cap of fighting 
for the wrong cause.

"That man is a fool. Nothing but a troublemaker," Cap 
muttered. To Skinner he said, "I don't understand why you 
associate with him."

"We fought together against Santa Anna, sir. Mulder was just a 
boy at the time, barely seventeen, but one of the bravest 
soldiers I have ever met."

"Foolhardiness often masquerades as bravery, Lieutenant. I 
hope you don't agree with his current politics. Dana, we must 
be going. Your mother will be wondering what's keeping us." He 
took hold of her elbow. "We shall see you at dinner on 
Saturday, Lieutenant."

"I look forward to it, sir. Miss Scully, it was a pleasure to 
meet you."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I feel the same," she said, although 
she did not. Her stomach was in a knot. Mr. Mulder's row with 
Cap had been most unpleasant. "Let's hurry, Father. I don't 
want to keep Mother waiting another minute."


-------

Chapter 4

Mulder entered the office of The Flatwillow Picayune, ducking 
from habit as he passed beneath the low lintel. He was greeted 
by the oily smell of printer's ink and three friendly smiles.

"The prodigal son returns! Welcome back to civilization, 
Mulder." Frohike sat in his usual place, perched atop a tall 
stool at a cluttered workbench to the right of the door. Over 
his head, placards hung like drying laundry from lines tied to 
the rafters. His desk was lit by the shop's front window and a 
flickering Bunsen burner. An unidentified substance glowed 
molten-red above the flame. It gave off the stench of rotten 
eggs. He alternately peered at the object through a 
spectroscope and glanced out the window at the thoroughfare. 
"Who is the fetching young maid on Captain Scully's arm?"

"His daughter."

"She spoken for?"

"I didn't ask."

At the center of the room, Byers pulled a large sheet of paper 
from the newspaper's iron printing press and held it up for 
inspection. Sleeve-stockings protected his impeccable white 
shirt from cuff to elbow, but his hands were stained black. 
"We have a typographical error," he announced.
 
"Can't be." Langly sat hunched over a tray of lead type, 
arranging letters into backward sentences. "I checked it at 
least a dozen times."

"And yet, here it is. You misspelled 'trial.'" Byers turned 
the page around for all to see. Across the top in big, bold 
type was the headline: ABRAHAM LINCOLN ASSASSINATION TRAIL 
ENDS!

Mulder slipped the saddlebag from his shoulder and set it on 
Frohike's workbench with a thud. "What was the final verdict?" 

"Four of the alleged conspirators were hung, including Mary 
Surratt, the boardinghouse owner," Langly said.

"Alleged? You don't think they were guilty?" 

Frohike glanced nervously out the window as if someone on the 
street might overhear his next words. "According to our 
sources, they were scapegoats in an ongoing government 
conspiracy."

"A conspiracy that extends to the highest levels of power." 
Byers crumpled the press sheet and tossed it into an 
overflowing barrel. 

"You heard about Lewis Powell, didn't you?" Langly asked.

Mulder nodded. "He tried to commit suicide by banging his head 
against the wall of his prison cell." 

"Have you asked yourself *why* he wanted to die?" Frohike 
asked.

"Because he was on trial for the assassination of the 
President?"

"No, because of his bowels." 

"His...? I don't think I want to hear this."

"He had a logjam in the river, so to speak."

"For the entire duration of the trial," Langly added. “Not so 
much as a rabbit pellet from April 29th to the 2nd of June.”

"Talk about withholding evidence." Mulder winced. "How is 
Lewis Powell's constipation proof of a government conspiracy?"

"Isn't it obvious? No one can go without going for an entire 
month. Not without a little 'help.' We think they put 
something in his food." 

"And people call me crazy." 

The unwelcome image of Powell's impacted colon reminded Mulder 
of the egg-shaped stone in his saddlebag. He upended the bag 
onto Frohike's workbench and out spilled an assortment of 
items: pipe bowls, brass buttons, stickpins, hatpins, and 
other small trade goods he always carried with him in case he 
had to buy his way out of trouble. The rock egg rolled out 
along with everything else.

Frohike pulled it from the pile. "What have we here?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." 

Byers and Langly crossed the room to get a closer look. 
Frohike hefted the egg, then turned it so he could study the 
tiny face that peeked out of the narrow end. 

"If I'm not mistaken, this is a fossilized Hydrosaurus 
hatchling," he said after a minute. "One of Richard Owens' 
'terrible lizards.'" 

Disappointment surged through Mulder. "A dinosaur." He had 
seen fossilized remains of Iguanodon in the British Museum 
back in '53. But those bones and teeth had been huge. Nothing 
like the delicate creature in the egg. "You're certain?" 

"I can show you a picture." Frohike set the artifact on the 
workbench and hopped off his stool. He went to an overflowing 
bookcase at the rear of the shop. After a brief search, he 
pulled a large volume from a lower shelf. "Joseph Leidy's 
monograph 'Cretaceous Reptiles of the United States,' 
published earlier this year." He waved the book at Mulder. 
Returning to the light of the window, he thumbed through the 
pages until he found the illustration he was looking for. 
"Here." He spun the book to face Mulder.

A finely detailed lithograph depicted a dragon-like creature 
with leathery skin, a duck's bill, and clawed toes. The 
strange animal sat upright on its haunches beside a riverbank, 
its forelegs miniscule compared to its massive lower limbs. 
Its tail was thick and muscular, and more than half its 
length.

"That's the mama..." -- Frohike tapped the picture with a 
stubby index finger, then hooked a thumb at Mulder's egg -- 
"and that's her baby."

Mulder had to admit, there was a strong family resemblance.

"So...there's no chance this thing came from...."

"From?"

"Another world?"

Mulder's three friends broke into guffaws. When they realized 
he was serious, their smiles quickly faded.

Frohike cleared his throat. "Not according to Joseph Leidy. 
Sorry." 

Mulder stuffed the artifact and everything else back into his 
saddlebag, and turned to go.

"You're leaving already?" Byers asked. "Frohike was just about 
to dish up some pork and beans."

"Then we were going to break open our latest shipment of 
stereoscopic images," Langly added. 

"Naked French women," said Frohike. "Wanna see?"  

"Next time, boys. I've got somewhere I need to be right now." 
Mulder was going to the Ookáán River to find Cuts To Pieces 
and the mysterious white woman, danger be damned.

"Chasing after manitous again?" Frohike winked.

"You know me." Mulder hoisted the saddlebag to his shoulder. 

"Anything we can do to help?" Byers asked.

Mulder paused at the door. Maybe they could help.

"You speak French?" he asked. 

"Oui, naturellement," said Byers.

"Me, too." Langly's head bobbed. "I mean, moi aussi. Un peu."

Mulder looked at Frohike.

"Nada. Does that mean I can't come?"

"Wouldn't dream of leaving you behind, Fro. Put on your best 
buckskins, boys -- we're going for a little ride." 

"Where to?" Byers asked, stripping off his sleeve-stockings. 

Mulder thought it best to spare them the details of the 
mission. After all, he knew very little about the Cree or this 
fellow Cuts To Pieces, other than his approximate location and 
the rumor that he was holding a young white woman captive. 
With so little to go on, why worry his friends unnecessarily?

"Upper Ookáán River," he said, which was true. 

"What's up there?"

"Your long lost brother." 

Pierre Vaillancourt's dead body, at any rate.

"I have a brother?" Byers looked confused, but grabbed a 
holstered six-shooter from a cubby beside the door and 
strapped it on. 

Frohike and Langly collected their guns, too, and all three 
put on hats.

"Shameful the way some families don't keep in touch." Mulder 
stepped out into the street.  

It took a few minutes for Frohike, Langly, and Byers to load 
up a travel pack and fetch their horses from the livery. They 
seemed in high spirits and chattered nonstop during the half-
day ride from the fort to the lower branch of the Ookáán 
River, where Few Tails' relatives were camped for the summer. 
Lost in thought about his sister, Mulder let them yammer. He 
was hoping for a successful rescue and heartfelt reunion, and 
imagined his mother and father's joy when he telegraphed to 
say Samantha was alive and finally safe. 

They arrived at the Blackfoot camp shortly after sunset, 
saddle sore and hungry. Few Tails' cousin, Brave Wolf, invited 
them to stay in his lodge overnight. 

Brave Wolf was shorter and stockier than his cousin. A long 
scar puckered his right cheek, making him look more fearsome 
than he actually was. In truth, he was a friendly and generous 
man with a ready smile. 

He fed his guests roasted antelope and timpsula cakes, and 
shared his pipe. The next morning, he offered them his best 
canoe, saying it would be faster to travel by water than by 
land. The river basin was overgrown with choke cherry, box 
elder, and buckbrush, he warned, making it slow-going on 
horseback.

Mulder accepted the loan of the boat, and stowed his rifle, 
saddlebags, and the guys’ travel pack in the bottom.  

They paddled upriver against a slow current, portaging only 
occasionally where the river grew shallow and the canoe 
scraped bottom. Mulder set their direction from the stern. 
Byers kept pace and watched for underwater obstacles from the 
bow. Langly and Frohike sat between them, passing their 
stereoscope back and forth. 

"I can't believe you brought that thing," Mulder said, 
scanning the shore for signs of Cuts To Pieces' camp.

"You have no idea what you're missing." Frohike slid a 
stereographic card into the scope. "This is better than a 
weekend at the Flatwillow Brothel." 

"Like you'd know." 

"Take a look." He offered the scope to Mulder.

"No thanks. Think you two might pick up a paddle at some 
point?"

"What's the hurry? You need to enjoy yourself more, Mulder. 
Live a little! Oh, this one's a redhead. She looks a lot like 
Captain Scully's daught--"

"Give me that." Mulder abandoned his paddle and grabbed the 
scope. 

The woman in the watercolor-tinted stereograph was undeniably 
beautiful. Glossy red hair as brilliant as any sunset draped 
her pale, bare shoulders. Her breasts were exposed, and her 
nipples had been painted rosy pink to match her full lips and 
rouged cheeks. Although topless, she wore a dark green skirt, 
much like the one Dana Scully had been wearing yesterday. The 
hem was lifted to expose lace petticoats, slender ankles, and 
tiny bare feet. 

Blood rushed to Mulder's groin and he suppressed a moan. He 
had no doubt Captain Scully would declare his pretty daughter 
off limits, along with his fort. And although Mulder was 
willing to confront the captain on issues of politics, 
romancing his daughter was a challenge he could do without.  

He thrust the stereoscope back into Frohike's outstretched 
hand, picked up his paddle, and plunged its blade into the 
river. Drawing hard against the current, he tried to 
concentrate on the rhythm of his strokes instead of the ache 
in his cock. 

Around noon the next day, Mulder caught a whiff of wood fire. 
Half a mile upstream, more than a dozen curling lines of smoke 
drifted above the treetops, indicating a camp of substantial 
size around the next bend. Given their travel time, it had to 
be Cuts To Pieces' camp. 

Mulder angled his blade and aimed them toward shore. 

"Are we here already?" Langly peered through dusty spectacles 
at the wooded riverbank.

"Almost." 

They climbed out in the shallows and beached the canoe.

"What happens now?" Byers wiped sweat from his brow. 

The sun shone directly overhead. Not a breath of wind stirred 
the leaves of the surrounding cottonwoods. In the upper 
branches, cicadas whined in the fierce, midday heat.  

"We're going to pay a visit to the village up ahead." Mulder 
took a swig from their canteen and passed it to Byers. "Since 
my French is a little rusty and you and Langly are fluent, 
you'll do most of the talking."

"What are we supposed to say?" Byers asked.

"Tell the guy in charge that you're Jacques and Jean 
Vaillancourt, Pierre's brothers."

"Which of us is which?" 

"Does it matter?"

"I think we should get our names straight." Finished with the 
canteen, Byers handed it to Langly.

"Fine, you're Jacques. Langly can be Jean."

Byers seemed satisfied. "What about you and Frohike?"

"What about us?"

"Your names. Who are you going to be?"

"Mulder and Frohike."

"You're not incognito, too?" 

"I want a nickname," Frohike said. "Something that reflects my 
sharp-shooting skills." He deftly drew his pistol from its 
holster and twirled it once, twice, three times around his 
index finger. "Maybe 'Quick Draw Mel--'" 

The gun flew unexpectedly from his hand and landed with a thud 
behind him in the weeds.  

"How about 'Fumble Fingers Frohike'," Mulder said. "Put that 
thing away before you shoot yourself in the ass."

Red-faced, Frohike stooped to retrieve the gun. Sand dribbled 
from its barrel as he slid it back into his holster.  

"What do we do after we introduce ourselves?" Byers asked. 

Mulder indicated the trade goods with a sweep of his hand. 
"Give them a few gifts to show our friendly intentions." 

"And after we've gained their trust?"

"Find out what you can about the woman your brother Pierre 
brought to their camp last spring...like her name, where she 
came from..." It was time to come clean about the real reason 
they were here. "And how we might rescue her without getting 
ourselves killed."

"Killed? You're not friendly with these Indians?"

"Nnn-not exactly. They're, uh, Cree." 

"Enemies of your buddies, the Blackfoot. I get it. Oil and 
water. You might have mentioned this sooner, Mulder."

"Would it have made a difference? There's a woman in that camp 
who needs our help."

"A damsel in distress -- that's all I need to know." Frohike 
fitted his hat more firmly to his head, readying himself for 
action.

"Me, too," Langly agreed, balling his fists.

"And me," Byers said, "but it'll be safer if Langly and I go 
alone." 

"Not a chance. I'm going with you," Mulder said.

"If the Cree recognize you, we're all dead. Langly and I can 
handle this. Right Jean?"

"Ce que tu dis, mon frère."

"What about me?" Frohike asked.

"No point risking it." Byers' mind was clearly made up. "You 
stay with Mulder. We should be back in about an hour. Two at 
most." 

"I'm not staying behind," Mulder insisted.

"Yes, you are. Langly and I can do this. We're just going to 
have a little look around. Ask a few friendly questions. 
Assess the situation."  

"But--"

"We'll be careful. Trust us. Everything will be fine."

"I really don't think--" 

"You want to get us killed, Mulder? This is the safest course 
of action -- for all of us."

As much as Mulder hated to admit it, Byers was right. His 
alliance with the Blackfoot was well known throughout the 
region. It would take only one Cree brave to recognize him 
and they would all be tortured and killed. Byers and Langly 
were his best hope of getting Samantha out of the camp alive. 

"All right, you two go, but if you run into trouble, anything 
at all, get the hell out as quickly as you can."

"Don't worry." Langly grinned as he and Byers climbed back 
into the canoe and pushed away from shore. "It's us!"

"That's not reassuring." Mulder wished he hadn't invited them 
to come. If anything went wrong now and they ended up getting 
hurt, he would have only himself to blame.

"They'll be fine." Frohike settled onto the grassy bank, hands 
pillowing his head, Stetson shading his eyes. "What's the 
worst that could happen?"   

*   *   *

Two hours stretched into four and then four to six. The sun's 
dying rays glowed blood-red above the mountains. Bats sliced 
the twilight, hunting insects in the gloom. A coyote's howl 
momentarily silenced the harrumph of bullfrogs in the rushes 
by the shore.

Mulder paced the bank, more than a little worried. "They're in 
trouble." 

Frohike sat in the weeds, swatting mosquitoes with his 
Stetson. "Settle down. They probably just stayed for supper." 
His stomach gurgled loudly at the mention of food. "I could 
use a little dinner myself. Got any jerky?"

Mulder pulled a wad from his pocket and tossed it to Frohike. 
"I should have gone with them." 

"Are you loco? You sleep with the enemy, remember? Speaking of 
which..." A lascivious grin spread across Frohike's face. 
"Have you called upon Spotted Rabbit or Little Bird lately?"

Mulder craned to see around the bend upriver. "Where the hell 
are they?" he grumbled, dodging the subject of Kicking Horse's 
lovely young daughters. 

"Mulder! Frohike!" Byers' panicky shouts came from upstream. 

The canoe rounded the turn. Byers and Langly were paddling for 
all they were worth. When they drew nearer, Mulder saw they 
were wearing nothing but their under drawers.

Frohike staggered to his feet. "Where are your clothes?" 

"No time to explain. Get in!" Byers gasped for breath. 

Mulder and Frohike splashed into the river. The boat rocked as 
they climbed in and seated themselves between Langly in the 
bow and Byers in the stern. The travel pack and Mulder's trade 
goods and rifle were gone. 

"What happened?" Mulder took up a paddle and put his back into 
escaping whoever was chasing them. 

"You neglected to mention a few pertinent details," said 
Byers, sounding both annoyed and frightened. "Like the fact 
that Cuts To Pieces killed Pierre." 

"I didn't know." It was the truth. Few Tails had said the 
Frenchman was dead; he never explained how he had died.  

"You sent them to meet a guy named 'Cuts To Pieces'?" Frohike 
gaped at Mulder. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking about my sister. Did you find her?"

"So that's what this was all about," Byers said. "You might've 
told us."

"I'll apologize later. Was Samantha there?" 

"No. Paddle faster."

"What do you mean no?"

"I mean she wasn't there. She was never there. The woman 
Vaillancourt brought with him was Sarah Jewett."

"Who's Sarah Jewett?" 

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters." Mulder reversed his stroke, slowing their 
forward momentum. "We have to go back."

"Not a chance." Byers drew harder on his own paddle. The canoe 
inched forward.

"We can't leave her with Cuts To Pieces."

"Oh, yes, we can. She doesn't want to be rescued."

"Of course she wants to be rescued." 

"I'm telling you, she's happy where she is."

"How can she possibly be--?"

"She's there of her own free will, Mulder. Her former husband 
was a despicable, money-grubbing prospector, who sold her to 
Vaillancourt." 

"For a lousy gold claim," Langly added. "After beating her 
with a shovel."

"Vaillancourt beat her, too, then offered her to the Indians 
in exchange for a fresh horse," Byers said. "We talked to her. 
The Indians treat her better than she's ever been treated in 
her life. Last month, she married a brave named White Hawk. We 
met him. He seemed like a nice guy. They all seemed pretty 
nice, until..."

"Until what?" Mulder asked.

"Until Langly told Cuts to Pieces to 'boire de ma branche 
d'arbre.'" 

"Which means...?" Frohike asked.

"Roughly, 'drink from my tree branch.'" Byers shook his head 
as if he still couldn't believe it had happened. "Needless to 
say, Cuts To Pieces took it as an insult."

"Pardon my French," Langly said. "I thought I was asking for 
water. I was thirsty!"

War whoops sounded behind them. An arrow hissed past Mulder's 
ear. A second struck the gunwale near his knee and stuck 
there. Mulder drew his pistol and turned in his seat.

Thirty yards upstream, an enormous war canoe carrying at least 
a dozen Cree braves bore down on them. Half of the party 
wielded paddles. The others were armed with bows and arrows, 
and one rifle -- Mulder's. The paddlers matched the powerful 
strokes of their forward man, who sat in the bow wearing 
Langly's top hat. The archers fired a hailstorm of arrows.

Mulder hunkered low and fired his gun. The round pierced the 
water several inches in front of the war canoe's bow. 

The gap between the two boats narrowed. It would be only a 
matter of minutes before the Indians overtook them.

"Hey, Quick Draw, you going to help out here?" Mulder asked, 
taking more careful aim. 

Frohike pushed back his hat and adjusted his glasses.

"Any time," Mulder urged. He fired another round. The bullet 
tore the feathers from one brave's hair. 

Unhurt, the Indians jeered and redoubled their efforts. More 
arrows sailed past Mulder. One slashed the sleeve of his 
deerskin tunic, grazing his shoulder. Another speared 
Frohike's Stetson and carried it into the river.

"Damn it, that was my best hat." Frohike drew his gun and 
fired three quick shots. The first splintered a blade clean 
off one of the Indian’s paddles, leaving the stunned man 
holding nothing but the broken shaft. The second blasted 
Langly's top hat off the bow man’s head. The third punctured a 
fist-sized hole into the canoe's birchbark hull. Water poured 
in on the Indians. 

Mulder whistled in appreciation. "Pretty fancy shooting, 
Melvin." 

"I've been practicing." Frohike blew across the smoking 
barrel. 

The war canoe floundered and began to sink. Now it was the 
guys' turn to jeer.

"Take that, 'Canoe In Pieces'!" Byers shouted.

Frohike waved his pistol. "Boire this branch, amigos."  

"And kiss my pale ass!" Langly stood up, presented his 
backside to the Cree, and yanked down his under drawers.   

"Hey, watch where you point that thing," Mulder said from 
directly behind him. 

"Oh, sorry." Langly pulled up his long johns and sat back 
down.

Mulder holstered his gun and resumed paddling, eager to put as 
much distance as possible between them and the angry Indians. 

*   *   *

By noon the next day, every muscle in Mulder's back and arms 
ached from exertion. The slash on his shoulder was oozing 
blood. Hunger clawed at his stomach. But his physical 
discomfort was little compared to the ache in his heart. He 
had not found Samantha. Again. 

Years of searching and nothing to show for it. Not a single 
shred of evidence to explain what happened to her. His 
sister's disappearance was as much a mystery now as the night 
she went missing.

Yet despite constant dead ends and disappointment, Mulder 
refused to give up. The truth was out there. Eventually, he 
would uncover the clue that would lead him to Samantha. He 
wanted to believe, *needed* to believe, that one day they 
would be reunited. 

"Think they've given up?" Byers peered backward, his face 
etched with exhaustion. 

"I hope so." Blisters and peeling skin mottled Langly's 
sunburned face, back, and arms. Even the tops of his bare feet 
looked painfully red and swollen. 

The sun's heat had been relentless throughout the long 
morning. A veil of high, wispy clouds and a searing southerly 
breeze brought scant relief.  

Frohike took pity and offered Langly his vest in exchange for 
the story about how they had lost their clothes.

"It all started with the Hand Game." Langly shrugged into the 
fringed vest, taking care not to chafe his burned back.

"Hand game? I hope this doesn't have anything to do with your 
'branche d'arbre.'"

“Har har.”

"It's a lot like Button, Button, Who's Got the Button," Byers 
explained, "only you use little bone sticks instead of 
buttons. You hide a stick in your palm, put your hands behind 
your back to swap the stick back and forth a few times, then 
hold out your fists. The object of the game is to trick your 
opponent into picking the hand that's not holding a stick." 

"A player wins one of twelve counters for each correct guess," 
Mulder added, all too familiar with the gambling game, a 
favorite among the Blackfoot. "You lose a counter if you guess 
wrong."

"We ran out of counters pretty quickly," Byers said, "but the 
Indians insisted we keep playing. After Langly's insult, they 
wanted to wring us dry."

"We ended up losing our shirts. Literally."

"And our boots, hats, guns. Everything but our lives."

"So how come you're not dead?" Frohike asked.

"The stereoscope," they said in unison. 

"If not for those naked French women, our scalps would be 
hanging on Cuts To Pieces' lodge pole right now." Langly raked 
shaky fingers through his hair. "We snuck away while they 
ogled the redhead."

"I can see how she might distract a guy." Mulder's cock 
twitched at the memory.

"A shame you had to leave her behind." Frohike sighed.  

The next few hours passed slowly as they continued downriver. 
They spoke little, too tired to do more than lift their 
paddles. When they finally arrived at Brave Wolf's village, 
they dragged the boat ashore and climbed stiffly up the grassy 
slope to the tepees. 

They found Brave Wolf sitting cross-legged outside his tepee, 
his scarred face smeared with white clay and his waist-length 
hair cropped unexpectedly short in a show of mourning.

"Red Crow?" Mulder asked in Blackfoot, worried the old Indian 
had succumbed to his disease.

Brave Wolf nodded. "He travels to Sand Hills."

Sand Hills was a dreary, alkali country, purportedly located 
on the plains south of the Saskatchewan River. The Blackfoot 
believed their ghosts went there after death. Quicksand 
surrounded the area, they claimed, to keep out the living.

"I'm sorry." Feeling as if his legs might give out, Mulder 
sank to a squat beside Brave Wolf. "Your grandfather was a 
great man. I wish I'd had the opportunity to say goodbye."

"Few Tails is bringing him to Crooked Valley tomorrow for 
burial. You can say your last words there."

To be asked to attend the funeral ceremony was a great honor. 
Mulder appreciated the invitation and the opportunity to pay 
his final respects. 

Brave Wolf eyed Frohike, Byers, and Langly. "Your friends will 
come, too?"

Mulder translated the invitation. 

"We aren't really dressed for a funeral." Byers plucked at his 
sagging, mud-stained under drawers. 

"I could ask Brave Wolf to loan you a couple of loincloths," 
Mulder offered, imagining how ridiculous they would look, 
sunburned and spotted with insect bites above the waist, fish-
belly white below. They were going to draw plenty of stares 
when they rode half-naked back into the fort at Flatwillow.

Byers shook his head. "Thanks, but we have to get back. The 
Picayune is due out tomorrow."

"And I still have type to set," Langly reminded him.

Brave Wolf rose to his feet and ushered them into his tepee. 
Several partridge roasted on a spit over the fire. The 
delicious aroma made Mulder's mouth water. 

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Brave Wolf asked, 
once they were all seated comfortably around the hearth. 

A pretty Indian woman, who Mulder assumed was one of Brave 
Wolf's wives, served mountainsnails, mulberries, and milkweed 
shoots on a large, wooden platter. 

"Yes and no," Mulder replied in Blackfoot as he helped himself 
to the food. "We located Cuts To Pieces' camp, but not the 
white woman I was hoping to find."

"If you found Cuts To Pieces, you are lucky you still have 
your hair." 

"He was no match for our secret weapon." 

Brave Wolf's eyebrows lifted.

Mulder tilted his head at Frohike. "Quick Draw Melvin shot a 
hole in Cuts To Pieces’ war canoe."

Concern darkened Brave Wolf's eyes. "He will seek revenge."

"The guys will be back in Flatwillow by midday tomorrow. The 
Cree won't go near the fort."

"The Cree are fearless. For generations, they have raided our 
camps, taken our women, and killed our warriors. They gave me 
this when I was a boy of eight summers." Brave Wolf pointed to 
the scar on his cheek. "If you have made an enemy of Cuts To 
Pieces, I fear you are in great danger."

-------

Chapter 5

Few Tails prepared Red Crow for burial in the traditional 
manner. He dressed the body in ceremonial clothes and 
dutifully painted the old man’s disease-ravaged face. He then 
wrapped him in a fine buffalo robe and placed him on a travois 
for the journey to Crooked Valley. 

At the burial ground, Mulder helped Few Tails and Brave Wolf 
construct a tall, four-posted scaffold, away from trees and 
rock outcroppings, out of reach of predators. Together they 
lifted Red Crow onto the platform. They placed items he would 
need in the afterlife -- his pipe, weapons, blankets, and 
medicine bag -- beside him.

As the sun set, Few Tails broke into mournful song. 
Nitsíkhhihkínii'taki. I am sad. Nitáíksimsstatawa nínna. I am 
thinking of my father. Brave Wolf rhythmically pounded a hand-
held drum with a fringed mallet. Deep, hollow beats echoed off 
the hillsides like the footfalls of Thunder Beings. Metal 
bangles on the mallet jingled lightly with every stroke. It 
was the beginning of what Mulder knew would be a prolonged 
tribute. 

He had witnessed Blackfoot displays of grief before. The 
customs of mourning could last weeks, sometimes months. To 
demonstrate their indifference to pain and their high regard 
for the deceased, they would deny and even torture themselves. 
At daybreak, Few Tails would withdraw to the summit of a 
nearby hill. He would weep and gash himself with his knife or 
arrow points. He might go so far as to sever a finger at the 
first joint to express the depth of his sorrow. Eventually, 
his cousin would intervene and bring him back to their camp.

Unwilling to watch his friend mutilate himself, yet knowing he 
was powerless to stop it, Mulder packed his saddlebags and 
prepared to say goodbye. 

Few Tails met him beside the horses. "You are leaving 
tonight?"

"I have a line of traps on Nine Pipe Ridge that needs 
tending."

Few Tails nodded, letting Mulder's lie go unchallenged. "I 
have a favor to ask," he said. 

"Name it." 

Few Tails presented Mulder with a small totem pouch. "This 
belonged to my grandfather." 

"What's in it?"

"Bad luck."

"And you’re giving it to me?"

"I want you to deliver it to its rightful owner."

Mulder reluctantly took the pouch and loosened the drawstring. 
Inside he found a silver medallion, a Jefferson Peace Medal. 
He had seen them before. 

Three inches in diameter, the medallion bore Thomas 
Jefferson's likeness on the front. On the reverse was an 
illustration of two hands grasped in a handshake below a 
hatchet crossed with a long-stemmed pipe, and the words "peace 
and friendship."

Emissaries of the U.S. government had been issuing diplomatic 
tokens like these to the Indians for decades. Such medals were 
supposed to signify an understanding of goodwill and the 
promise of military support against mutual enemies. In 
reality, the government used them to ensure free and 
profitable commerce...for whites. 

"Grandfather was a papoose when a man named Captain Lewis came 
to our land," Few Tails explained. "The captain and his party 
intercepted eight boys from the Skunk Band who were herding 
horses from Birch Creek to their camp. The white men stayed 
with the boys and gambled with them. In the morning, when the 
boys tried to take what they had won the previous day, the 
white men killed one boy with their knives. They chased a 
second boy and shot him dead with a pistol. Captain Lewis 
placed that," -- Few Tails indicated the medallion with a jab 
of his finger -- "around the boy's neck so that his family 
would know who was responsible. The boy was Calf Looking, 
Grandfather's older brother."

Mulder's innards rolled in disgust. He stared at the medal, 
knowing there was nothing he could say that would make up for 
the misdeeds of his race. 

"The boys Captain Lewis killed were horse herders, not 
warriors. They were thirteen summers old." Anger burned in Few 
Tails' eyes. "Many white captains have given silver pieces 
like this one to my people. Not in friendship or in peace as 
they claim. Their purpose was to make us think they were great 
warriors. They wanted us to be afraid of them so we would 
surrender without fighting. They wished to crush all the 
nations of this land. They wish it still."

Mulder nodded. What Few Tails said was true. When Lewis and 
Clark presented their medals to the Indians, they had recited 
a patronizing speech, proclaiming U.S. sovereignty over Indian 
territory. They intimated heinous repercussions for any who 
refused to submit: "Do these things which your great father 
advises and be happy lest by one false step you should bring 
down upon your nation the displeasure of your great father who 
could consume you as the fire consumes the grass of the 
plains." 

Mulder slid the medallion into its pouch. "Who do you want me 
to give it to?"

"The captain at the fort. Tell him Red Crow's people do not 
surrender so easily."

"My words carry little weight with Captain Scully." Mulder 
tucked the pouch into his saddlebag and mounted his horse. 
"But I'll do as you ask."

"When a warrior says he will do a thing, then it is done. I 
know you will find a way." Few Tails stepped back from 
Mulder's horse. "Return to my tepee soon. Ikimópii." Sit in 
the place of honor. 

"Count on it, my friend. Take care."

Mulder spurred his horse and headed south through the valley. 
He followed a quick-flowing brook called Ainihkiwa Aohkíí, 
Singing Water. The stream gurgled over pebbled shoals, around 
boulders. Steep, craggy hills rose straight up on either side 
and the sun's dying rays painted the upper cliffs gold and 
crimson. A chilly evening breeze snaked through the canyon, 
carrying the flinty odor of exposed bedrock. Mulder breathed 
deeply, filled his lungs, and tried to clear his head. Red 
Crow's death weighed heavily on his mind.

White men had brought smallpox to the Americas. The Mandan, 
Assiniboine, and Blackfoot had been hit especially hard, dying 
in horrifying numbers. Mulder had seen infected villages, the 
sick driven mad, their flesh riddled with maggots even before 
death could silence their moans. He had heard the cries of 
sick children and anguished families, and gagged on the stench 
of rotting corpses. Coming upon a village of cold, silent 
tepees, he had dropped to his knees and wept unashamedly, his 
lonely outrage the only human sound for miles.

An unthinkable story had circulated through the army's ranks 
years ago. A captain named Ecuyer had been stationed at Fort 
Pitt in 1763, his garrison under siege by Indian forces. 
According to some, Ecuyer distributed blankets and 
handkerchiefs contaminated by smallpox to Chief Pontiac in a 
deliberate attempt to spread the disease among the enemy. It 
seemed unimaginably cruel, even in wartime, but a letter sent 
by Ecuyer to Colonel Bouquet later corroborated this 
unbelievable report.

Few Tails kept several army-issue blankets in his tepee. They 
came from Fort Culbertson's store; Mulder had purchased and 
delivered them to Good Thunder himself. One had cushioned Red 
Crow's head as he lay dying. Had the blankets been purposely tainted 
with smallpox? If so, that made Mulder an unwitting accomplice 
in Captain Scully's war against the Indians. 

Surely, the captain would not take his notions of Manifest 
Destiny so far. Such an idea was too monstrous to contemplate.  

An owl hooted from atop a ghostly snag. Mulder dug the 
Jefferson medallion from his saddlebag. Holding it in his 
palm, he hefted its weight and considered the arrogance of the 
men who crafted it. His own pale skin marked him as kin to 
these men, he knew, as much a foreigner in this wilderness as 
the soldiers at Fort Culbertson.
 
The sun sank behind the mountain peaks and shadows as black as 
bruises crawled into the canyon. Fireflies darted above the 
brook's rippled surface, tiny lanterns in the gathering gloom. 
A quarter moon provided scant illumination, so Mulder loosened 
his grip on the reins and allowed the horse to choose their 
path.    

Weariness settled into his bones. He longed to return to his 
mountain cabin, sleep for a week, pretend the Blackfoot were 
not in danger from Captain Scully's troops and the inevitable 
encroachment of white settlers. But sleep would have to wait. 
He had a pick-up to make before dawn. A delivery of gunpowder 
and percussion caps waited for him at Buffalo Jump, a pre-
arranged drop-off point. 

A tattered cloud slid in front of the moon. He had a lot of 
ground to cover before daybreak. With a press of his heels, he 
urged his horse to a trot.

*   *   *

The week had passed quickly as Dana settled into her father's 
house and her mother's routine. Each day she helped Maggie and 
the housemaid, a scrawny young woman named Millie, with the 
cooking and household chores. Whenever she tried to excuse 
herself to tour the fort's infirmary, Maggie reminded her 
there was much to do before Saturday when their "special" 
guest would be joining them for dinner. 

"We want to give Lieutenant Skinner a good impression, dear," 
Maggie said.

"Of course."

"Your father thinks very highly of him, you know."

"I know."

"You can visit the infirmary next week. Or next month, for 
that matter."

"I’ll go later today."

"Yes, of course. But we have linens to wash. And silver to 
polish. And a menu to sort out... Did you know Lieutenant 
Skinner fought the Mexicans under General Scott?"

"I believe it's been mentioned."

"He's been decorated."

"Of course."

"He will make a fine husband."

"It would seem so."

"Your father thinks very highly of him."

"So you've said." She wanted to add "at least a dozen times," 
but refrained and focused on her chores instead.

By the time Saturday arrived, Dana had not visited the 
infirmary, but she had learned that Walter Skinner grew up in 
Mission, Delaware; he liked to carve wooden boxes, whistles, 
and toy soldiers in his spare time; and his favorite dish was 
mutton with bread sauce. She also learned he was a widower 
with two sons -- Josiah and George -- who were attending 
boarding school back east. Liddiah, his wife of twelve years, 
died of diphtheria during the winter of '62, while Skinner was 
fighting in Mill Springs, Kentucky, under General Thomas. 
Nearly seven-hundred men died in that battle; two-hundred-
thirty had been Union soldiers.      

Maggie bustled about her kitchen, alternately fussing over a 
roasting saddle of mutton and stirring a pot of vegetable-
marrow soup. A bibbed apron protected her freshly pressed 
evening dress, a plaid never-ending with crocheted collar and 
three wide flounces trimmed in navy.

In contrast to her mother's elaborate gown, Dana wore an 
austere, gray Pagoda dress, decorated only with two meager 
rows of black velvet piping at the hem. Her mother had 
objected to her choice, saying it was too plain for the 
occasion, but no amount of urging would convince Dana to 
change into her fancy green silk, not after the silly way she 
had used it to challenge her father the day of her arrival. 
She resolved to forgo any future shows of childish defiance. 
Cap loved her and was merely trying to put her on a path to a 
happy, comfortable life. She would treat him honestly from 
here on out.

Leaning against the kitchen doorframe, Dana thumbed through 
her mother's dog-eared copy of "The Book of Household 
Management" by Isabella Beeton. A passage about hosting a 
dinner party caught her eye and she read it aloud to Maggie 
and Millie: "'The half-hour before dinner has always been 
considered as the great ordeal through which the mistress, in 
giving a dinner-party, will either pass with flying colors or 
lose many of her laurels. The anxiety to receive her guests, 
her hope that all will be present in due time, her trust in 
the skill of her cook, and the attention of the other 
domestics, all tend to make these few minutes a trying time. 
The mistress, however, must display no kind of agitation, but 
show her tact in suggesting light and cheerful subjects of 
conversation.'"

"Please stop reading, Dana, and help Millie with the silver." 

Millie was polishing soup spoons in the corner. Pale as milk 
and thin as a knitting needle, Millie chewed her lower lip as 
she worked, trying her best to be of service while 
simultaneously staying out of her busy mistress's way. "This 
is the last one, ma'am." 

Since Millie didn't need her help, Dana continued to read. 
Another passage caught her attention: She who makes her 
husband and her children happy, who reclaims the one from vice 
and trains up the other to virtue, is a much greater character 
than ladies described in romances, whose whole occupation is 
to murder mankind with shafts from their quiver, or their 
eyes. 

"Ridiculous," she muttered, flipping to another page.

"You would do well to heed Mrs. Beeton's advice, Dana. Certain 
things are expected of us as women. The sooner you accept that 
fact, the happier you'll be." 

Maggie's cheeks were pink from the heat of the stove. Several 
long strands of hair had escaped her snood, giving her a 
harried appearance. 

Dana wondered if one day she would be hosting dinner parties 
like this as Mrs. Walter Skinner, simultaneously worrying over 
the soup broth and her children's futures.

"Are you happy, Mother?"

The seriousness of Dana's tone caused Maggie to stop her 
stirring. She stepped away from the stove and wiped her hands 
on her apron. "Of course, Dana. I respect your father. I love 
you children. What more could a woman want? Millie, you're 
going to rub the silver clean off that spoon."

"Sorry, ma'am." Millie set down her polishing rag. 

"Have you put out the castor set?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then see to the tea service, please."

"Yes, ma'am." Millie hurried from the room.

"Dana, are you tending the bread sauce?"

"Mm-hm." Dana scanned Beeton's table of contents: Arrangement 
and Economy of the Kitchen; General Observations on 
Quadrupeds, the Common Hog, Puddings and Pastry; Rearing, 
Management, and Diseases of Infancy and Childhood. This last 
looked promising, as did the penultimate chapter, "The 
Doctor." 

She turned to it and silently read Beeton's descriptions of 
autumnal complaints, apoplexy, broken bones, ringworm, and 
heart palpitations. For burns and scalds Beeton recommended a 
good coating of common flour on the affected parts. She 
claimed stammering could be remedied by reading aloud for two 
hours a day with the teeth clamped together. And, apparently, 
young, nervous, unmarried women were more prone to fits of 
hysteria than married women or men. 

"Rubbish."

"Dana, the bread sauce."

"Oh!" Dana tossed Beeton onto the sideboard and hurried to the 
boiling pot. "Oh, dear."

Maggie was at her side instantly. "It's burned."

"I'm sorry." 

A clomp of boots in the outer room signaled the arrival of the 
men.
"Well, it's too late to start again." Maggie removed her apron 
and smoothed her flyaway hair. "Try to salvage what you can. 
Watch you don't get any charred bits into the serving dish." 
To soften her demand, she kissed Dana lightly on the cheek. 
"It'll be all right, sweetheart." 

By the time Dana brought the sauce to the table, the gentlemen 
had hung their hats and gathered in the dining room. The three 
officers looked dashing in their nine-button frockcoats and 
sashes. Charlie looked equally handsome in his chestnut 
tailcoat and Chinese silk vest.

Cap indicated the chairs around the table and asked, "How 
would you like us arranged, dear?" 

"You're at the head, of course." Maggie plucked a faded 
blossom from the bouquet of flowers at the table's center and 
deposited it in Millie's outstretched hand. "I'm at the foot. 
Dana, you sit next to your father with Lieutenant Skinner on 
your left. Charlie and Bill will have to make do sitting 
beside one another as we're short on women."

Millie poured wine while everyone took their places. 
Lieutenant Skinner helped Dana with her chair before seating 
himself. Bill Jr. assisted his mother. At Maggie's request, 
Skinner led grace. 

Conversation was mundane during the soup course. By the time 
Millie served the mutton and forcemeat, they had exhausted the 
subjects of weather and everyone's general health. Over 
Maggie's objection, Cap reported on the troops' practice 
maneuvers and expressed disappointment in their lack of prior 
military training. Bill Jr. heartily agreed and went on to 
describe a marching drill that went awry just that morning 
when a clumsy trooper stumbled on a stone, accidentally 
discharged his rifle, which caused the other men to scatter 
like chickens from a butcher. 

Skinner seemed to be scarcely listening, his attention focused 
almost solely on Dana. He blatantly watched her sip her wine, 
spoon her soup, and cut into her meat. No doubt he was sizing 
up her comportment, manners, and skill as a conversationalist, 
judging whether or not she would make an acceptable officer’s 
wife.

Glancing at him, she missed her mouth with her fork. A chunk 
of mutton slipped from the tines and plopped wetly on the 
pristine, linen tablecloth. Bread sauce dripped from her chin. 
Grabbing her napkin, she lost hold of her fork. It leapt from 
her hand as if possessed and clattered loudly to the floor. 
Face blazing, she reached for it, only to drop her napkin atop 
the toe of Lieutenant Skinner's polished boot.

"Allow me." He bent to retrieve both fork and napkin. 

Charlie took the opportunity to catch Dana's eye over the 
table and mimic the lieutenant's doting gaze. His impression 
was so precise, Dana could not help but laugh out loud.

"Did I miss a joke?" Skinner straightened and handed her the 
fallen napkin.

She took it, swabbed her chin, and glared at Charlie, which 
only seemed to amuse him more. "I was just thinking how 
comical Bill's soldiers must have looked, running pell-mell, 
frightened for their lives," she said. "No one was injured, I 
hope." 

"Thankfully, no," Bill said.

Millie appeared at Dana's elbow with a clean fork. She took 
the soiled one from Skinner, mopped up the fallen mutton from 
the table with her cleaning cloth, and retreated once more to 
the kitchen. 

"Are there many men in the infirmary right now?" Dana asked, 
curious to know what she would be facing on Monday. "Any 
serious injuries or infectious diseases? Measles, TB--" 

Cap cleared his throat and gave a disapproving frown.

"This is not the place to be discussing diseases and war 
wounds," Maggie said, smiling apologetically at Skinner. 
"Lieutenant, tell us about your day."  

"I'm afraid the details of my day are as unfit for polite 
conversation as mutilation and pestilence, Mrs. Scully," 
Skinner said grimly.

"Really? What happened?" Charlie asked, always on the lookout 
for story ideas. Maggie aimed stern eyes his way. He quickly 
added, "In the most general of terms, naturally." 

"The Lieutenant's troops ousted a band of Blackfoot from Grass 
Creek, seven miles north of the fort," Cap answered for 
Skinner. "A skirmish ensued."

"Any casualties?"

"Not on our side," Skinner said. 

"What about the Indians?" Dana asked. "How did they fare?" 

Skinner drained his wine glass. "Seven dead. A dozen wounded."

Remembering what the mountain man had said to her father 
outside Culbertson's store earlier in the week, Dana asked, 
"Were there women and children among the casualties?" 

Skinner picked at his food and said nothing.

Dana turned to Cap. "Father?"

"The U.S. military does not condone killing innocents, Dana, 
as you well know. The men of this garrison are here to expand 
the boundaries of our government and protect the citizenry of 
this territory. We are not in the habit of attacking women and 
children of any race."
 
"But, they sometimes do get hurt," she said, her appetite 
fading.

"A regrettable consequence of war, I’m afraid."

"Are we at war here in Montana?" 

"You've had your nose in your medical books too long, Sis." 
Bill Jr. dished a second helping of stewed vegetables onto his 
plate. "Our orders are to establish political authority across 
this continent. If the Indians refuse to yield, they leave us 
no choice but to take up arms against them. They raid our 
stations and kill our men. They kill our women and children, 
too, by the way."

"We must fight if we are to survive and flourish here," Cap 
said.

Bill Jr. offered Skinner the wine decanter. "Our job would be 
a hell of a lot easier if people like Crazy Fox weren't 
abetting the enemy." 

"Crazy who?" Charlie asked.

"Fox. Fox Mulder." Skinner waved off the wine. 

"He's been providing guns to the Indians." Bill Jr. refilled 
his own glass. "We confiscated three Winchesters and an 
Enfield earlier this week from Kicking Horse's village. We 
have no doubt they came from Mulder."

Dana carefully excised a bit of gristle from her mutton. "Why 
would Mr. Mulder help the Indians?"

"Because he's a misguided fool," Cap said. "He lives in the 
hills like a mad hermit. Wears feathers in his hair; dresses 
like a heathen. It's hard to imagine he was once a U.S. 
soldier."

"A fine one, at the time," Skinner said through clenched 
teeth. It was unclear whether his anger was directed at Mulder 
or at Cap.  

Cap continued as if Skinner had not spoken. "Mulder visits 
Culbertson a couple of times a year to trade furs for guns, 
which go straight into the hands of the Indians in exchange 
for useless trinkets and who knows what else."

"I can guess what else." Bill Jr. winked and elbowed Charlie. 
"Rumor has it Crazy Fox regularly raids Kicking Horse's 
chicken coop, if you take my meaning." 

Charlie grinned. "Sounds like his name should be Sly Fox!" 

"Boys! You are not in the Flatwillow Saloon!" Maggie pinned 
them both with an indignant stare. "Do not repeat vulgar 
gossip at my table." 

In spite of his mother's ire, Charlie rubbed his hands 
together, unable to hide his excitement. "Looks like I've 
found the subject of my next article." 

Cap slammed his knife and fork on the table. "You will not 
romanticize that traitor in one of your lurid tales, Charles. 
Fox Mulder supplies guns and ammunition to the hostiles. He 
puts my men at risk!"

Charlie's smile faded and his face reddened. 

Dana jumped to her brother's defense. "Back east Charlie's 
stories are as popular as any by Cooper, Father. As a matter 
of fact, his latest, 'Passion on the Prairie'--"

"Millie! Bring the dessert!" Maggie shouted over her shoulder, 
cutting Dana short. She turned to Cap and said sweetly, "Dear, 
tell us about the fort's history. Dana and Charlie would enjoy 
hearing it, I'm sure. Wouldn't you, children?"

Dana glanced apologetically at Charlie. "Yes, of course, 
Mother."

Charlie lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders. "By 
all means, tell us." 

Millie served bowls of berry cream, and while they ate, Cap 
recounted Fort Culbertson's humble beginnings. He relaxed as 
he spoke and the mood at the table began to lighten. Dana soon 
found herself caught up in his tale. 

"Convoys of freight wagons hauled food, supplies, mail, and 
treaty rations from here to outposts in western Canada. They 
returned with buffalo hides, beaver pelts, wolf skins, ermine, 
fox, and mink. By 1862, with the era of fur trading nearly at 
an end, the AFC sold the post to the military," Cap concluded 
at length. "I was assigned a year later. I sent for your 
mother the following spring. And, now, here we all are and I 
couldn't be more pleased."

He looked genuinely happy, his former indignation gone. Dana 
decided not to spoil his good mood by reminding him that they 
were not all at the table. Melissa was somewhere in Europe, 
simultaneously breaking God's commandments and her mother's 
heart, according to Cap. Dana missed her sister and it hurt 
that she was so easily forgotten or purposely overlooked.  

"Ladies, my sincerest thanks for a truly delicious dinner." 
Skinner set his fork atop his empty plate. "I haven't eaten 
this well in a very long time."

"Beats the rations Sergeant Dunham serves in the mess." Bill 
Jr. patted his belly.

"Thank you very much, gentlemen." Maggie smiled.  

Cap leaned back in his chair. "Cigars and cognac, boys?" 

Maggie stood and the men quickly rose to their feet. She waved 
them back to their seats. "I'll bring your cognac."

"Let me help you, Mother." Dana folded her napkin and pushed 
away from the table. 

Maggie apparently had a different plan in mind. "Dana, perhaps 
you and the lieutenant would like to take in the night air 
before the men retire with their cigars. There's a beautiful 
quarter moon out tonight." 

"Wonderful idea, dear." Cap's cheeks puffed with approval.

From the honey-laced tone of Maggie's voice and Cap's self-
satisfied smile, Dana suspected they had hatched this little 
plot days ago. 

"Plenty of time for cigars when you return, Lieutenant," Cap 
said. "Assuming you're amenable to a walk beneath the stars 
with my lovely daughter."  

"There's nothing I would enjoy more, sir." Skinner 
straightened to his full height, smoothed his jacket, and 
offered his arm. If he was party to their conspiracy, he did 
not show it. "Miss Scully? Would you do me the honor?"

"I... Yes, certainly. Thank you. Just...let me get my bonnet." 

She retreated quickly to her bedroom at the top of the stairs. 
Butterflies swarmed her stomach as she fumbled with the 
ribbons of her straw Fanchon. Her hands shook so badly, it 
took three false starts before she managed to tie a decent bow 
beneath her chin. Her nervousness surprised her. She could cut 
into living flesh without flinching, or calmly dispute 
questionable medical practices with a roomful of veteran 
surgeons, and yet the prospect of a short stroll in the 
moonlight with the lieutenant had her quaking like a rabbit.

"Steady yourself," she said to her reflection in the mirror 
above the bureau. "He's just a man."

The man her father had chosen to be her husband, she thought 
with trepidation. What was she getting herself into? Charlie 
had described Skinner as an upright sort, bound by duty and 
honor, and he seemed to be exactly that. Would he expect 
similarly strict behavior from her and, if so, could she be 
that sort of person? Suppose he was controlling in the 
extreme, a traditionalist, who would not abide a wife working 
outside the home. What then? 

In truth, she knew practically nothing about him and yet here 
she was anticipating the worst. Find out who he really is, she 
chided herself, before casting him in the role of dictatorial 
tyrant. A physician does not prescribe treatment before 
performing an exam. He bases his diagnosis on facts, not 
hearsay. Skinner deserved equal consideration. She would not 
pass judgment until she learned more about him firsthand.

Tugging on her gloves, she took a deep breath and headed 
downstairs to the front entry where Skinner waited, hat in 
hand. Charlie stood beside him, grinning like a court jester. 

"Have fun, you two." Charlie kissed Dana lightly on the cheek. 
He smelled of brilliantine, the perfumed oil he used to tame 
his unruly hair. Before pulling away, he whispered into her 
ear, "To hell with propriety, Sis?" 

Her face heated at the memory of her words, uttered just days 
ago in a moment of frustration.   

She decided to ignore his remark and slipped her arm through 
Skinner's.

The lieutenant led her across the front porch and out onto the 
quadrangle. A cool breeze carried the murky scent of the river 
and the tang of prairie grass. They walked without speaking. 
Overhead, stars twinkled like gold dust in a dark mountain 
stream. Crickets chirped in the weeds, trying to attract 
potential mates, their cadence at odds with the rhythm of a 
melody that drifted across the green from the enlisted men's 
quarters. A young trooper was entertaining a gathering of his 
fellow soldiers on the barrack's boardwalk. He sang "Rock Me 
to Sleep, Mother" a capella, his voice as faultless as an 
angel: "Slumber’s soft charms o’er my heavy lids creep. Rock 
me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep."

"Dinner was delicious," Skinner said, clearing his throat. 
"You're a fine cook, Miss Scully."

"Not really. Mother and Millie prepared the lion's share of 
the meal."

"But you helped...I imagine."

"With only one dish."

"Oh." His brow creased and the muscles of his arm tensed 
beneath her hand. He was an imposing man, taller than her by a 
head, and immaculately dressed, just as he had been the day 
they first met. His cuffs and collar were spotless. His brass 
buttons and polished scabbard gleamed as brightly as the moon. 
He worked his jaw as he struggled to find his next words. 
After a moment, he asked, "Which one?"

"Pardon?"

"Which dish did you prepare?"

"Oh...the bread sauce," she said, feeling a blush creep up her 
neck. Her mediocre culinary skills were a running joke in the 
family, but at the moment she saw no humor in her lack of 
domestic talent. For the first time, she felt embarrassed by 
it. And irritated by her embarrassment. She was a doctor, not 
a housekeeper. A good one, too. She did not wish to have her 
character judged on a single pot of burnt bread sauce.

He tugged at his collar. Adjusted his glasses. "Ah. Well. 
It...it was excellent." 

"It was scorched, Lieutenant. It tasted like charcoal." 

"That's...exactly the way I like it." His voice remained 
gruff, but his brief smile appeared genuine. 

They sauntered across the parade ground toward the main gate. 
No light shone in the windows of the Flatwillow Picayune. The 
smithy's anvil stood silent in front of the forge. The Indian 
gate, where Fox Mulder had abandoned his pelts at Cap's feet a 
few days earlier, was shut tight. 

"Why does your friend Mr. Mulder supply guns to the Indians?" 
she asked, searching for a topic of conversation and curious 
about "Crazy Fox," the unorthodox man who lived alone in the 
mountains and dared spurn society's rules.

"He believes we don't belong here."

"The Army?"

"White men in general."

It seemed an odd point of view. "And you? What do you 
believe?"

"Whatever my superiors tell me to believe." Another brief 
smile accompanied his comment.

"You're not entitled to your own opinion?"

"A soldier either agrees with his superiors, Miss Scully, or 
he keeps his mouth shut. Which is precisely why Mulder is no 
longer a soldier."

"Was he discharged for insubordination?"

"Not exactly. After we fought the Mexicans, he decided it was 
best to retire from military service. He spent a few years 
traveling abroad. Eventually, he ended up here."

Skinner steered her past the blockhouse and out the fort's 
main gate, nodding solemnly at the two soldiers who stood 
guard. Gravel crunched underfoot as they continued along the 
dirt road to the river. The call of night herons pierced the 
dark with their startling qua-quak-quark! The odor of silt and 
decaying vegetation hung heavily in the air. The river 
reflected the Milky Way and, to the west, snowy mountain peaks 
glistened in the moonlight like St. Elmo's fire.

The dock was deserted, the Dauntless no longer moored there, 
having set out for St. Louis several days ago. The solitude 
made Dana nervous. Cap apparently trusted Lieutenant Skinner 
to keep her safe, but etiquette required they be accompanied 
by a trustworthy chaperone, to protect her virtue and her 
reputation.

“We’re out of view of the guards at gate,” she warned.

“Don’t worry; the Indians won’t bother us here,” he said, 
mistaking her concern.  

The moon's reflection rippled and bobbed in the river; a slow 
current sloshed against the shore. The heels of Skinner's 
boots thudded hollowly against the wooden planks as they 
walked the length of the pier. 

He stopped at the edge and, for several minutes, said nothing 
as he took in the magnificent view. Dana found herself doing 
the same, spellbound by the scale of the mountains. Limestone 
cliffs rose thousands of feet above the plain, like a massive 
fortress, forbidding and mysterious. At such close range, they 
filled her field of vision, seemed to loom over her. Feeling 
momentarily overwhelmed, she clung more tightly to Skinner's 
arm. For the first time since girlhood, she felt the need for 
a strong, male protector and was grateful for the lieutenant's 
guardianship.

"I've been looking forward to making your acquaintance for 
some time, Miss Scully," he said, evidently misreading her 
iron grip.  

"Have you?"

"I believe your father told you that I'm interested 
in...um..." He removed his hat. "What I mean to say is...I've 
been a widower for six years..."

Her hands began their silly quaking again.

"Are you cold, Miss Scully?" 

Before she could say she was fine, he unbuttoned his 
frockcoat. Juggling his hat from hand to hand, he shrugged out 
of his sleeves and, once freed, draped the coat over her 
shoulders. It carried the heat of his body and held his spicy 
scent, a heady mix of Bay Rum shaving soap, Virginia tobacco, 
horse hide, and male sweat. 

"Better?"

"Yes, thank you." The coat felt like an embrace, overly 
intimate, yet comforting and welcome. The mountains seemed to 
retreat a little. 

"What was I saying?" he asked after a moment.

"You mentioned you are a widower. If you don't mind my asking, 
what was she like?"

“My wife?”

Dana nodded.

"Liddiah was...selfless. Mannerly." He paused, appearing to 
choose his words with care. "A loving mother to our sons. 
Considerate to me."

A biddable woman, in other words. Not at all like me, Dana 
thought miserably, anticipating the lieutenant's 
disappointment. And her father's. "You must miss her very 
much."

"It is my greatest regret I couldn't be with her at the end. 
Twelve years of marriage and the number of days we spent in 
one another's company would scarcely add up to a month's 
time."

This surprised her. She assumed he had lived with his wife in 
an officer's house much like her parents'. "You never 
considered bringing her with you?"

"No, no. I've traveled from battlefront to battlefront since I 
was sixteen. I am content to live in the worst conditions. A 
place like this," -- he gestured broadly with his hat -- "is 
fine for a soldier, but for a lady, well, it didn't seem 
suitable at the time."

She detected doubt in his tone. "You've changed your mind?"

"Let's say I'm not as certain as I once was, about a lot of 
things." He stepped away from her to stare down at the star-
speckled water. "In Liddiah's final letter, she confessed to 
me that she often sat on our back porch after tucking the boys 
into bed. She sometimes waited there a few minutes, sometimes 
until dawn, all the while looking westward, watching, hoping I 
might miraculously appear out of the darkness. She said she 
imagined me marching from the woods, crossing the swale that 
bounded our property, and climbing the porch steps to join her 
on the bench there. Of course, I never did." 

"You were doing your job."

"Knowing that does little to console me now. I learned later 
from Agatha, our housekeeper, that Liddiah passed away on that 
porch bench. Her last night on earth was spent waiting for me 
to return."

Tears pricked Dana’s eyes. "How very sad."

"Yes. My absence hurt her and her pain was not eased by my 
infrequent and brief homecomings. She was alone most of our 
married life. Lonely, too, in spite of the boys, I think. The 
fault was mine."

"You are too hard on yourself." She stepped closer and linked 
her arm with his once more.

"And you are very kind." He patted her gloved hand. "Might you 
consider calling me Walter?"

"Are we so well acquainted already?"

Two ruddy splotches appeared high on his cheeks. "No, perhaps 
not. I'm sorry if I'm being too forward, Miss Scully. I've 
never been one to waste time or mince words. And I thought... 
Your father relayed my intentions, did he not?"

Indeed, Cap's letter had been very clear on the subject. He 
had hand-picked this man to be her husband. He had also 
implied she would accept the lieutenant's proposal no matter 
what her personal feelings might be. But were they to discuss 
marriage already? 

"Lieutenant, please, we have only just met."

Disappointment shadowed his eyes. "You're right, of course. 
Pardon my presumption." 

She immediately regretted cutting him off. They had just met, 
it was true, but what was the point of putting off the 
subject? Her father wanted her to marry the lieutenant and 
Skinner was obviously amenable to the idea. She had traveled 
all this way to meet him. They should become familiar, find 
out whether or not they were well-matched, before her father 
started making arrangements with a preacher or her mother 
began altering her wedding gown to fit Dana.  

"Walter..." It felt strange to call him by his Christian name 
so soon, but she was determined to press on, learn as much as 
she could about him. Equally important, she wanted him to 
understand her. She had vowed to be honest with Cap. The man 
who might one day be her husband deserved no less. "Walter, 
you say you are not one to waste time or mince words. Well, 
neither am I. So, given our similar attitudes, I think you 
should know that I plan to practice medicine here at the fort, 
even after I marry...should I marry...anyone. What I mean to 
say is...what I *am* saying is..."

He looked as confused as she felt. 

She took a deep breath. "At day's end, my doctor's apron will 
be stained with blood and vomit, and I will reek of disease 
and decayed flesh. If you are looking for a wife who prefers 
ribbons and lace to bandages and bedpans, you would do well to 
look elsewhere. Any husband of mine will require a tolerant 
nature and a very strong stomach." 

His eyes widened behind his spectacles. "Well. I see you are a 
woman who speaks her mind."

"I am. Yes. And if you find my forthrightness disagreeable--"

"Not disagreeable...not exactly..."

"No? Then what is your impression?"

He seemed at a loss.

"My father didn't mention my desire to work, did he?" she 
asked.

"No. Captain Scully said you were away at school, but he 
didn't elaborate."

"And you didn't think to question him?"

"He is my superior officer, Miss Scully."

"Yes, of course. I see. You are not allowed to state your 
opinions or, apparently, ask questions either." Her jab was 
perhaps unfair, but she felt compelled to voice her 
frustration. "We are in the same boat then."

"How do you mean?" 

"You are restrained by rank and military protocol; I am 
restrained by the rules of society. There is a distinct and 
important difference in our situations, however."

"Which would be...?"

"You chose your position, Lieutenant, whereas I did not." 

It took him a moment to respond. When he did, he spoke softly, 
but firmly. "I don't believe that is our only difference."

She fought the urge to remove her hand from his arm. "I have a 
medical degree and, married or not, I plan to practice 
medicine. Tell me plainly, here and now, how you feel about 
that." 

The muscles of his jaw tightened. His fingers worried the brim 
of his hat, nearly crushing it.  

"Surely you can offer an opinion on this, Lieutenant, without 
first checking with your superior officer. Or am I wrong in 
that assumption, too?" She was being rude, she knew, but she 
had to know if he supported her decision to be a doctor or 
not.  

Anger sparked in his eyes as he struggled to keep his temper. 
"I think it's acceptable for a woman who is without means to 
work in an appropriate profession."

"And what professions do you deem 'appropriate' for women?"

"Typical feminine vocations, naturally, like governess, or 
seamstress, or cook."

"But not doctor?"

A sigh chuffed from his nose. "Miss Scully, your father 
provides for you, does he not?" It was a rhetorical question 
evidently, because he continued without pause. "He paid for 
your education. For the clothes you are wearing. For the 
dinner we just enjoyed. And I would...what I mean to say 
is...your future husband would provide these things for you 
after you are married."

"Suppose I want to provide for myself."

"But there is no need!"  

"There is desire, sir!" The last of her patience evaporated. 
"There is...desire!" 

His patience was apparently spent, too, for he hooked a 
muscled arm around her waist, hauled her to him, and pressed 
his lips firmly against hers. 

His scent flooded her sinuses; his taste skated across her 
tongue. He tightened his embrace and the heat of his body 
seemed to sear her from breastbone to belly. Gooseflesh 
prickled her skin. Her pulse quickened, thundered in her ears. 
She fought to breathe...to think. It had been months since she 
last felt this way. In Daniel Waterston's arms. Another 
illicit kiss that had nearly been her undoing.

A whimper escaped her throat. She pushed with weakened arms 
against his broad chest. 

He released her immediately and stumbled back a step. "Desire 
indeed, Miss Scully, on both our parts, so it would seem." He 
straightened his frockcoat. "And might I point out, I did not 
seek my captain's permission before expressing my feelings on 
this particular subject." 

She blinked at him, shocked by his daring. Shocked even more 
by her own yearning to be taken in his arms and kissed yet 
again. Before she could surrender to her reckless passion, she 
mumbled, "Excuse me," and lurched away on wobbly legs. She ran 
toward the house, ignoring his concerned shouts. At the fort's 
main gate, his coat slipped from her shoulders and she left it 
lying in the dusty road.

By the time she reached her father's front porch, she was 
gasping for breath. She fumbled with the latch, pushed her way 
into the house, and ran smack into Charlie. 

"Dana, what is it? What's happened?" Concern peaked his brows.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"Clearly, you're not."

"I am." She gave him a pleading look. "Please, don't say 
anything about this to father."

"Anything about what?" Cap appeared in the hall from the 
dining room. Bill Jr. followed closely at his heels. "Where is 
Lieutenant Skinner? Dana? I'm waiting for an answer!" 

-------

Chapter 6


"I demand to know what’s happened!" Cap clutched Dana's upper 
arm. A mix of fear and outrage darkened his face. "Where is 
Skinner?"

"If he has taken liberties..." Bill Jr. balled his fists and 
looked angry enough to punch a hole through a wall.

"I'm here," Skinner said from beyond the open front door. He 
clutched his dusty coat to his chest. His face glistened with 
sweat.

Cap tightened his grip on Dana. She panicked. Wrenching free, 
she pushed past her brothers, and bolted up the front 
staircase to her bedroom. 

Inside, she slammed the door behind her. She leaned heavily 
against it and, gulping air into her lungs, tried to decide 
what to do next. Pack her trunk and demand that Charlie escort 
her back to New York? Or maybe she should head to Georgia, 
where she had intended to go in the first place. 

She crossed to the washstand to turn up the flame in the oil 
lamp. Its dim glow did little to illuminate the room's 
shadows or her uncertain state of mind. She opened the 
wardrobe, grabbed an armload of dresses, and dumped them onto 
the bed.

One by one, she hurriedly folded skirts and shirtwaists, 
readying them for her travel trunk, wondering when the 
Dauntless was due to return to the fort. Her father would try 
to talk her out of going...after he lectured her about her 
recklessness and loose morals. He would compare her scandalous 
behavior to Melissa’s. "I am determined not to lose you as we 
have lost her," he had written in his letter. But would he 
feel the same after he heard she had kissed Lieutenant 
Skinner? Was the lieutenant describing what had happened 
between them right now?  

A knock on the door startled her, causing her to drop the 
chemisette she was folding.  

"Dana, may I come in, please?" her mother asked from the outer 
hall, her voice thin with worry. 

"I'm fine, Mother. I just need a few minutes to myself." She 
grabbed the chemisette from the braided rug and tried to 
refold it, but it bunched beneath her numbed hands, stubbornly 
refusing to lay flat.

"Please, sweetheart," Maggie pleaded. "I need to know you're 
all right."

Her mother's urgent tone pierced her heart. What was she 
doing, packing her things and running away? Her family loved 
her. They wanted what was best for her. Yet she seemed bent on 
defying -- and disappointing -- them at every turn. Just as 
Melissa had done. She balled up the chemisette and threw it 
onto the bed. Reluctantly, she opened the door.

Maggie's gaze darted past her to the pile of clothes. Her 
expression hardened. She stepped into the room and quietly 
closed the door behind her.  

Mouth gone suddenly dry, Dana felt like a small child again, 
caught stealing a slice of Bill Jr.'s birthday cake. She sank 
onto the bed and plucked at the patterned quilt. Her fingers 
grazed a familiar patch of fabric, soft red wool from a coat 
she had owned as a child, lovingly stitched by her mother 
years ago. Her throat tightened. "I'm fine, Mom. Really."

Maggie sat down beside her and took hold of her hand. "Tell me 
the truth." She stroked Dana's fingers. "It's obvious you're 
upset. Did the lieutenant overstep his bounds?"

"No. Yes. Maybe." 

"Which is it?"

Dana lowered her eyes. "We kissed."

Maggie's hand went still. "I see."

"Only once." 

"Only...? Dana, he had no right to kiss you at all! Not until 
you are formally engaged. Your father will be furious."  

"The fault wasn't entirely the lieutenant’s."

"A gentleman doesn’t take advantage of a lady under any 
circumstances, Dana. To think we trusted this man."

"Mother, listen to me, please. I didn’t mind it. I...I kind of 
liked it."

Maggie released her hand. Disapproval furrowed her brow. She 
stood and began to pace.

"Is it so terrible to want to kiss a man?" Dana asked.

"Yes, if he is not your husband. And Lieutenant Skinner is not 
your husband, not yet."

"Are you telling me you never kissed a man before you married 
Father?"

“Of course not!”

“Didn’t you want to?”

Maggie crossed her arms and glared at Dana. "Wanting and doing 
are two very different things and you know it. We talked about 
this before you left for college. A woman must control her 
passions."

"It seems society prefers we have no passions at all."

Maggie ignored her comment and continued to pace. "We'll plan 
for a short engagement and a September wedding. A month should 
give Mrs. Etherage time to alter my gown."

Dana could not believe what she was hearing. 

"Blanketflower will be in bloom," her mother went on, "and 
mountain bluebells. They'll make an acceptable bouquet--" 

"Mother, stop."

"The hog will be ready for slaughter by then. We could serve 
pork with turnip. Or maybe roast grouse and vol-au-vent of 
greengages. Which do you think? Fruit jolly would go well in 
either case."

Dana stood and headed for the door. The situation was getting 
out of hand. She had to straighten things out immediately. 
"I'm going to talk to the lieutenant."

Maggie cut her off. "Absolutely not. Your father will talk to 
him and they'll come to an understanding."

"What sort of understanding? If they’re discussing my future, 
I would prefer to be there to speak on my own behalf."

"That's not the way it's done." Maggie reached out and patted 
Dana's arm. She smiled for the first time since entering the 
room. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Everything will work out for 
the best...just a little sooner than we anticipated."

"I'm not marrying Lieutenant Skinner, Mother. I won't. I 
can't. We're practically strangers."

"You just kissed him, Dana. You can hardly consider him a 
stranger now."

"But I don't love him. I barely know him."

"Pish-posh. You wouldn't be the first woman to marry a man she 
barely knows, believe me. Love will come. You’ll just have to 
work a little harder at it."


*   *   * 

Downstairs, Skinner stepped into the hall to confront the 
Scully men. 

Bill Jr. shouldered past the Captain to poke Skinner in the 
chest with an accusing finger. The smell of cabernet rolled 
off his breath and Skinner hoped he was not drunk.   

"I've known you a long time, Walter." Bill Jr. was a big man 
with fists like bricks. Skinner had seen him drop a man with a 
single punch...on more than one occasion. "Tell me you didn't 
lay a hand on my sister."  

Skinner met his steely gaze, but addressed the Captain. 
"Permission to speak with you, sir...in private."

Bill Jr.'s eyes narrowed. "You son of a bitch." He pulled back 
for a punch.

"Stand down!" Captain Scully grabbed his son's sleeve and 
stopped him mid-swing. "I'll handle this."

Bill Jr.'s nostrils flared; he lifted his chin and 
straightened to his full height. He appeared ready to fight 
his father for the right to beat the life out of Skinner. 

Skinner felt guilty enough to let him do it, too. He should 
not have kissed Miss Scully. It was unpardonable. And 
completely unlike him to lose control like that. What had 
prompted such loutish behavior? Her beauty? His desire? No, it 
was something more than that; it was the fire in her eyes when 
she dared him to speak his mind. Like a match to gunpowder, 
the challenge had set him ablaze. For the first time in 
decades, he had acted without deliberation. A mistake, 
clearly. What must she think of him? What must these men –- 
her brothers, her father –- think?

Captain Scully was glowering at Bill Jr. for the moment. "I 
repeat, stand down, soldier. That's an order." His tone defied 
argument. 

Disappointment huffed from Bill Jr.'s nose, but he surrendered 
to his father's will and rank.

"Outside, Lieutenant," the Captain commanded Skinner.

"Yes, sir." Skinner tried to hide his nervousness as he walked 
out onto the porch ahead of the Captain. He threw on his coat 
and quickly buttoned it up to the neck.

Behind him, the door snicked shut. Captain Scully crossed the 
porch with thudding steps, passed him without a sideward 
glance, his face scarlet, his jaw set. Righteous indignation 
poured off him like steam from a smithy's forge. He stood at 
the edge of the porch and removed a cigar and a match from his 
coat pocket. He said nothing, clearly trying to rein in his 
temper as he lit his cigar. 

He puffed slowly, sending the aroma of smoldering tobacco into 
the night air. Skinner wished the circumstances were more 
congenial and they were sharing the pleasure of a fine smoke, 
as they had done several months earlier when they came to an 
agreement about Dana.    

"Did you take liberties with my daughter?" the captain asked 
bluntly. 

"On my honor, sir, I only kissed her." 

"Your honor? What about my daughter's honor?" Captain Scully 
tossed his unfinished cigar to the ground. It sparked as it 
hit the dust. "I trusted you, soldier. We had an agreement."

"And I have every intention of honoring that agreement, sir. 
This changes nothing."

"It changes everything, most especially my opinion of you."

Captain Scully stepped off the porch into the street. Hands 
clasped behind his back, he gazed up at the sky. The moon 
glowed dully behind a thin overcast. He rocked on the balls of 
his feet.

"Let me tell you a story, Lieutenant. When Dana was six, she 
begged me to let her go riding with her brother Bill, who had 
become quite an accomplished horseman by then. I put her off, 
saying she was too young, but she was relentless. For weeks, 
she pestered me almost daily about it. Finally, when she 
turned seven, I acquiesced. Against my better judgment." 
Mosquitoes swarmed around Captain Scully's head. He ignored 
their buzzing. "The horse I chose for her was gentle and old, 
and not easily spooked. But as fate would have it, moments 
after Dana climbed onto his back, a blast of cannon from a 
nearby practice field startled the horse and he took off at a 
gallop. I was terrified for my little girl. I quickly mounted 
my own horse and rode after her. Dana hung on bravely and I 
managed to get within arm's reach. But before I could grab the 
reins and slow her horse, it jumped a small stream. Dana was 
thrown from the saddle. She landed in the grass and didn't 
move. I dismounted and ran to her, my heart in my throat, my 
worst fears realized. I lifted her motionless body in my arms. 
She wasn't breathing. I prayed to God to save her. I promised 
Him that if He let her live, I would be a better father. More 
vigilant. Stricter than I had been before, for my child's 
sake." Captain Scully plucked a mosquito from the back of his 
neck. Its legs writhed as it tried to escape the pinch of his 
fingers. Its belly was fat with blood. He watched it struggle 
for a moment before continuing his story. "God heard and 
answered my prayers, obviously. Dana had the wind knocked out 
of her. Her arm was broken. But she survived. Since that day, 
I have worked to keep my promise to God and, as He is my 
witness, I will continue to do so until I draw my last breath. 
I will protect my daughter, Lieutenant, from any and all 
sources of harm." He crushed the bug between his thumb and 
forefinger. Blood burst from its innards onto his hand. He 
dropped it to the ground and pinned Skinner with a threatening 
stare. "Do you grasp my meaning, Lieutenant?" 

Skinner swallowed hard. "Yes, sir. I understand. I am a 
father, too. I do what I can to keep my boys healthy and 
safe."

"Indeed, but it is different with girls than with boys." 
Captain Scully raised an eyebrow at Skinner. "On the day a 
daughter is born, she becomes her father's most precious 
possession, as Dana is mine. You can't help but adore her, 
nurture her, spoil her too much. You are the most important 
person in her limited world. You are her provider and 
protector. Her hero. She looks up at you with deep, pure love 
in her eyes. It changes you, Lieutenant. Forever." 

"Yes, sir. I hope to experience it myself one day, God 
willing."

"Mm." Captain Scully's face was returning to a more normal 
color. He sauntered away from the house, down the 
thoroughfare.  

Skinner kept pace and tried not to think about his stroll 
along this very path with Dana just minutes ago. His lips 
still tingled where he had pressed them to hers. Her taste 
remained sweet on his tongue.

"You overstepped your bounds," the captain said, as if reading 
his mind. "Your conduct was unbefitting an officer and a 
gentleman.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have an explanation?”

“No, sir.” It was true. His manners had been abominable. There 
was no legitimate excuse for such inappropriate behavior.

“Well, I am very disappointed in you."

"Yes, sir. I offer my sincerest apologies, to you and your 
daughter."

"That may be, but I'm not ready to forgive you just yet. We 
must settle Dana's future first. Given the circumstances, I 
feel we need to act quickly. We must move up the wedding date. 
Sometime in September, or even later this month, if it suits 
you." 

"Whenever you decide, sir, only..."

"Is there a problem?"

"Possibly."

Captain Scully stopped walking and faced Skinner. "Out with 
it."

"Miss Scully mentioned she wanted to practice medicine...after 
she marries."

"You discussed marriage with her already? Your boldness is 
without bounds!"

"We talked only in the most general terms, sir."

"Yet this general conversation of yours somehow led to a 
kiss."  

Skinner felt his patience slipping away. The captain's 
irritation seemed unwarranted, given the fact he had kept Miss 
Scully's avocation a secret. "Were you aware of your 
daughter's desire to practice medicine, sir?"

"She mentioned it, of course, but I saw no reason to take it 
seriously."

"She seems quite set on it."

"Dana can be headstrong at times, I know. But given adequate 
guidance, her character can be molded. She requires a little 
managing, is all."

"You led me to believe she was a biddable woman."

"Oh, she is, Lieutenant! With proper supervision, she will 
blossom. She'll make a fine wife. And a good mother to your 
children. I am confident you can restrain her occasional 
whims. After all, you are adept at controlling our enlisted 
men and they are far more troublesome than any woman could 
possibly be."

Skinner was not sure he wanted to change Dana Scully, even if 
he could. He admired her obvious intelligence and found her 
fiery spirit surprisingly alluring.    

"Well then." He brushed a streak of dust from the breast of 
his frockcoat. "We still have an agreement? I have permission 
to marry your daughter?"

"Indeed. As long as you promise to behave more like a 
gentleman from now until you are wed."

"On that, sir, you have my word."

"Then I shall visit Reverend McGill to schedule the ceremony. 
When will you propose to Dana?"

"At the soonest opportunity. Tomorrow, if she'll accept my 
call."

"I'll see to it she does." 


*   *   * 

Thunder rumbled in the pre-dawn as Mulder steered his horse 
along the north rim of Buffalo Jump. The wind carried the 
dusty scent of bitterroot and sage. Prickly pear dotted the 
landscape, poking up between wild flowers and needle grass. 

"Whoa, Ponoká." He pulled back on the reins. The horse stopped 
short of the precipice, tossed its head, and snorted. 

Buffalo Jump, black and seemingly bottomless, yawned before 
him. The 300-meter-long, 10-meter-high pit had been used by 
the Indians to hunt buffalo for centuries. They drove large 
herds across the grassy highlands toward the hidden ravine, 
funneling them at a full gallop through drive lanes marked by 
rock cairns. The panicked beasts, realizing the danger too 
late, hurtled over the precipice into the gorge. Some died 
instantly, but most merely collapsed on broken legs. 
Immobilized, they became easy prey for the hunters.

Mulder slid from his saddle and let the reins hang so the 
horse could graze while he recovered the gunpowder and 
percussion caps from their hiding place in the ravine below. 
Walking to the overhang, he looked for the way down and, not 
for the first time, wondered about the identity of his unknown 
accomplice, the man who regularly supplied him with weapons 
and ammunition. He had nicknamed this helper "The Eye," after 
Allan Pinkerton, head of General McClellan's now defunct 
secret service. Mulder had worked as one of Pinkerton's spies 
for nearly a year after his return from Europe. He found he 
was skilled at ferreting out intelligence on Confederate 
battle plans, troop movements, and supplies. But then 
McClellan was removed from command in '62 and Pinkerton 
resigned his position and returned to Chicago. Mulder decided 
to move west, too, to search for Samantha instead of 
secessionist sympathizers.

It was while he was looking for his sister that Mulder 
discovered a secondary mission: helping the Indians survive 
the Army's relentless attacks. The Eye had proven an 
invaluable ally, if a secret one. He not only supplied 
weapons, but provided military intelligence as well. The 
outcome at Grass Creek would have been far worse if not for an 
advance warning from The Eye.

A steep washout made a serviceable path down into the ravine. 
Mulder followed it, sliding as he went, kicking up loose 
gravel. Pebbles bounced on the rocky incline and rained with a 
hollow clatter onto the piles of bones below.

Tens of thousands of buffalo bones, bleached white by decades 
of sun, clogged the basin. Difficult to get to and riddled 
with nooks and crannies large enough to conceal weapons and 
ammunition, they made a perfect hiding place. 

After a few minutes of searching, Mulder located the items The 
Eye had left for him. He was pleased to find a rifle there, 
too -- an Enfield, practically new. It would replace the one 
he had lost to Cuts To Pieces. 

He scrambled back up the slope to the top of the cliff and 
whistled for his horse. Ponoká trotted to him, grass hanging 
from his mouth. "Good boy." Mulder patted the horse's flank, 
then slipped the Enfield into his carbine boot. He tucked the 
can of gunpowder and the blasting caps into the saddlebags. 

"Only one more stop, I promise," he told the horse as he 
fitted a moccasin into the stirrup and hoisted himself into 
the saddle.

The wind gusted, stirring up a dust devil. Mulder's long hair 
writhed. Another roll of thunder echoed through the hills. 

If the storm held off, he could make it to Culbertson, deliver 
Red Crow's medallion to Captain Scully, and be back in his 
cabin by midday. He touched the reins to the horse's neck, 
turning him toward the fort. 

*   *   *

Dana rose at daybreak and dressed in her riding habit and low-
heeled boots. She had barely slept a wink all night. Plagued 
by the events of the previous evening, she had alternately 
tossed beneath her covers and paced her room. An early morning 
ride would help calm her nerves before she had to face Cap.

He had sent Millie to her room late last night with a message. 

"Captain said to report to his study at oh-eight-hundred, 
sharp."

I'm not one of his soldiers, Dana had wanted to say, but 
instead simply thanked Millie and quietly shut her door.

The clock on her vanity chimed the half-hour. Six-thirty -- 
plenty of time for a quick outing. She hastily twisted her 
hair into a chignon, pinned on a feather-trimmed riding hat, 
and tugged on her sporting gloves.

She tiptoed down the stairs, careful to avoid the warped board 
on the bottommost step, which tended to squeak. Silently, she 
lifted the latch on the front door and slipped outside. To her 
relief, no one had seen her or tried to stop her.

Her skirt and petticoats gathered dew as she crossed the 
grassy quadrangle on her way to the livery. Lanterns burned in 
the windows of the enlisted men's quarters across the parade 
ground. The soldiers would be out and about soon. She hastened 
her step.

She entered the livery through its open, double doors and 
headed down the center aisle in search of the tack room. The 
horses shifted noisily in their stalls, turning to watch as 
she marched past. Soft lantern light spilled onto the dirt 
floor at the far end of the barn. She headed toward it, 
guessing she would find a stablehand there oiling saddles and 
polishing brasses, in preparation for the day's maneuvers.

A runty, disheveled young soldier nearly ran her down when he 
pushed a wheelbarrow of fresh manure out of a stall and into 
her path. 

"Oh! Sorry, miss!" He smiled shyly, showing a broken eyetooth. 
Pimples spotted his beardless chin. "Didn't expect to see no 
one at this hour. 'Specially not no lady. Can I help you with 
somethin'?"

"I'd be grateful if you'd point the way to the tack room." 

"You goin' for a ride?"

"Yes, I am."

"It's mighty early, miss, if you don't mind my sayin'. Sun's 
just comin’ up."

"I enjoy riding early in the day, Private...?"

"Name's Lewis Strum, miss." He tipped his cap and grinned, not 
moving out from behind his load of steaming manure.

"Are the saddles this way, Private Strum?" She started toward 
the lantern light.

"Yes'm, but let me get that for you." The private launched 
into motion at last. He hurried past her. "It'll take me just 
two shakes of a donkey's diddler -- oh, sorry!" His face 
reddened. "Pardon my language, miss. I'm not...I mean...I 
don't--" 

"It's all right, Private. I've heard worse." In fact, she 
would likely hear far worse from Cap in about an hour's time.

"Oh, well then, um, you wait here. I'll just be... I'll be 
right back."

While Lewis fetched the riding gear, Dana inspected the 
horses. A tovero with blue eyes and medicine hat markings 
caught her attention. She held out her gloved hand and the 
mare nuzzled her palm.

"Ain't she somethin'?" Lewis reappeared, gear in hand. 
"Prettiest gal in here, 'ceptin' yourself, a course. Unhook 
that gate and I'll saddle her up for you."

"No need, Private Strum, I can do it my--"

"Wouldn't dream of making you wade through all that sh-- Dang, 
guess I ain't used to talkin' to a lady. The gals over to the 
brothel, well, they don't mind a guy sayin' any ol' thing, 
like...um... well... I should just saddle that horse now, 
huh?" 

"Please." She unlatched the stall door and swung it open. 

He shuffled past, nudged the mare aside, and placed the saddle 
atop the half-wall between the stalls. "Sorry we ain't got no 
sidesaddles, miss." He hung the bridle on a nearby hook and 
smoothed a blue, wool blanket over the horse's back.

"A regulation saddle will be fine, Private. I often ride one."

"You do?" His gaze dropped to her skirt. He licked his lips.

She crossed her arms. "Are you sure I can't help with that?" 

"No, no, I got it. Take me just two shakes-- Oops, almost done 
it again! My apologies." His eyes never left her as he hoisted 
the saddle into place. He hastily cinched the girth, then 
slipped the bridled over the horse's nose and fitted the bit 
to its mouth. "All set, miss." He handed her the reins.

She led the tovero outside and mounted, ignoring Private 
Strum's blatant stare. 

The guards at Culbertson's front gate seemed no less shocked 
to see her sitting astride a horse like a man. They watched 
with wide eyes and hanging jaws as she rode past, but did 
nothing to stop her.

A northerly wind battered the tepees around the fort, shaking 
their frames and slapping the loose hide coverings. A storm 
was brewing. Ruddy clouds rode the sky like red-sailed 
schooners. Thunder rattled in the distance. 

Dana rode on, following the river's snaking path to the 
mountains, confident the storm was miles away yet. In any 
event, she had no intention of going far; being late to her 
father's lecture was not an option.   

She tried to clear her mind as she rode, setting aside her 
confusion over last night's kiss and the upheaval it had 
caused. She concentrated instead on the rhythm of the horse's 
hooves, the flap of her skirts, the push and tug of the 
swirling wind. Cresting the foothills, she lost sight of the 
fort, which suited her fine. 

The mountains loomed ahead. Wild and vast, they offered a 
temporary refuge, a respite from her father's judgment and her 
own uncertainty. She entertained the hope of finding an answer 
to her future atop the unfamiliar cliffs.

Climbing higher, she felt her troubles lift. For the moment, 
she was free.   

*   *   *

The first drops of rain fell as Mulder started down a 
switchback on Ptarmigan Hill. Lightning flashed to the north. 
He silently ticked off the seconds: one one-thousand, two one-
thousand, three one-thousand.... Thunder clapped on the count 
of five.

The storm was closing in faster than he had anticipated. The 
skies would open before he could reach the fort.

"I say we head home, Ponoká." He guided the horse along a 
rocky embankment. "What do you say?"

He was about to turn off the trail and head west to his cabin 
on Nine Pipe Ridge when he spotted a rider in the gulch below. 

"I'll be damned."

It was a woman. Captain Scully's red-haired daughter, to be 
precise. She was riding a showy tovero and, despite her long 
skirt, she sat in the saddle like a man. 

Rain began to fall harder. The wind lashed at Miss Scully's 
wet clothes. Every now and again, she clamped a gloved hand 
over her hat to keep it from blowing away. Yet she picked her 
way steadily around boulders and pines, climbing ever higher 
up the steep switchback. 

"Must be lost," Mulder murmured. "Guess we should help her 
out, huh?" He urged his horse downhill with a click of his 
tongue.

A moment later, a sizzling bolt of lightning brought him up 
short. It struck a forty-foot lodgepole pine to Miss Scully's 
right. The crack of thunder was deafening. Ozone seared the 
air. Bark exploded from the tree. Burning branches crashed to 
the ground in a shower of sparks and flame. 

The tovero whinnied and reared. Eyes bulging, it pawed the 
air. The captain's daughter struggled to control her mount.

More lightning flashed. Thunder pummeled the mountains. The 
tovero pranced and bucked. Its saddle slipped to one side, the 
cinch apparently not fastened tightly enough. The captain's 
daughter was thrown off balance. Unseated, she fell from the 
horse. The trovero bolted.

To Mulder's horror he saw that Miss Scully's foot was caught 
in the stirrup. She was dragged several yards before her boot 
came off. Freed, she tumbled over a rock outcropping and out 
of sight. 

"Gettup!" Mulder dug his heels into Ponoká's sides. The 
horse's hooves skittered over wet rock and mud as he scrambled 
downhill. The tovero ran past, terrified, saddle swinging 
loosely beneath its belly. Mulder pushed his horse to go 
faster.

Ponoká careened and slid down the path. Rain fell in sheets. 
Blinking water from his eyes, Mulder spotted the woman lying 
sodden and unmoving in a heap between two boulders. 

He jumped from his horse and ran to her side. Her face was 
badly scratched. Blood oozed from her right temple into her 
eye. She had lost her hat, as well as a boot.   

"Miss Scully?" Was she breathing? He knelt beside her and 
placed a hand on her chest. He felt no rise. Frantic, he 
pressed an ear to her heart.

There was a beat. Relief flooded through him.

She stirred, eyelids fluttering. For a moment it seemed she 
saw him. But her eyes closed again. She moaned and mumbled 
something...a familiar phrase: inihkatsimat -- help -- the 
Blackfoot word he had taught her at the fort. She must think 
him an Indian...again.

"You're going to be fine, Miss Scully," he said, not sure he 
believed it. 

He lifted her in his arms and carried her to his horse. Ponoká 
stood patiently in the downpour while Mulder hoisted the 
unconscious woman into the saddle and climbed on behind her. 

Another flash of lightning sparked overhead. He had to get 
under cover, someplace safe where he could tend the woman's 
wounds. The fort was too far. The only option was his mountain 
cabin.

He spurred his horse and turned toward Nine Pipe Ridge. 


-------

Chapter 7

"Up you go, Sprout." Her father lifted her into the saddle.

It felt as if Dana could see all of Winneshiek County from Old 
Isaac's broad back. She scratched the horse behind his gray 
ears.

"Hold the reins properly. Like I taught you." Her father 
positioned her hands and tucked the leather straps beneath her 
fingers. 

Her feet barely reached the stirrups. She gasped when Isaac 
shifted his weight to twitch a fly from his withers.

"Maybe I should reattach the lunge line."

"No, Daddy! I'm not a baby anymore. You promised I could ride 
by myself this time."

"So I did." He looked her up and down, inspecting her posture. 
"Knees tight to the saddle. Heels down. Eyes ahead. You sure 
you're ready?"

"Yes!"

"Very well then..." He slapped Isaac's rump and the horse 
trotted off.

Remembering her lessons, Dana began to post, rising smoothly 
in the saddle with each jostling stride of the horse. It felt 
wonderful! It felt like flying!

"Don't leave my sight. And don't go beyond Jack Rowe's fence!" 
her father shouted from where he stood by his own horse, a 
Chickasaw named Black Dandy.

"I know," she called back.

She and Missy were never allowed beyond the fence. Fort 
Atkinson's battery set up artillery in Rowe's field, to shoot 
at targets made of hay bales. She could see the soldiers off 
in the distance now, positioning a smoothbore. Daddy had 
taught her to recognize the different cannons and, from knob 
to face, she could name all of their parts. But she was never, 
ever supposed to go near one unless he was with her.

The smoothbore lurched as it discharged. Smoke puffed from the 
muzzle. Seconds later, a loud bang echoed across the valley. 
Old Isaac broke into a canter. Dana was thrilled! She hung on 
tight, dug in her heels, and urged the horse to a gallop. The 
wind whipped the bonnet from her head. She had never ridden so 
fast. She laughed out loud. 

"Dana!" Her father's shout came from far behind her.

She turned to look over her shoulder, to tell him not to 
worry, that she was all right. But he was already speeding 
toward her on Black Dandy. He looked scared. And seeing him 
scared made her afraid, too, because nothing ever frightened 
her daddy.

Old Isaac sped across the meadow, faster than she would have 
thought possible. He headed toward a stream that flowed east 
to Turkey River. He intended to jump it, she realized with 
alarm. She had jumped rails in the practice ring, but nothing 
as wide as this.

She pulled back on the reins. Stubbornly, the horse refused to 
obey. He tossed his head and the reins jerked from her hands. 
They bounced out of reach.  

Clutching the horse's mane to keep from falling off, she 
glanced again in her father's direction. Inexplicably, he had 
disappeared from the meadow and a long-haired Indian on a 
painted stallion chased her in his place.

The world became a blur of green and blue as Isaac raced on. 
Ahead, the stream appeared as broad as a mill pond. 

"Help!" she called to the Indian.

At her cry, he leaned forward in his saddle and spurred his 
horse. Eagle feathers fluttered like panicked birds in his 
wind-whipped hair as he gained on Old Isaac. Soon the horses 
galloped side by side. Their thudding hooves sounded like 
thunder. The Indian reached for Isaac's flapping reins, but he 
was too late-- 

Isaac hurdled into the air and Dana was flung from the saddle. 
It seemed she fell forever, tumbling and rolling, snatching at 
branches as she slid down an embankment toward the stream. She 
splashed into the water and came to a jolting stop when she 
crashed headlong into a boulder.

Her skirt quickly soaked up water until it became so sodden 
she could not drag herself from the cold stream. Muddy and 
helpless, she searched the meadow for the Indian, but he was 
gone, vanished as mysteriously as her father and Black Dandy. 
Sitting on the flat above her, a lone fox with green eyes 
watched over her. 

*   *   *

Dana awoke from her nightmare with a gasp, and for one frantic 
moment feared she had been blinded by her fall; she could see 
nothing but black. 

Stay calm, she counseled, fighting both panic and a thick fog 
in her brain. Shifting slightly, she discovered she was lying 
on her side in a narrow bed, her right eye swollen nearly 
shut, her left pressed into a pillow that smelled of mildew 
and sweat. 

She shoved the pillow to the floor. The movement caused her 
head to swim and her stomach to roll, but her vision cleared, 
much to her relief.

Two small windows and a hurricane lantern on a coarsely-made 
table illuminated the room. Her surroundings were unfamiliar: 
a rustic log cabin, its walls chinked with mud and moss. 
Firelight flickered on a low ceiling, which was supported by 
enormous crossbeams. The bed was located several feet from the 
table, its headboard pressed against the wall and the foot 
sticking out into the room. A shaggy buffalo hide covered the 
mattress. A fire crackled behind her back, but did little to 
dispel the chill of her damp clothes. The air smelled of wood 
smoke, pine, and wet wool.

Snowshoes, leg traps, animal skins, fishing rods, axe handles, 
and other utilitarian objects lay strewn about the cabin. 
There were numerous native artifacts, too: fringed, hide 
garments with intricate embroidery, bows and arrows, rattles, 
drums, and long-stemmed pipes. Then there were the oddities, 
things so strange Dana wondered if she might still be 
dreaming: skulls of exotic animals, crystalline rocks of 
various sizes and shapes, brilliant feathers, ivory carvings, 
jars of powders, plaster casts of fantastical footprints. 

Most striking of all, however, were the pictures; dozens of 
photographs, sketches, newspaper clippings, and lithographs 
were tacked to the walls. A charcoal rubbing on a sheet of 
oversized parchment stood out among the rest. In it, a row of 
armless, human-like figures stood shoulder to shoulder. They 
had enormous heads and eyes like saucers. Short horns 
protruded from their round skulls. Circular objects with what 
appeared to be flames shooting from their undersides floated 
above them. Scrawled into the margin were the words 
"Petroglyph, Devil's Gulch, 13 October, 1863." 

Where in God's name was she? And who had brought her here?

Her body ached. Her head pounded. Her clothes were wet and 
muddy. Clearly, the fall from her horse had been more than a 
dream. But what of the Indian? Was he real, too, or just a 
figment of her mind? He had looked familiar. She was certain 
she had seen those green eyes somewhere before...

No, she was mixing things up. Indians have brown eyes. It was 
the fox that had green eyes, the fox in her dream. 

She raised a hand to her brow and knocked loose a cloth 
stained with blood. Gingerly, she prodded her temple and 
discovered a nasty gash beside her eye.   

Head wound, loss of consciousness, confusion, memory loss. 
Diagnosis: concussion. But how long she had been unconscious?

Daylight seeped through the windows. Tree branches, tossed by 
wind, thrashed beyond the rain-streaked glass. Clouds loomed 
over the treetops and lightning flashed every few seconds.

Lightning had startled her horse, she remembered, while she 
was riding a steep mountain trail. She fell. Her foot caught 
in the stirrup. She was dragged for what seemed an eternity 
before she hit her head. 

Wind whistled through the cracks in the cabin's plank door. An 
iron latch and oversized hinges held it firm. Muddy footprints 
led from the door to the bed to somewhere behind her. The 
tracks were too large to be her own.

The Indian? She held her breath to listen for his whereabouts. 
Rain drummed the cabin roof. The fire snapped and popped. 

Then...a rustle of cloth. The scrape of a boot. A soft 
clearing of a throat.

Slowly, so as not to bring on a faint or worsen the pain in 
her skull, she rolled over to face the man who had rescued 
her.

He squatted beside a hulking, fieldstone fireplace, an Enfield 
rifle and oil-stained rag in his hands. Not an Indian, after 
all. It was the mountain man, "Crazy Fox" Mulder, and he was 
staring at her as intently as when she first saw him astride 
his painted horse on the banks of the Missouri.

Gone were his fringed leather tunic, feathers, and claw 
necklace. He had changed into a plain, white cotton shirt, 
unbuttoned at the neck, with sleeves rolled to the elbows. 
Braces hung loosely from the waistband of his military 
trousers. He wore scuffed horseman's boots instead of 
moccasins, and he was without vest, stock, and frockcoat, 
making him considerably underdressed for mixed company. The 
intimacy of his attire, their cramped surroundings, and the 
fact that she was stretched out upon his bed, caused her heart 
to beat faster and her mouth to go dry. 

He set his rifle and cleaning rag on the floor. Nervously, it 
seemed, he wiped his palms on his breeches. When he stood and 
took a step toward her, she tried to rise, but the room tilted 
and the bed pitched. She moaned and lowered her head back to 
the mattress. 

"I am at a disadvantage," she said through gritted teeth, 
riding out a wave of nausea, eyes shut tight against the pain.

Boot heels on bare wood marked the short distance from hearth 
to bedside. She opened her eyes at the sound of splashing 
water. He rinsed the bloodied cloth in a tin bowl on a stand 
beside the bed, then wrung it out and arranged it carefully 
across her forehead once again. Its coolness soothed her 
headache and helped calm her stomach.  

"Thank you," she murmured.

His long, unbraided hair clung wetly to the shoulders of his 
dampened shirt. He pointed to her leg. "Your ankle...it's 
swollen."

She looked down and was surprised to find she was missing a 
boot. Her ankle was indeed swollen beneath her muddy and torn 
stocking. 

He reached for it.

"What are you doing?" She drew up her knee to hide her unshod 
foot beneath her skirt. Pain shot up her calf.   

"It could be broken," he said.

"I'll check it myself." 

"You can barely sit up." 

"I'm fine. And I'm a doctor."

He formed a silent "O" with his lips and let his hand drop to 
his side.

She wished he would step back. He was too close -- close 
enough for her to smell the gun oil on his skin. "I would 
prefer to be left alone while I examine my injury, Mr. 
Mulder."

"Where would you have me go, Doctor Scully?" The cabin 
consisted of only one room, which apparently served as 
kitchen, drawing room, study, and bedroom. "Outside in the 
storm?"

Thunder growled in the distance, low and menacing.

"Perhaps you could just...turn around. Can I trust you not to 
look?"

A smile twitched his lips. He turned to face the fire. 

She struggled to sit up. Pain hammered her skull. Her limbs 
went numb and her vision dimmed. The room seemed to buzz with 
flying insects. 

Prodromal warning signs of syncope, she thought, just before 
she blacked out.    

*   *   *

Captain Scully paced between his desk and the window of his 
study. He opened his pocket watch to check the time...again. 
Dana was late. An hour and sixteen minutes late. If there was 
one thing he could not abide, it was tardiness. There was no 
excuse for it. An army could not function without strict 
adherence to schedules, nor could a family.

"Where in Hell is she?" 

His study was located at the front of the house. A small blaze 
burned in the fireplace. "To take off the chill, for Dana's 
sake. It's cooler at these altitudes than she's probably used 
to," Millie had said when she started the fire a little before 
eight o'clock. An hour and eighteen minutes ago. 

"Damn it," he grumbled, pocketing his watch. He had things to 
do. He was a busy man with numerous responsibilities. Ensuring 
that his youngest daughter was properly betrothed was only one 
of today's many tasks. 

The sooner she was married, the better, he thought. Young 
people! The way they surrendered to every temptation. Self-
discipline had apparently fallen by the wayside since his 
courting days. Imagine Mr. Monaghan's outrage had he caught 
him kissing Maggie prior to their engagement.

Heavy rain obscured the view of the parade ground and the 
enlisted men's quarters beyond. Water pounded the 
thoroughfare, turning dust to mud. This weather would make for 
messy maneuvers later in the day, but Cap had no intention of 
canceling. The men needed their practice. He refused to let a 
little thunderstorm hinder their progress.

A knock on the door brought him to a standstill. Dana was here 
at last.

"Come in, Magnet." 

When she did not enter, he strode to the door and threw it 
open. To his surprise, Lieutenant Skinner and a disheveled 
young private stood beyond the threshold, soaked to the skin 
and tracking mud onto Maggie's clean floors. 

"What's this about, Lieutenant?" He peered past Skinner, 
hoping to find Dana standing behind him in the hallway.

"Private Strum has troubling news, sir."

"I don't have time to hear about hoof rot and strangles right 
now."

"It ain't nuthin' like that, Cap'n, sir." Strum fidgeted with 
his gloves. "A horse come back to the stable with her saddle 
hangin' loose. Guess the cinch weren't fastened tight enough. 
My fault, sir. I'm plum sorry."

"Was the horse injured?" 

"No, sir. Not so far as I could tell."

Such trivialities should be reported to a corporal or 
sergeant, not a captain. "And what of the rider? Is he all 
right?" 

"That's the troubling part, sir."

Cap glanced from Strum to Skinner. "Could someone please 
enlighten me? Get to the damned point!"

"Miss Scully was on that horse, sir." Skinner looked paler 
than Cap had ever seen him. "She went riding this morning, 
shortly after sunrise. She hasn't returned."

A clap of thunder rattled the house. 

"My daughter is out in this storm?" Cap resisted the urge to 
sit, although he felt as if his knees might give out. "Did she 
say where she was going?" 

"Not to me, sir." Private Strum's head wagged. "I told her it 
was mighty early to go ridin', but she seemed set on it, said 
she liked bein' out at an early hour--".

"Lieutenant Skinner, form a search party immediately. Include 
our best trackers. I'll question my household and the men at 
the gate to find out which direction she might have gone." Cap 
grabbed his hat from his desk and, without waiting for 
Skinner's response, strode from the room.

*   *   *

When Dana awoke the second time, wind still buffeted the door 
and rain beat on the roof.  

"Mr. Mulder?" She removed the cloth from her forehead. "Mr. 
Mulder, are you here?"

The only reply was the howl of wind. Where could he have gone? 
Certainly not out in the storm and there was no corner of the 
cabin she could not see--  

"That bastard!"

Dana rarely swore, but her riding coat, skirt, and shirt were 
drying on a line tied to the rafters in front of the 
fireplace. Her lone boot stood on the stone hearth, with 
stockings and garters laid out beside it. 

She peeked beneath her blanket. Sure enough, she was wearing 
nothing but her chamois riding breeches, corset, and chemise. 

"He lives in the hills like a mad hermit," her father had said 
of her brazen host. "Wears feathers in his hair; dresses like 
a heathen. It's hard to imagine he was once a U.S. soldier." 

Indeed. Whatever military title Mr. Mulder might once have 
held, he was little more than a common scoundrel now. 

Discomfited by the turn of events and bent on getting back 
into her clothes before Mr. Mulder returned from wherever he 
had gone, she sat up and tossed back the blanket.

She was surprised to find her injured ankle was neatly wrapped 
in a strip of clean, linen cloth. The care Mr. Mulder had 
taken with the bindings was obvious, but it did little to 
improve her opinion of him. 

He had stripped her of her clothes while she lay helpless to 
object -- after she had made it clear she wanted to examine 
her leg herself. She stood and limped across the room. Yanking 
her shirt from the line, she discovered it was dry. Her skirt, 
too, was no longer wet. Even her sodden coat showed no sign of 
dampness. How long had she been unconscious? 

She shoved her arms into the sleeves of her shirt and hastily 
buttoned the front. It was torn, she discovered, exposing her 
cleavage. She tugged her skirt from the line, nearly knocking 
herself over in the process. Her ankle throbbed whenever she 
put weight on it. Her vision alternately blurred and cleared. 
She stepped into the skirt, fastened it at the waist, and 
smoothed it into place.

The cabin door slapped open and Mr. Mulder clomped into the 
room, dripping wet and carrying an armload of wood.

"You're awake," he said, looking as innocent as a parson.

"You undressed me!" 

"You asked for my help, remember? 'Inihkatsimat'?" 

She did remember. Vaguely. "My ankle was injured, nothing 
more. There was no need to strip me naked." 

"You weren't naked." He shouldered past her to dump the logs 
next to the hearth.

"You removed my dress and my stockings. My garters, too." She 
snatched them up. "I would describe my condition as 'naked.'"   

He squatted and poked the fire with a short branch. A spray of 
sparks drifted up the chimney. "Your clothes were soaking wet. 
Your skin was ice cold. You were shivering. And moaning." He 
peered up at her. "Tell me, what would you have done, Doctor 
Scully, had our positions been reversed?"

"That's different."

"How so?"

"As a doctor, I'm able to maintain a professional distance."

"Are you accusing me of something?" 

"I specifically stated I wanted to examine my ankle myself."

"That would be quite a trick, considering you were 
unconscious." He fed a log into the flames. The wood snapped 
and hissed as the fire took hold. "I couldn't let you freeze 
to death, could I?" 

"You might have covered me with an extra blanket and simply 
waited until I regained consciousness."

"Twelve hours?" 

"Twelve...? That's impossible."

"Of course. It's more likely I'm a cad and a liar. Thank you."

"It's a medical fact that syncope generally lasts only a 
moment or two. A horizontal position restores blood flow to 
the brain and consciousness returns almost immediately."

"That may be, but according to a heliocentric hypothesis 
posited by Copernicus in 1514, the Earth performs a complete 
rotation on its fixed poles once every twenty-four hours." He 
hooked a thumb at the windows. "Sun set two hours ago."

Could it be night already? Fighting the haze in her brain, she 
tried to reconstruct her day. 

She had risen at dawn...and left the fort shortly after 
sunrise...to go for a brief outing...in order to be back by--

"Oh, no."

"What is it?" He looked genuinely concerned. "Are you going to 
faint again?"

He rose and went to her, arms extended. She stepped back, but 
he matched her step for step, pressing closer. She continued 
to retreat, until she bumped into the bed and could go no 
further. 

"I was supposed to meet my father at eight o'clock." 

Mr. Mulder stood so close, his boots touched her bare toes. 
She could feel heat radiating from his body. 

He reached up and smoothed a lock of hair from her face. 
"Guess you missed your appointment."

"Apparently so."

He gently traced her swollen brow with his fingertips. Her 
skin tingled beneath his feather-light touch. Gooseflesh 
spread along her arms and legs. 

"You're going to have a hell of a shiner," he murmured, 
leaning in, his thumb brushing her cheek. His breath puffed 
hotly against her parted lips. 

"So are you, if you don't step back."

He raised his hands, palms out, and moved away.

"You hungry?" he asked.

"No," she lied. "I want to go home."

"Now?"

"Yes. Take me back to Fort Culbertson. I insist."

Thunder rumbled like distant cannon fire. Rivers of rain 
gurgled from the roof.

"We're not going anywhere, not tonight."

"That's what you think." 

She hobbled to the door and jerked it open. A gust of wind 
nearly knocked her off her bare feet. Raising an arm to 
protect her face from the pelting rain, she stepped outside. 
She could see nothing beyond the threshold but total 
blackness. She had no clue which direction to head or how 
close the cabin might be to the edge of a cliff. 

After a moment, Mr. Mulder tugged at her elbow and drew her 
back inside. She shook him loose and retreated to the table, 
where she sat down on one of the benches, directly beneath the 
picture of the aliens and their unidentified celestial 
objects. 

He closed the door. "I'll make you some dinner." 

"You don't have to cook for me."

"It would be rude to eat in front of you." 

He grabbed a cast iron fry pan from a hook on the wall and set 
it over the fire to heat. His pantry consisted of a wide shelf 
to the left of the stone chimney. He poked through several 
tins and baskets stored there.

"We have elk heart, mushrooms, wild onions, prairie turnips. 
You like cottonwood bark?"

"I've never had it."

"You'll love it. The inner bark is sweet. How about bull 
berries?"

"I haven't had those either."

"Then you're in for a treat." He groped his right thigh and 
frowned. "Damn."

"Something wrong?"

"My knife...I traded it for...well, never mind. I've got 
another one here somewhere." He rummaged through a wooden box 
of loose utensils. "Here we go," he said, locating a thin-
bladed boning knife.

The knife required sharpening and it took him a moment to find 
a whetstone among the clutter.  

She turned her attention to the eclectic collection of items 
on the table, while he sharpened the knife. Fish hooks, a 
shaving kit, a bracelet made of...human teeth? A Smith & Beck 
microscope, a worn, dirty cloth doll with a hatpin stuck in 
its torso, a copy of "Incidents in My Life" by Daniel Dunglas 
Home, the spiritual medium, who claimed to be able to levitate 
and speak to the dead. Home had been enormously popular 
throughout New England in the 50s. She could not imagine 
taking such a person seriously, although Melissa often 
attended séances, palm readings, and the like, and was forever 
trying to drag her along. It was smoke and mirrors, nothing 
more, as far as Dana was concerned, unsupported by science and 
logic. She stood to peer through the eyepiece of the 
microscope. 

The stage displayed a blur of red on white. Blood on linen? 
She adjusted the mirror for better light and corrected the 
focus. Not blood. Scarlet markings on a white butterfly's 
wing.

"That's Phoebus Parnassian, from California." Mr. Mulder 
chopped onions on the shelf. "Interesting insect. During 
mating, the male Parnassian secretes a waxy material onto the 
female's abdomen, which hardens into a brown projecting ridge 
called the sphragis. The sphragis serves as a sort of chastity 
belt, blocking access to the female's genitalia--"   

"Do we know each other well enough to converse about such 
intimate matters?"

"It's just a bug." He sliced the elk heart into thin steaks. 
"Besides, I've see you 'naked,' remember?"

Wanting to change the subject, Dana picked up a dark, lumpy 
rock that roughly resembled a hump-backed buffalo. "What's 
this thing?"  

"An iniskim -- a Buffalo Calling Stone." 

"A 'calling stone'?" She hoped it had nothing to do with 
secretions, genitalia, or mating practices.

"According to legend, an Indian maiden named Weasel Woman was 
collecting water from a river near her camp when she heard a 
voice calling to her from the bushes. When she went to 
investigate, she found a stone like that one."

"A stone spoke to her?"

"Yes. The stone explained it could help her people call a herd 
of buffalo to a nearby pisskan."

"A what?"

"Buffalo jump -- a pit used for hunting. Indians sometimes 
drive buffalo over a cliff into a pit, then spear and butcher 
them." He jabbed the air with his knife. "Weasel Woman's 
people were starving, so she took the iniskim back to her camp 
and told her spiritual leaders about its power to call 
buffalo. They used it and soon had plenty of meat to eat."

"You believe that story?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Because stones don't talk."

"A burning bush spoke to Moses."

"God spoke to Moses, through a burning bush."

He shrugged, as if the distinction made little difference. 

"Has this stone ever talked to you?" she asked, annoyed.

"Not yet. Maybe it'll talk to you. Ask it a question." 
 
"Are you mocking me, Mr. Mulder?"

"Not at all. 'There are here mysteries--'"

"I doubt Doctor Pasteur was referring to talking rocks when he 
said that." 

"The world is full of unexplained phenomena, Doctor Scully."

"I'm a scientist. I trust empirical data gathered through 
experiment and observation."

"You saw God speaking to Moses through a burning bush?"

"Now you do mock me, sir."

He dropped a dollop of lard into the hot pan, then dumped in a 
handful of onions, turnip, and mushrooms. The vegetables 
sizzled and spat. "You trust the 'Scientific American,' don't 
you?" He gave the food a stir with a wooden spoon. 

"Of course."

"Well, in 1846 they reported this: 'A correspondent from 
Loweville, New York, states that on November 11 the most 
remarkable meteor ever seen there made its appearance. It 
appeared larger than the sun and illumined the hemisphere 
nearly as light as day. It was in sight nearly five minutes, 
and finally fell in a field in the vicinity. A large company 
of the citizens immediately repaired to the spot and found a 
body of fetid jelly, four feet in diameter.' Do you know what 
it was?"

"I have no idea. What was it?" 

He layered the steaks on top of the vegetables and added the 
berries. "I don't know. No one does. That's my point."  

The food cooked for a few minutes more, releasing a mouth-
watering aroma. She watched like a half-starved scavenger as 
he portioned it out onto two tin plates. 

"Mind clearing a spot on the table?" he asked, carrying the 
plates across the room.

Ravenously hungry, she did as he asked, shoving aside the 
microscope, human teeth, and Home's autobiography. 

"Dig in," he said, setting the food in front of her. 

She snatched the fork from his hand even before he could pass 
it to her. He chuckled and took a seat on the opposite bench. 

She practically fell upon the food, shoving forkful after 
forkful into her mouth, almost faster than she could chew and 
swallow. A wonderful mix of flavors and textures crossed her 
tongue: tart, juicy berries, soft, bitter turnip, an earthy 
taste of mushrooms, the bite of onion. Best of all, however, 
was the rich savor of elk heart. She had never tasted anything 
so delicious in her life and it was all she could do not to 
groan with pleasure.

"Careful you don't choke."  

She looked up to find Mr. Mulder watching her. He appeared 
both amazed and amused by her hearty appetite.

"I'm hungry," she said in her defense. "I haven't eaten since 
yesterday."

Reminded of her last meal -- the disastrous dinner that had 
led to the even more disastrous walk on the pier -- she slowed 
her pace. She did not want to spill food or drop a fork as she 
had done the previous night. Not that a little spilled food 
would damage Mr. Mulder's table in any way. The surface was 
spotted with a variety of colorful, unidentifiable stains.   

"I understand you're a friend of Lieutenant Skinner," she 
ventured, hoping to engage him in polite conversation, while 
perhaps learning more about the man her father wanted her to 
marry.

"I wouldn't call us friends, exactly. Not any more."

"You had a falling out?"

He jabbed a chunk of meat with his fork. "More like a 
difference of opinion."

"What happened?"

"I don't respect his beliefs and he doesn't respect mine."

"But you were friends once?"

"Years ago." He took a bite of food. Still chewing, he asked, 
"You going to marry him?"

"How did you know about that?"

"Why else would a pretty, educated doctor come to live in a 
sparsely populated, backwoods place like Flatwillow?"

"My family is here."

He nodded. "Do you and Walter know each other well?" 

"Well enough. We've kissed," she blurted without meaning to.

He looked at her in surprise. She thought she detected 
disapproval, or maybe disappointment, in his rounded eyes. 

"It's none of my business," he said, rising. He reached for 
her plate. "You finished?"

"Yes, thank you. It was delicious."

"I'll make someone a good wife one day." He carried the dirty 
dishes outside and set them on the ground so they sat directly 
beneath the edge of the overhanging roof. Rain water splashed 
down onto them. Leaving them there, he stepped back inside and 
closed the door.

"Do you always wash dishes that way?" she asked. 

"Only when it rains." 

She leaned back against the log wall, belly full, appetite 
sated. She began to feel drowsy as she watched him pick up. A 
combination of high altitude and her head wound were 
apparently taking their toll; she could barely keep her eyes 
open. Her head nodded. She shifted, fighting to stay awake.  

"You want to go to bed?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

"Bed. It's a piece of furniture. You sleep on it."

She eyed it suspiciously. "No, thank you." 

"It'll be a long night, sitting on that bench." He pulled his 
shirttails free from his trousers. She glimpsed a bit of 
golden flesh and muscled torso. Her gaze lingered, even after 
his wrinkled shirt fell back into place.

He pointed to the bed. "You mind if I...?" 

"Why should I? It's your...your...piece of furniture. Do as you please."

He lay down and stretched out on his back. Peering at her 
through half-closed eyes, he patted the mattress beside him. 
"If you change your mind..."

"I'll be fine right here."

"Suit yourself." He yawned and, almost as an afterthought, 
toed off his boots. "Don't forget to blow out the lantern." 

*   *   * 

Rain poured from the brim of Skinner's hat each time he tilted 
his head to look up Ptarmigan Hill's steep switchback. Charlie 
Scully rode behind him. Both men carried lanterns, although 
the feeble lamplight did little to pierce the dark and 
illuminate their path. 

Earlier in the day, Skinner and Captain Scully had questioned 
the two guards at Culbertson's gate. The men had been unable 
to agree upon which direction Miss Scully had gone, so Captain 
Scully split his party into four teams and sent each in a 
different direction. One team headed north to the Ookáán 
River. The second headed south to Aspen Meadow. A third went 
east across the plains toward Kingsbury Basin. Skinner led a 
fourth group west into the mountains, although Bill Jr. had 
argued the terrain was too rough for a woman, even for Dana. 
Cap agreed and refused to waste his best trackers on such slim 
odds. He paired Charlie with Skinner's team. 

"He believes we're on a fool's errand," Charlie muttered. "And 
since he has always considered me a fool, it's a perfect 
match."  

They spent the day searching several likely trails, but heavy 
rains made tracking nearly impossible and they found nothing. 
At sunset, Skinner ordered his team back to the fort. The men 
were clearly relieved to be released from duty. Charlie, on 
the other hand, opted to keep searching. 

"It's possible someone already found her or she returned to 
Culbertson on her own hours ago," Skinner told him.

"Is that what you really think?"

Skinner was not the world's best tracker, but he trusted his 
instincts and his gut was telling him Miss Scully was still 
out here somewhere, lost or hurt. Or worse.

"There's one more trail I'd like to check." It ran south along 
Nine Pipe Ridge from Buffalo Jump to Fox Mulder's cabin. 
Skinner had traveled it recently, to deliver ammo and an 
Enfield to a designated drop-off at Buffalo Jump. Of course, 
he told Charlie nothing about this. Supplying guns to the 
Indians, through Mulder, would mean a court-martial and 
hanging for treason. "There's a connecting trail on Ptarmigan 
Hill."

"Let's go."

An hour later, as they climbed the hill, Charlie looked less 
enthusiastic. "I'm beginning to think Bill was right. This is 
pretty rough terrain for a woman."

"Your sister doesn’t strike me as the sort to be easily 
discouraged."

"True enough. She's bolder than most women. Much to Father’s 
dismay." Charlie’s wet cloak flapped in the wind. "Dana prides 
herself on her independent spirit. She follows her own heart 
and mind even when it gets her into trouble, in case you 
hadn’t noticed."

He had noticed, not that he blamed her for what had happened. 
The kiss had been his fault entirely. He marveled that Charlie 
had not mentioned it even once during their long day together. 
This even tempered Scully was either focused on finding his 
sister or was far more forgiving than his older brother. 

Something fluttered on a fallen snag ahead. Skinner rose up in 
his saddle and held his light high. "What's that?"  

"I think...it's a woman's hat!"

Both men dismounted and hurried to the tree. Skinner plucked 
the hat from the tree branch and smoothed its bedraggled wet 
feathers. "Is it hers?"

Charlie stood by his side, breathing hard. "Yes. I'm certain. 
She wore it the day we left St. Louis." 

"There's blood on it."

Charlie frantically swung his lantern about, searching for 
more clues. "Did her horse lose its footing?" 

"Spooked, most likely." Skinner pointed to a burnt, broken 
tree. "Lightning strike." 

"Then...where is she? Dana? Dana!" Charlie called. "Dana where 
are you?"

His shouts were lost in the crash of wind and rain. 

Shivering, Skinner hiked higher up the trail, lantern held at 
arm's length, eyes to the ground. "Here! I found something!" 
he yelled as he picked up a woman's riding boot. Mud and water 
poured from it when he turned it upside down. "She can't have 
gone far." Not wearing only one shoe. 

The light from his lantern reflected off something smooth and 
white in the mud. Skinner bent to retrieve it. A bear claw 
necklace with a broken leather strap.

"My God, is that an Indian necklace?" Charlie asked, standing 
at his elbow. "She's been taken hostage. What will they do to 
her? Will they kill her?"

Skinner shook his head. "Don't worry, she's safe."

"How can you say that?"

"She's not with the Indians. She's with Fox Mulder. This 
belongs to him."

"You're sure? Maybe it just looks like his."

"It's his." Skinner held the necklace up to Charlie's light. A 
little wooden soldier dangled from its midpoint. "I carved 
that after we defeated the Mexicans in the Battle of 
Chapultepec in '47. I gave it to him when he left the army for 
good."

"How do you know he didn't trade it to someone else? Another 
trapper or one of his Indian friends?"

"He wouldn't trade it." 

Palming the necklace, Skinner returned to his horse. He pulled 
himself wearily into the saddle and headed downhill.

"You're leaving?" Charlie continued to stand in the pouring 
rain.

"We can come back in the morning."

"The morning? Have you lost your mind?"

"Get on your horse, Mr. Scully. Your sister is safe." 

"But what of her virtue?" 

"Fox Mulder might be eccentric, maybe even insane, but he 
won't harm her."

"I hope you plan to tell Father that Dana is spending the 
night with 'Crazy Fox' Mulder," Charlie shouted to Skinner's 
back, "because I sure as hell don't want to."

*   *   *

For the better part of an hour, Mulder lay on his bed and 
pretended to be asleep. In truth, he was listening to Miss 
Scully fidget as she tried to find a comfortable position on 
the bench across the room. 

At one point, she rose, lit the lantern, and slipped outside. 
Concerned, he got up to watch her through the window. Her 
lamplight receded in the dark as she followed a well-worn path 
to the privy. Not wanting to embarrass her when she returned, 
he lay back down on the bed and faced away from the door.  

She reentered the cabin as silently as she had left and 
resumed her seat on the bench. The light went off. A few 
minutes later, her breathing became slow and even. A soft 
snore signaled she had managed to doze off in spite of the 
uncomfortable arrangements. He rose again and quietly crossed 
the room.

Chin to her chest, she slept soundly. He slipped one arm 
behind her back and the other beneath her knees, and lifted 
her from the bench. She stirred as he held her, reflexively 
reaching round his neck and nuzzling his chest. Eyes closed, 
she released an audible, contented sigh into his open collar. 
The heat of her breath warmed him from breastbone to bare 
toes.

He carried her to the bed, but paused before setting her down. 
She looked peaceful, cradled in his arms. And beautiful. 
Russet lashes on pink cheeks. Small, pale hands. Softly 
mounded breasts. Several tendrils of her wild, curling red 
hair wafted in the fire’s warm draft and tickled his neck.

A shame she was spoken for. By Skinner, no less. Anyone else 
and he might throw his hat into the ring. Hell, he was tempted 
to do so anyway. 

The image of her stripped down to her chemise and corset rose 
unbidden in his mind. He had removed her clothes to help her, 
exactly as he had said. But to say he had not looked -- and 
appreciated her feminine attributes -- would be a lie. His 
intentions had been honorable; his attraction and physical 
reaction, perhaps not so much.

He watched her chest rise and fall and pictured her not as she 
was right now, but topless, like the woman in Frohike's 
stereoscopic slide.

Set her down and walk away, he told himself, and did just 
that. He eased her onto the bed and drew the blanket up over 
her. Again she stirred, but did not wake up. It took all his 
willpower not to climb in beside her, wrap his arms around 
her, and curve his body to hers. 

Instead, he lowered himself to the floor, stretched out on his 
back, and tried not to think of her sleeping just an arm’s 
length away.


-------

Chapter 8


The basin on the nightstand had been emptied and wiped clean 
of blood. Beside it lay a fresh cloth, bar of pine tar soap, 
horn comb, and a small, round pocket mirror, presumably put 
out for Dana's use. A kettle of water heated over the fire. 

Tucked beneath the edge of the basin was a piece of folded 
notepaper. "GONE TO GET BREAKFAST" was all it said. Dana set 
it back on the stand and picked up the mirror to inspect her 
injured eye. 

A periorbital hematoma, as black as the ink on Mr. Mulder's 
note, dominated the right side of her face. Thankfully, there 
was no actual trauma to the eyeball itself. The bruises would 
heal in a week's time, with no lasting damage. 

Overall, Dana felt much improved this morning. Her headache 
and queasiness were gone, and she felt thoroughly rested, 
thanks in large part to having spent the night in Mr. Mulder's 
bed, not perched awkwardly on the bench beside his table. She 
should have been annoyed with him for moving her, but since 
she awoke fully dressed, buttons buttoned, and garters in 
place, she deduced he had done nothing untoward while she 
slept. Evidently he retained some civilized manners despite 
his otherwise unconventional behavior and primitive living 
conditions. 

Her appearance was frightful. Blood and mud caked her hair. 
Her cheeks and chin were streaked with dirt and her formerly 
white shirt was filthy and torn, exposing her cleavage and 
even a bit of corset, she noticed now. To think she had eaten 
dinner with Mr. Mulder last night while in such a state!

If her father or Bill Jr. were to see her like this, they 
would overreact for certain. Unfortunately, taking a bath and 
changing her clothes was not an option, as she had no clean 
garments to change into, nor was there a bathtub anywhere in 
the cabin. Mr. Mulder evidently washed up outside, possibly 
beneath the eaves of his roof when it rained, alongside his 
dinner dishes. 

She filled the basin with hot water from the kettle and did 
her best to scrub the blood and grime from her face, neck, and 
décolletage with soap and cloth. She daubed at her hairline 
and brow carefully so as not to reopen the wound there. After 
several minutes, she felt satisfied that she was as clean as 
she was going to get under the circumstances, so began to work 
on her hair. 

Using the comb, she untangled the worst of her snarls. Finding 
only one hairpin embedded in the knots -- not enough to hold a 
chignon -- she braided her hair instead. Lacking any ribbon to 
tie off the end, she stole a rawhide lace from a snowshoe.

Now, what to do about her ripped blouse? She rifled through a 
trunk at the foot of the bed, looking for either sewing needle 
and thread, or a serviceable garment to cover her own. She 
found various articles of clothing, all made of deerskin, a 
heavy fur coat, and several pairs of wool socks, most in need 
of darning. 

A dilapidated wardrobe in the corner yielded one pair each of 
railhead and canvas trousers, a frockcoat, military cloak, 
trapper's vest, striped shirt with detachable collar, and a 
plain linen shirt much like the one Mr. Mulder had been 
wearing yesterday. Although oversized for her small frame, it 
was cleaner -- and less revealing -- than her own torn blouse, 
so she pulled it from its hanger. 

The shirt held the faint scent of its owner, as did everything 
in the wardrobe. She lifted it to her nose and sniffed. A 
pleasant blend of pine soap, rain water, and a spicy masculine 
aroma, barely perceptible, yet surprisingly alluring, filled 
her sinuses. It set off a strange fluttering in her stomach as 
she slipped the garment over her head and plunged her arms 
into the long sleeves. She rolled up the cuffs and buttoned 
the front placket.

Something jingled in the single breast pocket. Coins? She 
reached in and pulled out...

"Dance tokens." 

Two tokens promised a night of pleasure at the saloon in 
Flatwillow. Worth three dollars each, they were fair tender 
for the casino, food, whiskey, and girls, according to the 
stamp on the back. "Sport enough for a year to come," they 
claimed.

She deposited them on the table next to the cloth doll with a 
pin stuck in its chest.

The early morning sun shone brightly through the cabin 
windows, drawing her across the room to look out at the 
landscape. Last night's storm had given way to a cloudless 
cornflower-blue sky. Raindrops shimmered on every pine bough 
and blade of grass, and purple asters bobbed in a meadow that 
sloped downhill to a wide stream. Boulders dotted the 
sparkling, shallow water, which horseshoed around a sandbar 
laden with bleached driftwood. Mr. Mulder's horse grazed on 
wildrye at the shore. 

Between the cabin and the meadow, heaps of split cordwood 
surrounded a large chopping block topped with an axe. A gutted 
elk hung upside-down from the limb of a gnarled whitebark 
pine. Last night's dinner dishes no longer lay on the ground 
beneath the overhanging roof; Mr. Mulder had apparently picked 
them up and put them away while she was sleeping. Dana scanned 
the clearing and the ragged tree line for any sign of her 
missing host, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Returning to the "kitchen," she set about making coffee. She 
quickly located a sack of beans and chicory, a hand grinder, 
and a dented Chesterman pot. Tin cups hung from wooden pegs on 
the wall.  

Excellent, now all she needed was water.

"Damn."

She had emptied the kettle when washing up. Fetching more from 
the stream would be problematic wearing only one boot. She 
decided it would be easier to go barefoot than hop on one leg, 
so she stripped off her garters and stockings, and tossed them 
onto the bed before grabbing the kettle and hobbling out the 
front door.

Outdoors the air was cool and sweet, smelling of wet earth and 
spruce. She squinted into the bright sun and listened to the 
rustle of aspen leaves and splash of water over rocks and 
gravel. A vireo whistled atop a stand of lodgepole pines to 
the south, its song as pure as the mountain air. She limped 
toward the stream, dew-covered grass chilling her bare feet, 
kettle swinging.    

The stream pooled beneath a series of shallow waterfalls, 
creating a small clear pond. Gravel silvered the bottom. Fish 
darted among the shadows. She set down the kettle and gathered 
her skirts. Holding the fabric bunched in one hand, she 
retrieved the kettle and waded in up to her knees. The water 
was icy cold. It quickly soaked the bandage on her ankle. She 
dipped and filled the kettle, then stepped back on shore, 
where she stood for a moment on the smooth river stones, 
letting her feet dry. 

Mr. Mulder's horse wandered up the slope to the north, tail 
twitching and head wagging off flies. Bumblebees hummed as 
they flitted among the flowers in the field. Mountains rose up 
sharply behind the cabin, creating a dramatic backdrop of 
ledge and timber.

It was beautiful here. Wild and beguiling, a place without 
rules or expectations. Charlie would like it. 

She inhaled and felt as unburdened as a child. The relief of 
it was intoxicating. She wondered what it would be like to 
live here all the time, free to think and do as she pleased, 
beyond society's –- and her parents' -- scrutiny.

No point thinking about it. Her new home was back on the 
plain, at the fort, wife to Lieutenant Skinner or some other 
upstanding gentleman, hand-picked by her father and mother. 
She refused to disappoint them, as Melissa had done. They 
considered Dana their "good girl." The price of personal 
freedom was too high if, in the end, it estranged her from her 
family. As long as her future husband tolerated her desire to 
practice medicine and overlooked her less-than-perfect 
domestic skills, she believed she could be happy. 

Mr. Mulder would be returning soon, to take her from this 
wondrous, tempting place, back to the fort, as she had 
demanded so adamantly last night. She would probably never see 
him again, she realized with some sadness. Just as well. She 
needed to make peace with her fate, and neither Mr. Mulder nor 
his mountain home featured in her future plans. 

Upon her return to Fort Culbertson, she would explain her 
actions to her father, who would be infuriated by her 
disappearance, yet relieved to know she was safe and 
relatively unharmed. After a few days, he'd forgive her 
impetuousness and the worry she had caused. Especially now 
that she was willing to entertain the notion of marrying 
Lieutenant Skinner. As for her, she'd wait for the 
Lieutenant's proposal. If he agreed to let her practice 
medicine, she'd likely say yes. What other choice was there?

Reluctantly, she climbed the slope to the cabin. The kettle 
hung heavily in her hand, its load weighting her arm, its 
handle cutting into her fingers. Her ankle throbbed with each 
step.

A low, menacing growl stopped her at the chopping block. Her
pulse quickened. A large wolf stood between her and the cabin.
It fixed amber eyes upon her as it sniffed the air. 

The gray, shaggy beast was well-muscled, humped at the 
shoulders, with a barrel chest, and thick legs. Long fangs 
glinted behind its curled lips. She read malevolence in its 
yellow eyes. Every instinct told her to turn and run. Common  
sense said a woman with an injured foot could not outrun a wolf. 
Slowly, she set down the kettle and reached for the axe. 

The wolf nosed forward. Her fingers fumbled blindly along the 
axe handle. She grabbed it and wrenched it free.

"Sisomm!" Mulder called as he rounded the corner of the cabin. 
He carried a large basket looped over one bare arm. His upper 
body was naked except for a leather vest, open at the chest. 
Rather than being frightened of the wolf, he seemed almost 
pleased to see it. "Come, boy."

The animal turned and trotted to him, tail wagging. 

He scratched its ears. "I wondered where you'd gone off to." 

Axe still raised, Dana watched dumbfounded. 

"You don't need that," Mulder said, noticing her at last. 
"He's friendly." 

"But it's...it's...a wolf!"

"Only half. His mother was a dog owned by an Assiniboin named 
Two Bears. Sisomm, sit." The animal obeyed. "Good boy." Mulder 
rewarded him with a wad of jerky from his vest pocket. Sisomm 
gulped it down, then licked Mulder's fingers, begging for 
more. "That's all you're getting, you greedy dog. Now go lie 
down. You're frightening my guest."

The axe quavered in Dana's upraised arms. Mulder crossed to 
her and eased it from her grasp. "Really, he won't hurt you. 
I've had him since he was a pup." 

"Why would you allow a wolf...a half wolf...to live with you? 
Aren't you afraid he'll eat you in your sleep?"

He chuckled. "No." With a powerful, one-armed swing, he drove 
the axe blade deeply into the chopping block. He gestured at 
the hanging elk carcass. "Sisomm guards my food. Speaking of 
which..." He held out the basket like a present. "Breakfast," 
he said proudly.

She took the basket and peered inside. Four large, brown duck 
eggs lay nestled in a bed of fresh greens.  

"I've got some cheese in the larder, too. And plenty of elk 
meat, obviously." 

She started to follow the point of his finger, but her 
attention stalled on his bare, muscled chest. Tan and velvety 
smooth, his skin invited her touch. It was all she could do 
not to reach out...

Heat crawled up her neck and cheeks. She tightened her hold on 
the basket to keep her fingers from acting on their own. 

"Are you hungry?" He scooped up the kettle of water, either 
missing, or purposely ignoring, her ogling and subsequent 
embarrassment.

"Mm" was all she could manage to say. 

Then he did look at her. Closely. His gaze traveled over her 
washed face, combed hair. His shirt. She swallowed hard, but 
it was his Adam's apple she could see bobbing as he fixed his 
stare on the buttons that hid her cleavage. A different sort 
of hunger haunted his eyes.

"We should eat these," she said, mouth dry. She held up the 
basket and was alarmed to see it shaking in her hands. 

He levered it from her fingers, much as he had done with the 
axe only moments before. Perhaps he was afraid she would drop 
it, breaking all the fragile eggs. Fearing the same thing, and 
more, she relinquished her hold and, head down, walked as fast 
as she could on her injured foot to the cabin. Mr. Mulder 
followed after her, his own hands now occupied with basket and 
kettle, his eyes free to wander wherever he pleased.  

*   *   *

Please, God, keep her safe, Maggie prayed. She sat alone in 
the drawing room on the edge of the divan, clutching Dana's 
bedraggled, blood-spattered hat. 

Her baby was hurt. But how badly?

Charlie and Lieutenant Skinner had returned late last night, 
bringing Dana's hat, boot, and the disturbing news that she 
had fallen from her horse and would be spending the night in 
the mountains with that crazy Indian sympathizer, Fox Mulder. 

Maggie placed a hand over her heart at the memory. Her pulse 
raced now just as it had last night when she stood in the 
entryway, dressed in nightgown and robe, trying to hold back 
rising panic as the men described their search and its dismal 
results.

Cap and Bill Jr. had been ready to ride out immediately to 
fetch Dana back, but Lieutenant Skinner argued that traveling 
Nine Pipe Ridge was perilous enough in daylight, when the 
weather was fine. In the pitch of night, during a storm like 
this, it would be impossible.

"But my daughter is injured." Cap grabbed Dana's bloody hat 
from Skinner and held it up as proof. 

"We don't know that, sir." Skinner removed his spectacles and 
wiped rain from the lenses with the hem of his frockcoat. 
Maggie thought he looked vulnerable without his glasses and 
she was certain she read fear in his dark eyes. "Although, 
admittedly, it does look that way."

"She may be in dire need of medical attention." Cap thrust the 
hat into Maggie's hands.

It felt as if she held a blacksmith's anvil, not a felt and 
feather cap.   

"Medical attention from whom? Corporal Beckett?" Skinner 
asked, referring to the fort's second-rate medic. He put his 
glasses back on. "He'll be passed out drunk on his bed at this 
hour."

"I've tended enough childhood illnesses and injuries to be of 
help," Maggie volunteered.

"Absolutely not, Mother!" Charlie's shook rainwater from his 
cloak. Water dripped from his reddened nose and chin. His 
customarily wild hair was plastered against his skull. "It's 
blowing a gale. We won't risk you getting injured, too."  

"Then what are we going to do?" she asked.     

Lieutenant Skinner stared at the hat in her hands. "I 
understand your concern, Mrs. Scully, but--"

"Concern? I'm scared to death for my daughter!"

"Of course." He nodded. "We'll go first thing in the morning, 
when Corporal Beckett is sober, and it's safer to transport 
Miss Scully home. I assure you, she's in good hands with Mr. 
Mulder."

"I'm not convinced of any such thing," Cap said. "Mr. Mulder's 
reputation is far from stellar -- in all respects."

"I'm going up there -- now." Bill Jr. grabbed his cloak and 
hat from the coat tree beside the front door.

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Good luck finding your way."  

"Just how hard did you try, Charlie?"

"I was out looking longer than you."

"If I had found her hat and boot, I'd be out there still."

"You didn't even think she would ride into the mountains. You 
said--"

"Boys, please, stop bickering!" Maggie insisted. "It isn't 
helping."

Bill Jr. turned on Skinner instead. "What in hell were you 
thinking, leaving her in the mountains all night with that 
madman?" 

Recalling rumors about Fox Mulder's alleged liaisons with the 
daughters of Chief Kicking Horse, Maggie said, "Dana requires 
a chaperone if she's to spend the night in a cabin with a man 
who is not a relative. One of you must go and stay with her 
tonight."

"She's already been alone with Mulder for the better part of 
the day, Mrs. Scully," Skinner said.

"A fact that does little to ease my mind, Lieutenant." 

"She's safe with him," Skinner insisted. "You have my word on 
that."

"You might feel differently if she were your sister," Bill Jr. 
said.

"Are you saying I don't care what happens to her?"

"I am forced to wonder."

"Damn it, Bill, she's my fiancée!" Skinner's shout echoed down 
the hall.

Charlie blinked in surprise. "You proposed? When did this 
happen? Did she accept?" 

"No, I...I haven't proposed. Not yet."

"Then you're not entitled to make decisions that affect her 
wellbeing," Bill Jr. said. 

"Dana is her father's responsibility until she is legally 
married." Maggie turned to Cap. "Dear, please, go to our 
daughter tonight or send one of the boys. Don't leave her 
unprotected."

Dana was the pride of Cap's life, his greatest joy. Clearly, 
this situation was intolerable for him. His face was as white 
as a death shroud and all his usual vigor seemed to have 
drained away. Maggie had never seen him look as fragile or as 
heartsick as he did at that moment.

"Lieutenant Skinner is not yet Dana's husband, it's true, but 
he will be soon," Cap said in a gravely voice, "which means 
that he, not I, will be responsible for her care and safety. 
It's a duty I do not relinquish easily. But the lieutenant 
convinced me some time ago that he is up to the task and I am 
banking my daughter's future happiness upon his pledge. In 
less than a month's time, they will be married, with my 
blessing. Therefore, Lieutenant," -- he turned to Skinner -- 
"I am asking you to decide the best course of action for my 
daughter at this terrible time. Please, consider carefully 
before you make your decision, as both her reputation and her 
life may be at stake."

Maggie blinked in surprise. Bill Jr. and Charlie looked 
equally shocked. None of them had ever witnessed William 
Scully Sr. defer to a man of lesser rank.   

If Skinner was as surprised as the rest of them by this 
unexpected turn of events, he did not show it. "I'll ride out 
at first light, sir, and bring her home. You and your sons are 
welcome to accompany me, of course."

"Father, you can't allow this!" Bill Jr. objected.

"Yes, I can. It's done," Cap said. "The decision has been 
made."

"Father..." Bill Jr. started to object, but Cap quickly cut 
him off.

"There's to be no more argument. Is that understood?" He left 
off the word "soldier," but the implication was clear from his 
tone. This was an order. And although it went against Maggie's 
deepest wishes, she was relieved to see that her husband had 
not changed so completely after all.

"Yes, sir," Bill Jr, acquiesced, his suppressed anger turning 
his face scarlet.

"Who will ride with me in the morning?" Skinner asked.  

"I will," Charlie said, still looking uneasy.

"Don't think I'm staying behind." Bill Jr.'s jaw lifted as if 
he had been challenged to a duel.

"And you, sir?" Skinner asked Cap.

He shook his head. "My duty is with my wife and the men of 
this fort. I shall remain here."

"Very well. I suggest everyone try to get some sleep." Skinner 
fitted his hat to his head, preparing to take his leave. "It's 
been a long and trying day, and we will need to be fresh in 
the morning."

And that was it apparently. Dana would remain in the mountains 
for the night, her condition unknown, her caretaker 
questionable. Tears stung Maggie's eyes, but she did as she 
was expected to do and accompanied her husband upstairs to 
their bedroom without further argument.

At dawn, Skinner, Charlie, and Bill Jr. headed out to find 
Dana. Corporal Beckett did not join them, as he was too hung 
over to ride. Cap retired to his study to tackle what he 
described as a "dung heap" of paperwork, using duty as a 
smokescreen for his emotions, as was his custom. Maggie turned 
to prayer, as she often did in trying times. 

"Almighty God, shield my daughter Dana with your strength and 
beneficence. Protect her from all evil and harm. Return her to 
my waiting embrace."

She then recited the 46th Psalm: "God is our refuge and 
strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will 
not fear though the earth should change, though the  
mountains--"

"Ma'am, could I bring you some tea?" Millie poked her head 
into the parlor. "Oh, sorry! I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's quite all right, Millie. I should have tended to my 
morning chores hours ago." Maggie placed the bloody hat on the 
occasional table beside the divan. She stood and straightened 
her skirt. God would take care of Dana, she was certain. 
Perhaps he already had, in the form of Lieutenant Skinner. Or 
maybe even Fox Mulder. "Get out the copper polish and rags. 
I'll fetch an apron. There are pots in the kitchen that need a 
good scrubbing."   

*   *   *

Breakfast finished, dishes washed and put away, Dana nosed 
around the cabin while Mulder saddled his horse. In a matter 
of minutes, she would be going home and the idea was not 
nearly as comforting as it had seemed last night.

Alone in the cabin, she knelt in front of his library -- 
several stacks of books piled haphazardly on the floor beside 
the hearth -- and scanned the titles. Many of the volumes were 
heavily bookmarked with scraps of paper. "Description of a 
Singular Appearance" by Richard Carrington; "The Origin of 
Species" by Charles Darwin; "Real and Imaginary Worlds" by 
Camille Flammarion; "Five Weeks in a Balloon" by Jules Verne. 

She pulled this last, a self-proclaimed "voyage 
extraordinaire," from the stack and flipped through the pages, 
stopping at a fantastical illustration labeled "The Tree of 
Cannibals." In the picture's foreground, a great pile of human 
bones surrounded a tall tree with a fat trunk. Decapitated 
heads hung on pegs hammered into the bark. Behind this 
atrocity, thin Negroes congregated outside thatched huts.

"How disturbing."

Another illustration, titled "The Sultan's Palace," showed a 
hot air balloon floating high above a mountainous landscape. 
Half-naked natives gathered in great numbers outside a large, 
round structure with a conical roof. 

She skimmed the text on the facing page.

"Three-quarters of an hour later, through shady paths, 
surrounded by all the luxuriance of tropical vegetation... 
arrived at the sultan's palace, a sort of square edifice... 
situated on the slope of a hill.... Most of the women were 
rather good-looking..."

She glanced over her shoulder toward the cabin door. No sign 
of her host.

"They laughed and chattered merrily as they smoked.... They 
seemed to be well made, too, under the long robes that they 
wore gracefully flung about their persons."

Guilt prickled her skin. She should put the book away. It did 
not belong to her and the adventurous and titillating subject 
matter was more to Charlie's liking than her own. 

"Just one more passage," she told herself.

"Dr. Ferguson, taking in the whole scene at a rapid glance, 
approached the wooden couch on which the sultan lay reclining. 
There he saw a man of about forty, completely brutalized by 
orgies of every description--"

"You're welcome to borrow that, if you like." Mr. Mulder 
entered the cabin and crossed the room. His shadow darkened 
the pages as he loomed over her.

She shut the book. "You have peculiar taste in reading 
material, Mr. Mulder."

"The least of my vices, according to some."

"You're referring to my father." 

"He's not alone in his opinion."

"You sound almost proud of your...unconventional... 
reputation." She returned the book to the pile.

"Proud? Hardly. But I do prize the independence eccentricity 
affords. My reputation seems a small price to pay."

"Do you really believe that? Don't you worry about being at 
odds with the rest of the world, alienated from loved ones and 
civilized society?"

"Am I alienated from loved ones?" He knelt beside her, putting 
them eye to eye. Long hair blanketed his shoulders; dark as 
polished mahogany, smooth as Chinese silk, it invited her 
touch, just as his velvety skin had earlier. "The freedom to 
pursue my own course far outweighs the millstone of social 
obligation." 

"You remind me of my brother."

"Bill? That loud-mouthed, overbearing, Indian-hating..." He 
stopped, apparently realizing he was insulting someone she 
would love in spite of his shortcomings. "I don't see how 
we're alike in any way."

"I was referring to my younger brother, Charlie, not Bill."

"Ah. The redhead."

"Yes." Dana smiled, thinking of him. "Do you have siblings, 
Mr. Mulder?"

"A sister." He pointed to a small tintype in an ormolu frame 
on the mantle above the hearth. "That's her."

She rose to get a closer look. "Do you mind?" she asked, 
indicating she wanted to remove the photograph from its place 
of honor.

He shook his head, granting her permission, so she carried it 
to the window where the light was better. 

A young girl, about nine or ten years old, smiled engagingly 
for the camera. She had an oval face and long, dark braids 
tied up with ribbons.

"She's very pretty. She looks like you, around the eyes and 
mouth. What's her name?"

"Samantha Ann." 

"Does she live back east with your parents?"

"No." Mulder joined her by the window, his expression wistful. 
"That picture was taken years ago."

"Ah, so she's married now, with a home of her own."

"Possibly."

"Possibly? You don't know?" Evidently he was estranged from 
his loved ones. His desire to live life on his own terms had 
cost him his military career and his family. Was freedom truly 
worth such a high price?    

He slid the picture from her hands and returned it to the 
mantle. "We should go. Your family will be worried."

*   *   *

Skinner led the two Scully brothers up Ptarmigan Hill on 
horseback. If angry stares were daggers, he would have a back 
full.

"There's where we found her hat." Charlie pointed out the spot 
to Bill. "Her boot was over there, next to Mulder's Indian 
necklace."   

"If that madman has laid one finger on her," Bill Jr. 
threatened, "I'll break his goddamn Indian-loving neck."

"You'll have to get in line behind me," Charlie blustered.

"You're both worrying for nothing," Skinner said. "She's fine. 
You'll see."

"You have a lot more confidence in Crazy Fox than I do. He's 
the least trustworthy son-of-a-bitch I've ever met. We both 
know what he does."

"Do we?"

"Yes. He fucks the U.S. Army and as many Blackfoot squaws as 
he can get his grubby--"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you've been cuckolded, Walter. Mark my words."

"Don't say things like that, Bill," Charlie growled. "Not 
about Dana. She's our sister!"  

"Grow up, little brother. I'm just stating the truth." 

"Dana can defend herself."

"She a woman, for chrissake! A man like Mulder could easily 
overpower her." Bill pointed an accusing finger at Skinner. 
"And I'll hold you personally responsible for anything he's 
done to her."

"You do that." Skinner spurred his horse up the incline. 
Stones clattered down the rocky slope and disappeared into the 
abyss below.
 
*   *   *

Mulder helped Dana onto his horse, then climbed up behind her. 

"Comfortable?" he asked, once he was snuggled against her 
back.

In fact, she was. Very. Wedged between his splayed thighs, her 
back blanketed by his warm, bare chest, she felt both secure 
and strangely invigorated. An image of them riding off 
together on a great, long adventure flashed into her mind.

She quickly dismissed the idea. Such fantasies were useless. 
Her family and career waited back at Fort Culbertson, and she 
was not prepared to give up either. Not for a silly, short-
lived escapade.   

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Then off we go." His breath steamed her ear. He snaked his 
arms beneath hers to take the reins as he urged the horse with 
a "Geddyup." 

His thighs tightened and the weight of his body shifted as he 
steered them downhill across the meadow. They were about to 
enter the forest when Sisomm suddenly appeared, bounding after 
them, barking and wagging his tail.

"No, Sisomm, stay," Mulder ordered. He brought the horse to a 
standstill. 

The dog stopped, too, tail gone still and ears perked. He 
stared at his master with hopeful eyes.

"Watch the place," Mulder said sternly, and pointed to the 
cabin.

Sisomm whined, but after a moment's hesitation, raced to the 
cabin and settled in front of the door.

"Won't he follow us as soon as we're out of sight?" she asked.

"No, he'll stay put. He's a good watchdog."

A click of Mulder's tongue started the horse going again.

For half a mile, they rode in silence through a shady, 
evergreen forest. The horse's hooves thudded hollowly on tree 
roots and needled forest floor. Dense foliage blocked the 
view. Dana felt cocooned in Mulder's loose embrace, the spicy 
scent of pine prickling her nose, his breath stirring her 
hair. His hands rested practically in her lap.

"It's lovely here," she said with a sigh.

"You think this is beautiful, wait until you see..." He paused 
for effect. The horse stepped out into brilliant sunshine. 
"Nine Pipe Ridge."

The ground dropped away thousands of feet on either side of a 
narrow, sawtoothed trail. This knife's edge connected the 
ledge they were on to a craggy mountain peak a quarter mile to 
the south. Mist rolled up the western face, while the other 
side remained clear. Wind roared like a forge bellows across 
the treeless crest, pummeling her chest and setting her skirt 
flapping. Mulder's hair writhed in the updraft. Dana gasped as 
they started across.   

He hooked an arm around her waist. "I've got you," he 
murmured.

There was scant room on the path for the horse to maneuver 
without slipping off the side and plummeting into the valley a 
mile below. 

"Easy there, Ponoká." Mulder carefully guided the horse around 
a series of boulders.

"Ponoká?"

"It's Blackfoot for 'Elk.'"

"You named your horse 'elk'? Because he's sure-footed?" she 
asked, hopefully. 

"Not exactly. I was just learning the language when Red Crow 
gave him to me. He and Few Tails teased me about my mistake 
for months afterwards." 

"Why didn't you change it and stop their mockery?"

She felt him shrug. 

"I guess I've gotten used to being the butt of people's 
jokes," he said wryly. "Besides, after a few trips across Nine 
Pipe Ridge, it seemed appropriate."

"Is this the way you brought me to your cabin?" she asked, 
appalled by the thought. How had he managed it at night in the 
storm? A fall here would be fatal for certain.

"It's the fastest route." His arm tightened around her, for 
which she was grateful. "Stop worrying. I've been over it so 
many times I could ride it in my sleep. In fact, I have. 
Ponoká knows the way."  

How anyone could sleep up here was beyond her. She clenched 
her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering and wished her arms 
and legs would stop quaking. She feared a return bout of 
dizziness, so kept her eyes aimed upward.

It seemed an eternity before they reached the far side, where 
the trail widened. She breathed an audible sigh of relief, 
which caused Mulder to chuckle. He directed Ponoká downhill.

The trail curved around the mountain. Panoramic views of the 
valley came and went as they wove in and out of trees, 
skirting washouts and open ledges. The path was wet and muddy. 
Numerous waterfalls thundered over rocky cliffs, chilling Dana 
with their spray as they passed. She was thankful for Mulder's 
warm, shielding embrace.

Around the next bend, they came face-to-face with Bill Jr., 
Charlie, and Skinner on horseback.

"Whoa." Mulder reined Ponoká to a standstill. 

Her brothers and Skinner stopped, too, about twenty feet down-
trail. They were clearly shocked by what they saw. 

Dana imagined how she must look, sitting on Mulder's horse, 
eye blacker than a storm cloud, skirt hitched up above her 
knees, bare legs and feet exposed.

"I wouldn't have believed you capable of this, Mulder," 
Skinner said through gritted teeth. "I told these men they 
could trust you. They took me at my word. I can see now how 
wrong I was." He struggled to control his incredulity and 
obvious fury. "Miss Scully, if you're able, please dismount."

She moved to get down, but Mulder gripped her arm, stopping 
her. 

"I'd be happy to take you the rest of the way."

"That's not necessary, Mr. Mulder. You've been very kind, but 
it's time I took my leave and allowed you to get back to 
your...work."

"Then at least let me help you down," he mumbled and swung out 
of the saddle. 

A shiver ran across her shoulders when his body left her back. 
She slid into his arms and he carried her to Skinner. 

"This isn't what it looks like, Walter," he said, holding her.

"I hope not, for her sake and yours." Skinner reached out, 
grabbed her arm, and with Mulder's help, hauled her up onto 
his horse. She sat sidesaddle in front of him, her brief 
flirtation with freedom at an end. A profound melancholy 
descended upon her. Skinner turned his horse downhill. 

Mulder remained standing in the middle of the trail, hands on 
his hips, watching them go. 

"That's it?" Bill Jr. shouted. "You're going to let him get 
away with this?"

"Keep your temper, Mr. Scully. Our business here is done."

"To hell it is!" Bill Jr. descended from his horse and ran at 
Mulder. Shoulder to ribs, he plowed straight into him.

Caught off guard, Mulder was propelled several strides up the 
trail. He flailed his arms. Caught hold of Bill's frockcoat. 
They toppled. Mulder landed hard on his back with Bill on top 
of him. Bill pummeled his face and neck. Blood spurted from 
his nose. He shoved Bill away and rolled out of range.

Bill regained his footing first. "Get up, you goddamn son of a 
bitch," he demanded, fists balled. 

"Stop it! Bill, stop!" Dana shouted.

Mulder rose unsteadily, hands raised with palms out. Bill 
threw a punch. Mulder ducked. Bill faked a right. Jabbed with 
his left. Struck Mulder square on the jaw. 

The blow knocked Mulder's head back, but he remained standing. 
The next blow, an uppercut to the chin, sent him reeling into 
a tree trunk. 

Why didn't he strike back, defend himself? Dana wondered. 

She tried to climb off the horse, but Skinner curled a muscled 
arm around her waist and held her firmly in place.

"Let me go."

"You're safer right here."

"Then you go! Stop them."
Bill struck Mulder's jaw with a freight-train punch. Mulder's 
legs wobbled. Gave out. He collapsed to his knees. Blood 
drooled from his mouth.
Grabbing hold of his vest, Bill hauled him to his feet. Saliva 
sprayed from Bill's lips as he roared, "You give my sister 
that black eye? Rough her up before taking her to your bed?" 
Mulder met Bill's hate-filled stare. "You're making a 
mistake."  
"Am I?"

Bill's knuckles collided with Mulder's cheek, rocking him back 
on his heels. A strike below the belt folded him in half. 
Mulder yelped. Gripped his crotch. A knee to the chin knocked 
him back. Two hard hits to the gut sent him careening into a 
ledge. His head cracked against stone. He slipped to the 
ground.

"Lieutenant, please," Dana begged Skinner, "end this."
Skinner's gaze dropped to her shirt, Mulder's shirt. His 
fingers dug into the fabric. He shook his head.
Bill seized Mulder's arm and hauled him to his feet. He 
wrapped thick fingers around his opponent’s throat and drove 
him backwards to the edge of the cliff. 

"Stop it, Bill! He didn't hurt me!" Dana shouted. "Charlie, do 
something!"

Charlie remained in his saddle, red face contorted with 
unwarranted rage. 
Mulder struggled against Bill's iron grip. Tried to pry his 
fingers loose. 
"You went too far this time, Crazy Fox," Bill Jr. sneered, 
eyes glittering. His thumb pressed into Mulder's larynx.
"You're...wrong...," Mulder rasped. 

Dana twisted in the saddle. "Lieutenant...Walter...please help 
him. He's your friend." 

Regret glazed Skinner's eyes. "No, he's no friend of mine. I'm 
sorry."

Dana had to do something, and soon. Mulder's face was turning 
purple as he struggled to break Bill's stranglehold.

"Then I'll help him myself."

She tried to twist free, but Skinner's grip remained firm. 
Frustrated, she reached around him and pulled the pistol from 
his holster. She fired two rounds into the air.

The blasts reverberated off the surrounding mountains. 
Startled, Bill released his chokehold. Mulder dropped to the 
ground, coughing and gasping for air. Sweat and blood slicked 
his bruised skin.

"He didn't do this to me!" Dana shouted, pointing to her black 
eye. "I was thrown from my horse. Mr. Mulder saved my life! 
You should all be ashamed of yourselves for assuming the 
worst."

Frowning, Bill slapped dust from his trousers and gathered his 
hat, which had fallen during the fight. He returned to his 
horse, but did not climb on.

"Let me go, Lieutenant!" Dana demanded. 

This time, he released her. She slid from his horse and ran to 
Mulder as fast as her injured ankle allowed.

"Get back on Skinner's horse, Dana! Now!" Bill shouted.

Dana ignored him and extended a hand to Mulder. He took it and 
let her pull him to his feet. Bill and Charlie drew their 
guns.

"You can put those away," she barked. Turning to Mulder, she 
gently wiped blood from his lower lip with her thumb. "You're 
hurt."

He ducked away from her hand. "I've survived worse."

"You need stitches."

"And you need to go home, Doctor Scully." He spat blood into 
the dust.

"I can help you."

"I don't think so. Go home."

She hated to leave him like this, beaten and wrongly accused. 

"Will I see you again?" she asked, realizing she wanted to, 
very much.

He glanced from Bill to Skinner. "I'll be around."

Foregoing any further goodbyes, he limped to his horse, hauled 
himself stiffly into the saddle, and rode away.


-------

Chapter 9

Mulder clutched his right side as he steered Ponoká out of the 
woods into the field beside his cabin. Sisomm ran to greet 
him, tail wagging.

"Nice to know somebody's glad to see me." He stopped the 
horse. Easing a leg over Ponoká's back, he slid from the 
saddle to the ground. 

Pain arrowed his ribs and nearly buckled his knees. 
Suppressing a groan, he shuffled to the stream to wash his 
injuries. Unsaddling the horse would have to wait. Ponoká 
wandered off to a patch of tall grass to graze.  

It had been years since Mulder last endured a beating without 
lifting a finger in his own defense. The hand raised against 
him that time had been his father's. But boxed ears and a 
cracked molar seemed insignificant given the offense. It had 
been his responsibility to watch Samantha, keep her safe while 
his parents were out, but he failed to protect her. Regret 
churned his gut as violently now as the day she disappeared. 

He drew his pistol from its holster and placed it on the flat 
stone beside the stream where he usually set his shaving kit 
and soap. Fully dressed, he waded in and lowered himself into 
the pool beneath the falls. Icy water poured over his scalp 
and shoulders, numbing his bruised flesh and helping cool his 
temper.  

Unfortunately, it did nothing to cool his interest in Dana 
Scully.

Her physical injuries -- the black eye, the twisted ankle -- 
were not his doing and on that count Bill Scully's wrath was 
unwarranted. However, Mulder had placed her in his bed, then 
stripped her of her dress and stockings while she lay 
unconscious. In his mind, he then laid with her all night, 
without promise of marriage or declaration of love. He was no 
gentleman in his fantasies. And it was for that he deserved a 
punch in the jaw. 

Which was precisely why he had not fought Bill Scully. He may 
loathe the man's politics, but he completely understood his 
fraternal instincts. Mulder would have reacted the same way, 
given similar circumstances. It was a brother's duty to 
protect his sister against all threats. 

So Mulder took his licks, hoping with each painful blow that 
his yearning for Dana Scully might diminish. Trouble was, it 
didn't. Common sense, and his throbbing skull, said to let her 
go, forget about her. But his body and, strangely, his heart 
still felt a keen attraction. Maybe more so now than before 
he'd gotten his ass kicked. Which made no sense, but could 
explain why he'd foolishly told her he'd "be around." 

Idiot. It had been a pathetic show of defiance and bravado, he 
realized now, intended to let Bill -- and Skinner -- know that 
he had no intention of being run off, although only a week 
ago, before he ever met the diminutive Doctor Scully, he was 
perfectly content to live alone in the hills, as far from 
civilization as he could crawl. 

And now? He had an inexplicable urge to move to town, buy a 
house, and raise a horde of red-haired children. 

He sank beneath the stream's surface until the water covered 
his head. His long hair floated veil-like in the current. 
Blood curled in ribbons from his split lip.

As pretty as she was, it was Dana Scully's intellect he found 
most appealing, he thought as he watched blood-tinted bubbles 
sift from his nose. Educated and straightforward, she was 
willing to speak her mind, form her own opinions. Opinions 
that ran counter to his for the most part, but that was all 
right; he liked being challenged.     

Not that it mattered what he liked or didn't like. She was 
Skinner's intended, which made her unavailable. End of story.

Chilled to the marrow and needing air, he rose up with a gasp. 
Sisomm came running at the sound and splashed into the stream.

"Whoa, slow down!" Mulder said too late. Sisomm was on him, 
weighting him down and licking his face. "I like you, too, but 
your claws are sharp. Ow! That's enough!"

The dog stopped his lapping, tilted his head, and stared at 
Mulder.

"I don't look that bad, do I?" Mulder nudged him away and rose 
on unsteady legs. Water drained off him. "You should see the 
other guy."

Sisomm whined and nosed Mulder's unscathed knuckles.

"Haven't you ever read Shakespeare? 'The better part of 
valor,' and all that." He ruffled the dog's fur. "Point out my 
cowardice again and you'll find yourself pulling a travois for 
the Cree."

He retrieved his gun from the rock and headed to the cabin. 
Sisomm trotted after him. 

Inside, Mulder peeled off his vest and let it drop to the 
floor with a wet plop. He examined his right side. A bruise 
the size of his palm blackened the skin there. He gently 
prodded each rib, testing for breaks. They ached like a son of 
a bitch, but the bones seemed intact. 

He unbuckled and removed his gun belt and set it, along with 
his pistol, on the table, then sank down onto one of the 
benches. Tugging off his boots took more effort than he 
expected. Wincing, he upended both and drained them of water. 
Sisomm came over to lap at the puddle.

"Drink up." He let the boots thud to the floor. "That's what I 
plan to do, as soon as I can remember where I put that jug of 
Frohike's homebrew."

He yanked off his soaked wool socks, bunched them together, 
and wrung them out, adding more water to the floor, then 
tossed them aimlessly across the room. Standing up sent a 
fresh bolt of pain to his ribs. He tried to ignore it as he 
unfastened and stripped off his trousers. These he left lying 
on the floor, too, and walked naked to the nightstand. He 
picked up his shaving mirror to inspect his battered face. 

His lower lip was split and swollen, and still seeped blood. 
Dana Scully was right -- it could have used a stitch. Bruises 
mottled his jaw. Cuts and scrapes crisscrossed his left cheek 
and brow. Blood leaked from one nostril, but luckily his nose 
had escaped a direct hit, so remained unbroken. 

A lump on the back of his skull smarted when he probed it. It 
felt huge -- bigger than the duck egg he had eaten for 
breakfast -- but no matter how he turned his head or held the 
mirror, he could not see it. Frustrated, he quit trying and 
tossed the mirror onto the bed. 

It landed next to Dana Scully's stockings and garters. He 
plucked one garter from the crumpled blankets, remembering how 
he had slipped it from her leg, drew her stocking down, 
coveted the curve of her knee and swell of her thigh. More 
than anything, he had wanted to peek beneath her lace-trimmed 
bloomers--

God above, Bill Scully had every right to punch him. 

He gathered up the other garter and the stockings, intending 
to throw them in the fire. Burn 'em, he told himself. Forget 
Dana Scully ever existed. 

Sound advice, but he opened the trunk at the foot of his bed 
instead, and tucked her things beneath his favorite pair of 
fringed leggings. 

"Out of sight, out of mind, right?" he asked Sisomm. 

Sisomm dragged a stick of kindling from the hearth and dropped 
it at Mulder's bare feet, begging for a game of fetch.

"Not now, boy. As much as I'd like to stay and play -- or 
drink myself into a stupor -- I've got a couple of errands to 
run." 

The gunpowder and munitions caps The Eye had left at Buffalo 
Jump were still in his saddlebag. Along with the Jefferson 
Peace Medal he had promised Few Tails he would deliver to 
Captain Scully. He would visit Kicking Horse first, drop off 
the ammo, then continue on to the fort.

The prospect of running into Dana Scully again prompted him to 
grab a clean shirt and trousers from the wardrobe. He dressed 
quickly, then combed his hair and tied it back with a rawhide 
lace. He dug out a pair of dry boots from beneath his bed. 
They were covered with road dust and wood ash, so he buffed 
the toes with his shirtsleeve before putting them on. Should 
he shave, too? 

No, it would be hell scraping a razor over his bruised jaw. 
He'd end up looking worse than he did now. He gathered his gun 
belt from the table and strapped it on. Reaching for his 
pistol, he spotted two saloon tokens beside his voodoo doll.

"How did those get...?" He glanced at Sisomm. "You know 
anything about this?"

The dog yawned.

Mulder smiled. He believed in fate. The tokens would buy him a 
bath -- a real bath -- and a haircut. He palmed the coins. 

"Don't wait up," he called over his shoulder and headed out 
the door. "I may be gone awhile."

*   *   *

"I don't need an escort." Dana brushed aside Lieutenant 
Skinner's offer to accompany her into her parents' house. 
"From anyone." She glared at her brothers.

Charlie ignored her scowl and took her elbow. "Dana, please 
don't be angry. What were we to think?" He guided her up the 
steps to their father's front door.

"You could have trusted me."

"It wasn't you we didn't trust."

"You had no reason to doubt Mr. Mulder's motives. Besides, I 
can take care of myself. I'm not a child."

"I understand that. But Bill and I love you, Dana. You can't 
expect us to stop worrying about you."

"I expect you treat me like an adult." She shook free of his 
hand and turned to look back at the others. "That goes for all 
of you."

Bill stood beside his horse, fists clenched, face purple with 
unspent fury. Skinner stared not at her, but at some distant, 
unseen place beyond the fort's stockade fence. His customarily 
spotless uniform was mud-spattered and dusty. He seemed both 
miserable and humiliated, and she was unsure if his emotions 
were directed inward at himself or outward at her. Of one 
thing she was certain: he wished to be anywhere but here.

She opened the front door and found Cap and Maggie waiting 
just inside.

"I suppose you intend to chastise me, too," she said, plowing 
past them to the stairs.   

Her father called out her name, concern tempering his shout, 
but Dana ignored him and went straight to her room to change 
out of her torn, filthy clothes. She was going to the 
infirmary to start work there as soon as she washed up, and 
would not be talked out of it.

The first garment she removed was Mr. Mulder's shirt, which 
had concealed the worst damage to her own clothes. Imagine 
Bill's reaction if he had caught sight of her chemisette in 
tatters, corset and bare flesh exposed. Mr. Mulder might very 
well be lying dead at the bottom of Nine Pipe Ridge right now, 
rather than nursing his wounds back at his cabin.

She wondered again how badly he was hurt. Were his ribs 
broken? His skull fractured? At a minimum, he needed stitches 
to close the cut on his lip. Without them, there would be a 
scar.

A fine thank you he had received for the help he provided. He 
must regret their chance meeting altogether. And if not for 
his parting words, she would think he was glad to be rid of 
her.

"I'll be around," he had said. His promise filled her with 
hope. She lifted his shirt to her nose and, once again, 
breathed in his scent, which still lingered in the fabric. It 
brought a clear picture of him to her mind, not as he looked 
when they last parted, but on his horse beside the Missouri 
River, wearing buckskin and feathers, sitting tall in his 
saddle, eyes focused on her. A pleasant shiver ran through her 
at the memory. 

Time to stop daydreaming like a schoolgirl and get down to 
business. She folded his shirt and tucked it away in the 
bottom of her wardrobe, then stripped to her corset and 
pantaloons. She filled the washbasin from the pitcher. Working 
up a lather of soap, she scrubbed the last traces of grime and 
blood from her skin. 

It wasn't until she unrolled a pair of clean stockings that 
she remembered she had left her dirty, torn ones at the cabin, 
along with her garters. It was no real loss. The stockings 
were so full of holes that they were practically worthless. 
And she was hopeless at darning. 

She put on the fresh stockings, then slipped a plain, dark 
brown day dress over her head. She laid out her doctor's smock 
on the bed along with a simple, pointed brim bonnet in shirred 
silk. She would go without gloves, convention be damned. They 
were impractical when examining patients or performing 
surgery.

Her hair was a mess. She removed the lacing she had stolen 
from Mr. Mulder’s snowshoe and unknotted her long braid. Ten 
minutes of vigorous brushing brought back her hair's glossy 
sheen. She parted it straight down the middle, taking care 
that no strays created a crooked appearance, then smoothed the 
sides as best she could. With practiced hands, she twisted a 
conservative roll at the back of her neck and pinned it firmly 
in place with combs. Slipping into her smock, she was ready at 
last.      

Bonnet in hand, she went downstairs to the front hall. Her 
father and brothers were gone, but her mother was waiting for 
her there, blocking the door.

"Mother, let me pass, please."

"You should be in bed, sweetheart."

"I slept quite soundly last night, thank you."

"Your family didn't sleep a wink. We were awake worrying about 
you. Or don't you care about that?" 

"Of course I care," she said, meaning it. "But you had no 
reason to be concerned." 

"You're my daughter," she said, as if that explained 
everything.

"Do you worry about your sons the way you worry about me?"

They both knew this was not the case. The boys came and went 
as they pleased, no questions asked. No one cared that Charlie 
stayed out all night, nor did they fret over Bill's safety, 
although both men were often gone for days at a time. It was 
unfair. 

Dana put on her bonnet and tied the ribbons beneath her chin.

"Please step aside, Mother."

Tears filled Maggie's eyes. "Tell me where you're going."

"To work."

"I don't understand..." Maggie looked genuinely perplexed.

"I'm sure you don't." 

"You've just been through a terrible ordeal."

"It wasn't all bad, Mother." 

In fact, some moments had been almost pleasant. Like riding on 
Ponoká, Mr. Mulder's bare chest pressed against her back, his 
muscled arm tight around her waist.

Pushing past her mother, Dana opened the door and stepped out 
onto the porch. Maggie followed her.

"Don't you at least want some breakfast, dear?" she asked.

"I've already eaten, thank you." Dana started to walk away, 
then changed her mind, turned and hugged her mother. "I'm 
fine," she murmured against Maggie's soft cheek. "Honestly."

Maggie clung to her. "I love you, sweetheart. You're my baby. 
I just want you safe."

"I know and I am. I love you, too, Mom. But you have to let me 
grow up. Can you do that?" Dana pulled back to look into her 
mother's worried eyes. "Please."

"I'll try." 

"That's all I'm asking." She released her mother. "I'll be 
back in time for dinner."

Her mother nodded, so Dana left her standing there on the 
front step, biting her lip and wringing her hands. 



The Fort Culbertson Infirmary was located across the green 
from The Picayune. A dwarfish man with spectacles and 
muttonchop side-whiskers waved to her through his dusty window 
as she drew near. He was flanked by two other men: a bearded 
gentleman wearing a checked sack suit and a scruffier sort 
with long blond hair. The first man pointed to his eye and 
then at her, his grizzled brows raised in alarm. She granted 
him a tiny smile to acknowledge his concern for her injury, 
then continued on. 

Her bruises drew stares from the enlisted men, too, as they 
practiced drills on the parade ground. Twice their sergeant 
had to scold them for lack of attention. She was relieved when 
she finally entered the infirmary, away from prying eyes.

The infirmary's main room was approximately twenty feet 
square, dimly lit, and its plank floor was in need of a good 
scrubbing. There were eight cots arranged along the walls. 
Only one was currently occupied by a patient, a miserable 
looking man with a bandage slung beneath his chin and knotted 
atop his crown, giving the impression of rabbit ears. The room 
smelled of alcohol, sweat, and dirty linens. Most people would 
recoil from the foul odor, but to Dana it felt like a 
homecoming. This was precisely where she belonged.

She straightened her smock and went to the sick man. She 
guessed his age to be around fifty. Sparse hair fuzzed his 
otherwise bald scalp, giving him the appearance of a dandelion 
gone to seed. He had a bulbous nose, double chin stubbled with 
gray, and lips shaped like Cupid's bow. Most prominent, 
however, were his overly swollen cheeks.

"How are you feeling?" She touched the back of her hand to his 
brow. His skin burned with fever.

"Better than you, miss, by the looks of it." He eyeballed her 
bruised face. Two missing incisors gave his speech a slight 
lisp. 

"I look worse than I feel," she assured him. "I'm Doctor 
Scully, by the way. The fort's new physician."

"Didn't realize we was gettin' a new doc. 'Specially not such 
a purty one, shiner aside."

"What's your name, soldier?" She probed his neck. "Does this 
hurt?"

"Ow! Yes. Name's Phillips, miss. Sergeant Phillips. You a real 
doctor?"

"Yes, I'm a real doctor. I graduated from Hobart College in 
New York." 

"They let women into colleges back east?"

"They do. Have you been experiencing chills, headache, loss of 
appetite, fatigue?"

"Yes, miss. All them things. Can I have some whiskey? It'd 
make me feel a whole lot better." He grinned, exposing the gap 
in his teeth.

"We'll see. Let's finish your examination first."

"I got mumps. Least-wise, that's what the corporal says."

"The corporal?"

"Beckett. He's back there in the office." The sergeant nodded 
toward a side door.

Odd that Cap had not mentioned the name, or the fact that the 
fort already had a doctor. "Is Corporal Beckett a physician?"

"He worked the ambulance corps in Antietam, under Letterman. 
Was a stretcher-bearer mostly, but said he sometimes set bones 
and the like."

"I see." It surprised her how relieved she was to learn this 
Corporal Beckett was not a bona fide doctor. "Are you able to 
keep food down? Have you experienced any seizures?"

"I ain't throwed up. No spells neither, that I know of."

Good, the lack of these more serious symptoms indicated there 
was no brain fever.  

"How about orchitis?" she asked.

"Dunno who that is, Doc."

"Not who. What." Nearly a fourth of all men who developed 
mumps experienced orchitis -- painful inflammation of the 
testicles. "I need to check you for swelling, Sergeant 
Phillips."

"Ain't it obvious I got that?" He pointed a pudgy finger at 
the bandage cradling his chin.

"Yes, but I need to examine the parts I can't see."

"Sorry, Doc, I don't care what fancy school you went to -- you 
ain't gonna slice me open." He looked appalled.

"I'm not talking about surgery, Sergeant. I need to examine 
your testicles."

"Say again? You wanna look at my privates?"

"Yes. Actually, I'll need to touch them."

His expression of horror evaporated. "Well, you do that and I 
guarantee you'll encounter some swellin'." He winked at her.   

"You have a serious condition, Sergeant." She folded back his 
blanket. "The outcome of mumps is unpredictable in adult men. 
It can sometimes lead to testicular atrophy and sterility."

"What's that you say?"

"Shrinking of the testicles and the inability to father 
children." She probed his groin through his longjohns for 
enlarged lymph nodes. Cupping his scrotum, she gave a gentle 
squeeze. "Does this hurt?"

"I wouldn't describe it as hurtin', zactly." He grinned. "Do I 
got 'em? Them orchid things?"

"Orchitis. No, Sergeant, the news is good. Your mumps have not 
spread." She drew the blanket back over him.

"That's a relief. Not that I was plannin' to have any more 
young'uns -- I already got eleven and a couple of grandkids, 
too. But that part about shrinkin' didn't sound too good."

"Not to worry. You're fine. I want you to gargle with warm 
salt water twice a day, eat only soft foods, and take extra 
fluids. Avoid fruit, tomatoes, and other acidic foods and 
drinks, since these stimulate the salivary glands."

"That a bad thing?"

"It can be painful, yes." She poured him a glass of water from 
a pitcher on the stand beside his cot. "No milk or cheese, as 
they can be difficult to digest."

"What *can* I eat?"

"Porridge, boiled potatoes, broth." She handed him the glass. 
"Your symptoms should disappear in a few days. Most patients 
recover completely with no aftereffects."

"That's good news, Doc." He drank down the water and handed 
her back the empty glass. "Now can I have some whiskey?"

"With your lunch."

"When's that gonna be?"

"Soon, I promise."

"Thank you, miss, er, I mean Doc. For everythin'." He smiled 
broadly, plumping his cheeks even more. "This's been the best 
day I've had since joinin' the army!"  

Assured he was comfortable, she took her leave. She was eager 
to explore the rest of the infirmary, and meet Corporal 
Beckett, the stretcher-bearer turned "doctor." 

A small surgery was located just off the main ward. An 
operating table occupied the center of the room. Shelves 
containing bandages, needles, silk thread for ligatures, and 
surgical instruments lined one wall. A quick inventory of the 
instruments revealed amputating saws, bone nippers, knives, 
syringes, forceps, probangs, and catheters. She was pleased to 
find a fully stocked Snowden & Brother surgery kit, too, 
practically new. Inside the kit were the usual scalpels, 
scissors, bullet probes, and tourniquets. 

A glass-fronted medicine cabinet in one corner held bottles 
containing various powders and liquids. The labels listed 
standard remedies: opium, morphine, Dover's powder, quinine, 
rhubarb, Rochelle salts, castor oil, sugar of lead, tannin, 
sulphate of copper, sulphate of zinc, camphor, syrup of 
squills, alcohol, whiskey, brandy, port wine, and sherry. 

She was impressed. She had not expected the fort's infirmary 
to be so well provisioned.

Satisfied, she moved on to inspect the third and final room, 
her office.

She opened the door to find Corporal Beckett sitting with his 
feet propped up on the desk, reading a textbook.

"Pathology and Treatment of Venereal Diseases by Freeman J. 
Bumstead, M.D.," she read from the cover. "Do you treat many 
sexual diseases here at the fort, Corporal?"

"Do you have one?" He lowered the book to look at her. He was 
a pasty-skinned man in his mid-thirties, with boney features, 
a bristly mustache, and jet black hair. "You don't dress like 
the other girls."

"Other girls?"

"Les nymphes de la prairie."

"That's because I don't work in a brothel, Corporal. And if I 
may speak frankly, you don't dress like the other soldiers."

He wore his uniform frock coat with the standing collar turned 
down, like a lapel coat. His vest was unbuttoned, exposing the 
pin tucks of his pleated shirt front. Its detached collar lay 
on the desk, next to his cravat and a copy of "Lectures on 
Venereal Diseases" by William Hammond, Surgeon General of the 
U.S. Army.

He caught her staring at the book. "I'm sometimes called upon 
to treat the citizenry of Flatwillow."

"The women at the saloon."

"Yes, I examine them, on occasion. Free of charge, courtesy of 
the United States government."

"How generous of you."

"Syphilis is a serious threat. An outbreak among the soldiers 
could prove disastrous." 

"War is a dangerous occupation." 

"Indeed. I must be vigilant. The Army is at risk."

"Clearly, you're carrying out your patriotic duty."  

"Yes. Exactly so." He gave a quick nod and slid his feet from 
the desk to the floor. He slapped the book with his palm. 
"It's imperative we stop the threat at its source."

"The brothel."

"Specifically, the soiled doves who work there."

"The women are to blame?"

"Who else?"

"Corporal, how do you imagine those women came to be infected 
with the disease in the first place?"

"Loose morals, obviously." Pursing his lips, he arranged the 
textbooks square to the edge of the desk.  

"What are your credentials, Corporal Beckett? As a medical 
man, I mean."

"Letterman Ambulance Plan, miss, Army of the Potomac."

"You collected wounded from the field, brought them to the 
dressing station, then took them to the field hospital."

"That and more."

"Have you had any formal medical training?"

"At a school? No. Didn't need to. I received adequate training 
through experience. Treated hundreds of wounded soldiers. It 
taught me all I know." He smiled at her. "Is there something I 
can do for you, Miss...?"

"Forgive me, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Doctor Scully, 
the fort's new physician." 

"Doctor Scul--?" His eyes widened. "You wouldn't be related to 
the captain, would you, miss?"

"As a matter fact, he's my father."

"And Lieutenant Scully--"

"Is my older brother. Yes."

Corporal Beckett's Adam's apple bobbed above his collarless 
shirt. He rose from the chair and quickly fastened the top 
button of his vest, leaving the waist gaping. "I beg your 
pardon, Miss Scully." 

"Doctor Scully."

"Yes, right," -- he gave a slight bow -- "Doctor Scully."

"May I sit at my desk?" she asked.

"Of course." He stepped aside and gestured toward the chair. 

She brushed past him and took a seat.

"You can leave now, Corporal," she said when he continued to 
stare at her. "But be back at 6:00 p.m."

"Six?"

"Yes, you're on night duty until further notice."

"But--"

"If you need to hear those orders from Captain Scully himself, 
I can arrange it."

"No, that won't be necessary." He started to salute, then 
realized his mistake and exited the room without further 
comment.

Alone, she leaned back and took a deep breath. This was her 
office. Her chair. Her bookshelves, medical texts, and 
logbook. Daniel Waterston would be proud of her, even if her 
family was not. She was a practicing physician in a real 
hospital. Her dream had come true, at last. 

As silly as it seemed, the desk pleased her most. It was old 
and small, but it was hers. She caressed its scratched 
mahogany surface, then sorted through the contents of each 
drawer. "A Practical Treatise on Factures and Dislocations" by 
Frank Hamilton, M. D.; "Handbook for the Military Surgeon" by 
Charles Tripler and George Blackman; "Anatomy of the Arteries 
of the Human Body" by John H. Power. Great physicians all. 

Smiling, she opened the logbook to review the patient records. 
Her smile quickly faded. Names and dates went back two years, 
but the entries contained so little information they filled 
fewer than two dozen pages. Most illnesses and injuries were 
described in amateurish terms, with no reference to cause or 
result: rash on chest; cut on arm; fever. The treatments, when 
listed, sounded inadequate or downright harmful. 

"Sloppy work, Corporal Beckett," she murmured, dipping a quill 
into the inkwell. He would receive a stern lecture for his 
lackadaisical methods. Putting pen to paper, she wrote a 
thorough account of Sergeant Phillips' condition in the log.

The day passed quickly, almost without her notice. She fed 
Sergeant Phillips, allowed him a small dose of whiskey, and 
periodically checked on him. While he dozed, she worked in the 
back rooms, inventorying and organizing supplies, 
straightening shelves, and dusting off the small library of 
books. She felt most at home in the surgery and spent several 
hours there sorting through the medicines and polishing 
instruments.

Around 5:30, the sound of boot heels announced a visitor in 
the ward. A man spoke in a low voice to the sick sergeant. She 
put down her cleaning rag, smoothed her smock, and went to 
investigate.

"You're early Corporal-- Oh. It's you."

Walter Skinner, not Corporal Beckett, stood beside the 
sergeant's bed. He cut a dashing figure in his impeccable 
uniform, gleaming officer's saber, and crimson sash. He had 
changed out of his muddy coat and trousers. Polished his 
boots. Shaved his face and even trimmed his mustache. 

"Doctor Scully." He removed his hat.

"Lieutenant." She had not expected to see him so soon after 
their argument and felt unprepared for an encounter. 
Especially here, in front of the sergeant, who watched them 
with obvious curiosity. 

Skinner appeared equally uncomfortable. "May we go somewhere 
to talk?" he asked.

"Corporal Beckett doesn't return until 6:00. I can't..." She 
glanced at the sergeant. 

"Of course," Skinner said. "I'll just wait here until you're 
free to go then."

"Here?"

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

"The sergeant needs his rest."

"I ain't tired, doc. Been sleepin' most of the afternoon."

"You're more tired than you know."

"I'm wide awake. Feelin' real dandy. You need to check me fer 
orchids again?" 

"No." She turned to Skinner. "I must insist you leave, 
Lieutenant."

He nodded and fitted his hat to his head. "In that case, I'll 
be back at 6:00. I have something I want to show you."   

Her stomach knotted for no logical reason and her heart began 
to thud foolishly. "I-I'll see you then."

*   *   *

Kicking Horse was chief to a band of two-hundred Blackfoot 
summering along the banks of Miin Creek. He became chief the 
way most did, by demonstrating leadership in ceremonies and 
success in battle. In order to procure a steady supply of food 
and ensure the safety of his people, he regularly fought the 
Cree to the north and, when forced, the whites to the south. 

He was a wealthy man, as Indians went. At sixty years of age, 
he owned many horses and had three wives, four daughters, six 
sons, and more than a dozen grandchildren. He enjoyed life's 
simple pleasures, like a fine pipe, a warm campfire, a hearty 
meal, and a good joke. He was a convincing orator and an 
accomplished spinner of tales. He claimed to have seen the Two 
Faces of Truth, for which Mulder was envious. Intelligent, 
sharp witted, and resilient, Kicking Horse had proved himself 
time and again to be an admirable provider and a loyal friend, 
generous to kin and members of his tribe. 

The chief welcomed Mulder cheerfully whenever he visited, 
inviting him to spend the night in his lodge and share both 
pipe and food. His kindness was due in part to his gregarious 
nature, but also because Mulder supplied him with information 
about the increasing influx of whites, and weapons to help 
defend against the Cree and soldiers from the fort. More than 
that, however, he seemed to genuinely like Mulder. And Mulder 
liked him in return.

"I wish I had more for you." Mulder unloaded the small keg of 
gunpowder and tin of munitions caps from his saddlebags.

"I am grateful for whatever you bring, Ohkó." Kicking Horse 
directed Mulder into his tepee. Inside, he stored the items. 
"Sit. Smoke with me. My daughters will prepare us something to 
eat."

In short order, Little Bird and Spotted Rabbit arrived with 
roasted venison, service berries, and honey.

"My daughters grow prettier with each sunrise, do they not?" 
Kicking Horse beamed with pride as the young women served the 
food.  

The chief was continually trying to interest Mulder in one or 
both of his youngest girls, daughters by his third wife. 
Little Bird and Spotted Rabbit were approaching marriageable 
age and Kicking Horse was eager to find them suitable 
husbands. 

Spotted Rabbit's cheeks dimpled when she smiled. Her hand 
grazed Mulder's as she passed him a basket of frybread. Her 
skin was soft and her dark eyes shone.

Little Bird was shier than her older sister, but no less 
lovely. She wore a sleeveless tunic that showed off smooth 
shoulders and shapely arms. When she leaned close to fill 
Mulder's plate with tanka-me-a-lo, buffalo stew, he caught a 
whiff of her sweetgrass necklace and the bear's grease she 
combed into her hair to make it shine.

"They're both very beautiful," Mulder agreed with the chief. 

Kicking Horse nodded, then pointed to Mulder's split lip. "Not 
like you. You are not looking so well."

"I, uh, ran into a door."

"I think you ran into trouble. Did the soldiers from the fort 
do this?"

"Yes, but not for the reasons you might think."

"Do not risk yourself on our behalf, Ohkó. I have grown fond 
of you."

Spotted Rabbit heaped more meat onto Mulder's plate.

"Whoa, that's enough," he objected.

Kicking Horse elbowed Mulder. "It seems my daughter has grown 
fond of you, too." 

The women flirted with Mulder throughout the meal. They 
competed with each other to be the first to refill his plate 
or offer him more bread and honey. The chief told stories as 
they ate, and Mulder was quickly caught up in his tales. By 
the time the last of the food was cleared away and Kicking 
Horse had lit his pipe, Mulder was feeling both sated and 
relaxed. He leaned back on his elbows, stomach full. He sighed 
with contentment.   

"It has been a good day," Kicking Horse said, puffing on his 
pipe.

"Yes."

"Will you be staying the night?"

"No, I have to go soon."

"You are always on the move. Like a coyote."

"Not true. I spend a lot of time holed up in my cabin."

"You should take my daughters back to your cabin with you."

Startled by the chief's suggestion, Mulder straightened. "Take 
them to my cabin?" The question squeaked from his throat. 

"Yes. They can keep you company. Cook for you. Scrape hides. 
Carry firewood. Make you forget about the pains of your 
flesh." Kicking Horse poked Mulder's bruised ribs. "After a 
few days, you will choose which you like best and marry her."

"Uh..." Mulder cleared his throat, looking for a way out 
without insulting the chief. "Suppose I like them both 
equally?" 

"Then marry them both!" 

"As tempting as that sounds, Chief, I...I'm not going back to 
my cabin tonight. I have business in town."

"This business cannot wait a day or two?"

Mulder shook his head.

The chief frowned. "You have been káta'yoohtsimi too long."

"Káta'yoohtsimi?" Mulder was unfamiliar with the word.

"A man who does not marry."

Ah, a bachelor. "I've had a hard time finding a woman willing 
to tolerate my rather unorthodox ways."

"Maybe there is no white woman like this. But a Pikuni wife is 
more understanding." He offered the pipe to Mulder. "A good 
wife can calm a man's soul. Keep him from getting into fights. 
My daughters could show you this."

"Thank you, Chief." Mulder waved away the pipe and stood. "I 
appreciate your offer and will keep it in mind."

"Good. Next time you visit, we will talk of it again."

*    *   *

"Where are we going?" Dana spurred her chestnut mare to keep 
pace with Skinner's lively, silver-gray stallion. 

"It's a surprise." A hint of a smile curled Skinner's lips. 
The feather in his hat bobbed with each jostling stride of his 
horse. 

"I don't particularly like surprises."

"You'll like this one."

"You seem quite sure of yourself."

His smile faded. "It's my hope you'll like it."

She was still angry with him for his appalling behavior 
earlier in the day. Clearly, he was prepared to put the 
incident behind them, but she was not. A gulf had widened 
between them and if he expected to win back her favor, he had 
a difficult course ahead of him. 

They rode south for almost two miles, Flatwillow and the fort 
at their backs, the Missouri River and the Rockies' limestone 
cliffs to their right, nothing but open prairie ahead and to 
the east. Late afternoon sun painted the rolling landscape 
pale gold, while growing shadows swallowed the lowlands 
between the mountains and the water. 

At last, Skinner slowed his horse and pointed. "There it is."

On a bluff overlooking the river and facing the mountains 
stood a two-story farmhouse. Sturdily built, it appeared brand 
new. A fresh coat of paint brightened the clapboard siding and 
window trim. A central chimney rose straight and tall from the 
gabled roof. Sunlight gilded the front windows, giving the 
impression that lamps burned in every room.

"Who lives there?" Dana asked.

"No one, at the moment." 

They rode up to the front porch. Skinner dismounted and tied 
his horse to the rail.

"Are we going inside?" she asked from atop her horse.

"I want you to see it." He extended a hand to help her down.

Ignoring his gallantry, she dismounted without his help. A 
twinge of pain shot up her leg when her foot hit the ground. 
She gasped, giving away her distress.

"Please, don't be stubborn." He offered his arm.

"I'll be as stubborn as I like." 

She limped to the front steps, unaided. 

He followed her up onto the veranda, which extended the full 
length of the house. Simple scrolled brackets topped the 
chamfered posts that supported the roof. Turned balusters 
added a touch of elegance to an otherwise plain porch rail. 
The floorboards were clear pine, each nearly two feet wide.    

His boot heels thumped against the planks as he strode to the 
front door, which was set to the far left of the facade, not 
in the center. Grasping the iron handle, he swung the door 
open.

"After you." 
  
She stepped past him into a long, narrow hall. On the left, a 
staircase connected to an upper story. The stair treads were 
bare, unvarnished wood, as was the unpretentious banister and 
rail. The construction appeared first-rate, the joints tight, 
the trim laboriously sanded. The smell of freshly milled 
lumber filled the house.

Wainscoting wrapped the foyer's lower walls. The upper portion 
was plaster and lath, unadorned by paper, paint, or family 
portraits. None of the usual furnishings crowded the entryway; 
no carpet decorated the new, pale floor. 

"Go on," he urged. "Look around."

She peered through the door to her right. Golden light flooded 
the empty room, an airy parlor with ample windows and a large 
fireplace flanked by bookshelves. A collection of carpenter's 
tools sat in the center of the room. A broom leaned against 
one wall, next to a tidy pile of wood shavings and sawdust.   

"The chimney drafts well," he said, crossing to it. A small 
amount of soot blackened the brick beneath the grate. He 
reached a hand into the firebox and rattled the damper.

"You've tried it?" 

"Of course." He clapped ash from his hands. The sound echoed 
off the room's hard surfaces. "Want to see more?"

She nodded, wondering about the lieutenant's motives and 
hoping the owner of the property would not mind strangers 
wandering through.

She trailed Skinner down the hall to the rear of the house. On 
the left was a generously sized dining room with multi-shelved 
china cabinets built into two corners. 

Opening one of the cabinet doors, she stroked its smooth, wood 
panel and marveled at the brass hardware and leaded glass. 
"These were finely built."

Staring past her at the cabinets, Skinner allowed himself 
another small smile. "Thank you."

"You built them?"

"Yes. I built this entire house." His smile grew broader. "Not 
without help, of course. I'm not much of a mason, but I enjoy 
woodworking. I've been poking away at it since early spring."

She scanned the carefully mitered trim, the finely plastered 
ceiling, and tightly fitted floorboards. The room was generous 
in size and bright with natural light, even this late in the 
day. Whoever had hired Skinner to build this for him had made 
a wise choice. "It's...it's beautiful."

Her praise pinked his cheeks. "Let me show you the rest."

He led her from the dining room through a door to a kitchen, a 
nearly square room dominated by a large fireplace with hooks 
for cooking pots and a spit for roasting.

"The window faces east." He pointed to the opposite wall. "It 
makes the room quite cheerful in the morning."

"I can imagine."

"There's a back entrance, too, as you can see." Motioning her 
across the room, he opened the door to a small porch.

Out in the yard, soil had been turned for a small garden plot 
to the left. Straight back, a path led to a privy. To the 
right was a large, newly constructed barn.

"Would you like to see the upstairs before we tour the barn?" 
he asked.

"Yes, certainly."

They retraced their steps to the front hall. He allowed her to 
lead the way up the stairs.

The upper landing opened onto another hall that ran the length 
of the second story. 

"Turn left," he suggested.

She did and soon found herself in a small bedroom at the rear 
of the house, the perfect size for a child or servant. A 
ventilation grate in the floor looked down onto the dining 
room below. A connecting door led to a second bedroom, 
slightly larger than the first, above the kitchen. They walked 
through. Like the previous room, this one had a window 
overlooking the barn and backyard.

"This would make a good nursery, don't you think?" he asked.

"I suppose it would." She pictured a crib and rocking chair, 
and children's toys strewn about the floor. 

"You see, it connects to both the nurse's room," -- he nodded 
in the direction they had come -- "and the master bedchamber. 
This way."  

He ducked through a low door into what at first appeared to be 
a dead-end closet, but in fact continued straight through to a 
large front bedroom, positioned above the parlor downstairs.

Fingers of sunlight striped the bare walls and clean 
floorboards. Finely constructed cupboards flanked a large 
fireplace. A proper door led back out to the hall. Like the 
rest of the house, there was no furniture, but she could 
imagine a wardrobe, a washstand, a bed...

She moved to the windows, as far from the lieutenant as she 
could get, and looked out at the setting sun. The Missouri 
River flowed molten between the bluff and the blue-black 
mountains beyond. She wondered which jagged peak held Mr. 
Mulder's small cabin. How was her rescuer faring after his 
unwarranted beating? Were his ribs cracked? Did he suffer a 
concussion? His skull had hit hard against the ledge. He might 
be unconscious, laid out on his narrow bed, the bed where she 
had slept only last night.

She would ride out to check on him as soon as she finished her 
rounds at the infirmary in the morning.   

"There's a large linen closet just outside at the end of the 
hall," Skinner said, interrupting her thoughts, "and two 
smaller clothes presses. Room to comfortably accommodate a 
family of moderate size, wouldn't you say?"

"So it would seem."

"There's still a lot to do, obviously. A fence around the 
kitchen garden, lines strung for laundry, fields to plow, 
furniture to build, dishes to order...but it's a start. A good 
start. And if we're blessed with more children than these 
rooms can hold, well then, the gable at the side gives headway 
to the attic. I'll just need to add more stairs."

"We?" 

"Why, yes. I built this house for us. Ordered the main timbers 
the day after your father first spoke of you. What do you say? 
Can you imagine living here?"

He was getting ahead of himself, and she planned to tell him 
exactly that. Gathering her thoughts, she stared again at the 
mountains and tried to pick out Nine Pipe Ridge.

"Why didn't you come to Mr. Mulder's aid this morning?" 

"I thought he had caused you harm."

"Why did you assume the worst? Weren't you friends with him at 
one time?" She turned to face him.

"Yes, and I didn't assume the worst, not at first." He joined 
her at the window. "I spoke on Mulder's behalf to your father 
and brothers. I told them to trust him."

"Yet you took one look at me and blamed him."

"What was I to think? Look at you!" He reached out to stroke 
her cheek, but his fingers fell short of her bruised flesh. He 
let his arm drop. "I'm sorry. I was wrong."     

"It's Mr. Mulder who deserves your apology, not me."

"He'll get it soon enough, rest assured."

His tone was cryptic and she was uncertain what he meant by 
"soon enough."

"Your word as a gentleman?" she asked.

"On my word, yes. Now, may we talk of something else?"

"Yes, let's. There are a few more important issues we still 
need to discuss."

"Such as?"

"You said you ordered the main timbers for this house the day 
after my father first mentioned me to you. Why? We hadn't yet 
met. You didn't know a thing about me."

"I knew what your father told me."

"I suspect Father painted a wildly inaccurate picture."

"Not at all. We've met now and I am not disappointed." He 
attempted another smile. 

"You said yourself that Father mentioned nothing about my 
course of study."

"That's true."

"Or my wish to practice medicine."

"Also true." He tugged at his sash, although it did not need 
straightening. 

"Do these things matter to you or not? Tell me honestly, 
Lieutenant, what qualities are you looking for in a wife?"

"What most men want, I think. A companion, obviously. A mother 
for my boys. A keeper of my house and of my heart." He tagged 
her arm with the point of his finger. "And you? What is it you 
hope to find in a husband?"

This was her chance to be honest with him.

"Understanding...understanding that I am my own person with my 
own opinions and my own voice. I am hoping to find a man who 
can comprehend my desire to practice medicine, who supports me 
in that desire, and does not conspire to strip me of my dreams 
or my individual identity."

His eyes narrowed. 

She readied herself for an argument. "Did you hope I would 
forget about my ambitions the moment I saw this house? Or 
perhaps you believe you can control me after we are married. I 
do not wish to be handled, Lieutenant. I want to be treated as 
an equal."

She expected him to object, but he did not. Instead he grabbed 
her hand and tugged her toward the door. 

"Follow me, please." 

"Where are we going?" 

"The barn."

She reluctantly trailed him down the stairs, along the hall, 
and out the back of the house, wondering as she limped along 
about his intent.

Dying rays of daylight painted crimson streaks across the 
clouds between the mountaintops and the darkening heavens. 
Crickets whined in the rustling grass. 

She clung to his hand as she followed him down the path. "What's 
in the barn?"

"Something that will clarify my position beyond all doubt."

She could not imagine how horse stalls and hay lofts might 
help him make his point, but she went with him anyway. He 
walked slowly, shortening his stride to accommodate her 
hobbling gait. His eyes never left her, yet he did not falter 
in the growing gloom. Clearly, he had traversed this path many 
times.  

At the barn, he released her hand and swung open the door to 
reveal a gleaming, rock-away buggy just inside.

The small carriage was designed to hold no more than two 
persons, and, should the riders be large men, the fit would be 
a tight one. Sliding glass sashes closed off both back and 
front from the weather. Roll-down curtains provided privacy 
all 'round. The top was trimmed in leather. The sides were 
painted a glossy black with delicate striping in yellow for 
ornamentation. A pair of top quality lamps graced the front. A 
partition behind the seat was just large enough to store a 
surgeon's kit.

"It's a physician's phaeton," Skinner explained when she did 
not speak.

"I know what it is. But what is it doing here?"

"I bought it for you. If you want it."

"If I want it?"

"Yes. Every doctor needs one, doesn't she?" 

Tears pricked her eyes. She felt overcome by his unexpected 
thoughtfulness and generosity. "Where did you get it? *When* 
did you get it?"

"This morning, after I dropped you off at your father's house. 
I rode immediately to Kingsbury Basin to make inquiries. As 
luck would have it, Dr. Blackwell was willing to sell me this 
one."

She circled the buggy. The seat was upholstered in deep blue 
morocco cloth, the cushion faces finished with silk lade.

"It's not brand new," he explained. "There wasn't time to 
order--"

"It's perfect." She ran a palm across the dash rail. "Does 
this mean...you accept my profession?"

"If I am to have you, it seems I must." He smiled. 

"You overwhelm me, sir."

"There's more."

"More?"

"Inside the buggy. On the floor."

She peered into the phaeton. Hidden in the shadows beneath the 
bench was a small, hinged wooden box about two inches square. 
She picked it up. Two carefully carved doves decorated the 
finely worked lid.

"What's this?"

"Open it."

She lifted the lid. Inside she found a lovely sapphire and 
pearl ring.   

Skinner cleared his throat, then removed his hat. "Although 
our acquaintance has been brief, from the first I have felt a 
keen affection for you, Dana. It seems there is reciprocity of 
feeling, as demonstrated by your kiss. I hope you regard me 
with approval, for I am fully content with your character."

His words sounded rehearsed.

"Lieutenant--"

"No, please, let me finish, for I have never been more nervous 
in my life than I am at this moment -- not even when facing 
Santa Anna's army." He gripped his hat in both hands, crushing 
the brim beyond repair. "Dana, you possess a firmness of 
disposition that I admire and your judgment appears governed 
by principle. You have earned my esteem, and if I can elicit 
from you a fondness towards me, then it is my intention to 
marry you."

"Walter, I really think--"

He held up a hand to stop her. 

"I pray I am not rushing this proposal. The matter has been 
evolving in my mind for a long time -- since the day your 
father first spoke of you." Stiffly, formally, he lowered 
himself to one knee. Taking hold of her hand, he looked up at 
her with earnest eyes. "Dana Scully, should you find my 
general character and good standing in society to be 
satisfactory, then please accept this ring now and my name in 
the near future. Promise to become my life's companion. Do me 
the greatest of all honors: consent to be my wife." 

-------

Chapter 10

"Please stand, Lieutenant," Dana urged, her voice muted in the 
vast space of the barn.

Skinner remained steady. "I shall not budge until I hear you 
say 'yes.'"

"Then you will be on your knee a long while, sir." She 
withdrew her hand from his. "I would prefer we become friends 
before we consider anything more intimate." 

"Have we not already been intimate?" he blurted.

Their kiss on the dock. Heat crawled up her neck and into her 
cheeks. "That was a mistake."

His lips thinned and he held back further comment. Her zeal 
had matched his that night; they both knew it. Her boldness 
had clearly misled him and he had every right to feel 
deceived.

His sword clanked awkwardly against the floor as he rose to 
his feet. Sawdust clung to the dark fabric of his trousers. "I 
have mistimed my proposal. I am sorry." 

Shame pricked her conscience; she should be apologizing to 
him, not the other way around. He had gone to considerable 
effort to please her -- the house, the phaeton, the handsome 
ring. Meanwhile she was toying with his emotions the way an 
angler plays a fish on a line. She had accepted her father’s 
invitation to travel to Montana to meet him, fully aware of 
his interest in marrying her. Her arrival had, no doubt, given 
him reason to believe she was equally interested. He addressed 
the subject at the first opportunity, during their walk on the 
pier the night he came to her parents’ house for dinner. And 
how had she responded? She had not discouraged his romantic 
notions one whit. To the contrary, she kissed him! 

And now she was turning him away. The poor man must think her 
addled, or cruel, or something even worse. 

Inwardly, she begged his forgiveness. Aloud, she said, "I need 
more time.”

“How much more?”

“A few months, perhaps.”

“Months?” His brows rose.

“Long enough to become friends."  

“If you do not consider us friends already, then I am without 
hope. I fail to see what more I can do to elevate your opinion 
of me."

She looked around the barn. Its solid timbers and careful 
craftsmanship bore testament to his dreams for their future. 
At its heart, illuminated by a ray of setting sun, the buggy 
gleamed as brilliantly as the gemstones in the ring she held 
in her hand. 

"My opinion of you is already quite high, Walter," she 
admitted.

"Then why refuse me?"

"I have not refused you, not outright."

He blinked, taking in her words. The brim of his hat folded 
beneath the squeeze of his fingers. He turned and paced to the 
open door. Staring out at the sunset, he stood rigid, backlit 
by a blood-red sky, sword tinted scarlet. "Are you saying I 
may continue to court you?"

"If it pleases you."

"Pleases *me*?" He spun to face her. "I must confess, I find 
myself in a state of complete confusion. I need to know, Dana, 
what pleases *you*?"  

The question took her aback. What would please her? What did 
she really want? She had not asked herself these questions in 
a long while. Not since breaking off her involvement with 
Daniel. She effectively closed her heart after ending their 
short affair. Upon discovering he already had a wife, she 
promptly rejected him, then spent the next three years burying 
her hurt and loneliness in her studies. 

She crossed to the lieutenant. Although she had left her 
gloves back at her parents’ house, she took hold of his hand. 
The gesture clearly surprised him, since he also wore no 
gloves. 

His fingers felt rough against her smoother skin, his palm 
broad and warm. She sensed the power in his grip, though he 
held her as gently as one would hold a butterfly. 

"Please, don’t think me ungrateful.” She looked into his eyes, 
trying to gauge the depth of his disappointment. “I appreciate 
all you’ve done, the trouble you’ve gone to."

"I enjoyed every minute I spent building this house. I thought 
of you with each nail I set and each plank I sanded. It was no 
effort. None at all." He stroked her fingers. "Dana, some men 
are happy being single, but I’m not one of them. I want to be 
married again. I want more children. I've been alone too 
long."

"I understand...and I sympathize." She did know what it was 
like to be lonely. She had kept to herself after Daniel, 
rebuffing all advances, afraid to chance another ill-fated 
liaison. "But I need to be certain before I commit to you or 
to anyone. It’s important I feel love for a man if I am to 
spend the rest of my life with him. Don't you want the woman 
you marry to love you, too?"

"Of course. It's just...I thought..." His jaw clamped shut.

“You thought I already loved you...because I kissed you.”

“No, I thought...I hoped...under my love and protection, as my 
wife, you would grow to love me.”

Her mother’s words came back to her: “You wouldn't be the 
first woman to marry a man she barely knows. Love will come.”

Dana tried to picture herself in this house several years from 
now, with Walter, with children. Could she be happy? Would 
affection blossom between them? Develop into true love? 

She needed to talk to Charlie. He understood her better than 
anyone in the world. He could offer her honest counsel.  

“Give me a few days,” she amended her earlier request.

“You’re welcome to take whatever time you need.”

“No, it is unfair to keep you waiting any longer. You’ll have 
my answer by week’s end.”  

As the sun slipped behind the mountains, the twilight sky 
glowed burgundy and gold. He leaned closer. Only an inch or 
two separated them; the heat of his body pressed against her 
as solidly as bone and muscle. His head tilted and she was 
afraid he was going to kiss her again. She also feared she 
might let him. The desire in his eyes drew her up onto her 
toes. He was breathing hard and with each exhalation his 
breath warmed her cheeks, caressed her lips.

"I-it's late, Lieutenant." 

He drew back. A chilling draft filled the void between them. 

"Forgive me. Your family will be wondering where you are."

She held out the open box with its pearl and sapphire ring.

He waved it off. "Keep it." 

"No, I cannot. Or the phaeton.” She glanced with longing at 
the buggy.

“I insist you keep them both.” He refused to take the box from 
her outstretched hand. “I’ll deliver the buggy to your 
father’s house tomorrow. It and the ring are yours, no matter 
what you ultimately decide about us.”

“Walter, when a woman accepts a man’s ring, it carries 
implications.”

“I refuse to argue the point further.” He put on his hat and 
crooked his elbow. “May I escort you back to the horses?”

She closed the box’s tiny lid, hiding the ring away. “I can’t 
wear it, you know.”

“You will, someday.”

She pocketed the box and slipped her hand through the crook of 
his arm. He gazed down at her with love evident in his eyes.

“I will win your heart, Dana. Mark my words. You will be my 
wife."

*   *   *

Mulder skirted the Akópskaa Swamp on his way south to 
Flatwillow. Brackish water reflected a crimson sky, making it 
appear as if the marsh oozed blood. Choke cherry and box elder 
clogged the lowland. Fermenting berries and leaf rot carried 
the smell of death.

Akópskaa meant “soup broth” in the Blackfoot language. It was 
a fitting name for the slough between Miin Creek and the 
Missouri River. The depth of the water varied from a few 
inches to several feet. Bullfrogs groaned in its marshy 
shadows. Bats sliced the mist-filled air.

“Easy, boy,” Mulder warned when Ponoká stumbled on a submerged 
tree root. He steered the horse upland to firmer ground.

Pockets of fog drifted like lost ghosts above the sodden 
earth. A chilling wind rattled the tree branches. August was 
only half gone, but winter came notoriously early in Montana. 
Pulling his coat more tightly across his chest, Mulder 
anticipated his evening in town. 

The Flatwillow Saloon, primarily a drinking establishment, was 
the place where locals went to gamble, eat, bathe, and enjoy 
the company of whores. Whiskey was seventy-five cents a shot. 
Rye and bourbon a dollar. Dances with saloon girls cost one-
fifty. Sexual favors could set a man back as much as five 
dollars, depending on the particulars of the act. Mulder’s 
bath and haircut would cost him two bits. 

Worth ten-fold the amount, he thought, recalling the saloon’s 
small, back room with its cast-iron hog scalder substituting 
for a bathtub. Several large, copper pots heated water on a 
woodstove in one corner. Velvet drapes on the windows lent an 
air of elegance, rare so far west. A life-sized portrait of a 
nude woman adorned the wall beside the tub. Its gilt frame was 
badly chipped, but the painting itself glowed like a jewel. 

Mulder remembered with photographic clarity the last time he 
had lowered himself, naked as a jaybird, into the tub’s 
steaming, lavender-scented water. His clothes had hung on a 
chair across the room. A buxom woman in ruffled, knee-length 
petticoats and scandalously tight bodice tended the stove.

“You ‘bout ready?” she asked.

“Any time, Etta.”

She carried a pitcher from stove to tub. “Lean forward,” she 
prompted before pouring warm water over his head. She 
shampooed his hair with perfumed soap, her painted nails 
digging delightfully into his scalp. She hummed while she 
scrubbed, a tune at odds with the one being played on the 
tinny piano in the dance hall beyond the closed door. A 
headboard banged rhythmically against the thin wall of the 
next room. The pounding was accompanied by the sound of flesh 
slapping flesh. A few noisy moments later, a man groaned, his 
pleasure muffled by his partner’s shoulder or breast. 

“You gonna want some of that after we finish here?” Etta 
pinched his cheek and grinned. Her gold tooth flashed in the 
flickering lamplight. She dipped her pitcher between his 
raised knees to refill it, grazing his inner thigh as she 
lifted it up and out, full to the brim. 

An arrow whistled past Mulder’s head, narrowly missing his 
left ear and abruptly ending his pleasant memory. It lodged in 
the trunk of a nearby tree. 

The shaft was triple-feathered, the barbed point attached by 
sinew and wapikan. The design was distinctly Cree. 

“Shit.” He spurred his horse. 

A piercing war whoop sounded behind him. Another arrow sailed 
past his head.

Mulder veered down slope, into the swamp. With luck, the 
Indian would back off and leave him alone. 

Two more arrows whizzed by, near misses. Ponoká skidded down 
the muddy incline. Yesterday’s storm had changed the 
landscape, flooding the basin more than usual. Mulder tried to 
gauge the depth of the water in the growing gloom. 

A wallop to his right shoulder brought a sharp, burning pain. 
He looked down. A blood-slicked arrowhead protruded from the 
folds of his jacket below his armpit. Blood dribbled from the 
wound.  

Ponoká splashed through the slough, hooves spraying mud. 
Mulder spotted his attacker off to the left, about ten yards 
out, bow raised and drawn. He yanked the reins, forcing Ponoká 
into a coppice of buckbrush. Briars tore at his clothes, raked 
his exposed skin. Somehow the Indian’s arrow threaded the net 
of branches. It punctured Mulder’s leather boot. Embedded 
deeply into the thick muscle of his calf. The point lodged 
against bone. He bit back a yelp. Changed direction with a 
flick of the reins. Headed into deeper water.

The Indian swerved after him. The crackle of twigs and tearing 
of leaves grew louder as the gulf between them narrowed. 

Mulder veered around a gnarled cedar. He caught sight of a 
second Indian higher up the slope. Colorful geometric patterns 
decorated his face. Unlike his feathered companion, he wore a 
white man’s hat. Mulder recognized it: Frohike’s Stetson. 

These Indians were not just Cree; they were from Cuts To 
Pieces’ band. And their war-paint indicated this was a planned 
attack. 

The Stetson-wearing man raised his bow and nocked an arrow. 
Mulder fumbled for his rifle. His draw was slowed by the arrow 
in his chest. He pulled the Enfield clumsily from its carbine 
boot, lifted it to his shoulder. Stetson’s arrow tore through 
his left forearm. The rifle wheeled from his hands. 

Stetson whooped in triumph. His accomplice responded in kind. 
Mulder pivoted in the saddle. Drew his pistol from the holster 
on his gun belt. Aimed. Fired. The bullet found its target. 
The blast knocked the feathered Indian off his horse. He 
landed with a splash in a puddle of inky water. 

A third Indian took his place almost immediately. Bow raised, 
the Cree brave screeched and released an arrow. 

Mulder ducked, but not before the barb grazed his temple. 
Blood sprayed his clothes, flooded his right eye. 

“Geddyup!” he urged Ponoká.

The horse plowed through a puddle. Leapt over a fallen tree. 
Mid-air, a branch snagged the arrow sticking out of Mulder’s 
leg. The shaft snapped. Mulder screamed. Blood gushed from the 
hole in his boot. 

The goldfields were at least a mile away. Flatwillow lay 
further south, beyond the claims. The Indians would not follow 
him into town. But could he make it that far?

There was another option. A dangerous one: a sump at 
Akópskaa’s center, a quagmire of silt and rotted vegetation, 
thick and deep enough to mire a horse up to its hocks. If he 
could lure the Indians in without getting himself stuck, he 
might have a chance of escaping. 

The fading light made it almost impossible to see, but Mulder 
was familiar with every inch of the watershed. He had been 
trapping here for three seasons. The sump was just ahead. If 
he could only hang on until he got there... 

Zigzagging around fallen trees, gray corpses in the gloom, he 
dodged what seemed a hailstorm of arrows. He rode a familiar 
tract of firm ground concealed just below the water’s surface.  

A slight shift to the right and the water became suddenly 
deeper. Ponoká slowed when his foreleg sunk in the mud. They 
were at the sump, a quarter-mile-long death-trap hidden 
beneath a foot of black water. Mulder adjusted his course. The 
horse lurched on, sides heaving, coat slicked with foamy 
sweat. The ground grew more solid.

“Good boy.” 

Mulder glanced over his shoulder. The Indians rode full speed, 
gaining ground as Ponoká found his footing. A few more strides 
and the forward man was almost within arm’s reach. 

The Indian raised a tomahawk. Mulder swerved directly into his 
path, taking him by surprise, and driving him sideways into 
the quagmire. The Indian’s horse whinnied. It sank and 
stumbled, throwing the rider from its back.

Stetson moved to higher ground to shadow Mulder from a safer 
vantage. They rode parallel paths through a stand of spindly 
alders. The horses’ hooves thundered in unison. Stetson 
launched arrows as quickly as he could draw his bow. 

Mulder crouched low and pushed Ponoká to run faster. 

The trees thinned. They were nearly out of the swamp. Mulder 
straightened and took aim at his pursuer. 

Before he could pull the trigger, an arrow struck his upper 
thigh near the groin, goring flesh and muscle as it drilled 
inward. The pain was ungodly.

Mulder roared. He jerked the reins. Turned to face his enemy 
head on. A spur to the ribs sent Ponoká charging up the slope. 
Mulder leveled his pistol. 

Stetson’s eyes widened. Clearly, he had not anticipated this 
move. Too late, he tried to load another arrow. 

Mulder fired. Bull’s-eye. The bullet penetrated Stetson’s 
brow, boring a three-cent-sized hole through his skull. The 
Indian toppled, unblinking, to the ground. 

The chase was over, but Mulder’s heart continued to race. With 
each pounding beat, blood pumped from his wounds. He tugged 
the reins, slowing Ponoká, pointing him in the direction of 
Flatwillow. Pain sizzled up his left leg when he tried to 
nudge the horse with his heels. He closed his eyes and slumped 
forward. Light-headed, he clutched Ponoká’s mane to keep from 
falling. 

“Geddyup,” he grunted through clenched teeth. 

He wished he had enough strength to collect Frohike’s Stetson. 
But his limbs were growing numb, his head too heavy to lift. A 
thick, gray fog was forming in his brain.

“You're hurt.” A woman’s voice. Familiar. 

“S-scully?”

“You need stitches.” She gently wiped blood from his lower lip 
with her thumb.

“Not real,” he muttered. It was a memory.

Or a premonition? 

“I can help you,” she insisted and he lost consciousness.    

*   *   *

“That was my last dollar, gentlemen.” Charlie folded his cards 
and pushed back his chair from the poker table. The loss meant 
little. He was enjoying his evening at the Flatwillow Saloon. 
The drinks were strong, the company interesting. And he had 
made fast friends with three fellow newspapermen. 

“Lady Luck is a fickle mistress.” Frohike scooped up the pot 
and added it to his growing pile of cash. “I’ll float you an 
advance on that story you promised us, if you want to try to 
win some of this back.”

“No thank you, Mr. Frohike.” Charlie smiled as he stood. “I 
think it’s best to quit while I still have a shirt on my back. 
Deal me out, please.”

“Don’t forget, deadline for the next issue is Tuesday,” Langly 
said, shuffling the deck.

“You’ll get your story on schedule, Mr. Langly.”

“Five hundred words,” Byers reminded him. “Your impressions of 
Flatwillow.”

“Won’t be easy to limit myself. I tend toward loquaciousness 
when writing about a subject that interests me.” Charlie eyed 
the scantily-clad saloon girls lined up by the door to the 
back rooms. 

Frohike caught him looking. “Ah, a tale about our fallen 
frails. The readers will love that.”

“You mean you’ll love it.” Langly dealt the next hand.

Byers picked up his cards. “Like you won’t.”

“I’ll see you gentlemen later,” Charlie said, excusing 
himself. 

Temporarily penniless, he headed for the door. Being without 
funds to pay for a fuck –- or even a little oral gratification 
-- did not mean he planned to go home unsatisfied. Charm 
sometimes went a lot further than cash, he had learned over 
the years.

Before attempting to solicit free favors from the ladies, he 
stepped outside to stretch his legs and enjoy a smoke. The 
saloon doors swung on squeaky hinges as he pushed through. He 
strolled to the edge of the boardwalk. The night air carried 
the scent of road dust and prairie grass, welcome after hours 
of smelling cheap perfume and men’s sweat. 

A whore and her mark retreated to the shadows several doors 
down. Charlie leaned against the porch rail and rolled a 
cigarette.    

Flatwillow was like most of the frontier towns he had visited 
over the years. One main street, this one optimistically 
dubbed Gold Dust Avenue, ran through its center. There were no 
churches, schools, or family-run mercantiles. The town was 
built for trappers and prospectors. Tough men in rough 
businesses. 

An assayers’ office, hardware store, livery, and Gerrard’s 
Corral lined the opposite side of Flatwillow’s deeply rutted 
thoroughfare. An undertaker, cobbler, and Mrs. Lee’s Washing 
and Ironing abutted the saloon. Further down the street, tents 
served as temporary shelters for aspiring entrepreneurs, 
including a few independent madams who preferred running their 
own cribs to working in the saloon’s back rooms. 

Charlie smiled. The west offered endless opportunities to a 
man with a passion for adventure. Survival governed one’s 
actions here, not a court of law or a set of rules intended 
for polite society. He found the atmosphere invigorating. The 
citizenry delightful. Particularly the women, who provided 
company and comfort on the darkest, coldest of days. “Sporting 
women” or “ladies of the line,” the prospectors called them, 
when they didn’t use other, more vulgar terms.

He patted his breast pocket in search of a match. 

“Allow me.” A saloon girl joined him at the porch rail. She 
struck a match against the rough wood and held up the flame.

He leaned close, cigarette to his lips. A couple of puffs and 
the cigarette lit. He took a drag, then offered it to her. 
“Thank you, Miss...?”

“Name’s Jennie. Jennie Lincoln.” She accepted the smoke.  

“Lincoln? You wouldn’t be related to the late president, would 
you?”

She laughed, a deep belly laugh that caused her plump breasts 
to jiggle delightfully above the plunging neckline of her 
crimson-colored corset. “Right. He’s my daddy.” 

Lipstick and rouge did little to mask her exhausted features. 
Her short skirt sparkled with sequins. Gold tassels adorned 
her kid boots, diverting attention from the holes that marred 
once-pretty, silk, lace stockings.

“What’s your name, mister?” She handed back the cigarette, 
which was now stained crimson at the tip from her lipstick. 
“Your daddy an important man, too?”

“He likes to think so.” Charlie drew smoke into his lungs.

Jennie studied his face. “I take it you two don’t get along.”

“You’re very perceptive.”

“Dunno ’bout that, but I do know what it’s like to be the 
black sheep of the family.”

“I suppose you do.” He tipped his hat. “A pleasure to meet a 
fellow outcast. My name is Scully, by the way. Charles 
Scully.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Scully.” She twirled a 
lock of auburn hair around her finger. Her nails were chewed 
to the quick. “You kin to that Scully feller from the fort?”

“Possibly. My brother and father are both stationed at 
Culbertson,” Charlie said, somewhat surprised that she would 
be acquainted with either one of them.

“The feller that comes here is a lieutenant. Always on the 
shoot. Got hisself quite a temper.”

“That would be Bill, my older brother. He comes *here*?”

“Yep, he’s a regular.”

“At the bar.”

“And the card tables, the dance floor, the back rooms.”

“Bill Scully? Lieutenant Bill Scully?” His upright, holier-
than-thou brother?

“Shows up at least once a week. Prefers big girls.”

“Really.” This was astounding news. Not that his brother 
preferred busty women –- Tara lacked nothing in that 
department, not since her first pregnancy. But the surprising 
thing was that Bill patronized a place like this at all. An 
immoral den, according to Saint Bill. How many lectures had 
Charlie endured about his own sinful behavior, the sanctity of 
marriage, eternal damnation, and the fires of Hell? “I wonder 
what Tara would think.”

“Who’s Tara?”

“Bill’s wife.”

“I imagine she’d think the same as yours. If you’s married, 
that is. Not that it matters to me if you is or you ain’t.”

A rare blush heated Charlie’s face. He was married, of course. 
Four years. And he hoped with all his heart that Elizabeth did 
not think at all about his countless indiscretions. She 
deserved better. “Crimen ut tutela.”

“What’s that mean?”

“‘Guilty as charged.’ Men are foul creatures, in any 
language.”

“That may be, but I’d be broke and starvin’ without ’em.” She 
stroked his sleeve and smiled sweetly. “Speakin’ of which, you 
buyin’ anything tonight?”  

An unfamiliar pang of morality stopped him from carrying 
through with his original plans. He would not take advantage 
of Jennie Lincoln. Not tonight.

“I am without funds,” he admitted.

“Maybe we could work out a trade. That fob you’re wearin’, 
it’s attached to a watch, ain’t it?”

“A gift from my wife. I can’t part with it.” He had come close 
in the past, tempted by the promise of physical pleasure. But 
it was a line he would not cross, the only measure that he had 
not fallen into complete disgrace. “I’m sorry.”   

“Me, too. Guess it’s goodnight then. I gotta get back inside 
with the paying customers.”

“I understand. It was nice talking with you, Miss Lincoln.”

“Same here. You come back when you got some cash. Ask fer me 
special. I’ll make it worth your while.” She retreated into 
the saloon.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He tossed his cigarette into the 
street. Sparks danced and fizzled in the dust. 

Further down the thoroughfare, a horse materialized seemingly 
out of nothingness. It plodded toward him in the dark, its 
rider slumped in the saddle. Charlie assumed the man was 
drunk, until light from the saloon revealed the truth. The 
horse was covered with foamy sweat. Blood slicked its neck and 
chest. The rider’s face was buried in the horse’s mane; his 
back and leg bristled with arrows. 

The horse stopped in the middle of the street. It tossed its 
head. The rider slipped from the saddle and landed with a 
stomach-churning thud in the dust. 

Curiosity drew the two lovers out of the shadows. Charlie 
jumped the rail and jogged toward the wounded man.

“You all right, mister? God damn...” 

It was Fox Mulder.

Charlie knelt and tentatively put his hand to Mulder’s chest.

He was breathing. Barely.

“Get some help!” he shouted to the couple on the boardwalk. 

The woman ducked into the bar.

“Mr. Mulder, can you hear me?” Charlie patted his cheek, not 
knowing what else to do.

Mulder remained as still as a corpse. He was in bad shape, 
worse than when Charlie last saw him up on Nine Pipe Ridge, 
beaten to a pulp by Bill.

A crowd quickly gathered around them. Frohike pushed through 
to the front.

“Jesus, it’s Mulder.”

“He needs a doctor,” Byers said, joining Frohike.

Langly followed on their heels. “Corporal Beckett’s likely to 
be passed out drunk by now.”  

“My sister’s a doctor,” Charlie offered. “She works in the 
infirmary at the fort.”

“Get her!” Langly rocked from one foot to the other. 

“Might be faster if we take him to her,” Frohike suggested.

“You got a wagon?” Charlie asked.  

“I’ll bring it around.” 

*   *   *

Angry shouts carried like gunshots through the windless night 
as Dana and Skinner approached the fort. Three men in a farm 
wagon and a lone rider on horseback argued with the guards at 
the front gate. 

Skinner’s hand slid to his saber. He kicked his horse’s ribs 
and took the lead. Dana followed at a trot.

The man on horseback yelled, “Damn it, let us in!”

Dana recognized his voice.

“Charlie? Is that you?”

He turned in the saddle, looking her way. “Dana, thank God 
you’re here. You, too, Lieutenant. Maybe you can talk some 
sense into these men.”

Two guards stood with rifles drawn in front of the closed 
gate. 

“What’s going on?” Skinner brought his horse alongside 
Charlie’s.

“Mr. Mulder’s been hurt,” Charlie said, “and we’re trying to 
get him to the infirmary, but the guards won’t let us in.” 

“Hurt? How badly? What happened?” Dana dismounted and rushed 
to the wagon. 

“Attacked by Indians,” said the wagon’s driver. His worried 
face looked familiar to Dana. The man who waved to her from 
the window of The Picayune, she remembered. His bearded 
associate sat beside him on the wagon’s bench. Their blond 
companion crouched behind them at the front of the box. 

It was too dark to see more than an unconscious form laid out 
on his right side on the box’s floor. Feed sacks propped 
against his chest and behind his knees kept him from rolling 
onto his back. 

“I need some light. You,” –- Dana targeted one of the guards 
with the point of a finger -- “bring a lantern.”

When the guard stayed his ground, she bellowed, “Do it!”

The startled man lowered his rifle and opened the gate wide 
enough to slip through. He disappeared inside.

Dana let down the tailgate and reached out to the blond man. 
“Your assistance, please, sir.”

He scrambled to the back of the wagon, grabbed her hand, and 
hauled her up.

“When did this happen?” she asked, settling on her knees 
beside Mulder. 

“Not sure,” Charlie said, “but he showed up in town about 
thirty minutes ago. These men are his friends, by the way: 
Misters Frohike, Byers, and Langly.”

The three touched the brims of their hats and mumbled solemn 
greetings.

“Gentlemen.” She gave a quick nod before turning her complete 
attention to Mulder. 

An arrow protruded prominently from his upper thigh. Another 
from his back. She felt blood on his sleeve. Lots of blood.

She pressed the back of her hand to his cheek. His skin was 
cold and clammy. 

“Has he been unconscious the entire time?”

“Yes.”

She slid two fingers beneath his collar. Locating an artery in 
his neck, she counted the beats of his heart. 

“Pulse is rapid...weak.” 

The guard arrived with the lantern. He passed it to Byers, who 
held it aloft. Light flooded the wagon box, exposing the 
severity of Mulder’s condition.

His face was as pale as his linen shirt. Shallow, rapid 
breaths huffed from blue-tinged lips. A clotted laceration on 
his forehead had bled profusely earlier, dripping into his 
left eye and down his cheek. Dana lifted the eyelid to examine 
the pupil.

“Move the light closer, please,” she asked. 

Byers obliged. 

The dilated pupil remained fixed. 

“He’s in shock.” She straightened. “I need your coats, 
gentlemen.” 

Everyone but the guards stripped off their overcoats and 
handed them to her. She spread Skinner’s wool frockcoat –- the 
warmest of the lot -- over Mulder’s upper body, then arranged 
Charlie’s suit jacket over his legs, taking care not to jostle 
the arrow embedded in his upper thigh. She tucked the three 
other coats beneath Mulder’s feet to elevate his legs and 
increase the flow of blood to his head.   

“He needs surgery. We must get him into the infirmary.” Dana 
turned to the guards. “You have to let us through.”

“Can’t do that, miss.” The guard shook his head. “Cap’n’s 
orders.”

“Damn it, this man is dying!” Dana rose to her feet. Mulder 
had already reached the third and final stage of shock. Organs 
and tissues throughout his body were in jeopardy. His kidneys 
would begin to shut down soon. His heart to fail. “Every 
minute we waste puts his life at risk.”

“Cap’n Scully was real clear on the subject, miss. Gave strict 
orders to keep that feller out.” 

“As the captain’s daughter, I’m ordering you to stand aside 
and let us in.”

The guards exchanged nervous glances. The braver of the two 
cleared his throat. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Scully, but 
bein’ the Cap’n’s daughter don’t grant you the authority to be 
givin’ us orders.”

Dana opened her mouth to object, but was cut short by Skinner. 
“*I* have the authority, Private Bryant. You will open that 
gate and allow this wagon and Mr. Mulder through.”

The guard shifted uneasily. “Meanin’ no disrespect, sir, but 
Cap’n said that man is an enemy of the United States Army.”  

“Which is precisely why I’m taking him prisoner. Now stand 
down so that I may take him inside and proceed with his 
arrest.”

Dana tried to read Skinner’s expression in the dark, uncertain 
if he meant what he was saying or if he was lying to help his 
old friend. Or impress her. The answer would have to wait. For 
now, she was grateful for any excuse to get Mulder into the 
infirmary. 

When the guards hesitated, Skinner snapped, “Disobey my 
orders, soldiers, and you’ll be facing arrest, too.”

The guards reluctantly lowered their weapons and swung the 
gate open.

“Mr. Frohike, take us in,” Dana said. “And please hurry.”

“H’yah!” he shouted and whipped the horses with the reins. The 
wagon lunged ahead.

Minutes later, they rolled up to the infirmary. 

“Mr. Scully, I’ll need assistance carrying him.” Skinner 
dismounted his horse.

Charlie did the same. The two men climbed into the wagon. 
Langly shifted the sacks of grain out of their way.

“Be careful of the arrows,” Dana warned. “They are plugging 
the wounds. Knock them loose and he’ll begin to hemorrhage. He 
can ill afford the loss of more blood.”

Skinner gripped Mulder beneath the arms. Charlie took hold of 
his legs. Together they eased him from the wagon. Dana hurried 
ahead to open the door. Frohike, Byers, and Langly followed 
along like ducklings.

“This way,” Dana directed, leading the group across the ward.    

“What’s goin’ on?” Sergeant Phillips sat up in bed and craned 
for a better view. “That feller got mumps?”

Dana ignored him and headed straight for the surgery.

“Put him on the table, please.”

Skinner and Charlie maneuvered Mulder onto the operating 
table, rolling him onto his right side so as not to knock or 
break off the arrow that protruded from his back.    

Corporal Beckett staggered bleary-eyed from Dana’s tiny back 
office. “What is this?”

“Have you been asleep or drinking, Corporal Beckett?” Dana 
raised the flame in the room’s lantern.

“A little of both,” he admitted.

“Are you drunk now?” 

“I’m sober enough to see this man will die if we don’t offer 
him immediate medical assistance.”

“Then you are sober enough. Lay out my surgical kit. And check 
that we have an adequate supply of bandages at the ready. Mr. 
Frohike, might I impose upon you and your friends to fetch 
some water. As much as you can carry.”

“On our way.” They filed quickly from the room.

“What can I do to help?” Skinner asked.

“You can start by removing Mr. Mulder’s clothes.” She opened 
her kit and took out a bistoury, a straight slender knife, 
generally used to slice through flesh. “Cut away whatever you 
have to,” she said, handing it to Skinner. “Charlie, hold his 
leg steady while I cut away his boot.”

Charlie moved to the foot of the table and grasped Mulder’s 
left ankle firmly with both hands. Using a Catlin knife, Dana 
cut through the leather, slicing carefully around the broken 
arrow and continuing all the way down to the stitching on the 
vamp. She peeled back the upper. “Pull,” she urged Charlie.

The boot slid from Mulder’s bloody foot. Dana wasted no time. 
She slit his trousers from ankle to knee, exposing a deep 
puncture in his calf. Torn flesh and clotted blood surrounded 
a nub of broken shaft, which protruded several inches from the 
leg. The arrowhead lay buried somewhere in the muscle, having 
perforated the gastrocnemius and settled deep within the 
soleus.   

“My God.” Charlie gaped at the wound.

“Help the lieutenant, Charlie.”

He dropped the boot. Gripped the table. His face turned ashen. 
Dana worried he might vomit or faint. 

“Help the lieutenant!” she said more firmly, trying to focus 
his attention away from the damaged limb. “Or step outside. We 
don’t need you cracking your skull on the floor.”

Charlie nodded and moved up the table, where Skinner had 
already cut away Mulder’s coat and was working to remove his 
shirt. 

“You won’t have to dig for this one.” Skinner indicated a 
barbed point sticking out of Mulder’s chest. 

A quick examination showed the arrow had entered his back 
several inches to the right of the fifth lumbar vertebra. It 
emerged between the sixth and seventh ribs. She placed a 
stethoscope to his chest. Respiration was rapid, but she could 
clearly hear air going in and out of the lung. No crackles or 
wheezing. The organ was intact. A fraction of an inch to the 
left and the arrow would have nicked the pleura and collapsed 
the lung.

“There’s a lot of blood here,” Skinner announced, pulling 
Mulder’s sleeve free. 

The sleeve took a large clot with it. Blood spurted from a 
dollar-sized wound in Mulder’s forearm. 

Dana grabbed a tourniquet from her kit. She looped the strap 
around Mulder’s upper arm and threaded the buckle. Several 
twists of the screw tightened the strap. The stream of blood 
slowed, stopped.

“We must move quickly, gentlemen.” She reached for Mulder’s 
gun belt and unfastened the silver buckle. 

Charlie untied the leather thong that held the holster to his 
thigh. Skinner pulled the belt free. Dana unbuttoned Mulder’s 
trousers, then used her blade to cut through the fabric to 
reveal the final arrow. 

“That’ll be the worst to get out,” Beckett warned. He set the 
bandages he had collected from the ward onto a small table in 
the corner. “It’s close to the femoral artery. If he survives 
the hemorrhage--” 

“I’m quite aware of the dangers, Corporal.” 

She would begin surgery here. Beckett was right; this one 
would be the trickiest. If Mulder did not bleed out during its 
removal, she would move on to the arrow in his chest, then the 
one in his lower leg. If he were still alive after that, she 
would close the wounds in his arm and on his forehead.

First, however, she wanted to clear the room. Space was tight. 
She could do without being elbowed by onlookers or tripping 
over the men’s feet.

“Lieutenant, please take these clothes away, then make sure 
Sergeant Phillips has had his supper. Charlie, check on Mr. 
Frohike to see if the water is coming soon.”

They left the room without argument or delay. She turned to 
Beckett. 

“Are you ready, Corporal?”

“Let’s get to it.”

“I’ll begin by dilating the wound...” 

She looked down at her bare hands, dirty with road dust, horse 
sweat, blood, and other contaminants. 

“What are you waiting for, Doctor Scully?”

She had read about a new theory-- 

“Do you want me to remove it?” he asked, apparently thinking 
she was incapable or had lost her nerve.

“No, I can do it. It’s just...”

“What? What’s the problem?”

“There’s a medical concept, posited by a French scientist 
named Louis Pasteur. It’s called the Germ Theory of Disease. 
Have you heard of it?”

“No.”

“Pasteur hypothesizes that decay is caused by airborne living 
microorganisms. Dr. Joseph Lister, a highly regarded British 
surgeon, believes there is a connection between these 
microorganisms and the occurrence of wound sepsis. He claims 
that improved hospital hygiene could prevent infection and 
save lives.”

“Ridiculous. I see nothing malevolent in the air here.”

“Not in the air, Corporal. On our hands. And our instruments.”

“That’s hogwash. We’re wasting time.”

“We should do all we can to increase this man’s chances of 
survival.”

“Removing those arrows as soon as possible is the best way to 
achieve that goal. The longer they stay in the body, the 
greater the chance of abscess.” 

“And suppuration will progress to pyemia, the patient will 
die, yes, I know all that. We shall remove the arrows 
directly. But first, we will clean our hands and our 
instruments.”

“With what? You want to wait for Mr. Frohike to bring the 
water?”

“No. That could take too long.” She turned to the medicine 
cabinet. “Where is the brandy, Corporal?”

He glanced at the office door.

“Bring it,” she demanded.

With a roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh, he did as she 
asked. 

“Now pour it over my hands.” She cupped her palms.

“This is a waste of perfectly good brandy--”

“Do it.”

He tipped the bottle. Alcohol splashed onto her palms. She 
scrubbed her hands and shook them dry. 

“You, too,” she insisted. “Then pour what’s left onto the 
instruments.” 

While he rinsed his hands and the scalpels, she examined the 
arrow in Mr. Mulder’s thigh more closely. Generally when an 
arrow is deeply buried, the feathered shaft should be cut off, 
and the point pushed through the affected limb or body part. 
An arrow cannot be pulled out backward, but must be extracted 
through a counter opening, otherwise the barbs on its point 
will catch on tissue and vessels, and cause more serious 
damage.

This arrow was positioned dangerously close to the femoral 
artery. In addition, because Mr. Mulder was seated on his 
horse when he was struck, the arrow pointed upward toward his 
groin. An atypical approach was needed. She would divide the 
tissue down to the arrowhead, then extract it backward. 
Carefully.   

“Dissecting forceps.”

“You’ll need something broader.”

“Don’t argue with me.”

He passed her the slender instrument. She inserted it into the 
wound beside the arrow and followed the shaft down, trying to 
disturb the vessels as little as possible while probing for 
the point.

“I’ve found it. Now is the time for those bullet forceps, 
Corporal.”

Together, they worked to expand the wound. Beckett kept the 
tissues drawn back, while Dana grabbed hold of the arrow.

“Steady,” Beckett advised. “The artery is just there to your 
left.”

“I see it.”

She slowly withdrew the shaft, turning the barbed tip away 
from the pulsing artery. It nudged the vessel, but did not 
catch. 

“Well done,” Beckett said when the arrow was freed. 

Bleeding was minimal. She had managed to avoid severing the 
artery, or gelding Mr. Mulder. 

“Disinfect the track with carbolic acid and insert a drain 
before you close.” She set the arrow aside. “I’m going to 
start on the next one.”

She moved to the head of the table. Using bone forceps, she 
clipped off the feathered end of the arrow.  

“Did you know the initial velocity of an arrow is so great 
that its force nearly equals that of a musket-ball?” Beckett 
asked as he sutured. His tone was calm, almost conversational, 
for which she was grateful. His brisk movements were precise. 
As soon as he finished closing the first wound, he moved on to 
Mulder’s forearm. Perhaps she had misjudged him upon their 
initial meeting. He seemed more skilled than she had first 
thought. “At a short distance, an arrow will perforate the 
larger bones without comminuting them.”

“You’ve seen evidence?” She gripped the arrowhead protruding 
from Mulder’s chest with her forceps. Carefully, she applied 
traction and drew the shaft straight out. This was likely to 
be the cleanest of Mulder’s wounds. 

“I have indeed, Doctor.” Beckett deftly caught and tied off a 
broken vessel. “The arrow left only a slight fissure. It 
resembled a hole like a pistol-ball makes when fired through 
window glass from a few yards off.”

“Less talking, please.” She placed her stethoscope against 
Mulder’s chest once again. The lung was functioning. She had 
not nicked the pleura. “It appears luck is on our side.”

“Indeed. This man is very fortunate. He was not hit in the 
abdomen. Indians often aim for the umbilicus, you know. In 
which case, mortality is practically assured.”

“He is not out of the woods yet, Corporal. If you’re finished 
there, I could use your help with the last arrow.”

The injury to Mulder’s calf presented a unique problem. The 
broken shaft was too short to push through the leg. Without 
the feathered end, it was impossible to gauge how deeply the 
point was embedded. 

“We’ll follow the same procedure as the first,” she said.

“It would seem our best course.”

They expanded the wound exactly as before, but when Dana tried 
to withdraw the arrow, it would not budge.

“The point is lodged in the bone.”

“Rock it gently from side to side to loosen it,” Beckett 
advised, “but take care not to break it.”

She did as he suggested. “It won’t come out. It’s stuck.”

“Use more force.”

“I don’t want to splinter the bone.”

“You don’t want to leave that tip in the leg.”

Sweat trickled from her hairline. Mr. Mulder’s breathing 
seemed more shallow, his pallor more gray. 

“He’s going to be all right,” Beckett said, evidently sensing 
her unease.  

She wiggled the point again. Harder. “Damn it.”

“Follow the grain of the bone.”

She did. The tip came loose. “I’ve got it.”

“Is it whole? Has a fragment been left behind?”

“I don’t think so. It appears to be intact.”

She extracted the arrow. To her relief, the point was 
unbroken. She felt Mulder’s leg for fractures or breaks. 
Miraculously, both the tibia and fibula appeared whole.

Frohike poked his head in the door. “How’s he doing?”

“We’re nearly finished and he’s still alive,” she said.

“Good. We’ve brought the water you asked for.”

“Bring it in. As soon as we’ve sutured his forehead, we’ll 
clean him up.”

Now that the immediate danger of hemorrhage was past, 
infection was Mr. Mulder’s worst enemy. Dana hoped Louis 
Pasteur’s Germ Theory of Disease was correct, and that rinsing 
their hands with alcohol would help avoid sepsis. They could 
only wait and pray now. Mr. Mulder’s life lay in God’s hands. 

When she and Beckett were finished treating and dressing the 
last of Mr. Mulder’s wounds, she called Skinner and Charlie 
back to the operating room to carry the still unconscious man 
into the ward. They placed him in a bed near Sergeant Phillips 
and covered him with blankets. Dana moved her desk chair to 
Mulder’s bedside. Sitting down, she prepared for a long vigil. 

-------

Chapter 11

Mulder stood in a space divided by light and dark. Not a room 
exactly, although the shadowed side resembled a ward in a 
military hospital. Dana Scully sat there in the gloom, her 
chair positioned beside a sickbed. Blood stained her sleeves, 
bodice, and skirt. Her hands lay loosely clasped in her lap. 
Her eyes were closed. Was she sleeping? Or praying? 

“Doctor Scully?” Although he felt the words vibrate in his 
throat and slip past his tongue and lips, not a whisper 
carried on the murky air.

He called out again, more forcefully, but the result was the 
same. The ward remained as silent as a sealed coffin. No tick 
of a clock. No rustle of fabric. Not a snore from the man in 
the sickbed, the man who was...

Him! Wrapped in bandages. Skin deathly white.  

Mulder tried to step closer, but an unseen force held him 
back. Annoyed more than frightened, he turned to see what 
anchored him in place. 

A light more brilliant than any noonday sun momentarily 
blinded him. A gentle breeze tickled his face. The scent of 
prairie grass drew him away from the dark.   

Squinting against the bright light, he walked out onto a 
broad, flat plain. Soothing sounds lured him onward: the sigh 
of a windswept meadow, the murmur of water over stone, the 
trill of a bird. 

Orange and yellow clouds eddied in a strange, turquoise sky, 
creating patterns that resembled aw-tsi-sakan, the pictographs 
the Blackfoot painted on their buffalo robes, symbols of 
bravery, honor, pride, and victory. In the distance, thousands 
of bison grazed on an emerald field. They seemed to float 
across the prairie like sailboats on gentle seas.

Mulder glanced over his shoulder expecting to see Doctor 
Scully still sitting in her chair, but she and the hospital 
had vanished, replaced by grassland and a range of faraway 
hills. The mountains were copper in color, with unnaturally 
even peaks and valleys. Despite their peculiarity, their 
presence made him feel at home, at peace.  

He wandered through tall grass, walking with arms 
outstretched, seed heads grazing his palms. His hands were 
curiously luminous, he noticed. He held one up to study it. 
Front and back, it shimmered and glowed, translucent, 
ethereal. He looked down at his body and found he was dressed 
in a resplendent tunic, breechclout, and leggings. A bone 
necklace gleamed against the radiant material of his shirt. 
When a gentle zephyr stirred his long hair, he saw that it was 
not its usual dark brown color, but appeared diaphanous and 
shot with gold sparks. 

“Do not look for the familiar, Issohko.” The voice came from a 
distance behind him.

He spun to find Red Crow sitting cross-legged under a broad 
hackberry tree, which had not been there a moment ago. Sun and 
shade dappled the Indian’s lined features. His face was free 
of the smallpox lesions that had marked him at death. He 
puffed on a long pipe decorated with feathers and colorful 
beads. 

“Come. Sit with me.” He beckoned Mulder with a wave. “It is 
pleasant beneath this tree.”

Shell and bone embellishments on Mulder’s clothes rattled as 
he scuffed through the grass.

“Few Tails and Brave Wolf buried you two days ago,” Mulder 
said when he stood directly in front of the Indian. “I helped 
them.”

“Yes. It was a fine funeral. Thank you.”

Mulder squatted. Red Crow’s skin did not glow like his; the 
old man’s body appeared solid and real.

“You don’t look dead.”

“How are the dead supposed to look?”

“Like this.” Mulder held out a shimmering hand.

Red Crow chuckled. “You are nagi, a spirit...not niya, a 
ghost. Your spirit is the mirror image of your living form, 
which is out of harmony.”

“That’s putting it mildly. I was attacked by three warriors 
from Cuts To Pieces’ tribe.”

“Yes. Your body is near death.”

“But I feel...good.”

“That is the way of things here.” Red Crow nodded. “You can 
stay a while.”

“How long?”

“That depends. A wakan is praying for your return.”

“Wakan -- I’m not familiar with the term.”

“A person of unusual power and wisdom. She can help you 
confront your shadow self, if you let her.”

“Who or what is my shadow self?”

“It is the discord you carry inside you. A bad experience 
perhaps. An event that happened long ago and changed the 
course of your life.” 

“My sister’s disappearance.” 

“Maybe.”

“This wakan can find Samantha?”

“She can help you live in balance and harmony. It is only then 
you will find your answers.” Red Crow leaned back against the 
tree’s grooved trunk and drew deeply on his pipe. He held the 
smoke in his lungs for what seemed an eternity, studying 
Mulder as he held his breath. Finally he released the smoke to 
the sky. “I believe your Earth Walk is not yet finished, 
Issohko. You are meant to join with another. The two of you 
will be as one mind, one prayer.”

“The wakan?”

“Possibly. Together you could discover wondrous things.”

“It looks like I’ve managed to do that on my own.” Mulder 
glanced up at the alien sky. Clouds coalesced and vanished, 
only to reform into new symbolic images, the meanings of which 
were lost on him. 

“There are places and things more wondrous than this.” Red 
Crow held out his pipe. 

Mulder waved it off and stood. He felt the tug of the unknown. 
“I think...I need to explore while I’m here.”

“Wander too far and even the wakan will not be able to find 
you and bring you home.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mulder headed across the field, 
toward the mountains. 

*   *   * 

“I brought you a blanket,” Corporal Beckett said, interrupting 
Dana’s prayers. “I thought you might be feeling the chill.” 

“Thank you.” She let him drape the blanket over her shoulders. 
“What time is it?” 

“Half past two.”

“And you’re still here?”

“I cleaned the surgery. And wrote up a patient record for Mr. 
Mulder.” Beckett’s uniform was spattered with dried blood. He 
looked as tired as she felt.

“You performed admirably tonight, Corporal.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Glad I was here to help.” He peered down 
at their patient. “Any improvement?”

“Very little, I’m afraid.”

“Well, he is alive.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen men recover from worse.”

“Have you?”

“Indeed. The heaviest of our small arms ammunition, the minie 
ball-- Have you heard of it?”

“Yes, my brother Bill mentioned them in his letters.”

“A misnomer, wouldn’t you agree, considering the enormous hole 
they can tear into a man. They shatter any bone they 
encounter. A strike to the abdomen or head is nearly always 
fatal.”

“But some survive?”

“Miraculously, although seldom without permanent disfigurement 
or lingering pain.” Beckett stared at the floor. “Soldiers 
were wounded in every body part during the war. Eyes put out. 
Faces pulverized. Jaws fragmented beyond repair. Some had 
intestines protruding from their abdomens. Or pelvic wounds, 
where the bladder was hit and leaked urine constantly onto the 
skin...”

“My God, how did they manage?”

“Many didn’t. We sorted them by the severity of their 
injuries. The worst off -- the soldiers who had been hit in 
the head, gut, or chest -- were laid to one side to wait until 
the others were treated.”

“Laid aside... But why?”

“It sounds backward and cruel, doesn’t it? But they were 
likely to die in any case. Ignoring them allowed the surgeons 
time to treat those who could be saved.”

It was hard to imagine men would be purposely left to die like 
that. She rose to straighten the blanket covering Mr. Mulder, 
then removed the one from her shoulders and placed it over 
him, too, worried that he might be cold.  

“I followed the war in Harper’s Weekly while I was studying in 
New York. I had no idea things were so bad.”

“No newspaper story could accurately express the carnage that 
occurred on the battlefield, and beneath our green flag.”

“The surgeons’ flag.”

“Yes. The wounded arrived like flotsam in a flood to our 
makeshift hospitals. We applied tourniquets, tied arteries, 
performed amputations. We worked as quickly as we could, all 
while cannon balls fell and explosions shook our operating 
tables.” He grimaced. “Whenever I close my eyes, I still see 
the piles of amputated limbs. Hear the screams of dying men. 
It’s why I drink, Doctor Scully.”

She nodded, acknowledging his admission and his reasons, 
although she could not endorse the practice. His drunkenness 
presented a danger to every patient under his care.

“Return to your quarters, Corporal. Get some rest.”

“Thank you. Will you be all right here on your own?”

“I am quite capable of watching over Mr. Mulder and Sergeant 
Phillips. Did I not prove myself in the operating room?”

“I didn’t mean to cast doubt on your skill as a physician. I 
was merely suggesting that, as an unmarried woman, you might 
need--”

“I’ll be fine, Corporal. Sergeant Phillips is here, should I 
need a man’s protection.”

The sick sergeant snored loudly in his bed, oblivious to their 
conversation. 

“Ah, then you are set.” Beckett offered a tired smile. “I’ll 
return in a few hours to relieve you. Goodnight, Doctor 
Scully.” He touched the brim of his hat and left her alone 
with her two charges. 

Even before the door clicked shut behind him, Dana was once 
again assessing Mr. Mulder’s condition, just as she had been 
doing every quarter hour since his surgery. She started by 
pressing her palm to his cheek.

His skin felt warmer this time, it seemed. She touched his 
brow, his neck. If he had a fever, it was only a mild one.

Or maybe she was imagining it altogether, seeing something 
that was not there, too tired to be objective after her long, 
eventful day. 

Pushing through her fatigue, she ticked off the possible 
causes of fever. Pyemia, blood poisoning, had a mortality rate 
of over ninety percent. Tetanus was nearly as deadly. Then 
there was erysepilas, soft tissue infection, osteomyelitis, 
inflammation of the bone, and, of course, gangrene.   

She turned up the flame of the lantern on the table beside the 
bed. Its flickering light revealed no sheen of sweat on 
Mulder’s bruised face. No flushing of the skin.

She drew the blankets down to his waist to examine his wounds 
for inflammation and pus. Gooseflesh sprouted across his bared 
chest and arms. His pale body appeared nearly luminescent in 
the lamplight. Not a healthy glow, but a ghostly pallor, so 
different from the way he had looked only a day ago when he 
stood outside his cabin without coat or shirt, sun-kissed and 
robust, his golden skin inviting her touch.

Focus, Doctor Scully, she reminded herself. He is your 
patient. Two days ago, she had accused him of removing her wet 
clothes for reasons more iniquitous than keeping her warm 
after her fall. She had bragged that, as a trained physician, 
she could maintain a manner of necessary detachment when 
treating patients. Now she must prove it. She needed to put 
aside her personal feelings and remain objective until he was 
fully recovered.

If he recovered.

“I won’t let you die, Mr. Mulder,” she murmured, inspecting 
the binding that wrapped his shoulder.

Only a little blood stained the bandage. She peeked beneath 
it, sniffing for the putrid odor of necrotizing flesh. 

There was no stench. The wound remained free of pus. The 
sutured edges appeared pink from irritation, but not overly 
inflamed.

The dressing on his forearm was saturated with blood and 
lymphatic fluid. She quickly removed the outer gauze and inner 
lint batting. No malodor emanated from the stitched flesh. 
Both entry and exit wounds seeped, but showed no obvious signs 
of infection. She tugged on the ligature that Beckett had 
looped around a blood vessel and purposely left dangling from 
the wound. If it pulled free, it meant that infection had set 
in and disintegrated the arterial wall.

The ligature held. She wiped Mulder’s arm clean with a wet 
cloth, then applied a wad of fresh, damp lint and rebound the 
arm with gauze. The soiled dressings were set aside to be 
washed and reused. She repositioned the blankets over his 
upper body.

Moving to the foot of the bed, she reached beneath the covers 
to squeeze his toes. They felt cool, but not unnaturally so. 
His circulation had not been compromised by injury or surgery. 

She flipped back the blanket to expose his lower left leg. The 
dressing on his calf needed changing, so she removed it. This 
wound, like the others, appeared clean and infection-free. The 
skin felt warm to the touch, however, and she worried that a 
fragment of arrowhead might still be lodged in the fibula. If 
so, inflammation would result, leading to diminished blood 
flow to the bone and death of the tissue. 

She must keep careful watch for additional symptoms: excessive 
sweating, chills, swelling of the ankles, feet, and legs. If 
Mr. Mulder developed any of these, further surgery would be 
required to scrape out the destroyed bone. Or, if gangrene 
took hold, the leg would have to be amputated.

Sliding the blankets up to his groin, she bared his upper 
thigh. A quick examination showed the wound was clean. The 
bandage was not too sodden and could wait until later to be 
changed. She recovered him with the blankets.

It worried her that Mr. Mulder was still unconscious after so 
long a time. She suspected he had sustained a concussion, 
either during the Indian attack, or earlier at Nine Pipe Ridge 
at the hands of her brother. Bill had beaten him mercilessly, 
then pushed him hard into a ledge. She had heard his skull 
crack against the stone. 

She slipped her hand beneath his head and gingerly probed for 
any swellings. There, just above the occipital bone, she found 
a sizable lump.

Symptoms of concussion could take hours or even days to show 
up. Sensitivity to light and noise, confusion, loss of 
balance, amnesia. Unfortunately, none of these could be 
diagnosed while the patient was unconscious.

A sal-ammoniac lotion applied directly to the scalp was the 
customary treatment for concussion and might bring him around. 
It would mean cutting off his hair to allow the medicine to be 
fully absorbed into the skin. But a haircut was a small price 
to pay if it helped rouse him from his coma.

She went to the medicine cabinet and pulled sal-ammoniac, 
vinegar, and whiskey from the shelves. She mixed these with a 
half-pint of water in a shallow bowl and stirred until the 
sal-ammoniac dissolved. The resultant lotion was thin and 
pungent. She grabbed a pair of scissors and returned to Mr. 
Mulder’s bedside.

Long locks dropped to the floor as she snipped away his hair. 
She rolled his head from side to side to clip the back. By the 
time she finished, he resembled a half-plucked chicken more 
than a gentleman, but her intent was to make him well, not 
handsome.

She poured a little of the medicine into her palm to let it 
warm for a few seconds before applying it to his tufted scalp.  
The lotion stained the bed linens as she massaged it into his 
skin. She repeated the process until she had used up all of 
the mixture. 

Wiping her hands on her smock, she felt satisfied that she had 
done everything she could for Mr. Mulder for the time being. 
His recovery was now in God’s hands. She cleaned up the fallen 
hair, then carried her chair back to her office. She limped 
the entire way, her sprained ankle throbbing after her long 
day. It would feel good to sit while she added notes to 
Beckett’s entry in the patient logbook.

Beckett’s report impressed her. It was not like his former 
sloppy jottings, but was a detailed description of Mr. 
Mulder’s condition and the surgical procedures performed on 
him. 

“Well done, Corporal.”

She picked up the quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and 
updated the entry.

“Post-surgery bleeding moderate. No sign of sepsis. Possible 
concussion. Treated with sal-ammoniac lotion as a precaution. 
Will administer calomel and antimonial powder mixed with a 
little bread-crumb when patient regains consciousness.”

She considered writing more, but in the end decided to leave 
out the worst of her fears. Conjecture was pointless. Only the 
facts mattered.

“Doctor Scully?”

She glanced up, expecting to see Beckett at the door, 
returning early, but it was not the Corporal who called out 
her name. Nor was it Sergeant Phillips.

The pen dropped from her hand and landed on the logbook, 
spattering the page with ink. She pushed back from the desk 
and stood.

“Mr. Mulder?”

The visitor strongly resembled the man she had left 
unconscious in his bed just minutes ago, except that his 
entire body was surrounded by an unearthly halo of light. He 
was dressed in Indian garb and his long hair sparkled with 
gold dust. Most shocking of all, however, was the fact that 
she could see right through his luminescent body into the room 
beyond! 

He held out a glowing hand.

She took a step back. Stumbled and knocked into her chair. It 
clattered to the floor. She glanced over her shoulder at it. 
Just a quick look. A fraction of a second. 

When she turned back, the mirage had vanished. She hurried 
into the ward, limping as she went.

She found Mr. Mulder exactly as she had left him. Still 
unconscious. And as solid and real as Sergeant Phillips in the 
next bed.

“I must be more tired than I thought,” she mumbled, dismissing 
her ghostly vision as mere delusion caused by lack of sleep.

Deciding to surrender to her fatigue, she crossed to one of 
the beds on the opposite side of the room and lay down to take 
a much needed nap. 

*   *   *

At oh-eight-hundred sharp, Cap stood in his office with 
Lieutenant Skinner. The original subject of their conversation 
was to have been the lieutenant’s marriage proposal and Dana’s 
acceptance. However, the matter would have to wait until 
later. Cap was facing a more pressing problem at the moment. 

“Word came from the goldfields not ten minutes ago that 
Kicking Horse and his band of cutthroats scalped and killed a 
prospector just south of Akópskaa Swamp last night.” 

“You’re sure it was a Blackfoot ambush, sir?” Skinner asked.

“Who else, so close to the fort?”

“Could’ve been Cree.”

“Ridiculous. Cree don’t travel this far south.”

Skinner cleared his throat and looked as though he had more to 
say.

“Spit it out, soldier.”

“Fox Mulder was attacked by hostiles last night. Shot four 
times. The arrows were Cree.”

Cap wanted to laugh. Hell, he wanted to cheer! Crazy Fox had 
been assaulted by the very heathens to whom he had been 
offering aid for years. Served the traitor right for taking 
sides against the U.S. Army. “This is welcome news, 
Lieutenant. Most welcome! Is he dead?” 

“No, sir, but his life hangs in the balance as we speak.”

“I see.” A shame the Cree had not finished off the turncoat. 
“Where is he now?”

“Infirmary, sir.”

“Here? At the fort?” Anger advanced upon Cap like Sherman’s 
army through Georgia. He began to pace. “I left strict orders 
he be kept out.”

“Yes, sir. I... I overrode those orders.”

“You did what?” Cap spun to face him. The next word ground 
from his throat. “Why?” 

“He was dying, sir.”

“Which would have saved us the trouble of hanging him!” Cap 
balled his fists.

Skinner’s gaze shifted to the floor. 

There was more to the story, Cap guessed, something the 
lieutenant was reluctant to admit. 

“Dana was at the gate when Mulder arrived, wasn’t she?” Cap 
guessed. “She insisted the guards let him in. And you helped 
her.”

“Yes, sir. H-how did you know?”

“I’m her father. I know how persuasive she can be.” Cap 
collected his hat and gloves from his desk. He had hoped 
Skinner would be more strict with Dana, although he was the 
first to admit that controlling his willful daughter was not 
always an easy task. “Don’t assume that as my future son-in-
law you can countermand my orders without consequences.”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll be back later to discuss your misconduct. But first, I 
must deal with my daughter.”          

Cap left Skinner standing beside his desk, looking miserable. 

The situation with Dana had gone too far, Cap fumed as he 
marched across the quad to the infirmary. And the fault was 
Fox Mulder’s. Although Dana insisted that nothing untoward had 
happened in that mountain hideaway of his, she was acting more 
obstinate than ever since her return. He had bewitched her. Or 
worse. 

The thought of his nemesis taking advantage of his daughter 
made Cap angry enough to strangle the blackguard in his 
sickbed.  

He barged through the infirmary’s front door and bellowed his 
daughter’s name.

Sergeant Phillips sat up in his bed and saluted. Fox Mulder 
slept soundly in the bed next to him. Cap itched to draw his 
saber and run it through the scoundrel’s black heart. 

“Where is my daughter?” he demanded of Phillips.

The alarmed sergeant pointed a quaking finger at a cot on the 
opposite side of the room. Sure enough, Dana lay there asleep 
in full view of the men.

Cap thudded across the room and shook her shoulder. “Get up.”

She startled awake. Glancing at the sergeant, she scrambled 
from the bed and straightened her skirts.

Cap targeted Mulder with an outstretched arm. “I want that 
traitor out of here. Now.”

She blinked against sleep, clearly trying to rouse herself. 
“He’s in no condition to travel, Father.” 

“He is an enemy of the U.S. Army.” 

“Keep your voice down, please.” She limped away from him, 
leaving him no option but to follow her into the back office.

“He’ll die if we move him,” she said quietly, closing the door 
behind them.  

“That doesn’t concern me.”

“Do you really hate him so much?”

“There’s a cemetery full of graves beyond the stockade. In 
those graves are soldiers who lost their lives fighting 
Indians -- Indians supplied with weapons by Fox Mulder.”

“Do you have proof of that?”

In fact, he did not. Nothing but hunches and rumors. But who 
else would be helping the hostiles? “He assists the red man at 
our expense. That makes him as much a murderer as they are.” 

“He must have his reasons, Father.”

“I cannot think of a single good one. Can you?”

Her defiant gaze wavered. “No.”

“I thought not. Two men will be ’round shortly to carry Mr. 
Mulder out of the fort.”

“Where will they take him?”

“Beyond the gate.”

“You would leave him lying on the ground?”

“He’s lucky I don’t shoot him for treason.” 

Her eyes sparked with anger. “If he goes, then I go with him.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I mean what I say, Father.”

“You’re hysterical.”

“I am perfectly calm.”

She did seem in control of herself. Frustratingly so. 

“Tell me, Dana, where will you take him? To his cabin?”

“No. That’s too far. I’ll take him into town.”

“Do you imagine there are fine, clean rooms to rent there?”

“There must be someplace.”

“There is a saloon. And a few private brothels. Nothing more.” 

Tears sprang to her eyes and his heart ached at seeing her 
upset. Why couldn’t she understand the situation as he did? He 
was doing what was best for his men and for her.

“If the saloon is the only place with a bed, then that’s where 
we’ll go.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“I’m not a child, Father. Stop treating me like one.”

“Then stop acting like one!”

She crossed her arms and turned her back on him, proving his 
point. 

“I take my profession seriously,” she said, her voice 
quavering, “even if you do not.”

“Your profession? Examining men’s bodies? Treating their 
diseases? It’s unseemly, Dana.” His patience was gone. He had 
half a mind to turn her over his knee and give her a sound 
spanking. “Get married. Have children. Forget this ridiculous 
doctor idea.”

She straightened her shoulders. Clenched her fists. Was she 
shaking?

“If I agree to consider what you are suggesting,” she said at 
last, “will you let Mr. Mulder stay until he recovers?” 

Did she mean it? Would she really forget her silly notion of 
becoming a doctor if he granted her this one indulgence? He 
hoped with all his heart it was true. He loved his daughter, 
more than life itself. He wanted her to be happy. And marriage 
was the only reasonable path to a secure future and contented 
life for her. 

“Yes,” Cap conceded, against his better judgment. “He can 
stay. But only until he can be transported elsewhere without 
risk to his life.”

She turned to face him. Her expression remained grim. She had 
gained no pleasure from his concession. “Thank you,” she said 
without emotion.

“Don’t thank me yet, Dana.” He placed his hands on her 
shoulders. “I’m willing to leave Mr. Mulder’s fate in God’s 
hands, and yours for the moment, but I won’t lie and say I 
hope he lives.” He lightly chucked her chin. “And, live or 
die, I expect you to follow through on your promise.”

“I’m sure you do.”

He noticed her dress was stained with dried blood and who knew 
what else.

“I’ll send Millie around with a set of fresh clothes,” he 
promised before taking his leave. “Everything will work out 
for the best, Magnet, you’ll see.”

*   *   *

Long after Cap left, Dana was still shaking. His lack of 
support was crushing. It was clear to her now that he had 
never intended for her to be a doctor at the fort. As far as 
he was concerned, Mr. Mulder was her last patient. Whether she 
married Walter Skinner or not.

She groped for the ring tucked inside her pocket. It was there 
in its wooden box.

Would she accept the lieutenant’s proposal? She had promised 
her father she would consider it. She had not promised to say 
yes, however.

But maybe it was the best course, given the circumstances, 
even if she did not love the lieutenant. He was a kind man. 
And willing to let her practice medicine. Marrying him would 
not be so awfully bad, would it?   

As promised, Millie came by later with clean clothes. She also 
brought Dana’s copy of “The Pathfinder.”

“I saw it on your bureau, miss. Thought you might want 
somethin’ to read while you’re sittin’ here all day.”

“Thank you, Millie. That was thoughtful of you.”

In truth, the enjoyment she had formerly experienced while 
reading Cooper’s book was spoiled now by her row with Cap. 
Clearly, he no longer looked upon her as his Magnet, although 
he continued to use the name as a term of endearment. The 
change in their relationship hurt her keenly. She longed to 
regain what they had lost.

One way to do that was to marry Walter Skinner.   

Dana changed out of her bloodstained clothes in the privacy of 
her office. She gave them to Millie to be soaked and scrubbed 
back at the house. 

After Millie left, Dana checked on Mr. Mulder and fed Sergeant 
Phillips. As the sergeant ate his meal, she dragged her chair 
back out to the ward, where she could keep close watch on her 
two patients. She positioned the chair once again between 
their beds, then sat down with her book to read. A hair ribbon 
marked her place. 

Chapter Nineteen had ended with Mabel -- Magnet -- agreeing to 
marry the man her father had chosen for her. Dana silently 
reread the chapter’s final passages: “Trained like a woman to 
subdue her most ardent feelings, her thoughts reverted to her 
father, and to the blessings that awaited the child who 
yielded to a parent's wishes.” 

No wonder Cap liked this book so much.

As for Dana, she sympathized with Mabel’s plight. She read on. 
“I have no choice; that is, none have asked me to have a 
choice, but Pathfinder and Mr. Muir; and between *them*, 
neither of us would hesitate. No, father; I will marry 
whomever you may choose.”

The very words Cap longed to hear.
 
“Mind readin’ yer story out loud, Doc?” the sergeant 
interrupted her brooding. “It’s mighty borin’, layin’ here 
with nothin’ to do.”

“Yes, I imagine it is. I’d be happy to read to you, Sergeant. 
Would you like me to start back at the beginning?”

“Oh, no need fer that.”

“I’ve read the story several times already. I don’t mind 
starting again.”

“Nah, pick up wherever yer at. Makes no never mind to me.” 

“All right then. Chapter Twenty: It was not only broad 
daylight when Mabel--”

“Who’s Mabel?”

“The heroine.”

“Right. Go on.”

“It was not only broad daylight when Mabel awoke, but the sun 
had actually been up some time. Her sleep had been tranquil, 
for she rested on an approving conscience, and fatigue 
contributed to render it sweet.”

Mabel had found comfort by surrendering to her father’s will. 
Dana doubted she would feel the same in her place.

On the other hand, was she willing to risk estrangement from 
her father and family for the sake of personal freedom?

A quarter hour later, the sergeant had become quite caught up 
in the story. “And how did Mr. Muir respond then?” he asked, 
eyes bright with anticipation.

Dana continued, pitching her voice low to replicate Muir’s 
masculine tenor. “‘Nay, nay, for heaven's sake, do not 
misunderstand me, Mabel!’ Muir interrupted, with some alarm of 
manner; ‘I am far from intimating that any but you females 
ought to take refuge in the boat. The duty of us men is 
sufficiently plain, no doubt, and my resolution has been 
formed from the first to stand or fall by the blockhouse.’”

“Good fer him!” Phillips raised his fist triumphantly. “What 
was our Mabel’s response?”

Dana used her natural voice for the part of Mabel. “‘And did 
you imagine, Mr. Muir, that two females could row that heavy 
boat in a way to escape the bark canoe of an Indian?’”

“I was wonderin’ the same, Doc. What does Mr. Muir say to 
that?”

“‘Ah! my pretty Mabel--’” 

“Love is seldom logical, and its fears and misgivings are apt 
to warp the faculties.” A rasping voice at her back finished 
the sentence for her.

Dana twisted in her chair to face the source of the speaker.

Mr. Mulder opened his eyes and offered her a weary smile. 
“Hey,” he said. 

Relief swept through her. Sergeant Phillips looked equally 
pleased. She stood and set her book down.

“Mr. Mulder, it is good to see you awake.”

“Where am I?” he croaked.

“Fort Culbertson. The infirmary.”

“You got shot by Injuns,” Phillips added. He pointed to his 
own swollen cheeks. “I got mumps.”

“I see.” Staring at Dana, Mulder dropped his voice to a 
whisper. “Does your father know I’m here?” 

She ignored his question and held her index finger a few 
inches from his nose. “Follow my finger with your eyes.”

She moved her hand from left to right and back again. He 
tracked the motion without a problem. 

“State your full name,” she said, testing him further.

“Fox William Mulder.”

“And today’s date?”

“August the twenty-- Wait...how long have I been here?” 

“Came in last night,” Phillips said.

“Then it must be the twenty-eighth.”

“Who is our country’s current president?” Dana continued her 
assessment. 

“Andrew Johnson. Did you know he was born in Raleigh, North 
Carolina?” Mulder asked tiredly. “1808. Apprenticed to a 
tailor as a boy, but ran away. As a Senator, he advocated a 
homestead bill to provide free farms to the poor. Need to know 
more?”

“No, that’s quite sufficient, thank you. Your mental faculties 
appear to be intact.” She slipped her hand beneath his 
fingers. “Squeeze.” 

His grasp was steady and adequately firm, given his weakened 
condition. 

His gaze drifted from his bandaged arm to the dressing on his 
chest. 

“I feel like...a voodoo doll.” 

“A what?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. What’s that smell?” He 
crinkled his nose.

“Vinegar.”

“Are you trying to pickle me?” He scratched his head. “What 
happened to my hair?”

“I had to cut it off. To treat your concussion. As you can 
see, it worked.”

“It don’t look so bad, mister,” Phillips assured him. “Kinda 
like a baby porkypine.”

“Wonderful.”

She placed her palm to his forehead. “You don’t feel 
feverish.” She touched his cheek and neck in turn, just to be 
certain.

He squirmed at her fussing. “Could I--” He cleared his throat. 
“Could I have a drink of water, please?” 

“Of course.” 

She filled a glass from the pitcher on the table beside his 
bed. 

“You gonna check him fer orchids?” Sergeant Phillips asked.

“No.” She held the glass to Mulder’s lips.

“Yer missin’ out, mister. Believe me.” Phillips grinned. 

Mulder drank every last drop without pause.

She set down the glass. “Do you think you could take some 
broth, Mr. Mulder?”

“No. Thank you.” His words were slurred with fatigue. He 
looked ready to fall asleep again. “Nitsiksíssta’poo’,” he 
mumbled. 

“That some kind of food?” Phillips asked.

“No.” Mulder’s eyes fluttered shut. “Means...I was lost.” 

“Indeed. You very nearly were.” Dana stroked his cheek, 
thankful he was still alive.

Her touch elicited a sigh. “You found me,” he said, drifting 
off. “Brought me back.”

She was about to correct him, tell him that it was Charlie who 
had found him and helped transport him to the fort, but he 
began to snore softly, so she adjusted his blankets and let 
him rest.

“Where were we, Sergeant?” she asked, picking up her book.

“Mr. Muir was sayin’ somethin’ about love.”

“Right.” She located the passage. “‘Love is seldom logical, 
and its fears and misgivings are apt to warp the faculties.’ 
Would you agree with that assessment, Sergeant Phillips?”

“If it means love can addle yer brain, then yep, I’d have to 
agree with it.”   

-------

Chapter 12

What was keeping Bill? Maggie chewed her lip as she darned 
socks for her husband. He had stormed out of the house more 
than two hours ago, shouting something about Fox Mulder being 
in the infirmary with Dana. Lieutenant Skinner left Bill’s 
study soon after, without stopping to say so much as good day. 
Then, thirty minutes later, a pimply private showed up at the 
front door asking Millie to bring a change of clothes to Dana.

Maggie hated being kept in the dark. She pushed her needle 
through the weave, taking care not to skip any rows and spoil 
the repair. 

Millie returned from the infirmary with a blood-stained dress 
and the disturbing news that Dana had spent the entire night 
tending to Fox Mulder, who had been injured in an Indian 
attack. Ordinarily, Maggie was not one to entertain 
uncharitable thoughts, especially about someone lying 
unconscious in a hospital bed, but the idea of that 
troublemaker being anywhere near her daughter made her blood 
boil. 

He was a distraction. Maggie’s yarn tangled, creating a knot 
in the middle of her repair. A *dangerous* distraction. She 
yanked on the knot to free it. The yarn slipped from the eye 
of her needle. 

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” She looked heavenward for guidance.  

Dana seemed bent on ignoring the wisdom of her faith. Church 
every Sunday. Bible readings each night. Grace and prayers, 
baptism, First Holy Communion, Confirmation. All a wasted 
effort apparently. Dana risked her immortal soul, as well as 
her reputation, by spending time alone with the likes of Fox 
Mulder. 

How had Bill Jr. put it? “Crazy Fox regularly raids Kicking 
Horse's chicken coop.” Maggie understood what that meant. The 
man was a shameless philanderer. 

Dana’s impulsiveness is my fault, she thought dismally as she 
untangled the knot and rethreaded her needle. After all, Bill 
had tried his best. 

"Consistency, strict rules, and hard work. These make good 
soldiers," he had said whenever the children were disobedient, 
which thankfully was not often.

"Our daughters aren't soldiers, dear," Maggie had argued in 
their defense. "They're little girls."

Now she wished she had listened to Bill. To think she had 
persuaded him to let Dana go off to medical school when she 
could scarcely fry an egg or tat a collar. What practical use 
was a college education to a woman? It would not help her 
secure a husband or keep a home.

Maybe it was not too late to save her. A stern lecture from 
Reverend McGill might turn her around. Maggie would invite him 
to dinner after Sunday services. 

Satisfied with her plan, she laid down several more neat and 
precise rows until the hole was mended. She turned the sock 
right side out. The patch was barely discernable.

Millie appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. 

“Are Dana’s clothes soaking?” Maggie asked the housemaid. 
“It’ll be a miracle if those stains come out.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Millie crossed the room and held out a small 
wooden box, its lid carved with two doves. “I found this in 
Miss Dana’s pocket and thought you would want to see it right 
away.”

Maggie set her needle and yarn aside and took the box from 
Millie’s outstretched hand. “What is this?”

“I think you should see for yourself, ma’am.” 

Maggie opened the lid. “Oh!”

A ring! A lovely pearl and sapphire ring. 

So the lieutenant had proposed at last. And Dana had clearly 
accepted. She must have slipped the ring into her pocket to 
keep it clean while performing her doctor duties last night.

“Do you know what this means, Millie?” Maggie smiled up at the 
maid. 

“Not really, ma’am.”

“We’ve got a wedding to plan! Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Yes’m. If you say so.” 

“We’ll start with the guest list...then the invitations...oh, 
and a menu. I need paper and pen!”

“Right away.” Millie moved toward the door.

“No, wait!” Maggie stopped her. “I’ll get them myself. You 
unpack my wedding dress from the trunk in the attic. It’ll 
need airing and pressing.”

“Yes’m.” 

She would engage Mrs. Etherage to oversee the fitting and make 
any alterations. That woman worked magic with needle and 
thread.

Tears of happiness filled Maggie’s eyes at the thought of Dana 
wearing her gown, walking down the aisle on her father’s arm, 
the lieutenant waiting at the altar to collect his young 
bride. Everything was going to be fine after all. Maggie had 
been worrying for nothing. Her baby girl was getting married!

She closed the tiny box and stood. “I’ll be out for a while, 
Millie.” The guest list, invitations, and menu could wait 
another hour or so. 

“Will you be needin’ a buggy, ma’am?”

“No, thank you. I’m just going to the infirmary. I want to 
congratulate the happy bride-to-be and return her ring. I’m 
sure she must be missing it.”

*   *   *

Dana emerged from her back office to find Mr. Mulder’s bed 
empty. Panic shot through her. She had been gone for only a 
few minutes. Was it possible Cap had changed his mind and 
evicted Mr. Mulder in the short time it had taken her to 
update the patient logbook? 

“Where did he go?” she asked Sergeant Phillips, who was lying 
in bed looking at the illustrated plates in “The Pathfinder.” 

Without taking his eyes from the book, he hooked a thumb at 
the front door. “Headed that way.”

The door was wide open. Outside, a corporal strolled down the 
thoroughfare with a pair of horses in tow. Beyond him, 
soldiers practiced marching drills on the parade ground. A 
shopkeeper swept the front porch of the supply store on the 
far side of the green. 

Mr. Mulder was nowhere in sight. 

Dana limped across the ward and out the door, hurrying as fast 
as she could on her injured ankle. Just outside, she nearly 
ran into her wayward patient leaning against the side of the 
building, naked except for...

“Is that my doctor’s smock?” 

He had knotted the sleeves loosely around his waist. His left 
hip remained exposed.

“It was all I could find,” he said.

“You shouldn’t be out here.” She took hold of his arm and 
tried to haul him back inside.

He resisted. “My bladder disagrees. Care to point me in the 
direction of the nearest privy?” 

“There’s a chamber pot beside your bed.” 

“And an audience.”

“You don’t strike me as the shy type.” She gestured toward the 
gaping smock. 

“And you haven’t seen the way Sergeant Phillips gazes at me.”

It was a joke presumably. Mr. Mulder had an odd sense of 
humor, she was learning.

An officer on the mall barked orders at the troops. Two 
elderly women emerged from the supply store, arms loaded with 
dry goods. 

“Come back inside, please.”

“Not until I’ve visited the outhouse.” 

He was very pale and looked like he might fall over at any 
moment. Blood seeped through the dressing on his lower leg.

“It’s too far,” she argued.

“How far can it be?”

“All the way around back.”

“Then I’ll need your assistance getting there.” He slung a 
heavy arm across her shoulders and leaned into her. 

“Are you always so obstinate, Mr. Mulder?”

“‘Persistent’ has a better ring to it, don’t you think?” 

He tried to propel her forward. When she stood firm, he let 
his arm drop from her shoulder and took two staggering steps 
on his own.

She moved to block his path. “Mr. Mulder--”

“I could go right here.” He turned on quaking legs to face the 
building. 

“That won’t be necessary.” She snaked an arm around his waist 
to steady him. “Come this way.”  

A fine pair they made, limping around the building together, 
neither in any shape to walk far. The smock around his waist 
flapped in the mid-morning breeze, each gust threatening to 
expose him. Out of politeness, she averted her gaze.

“Who’s being shy now?” He chuckled.

She bristled at his assumption that she was embarrassed by his 
nudity. “Do you imagine I graduated from medical school 
without ever having seen a naked man?”

“Did you?”

“I saw plenty.” Most had been cadavers, but what difference 
did that make? “It was practically a daily occurrence.” 

“As often as that? You must be bored to tears with them by 
now.”

“Indifferent would be a more accurate term. In my experience, 
the human--” She could not say “penis” in front of a man. She 
settled on the term her professors had used in medical school. 
“The male organs of generation are all very much alike, Mr. 
Mulder. In fact, after seeing one or two, you could say you’ve 
seen them all.”

It was a lie, of course, intended to wipe the smirk off his 
face. In truth, there seemed to be considerable physical 
variation from one man to the next. Not that she had conducted 
a thorough study. 

Naturally, she had seen Mr. Mulder’s penis during his surgery, 
while he was stripped naked on her operating table. She had 
not stared at it, or even thought much about it, being 
distracted by other more urgent matters. However, now that she 
*was* thinking about it, it had seemed generously 
proportioned. Bigger than most of the cadavers she had seen in 
medical school.

“Are you blushing, Miss Scully?”

She silently cursed her Irish ancestry and pale complexion. 
“It’s *Doctor* Scully, if you don’t mind. And I’m flushed from 
exertion, not embarrassment. You are no small man, Mr. 
Mulder.”

“You would know, being an expert.” Delight lit his eyes. 

“I was referring to your stature, not your...your...”

“Organ of generation?”

She decided to ignore his teasing. He clearly enjoyed 
provoking her and she refused to encourage him further.

Miraculously, they made it to the outhouse without tripping or 
falling down...or engaging in any additional conversation 
about the size of Mr. Mulder’s genitalia. 

“Can you manage on your own from here?” she asked, opening the 
door for him. 

“I’ll yell if I need help.”

He hobbled inside and closed the door behind him. She stepped 
away.

A few minutes later, he emerged looking as if he might faint. 
She rushed to his side to prop him up once again.

“Everything all right?” She fitted herself beneath his arm, 
shouldering his weight. 

He clung to her and inhaled sharply. Was he trying to catch 
his breath or was he...?

“Mm, you smell good.”

He was sniffing her!

She peered up at him, eyebrow raised. “Time to head back, Mr. 
Mulder. I want to get you into bed as soon as possible.”

“With Sergeant Phillips watching?” he asked in mock horror.

She refused to let him bait her. “That’s right; you don’t like 
having an audience.”

He smiled, clearly pleased by her response, and she realized 
then that he had not been poking fun at her earlier, or trying 
to shock her; he merely enjoyed verbal sparring. In his own 
way, he was treating her as an equal.

She found it quite refreshing. He was one of the few men she 
had ever met who did not patronize her. 

They teetered back toward the infirmary, taking small, if not 
steady, steps.

At the halfway point, he paused to ask, “Why am I still here?”

“We could try walking faster.”

“No, not here *here*, but here in the fort? Why hasn’t your 
father tossed me out on my...uh...backside? I was under the 
impression he hated me.”

Cap did hate him and he was here only because of the false 
promise she had made to her father.

Regret swept through her at the memory of her argument with 
Cap. It pained her to be at odds with him, to deceive him the 
way she had, when in fact, she wanted only to please him. Make 
him proud of her. But it seemed no matter how hard she tried, 
he found her lacking. She was a disappointment, like Melissa. 
He loved them both, she was certain. He wanted their lives to 
be easy and happy. But he did not trust them to make their own 
decisions.

Melissa took his disapproval in stride. Always had. She made 
no apologies, no concessions for her often scandalous 
behavior. But Dana was unable to shrug off her father’s 
judgment so easily. She could not turn her back on him. Not 
even when he made her doubt her own choices.

Of course, she could tell none of this to Mr. Mulder. He was 
not her confidante. In fact, they barely knew one another. 

Cap claimed Fox Mulder was dangerous, a threat to her and to 
the men of Fort Culbertson. The former was totally unfounded. 
Mr. Mulder had saved her life. He would not harm her, she was 
convinced of it. As for conspiring against the U.S. Army, both 
Cap and Bill Jr. insisted it was true. Even Walter had said 
Mulder supplied weapons to the Indians because he thought 
white men did not belong this far west. It seemed a feeble 
reason to turn against one’s country. But whatever his 
motives, Mr. Mulder’s loyalties clearly lay with the Indians 
instead of his own race, and she wanted to know why.

“My father dislikes what you do, Mr. Mulder.”

“Treating Indians like human beings?” 

She lowered her voice to a whisper, although no one was within 
earshot. “Supplying aid to the hostiles makes you a traitor.”

“The Blackfoot are a peace-loving people, Dr. Scully. More so 
than the soldiers out there on the green.”

“You can’t believe that. Not after they attacked you.”

“The Cree attacked me, not the Blackfoot. There is a 
difference.”

“Bill says all Indians are thieves and cold-blooded 
murderers.”

“Bill Scully is blinded by bigotry.”

“Mr. Mulder, you are talking about my brother!”

Mulder shrugged. “Sorry.”

She was unsure if he was apologizing for the insult or because 
she was related to an alleged bigot.

“Indians do murder whites. It’s a well documented fact,” she 
said.

“They kill to defend their families, their land, their way of 
life. We do the same thing, or didn’t you hear about that 
little scuffle south of the Mason Dixon Line?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s not?”

He was breathing hard. Sweat glistened on his face and chest. 
He could barely put one foot in front of the other. Blood 
dribbled down his leg from the wound on his thigh.

She had not intended to start an argument. She only wanted to 
understand his point of view. It had been irresponsible of her 
to bring up such a volatile subject given his condition. The 
discussion would have to wait until he was more fully 
recovered. Right now, she needed to get him back to the ward.

“Can you make it the rest of the way?” she asked. 

Brow knotted, jaw set, he gave a nod.

They struggled around the building. He clutched her tightly 
and she feared she might collapse beneath his weight. It was 
only with considerable effort, and significant relief, that 
she steered him into the ward at last.  

Phillips greeted them with a wide grin. “Int’restin’ nether 
garment you got there, Mr. Mulder.”

“Very popular back east, Sergeant Phillips,” Mulder said 
through gritted teeth. He leaned close to Dana’s ear and 
rasped, “Told you he had his eye on me.”

She was impressed he was able to joke when in such obvious 
pain.  

“I’ll bring you a nightshirt,” she promised, helping him into 
bed. “Will you be all right while I fetch fresh water and 
clean bandages for your wounds?” 

He nodded tiredly. Digging beneath his blankets, he retrieved 
her smock and handed it to her.

The garment held the heat of his body and warmed her palms. 
Folding it, she tried not to imagine it caressing his bare 
skin.

His organ of generation.  

“Tackle him if he tries to leave again, Sergeant Phillips,” 
she called over her shoulder as she headed to the surgery for 
supplies.

*   *   *

Skinner tied his horse and Mulder’s pinto to the rail of his 
porch. Looking up at the house, he imagined bringing Dana here 
on their wedding night. At the threshold, he would lift her 
into his arms. The train of her gown would hang to the floor; 
it would brush the stairs as he carried her up to the front 
bedroom. There, he would set her on her feet and, even though 
she would be wearing heeled shoes, she would barely come up to 
his chin. He would then sit to watch her undress. Or he would 
remain standing and help her, if she let him. When she was 
finally, completely undressed, he would lead her to their bed. 
A wide bed with a feather mattress and a white canopy. They 
would lie there together while he kissed her lips and caressed 
her soft, pale skin. When she was ready, he would make love to 
her, gently, so as not to hurt her too much her first time.

Would she be shy with him? Or would passion overtake her as it 
had the evening they kissed on the dock?

Either way, they would grow comfortable with one another soon 
enough. Love would blossom. And, God willing, they would be 
blessed with children.

But he was getting ahead of himself. First he must convince 
her to accept his proposal.

He hefted a bulging haversack from behind his saddle and 
carried it inside. Taking the stairs two at a time, he hurried 
to the empty, front bedroom. He dropped the bag on the hearth, 
causing a swirl of pine-scented sawdust to billow up around 
it. Kneeling beside the fireplace, he reached up into the 
chimney and dislodged the weapons he had stowed there earlier: 
two rifles, four pistols, and several boxes of ammunition, all 
wrapped in a blanket and tied up with rope. 

He shrugged out of his frockcoat and vest, and tossed them 
aside. His cravat, sash, and shirt soon followed. Upending the 
haversack, he dumped its contents onto the floor. Out fell a 
fringed tunic made of deer hide, matching trousers, a pair of 
well-worn moccasins, and a beaver-skin hat. It was the sort of 
outfit a trapper would wear. A mountain man like Fox Mulder.

Sitting back, he yanked off his boots. Then rose to strip off 
his pants. Quickly, he donned the buckskins and moccasins. 

The clothes felt strange on him. Freer than his uniform. He 
was confident no one would recognize him dressed this way, 
especially if he stuck to the shadowed trails of the mountain 
forest. And if anyone did take notice and spot him, it was 
likely they would mistake him for one of the dozens of hunters 
who trapped the hills around Flatwillow.

He fitted the beaver hat to his head, then stowed his uniform 
in the linen closet along with the haversack and his boots. He 
carried the weapons downstairs.

Out on the porch, he untied the ropes that bound the guns and 
shucked off the blanket. They were all there: a Spencer 
repeating rifle, a Springfield musket, three Colt revolvers 
and an old derringer, transported at great risk from Kingsbury 
Basin in Dana’s phaeton. He had intended to take them to 
Buffalo Jump, where Mulder would gather them up and deliver 
them to the Blackfoot camp on Miin Creek. But with Mulder laid 
up for who knew how long, Skinner must take them to Kicking 
Horse himself. 

He slid the Spencer into the carbine boot on Mulder’s pinto 
and strapped the Springfield behind the saddle. When he tried 
to pack the pistols and cartridges into Mulder’s saddlebag, he 
found it was already full. He emptied it onto the blanket. Out 
spilled trading trinkets and several objects Skinner could not 
identify. 

A small drawstring pouch caught his eye. Inside he found a 
medallion -- a Jefferson Peace Medal, stamped with the words 
“Peace and Friendship.” It seemed an omen, so he pocketed it. 
Maybe it would bring him luck. 

He rolled Mulder’s trade goods into the blanket and took them, 
along with his own horse, into the barn. He moved quickly, 
leading the horse to a stall, filling the trough with water, 
tossing a forkful of hay at the horse’s feet. He tucked the 
blanket containing Mulder’s things into the phaeton and 
hurried back to the house.

Mulder’s pinto waited patiently while Skinner untied the reins 
and climbed onto the saddle. He looked up at the house one 
last time. 

Married life could not come soon enough. Once married, he 
would truly settle down. Retire from the military. Take up 
farming. He would not leave Dana on her own the way he had 
left Liddiah.

“Get-up.” He spurred the pinto and steered north, toward Miin 
Creek and Kicking Horse’s summer camp. 

*   *   *

Maggie decided to stop at the Picayune on her way to the 
infirmary to enquire about an engagement announcement. The 
proprietor, a short, scruffy man with a kind smile, met her at 
the door.

“Good day, Mrs. Scully.” He ushered her inside.

“Indeed it is, Mr. uh...Frohike?” 

“Yes, Melvin Frohike, at your service. And these are my 
associates, Mr. Langly and Mr. Byers.” 

He pointed to two men who hunkered over a printing press, 
which lay in pieces on the floor. Ink stained their hands and 
clothes.

The bearded man smiled. The blond waved a blackened hand.

She acknowledged them with a nod. “Gentlemen.”

“What brings you to our humble establishment, Mrs. Scully?” 
Frohike asked.

“Good news, Mr. Frohike.”

“We like that! What sort of good news?”

“The best sort, I should think, short of a birth announcement. 
My daughter is getting married and I’d like to place a notice 
of engagement in your paper.”

“Congratulations!”

“This is her ring.” Maggie withdrew the wooden box from her 
bag and opened the lid with pride. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Mr. Frohike adjusted his glasses to inspect the stones. The 
other gentlemen abandoned their work on the floor to come peer 
over his shoulder.

“Lovely,” Frohike announced at length. “But why isn’t it on 
the bride-to-be’s finger?”

“That’s...a complicated story.” She did not want to spoil the 
occasion by mentioning Fox Mulder or Dana’s blood-stained 
dress. “Shall we discuss the announcement?” 
 
“By all means. What would you like it to say?”

“‘Captain and Mrs. William Scully of...’ Maybe you should 
write this down, Mr. Frohike.”

“Of course.” He gathered paper and ink, then dipped his quill 
to take down her words. 

“‘Captain and Mrs. William Scully of Liberty, Virginia, are 
pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter Dana 
Katherine to Lieutenant Walter Skinner of Mission, Delaware. A 
September wedding is planned.’” She took the ring from its box 
and held it up to the light of the window. The sapphires 
glittered and the pearls shone warmly. 

“Is that all?” Frohike asked.

“Should it say more?” 

“Some people include a poem, to capture the sentiment of the 
occasion.”

“An excellent idea, only...”

“Only what, Mrs. Scully?”

“As inspired as I find my daughter’s welcome news, I’m afraid 
I’m at a loss to put my feelings into words.”

“Perhaps I could suggest something appropriate.”

“Could you? Would you, please?”  

Frohike thought for a moment. “How about this: ‘She is thine, 
the word is spoken, hand to hand, and heart to heart, though 
all other ties are broken, time these bonds shall never 
part.’”

“Oh, that is splendid, Mr. Frohike! You certainly have a way 
with words.”

Frohike gave a modest bow. “Thank you, Mrs. Scully. I don’t 
like to brag, but I do have something of a reputation for--”

“Your announcement and Mr. Frohike’s poem will appear in our 
next edition, Mrs. Scully,” Byers interrupted. “Assuming we 
can get our press back together.”

“I told you not to remove the crank,” Langly complained.

“It was sticking.”

“It just needed a little push.” 

“It’ll be fixed straight away, Mrs. Scully, not to worry,” 
Frohike promised, ending their argument. “Look for your 
announcement directly below our story about Harmon Loomis.”

“Harmon Loomis?” Maggie asked.

“Malefactor in Kingsbury Basin,” Byers said.

“What did he do?”

“Breach of promise of marriage.”

“Oh dear, a serious offense then.”

“Indeed. Mr. Loomis failed to appear at his own wedding. He 
claimed his omission of duty was entirely unintentional, but 
he is in hot water nonetheless. Prospective damages to the 
lady’s affections are set at $10,000.”

“A fair compensation, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen? After 
all, Mr. Loomis gave his word. A promise of marriage is a 
binding contract that should be honored by all parties. That 
poor woman.” Maggie tucked Dana’s ring away in her bag. “Thank 
you for your time, gentlemen, and your expert help, Mr. 
Frohike. I look forward to seeing your lovely poem in print!”

*   *   * 

Mulder’s left arm throbbed. His right shoulder burned -- even 
more than the time he had been shot by a musket ball in 
Mexico. But the worst by far was his leg. It ached from toes 
to groin. 

He had been an idiot to go wandering out to the backhouse, but 
would do the exact same thing all over again given the same 
circumstances. His refusal to use the chamber pot had nothing 
to do with Sergeant Phillips, although that was the excuse he 
had given Dr. Scully. Truth be told, he disliked the idea of 
her cleaning out his dirtied bowl. It made him feel like a 
helpless child. And he hated feeling helpless. Especially in 
front of a beguilingly intelligent woman.

“Drink this, please.” Dr. Scully held a glass to his lips. 

“It smells bad.” He pushed it away.

“Yes, it does. And it tastes even worse. But it’ll stave off 
sepsis and help thin your blood.”

“I want thin blood?”

“You do, Mr. Mulder, so your leg won’t throw a clot and cause 
paralysis or death.”

“Death might be a welcome relief right about now.” 

“Is the pain as bad as that?”

Damn, he had not intended to say anything out loud. Now she 
would prod and poke and hover over him the rest of the day. 

She set down the glass and placed her hand on his forehead.

Was it too late to pretend he was asleep?

“No fever,” she proclaimed, then moved to unwrap the dressing 
on his arm. 

A bloody thread dangled from his sutured flesh. She tugged at 
it.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, I had to make sure the ligature was still attached.”

“It is.”

“Yes. And it’s a good thing, too, Mr. Mulder.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” 

She swabbed the site with a wet cloth. Sergeant Phillips sat 
up in his bed to watch.

“Looks mighty painful, mister.”

“It hurts like hell.”

Did she intend to scour him down to the bone? 

He jerked his arm away. “Enough.”

“Don’t be such a baby, Mr. Mulder.”

“A baby? I was nearly a corpse twelve hours ago.”

“And I intend to keep you from becoming one twelve hours 
hence.” 

She rebound the wound with fresh bandages. Her expression 
remained serious, but calm. The tip of her tongue stuck out 
from between pearly teeth as she concentrated on her task. Her 
fingers fluttered over his raw flesh, soothing the fire deep 
within the muscles of his arm.

Unfortunately, when she folded back the bedcovers to change 
the dressing on his upper thigh, her fingers grazed his 
scrotum through the wool blanket and ignited a fire of a 
different sort. 

His cock stiffened. He cursed its timing and the 
circumstances.

She carefully loosened and removed his dressing. Her touch was 
as gentle as a lover’s. When she leaned close to inspect the 
wound, her warm breath tickled the sensitive skin of his inner 
thigh. 

“Wish I’d been shot by an arrow,” Phillips said, sounding 
wistful. 

Had he noticed Mulder’s erection? Worse yet, had she?

His worry was quickly replaced by another, more serious 
concern: how would he measure up against the hundreds, maybe 
thousands of men she had seen on a “practically daily” basis 
while in medical school? Would she find him lacking? It wasn’t 
the sort of problem he had run into before. Most women he’d 
known were far less experienced than Dr. Scully. Including 
Madame Pearl and the courtesans at the Buffalo Rose Pleasure 
Palace in Cripple Creek. 

“Ever hear the legend of Blood Clot Boy?” Mulder asked, trying 
to distract Dr. Scully, the sergeant, and himself. If he was 
lucky, his condition would either disappear on its own or 
remain safely concealed beneath the folds of the bedcovers. 

“I’ve not heard it, Mr. Mulder.” She daubed at his thigh with 
her cloth.

His cock began to tent the blankets.   

“Tell it, please,” Sergeant Phillips urged. 

Mulder shifted, trying to nonchalantly pile the covers more 
generously onto his lap. “An old couple had three daughters 
who all married the same man.” 

“Lucky man,” said Sergeant Phillips.

Dr. Scully frowned, but continued to meticulously tend his 
injured thigh.

“Miserly man,” Mulder corrected, wishing she would either 
finish her ministrations or ask Sergeant Phillips to leave the 
room so he could throw her to the bed and fuck her until the 
Devil dragged him off to Hell. “He wouldn’t share his food 
with his in-laws. Soon, they were starving. One day, the old 
couple found a blood clot in the snow and took it home to put 
in a pot of boiling water.”

“They weren’t going to eat it, were they?” Dr. Scully looked 
appalled.

Had her eyes always been such an intoxicating shade of blue?

“They were very hungry,” Mulder reiterated. It took all of his 
willpower not to touch himself. Or her. “After a short time, 
they heard a child crying in the pot. They looked in and found 
the blood clot had turned into a baby boy.”

“There was a living baby in the pot of boiling water?” Dr. 
Scully’s brow arched.

“According to the legend, yes.”

“Water boils at two-hundred-twelve degrees Fahrenheit, Mr. 
Mulder. I don’t have to tell you, a baby would never survive 
such extreme temperatures.”

“It’s a myth. A metaphor. You aren’t supposed to take it 
literally.” Would she slap him if he kissed her? “Anyway, the 
baby instructed the old couple to hold him next to--”

“The baby spoke?” she interrupted again. 

“Are you going to question every detail of the story?”

“Only the parts that contradict what we know to be possible.”

“You’re claiming that everything that is possible is already 
known?”

“I’m saying that observable, empirical, and measurable 
evidence can help us determine whether a thing is possible or 
not. Procedures may vary from one field of inquiry to another, 
but there are identifiable features that distinguish 
scientific inquiry from other methodologies of knowledge. 
Scientists propose hypotheses as explanations of phenomena. 
They then design experimental studies to test those 
hypotheses. The steps must be rigorous and reputable if they 
are to yield dependable results.”

Oddly, the more she talked, the harder he became.

“You sure know how to squeeze the fun out of a story, Dr. 
Scully.”

“And you tell a tall tale, Mr. Mulder.” 

“Please, let him finish, Doc,” Phillips begged.

“Yes, let me finish.” So to speak. 

She moved her hand higher up his leg. He suppressed a moan.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “I won’t say another word.”

Her fingers inched closer to his groin. If she was trying to 
drive him crazy, it was working.

“The baby instructed the old couple to hold him next to each 
lodge pole in the tepee. As they moved him from one pole to 
the next, he began to grow.” 

Just like his cock.

“I don’t think I need to point out that--”

“Dr. Scully!” Phillips and Mulder whined in unison.

“Sorry.” She closed her mouth and pursed her lips.

Full, rosy lips. They would feel sooo good on his-- 

“By the time they held him next to the last...uh...pole,” –- 
his cock twitched beneath the blankets -- “he was a full grown 
man. He said he was the Smoking Star and had descended to 
earth to help them.”

“He came from Heaven?” Phillips asked, eyes round with wonder.

“Or an alien world,” Mulder said. 

“Lift your leg, please,” Dr. Scully ordered.

“Pardon?”

“Lift your leg so I can wrap it.” 

God help him, he was going to explode.

He raised his knee, carefully, so as not to detonate all over 
the blankets. “The couple named him Blood Clot Boy. For 
obvious reasons.”

“What happened next?” Phillips asked.

“Blood Clot Boy helped the old couple. He hunted for them, 
provided them with food.”

“And what happened to the miserly son-in-law?” Dr. Scully 
asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? There’s no moral to this story?”

“It’s not an Aesop’s fable.” 

“You can put your leg down now.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Of course you can.”

“No, I mean, I don’t think I want to. I--” 

Before he could say more, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman 
blustered into the ward. Mulder had seen her before. Wasn’t 
she-- 

“Mother?” Dr. Scully blinked in surprise. “What are you doing 
here?”

“I came to return your engagement ring. What are *you* doing?” 
Mrs. Scully’s eyes targeted the small feminine hand caressing 
Mulder’s bare thigh.

Mulder’s erection wilted beneath the covers and Mrs. Scully’s 
disapproving stare.

Did she say “engagement ring”? 

-------

Chapter 13

To a casual observer, Mulder’s expression appeared as 
impassive as a poker player’s. Dana, however, spotted a 
transitory flare of panic in his hazel eyes. She promptly 
withdrew her hand from his leg and covered him with a blanket, 
although she was sure he was not self-conscious about his 
exposed limb, not after parading to the privy wearing only her 
doctor’s smock tied around his waist. Nor did it seem likely 
he would be intimidated by her mother’s stern scowl. Dana had 
seen him go toe to toe with Cap, who was far more formidable.

What, then, was distressing him?

“You gettin’ married, Doc?” Sergeant Phillips’ smile widened. 
“Congratulashuns!”

A muscle twitched along Mulder’s jaw. 

“Excuse us, gentlemen.” Dana turned to her mother. “May we 
talk in my office, please?”

“By all means.” Maggie’s sniff of disapproval knotted Dana’s 
stomach. “Lead the way.”

Dana walked with eyes downcast, unable to meet her mother’s 
judgmental stare straight on. Maggie followed, her skirts 
rustling like nettles in the wind. 

“You’re playing with fire,” Maggie accused as soon as the door 
was shut behind them. 

“I’ve done nothing improper. I was merely treating a patient.”

“You cannot be so naïve as to think you can touch a man in 
such a familiar fashion without consequences.”

“I’m his doctor.”

“You’re a beautiful, young woman. A fact that Mr. Mulder 
clearly noticed.”

Dana did not like where the conversation was headed. “Why are 
you here, Mother?” she asked. 

“As I said,” -- Maggie dug into her crocheted purse and pulled 
out Lieutenant Skinner’s carved wooden box -– “to return 
this.”

Not believing her eyes, Dana patted her pocket, only to find 
it empty. Damn! She had intended to remove the box before 
giving her dirtied clothes to Millie. 

“That doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

“It’s from Walter Skinner, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s an engagement ring?”

“That’s his intent.”

“I’m interested in *your* intent. What did you tell him?”

“I told him I needed more time.”

“Time for what?”

“To be certain about my feelings before I made a decision.”

“Dana, you’ve kissed him. You’ve accepted his ring. These are 
as binding as any contract. There’s no decision left to be 
made.”

“But I don’t love him.”

“Do you love someone else?” 

An image of Mr. Mulder dressed in buckskin and feathers rose 
unbidden in Dana’s mind. She glanced nervously at the closed 
door. If pressed, she could not have explained why he appeared 
in her thoughts at that particular moment, and yet, there he 
was. 

Maggie followed her gaze. “Does your new patient have 
something to do with your ambivalence?” 

“Why would he?”

“Given what I just witnessed out there in the ward--” 

“Whatever you think you saw, you’re mistaken.”

“Am I? Shall we ask Mr. Mulder what was going through his mind 
just now?” Maggie reached for the door handle.

Dana grabbed her wrist, stopping her. “Please don’t. Your 
accusations are unwarranted. You’ll only embarrass him. And 
me. Or is that your intention, to shame me into quitting this 
place and my job?”

“My intention is to see that you don’t make a mistake you’ll 
regret for the rest of your life. You’re my daughter, Dana. I 
love you. I will always love you. But I’m afraid of what’s 
happening to you, of what you’re becoming. There’s a name 
people give to women who toy with men’s affections, and it 
isn’t a very nice one.”

The insult stung as soundly as if her mother had slapped her 
across the face. Dana steadied herself against the desk. “Is 
that what I’m doing? Toying with men’s affections?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t understand the consequences of your 
actions. We’ve had this conversation before.”

Dana remembered only too well. The night before she left for 
New York, Maggie had come to her bedroom to offer some 
motherly advice. “A woman must be on guard. A single 
indiscretion can ruin her prospects forever.”

“I’ll be careful,” Dana had promised.

“Please do. A husband expects his new bride to come to their 
marriage bed chaste.” Maggie lowered her voice to a whisper. 
“Intact.”

When Dana inquired quite sincerely if the word “intact” should 
be taken figuratively or literally, Maggie dodged the subject. 
“Your husband will instruct you on all you need to know...on 
your wedding night.”

If Melissa had still been living at home, Dana would have 
sought her out for more detailed information. But she had left 
months earlier, which meant the finer points of lovemaking 
remained cloaked in mystery until Dana arrived at medical 
school and began her studies in human physiology. Halfway 
through the second semester, during the dissection of a female 
corpse, her professor pointed to a scar he identified as the 
carunculae myrtiformes, located within the vaginal vault. 
According to Dr. Innes, it was the remains of the dead woman’s 
hymen -- ruptured during her first sexual encounter.  

Feeling foolishly ignorant and hoping her male classmates were 
too focused on the cadaver to notice her flushed face, Dana 
asked what the structure had looked like prior to parturition. 

Dr. Innes paused only a moment before launching into one of 
his typically monotone explanations: “A membranous semilunar 
fold, more or less closed, Miss Scully. It varies in shape, 
but its commonest form is that of a ring, broadest 
posteriorly. Occasionally it is cribriform. Rarely, it can be 
imperforate.”

All eyes turned toward her. 

Imperforate or semilunar, Dana imagined that losing one’s 
virginity must be painful, but she was not bold enough to ask, 
not in a room full of gawping men.  

Four years later, she still had not experienced the sexual act 
firsthand, but at least she now understood the mechanics –- 
and the consequences. She did not need her mother’s cautious 
reminders to know what was at stake.

A look of startled alarm spread across Maggie’s features now. 
“Has my warning come too late?” 

“Of course not.”

“Thank God!” Maggie’s hand went to her heart.

Dana glared at her. “I need to get back to work.”

Her mother blinked at the sudden dismissal. “Yes. Well. All 
right then.” She handed the box to Dana. “But don’t stay at it 
too long, dear. Too much intellectual stimulation isn’t good 
for a woman, you know.”

It was an old warning, repeated numerous times in Maggie’s 
letters while Dana was at school. 

“That’s an outdated opinion, Mother.”

“It’s a widely accepted fact.”

“Unfortunately, that much is true.”

“It’s all true. Too much stimulation -- intellectual or 
otherwise –- leads a woman to recklessness.” 

“I disagree.”

“Your current behavior is proof of it,” Maggie insisted. 

Anger ballooned in Dana’s chest. “Any recklessness I may be 
feeling has been caused by efforts to repress my intellect, 
not the other way around.”

“You would see it that way.”

“I find my work enjoyable, Mother, and enriching. It makes me 
feel useful, accomplished, and healthy in mind and spirit. 
Without it, I am little more than a parasite feasting on the 
generosity of a father or husband.”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “Is that how you view me?” 

Her mother’s obvious hurt stripped away Dana’s anger as 
quickly as water puts out a fire. She had not meant to insult 
her mother’s way of life. She intended only to point out that 
she desired something different. 

“No, of course not. I envy your happiness,” she said honestly.    

Maggie nodded, lips tight, shoulders slumped. She reached 
again for the door handle. This time Dana did not stop her.

“Lieutenant Skinner is a good man,” Maggie said, stepping 
across the threshold. “Don’t risk losing the opportunity to 
become his wife.” 

It was more a plea than a demand, and Dana let her have the 
final word. As soon as her mother was out of sight, she sank 
into the chair at her desk, Skinner’s carved box clutched in 
her hand. A clock ticked loudly atop the bookcase. The air 
smelled stale and musty, and it seemed she could not draw a 
full breath.

In the past week she had insulted her mother, argued with her 
father, and disappointed Lieutenant Skinner. Guilt and dismay 
weighed heavily on her conscience. Could she do nothing right?

She opened the box to stare at the pearl and sapphire ring. It 
glittered in its velvet-lined nest, holding the promise of a 
comfortable life, an opportunity to practice medicine, and the 
means to win back her parents’ approval.

“The answer to all my prayers,” she muttered, tired of butting 
heads with her parents and feeling selfish for wanting to 
pursue her own interests. 

She snapped the box shut and dropped it into a drawer in the 
desk. Her personal dilemma would have to wait; she had work to 
do. Standing, she smoothed her skirt, tucked a loose strand of 
hair into her chignon, and headed for the ward. A sense of 
calm settled over her as she passed through the surgery. She 
sucked in a great rush of air, relishing the prickle of 
alcohol and ammonia –- a hospital’s distinctive bouquet –- as 
it tickled her nose. Neat rows of medicine bottles on their 
shelves and dozens of surgical instruments laid out precisely 
on trays mirrored the comfort, order, and purpose she felt in 
this place -- the one place she could be herself. She felt her 
composure returning. She was in charge here, if nowhere else. 

*   *   *

Over the next week, Dana diligently tended her two patients. 
She found little time to brood about her own problems. She 
remained in the infirmary both day and night, sleeping on a 
cot that Corporal Beckett helped her move from the ward into 
the office. Cap and Maggie did not visit again, although they 
issued an invitation through Millie to dine with them and the 
Reverend McGill after church on Sunday. Guessing at their 
motives, Dana politely declined.

Sergeant Phillips’ health improved with each passing day. By 
week’s end, the swelling in his cheeks had disappeared and he 
no longer required a bandage tied around his head. His fever 
waned and his appetite increased. He received numerous 
visitors, which cheered him greatly.  

As for Mr. Mulder, he seemed hell-bent on recovering in record 
time. Although in considerable pain, she was sure, he 
struggled to walk further and longer each day. He limped 
around the ward dressed in a borrowed nightshirt and relied on 
a crutch for balance. Later, he extended his range to the 
thoroughfare, where he craned to see the mountaintops above 
the fort’s high, stockade fence as he hobbled up and down the 
dusty street, hour upon hour.

“Like a caged animal,” she murmured, going to fetch him back 
inside when he looked ready to drop.

He collapsed on his bed after these excursions, drenched with 
sweat. Only then, on the brink of exhaustion, did he allow her 
to fuss over him without protest. He surrendered to her 
ministrations with eyes closed. She took full advantage, not 
only dressing his wounds and sponging his body clean, but also 
shaving his face and washing his cropped hair, which stood on 
end when dry like milkweed silk, no matter how she tried to 
tame it with a comb. 

He said little as she worked on him, responding to her 
questions about his health with only a nod, a grunt, or a 
huff. She shrugged off his ill temper and reticence. He was 
eager to gain his independence –- a feeling she understood 
only too well.

Come Sunday, the sergeant was so much improved Dana decided to 
release him after he finished eating his lunch. While he ate, 
she tweezed stitches from the puckered wounds on her other 
patient’s arm. Mr. Mulder lay stoically in his bed, arm 
outstretched across her lap, while she sat beside him in her 
chair and tugged at his flesh. Bruises mottled his arm from 
elbow to wrist.

“No sign of infection,” she said, pleased he had survived the 
worst and was healing so quickly. 

“Does that mean I can leave?”

“No. You lost a lot of blood, Mr. Mulder. Give yourself time 
to regain your strength.”

A burdened sigh huffed from his nose. He twisted to look past 
her at Phillips. “Do you believe in fate, Sergeant?”

Phillips paused at his meal, fork piled high with beans. “You 
ain’t fixin’ to bend my ear with another one o’ your tall 
tales, are you? I’m still havin’ nightmares about that wolf-
man you talked about. What’d you call it?”

“A Manitou.” This brought the beginnings of a smile –- the 
first in days -- to Mulder’s face. “Every word of that story 
was true.”

“Right, and I’m admiral of all the seas.” Phillips winked at 
Dana.

Mulder turned the question on her. “How about you, Dr. Scully? 
Do you believe in fate?”

“No, I don’t.” Her answer seemed to disappoint him. “Does that 
surprise you?”

“Well...yeah. I thought everyone believed in fate.” He 
hesitated, appearing to weigh his next words before 
confessing. “When I was unconscious, I had a vision of a world 
beyond this one.”

“A vision or a dream?” She yanked a stubborn suture free.

“Ouch!” He jerked his arm from her grasp. “Are we discussing 
fate or semantics?”

“Sorry.” 

With a gentle caress, she lured his arm back to her lap.  

“I met an old friend there, a man named Red Crow, who died 
recently.”

“A ghost?” Phillips’ eyes rounded.

“Maybe.”

“Was you dead, too?” 

“Apparently not. Red Crow told me I was a spirit, not a 
ghost.”

Phillips nodded, accepting this questionable distinction. He 
shoveled more beans into his mouth.

“Red Crow said it wasn’t my time to die. My ‘earth walk,’ as 
he called it, was not over yet. I woke up here.”

Dana swabbed his arm with a damp cloth, wiping away the 
droplets of fresh blood that welled up in the tiny holes left 
behind by the stitches. “That’s it? That’s your proof that 
fate governs our lives?”

“There’s more. Red Crow said I was going to meet someone, a 
person of unusual strength and wisdom.” 

“Did he say who this person was?” 

“No.”

“Or when you would meet him?”

“Her.”

“Her?”

“He said she would bring me back from the dead.” He fixed her 
with a stare.

The intensity in his gaze caused her pulse to quicken. A 
pleasant pressure ballooned in her chest and belly. 

“I thought you said you weren’t dead. A spirit, not a ghost.” 
She gathered up her tweezers and gauze, and rose from the 
chair. 

“I once dreamt about a chicken that laid three pink eggs.” 
Phillips wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “A week 
later, my wife gave birth to triplets.”

Mulder’s head bobbed as if this odd coincidence proved 
anything. 

“Dreams have been the harbingers of future events for 
centuries. Examples date back to Biblical times,” Mulder said. 
“Egyptian pharaohs, Queen Maya, the Virgin Mary, St. John, 
Mohammed, Joan of Arc, Mark Twain--”

“Mark Twain?” Phillips asked around a mouthful of cornbread.

“In June, 1858, Samuel Clemens, a.k.a. Mark Twain, dreamt that 
his younger brother Henry was laid out in a casket in their 
sister’s sitting room. A bouquet of white roses graced the 
dead man’s chest. One lone, red bloom among the mass of white 
marked his still heart. After Twain awoke, he learned that the 
boiler on the steamship where Henry was serving as a mud clerk 
had exploded and Henry lay close to death in a hospital in 
Memphis. Twain rushed to be at his brother’s side. It took him 
three days to get there by steamship. For three long days and 
nights he relived his terrible, prophetic dream and anguished 
over his brother’s fate. On approaching Henry’s bed at last, 
Twain sank to the floor in shock, for his brother’s 
unconscious form was laid out exactly as the corpse in his 
nightmare. A stain of blood, like the lone, red rose, marked 
his white shirtfront. Henry died seven days later.”

“I’d say we’re both admirals of the seas, Sergeant Phillips,” 
Dana said.

Undaunted by her skepticism, Mulder continued to argue his 
point. “Abraham Lincoln dreamt about his own death and told 
his wife and a friend about it before his assassination.”

“That’s an unfounded rumor.”

“Some Indian tribes believe dreams are as real as their waking 
lives. They claim animals in dreams are particularly powerful. 
Eagles, buffalo, bear, fox –- these animal helpers can provide 
insight and guidance, impart their unique strengths, and 
protect and watch over the dreamer, even after he wakes.” 

Dana recalled her most recent dream, about her fall from Old 
Isaac. In it, a fox with green eyes –- eyes almost the same 
color as the ones studying her so intently now –- watched her 
from atop a bluff. 

An animal helper? Fate? Or mere coincidence?

She deposited the gauze and tweezers on the table beside the 
bed. “‘Fate is not the ruler, but the servant of Providence,’” 
she quoted. “As are we, Mr. Mulder. God, not the Moirae, 
watches over us, and He allows us to make our own choices.”

“You’ve never had a dream come true?”

“No. Nor am I convinced that they can.”

“What does it take to make you believe?”

“Scientific evidence, not exaggeration and hearsay. Dreams do 
not foretell the future, Mr. Mulder, nor does fate govern our 
destiny. I believe in free will. I set my own course.”

“Do you?” he challenged. “Is that what you’re doing right 
now?” His gaze flitted to her bare ring finger.

She fought the urge to hide her hand behind her back and 
turned to Phillips instead. “As we’re on the subject of free 
will, I’m releasing you, Sergeant. You are a free man.” 

“I’m cured?” He blinked up at her in surprise. 

“Healthy as a horse.” She lifted away his empty plate.

“Yeehaw!” He threw back the covers and bounded from the bed. 
His nightshirt flapped around his prickly, bowed legs as he 
danced a little jig. 

“Let me bring you some clothes.” Plate in hand, Dana headed 
for the surgery to retrieve the sergeant’s uniform, which was 
stored on a shelf with clothing that once belonged to other 
former patients, all who had presumably died.    

Behind her, Phillips chattered to Mulder. “She’s the best doc 
I ever had. You suppose she’ll keep doctorin’ after she gets 
hitched? I sure hope so, in case I git the mumps agin. Gosh, 
whoever she’s marryin’ is a lucky son-of-a-gun.” 

Mulder murmured something in response that Dana could not 
quite catch. Glancing back at him, she saw that his earlier 
expression of panic had returned.

*   *   *

The following afternoon, Mulder clomped back and forth across 
the empty ward on his crutch, just as he had been doing every 
day for the past week. Dr. Scully was holed up in her office. 
She had been there since early morning. Which meant she had 
missed the pimply-faced private who delivered a copy of the 
Picayune an hour ago. The paper carried the oily scent of 
fresh ink and an official notice of Dr. Scully’s impending 
marriage. 

“A September wedding is planned,” it declared.

September was less than a week away.

Mulder had crumpled the paper into a ball and stuffed it into 
the water pitcher on the table beside his bed. 

“So much for fate,” he muttered as he paced. 

It wasn’t like she hadn’t warned him. She admitted to kissing 
Skinner. She evidently loved him, at least enough to accept 
his ring, the ring Mrs. Scully had returned to her yesterday. 

The ring she still wasn’t wearing today, he had noticed.

“Trouble in paradise?” he mused aloud. For some reason, the 
idea appealed to him.

The Picayune’s sappy verse circled his brain for what seemed 
the millionth time: She is thine, the word is spoken, hand to 
hand, and heart to heart, though all other ties are broken, 
time these bonds shall never part--

He crashed into the end of a cot, stubbing his big toe and 
nearly losing his balance. Pain shot up his injured leg.

“Son of a...!” He hurled the crutch across the room. It sailed 
over three beds before it struck a wall and clattered to the 
floor.

Had she heard his outburst? He glanced at the closed door 
between the ward and the surgery. 

“I’m all right!” he shouted, just in case.

She did not respond, for which he was grateful. And irritated.

What was it about her anyway? Why did he care if she did or 
did not marry Skinner? It made no difference to him one way or 
the other. He had had no plans to marry. And even if he did, 
it wouldn’t be to a woman as narrow minded as--

“You’re looking better.”

Mulder spun toward the voice...lost his balance...started to 
fall--

Walter Skinner rushed to his side. With an iron grip, he 
grabbed Mulder’s arm and set him upright. 

Mulder shook free and limped to his bed. “I understand 
congratulations are in order.” 

“Congratulations?” Skinner looked confused. “For what?” 

“Your impending nuptials.”

This clearly surprised Skinner, but he gave a nod. “Did Miss 
Scully say something to you?” 

“Not exactly.” Mulder lowered himself to the bed. He punched 
his pillow several times before lying down. “Will it be 
different this time, Walter?”

“I hope so. I’ve learned a lot since--” Skinner extended an 
arm as if pointing to the past. The gesture made him notice he 
still wore gloves. He removed them, along with his hat, then 
lowered himself onto the chair beside Mulder’s bed. 

“She’s not Liddiah,” Mulder reminded him.

“I know.”

“She’s stronger.”

“Yes. I’m grateful for that.” Skinner plucked a nonexistent 
speck of dust from the brim of his hat. “When Liddiah and I 
were first married, she seemed content enough, didn’t she?”

“Yes.” Mulder remembered the couple appeared well matched and 
very much in love.

Skinner’s expression softened. “Her face lit up whenever I 
came home. It made me feel...good. Assured me that she was 
happy to be my wife and mother to our boys.” His eyes grew 
sad. “Later, when my absences became longer and more frequent, 
she grew despondent. She greeted me with tears, not smiles. My 
arrival was nothing more than a reminder of my impending 
departure.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Walter. She married a soldier.”

“Yes, but she didn’t realize what it would be like when she 
accepted my proposal. How could she have anticipated the 
loneliness? The fear? Every battle threatened to leave her a 
widow and our sons fatherless. The idea terrified her.” 

“Men have been going off to war for centuries.”

“While their families stay behind, helpless to do anything but 
pray.”

“Maybe her prayers are what saved you.”

“Yes, but they didn’t save her.” Skinner straightened in his 
chair. “Dana will not suffer the same fate; I’ll make sure of 
it.”

Dana doesn’t believe in fate, Mulder thought. Aloud he asked, 
“Suppose the army transfers you to Fort Jefferson or some 
other godforsaken place? You plan to take her with you?”

“I suspect she would be up to the challenge.” A fleeting smile 
played on Skinner’s lips. “But the point is moot. I’m retiring 
at the end of this year.”

“You? You’re a career man!”

Skinner shrugged. “I want to make her happy.”

“And you’re going to do that by quitting your profession? You 
love being a soldier.”

“Life in the army doesn’t hold the interest it once did.” 
Skinner’s brow furrowed and it seemed there was more he wanted 
to say on the subject. But he returned to the topic of Dr. 
Scully. “I love her. I anticipate we’ll have a good life 
together.”

Mulder thought back to her brief stay in his mountain cabin. 
Yes, she had argued every point, but it had been pleasant 
having her there just the same. In fact, he rather enjoyed 
debating the world’s mysteries with her. She was intelligent 
and honest, the sort of person he might eventually grow to 
trust and confide in. Not an easy thing for him. The 
disappearance of his sister had left him trusting no one. Yet 
there was something about Dr. Scully that made him believe she 
could be a loyal friend. Or something more. 

He could not help but wonder if she was the Wakan, the person 
of unusual power and wisdom that Red Crow had described in his 
vision, the person who could help him confront his shadow self 
and find answers to his questions. Maybe find peace at last.

“Together you could discover wondrous things,” the old Indian 
had predicted.

But Dr. Scully would have to be insane to turn her back on a 
normal life with Skinner, who clearly adored her, to chase 
ghosts with him -- “Crazy Fox” Mulder.   
 
“I wish you both the best,” Mulder said, knowing he sounded 
bitter, but not caring.

“Thank you.” Skinner started to stand, but changed his mind 
and settled again on the edge of his chair. He focused his 
gaze on the toe of one polished boot. “I owe you an apology.”  

“For what?” Winning the pretty doctor’s hand and heart?

“For not trusting you. Doubting your intentions and your 
honor. I should’ve helped you on Nine Pipe Ridge the other 
day, when Bill Scully...” Guilt darkened Skinner’s cheeks. 
“You didn’t deserve what he did to you.”

“Forget it.” Mulder waved him off, knowing he had earned every 
punch. If Skinner knew the things he had been thinking about 
Dr. Scully, his betrothed, he would sock him in the jaw, too.

Instead, Skinner dug into his pocket and fished out a small, 
carved wooden soldier. Mulder’s old good luck charm and a 
symbol of his friendship with Skinner. 

“Where did you find it?” he asked, glad to see it again. 

“Ptarmigan Hill.” Skinner handed it to him.

“I must’ve lost it during the storm.” 

The crevices were caked with mud, but otherwise it appeared 
unscathed.  

“Thank you for saving her life, for keeping her safe,” Skinner 
said, looking embarrassed, but earnest. “Is she here?” 

Mulder glanced at the closed door that separated them from 
Skinner’s intended bride.

“Hey, don’t let me keep you,” Mulder said, trying his best to 
sound generous. 

Skinner rose to his feet, but before he could take a step 
toward the office, a soldier burst through the front door. The 
young man spotted Skinner and saluted.

Skinner returned his salute. “What is it, Private?”

The soldier gulped air, clearly out of breath. “Captain 
Scully’s looking for you, sir.” 

“Did he say why?”

“No, sir, di’n’t give no explanation. Just said to rattle my 
hocks and bring yer back, quick as I could.” 

Skinner looked annoyed, but fitted his hat to his head. He 
turned to Mulder. “Would you tell her I was here?”

“Sure.”

Skinner gave a brusque nod, then strode from the room. The 
private trailed at his heels.

Mulder set the little carved soldier on the table beside the 
bed. The pitcher with its crumpled copy of the Picayune caught 
his eye. 

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

He swung his feet to the floor and slowly stood up, testing 
his weight before heading to the surgery. Phillips’ uniform 
had come from somewhere behind that closed door. Mulder hoped 
to find his own clothes in there, too, but he wanted to do it 
without alerting Dr. Scully.

He hobbled across the ward as quietly as possible, forgoing 
the crutch since it tended to thump against the floorboards 
with every step. Opening the door a crack, he peered into the 
surgery. 

“Must be fate,” he whispered, unable to suppress a smile. The 
second door -- the door to Dr. Scully’s office -- was closed.

A set of shelves to his left held neatly folded linens, rolled 
bandages, wool blankets, and a meager supply of Army-issue 
shirts, jackets, and trousers. He pawed through them, but 
could not locate his own clothes. Undaunted, he selected a 
four-button recruit coat and pair of kersey pants that looked 
about the right size. The coat’s left breast was marked by a 
faded blood stain and an obvious bullet hole.

“Oooo...bad luck, buddy.” 

He shed his nightshirt and let it drop to the floor before 
shrugging into the coat. He had to brace himself against a 
wall to pull on the trousers, but managed to get them on 
without falling over or yelping in pain.

“Boots...boots...where are the--”

Ah-ha. Bottom shelf. One matching pair, along with two left 
boots and one right. He recognized the right as his own.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

He nearly dropped the boot, startled by Dr. Scully’s sudden 
appearance.

“I’m leaving.” 

“You aren’t well enough.”

“I’m fine.”   

“You can’t ride a horse. Not with that bad leg.” She crossed 
her arms in defiance. 

“Watch me.” He held up his boot. “Where’s the other one?”

“I had to cut it off you. It was ruined, so I threw it out.”

“Great.” 

He grabbed a left boot, a size too small, but the closest 
match, then limped back to the ward to put them on.

She followed him. 

“I’m coming with you.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

“You can’t go alone. Not in your condition.” 

“I don’t need help.” He sat on the nearest bed. The damned 
left boot was too tight and it hurt like hell pulling it on, 
but he squeezed his foot into it -- without passing out. A 
victory. “See?” 

He stood up. His leg throbbed with god-awful pain, but he was 
dead set on leaving. Without her. He hobbled across the ward 
toward freedom. 

She tagged right after him. 

Didn’t she have a wedding to plan? 

At the door, he spun to face her and she bumped into him. He 
straightened to his full height, loomed over her, tried to 
intimidate her with his greater size, but she stood her 
ground. Toe-to-toe, they glared at one another. 

“Should I call for your father?” he threatened.

“You’ll find yourself on the end of a rope if you do.” 

She looked beautiful with her chin thrust out, eyes blazing, 
fists balled. It was all he could do not to take her in his 
arms and kiss those tightly puckered lips.

He turned away, yanked open the door, and limped out into the 
blazing sunshine. 

She stepped out behind him. “I can be as stubborn as you are, 
Mr. Mulder.”

“Apparently so.” Was she really going to chase him all the way 
to Nine Pipe Ridge? “I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

------

Chapter 14

No one practiced marching drills on the parade ground. No 
rifles protruded from the blockhouse portholes. Not a single 
soldier loitered outside the barracks. The only sign of life 
in the fort came from the rhythmic clang of a smithy’s hammer 
and the scratch-scratch of a clerk’s broom on the boardwalk in 
front of the trade store. Taking advantage of the lull, Mulder 
hobbled across the quadrangle to the livery as quickly as his 
injured leg would allow. Dr. Scully scurried after him, her 
skirts snapping in the dusty breeze. 

“If you insist on going, at least let me help you.” Her 
fingers circled his wrist. “Lean on me.” 

He pulled free of her grasp. “Go back, Dr. Scully. You’ll be 
arrested for aiding and abetting the enemy if you’re caught 
leaving with me.” He scanned the fort, searching every 
shadowed doorway for anyone who might try to prevent his 
escape, and saw no one.    

The livery turned out to be as deserted as the rest of 
Culbertson. A low snort and stamp of a hoof indicated a horse 
or two remained in their stalls, but most stood empty. 

“Where is everyone?” Dr. Scully’s voice reverberated softly 
through the rafters. 

No soldiers. Almost no horses. Something was going on. 
Something big. And the timing could not be better.

“Your father sent for Skinner earlier. It sounded urgent.” 

“You saw Walter?”

“Yes.” Mulder continued down the center aisle. The cool air 
carried the sweet scent of horses and hay. And freedom.

“Was he looking for me?” she asked.

“Uh...” It was not the time for this conversation. Mulder 
shuffled past several vacant stalls, one swayback nag, and a 
fidgety donkey. Shit, was he going to have to walk all the way 
to Nine Pipe Ridge? “I doubt he came to see me.” 

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, but he looked healthy, so I assume it was personal.”

“Oh.”

What did that mean? Maybe it *was* time for this conversation. 
“There a problem between you two?”

“Why would you ask that?”

Because you’re not wearing his ring, he thought, and you’re 
clearly holding something back.

He spotted Ponoká. “There you are!” 

The horse nosed Mulder’s hand when he reached over the gate to 
give him a pat. A blanket and saddle hung on the half wall 
between stalls. A bridle dangled from a nail stuck in a 
support post.

Dr. Scully wandered further down the row of stalls while 
Mulder saddled his horse, which took longer than he would have 
liked. Lifting the saddle onto Ponoká’s back sent a stab of 
pain to his wounded shoulder. Cinching the girth started his 
arm throbbing. By the time he had the horse ready to ride, Dr. 
Scully was leading a saddled bay out into the sunshine.

“The front gate will be guarded,” she said, when he joined her 
on the street. 

The gate was closed, but there would be at least two armed 
sentries outside. Probably others in the blockhouse.

“We’re not going out the front.” He tugged Ponoká in the 
opposite direction.
	
“You planning to jump the fence?” 

“No, we’re taking the servants’ entrance.”

He plodded around the livery to the small Indian gate beside 
the trade store. 

A heavy wooden crossbar locked the door from the inside. He 
slid it as quietly as possible through its iron cleats and 
inched the gate open. To his relief, no one waited on the 
other side. He led Ponoká through. Dr. Scully followed with 
the bay. He shut the door behind them, then swung clumsily up 
into his saddle, suppressing a groan as he settled onto 
Ponoká’s back.

“You wanted proof, Dr. Scully? Well, this is it.” 

“Proof of what?” She mounted the bay.

“Fate!” He spurred his horse to a gallop. 

They rode west, following the river as it snaked to the 
foothills. They did not slow until they reached the base of 
Bigtooth Mountain. Mulder avoided his usual route to Nine Pipe 
Ridge. Instead, he selected a steep, zigzagging deer trail 
through a forest overgrown with hemlock and larch. Perfect 
cover for two fugitives.

The higher they climbed, the better Mulder felt. He filled his 
lungs with cool mountain air. The spicy scent of pine soothed 
his nerves and quieted his thudding heart. He paused at an 
overlook to gaze down into the valley. An eagle circled the 
treetops far below. Mountain ranges rippled across the 
landscape like waves on an ocean. They turned misty-blue in 
the distance, their snowcapped peaks resembling frothy 
breakers.

“You’re at home here.” Dr. Scully studied him, not the 
magnificent scenery.

Did she not feel it? The peacefulness of this place? The 
altitude made it easier to think. To see the truth. To be who 
he needed to be.    

“The Blackfoot believe Na’pi, Old Man, made these mountains,” 
he said, feeling a sudden need to share the ancient creation 
myth with her. “He made the prairies and rivers, added brush 
and timber and waterfalls, and painted the rocks red, creating 
the world you see here. He planted berries and fruit and roots 
in the forests and covered the plains with grass for the 
animals to eat. When he made the animals, he began down 
there.” Mulder pointed to the distant prairie. “The antelope 
thrived on the plain. Their long legs carried them easily over 
the flatland. But the bighorn sheep were a different story; 
they were slow and awkward, ill-fitted for the environment. So 
Na’pi led them into the mountains, where they leapt over rocks 
and climbed the highest crags with ease. ‘You were made to 
live here,’ he said. ‘This is the place that suits you.’”

Did she understand what he was trying to say? 

“The place that suits you,” she murmured. Her gaze dropped to 
the lowlands, flat and featureless. 

“I belong up here, Dr. Scully. Do you?” 

“You’re my patient, Mr. Mulder,” she said matter-of-factly, 
“and until you’re feeling fit again, I belong with you.”

“And after that? When I’m recovered? What then?” 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” She gathered her 
reins and nudged the bay’s sides with her heels. “Right now, 
let’s get you to your cabin so you can rest.”

*   *   *

“Six dead Noohkiitsitapi are of no concern to the People,” 
said Whirlwind Chaser, a stocky man of middle age. Although 
blind in one eye, he had a reputation for seeing more clearly 
than braves half his age. “Unless their deaths came at the
hands of our enemies, the Asinaa. Then there is reason for 
concern.” 

Eight Piikáni elders sat in a semi-circle around a cold hearth 
in Kicking Horse’s tepee. They nodded in agreement and waited 
for Whirlwind Chaser to say more. He gripped a Cree arrow in 
one hand and a Talking Stick in the other. Possession of the 
stick granted him the right to speak his Sacred Point of View 
uninterrupted. Made of birch, a symbol for truth, it was 
painted yellow for knowledge and black for clarity and focus. 
It was wrapped with a strip of rabbit fur to encourage the 
Council to listen with long ears. 

Whirlwind Chaser raised the arrow for all to see. The shaft, 
crafted from a slender service berry shoot, was triple 
feathered in typical Cree fashion. “I found this lodged in a 
buckthorn in the Akópskaa Swamp. I also found three dead 
Asinaa nearby, killed by guns. I recognized one of the men -- 
a cousin to my son’s second wife. He was from Cuts To Piece’s 
band.”

Unease filled the tepee like wind in a winter storm. The 
Asinaa -- the Cree -- were old enemies of the People. Kicking 
Horse feared his tribe was in grave danger.

The tepee door flapped open and Spotted Rabbit poked her head 
inside. Dread burned in her young eyes.

“What is it, Itan?” Kicking Horse asked, knowing his daughter 
would not interrupt a council meeting unless there was great 
need.

“Soldiers are coming.”

The councilmen scrambled to their feet. Kicking Horse led them 
outside.

What they saw frightened them more than a thousand Cree 
arrows. A band of Long Knives –- more than sixty soldiers –-
approached from the south, the direction of the fort. Women 
and children fled from their path as they rode into the 
village. 

A fierce lieutenant spearheaded the company. Kicking Horse 
recognized him beneath his decorated uniform: Josiah Beam, the 
man who had delivered firearms several days ago. He had 
arrived on Mulder’s lively pinto that day. Proof, he claimed, 
that Mulder had sent him.

“Why does Mulder not come himself?” the chief had asked.

“He’s sick. Maybe dying.”

“I will send my daughters to his cabin with medicine.”

“They won’t find him there. He’s at the fort being treated by 
a white doctor, a woman.” 

Josiah Beam had been dressed in buckskins, yet his clothes did not 
carry the typical stench of a white trapper. His hands and 
nails were clean, his face recently shaved, and mustache 
neatly trimmed. His tanned brow did not match the line of his 
beaver-skin cap. 

It matched the cavalry hat he wore now. 

Whirlwind Chaser whispered in the chief’s ear, “This liar is 
sent by Coyote,” implying the lieutenant was a shape-shifter, 
a trickster. 

The arms delivery had been a trap and Kicking Horse berated 
himself now for thinking he could outwit this trickster. He 
had been too eager to augment his meager supply of weapons 
after losing three Winchesters and an Enfield in a recent 
raid. Without guns, the People were at the mercy of enemy 
tribes and the Long Knives.

“Oki,” the chief solemnly greeted the soldiers when they 
halted their horses in front of him.

The People gathered around him; everyone wanted to hear what 
the soldiers had to say. Spotted Rabbit squeezed through the 
crowd to stand next to her father. She was quaking like her 
namesake, breathing hard. 

The lieutenant motioned to his interpreter to speak for him, 
although he had spoken in the People’s language when he posed 
as Josiah Beam. 

“The lieutenant asks Chief Kicking Horse to tell him what he 
knows about six dead miners from the Soldier Village, shot by 
arrows, scalped, and left to be eaten by buzzards,” said the 
interpreter, a scrawny man from the Komonóítapiikoan tribe.

“Tell the lieutenant we do not involve ourselves in the 
matters of white men who dig for yellow rocks, so we know 
nothing of their deaths. He should ask the Asinaa what they 
know.”

“The Asinaa? They do not typically travel this far south,” the 
interpreter said.

“No, not typically. But many foreigners come to our lands 
uninvited.” Kicking Horse glowered at the soldiers.

Sweat glistened on the lieutenant’s face. He squinted at the 
chief. Cleared his throat. When he spoke it was with an 
impatient voice and he used the People’s language, dispensing 
with the interpreter. “Chief Kicking Horse, there is a treaty 
between our peoples.”

“I have not forgotten it,” Kicking Horse said. How could he? 
The treaty permitted whites to construct roads, establish 
telegraph lines and military posts, use any and all materials 
found on Indian land, build houses for agencies, missions, 
schools, farms, shops, mills, stations, and to permanently 
occupy as much land as they deemed necessary for their various 
purposes, including the use of wood for fuel and land for 
grazing. In addition, all lakes and streams in the Piikáni 
territory were to be available to whites forever.

And what was promised in return? Twenty thousand dollars 
annually, for ten years, to be spent on the establishment of 
agriculture and the promotion of Christianity among the 
tribes. These were not things the People needed or wanted. But 
for the sake of peace, they had accepted the white men’s 
terms.

The lieutenant raised his voice for all to hear. “Article 
Eleven: ‘The tribes acknowledge their dependence on the 
Government of the United States, and promise to be friendly 
with all citizens thereof, and to commit no depredations or 
other violence upon such citizens.’” 

“We have not broken the treaty.” Kicking Horse met the 
lieutenant’s solemn stare. “Have you?” 

Both men knew the truth. The treaty stated that the Long 
Knives would protect the Blackfoot against the unlawful acts 
of white men. And yet a confrontation between the white 
soldiers and the People at Grass Creek last month, led by a 
hot-headed lieutenant named Scully, resulted in seven dead, 
including four women and children, all Piikáni.  

“Search the tepees,” the trickster ordered.

“What are you looking for?” Kicking Horse objected.

“Stolen guns.”

Anger boiled in Kicking Horse’s gut. They both knew the guns 
were there and would be found. He stood with fists clenched, 
watching as the soldiers swung from their saddles to ransack 
his people’s homes. More than two-hundred men, women, and 
children watched with him, jaws set, eyes burning with hate. 
At least a third were able-bodied braves. Experienced 
warriors. But without guns, they were no match for sixty armed 
soldiers.

The sun melted into the horizon, silhouetting the tepees and 
casting claw-like shadows across the village. Lodgepole pines 
topped the nearby bluff, sharp as wolves’ teeth. Crickets 
screeched in the grass beside Miin Creek. The current gurgled 
like a drowning animal.

The Lieutenant remained on his horse while his men plundered 
the camp. Kicking Horse thought he glimpsed a flash of regret 
in the white man’s eyes. But the sun sank lower and shadows 
swallowed the lieutenant’s true face.  

The villagers remained silent and transfixed. The soldiers' 
riderless horses shifted and stamped the dusty ground. The smell 
of loss and defeat lodged in the chief’s tightening throat.

A distinctive cluck and hoot of a burrowing owl drew his 
attention to the bluff. The blood chilled in his veins. The 
sound was a courtship call, but the owl’s mating season had 
passed more than three moons ago. 

Spotted Rabbit uttered a quiet groan and fell against him. 
Kicking Horse turned to see what was wrong. She stared up at 
him, frightened, in pain, then her knees folded and she 
collapsed to the ground. A slender shaft protruded from her 
chest. Service berry. Triple feathered. Blood spidered across 
her tunic. Her eyes ceased blinking. Her limbs fell limp. 

In the next instant, a thousand Cree warriors poured down upon 
the village like ants over a carcass. Horse hooves drummed the 
earth, a terrible thunder that snatched the chief’s breath 
from his lungs. A great plume of dust rose in the attackers’ 
wake, a copper smudge in the darkening sky.  

The lieutenant barked orders to his men. The soldiers 
abandoned their plundering to defend themselves. Gunshots rang 
out. The blasts were answered by Cree war cries. Piikáni 
braves scrambled for weapons. Women and children ran to the 
creek in search of a place to hide. Arrows rained down as 
thick as sleet. 

Kicking Horse reached for his daughter, thinking he might 
somehow pluck the arrow from her body and bring her back to 
life. But a spear tore through his chest. Blood gushed from 
the wound. Filled his lungs. He dropped to one knee. Angry 
bees buzzed in his head. Stung the back of his throat. His 
vision blurred and he fumbled blindly for Spotted Rabbit. He 
grabbed her lifeless hand. 
	
We will travel to Sand Hills together, he thought before no 
more thoughts could come. 

*   *   *

It was nearly sunset when Dana and Mulder arrived at the 
clearing in front of his cabin. Although sullen, he appeared 
physically stronger than she expected, given their long, 
arduous ride. He had chosen a challenging course and they made 
few stops. 

She dismounted and went to him, intending to help him off his 
horse. But he ignored her outstretched hand and slid from the 
saddle on his own.

The moment he tried to put weight on his injured leg, his knee 
buckled. She grabbed him around the waist.

“I’ve got you,” she said, swaying as she tried to keep them 
both upright.

“I’m all right,” he insisted, teeth gritted.

“No you’re not.” 

She propelled him toward the cabin, grateful her own ankle had 
healed days ago.

The horses wandered downhill to drink from the stream.

“The saddles...” He twisted to point in the direction of the 
horses.

“We’ll take care of them later.”    

He seemed to regain his footing and corral his pain by the 
time they reached the cabin. At the front door, he pushed free 
of her and entered on his own.

“It’s cold in here,” she said, regretting there had been no 
time to grab a shawl before she left. 

“I’ll lay a fire.”

“No, you sit. I’ll do it.”

“No, you won’t!” He held up a finger of warning. “I’ll do it.”

While he arranged tinder and kindling in the fireplace, she 
lit the oil lamp. It cast a golden glow onto his cluttered 
table with its bracelet of human teeth, Smith and Beck 
microscope, and tattered doll with a hatpin stuck through its 
chest. She caressed the leather-bound volume of "Incidents in 
My Life" by Daniel Dunglas Home.

Everything was exactly as she remembered it, yet everything 
seemed changed since her last visit. It was as if she were 
looking at Mr. Mulder’s life through new eyes. 

“Did you build this place yourself?” she asked, thinking of 
the immaculate home Walter Skinner had erected on the plain. 
For her. 

“No, I inherited it. Sort of.” 

He struck a match and held it to the tinder. The flame took 
hold. The room seemed suddenly warmer, although surely it was 
an illusion. 

She scanned the thick log walls chinked with moss and mud. 
Cobwebs draped the low ceiling. The uneven floorboards were 
gray with dust. All the grime and clutter were off-putting, 
the smell musky, almost feral. It seemed a rough, disorderly 
place to live and yet she felt unexpectedly at home here.   

He fed logs into the fire until it roared. “I stumbled onto 
this place during a blizzard. It looked abandoned. Desperate 
to get out of the cold, I kicked in the front door. The owner 
was sitting right here, eyes boring into me, rifle pointed at 
my chest.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Scared the 
shit out of me, until I realized he was dead, frozen solid.”

“My God!”

“He’d left a note.” Mulder smiled. “It said, ‘Bury my body and 
house and all innit is yourn.’”

“Who was he?”

“A trapper named Wildcat Joe, according to the Blackfoot. He’d 
been living up here for decades.”      

“So you buried him and decided to live in his house?”

“I didn’t have anything better to do at the time.” Mulder 
pulled off his boots and wiggled the toes on his left foot. 
“But I couldn’t bury him right away, not until the ground 
thawed, so I put him in the woodshed for the winter. Stacked 
wood around him for three months.”

“Now you’re pulling my leg.”

“It’s the truth, I swear.”

His eyes glittered mischievously in the half dark, while the 
glow of the fire shone around him like a halo. Devil or angel? 
Which was this beguiling mountain man?

Perhaps a little of both.

He rose and came toward her. Her heart beat faster with each 
halting step he took. When he was no more than an arm’s length 
away, he stumbled. She grabbed him, but the momentum of his 
fall propelled them both to the wall, where she ended up 
pinned between his chest and the strange charcoal drawing of 
alien visitors.

His heat, the weight of his body pressing against hers, the 
gap at his neck where his borrowed military jacket exposed a 
triangle of bare skin –- all these aroused in her a need to 
touch him. She imagined caressing his rough cheek, his smooth 
brow, his full lips.      

She rose on tiptoes and pressed her mouth softly against his. 
His scent filled her as a sea breeze fills a sail. He smelled 
foreign and wild, like the alluring mountain country in which 
he lived. She breathed him into her lungs. Tasted him on her 
tongue. 

He broke their kiss. Put up a hand. His muscled chest rose and 
fell, each frantic inhalation crushing her against the wall. 

“Stop,” he whispered. The word carried almost no sound at all.

The fire crackled and snapped behind his back.

She was desperate to feel his lips on hers again. She craned 
to kiss him, but he remained frustratingly out of reach. 

“Please,” he begged, “we can’t do this. You belong to someone 
else.” 

“I belong to no one.” Irritation threatened to displace her 
passion.

“You’re engaged to be married.”

“I’m not.”

“I saw the announcement.”

“What announcement?”

“The one you placed in the Picayune.”

“I didn’t place any--” 

Her mother! It had to be. No one else knew about the ring. No 
one else would be so presumptuous or meddlesome as to put a 
statement in the newspaper. 

“It wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with that announcement. 
I’ve accepted no marriage proposal. Walter asked me, that much 
is true, but I told him I needed more time. That’s how we left 
it.”

Mulder frowned. “He believes you’re marrying him.”   

“I promised him nothing. I swear it.” 

“You refused him outright?”

“I told him I didn’t love him.”

Mulder’s eyes shimmered with what appeared to be hope. He 
licked his lips. Studied her face. 

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he said at last, his voice 
thinned with longing, “because I have already overstepped my 
bounds and if I continue, I will finish what I start.”

She gave a hesitant nod. “I understand.”

“Once done, this cannot be undone.”

“I know.”

“Then tell me. Put it into words. What do you want, Dr. 
Scully? Think carefully. What do you really want?”

“I want...” Back at Culbertson, she had been unsure and 
confused about everything. But here, high in the mountains, 
where the altitude seemed to addle her senses -- or clear her 
head for the very first time -- she wanted... 

“You.”

It was all the encouragement he needed. He attacked her with a 
fervor she could not have anticipated. His mouth pressed 
hungrily against hers. His tongue teased her lips, slipped 
between her teeth. Broad palms skated over her body, searing 
hot. He squeezed her breasts, kneaded her buttocks, her 
thighs.

Yanking up her skirt, he snaked a hand between her legs. Found 
the opening in her bloomers.

She gripped his shoulders and held her breath. Blood thundered 
in her ears so loudly she feared her heart would explode. When 
his fingers prodded her opening, she gasped and jerked. Her 
head hit the wall. Parchment tore; the charcoal rubbing ripped 
in two. The lower half remained pinned to the wall by her 
shoulders. The upper half seesawed to the floor.  

He dipped a finger into her. A bolt of pleasure sizzled upward 
through her body, ending in a spray of sparks that prickled 
her breasts and caused her nipples to tighten. This was the 
farthest she had ever gone with a man, well beyond her prior 
experiences of passionate kisses and flushed cheeks. She 
pressed her sex against his hand, seeking to increase the 
pleasure it provided, trying to remember to breathe. 

“More.” Her voice sounded like a stranger’s, husky and thick 
with desire. 

Transfixed, he watched her. She mewled when he removed his 
hand to fumble with the buttons on his trousers. A knee slid 
between her thighs. He shoved an arm beneath her backside, 
hoisted her off her feet. 

This is not my husband, she thought. What they were about to 
do was a sin. 

“Don’t injure yourself, Mr. Mulder!” she shouted, too loudly, 
given their close proximity.

“Injure myself?” He appeared baffled.

“Your wounds.”

He dismissed her concern with a shake of his head and, fueled 
by ardor, lifted her until her hips were even with his. Her 
back scraped the rough log wall. The lower half of the 
charcoal rubbing crumpled and fell to the floor. 

His breathing was ragged, from exertion or passion, she was 
not sure. Would his effort cause him to hemorrhage internally? 
Delay his recovery? 

“Wrap your legs around me,” he urged, undaunted by the 
possible consequences of his actions. 

She hooked her ankles behind his back.

Sweat beaded his brow, glistened in the crevices of his neck. 
He pushed into her. 

The pressure was startling. Then a jabbing pain. A burning 
deep inside. She cried out. 

His movements stopped. Alarm filled his eyes. 

He knew it now: she was a virgin...had been a virgin...until 
this very moment. She had given herself to him, a man she 
barely knew. What did that make her? A sinner? A fool?

And what of him? Did he love her at all? Or did he want only 
this? And did it matter either way?

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He opened his mouth to 
speak, maybe scold her, or praise her, tell the truth, or lie. 

She placed a finger to his lips, silencing him before he could 
spoil the moment and this gift she could give only once. 

“It’s done,” she said. “Don’t stop.”

Uncertainty haunted his eyes.

“Don’t stop,” she repeated, hugging him to her, tightening the 
grip of her legs around him. At this moment, she felt no loss. 
No regret. The choice was hers. At this moment, it felt right 
and good. 

He began to rock into her, gently this time. A release of 
slick blood eased her discomfort. He tenderly kissed her lips, 
her chin, her neck. Pleasure replaced pain, until finally, in 
the end, she found herself floating on a swell of ecstasy.

------

Chapter 15

According to leading medical experts, hysteria was a disease 
suffered by women of an excitable disposition, not by men, who 
were generally considered to be more practical and 
levelheaded. Dana prided herself on being as practical and 
levelheaded as anyone, male or female, yet last night she had 
given herself to a man who was not her husband. A man who was 
her opposite in most, if not all, ways. Who ignored convention 
and lived life on his own terms. He made enemies of good men, 
and friends of questionable ones. He believed in Calling 
Stones, wolf-men, blood clots that turned into babies, and 
supernatural beings called wakens. Yet despite all this, she 
had bedded him without a moment’s hesitation. And felt no 
remorse for her recklessness! Was this not proof she suffered 
from a mental defect? 

Her mother would think so.

Her mother... Dana cringed at the thought of Maggie’s outrage 
should she learn of this irresponsible liaison. She would 
wring her hands, rant about God and sin, weep over her baby 
girl’s lost virginity. Then she would insist Dana marry the 
man who had despoiled her. The man Cap reviled as a traitor.

And her father? Would he disown her? Wipe her from the slate 
of his life as if she had never existed? Worse yet, would he 
seek revenge and hang Mr. Mulder for reasons more personal 
than treason? 

Dawn seeped through the cabin’s dusty windows, illuminating 
all but the darkest corners. Dana lay on her side in the 
narrow bed, facing the hearth. The coals had turned gray hours 
ago. A spider hung from the mantle on a thread painted silver 
by the morning light.

Mr. Mulder slept at her back, his body spooned to hers, an arm 
slung warmly around her waist. A weighty buffalo robe covered 
them both. He snored softly into her hair. 

She should feel regret and shame for what they had done, but 
suffered neither. Their lovemaking had been nothing short of 
breathtaking...in every sense of the word. It was with both 
joy and gratitude she recalled his rapt expression, her 
voracious hunger, the grappling and discovery, force and 
surrender.

And her blissful, blissful release. 

Her sex still throbbed from the battering it endured, but, oh, 
what a delightful mistreatment it had been! The clinical 
descriptions of coitus and the precisely labeled illustrations 
of reproductive organs in her medical texts had not prepared 
her for the act itself. No written word, no black-and-white 
drawings could capture the intensity and fervor, the delight. 
Taking a man into her body, being taken by him -- it generated 
a feeling of freedom, deep contentment, and a wholeness she 
had not expected or experienced before.

After their union, Mr. Mulder had treated her with the utmost 
tenderness, cradling her in his arms until her heart ceased 
its galloping and he grew soft inside her. 

She gasped when he withdrew from her body. Friction on raw 
flesh, the extraction smarted. Her insides smoldered. The 
bones in her legs seemed to have turned to jelly. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice husky with concern as 
he eased her feet to the floor. 

Words failed her. Their separation now felt as foreign as 
their joining had seemed just minutes ago. Swallowing past a 
flood of emotion, she simply nodded.

He misread her inability to speak. “I’ve hurt you.” 

“No.” But when she tried to take a step, pain speared her 
womb. “Maybe a little.”

He looked stricken.

“Only a little,” she assured, wanting to erase his unease.

He pressed his forehead to hers. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, but I think...” A hot, sticky concoction of blood and 
semen oozed out of her, slicking her inner thighs. “I need to 
clean up.”

“Oh.” Were his cheeks pink from exertion or was he blushing? 
If the latter, what was the cause? Guilt? Manly pride? His 
eyes held no shame, that much was evident. They shone with 
appreciation, almost reverence. He hastily adjusted his 
trousers. “Come with me.”  

He took her hand and guided her across the room, past the bed, 
to the corner that served as a kitchen, where he handed her a 
cool, wet cloth to sponge her thighs and soothe the fire 
between her legs. He provided her with a shirt to sleep in and 
politely turned his back while she hastily changed out of her 
clothes. Oversized for her small frame, the shirt hung to her 
knees. He rolled up the sleeves, exposing her hands, then 
kissed each fingertip before leading her to the bed, where 
they slept, made love again, and slept some more.

Relishing the memory, she rolled over to face him. 

He stirred. Opened his eyes. The gleam of reverence was still 
there. 

“Everything all right?” He smiled softly as he stroked her 
back with the palm of his hand.

“More than all right.” She felt unimaginably happy. “And you?”

“Me? I’m...great!” 

“No regrets?” 

His smile withered, making her wish she had not asked the 
question. She did not want him to analyze what they had done 
if doing so would lead him to doubts or disappointment.  

“D-do you have regrets?” he asked tentatively, turning the 
question back on her. 

Did she? There had been no admission of undying love from 
either of them last night. No talk of marriage. Unlike every 
other man in her life, save Charlie, Mr. Mulder had placed no 
demands on her whatsoever, for which she had been grateful.

But what now? What was she to him? And he to her? Their coming 
together had been unexpected. It began without deliberation or 
plan. There had been no time to weigh her motives. Or his. 

“No regrets,” she declared and nestled her cheek against his 
bare chest. “Except...”

“What?”

“I fear I’ve made things worse for you with my father.”

A humorless laugh barked from his throat. “Impossible. Your 
father has disliked me for a very long time.”

“You supply guns to the enemy.” She tried not to sound 
accusatory. 

“Whose enemy?” he challenged.

“Ours. Well, not yours. The Army’s. The United States 
government.”

“Manifest destiny,” he chuffed, his distaste obvious. “Indians 
are blocking the country’s progress, so kill them off, is that 
it?”

“The Indians attack and kill settlers. My father is here to 
protect them,” she argued in Cap’s defense.

“No, he’s protecting the government’s interests, at the 
Indians’ expense. Innocent women and children are no threat to 
the Army, yet they are murdered every day. Ask yourself why.”

“They are casualties of war.” She parroted her father’s 
excuse, although she suspected it was not as simple as that.

“They’re killed because they wear feathers in their hair and 
pray to Haokah or White Buffalo Woman instead of a Christian 
god. And that frightens a lot of people, your father 
included.” The bitterness in his voice contradicted the gentle 
way he caressed her back and buttocks. “He doesn’t just turn a 
blind eye to these murders –- and they are murders -- he leads 
the campaign. What he’s doing is wrong.”

“It’s not just him.”

“Yes, and that’s the problem.” 

“Is what you do -- helping Indians kill whites -- so very 
different?”

“The deaths of professional soldiers can hardly be compared to 
those of innocent women and children.” His heart thudded 
beneath her ear. “The Army started this war and will continue 
it until the boundaries of government extend from coast to 
coast and every Indian is either driven from their land or 
dead. I won’t sit idly by and watch it happen. I can’t.”

“You’re only one man.” 

“So was David when he faced Goliath.”

She clung to him, admiring his courage and determination, even 
if she did not understand his motives. He was trying to make a 
difference, a desire she did understand, all too well. She had 
intended to do very much the same, before she had let her 
father dissuade her. “Helping the Indians –- is that what 
brought you out here?” 

“No, it was...something else.”

“Tell me,” she urged, wanting to know more about this driven, 
compassionate man. Her lover. 

He hesitated, as if gauging whether or not he could trust her. 
When he finally spoke, his words were soft, his expression 
sad. “I came looking for my sister.” 

Samantha, the pigtailed girl in the tintype on the mantle. He 
had mentioned not knowing where she was. Dana assumed they 
were estranged, that his desire to live life on his own terms 
had cost him his family as well as his military career. 
Clearly there was much about him she had yet to learn.  

“What happened to her?” She propped herself on one elbow to 
get a better look at his face.

“She went missing. I was twelve when it happened. She was 
eight.”

“She ran away?”

“I believe she was taken.”

“By whom?”

“I ask myself that question every day.” He stared up at the 
ceiling’s log rafters as if he might find an answer carved in 
the cobwebbed beams. “It tore my family apart. No one would 
talk about it. There were no facts to confirm, nothing to 
offer any hope.”

“Do you think you’ll find her? After all this time?”

“I don’t know. For years I thought I could bring her back with 
a silly ritual. I’d close my eyes before walking into my 
bedroom because I thought...I hoped...that when I opened them, 
she would be there, sitting on the floor playing with my tin 
soldiers, as if nothing had ever happened.” He squeezed his 
eyes shut now, seemingly wishing his sister back into 
existence once again. “I can’t stop looking for her. It’s my 
fault she’s gone.”

“Your fault? How can that be?”

“I was with her the night she disappeared. I was supposed to 
be watching over her, keeping her safe.”

No wonder he wanted so desperately to believe in fate. The 
existence of a power that predetermined the course of events 
would absolve him of the responsibility for his sister’s 
disappearance, and maybe return her to him. 

But there was another more obvious, less metaphysical reason 
he should not feel guilty.  

“You were just a boy.”

He shook his head and opened troubled eyes. “Three years later 
I was a soldier.”

“At fifteen?”

“I lied about my age. At the time, running off to fight the 
Mexicans seemed preferable to living another miserable year 
with my mother’s grief or my father’s censure.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He trailed a finger down her arm. “If I hadn’t 
left and eventually moved here, I might never have met you.” 

She nodded. It was almost enough to make her believe in fate, 
too.

“I’m at a loss as to what to call you now,” she said, glancing 
shyly at his bare, muscled chest. He wore nothing at all 
beneath the buffalo robe. “‘Mr. Mulder’ seems too formal, 
given the circumstances. Should I use your Christian name?”

He winced at the suggestion. “God, no. Please don’t.” 

Why? she wondered. Did it remind him too much of his cruel 
nickname, Crazy Fox? 

“Call me Mulder.” He squeezed her arm. “Just...Mulder.”

“And do you plan to call me ‘Scully’?” she joked.

“Why not?” He sat up, taking her with him. Kissing her ear, he 
whispered the name, trying it out. “Scully.”

Coming from him, it sounded almost like an endearment.

“Say it again,” she breathed.

“Scully.” He nudged her nose with his own.

“Yes.”

“Scully.” He purred against her cheek.

“Mm.” 

“Scully.” His mouth covered hers. 

The kiss was soft, but insistent. A contradiction, like him. 
His hand searched out the vee of her legs. 

“Honor me again, Scully,” he murmured. 

“Your stamina is impressive, sir.” She melted into his embrace 
and let him ease her back on the bed. Anticipation shimmered 
through her veins, like sunlight in water, as he moved over 
her. She parted her knees, inviting the weight of his hips. 

A loud knock at the door startled them both. 

“Son of a--” Mulder rolled off her. “You expecting someone, 
Scully?”

A man shouted from outside, “Dana, are you in there?”

“It’s Charlie.” She sat up.

Mulder rose and pulled on his trousers. The bandage on his 
calf, then the puckered wound on his thigh disappeared beneath 
dark wool. Leaving his fly half unbuttoned, he limped across 
the room and opened the door. 

“I--” Charlie took in Mulder’s bare chest and open trousers. 
“I’m looking for my sister.”

Mulder waved him inside. 

Charlie’s mouth gaped when he saw Dana sitting on the bed, 
wearing nothing but Mulder’s borrowed shirt. His expression 
left no doubt he understood the situation perfectly. To his 
credit, he managed to quickly rein in his astonishment and 
regain his composure. Charlie never had been one to judge. 
Given his own trespasses, he tended to leave the casting of 
stones to others. 

“There’s been an Indian attack,” he said. “You’re needed at 
the infirmary.”

She abandoned the bed and began to collect her castoff 
clothing. “How many are hurt?” Skirt, shirtwaist, shoes. Where 
was her corset and bloomers? She plucked her garters and one 
balled stocking from the hearth. Spotted its mate next to the 
bed.

“I’m not sure. A dozen or more. At least as many dead.”

“Was Walter hurt?” She hugged her clothes to her chest. 

“I don’t know. They were just beginning to arrive when Father 
sent me to find you.”

She turned to Mulder. “Will you be all right here on your 
own?”

“I’ll be fine.”

She crossed to him, regret crushing her heart. “I’m sorry.”

He grazed her cheek with a light kiss. “We’ll wait outside 
while you dress.”

*   *   *

Skinner shivered, chilled to the bone by the atrocity before 
him. 

Charred circles marked where tepees once stood. Smoke rose 
like ghosts through the misty dawn. From the wooded bluff to 
Miin Creek and beyond, corpses littered the blood-soaked 
earth, their faces frozen in rigid agony. 

More than a thousand Cree warriors had swarmed the village at 
sunset last night, their attack taking both the Blackfoot and 
cavalry by surprise. High-pitched war cries sent women and 
children scurrying for their lives. Blackfoot braves took up 
knives and bows against their long-time foes. Skinner shouted 
orders to his men, organizing them into a defensive position 
along the banks of the creek. He sent a messenger back to the 
fort for reinforcements. Without cannon and additional troops, 
defeat was almost assured.

The ensuing battle was both hard-fought and brutal. War clubs 
crushed men’s skulls like eggshells. Knives gouged eyes and 
steel-bladed tomahawks severed hands. Lances pinned men to the 
ground, where they continued to wriggle helplessly while 
bleeding out. 

The soldiers had the advantage of pistols and rifles, but the 
Cree outnumbered them sixteen to one. On horseback, they 
overran the soldiers, screeching with triumph whenever a 
uniformed man fell. Some took the time to dismount and scalp 
their victims. They stuck the grisly human pelts onto their 
spears and held them aloft like victory flags. Each mutilation 
took less than half a minute.  

Skinner was thrown from his saddle when an arrow struck his 
horse, causing it to rear and buck. He hit the ground hard, 
but managed to hang onto his rifle. He aimed it at the brave 
who bore down on him -- a fierce warrior, face painted half 
black, half red, hair greased and spiked to stand on end like 
porcupine quills. The warrior nocked another arrow to his bow. 
Drew back. 

Skinner blasted him from his horse.

The dwindling number of soldiers held their ground until Bill 
Scully finally arrived with the field artillery. The Cree 
retreated at the sight of fresh soldiers and mounted Napoleon 
cannons. But by then, the Blackfoot village lay in ruins.          

Throughout the long night, Skinner and Bill Scully canvassed 
the battleground with lanterns, counting bodies, overseeing 
the transportation of injured soldiers back to Culbertson. The 
number of casualties was high. Eighteen U.S. soldiers wounded. 
Twenty-one dead. 

The Blackfoot had fared even worse. More than one hundred men, 
women, and children lost their lives, including Chief Kicking 
Horse. The others had scattered to the four winds.

Captain Scully arrived at dawn to inspect the carnage and 
listen to Skinner’s report. He seemed suitably humbled by the 
Army’s losses, yet did not fault Skinner’s strategy. 

He crossed the battleground to stand beside a long row of dead 
soldiers, laid out on their backs by the creek, awaiting 
transportation to Culbertson. Skinner followed him, bile 
sliding up his throat at the sight of all the mutilated 
bodies. Flies buzzed and crawled over the mangled flesh, 
feeding on the congealing blood. 

With an angry swipe of his hat, Skinner shooed a cloud of 
insects away from the nearest corpse -- Lewis Strum, the 
remorseful private who had saddled Dana’s horse the day of her 
accident. A pipe tomahawk protruded from his chest. Bells and 
fringe adorned the haft, which was polished smooth, inlaid 
with colorful stones, and decorated with rawhide. The 
soldier’s scalp was missing; the exposed bone of his skull 
shone pinkish-gray in the early light.  

Captain Scully spat into the dust. “Must they do that?”

“They believe scalping the dead will prevent their ghosts from 
returning to seek revenge.”

“Another of their ridiculous, heathen notions.”

“It makes sense to them. Sir.”

The captain scowled. “Take care, Lieutenant. You’re beginning 
to sound like Fox Mulder. I hope you’re not turning into a 
sympathizer.”

“No, sir,” he lied. 

“Good.” Captain Scully surveyed the camp through satisfied 
eyes. “Be sure to commend your men on their victory, 
Lieutenant.”

Victory? Skinner nearly choked. There had been no victory 
here. 

Only varying degrees of loss. 

In the past he had believed he could best help the Indians by 
supplying intelligence and weapons through an intermediary -- 
through Mulder -- from his own position within the military. 
But playing both sides had made him loyal to neither and 
resulted in more harm than good. The proof lay all around him. 

Mulder was right to quit long ago. His choice showed 
integrity. A quality that seemed to elude Skinner.

Digging into his pocket, he withdrew the Jefferson peace medal 
he had taken from Mulder’s saddlebag. He tossed it onto the 
ground at Strum’s feet. “Commend them yourself, sir. I’m 
resigning my commission. You’ll have my paperwork by the end 
of the day.”

Captain Scully blinked in surprise. “You can’t mean it. I 
won’t allow it,” he sputtered. “How will you support my 
daughter?”

How indeed? 

Skinner shook his head and, without another word, walked away. 

He expected Captain Scully to order him back, but the captain 
remained uncharacteristically silent. Skinner breathed deeply. 
His stride grew longer. He drew his sword and hurled it into 
Miin Creek. His hat followed. 

A brisk wind billowed out of the east, carrying off the stench 
of death and replacing it with the fresh scent of prairie 
grass. Birds trilled in the pines atop the bluff. Skinner felt 
like a free man for the first time in decades.  

*   *   *

Time –- a surgeon’s worst enemy. It seemed to simultaneously 
race and stand still in the operating room. An interesting 
phenomenon, Dana thought as she prepared for her next patient. 
She tucked the observation away, intending to bring it up to 
Mulder later, and selected a saw from the array of 
instruments. Another amputation. Leg this time, crushed beyond 
repair beneath a horse’s hooves. She placed the saw in a basin 
of water and spirits to clean it.

“What’s your name, Private?” she asked the pale young man on 
the table.

“Pruitt, miss.” His words were slurred by two shots of 
anesthetizing whiskey. “Thomas Pruitt. Am I gonna die?”

“Not if I can help it.”

She double-checked his tourniquet, the pad of which she had 
applied two-thirds of the way down his thigh, where the 
femoral artery perforated the tendon of the triceps muscle. 
Satisfied with both its position and pressure, she took up a 
scalpel.  

“Hold him firmly,” she ordered her two assistants, wishing 
they had not run out of chloroform several patients earlier.

Carter and Spellman, faces pinched with dread, pinned Mr. 
Pruitt to the table, one at his head, one at the injured limb. 
The good leg was fastened to the table with a sturdy, leather 
strap.

Out in the ward, a soldier screamed. Dana glanced through the 
open door and caught a glimpse of Beckett removing a spear 
from the young man’s belly.

The human body was a fragile thing compared to the crush of 
war clubs, the slash of knives. Dana was well acquainted with 
its various vulnerabilities, yet she had also witnessed its 
amazing restorative powers. Earlier, the sight of an arrow 
jutting from the eye socket of a still-lucid private 
threatened to buckle her knees, but she had saved his life. 
For now.

She sliced into Mr. Pruitt’s skin four inches below the 
patella and, in one deft stroke, cut all the way around the 
injured limb. Ignoring the patient’s frantic jerking and 
gurgling cries, she peeled the skin upward toward the thigh, 
then traded her scalpel for a long, narrow, double-edged 
catling, which she used to cut through the muscles. The calf 
she left attached, to be used later to cover the stump. She 
worked swiftly, but carefully, dividing the fasciculus. She 
protected the soft tissues with a linen retractor made of 
three tails, one of which she drew through the space between 
the tibia and fibula. She tied off the three principal 
arteries –- the anterior and posterior tibial and the peroneal 
-- with ligatures. 

“Hold him still,” she urged Carter, “but not so forcefully as 
to risk splintering the bone.”

“Yes, miss.”

Trading knife for saw, she hacked through the lower leg bones.

The patient passed out and the room grew silent, save for the 
panting breaths of her assistants.

Bones severed and largest vessels tied off, she slackened the 
tourniquet to check for hemorrhage. There was none, so she 
sponged the entire surface with water, then repositioned 
muscle and skin over the stump. She quickly stitched the wound 
closed. 

The entire operation had taken only minutes. Dressing the 
stump with adhesive plaster took only slightly longer.  

“Please carry Mr. Pruitt to the ward,” she said, when she had 
finished binding the wound. 

Spellman and Carter’s gore-spattered boots skidded and slipped 
on the bloody floor as they trundled the amputee out of the 
room.

“Next patient!” she shouted to the stretcher bearers in the 
ward. She tossed her instruments into a basin and removed the 
severed limb to a bucket in the room’s corner.

“This is the last,” said Corporal Beckett, as he and another 
soldier hoisted the final patient onto the operating table.

She looked up from wiping blood off her hands to find Sergeant 
Phillips laid out on the table. He bristled with broken 
arrows. She counted twelve, two lodged in his gut, bringing to 
mind Corporal Beckett’s dire warnings about abdominal wounds. 
Mortality was practically guaranteed, he had said. But as bad 
as these injuries were, it was the mutilation to his scalp 
that brought tears to her eyes. Phillips’ lightly fuzzed head 
had been sliced at the hairline from brow to ear, the flap 
stripped back to expose his bone-white skull. Mud and grass 
caked the ghastly wound.

“It don’t hurt so bad, Doc.” Phillips grunted the words. 

“Damn it, why didn’t you bring him in earlier?” she growled at 
Beckett. 

“Not his fault,” Phillips insisted through gritted teeth, 
before Beckett could answer. Blood oozed from the corners of 
his mouth. “I tol’ him not to. I’m gonna die anyways, Doc. 
Might’s well take them other fellers ahead of me. They got a 
chance.”

“So do you, Sergeant. I didn’t cure you of mumps to let you 
die now.”

A wet cough wracked the sergeant.

“You’re going to live,” she insisted. “Do you hear me?”

Phillips moaned. His eyes closed and he lost consciousness.

She reached for a clean scalpel. “Assist me, Corporal Beckett. 
We’ll start at the abdomen.” 

*   *   *

Hours later, Dana sat at her desk documenting her patients’ 
progress in the record book. Her neat script blurred as she 
tried to stay awake. She blinked. Yawned. Closing her eyes, 
she promised herself, “only a few minutes.”

“Hey, Sis.”

Charlie’s voice and the pleasant aroma of hot tea roused her 
from dreams of dying men and Mulder’s tight embrace. 

The light in the room had changed. Morning had become late 
afternoon. She shifted, stretched her stiffened muscles, 
popped the bones of her neck. “Hi.”

“Tea?” He set down a cup in front of her, then took a flask 
from the breast pocket of his plaid suit coat and took a swig. 
“How are you holding up?”

She reached out a hand for the flask. 

“That well?” He laughed and passed her the whiskey.

It burned her throat when she took a swallow. “Good stuff,” 
she gasped, then added a splash to her teacup before handing 
back the flask. 

Laughing again, Charlie made himself at home on the corner of 
her desk. “I heard you saved them all, Dana. Even Sergeant 
Phillips. Congratulations.”

“Hold your congratulations. They aren’t out of danger yet.” 
She sipped her whiskey-laced tea. It was true that Phillips 
and the others had survived their surgeries, but they were far 
from being recovered. It was unlikely they would all escape 
infection. Especially Phillips. His chances of survival were 
precarious at best.

“Have you seen Father since the battle?” Charlie asked.

“He came in early this morning to check on the men.” 

“He must be proud of your success.”

“He didn’t say. But he did let me know Walter’s all right. I’d 
been worried about him. When he didn’t show up with the 
others, I thought... Well, it turns out he’s fine, thank God.”

“I heard he resigned his commission.”

“Walter? I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true. Bill told me last night when I ran into him at the 
saloon.”

“Bill was at the saloon?”

“You should’ve seen him, Dana. Drunker than a boiled owl, with 
two buxom dance girls on his lap.” 

“Saint Bill, our older brother?” 

“One and the same.” Charlie grinned and offered her another 
drink from the flask.

She waved him off. “Does father know?”

“If he does, he didn’t hear it from me. Bill threatened to 
bash in my head if I told anyone.” 

Tucking away his flask, Charlie rose from the desk and crossed 
the room to examine the texts on the bookcase. He pulled 
Samuel Cooper’s “The Practice of Surgery” from the shelf.

Dana fingered her teacup. “Does Father know you found me at 
Mulder’s cabin?”

“I didn’t tell him anything.” Charlie paged absently through 
the book.

“Do you plan to?”

“Of course not. You’re a grown woman, Dana. You can do 
whatever you please.” 

“Can I?”

“Yes. Obviously.” His tone carried no judgment. “Will you 
marry him?” 

“Mulder? He hasn’t asked me.”

“But he will.”

“There’s no reason to think so.”

“But he--” Charlie stopped himself. He had not lectured her 
even once during the long ride from Nine Pipe Ridge to 
Culbertson, for which she had been thankful. He had not 
uttered one condescending word, not asked a single probing 
question. 

“Our affair was *my* choice, Charlie.”

“Maybe so, but I imagine he didn’t object to the idea. When a 
man takes liberties--”

“You’re a fine one to talk. Do you propose to every woman you 
bed?”

“I might, if the law permitted me to marry more than one.” He 
smiled and winked. When she raised a brow, he grew serious 
again. “I’m no saint, Dana. I know that.” 

“Perhaps Mr. Mulder is no saint either.”

“Perhaps not. But...”

“But?”

Concern furrowed his brow. “Suppose there’s a child.” 

“I’ve...considered the possibility.”

“And?”

“And, I have no idea.” It was the truth. “I don’t know what 
I’ll do, Charlie. I really don’t.”

“Do you love him?”

“Does it matter, if he doesn’t love me?”

“Is that the case? For a fact?”

“He didn’t say one way or the other.” 

“Well, you should find out. You can’t raise a child on your 
own.”

“I may have no choice.”

“Dana...a child without a father will be labeled a bastard.” 
He slammed the book shut and shoved it back into its place on 
the shelf. “You’ll be called worse.”

“I don’t know that I’m pregnant.”

“Then accept Skinner’s proposal while you still can.”

“I was intimate with another man, Charlie!”

“Does he have to know?”

“Of course. I won’t lie to him.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would.” Charlie returned to her desk. 
He snagged her hand and drew her out of her chair. “Skinner 
loves you, Dana. It’s as clear as crystal. He’d marry you in a 
heartbeat, pregnant or not.”

Would he? She felt the tug of a normal life. 

The pursuit of personal freedom had cost her more than she had 
ever imagined. Her refusal to bow to her father’s demands and 
society’s expectations had ended up alienating her from both 
her parents. Was independence worth such a high price? Was it 
not time she shed her rebellious persona, leave it behind the 
way a snake leaves its skin in the rocks and weeds? Marrying 
Walter could mend the rift between her and Cap. And make her 
respectable in the eyes of society, too.

“You really think I should accept his proposal?”

“I think,” -- Charlie pulled the flask from his coat again –- 
“you should listen to your heart, Dana. Decide what you want, 
regardless of whether it’ll disappoint Mother or Father, 
Skinner or Mulder. Choose the course that suits you.”

She had told Mulder she believed in free will, in setting her 
own course. This would be the time to prove it.

“To hell with propriety?” she asked, repeating the words she 
had uttered to Charlie seemingly ages ago aboard the 
Dauntless.

“Hear, hear!” He grinned and saluted her with the flask. “To 
hell with propriety!”
 
She rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, sweet 
brother.” 

Finally, she knew with certainty what she must do. 

------

EPILOGUE

Leaving Beckett to watch over her patients, Dana saddled a 
chestnut mare and rode south along the river to Skinner’s 
house. Yellow-leaved aspens quaked beneath tin-colored clouds. 
The air carried the chilly, damp smell of snow, forewarning an 
early winter. It was September 1st, a month to the day since 
her arrival in Montana.

She found a horse tied to Skinner’s porch rail. Taking a deep 
breath, she dismounted, climbed the steps, and knocked on the 
door.

“Walter?” she called.

When no answer came, she opened the door and let herself in. 

“Walter?”

Silence tugged her deeper into the house, past the unfurnished 
parlor, down the hall to the kitchen. The sound of a spade 
cleaving earth, regular as clockwork, drew her to a back 
window. 

Skinner was in the yard digging a post hole, dressed in 
civilian clothes, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Four 
freshly milled posts lay on the ground waiting to be set. 
Sweat glistened on his face and hatless head. Damp soil 
darkened the saggy knees of his trousers. He wore mud-caked 
gumboots, not spit-shined military boots. She had never seen 
him look so rough-and-tumble. Or so at ease.  

She opened the door and stepped out onto the small, back 
porch. “Walter?”

His shovel halted. He glanced up from the hole. A smile spread 
across his face at the sight of her. He drove the blade into 
the earth and left it there, wiped his dirty palms on his 
trousers, and came to stand at the bottom of the steps. 
“I’m...uh...digging postholes.” 

“I see that.”

“For a clothesline.”

She nodded. He continued to smile, waiting for her to say 
something, maybe praise the sunny location, perfect for 
hanging laundry, or tell him she was here to accept his 
proposal at last.  

“Mr. Mulder and I have been intimate,” she blurted. A blush 
crept into her cheeks. She had intended to ask him about his 
resignation and his plans for the future.   

His smile wilted. “When?”

“Does it matter?”

Anger sparked in his eyes. “Did he force you?”

“No.”

He drew a forearm across his sweaty brow. “Are you going to 
marry him?”

“He hasn’t asked me. I’m not certain I would say yes in any 
case.”

She expected him to regard her with disgust, but instead he 
climbed the steps two at a time, reached out, and clasped her 
hand between his broad palms. Concern darkened his eyes.

“Dana, what if...?” His gaze flitted to her belly. “If Mulder 
won’t marry you, my offer still stands.” 

Did he really love her so much? Enough to forgive her sin and 
her betrayal? To raise another man’s child as his own, if 
there was one?

She now understood why her father had chosen him for her. He 
was a good man and would make an excellent husband. 

For a woman who loved him and was ready to become a wife.  

“Thank you, Walter, but my answer is no.” She withdrew her 
hand from his, reached into her pocket, and retrieved the 
little carved box that held his engagement ring. “I’m sorry.” 

He retreated down the steps, refusing to accept the ring or 
her words. “How will you manage?”

“I have an idea about that.”

He waited to hear her out, eyes swimming with hurt and 
longing.

“You’ve been kind to me, Walter, which makes asking this favor 
difficult in the extreme. You’ve already given me more 
consideration than I deserve.”

“I’ve done nothing I didn’t want to do. And if there’s 
something more, any way I might contribute to your happiness, 
just name it.”

If he was still hoping she would change her mind and accept 
his proposal of marriage, her next words would clarify her 
position beyond all doubt.

“Sell me your house.”

The house he had built for her, for the two of them. His gaze 
traveled from foundation to roofline. His voice was thick with 
emotion when he spoke. “You can have it. As a gift.”

“No. I want to pay for it. I insist.” She was uncertain how –- 
she still needed to talk to her father about wages, a 
conversation she was dreading. “It’ll take time, but you will 
receive full payment.”

He turned away. She feared he was going to say no, but he said 
nothing as he crossed to the posts on the grass. Brows 
knotted, jaw working soundlessly as if her request were a 
piece of tough gristle, he bent and hoisted the nearest pole 
to his shoulder. He carried it to the hole, kicked the shovel 
out of his way, and set the pole into the ground with a dull 
thud. Only then did it seem to dawn on him that the shovel was 
now out of reach and he would need to either drop the post or 
ask for her help. 

She hurried down the steps and retrieved the shovel.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it in one hand. “Could you, uh, 
hold this while I--?”

“Of course.” 

She steadied the post while he backfilled the hole. After some 
minor adjustments and considerable tamping, it stood upright 
on its own.

“Does it look level to you?” he asked.

“It does.” 

He nodded, satisfied. “I’ll sell you the house.”

“You will?”

“On one condition.”

“What condition?”

“You accept the phaeton as a gift.”

She smiled and reached out to shake his hand. “Agreed.”

He gave her hand a couple of pumps, then clung to her, his 
face forlorn. “This isn’t how I wanted it to be.”

“I know.”

“At least I’ll hear from you regularly.”

“You will. I promise.” She gave his hand a final squeeze, 
before pulling away. “I can’t thank you enough, Walter. For 
everything.”

*   *   *

Three quarters of an hour later, Dana stood outside the closed 
door of her father’s office, shoulders back, chin up, 
confident she was doing the right thing. She was no longer the 
confused young woman who fretted at the rail of the Dauntless, 
clutching her father’s note, her future seemingly set. That 
woman no longer existed. Dana now knew what she wanted. She 
understood quite clearly the path she was choosing. It would 
not be an easy one, but it was the best course –- the only 
course –- for her. 

She rapped firmly on the door, ready at last to risk losing 
her father’s love and protection.

“Come in,” Cap summoned, his voice gruff.

She opened the door and crossed to his desk without 
hesitation. Her voice was steady and strong when she addressed 
him. “I have something of importance to discuss with you, 
Father.”

He lifted his gaze, pen poised over a muddle of papers on the 
desk. Weariness dulled his eyes. His jowls sagged in a way she 
had not noticed before. “Ah, I wasn’t expecting you, Dana, but 
I’m glad you’ve come. Saves me a trip to the infirmary. How 
are the men?”

“Treworgey and Jackson will be released in a day or so. 
Hillary, Markham, and Billings by week’s end. Phillips is the 
most serious case, but I am hopeful he’ll pull through.”

“Good. We’ve lost too many already. I’ve just finished signing 
condolence letters.” He waved his pen at the papers on his 
desk. Ink stained his fingers. “Thank you for the update.” 

He dipped his pen in the ink well. 

Not yet ready to be dismissed, she said firmly, “I’d like to 
discuss my salary.”

“Your...?” His fist balled around the pen and he met her 
hardened stare with a frown. 

The last time they had discussed her work, he claimed the 
examination of men’s bodies and the treatment of their 
diseases was an unseemly profession for a woman. Would he feel 
differently now that she had saved his soldiers’ lives? 

“I expect to be paid for my services. Past and future.” She 
was surprised at how calm she sounded. “Thirty-five dollars a 
month.”   

He tossed his pen to the desk, eyes wide with astonishment. 
“You can’t be serious.”

“I am completely serious.” 

“The Army will never agree to such an extraordinary sum.” 

“The lives of eighteen men aren’t worth thirty-five dollars a 
month?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

He ran a palm over his bald head. “It’s too much.”

“It’s a typical wage for an Army surgeon.”

“A male Army surgeon.”

“I’m a trained doctor, as good as any man. I can do this job.”

“Your skills are not in question, Magnet.”

The endearment threatened to undermine her resolve, but she 
forged ahead. “Then why should I not be paid what I’m worth?”

He stood and walked to the window, hands gripped behind his 
back. A fly buzzed frantically against one of the upper panes, 
straining to escape.

“I can offer you thirteen dollars a month, no more,” he said 
at length. 

“That’s a nurse’s wage!”

“It’s the best I can do.”

“It’s less than Corporal Beckett makes as my assistant.” 

“Yes, but he is a man.” Cap turned to face her.

“So men are paid for their gender, not their competence.”

“A man requires a greater wage than a woman, and you know it. 
He must earn enough money to support himself and his family, 
whereas a woman may depend on the largess of her father and 
husband. She has no need for an additional salary. You must 
see the logic.” 

“I see an inequitable situation.”

He dismissed the idea with a condescending smile. “If you’re 
worried about your financial situation, let me assure you, 
you’ll want for nothing as long as you’re living under my 
roof.”

“I don’t intend to live under your roof after today.”

This gave him pause. “You’ve accepted Lieutenant Skinner’s
proposal?” He did not look nearly as pleased as he might
have before Skinner decided to resign. “When is the wedding?”

“There isn’t going to be one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I plan to live on my own.” It felt good to state it aloud. 
“Walter is selling me his house.”

“Selling...? Preposterous.”

“Why is it preposterous?”

“Because...” Exasperation huffed from Cap's nose. “How will you 
pay for it?”

“That brings us back to the subject of wages, doesn’t it?”

“I can understand if you don’t want to marry Skinner. He is 
not the man I once thought either. But that doesn’t mean you 
have to give up on the idea of marriage altogether. There are 
plenty of fine officers under my command. I’d be more than 
happy to introduce you to one or two of the more suitable--”

“Do not fault Walter. He’s a decent man. One of the finest 
I’ve ever met.”

“Then...why are you turning him down?”

“Because I want to be a doctor, not somebody’s wife. I want to 
devote myself to making people well. Like the men in the 
infirmary. I want to heal them so they can go home to their 
families, live happy lives. It’s what I studied for, what I’m 
trained for. I’m good at it, Father, and I love it. It’s what 
I want to do. I believe it’s what I am meant to do.” How could 
she make him understand? “Haven’t you ever wanted something so 
badly you were willing to risk everything to make it happen?”

He crossed to the desk and turned up the flame on the lamp. 
His bewildered expression grew sympathetic in the soft light. 
“I have. I wanted your happiness, Magnet. From the day you 
were born, it’s all I have wanted. I would trade anything -- 
every medal, every commendation, every promotion -- to assure 
your security, to give you the best possible future. I am even 
willing to let you hate me if necessary.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I don’t hate you--” Her throat closed, 
preventing her from saying more.

“I don’t expect you to bend to my wishes if doing so is so 
contrary to your spirit.”

He did understand! Gratitude swelled in her heart. “Thank you, 
Father.”

“Don’t thank me yet. The Army won’t pay you more than thirteen 
dollars a month. There’s nothing I can do about that.” He 
sounded genuinely regretful. 

She was not willing to give up her dream. “Nurses get a 
clothing allowance, do they not?”

“They do. Three-fifty a month.”

“As well as board?”

“Yes. That, too.”

She could always supplement the meager income by taking on 
civilian patients. “If I am frugal, I should be able to make 
ends meet and make regular payments to Walter on even that 
small salary.”  

“I’m opposed to you going off on your own, Dana. I cannot 
state it plainly enough. I fear for your safety as well as 
your happiness.”

“I know you do, but I’ll be fine. You’ll see. Am I hired?”

He nodded, resigned. “Yes. You’re hired.”

She went to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed 
his cheek. 

Head shaking, he embraced her. A powerful bear hug. “I’m proud 
of you, Dana.” The words puffed into her ear, his praise 
warming her heart. “You know that, don’t you?”  

“I do now.” She allowed herself to feel like a little girl in 
his arms again, if only for the moment. “I love you, Daddy.”  

*   *   * 

1 February, 1866. Dana penned the date neatly into her new 
journal, a Christmas gift from Charlie, who loved writing and 
believed everyone had a story to tell. Her small desk sat 
beneath a westerly-facing window in the large upstairs 
bedroom, the very room where she and Walter were to have spent 
their wedding night. Patient records, medical texts, and a 
lantern, unlit at the moment, filled the desktop. More books 
were piled in orderly stacks on the floor, waiting for the day 
when she would own a bookcase or two. 

Snow swirled beyond the frosted window panes. Ice had shrunk 
the river to a thin, dark line. The mountains were lost behind 
a veil of churning flakes. She drew her shawl more tightly 
around her shoulders and considered what to write next in her 
journal. Charlie had been quite clear that she was to use it 
as a personal diary, not to record the progress of her 
patients. 

A small fire crackled in the fireplace behind her, warming the 
room, her favorite in the house because of its view. The 
chimney drew admirably, exactly as Walter had promised. On 
chilly nights, she liked to curl up with a good book in the 
overstuffed chair beside it. A narrow bed with tarnished brass 
headboard, worn, tick mattress, and three tattered quilts 
occupied a corner nearby.

Like most rooms in the house, this one served multiple 
purposes: dressing room, study, library, bedroom. Downstairs, 
the front parlor was both a formal drawing room and a place 
where her patients waited for treatment. The dining room 
doubled as a surgery. Walter’s beautifully built cabinets held 
medicines, surgical tools, and materials for dressing wounds, 
along with china plates and stemware. Dana boiled used 
bandages and prepared tinctures in the kitchen, right next to 
her cooking pots and teakettle.  

Occasionally a patient who needed extended care would remain 
overnight in one of the two back bedrooms upstairs. If the 
patient was male, Sergeant Phillips served as chaperone, 
staying in the second bedroom, the one Water had intended as a 
nursery. The sergeant was good company and Dana was glad he 
had decided to stay on in Flatwillow after his honorable 
discharge from the Army. 

His recuperation had been both painful and long. But he 
remained as talkative as ever during his convalescence and 
especially liked to joke about the rippled scar across his 
scalp. 

“I din’t have enough hair fer that Injun feller to grab hold 
of. My bald head saved my life!” 

Phillips would never regain complete use of his right leg, 
which had required multiple surgeries after infection set in. 
He used a crutch to get around and had become quite adept at 
performing certain household chores, like milking Dana’s cow, 
and splitting and lugging firewood for her. When she tried to 
pay him for his labors, he refused to take the money. Claimed 
he owed her, not the other way around, and helping her out 
gave him something to do while he waited for his family to 
arrive in the spring.

Dana looked up when a gust of icy flakes rattled the 
windowpanes. Wind howled across the roof. Fierce winter storms 
lasted days on end in Montana, creating snowdrifts taller than 
a man. The cold could steal the breath from one’s lungs, 
freeze fingers, toes, noses, and ears; she treated seemingly 
endless cases of frostbite. But when the sun shone, this 
bitter cold, snow-white world became blindingly bright and 
beautiful. On clear nights, the moon painted the mountains 
silver and the stars appeared close enough to touch. 

Alone in the house this afternoon, Dana had stoked the fire, 
prepared a cup of hot tea, and written a letter to Walter. She 
included her monthly payment for the house in the envelope, 
which rested on the corner of the desk, waiting to be mailed. 

Walter had moved back east two days after she returned his 
ring. To be with his sons, he said. He wrote to her regularly, 
updating her on their daily lives until she felt almost as if 
she were a part of their family. Josiah at fifteen was nearly 
a man, and little George had turned twelve in November. Both 
boys were smitten with the girl next door, a red-headed angel 
named Molly. Her mother, Mrs. Harper, was a widow. Walter 
spoke quite highly of her in his most recent letter. 

“I first met Mrs. Harper -- Sallie Seeper at the time -- in 
Mission, Delaware, when I was seventeen and she was eight. I 
saw her frequently back then, and notwithstanding the 
disparity of our ages, I became favorably impressed by her 
fair face and gentle manners. She retains both after all these 
years and I have reason to think we shall become dear 
friends.” 

He signed it “Fondly Yours, Walter,” as he did all his 
letters.

Dana hoped Mrs. Harper might capture Walter’s heart and return 
his affections. He deserved to find love and be happy. 

Earlier in the day, before the storm set in, Dana had ridden 
to the fort to check on a patient, a corporal with a bad case 
of measles. After seeing to his treatment and his noonday 
meal, she visited her mother.

Her relationship with Maggie had improved since Christmas, 
when she finally apologized for placing the wedding 
announcement in the Picayune. Dana accepted her apology, 
hoping to mend their months-long rift. She missed her mother’s 
company and even her counsel, although Maggie remained 
unwilling to accept Dana’s profession and continued to invite 
her to dinner for the obvious purpose of meeting potential 
suitors. These dinner affairs always ended the same, with Dana 
politely rebuffing the gentleman’s advances and, later, 
telling her mother that she was still not interested in 
marriage. 

“I’m not asking you to marry them, Dana. Just be friendly.”

For Christmas, Maggie gave her a set of saucepans and a brand 
new copy of Isabella Beeton’s “The Book of Household 
Management.” She had bookmarked several pages she thought 
would interest Dana, including a recipe for bread sauce.

As for Cap, he had become Dana’s staunch ally after witnessing 
the benefits of her skills in the infirmary. He played the 
role of peacemaker whenever Maggie and Dana butted heads. He 
also talked about transferring east, where he might help with 
the reconstruction efforts. Battling Indians to make way for 
more gold diggers had apparently lost its appeal. 

Charlie headed to Oregon on New Year’s Day, unwilling to wait 
for the spring thaw, his wanderlust overtaking common sense. 
Or perhaps it was another of his many arguments with Cap that 
persuaded him to take his leave at such an unfavorable time of 
the year. He told Dana he planned to write a novel about a 
French trapper who falls in love with an Indian maiden. She 
had no doubt this book would be as popular with audiences back 
east as his last novel had been.

Saying goodbye to Charlie was one of the hardest things Dana 
had ever done. He tried to stop her tears by claiming he would 
return in a few months for a visit, but it was a hollow 
promise, she knew. Charlie was an adventurer, more at home in 
the wild frontier than beside his own hearth. It would likely 
be years before their paths crossed again, and the prospect 
nearly broke her heart. She would miss him fiercely. He had 
been her confidante, her dearest friend...

Until she met Mulder. 

Her gaze wandered past the river to the mountains beyond. Even 
in a blizzard like this one, she could pick out the 
distinctive profile of Nine Pipe Ridge.

She had spent many nights in Mulder’s cabin since their first 
joining. That union had not resulted in a pregnancy, for which 
she was thankful. Since then, she had insisted they take 
precautions during lovemaking and ordered a supply of Dr. 
Power's French Preventatives from a supply house in New York. 
Mulder did not object to wearing the condoms, although 
patients who came to her with venereal diseases complained 
when she suggested they use them, saying that the rubber safes 
were “like armor against pleasure, and a cobweb against 
disease.” 

Mulder asked her to marry him. Several times. The first had 
been in late September, when she rode to his cabin to tell him 
she was not pregnant. 

He was outside splitting wood when she arrived at sunset. The 
sight of him, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, nearly stole 
her breath away. He abandoned his ax to help her down from her 
horse.

“How have you been?” She ran her fingers over the healing 
scars on his arm.

“Missing you.” He kissed her. It had only been a couple of 
weeks, but, oh, how she longed for those lips! “How are you, 
Scully?”

“I’m not pregnant.”

His eyes widened a little. “Is that a good thing or a bad 
thing?”

“A good thing.”

From his expression, she was not convinced he shared her view, 
but he said nothing more on the subject. 

“Do me the honor?” He held out his arms as if inviting her to 
waltz.

“You want to dance? Here?”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no music.”

“I hear a thousand violins.”

“Those are crickets, Mulder.”

“A cricket by any other name, Scully, would sound as sweet.”

“Shakespeare is rolling over in his grave.” She took his hand 
and leaned into him, delighting in the warmth of his skin and 
the masculine aroma of his sweat. 

They danced for several perfect minutes. A smattering of stars 
glimmered in the sky to the east, gold dust in the blue-black 
river of Heaven. Vast, open prairie spread seemingly forever 
in the valley below. To the west, snow-capped peaks, silvery 
in the half-light, speared the darkening sky. 

“I know this isn’t an ordinary kind of life,” he murmured 
against her temple, “but do you think you might...”

“Might what?”

“Marry me?” 
 
She laughed and ended their dance. “Thank you, but no. I have 
only just gained my independence. I am not eager to give it 
up. Ask me again sometime.”

And he did, in October and again in November. Although her 
answer remained the same, he did not seem discouraged. 
Apparently, he was a patient man. 

The air in the house shifted almost imperceptibly. Although 
there had been no sound to warn her, she knew someone had 
opened the back door downstairs. The slight change in 
atmosphere would go unnoticed by most, but Dana knew her home 
well and she tensed when she heard the door snick shut. No 
knock meant the intruder was not Phillips, one of only two 
people besides herself who regularly used the rear entrance. 

Her nerves settled when she recognized the quiet scuff of 
moccasins on the stairs. It was Mulder.

“Hey,” he greeted her when he entered the room. He crossed to 
stand behind her and kissed the nape of her neck.

She shivered. “Your lips are freezing!”

The cold clung to his fur coat. He smelled of snow. Flakes 
sparkled like tiny gems on his raccoon hat.

“Warm me up.” His arms circled her and he buried his nose in 
her neck, eliciting an uncharacteristic shriek.

“Stop it.” She giggled and shoved him away. “I’ll just be 
another minute. I’m almost finished here.”

“Take your time.” He fitted the raccoon hat to her head and 
abandoned her for the bed. The bedsprings squeaked beneath his 
weight.

“Don’t get snow on my quilts,” she warned without looking at 
him. 

She heard him sit up, remove his coat and moccasins, and toss 
them on the floor. He settled back onto the bed with a sigh. 
She dipped her pen in the inkwell, and tried to think of 
something appropriate to write in her journal.

Her pen scritch-scratched across the snow-white page as she 
wrote: “My name is Dana Scully. I am a doctor and this is my 
story.”

She paused, wondering where to go from there. 

“Hey, Scully, aren’t you curious about why I was out in this 
weather?”

Charlie had warned her not to use the journal to write down 
notes about her patients, but she could describe her work at 
the fort in general terms, could she not?

“I’ve been searching for a bakaak.”

She could describe the Indians, prospectors, and settlers she 
treated on a regular basis. 

“It’s a malevolent spirit, an extremely emaciated skeleton-
like figure -- ‘skeleton’ in the sense of ‘bones draped in 
skin,’ not ‘bare-bones’ -- with translucent skin and glowing 
red points for eyes.” 

There was no shortage of broken arms to set, wounds to stitch, 
babies to deliver, and diseases to remedy.

“According to legend, the bakaak preys on Indian warriors, 
killing them with invisible arrows or beating them to death 
with a club. After paralyzing or killing its victim, it 
devours their liver.”

“What?” She turned to look at him.

“I want you to come with me.”

“Where?” 

“To look for the bakaak. There’s been a sighting at Wolf 
Creek.”  

“This won’t be like that goose chase you took us on last 
month, will it? To find that, uh...what did you call it? 
Cadejo.” 

“That was a cow-sized dog-goat hybrid, Scully, not a skeletal 
spirit.”
 
“Ah.” She set down her quill. There would be no writing in her 
journal this afternoon. She stood and crossed to the bed. 
“Make room.”

He scooted to one side of the narrow mattress and she lay down 
next to him, covering them both with her shawl.

Content in his arms, ear pressed to his chest and still 
wearing his raccoon hat, she listened to him spin out his 
fantastic, implausible, yet oddly persuasive tale about 
bakaaks. She would go with him, she knew, if for no other 
reason than to find a logical explanation for his alleged 
malevolent spirit.

Mulder switched from talking about bakaaks to Deer Woman, a 
human-deer chimera, then to hawk spirits, and finally to 
anthropophagous giants. There seemed no end to the mysteries 
and myths of the west. Is this what she had to look forward to 
-- years of investigating questionable phenomena with “Crazy 
Fox” Mulder?

The prospect was surprisingly alluring.    

A person must live where Na’pi, the maker of the mountains, 
intends them to live, according to Mulder’s Blackfoot legend. 
Apparently Na’pi intended her to live at Mulder's side, because 
despite their differences, she could think of nowhere else she 
would rather be. 
  

THE END


BIBLIOGRAPHY

Beeton, Isabella. The Book of Household Management. Originally 
published by S. O. Beeton in 24 Monthly Parts, 1859–
1861. First published in a bound edition in 1861.  

Cooper, James Fennimore. The Deerslayer (or The First 
Warpath). 1841.

Cooper, Samuel, with notes by Dr. Alexander H. Stevens. The 
Practice of Surgery. Justin Hinds, Publisher. 1818.

Curtis, Edward S. The North American Indian. The University 
Press, Cambridge, U.S.A. 1907-1930.

Dempsey, Lloyd James. Blackfoot War Art. University of 
Oklahoma Press. 2007.

Duncan, Dayton. Burns, Ken. Lewis and Clark. Random House. 
1997. 

Erichsen, John Eric. On Railway and Other Injuries of the 
Nervous System. Philadelphia: Henry C. Lea. 1867

Hanes, Richard C. Pifer, Matthew T. Blackfoot. Thompson Gale. 
2005.

Hodge, Frederick W. Handbook of American Indians North of 
Mexico. Bureau of American Ethnology. 1906.

I Become Part of It: Sacred Dimensions in Native American 
Life. Edited by Dooling, D.M., and Jordan-Smith. P. 
HarperCollins. 1992. 

Indian Affairs: Laws and Treaties. Compiled and edited by 
Charles J. Kappler. Government Printing Office. 
Washington. 1904.

Johnson, Charles B., M.D. Muskets and Medicine or Army Life in 
the Sixties, F. A. Davis Company, Publishers. 
Philadelphia. 1917. 

Leidy, Joseph. Cretaceous Reptiles of the United States. 1865.

Manual on School-Houses and Cottages for the People of the 
South. War Department, Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen, and 
Abandoned Lands. Washington. 1868.  

Mayor, Adrienne. Fossil Legends of the First Americans. 
Princeton University Press. 2005.

McClintock, Walter. The Old North Trail. 1910. 

Neihardt, John Gneisenau. Black Elk Speaks: Being the Life 
Story of a Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux. University of 
Nebraska Press. 1988.

"Rock Me to Sleep, Mother." Words by Florence Percy (pseud. 
for Elizabeth Akers Allen); music by Sir Julius 
Benedict. The Parllour Song Book. Boston: Russell & 
Pate. 1860.

Stratton, Johanna L. Pioneer Women: Voices from the Kansas 
Frontier. Simon and Schuster. 1982.

Verne, Jules. Five Weeks in a Balloon. France: Pierre-Jules 
Hetzel. 1863.

Walker, James R. Lakota Belief and Ritual. University of 
Nebraska Press. 1980.


END NOTES: For years I've been hearing that historical AUs are 
by definition out of character (OOC) because the time in which 
the characters live necessarily shapes who they are. In other 
words, 19th Century Mulder cannot possibly be the same man as 
present-day Mulder by virtue of their vastly different 
experiences. This argument presented a challenge I couldn't 
resist: place the characters in a historical setting while 
keeping them as true to their original selves as possible. 
Whether or not I succeeded is up to the reader, of course, but 
whatever the case, I enjoyed the exercise. I also enjoyed 
trying my hand at Historical AU, a genre I never, ever thought 
I would write. Just goes to prove, never say never.

http://akajake.net
nejake@tds.net