From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Sun, 12 Apr 2009 06:36:47 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: The Mountain Man (NC-17, 1/12) by aka \"Jake\"
Source: direct

Reply To: nejake@tds.net


Title: The Mountain Man -- PART 1
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 naive 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 to be more practical. 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 fiance. Given their similar 
features, they were 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 anything?" 

"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 to the old man 
recount the legends of 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 transformed 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 Ookaan 
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. "Tsa kaanistaopiihpa?" 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?"

"Soka'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."

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4...

-------

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, you might say."

"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 Ookaan 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 Ookaan 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 Ookaan 
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 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.  

"More like '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 frere."

"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 
territory. 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 twisted 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 and 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."

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5...

-------

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. 
Nitsikhhihkinii'taki. I am sad. Nitaiksimsstatawa ninna. 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. Ikimopii." 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 Aohkii, 
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 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 below 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."

"So it would seem."

"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, 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."

"I'm not sure I follow." 

"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 a woman?"

"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!" 

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6...

-------

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 murky 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, Ponoka." 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. Ponoka 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 the 
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, Ponoka." 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 Ponoka'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.

Ponoka 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. Ponoka 
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. 

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7...

-------

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 seances, 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...?" 

"Not at all. Go ahead."

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 Ookaan 
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 didn'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.

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 8...

-------

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 
decolletage 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. 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. Her scalp prickled. Her pulse thudded in her 
ears. 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 fiancee!" 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, Ponoka." Mulder carefully guided the horse around 
a series of boulders.

"Ponoka?"

"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. 
Ponoka 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 Ponoka 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 Ponoka 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.

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 9...