From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Tue, 14 Apr 2009 06:00:30 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: The Mountain Man (NC-17, 7/12) by aka Jake
Source: direct

-------

Chapter 9

Mulder clutched his right side as he steered Ponoka out of the 
woods into the field beside his cabin. Sisomm ran to greet 
him, tail wagging.

"Nice to know somebody's glad to see me." He stopped the 
horse. Easing a leg over Ponoka's back, he slid from the 
saddle to the ground. 

Pain arrowed his ribs and nearly buckled his knees. 
Suppressing a groan, he shuffled to the stream to wash his 
injuries. Unsaddling the horse would have to wait. Ponoka 
wandered off to a patch of tall grass to graze.  

It had been years since Mulder last endured a beating without 
lifting a finger in his own defense. The hand raised against 
him that time had been his father's. But boxed ears and a 
cracked molar seemed insignificant given the offense. It had 
been his responsibility to watch Samantha, keep her safe while 
his parents were out, but he failed to protect her. Regret 
churned his gut as violently now as the day she disappeared. 

He drew his pistol from its holster and placed it on the flat 
stone beside the stream where he usually set his shaving kit 
and soap. Fully dressed, he waded in and lowered himself into 
the pool beneath the falls. Icy water poured over his scalp 
and shoulders, numbing his bruised flesh and helping cool his 
temper.  

Unfortunately, it did nothing to cool his interest in Dana 
Scully.

Her physical injuries -- the black eye, the twisted ankle -- 
were not his doing and on that count Bill Scully's wrath was 
unwarranted. However, Mulder had placed her in his bed, then 
stripped her of her dress and stockings while she lay 
unconscious. In his mind, he then laid with her all night, 
without promise of marriage or declaration of love. He was no 
gentleman in his fantasies. And it was for that he deserved a 
punch in the jaw. 

Which was precisely why he had not fought Bill Scully. He may 
loathe the man's politics, but he completely understood his 
fraternal instincts. Mulder would have reacted the same way, 
given similar circumstances. It was a brother's duty to 
protect his sister against all threats. 

So Mulder took his licks, hoping with each painful blow that 
his yearning for Dana Scully might diminish. Trouble was, it 
didn't. Common sense, and his throbbing skull, said to let her 
go, forget about her. But his body and, strangely, his heart 
still felt a keen attraction. Maybe more so now than before 
he'd gotten his ass kicked. Which made no sense, but could 
explain why he'd foolishly told her he'd "be around." 

Idiot. It had been a pathetic show of defiance and bravado, he 
realized now, intended to let Bill -- and Skinner -- know that 
he had no intention of being run off, although only a week 
ago, before he ever met the diminutive Doctor Scully, he was 
perfectly content to live alone in the hills, as far from 
civilization as he could crawl. 

And now? He had an inexplicable urge to move to town, buy a 
house, and raise a horde of red-haired children. 

He sank beneath the stream's surface until the water covered 
his head. His long hair floated veil-like in the current. 
Blood curled in ribbons from his split lip.

As pretty as she was, it was Dana Scully's intellect he found 
most appealing, he thought as he watched blood-tinted bubbles 
sift from his nose. Educated and straightforward, she was 
willing to speak her mind, form her own opinions. Opinions 
that ran counter to his for the most part, but that was all 
right; he liked being challenged.     

Not that it mattered what he liked or didn't like. She was 
Skinner's intended, which made her unavailable. End of story.

Chilled to the marrow and needing air, he rose up with a gasp. 
Sisomm came running at the sound and splashed into the stream.

"Whoa, slow down!" Mulder said too late. Sisomm was on him, 
weighting him down and licking his face. "I like you, too, but 
your claws are sharp. Ow! That's enough!"

The dog stopped his lapping, tilted his head, and stared at 
Mulder.

"I don't look that bad, do I?" Mulder nudged him away and rose 
on unsteady legs. Water drained off him. "You should see the 
other guy."

Sisomm whined and nosed Mulder's unscathed knuckles.

"Haven't you ever read Shakespeare? 'The better part of 
valor,' and all that." He ruffled the dog's fur. "Point out my 
cowardice again and you'll find yourself pulling a travois for 
the Cree."

He retrieved his gun from the rock and headed to the cabin. 
Sisomm trotted after him. 

Inside, Mulder peeled off his vest and let it drop to the 
floor with a wet plop. He examined his right side. A bruise 
the size of his palm blackened the skin there. He gently 
prodded each rib, testing for breaks. They ached like a son of 
a bitch, but the bones seemed intact. 

He unbuckled and removed his gun belt and set it, along with 
his pistol, on the table, then sank down onto one of the 
benches. Tugging off his boots took more effort than he 
expected. Wincing, he upended both and drained them of water. 
Sisomm came over to lap at the puddle.

"Drink up." He let the boots thud to the floor. "That's what I 
plan to do, as soon as I can remember where I put that jug of 
Frohike's homebrew."

He yanked off his soaked wool socks, bunched them together, 
and wrung them out, adding more water to the floor, then 
tossed them aimlessly across the room. Standing up sent a 
fresh bolt of pain to his ribs. He tried to ignore it as he 
unfastened and stripped off his trousers. These he left lying 
on the floor, too, and walked naked to the nightstand. He 
picked up his shaving mirror to inspect his battered face. 

His lower lip was split and swollen, and still seeped blood. 
Dana Scully was right -- it could have used a stitch. Bruises 
mottled his jaw. Cuts and scrapes crisscrossed his left cheek 
and brow. Blood leaked from one nostril, but luckily his nose 
had escaped a direct hit, so remained unbroken. 

A lump on the back of his skull smarted when he probed it. It 
felt huge -- bigger than the duck egg he had eaten for 
breakfast -- but no matter how he turned his head or held the 
mirror, he could not see it. Frustrated, he quit trying and 
tossed the mirror onto the bed. 

It landed next to Dana Scully's stockings and garters. He 
plucked one garter from the crumpled blankets, remembering how 
he had slipped it from her leg, drew her stocking down, 
coveted the curve of her knee and swell of her thigh. More 
than anything, he had wanted to peek beneath her lace-trimmed 
bloomers--

God above, Bill Scully had every right to punch him. 

He gathered up the other garter and the stockings, intending 
to throw them in the fire. Burn 'em, he told himself. Forget 
Dana Scully ever existed. 

Sound advice, but he opened the trunk at the foot of his bed 
instead, and tucked her things beneath his favorite pair of 
fringed leggings. 

"Out of sight, out of mind, right?" he asked Sisomm. 

Sisomm dragged a stick of kindling from the hearth and dropped 
it at Mulder's bare feet, begging for a game of fetch.

"Not now, boy. As much as I'd like to stay and play -- or 
drink myself into a stupor -- I've got a couple of errands to 
run." 

The gunpowder and munitions caps The Eye had left at Buffalo 
Jump were still in his saddlebag. Along with the Jefferson 
Peace Medal he had promised Few Tails he would deliver to 
Captain Scully. He would visit Kicking Horse first, drop off 
the ammo, then continue on to the fort.

The prospect of running into Dana Scully again prompted him to 
grab a clean shirt and trousers from the wardrobe. He dressed 
quickly, then combed his hair and tied it back with a rawhide 
lace. He dug out a pair of dry boots from beneath his bed. 
They were covered with road dust and wood ash, so he buffed 
the toes with his shirtsleeve before putting them on. Should 
he shave, too? 

No, it would be hell scraping a razor over his bruised jaw. 
He'd end up looking worse than he did now. He gathered his gun 
belt from the table and strapped it on. Reaching for his 
pistol, he spotted two saloon tokens beside his voodoo doll.

"How did those get...?" He glanced at Sisomm. "You know 
anything about this?"

The dog yawned.

Mulder smiled. He believed in fate. The tokens would buy him a 
bath -- a real bath -- and a haircut. He palmed the coins. 

"Don't wait up," he called over his shoulder and headed out 
the door. "I may be gone awhile."

*   *   *

"I don't need an escort." Dana brushed aside Lieutenant 
Skinner's offer to accompany her into her parents' house. 
"From anyone." She glared at her brothers.

Charlie ignored her scowl and took her elbow. "Dana, please 
don't be angry. What were we to think?" He guided her up the 
steps to their father's front door.

"You could have trusted me."

"It wasn't you we didn't trust."

"You had no reason to doubt Mr. Mulder's motives. Besides, I 
can take care of myself. I'm not a child."

"I understand that. But Bill and I love you, Dana. You can't 
expect us to stop worrying about you."

"I expect you treat me like an adult." She shook free of his 
hand and turned to look back at the others. "That goes for all 
of you."

Bill stood beside his horse, fists clenched, face purple with 
unspent fury. Skinner stared not at her, but at some distant, 
unseen place beyond the fort's stockade fence. His customarily 
spotless uniform was mud-spattered and dusty. He seemed both 
miserable and humiliated, and she was unsure if his emotions 
were directed inward at himself or outward at her. Of one 
thing she was certain: he wished to be anywhere but here.

She opened the front door and found Cap and Maggie waiting 
just inside.

"I suppose you intend to chastise me, too," she said, plowing 
past them to the stairs.   

Her father called out her name, concern tempering his shout, 
but Dana ignored him and went straight to her room to change 
out of her torn, filthy clothes. She was going to the 
infirmary to start work there as soon as she washed up, and 
would not be talked out of it.

The first garment she removed was Mr. Mulder's shirt, which 
had concealed the worst damage to her own clothes. Imagine 
Bill's reaction if he had caught sight of her chemisette in 
tatters, corset and bare flesh exposed. Mr. Mulder might very 
well be lying dead at the bottom of Nine Pipe Ridge right now, 
rather than nursing his wounds back at his cabin.

She wondered again how badly he was hurt. Were his ribs 
broken? His skull fractured? At a minimum, he needed stitches 
to close the cut on his lip. Without them, there would be a 
scar.

A fine thank you he had received for the help he provided. He 
must regret their chance meeting altogether. And if not for 
his parting words, she would think he was glad to be rid of 
her.

"I'll be around," he had said. His promise filled her with 
hope. She lifted his shirt to her nose and, once again, 
breathed in his scent, which still lingered in the fabric. It 
brought a clear picture of him to her mind, not as he looked 
when they last parted, but on his horse beside the Missouri 
River, wearing buckskin and feathers, sitting tall in his 
saddle, eyes focused on her. A pleasant shiver ran through her 
at the memory. 

Time to stop daydreaming like a schoolgirl and get down to 
business. She folded his shirt and tucked it away in the 
bottom of her wardrobe, then stripped to her corset and 
pantaloons. She filled the washbasin from the pitcher. Working 
up a lather of soap, she scrubbed the last traces of grime and 
blood from her skin. 

It wasn't until she unrolled a pair of clean stockings that 
she remembered she had left her dirty, torn ones at the cabin, 
along with her garters. It was no real loss. The stockings 
were so full of holes that they were practically worthless. 
And she was hopeless at darning. 

She put on the fresh stockings, then slipped a plain, dark 
brown day dress over her head. She laid out her doctor's smock 
on the bed along with a simple, pointed brim bonnet in shirred 
silk. She would go without gloves, convention be damned. They 
were impractical when examining patients or performing 
surgery.

Her hair was a mess. She removed the lacing she had stolen 
from Mr. Mulder's snowshoe and unknotted her long braid. Ten 
minutes of vigorous brushing brought back her hair's glossy 
sheen. She parted it straight down the middle, taking care 
that no strays created a crooked appearance, then smoothed the 
sides as best she could. With practiced hands, she twisted a 
conservative roll at the back of her neck and pinned it firmly 
in place with combs. Slipping into her smock, she was ready at 
last.      

Bonnet in hand, she went downstairs to the front hall. Her 
father and brothers were gone, but her mother was waiting for 
her there, blocking the door.

"Mother, let me pass, please."

"You should be in bed, sweetheart."

"I slept quite soundly last night, thank you."

"Your family didn't sleep a wink. We were awake worrying about 
you. Or don't you care about that?" 

"Of course I care," she said, meaning it. "But you had no 
reason to be concerned." 

"You're my daughter," she said, as if that explained 
everything.

"Do you worry about your sons the way you worry about me?"

They both knew this was not the case. The boys came and went 
as they pleased, no questions asked. No one cared that Charlie 
stayed out all night, nor did they fret over Bill's safety, 
although both men were often gone for days at a time. It was 
unfair. 

Dana put on her bonnet and tied the ribbons beneath her chin.

"Please step aside, Mother."

Tears filled Maggie's eyes. "Tell me where you're going."

"To work."

"I don't understand..." Maggie looked genuinely perplexed.

"I'm sure you don't." 

"You've just been through a terrible ordeal."

"It wasn't all bad, Mother." 

In fact, some moments had been almost pleasant. Like riding on 
Ponoka, Mr. Mulder's bare chest pressed against her back, his 
muscled arm tight around her waist.

Pushing past her mother, Dana opened the door and stepped out 
onto the porch. Maggie followed her.

"Don't you at least want some breakfast, dear?" she asked.

"I've already eaten, thank you." Dana started to walk away, 
then changed her mind, turned and hugged her mother. "I'm 
fine," she murmured against Maggie's soft cheek. "Honestly."

Maggie clung to her. "I love you, sweetheart. You're my baby. 
I just want you safe."

"I know and I am. I love you, too, Mom. But you have to let me 
grow up. Can you do that?" Dana pulled back to look into her 
mother's worried eyes. "Please."

"I'll try." 

"That's all I'm asking." She released her mother. "I'll be 
back in time for dinner."

Her mother nodded, so Dana left her standing there on the 
front step, biting her lip and wringing her hands. 



The Fort Culbertson Infirmary was located across the green 
from The Picayune. A dwarfish man with spectacles and 
muttonchop side-whiskers waved to her through his dusty window 
as she drew near. He was flanked by two other men: a bearded 
gentleman wearing a checked sack suit and a scruffier sort 
with long blond hair. The first man pointed to his eye and 
then at her, his grizzled brows raised in alarm. She granted 
him a tiny smile to acknowledge his concern for her injury, 
then continued on. 

Her bruises drew stares from the enlisted men, too, as they 
practiced drills on the parade ground. Twice their sergeant 
had to scold them for lack of attention. She was relieved when 
she finally entered the infirmary, away from prying eyes.

The infirmary's main room was approximately twenty feet 
square, dimly lit, and its plank floor was in need of a good 
scrubbing. There were eight cots arranged along the walls. 
Only one was currently occupied by a patient, a miserable 
looking man with a bandage slung beneath his chin and knotted 
atop his crown, giving the impression of rabbit ears. The room 
smelled of alcohol, sweat, and dirty linens. Most people would 
recoil from the foul odor, but to Dana it felt like a 
homecoming. This was precisely where she belonged.

She straightened her smock and went to the sick man. She 
guessed his age to be around fifty. Sparse hair fuzzed his 
otherwise bald scalp, giving him the appearance of a dandelion 
gone to seed. He had a bulbous nose, double chin stubbled with 
gray, and lips shaped like Cupid's bow. Most prominent, 
however, were his overly swollen cheeks.

"How are you feeling?" She touched the back of her hand to his 
brow. His skin burned with fever.

"Better than you, miss, by the looks of it." He eyeballed her 
bruised face. Two missing incisors gave his speech a slight 
lisp. 

"I look worse than I feel," she assured him. "I'm Doctor 
Scully, by the way. The fort's new physician."

"Didn't realize we was gettin' a new doc. 'Specially not such 
a purty one, shiner aside."

"What's your name, soldier?" She probed his neck. "Does this 
hurt?"

"Ow! Yes. Name's Phillips, miss. Sergeant Phillips. You a real 
doctor?"

"Yes, I'm a real doctor. I graduated from Hobart College in 
New York." 

"They let women into colleges back east?"

"They do. Have you been experiencing chills, headache, loss of 
appetite, fatigue?"

"Yes, miss. All them things. Can I have some whiskey? It'd 
make me feel a whole lot better." He grinned, exposing the gap 
in his teeth.

"We'll see. Let's finish your examination first."

"I got mumps. Least-wise, that's what the corporal says."

"The corporal?"

"Beckett. He's back there in the office." The sergeant nodded 
toward a side door.

Odd that Cap had not mentioned the name, or the fact that the 
fort already had a doctor. "Is Corporal Beckett a physician?"

"He worked the ambulance corps in Antietam, under Letterman. 
Was a stretcher-bearer mostly, but said he sometimes set bones 
and the like."

"I see." It surprised her how relieved she was to learn this 
Corporal Beckett was not a bona fide doctor. "Are you able to 
keep food down? Have you experienced any seizures?"

"I ain't throwed up. No spells neither, that I know of."

Good, the lack of these more serious symptoms indicated there 
was no brain fever.  

"How about orchitis?" she asked.

"Dunno who that is, Doc."

"Not who. What." Nearly a fourth of all men who developed 
mumps experienced orchitis -- painful inflammation of the 
testicles. "I need to check you for swelling, Sergeant 
Phillips."

"Ain't it obvious I got that?" He pointed a pudgy finger at 
the bandage cradling his chin.

"Yes, but I need to examine the parts I can't see."

"Sorry, Doc, I don't care what fancy school you went to -- you 
ain't gonna slice me open." He looked appalled.

"I'm not talking about surgery, Sergeant. I need to examine 
your testicles."

"Say again? You wanna look at my privates?"

"Yes. Actually, I'll need to touch them."

His expression of horror evaporated. "Well, you do that and I 
guarantee you'll encounter some swellin'." He winked at her.   

"You have a serious condition, Sergeant." She folded back his 
blanket. "The outcome of mumps is unpredictable in adult men. 
It can sometimes lead to testicular atrophy and sterility."

"What's that you say?"

"Shrinking of the testicles and the inability to father 
children." She probed his groin through his longjohns for 
enlarged lymph nodes. Cupping his scrotum, she gave a gentle 
squeeze. "Does this hurt?"

"I wouldn't describe it as hurtin', zactly." He grinned. "Do I 
got 'em? Them orchid things?"

"Orchitis. No, Sergeant, the news is good. Your mumps have not 
spread." She drew the blanket back over him.

"That's a relief. Not that I was plannin' to have any more 
young'uns -- I already got eleven and a couple of grandkids, 
too. But that part about shrinkin' didn't sound too good."

"Not to worry. You're fine. I want you to gargle with warm 
salt water twice a day, eat only soft foods, and take extra 
fluids. Avoid fruit, tomatoes, and other acidic foods and 
drinks, since these stimulate the salivary glands."

"That a bad thing?"

"It can be painful, yes." She poured him a glass of water from 
a pitcher on the stand beside his cot. "No milk or cheese, as 
they can be difficult to digest."

"What *can* I eat?"

"Porridge, boiled potatoes, broth." She handed him the glass. 
"Your symptoms should disappear in a few days. Most patients 
recover completely with no aftereffects."

"That's good news, Doc." He drank down the water and handed 
her back the empty glass. "Now can I have some whiskey?"

"With your lunch."

"When's that gonna be?"

"Soon, I promise."

"Thank you, miss, er, I mean Doc. For everythin'." He smiled 
broadly, plumping his cheeks even more. "This's been the best 
day I've had since joinin' the army!"  

Assured he was comfortable, she took her leave. She was eager 
to explore the rest of the infirmary, and meet Corporal 
Beckett, the stretcher-bearer turned "doctor." 

A small surgery was located just off the main ward. An 
operating table occupied the center of the room. Shelves 
containing bandages, needles, silk thread for ligatures, and 
surgical instruments lined one wall. A quick inventory of the 
instruments revealed amputating saws, bone nippers, knives, 
syringes, forceps, probangs, and catheters. She was pleased to 
find a fully stocked Snowden & Brother surgery kit, too, 
practically new. Inside the kit were the usual scalpels, 
scissors, bullet probes, and tourniquets. 

A glass-fronted medicine cabinet in one corner held bottles 
containing various powders and liquids. The labels listed 
standard remedies: opium, morphine, Dover's powder, quinine, 
rhubarb, Rochelle salts, castor oil, sugar of lead, tannin, 
sulphate of copper, sulphate of zinc, camphor, syrup of 
squills, alcohol, whiskey, brandy, port wine, and sherry. 

She was impressed. She had not expected the fort's infirmary 
to be so well provisioned.

Satisfied, she moved on to inspect the third and final room, 
her office.

She opened the door to find Corporal Beckett sitting with his 
feet propped up on the desk, reading a textbook.

"Pathology and Treatment of Venereal Diseases by Freeman J. 
Bumstead, M.D.," she read from the cover. "Do you treat many 
sexual diseases here at the fort, Corporal?"

"Do you have one?" He lowered the book to look at her. He was 
a pasty-skinned man in his mid-thirties, with boney features, 
a bristly mustache, and jet black hair. "You don't dress like 
the other girls."

"Other girls?"

"Les nymphes de la prairie."

"That's because I don't work in a brothel, Corporal. And if I 
may speak frankly, you don't dress like the other soldiers."

He wore his uniform frock coat with the standing collar turned 
down, like a lapel coat. His vest was unbuttoned, exposing the 
pin tucks of his pleated shirt front. Its detached collar lay 
on the desk, next to his cravat and a copy of "Lectures on 
Venereal Diseases" by William Hammond, Surgeon General of the 
U.S. Army.

He caught her staring at the book. "I'm sometimes called upon 
to treat the citizenry of Flatwillow."

"The women at the saloon."

"Yes, I examine them, on occasion. Free of charge, courtesy of 
the United States government."

"How generous of you."

"Syphilis is a serious threat. An outbreak among the soldiers 
could prove disastrous." 

"War is a dangerous occupation." 

"Indeed. I must be vigilant. The Army is at risk."

"Clearly, you're carrying out your patriotic duty."  

"Yes. Exactly so." He gave a quick nod and slid his feet from 
the desk to the floor. He slapped the book with his palm. 
"It's imperative we stop the threat at its source."

"The brothel."

"Specifically, the soiled doves who work there."

"The women are to blame?"

"Who else?"

"Corporal, how do you imagine those women came to be infected 
with the disease in the first place?"

"Loose morals, obviously." Pursing his lips, he arranged the 
textbooks square to the edge of the desk.  

"What are your credentials, Corporal Beckett? As a medical 
man, I mean."

"Letterman Ambulance Plan, miss, Army of the Potomac."

"You collected wounded from the field, brought them to the 
dressing station, then took them to the field hospital."

"That and more."

"Have you had any formal medical training?"

"At a school? No. Didn't need to. I received adequate training 
through experience. Treated hundreds of wounded soldiers. It 
taught me all I know." He smiled at her. "Is there something I 
can do for you, Miss...?"

"Forgive me, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Doctor Scully, 
the fort's new physician." 

"Doctor Scul--?" His eyes widened. "You wouldn't be related to 
the captain, would you, miss?"

"As a matter fact, he's my father."

"And Lieutenant Scully--"

"Is my older brother. Yes."

Corporal Beckett's Adam's apple bobbed above his collarless 
shirt. He rose from the chair and quickly fastened the top 
button of his vest, leaving the waist gaping. "I beg your 
pardon, Miss Scully." 

"Doctor Scully."

"Yes, right," -- he gave a slight bow -- "Doctor Scully."

"May I sit at my desk?" she asked.

"Of course." He stepped aside and gestured toward the chair. 

She brushed past him and took a seat.

"You can leave now, Corporal," she said when he continued to 
stare at her. "But be back at 6:00 p.m."

"Six?"

"Yes, you're on night duty until further notice."

"But--"

"If you need to hear those orders from Captain Scully himself, 
I can arrange it."

"No, that won't be necessary." He started to salute, then 
realized his mistake and exited the room without further 
comment.

Alone, she leaned back and took a deep breath. This was her 
office. Her chair. Her bookshelves, medical texts, and 
logbook. Daniel Waterston would be proud of her, even if her 
family was not. She was a practicing physician in a real 
hospital. Her dream had come true, at last. 

As silly as it seemed, the desk pleased her most. It was old 
and small, but it was hers. She caressed its scratched 
mahogany surface, then sorted through the contents of each 
drawer. "A Practical Treatise on Factures and Dislocations" by 
Frank Hamilton, M. D.; "Handbook for the Military Surgeon" by 
Charles Tripler and George Blackman; "Anatomy of the Arteries 
of the Human Body" by John H. Power. Great physicians all. 

Smiling, she opened the logbook to review the patient records. 
Her smile quickly faded. Names and dates went back two years, 
but the entries contained so little information they filled 
fewer than two dozen pages. Most illnesses and injuries were 
described in amateurish terms, with no reference to cause or 
result: rash on chest; cut on arm; fever. The treatments, when 
listed, sounded inadequate or downright harmful. 

"Sloppy work, Corporal Beckett," she murmured, dipping a quill 
into the inkwell. He would receive a stern lecture for his 
lackadaisical methods. Putting pen to paper, she wrote a 
thorough account of Sergeant Phillips' condition in the log.

The day passed quickly, almost without her notice. She fed 
Sergeant Phillips, allowed him a small dose of whiskey, and 
periodically checked on him. While he dozed, she worked in the 
back rooms, inventorying and organizing supplies, 
straightening shelves, and dusting off the small library of 
books. She felt most at home in the surgery and spent several 
hours there sorting through the medicines and polishing 
instruments.

Around 5:30, the sound of boot heels announced a visitor in 
the ward. A man spoke in a low voice to the sick sergeant. She 
put down her cleaning rag, smoothed her smock, and went to 
investigate.

"You're early Corporal-- Oh. It's you."

Walter Skinner, not Corporal Beckett, stood beside the 
sergeant's bed. He cut a dashing figure in his impeccable 
uniform, gleaming officer's saber, and crimson sash. He had 
changed out of his muddy coat and trousers. Polished his 
boots. Shaved his face and even trimmed his mustache. 

"Doctor Scully." He removed his hat.

"Lieutenant." She had not expected to see him so soon after 
their argument and felt unprepared for an encounter. 
Especially here, in front of the sergeant, who watched them 
with great curiosity. 

Skinner appeared equally uncomfortable. "May we go somewhere 
else to talk?" he asked.

"Corporal Beckett doesn't return until 6:00. I can't..." She 
glanced at the sergeant. 

"Of course," Skinner said. "I'll just wait here until you're 
free to go then."

"Here?"

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

"The sergeant needs his rest."

"I ain't tired, doc. Been sleepin' most of the afternoon."

"You're more tired than you know."

"I'm wide awake. Feelin' real dandy. You need to check me fer 
orchids again?" 

"No." She turned to Skinner. "I must insist you leave, 
Lieutenant."

He nodded and fitted his hat to his head. "In that case, I'll 
be back at 6:00. I have something I want to show you."   

Her stomach knotted for no logical reason. Her heart thudded 
foolishly. "I-I'll see you then."

*   *   *

Kicking Horse was chief to a band of two-hundred Blackfoot 
summering along the banks of Miin Creek. He became chief the 
way most did, by demonstrating leadership in ceremonies and 
success in battle. In order to procure a steady supply of food 
and ensure the safety of his people, he regularly fought the 
Cree to the north and, when forced, the whites to the south. 

He was a wealthy man, as Indians went. At sixty years of age, 
he owned many horses and had three wives, four daughters, six 
sons, and more than a dozen grandchildren. He enjoyed life's 
simple pleasures, like a fine pipe, a warm campfire, a hearty 
meal, and a good joke. He was a convincing orator and an 
accomplished spinner of tales. He claimed to have seen the Two 
Faces of Truth, for which Mulder was envious. Intelligent, 
sharp witted, and resilient, Kicking Horse had proved himself 
time and again to be an admirable provider and a loyal friend, 
generous to kin and members of his tribe. 

The chief welcomed Mulder cheerfully whenever he visited, 
inviting him to spend the night in his lodge and share both 
pipe and food. His kindness was due in part to his gregarious 
nature, but also because Mulder supplied him with information 
about the increasing influx of whites, and weapons to help 
defend against the Cree and soldiers from the fort. More than 
that, however, he seemed to genuinely like Mulder. And Mulder 
liked him in return.

"I wish I had more for you." Mulder unloaded the small keg of 
gunpowder and tin of munitions caps from his saddlebags.

"I am grateful for whatever you bring, Ohko." Kicking Horse 
directed Mulder into his tepee. Inside, he stored the items. 
"Sit. Smoke with me. My daughters will prepare us something to 
eat."

In short order, Little Bird and Spotted Rabbit arrived with 
roasted venison, service berries, and honey.

"My daughters grow prettier with each sunrise, do they not?" 
Kicking Horse beamed with pride as the young women served the 
food.  

The chief was continually trying to interest Mulder in one or 
both of his youngest girls, daughters by his third wife. 
Little Bird and Spotted Rabbit were approaching marriageable 
age and Kicking Horse was eager to find them suitable 
husbands. 

Spotted Rabbit's cheeks dimpled when she smiled. Her hand 
grazed Mulder's as she passed him a basket of frybread. Her 
skin was soft and her dark eyes shone.

Little Bird was shier than her older sister, but no less 
lovely. She wore a sleeveless tunic that showed off smooth 
shoulders and shapely arms. When she leaned close to fill 
Mulder's plate with tanka-me-a-lo, buffalo stew, he caught a 
whiff of her sweetgrass necklace and the bear's grease she 
combed into her hair to make it shine.

"They're both very beautiful," Mulder agreed with the chief. 

Kicking Horse nodded, then pointed to Mulder's split lip. "Not 
like you. You are not looking so well."

"I, uh, ran into a door."

"I think you ran into trouble. Did the soldiers from the fort 
do this?"

"Yes, but not for the reasons you might think."

"Do not risk yourself on our behalf, Ohko. I have grown fond 
of you."

Spotted Rabbit heaped more meat onto Mulder's plate.

"Whoa, that's enough," he objected.

Kicking Horse elbowed Mulder. "It seems my daughter has grown 
fond of you, too." 

The women flirted with Mulder throughout the meal. They 
competed with each other to be the first to refill his plate 
or offer him more bread and honey. The chief told stories as 
they ate, and Mulder was quickly caught up in his tales. By 
the time the last of the food was cleared away and Kicking 
Horse had lit his pipe, Mulder was feeling both sated and 
relaxed. He leaned back on his elbows, stomach full. He sighed 
with contentment.   

"It has been a good day," Kicking Horse said, puffing on his 
pipe.

"Yes."

"Will you be staying the night?"

"No, I have to go soon."

"You are always on the move. Like a coyote."

"Not true. I spend a lot of time holed up in my cabin."

"You should take my daughters back to your cabin with you."

Startled by the chief's suggestion, Mulder straightened. "Take 
them to my cabin?" The question squeaked from his throat. 

"Yes. They can keep you company. Cook for you. Scrape hides. 
Carry firewood. Make you forget about the pains of your 
flesh." Kicking Horse poked Mulder's bruised ribs. "After a 
few days, you will choose which you like best and marry her."

"Uh..." Mulder cleared his throat, looking for a way out 
without insulting the chief. "Suppose I like them both 
equally?" 

"Then marry them both!" 

"As tempting as that sounds, Chief, I...I'm not going back to 
my cabin tonight. I have business in town."

"This business cannot wait a day or two?"

Mulder shook his head.

The chief frowned. "You have been kata'yoohtsimi too long."

"Kata'yoohtsimi?" Mulder was unfamiliar with the word.

"A man who does not marry."

Ah, a bachelor. "I've had a hard time finding a woman willing 
to tolerate my rather unorthodox ways."

"Maybe there is no white woman like this. But a Pikuni wife is 
more understanding." He offered the pipe to Mulder. "A good 
wife can calm a man's soul. Keep him from getting into fights. 
My daughters could show you this."

"Thank you, Chief." Mulder waved away the pipe and stood. "I 
appreciate your offer and will keep it in mind."

"Good. Next time you visit, we will talk of it again."

*    *   *

"Where are we going?" Dana spurred her chestnut mare to keep 
pace with Skinner's lively, silver-gray stallion. 

"It's a surprise." A hint of a smile curled Skinner's lips. 
The feather in his hat bobbed with each jostling stride of his 
horse. 

"I don't particularly like surprises."

"You'll like this one."

"You seem quite sure of yourself."

His smile faded. "It's my hope you'll like it."

She was still angry with him for his appalling behavior 
earlier in the day. Clearly, he was prepared to put the 
incident behind them, but she was not. A gulf had widened 
between them and if he expected to win back her favor, he had 
a difficult course ahead of him. 

They rode south for almost two miles, Flatwillow and the fort 
at their backs, the Missouri River and the Rockies' limestone 
cliffs to their right, nothing but open prairie ahead and to 
the east. Late afternoon sun painted the rolling landscape 
pale gold, while growing shadows swallowed the lowlands 
between the mountains and the water. 

At last, Skinner slowed his horse and pointed. "There it is."

On a bluff overlooking the river and facing the mountains 
stood a two-story farmhouse. Sturdily built, it appeared brand 
new. A fresh coat of paint brightened the clapboard siding and 
window trim. A central chimney rose straight and tall from the 
gabled roof. Sunlight gilded the front windows, giving the 
impression that lamps burned in every room.

"Who lives there?" Dana asked.

"No one, at the moment." 

They rode up to the front porch. Skinner dismounted and tied 
his horse to the rail.

"Are we going inside?" she asked from atop her horse.

"I want you to see it." He extended a hand to help her down.

Ignoring his gallantry, she dismounted without his help. A 
twinge of pain shot up her leg when her foot hit the ground. 
She gasped, giving away her distress.

"Please, don't be stubborn." He offered his arm.

"I'll be as stubborn as I like." 

She limped to the front steps, unaided. 

He followed her up onto the veranda, which extended the full 
length of the house. Simple scrolled brackets topped the 
chamfered posts that supported the roof. Turned balusters 
added a touch of elegance to an otherwise plain porch rail. 
The floorboards were clear pine, each nearly two feet wide.    

His boot heels thumped against the planks as he strode to the 
front door, which was set to the far left of the facade, not 
in the center. Grasping the iron handle, he swung the door 
open.

"After you." 
  
She stepped past him into a long, narrow hall. On the left, a 
staircase connected to an upper story. The stair treads were 
bare, unvarnished wood, as was the unpretentious banister and 
rail. The construction appeared first-rate, the joints tight, 
the trim laboriously sanded. The smell of freshly milled 
lumber filled the house.

Wainscoting wrapped the foyer's lower walls. The upper portion 
was plaster and lath, unadorned by paper, paint, or family 
portraits. None of the usual furnishings crowded the entryway; 
no carpet decorated the new, pale floor. 

"Go on," he urged. "Look around."

She peered through the door to her right. Golden light flooded 
the empty room, an airy parlor with ample windows and a large 
fireplace flanked by bookshelves. A collection of carpenter's 
tools sat in the center of the room. A broom leaned against 
one wall, next to a tidy pile of wood shavings and sawdust.   

"The chimney drafts well," he said, crossing to it. A small 
amount of soot blackened the brick beneath the grate. He 
reached a hand into the firebox and rattled the damper.

"You've tried it?" 

"Of course." He clapped ash from his hands. The sound echoed 
off the room's hard surfaces. "Want to see more?"

She nodded, wondering about the lieutenant's motives and 
hoping the owner of the property would not mind strangers 
wandering through.

She trailed Skinner down the hall to the rear of the house. On 
the left was a generously sized dining room with multi-shelved 
china cabinets built into two corners. 

Opening one of the cabinet doors, she stroked its smooth, wood 
panel and marveled at the brass hardware and leaded glass. 
"These were finely built."

Staring past her at the cabinets, Skinner allowed himself 
another small smile. "Thank you."

"You built them?"

"Yes. I built this entire house." His smile grew broader. "Not 
without help, of course. I'm not much of a mason, but I enjoy 
woodworking. I've been poking away at it since early spring."

She scanned the carefully mitered trim, the finely plastered 
ceiling, and tightly fitted floorboards. The room was generous 
in size and bright with natural light, even this late in the 
day. Whoever had hired Skinner to build this for him had made 
a wise choice. "It's...it's beautiful."

Her praise pinked his cheeks. "Let me show you the rest."

He led her from the dining room through a door to a kitchen, a 
nearly square room dominated by a large fireplace with hooks 
for cooking pots and a spit for roasting.

"The window faces east." He pointed to the opposite wall. "It 
makes the room quite cheerful in the morning."

"I can imagine."

"There's a back entrance, too, as you can see." Motioning her 
across the room, he opened the door to a small porch.

Out in the yard, soil had been turned for a small garden plot 
to the left. Straight back, a path led to a privy. To the 
right was a large, newly constructed barn.

"Would you like to see the upstairs before we tour the barn?" 
he asked.

"Yes, certainly."

They retraced their steps to the front hall. He allowed her to 
lead the way up the stairs.

The upper landing opened onto another hall that ran the length 
of the second story. 

"Turn left," he suggested.

She did and soon found herself in a small bedroom at the rear 
of the house, the perfect size for a child or servant. A 
ventilation grate in the floor looked down onto the dining 
room below. A connecting door led to a second bedroom, 
slightly larger than the first, above the kitchen. They walked 
through. Like the previous room, this one had a window 
overlooking the barn and backyard.

"This would make a good nursery, don't you think?" he asked.

"I suppose it would." She pictured a crib and rocking chair, 
and children's toys strewn about the floor. 

"You see, it connects to both the nurse's room," -- he nodded 
in the direction they had come -- "and the master bedchamber. 
This way."  

He ducked through a low door into what at first appeared to be 
a dead-end closet, but in fact continued straight through to a 
large front bedroom, positioned above the parlor downstairs.

Fingers of sunlight striped the bare walls and clean 
floorboards. Finely constructed cupboards flanked a large 
fireplace. A proper door led back out to the hall. Like the 
rest of the house, there was no furniture, but she could 
imagine a wardrobe, a washstand, a bed...

She moved to the windows, as far from the lieutenant as she 
could get, and looked out at the setting sun. The Missouri 
River flowed molten between the bluff and the blue-black 
mountains beyond. She wondered which jagged peak held Mr. 
Mulder's small cabin. How was her rescuer faring after his 
unwarranted beating? Were his ribs cracked? Did he suffer a 
concussion? His skull had hit hard against the ledge. He might 
be unconscious, laid out on his narrow bed, the bed where she 
had slept only last night.

She would ride out to check on him as soon as she finished her 
rounds at the infirmary in the morning.   

"There's a large linen closet just outside at the end of the 
hall," Skinner said, interrupting her thoughts, "and two 
smaller clothes presses. Room to comfortably accommodate a 
family of moderate size, wouldn't you say?"

"So it would seem."

"There's still a lot to do, obviously. A fence around the 
kitchen garden, lines strung for laundry, fields to plow, 
furniture to build, dishes to order...but it's a start. A good 
start. And if we're blessed with more children than these 
rooms can hold, well then, the gable at the side gives headway 
to the attic. I'll just need to add more stairs."

"We?" 

"Why, yes. I built this house for us. Ordered the main timbers 
the day after your father first spoke of you. What do you say? 
Can you imagine living here?"

He was getting ahead of himself, and she planned to tell him 
exactly that. Gathering her thoughts, she stared again at the 
mountains and tried to pick out Nine Pipe Ridge.

"Why didn't you come to Mr. Mulder's aid this morning?" 

"I thought he had caused you harm."

"Why did you assume the worst? Weren't you friends with him at 
one time?" She turned to face him.

"Yes, and I didn't assume the worst, not at first." He joined 
her at the window. "I spoke on Mulder's behalf to your father 
and brothers. I told them to trust him."

"Yet you took one look at me and blamed him."

"What was I to think? Look at you!" He reached out to stroke 
her cheek, but his fingers fell short of her bruised flesh. He 
let his arm drop. "I'm sorry. I was wrong."     

"It's Mr. Mulder who deserves your apology, not me."

"He'll get it soon enough, rest assured."

His tone was cryptic and she was uncertain what he meant by 
"soon enough."

"Your word as a gentleman?" she asked.

"On my word, yes. Now, may we talk of something else?"

"Yes, let's. There are a few more important issues we still 
need to discuss."

"Such as?"

"You said you ordered the main timbers for this house the day 
after my father first mentioned me to you. Why? We hadn't yet 
met. You didn't know a thing about me."

"I knew what your father told me."

"I suspect Father painted a wildly inaccurate picture."

"Not at all. We've met now and I am not disappointed." He 
attempted another smile. 

"You said yourself that Father mentioned nothing about my 
course of study."

"That's true."

"Or my wish to practice medicine."

"Also true." He tugged at his sash, although it did not need 
straightening. 

"Do these things matter to you or not? Tell me honestly, 
Lieutenant, what qualities are you looking for in a wife?"

"What most men want, I think. A companion, obviously. A mother 
for my boys. A keeper of my house and of my heart." He tagged 
her arm with the point of his finger. "And you? What is it you 
hope to find in a husband?"

This was her chance to be honest with him.

"Understanding...understanding that I am my own person with my 
own opinions and my own voice. I am hoping to find a man who 
can comprehend my desire to practice medicine, who supports me 
in that desire, and does not conspire to strip me of my dreams 
or my individual identity."

His eyes narrowed. 

She readied herself for an argument. "Did you hope I would 
forget about my ambitions the moment I saw this house? Or 
perhaps you believe you can control me after we are married. I 
do not wish to be handled, Lieutenant. I want to be treated as 
an equal."

She expected him to object, but he did not. Instead he grabbed 
her hand and tugged her toward the door. 

"Follow me, please." 

"Where are we going?" 

"The barn."

She reluctantly trailed him down the stairs, along the hall, 
and out the back of the house, wondering as she limped along 
about his intent.

Dying rays of daylight painted crimson streaks across the 
clouds between the mountaintops and the darkening heavens. 
Crickets whined in the rustling grass. 

She clung to hand as she followed him down the path. "What's 
in the barn?"

"Something that will clarify my position beyond all doubt."

She could not imagine how horse stalls and hay lofts might 
help him make his point, but she went with him anyway. He 
walked slowly, shortening his stride to accommodate her 
hobbling gait. His eyes never left her, yet he did not falter 
in the growing gloom. Clearly, he had traversed this path many 
times.  

At the barn, he released her hand and swung open the door to 
reveal a gleaming, rock-away buggy just inside.

The small carriage was designed to hold no more than two 
persons, and, should the riders be large men, the fit would be 
a tight one. Sliding glass sashes closed off both back and 
front from the weather. Roll-down curtains provided privacy 
all 'round. The top was trimmed in leather. The sides were 
painted a glossy black with delicate striping in yellow for 
ornamentation. A pair of top quality lamps graced the front. A 
partition behind the seat was just large enough to store a 
surgeon's kit.

"It's a physician's phaeton," Skinner explained when she did 
not speak.

"I know what it is. But what is it doing here?"

"I bought it for you. If you want it."

"If I want it?"

"Yes. Every doctor needs one, doesn't she?" 

Tears pricked her eyes. She felt overcome by his unexpected 
thoughtfulness and generosity. "Where did you get it? *When* 
did you get it?"

"This morning, after I dropped you off at your father's house. 
I rode immediately to Kingsbury Basin to make inquiries. As 
luck would have it, Dr. Blackwell was willing to sell me this 
one."

She circled the buggy. The seat was upholstered in deep blue 
morocco cloth, the cushion faces finished with silk lade.

"It's not brand new," he explained. "There wasn't time to 
order--"

"It's perfect." She ran a palm across the dash rail. "Does 
this mean...you accept my profession?"

"If I am to have you, it seems I must." He smiled. 

"You overwhelm me, sir."

"There's more."

"More?"

"Inside the buggy. On the floor."

She peered into the phaeton. Hidden in the shadows beneath the 
bench was a small, hinged wooden box about two inches square. 
She picked it up. Two carefully carved doves decorated the 
finely worked lid.

"What's this?"

"Open it."

She lifted the lid. Inside she found a lovely sapphire and 
pearl ring.   

Skinner cleared his throat, then removed his hat. "Although 
our acquaintance has been brief, from the first I have felt a 
keen affection for you, Dana. It seems there is reciprocity of 
feeling, as demonstrated by your kiss. I hope you regard me 
with approval, for I am fully content with your character."

His words sounded rehearsed.

"Lieutenant--"

"No, please, let me finish, for I have never been more nervous 
in my life than I am at this moment -- not even when facing 
Santa Anna's army." He gripped his hat in both hands, crushing 
the brim beyond repair. "Dana, you possess a firmness of 
disposition that I admire and your judgment appears governed 
by principle. You have earned my esteem, and if I can elicit 
from you a fondness towards me, then it is my intention to 
marry you."

"Walter, I really think--"

He held up a hand to stop her. 

"I pray I am not rushing this proposal. The matter has been 
evolving in my mind for a long time -- since the day your 
father first spoke of you." Stiffly, formally, he lowered 
himself to one knee. Taking hold of her hand, he looked up at 
her with earnest eyes. "Dana Scully, should you find my 
general character and good standing in society to be 
satisfactory, then please accept this ring now and my name in 
the near future. Promise to become my life's companion. Do me 
the greatest of all honors: consent to be my wife." 

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 10...

-------

Chapter 10

"Please stand, Lieutenant," Dana urged, her voice muted in the 
vast space of the barn.

Skinner remained steady. "I shall not budge until I hear you 
say 'yes.'"

"Then you will be on your knee a long while, sir." She 
withdrew her hand from his. "I would prefer we become friends 
before we consider anything more intimate." 

"Have we not already been intimate?" he blurted.

Their kiss on the dock. Heat crawled up her neck and into her 
cheeks. "That was a mistake."

His lips thinned and he held back further comment. Her zeal 
had matched his that night; they both knew it. Her boldness 
had clearly misled him and he had every right to feel 
deceived.

His sword clanked awkwardly against the floor as he rose to 
his feet. Sawdust clung to the dark fabric of his trousers. "I 
have mistimed my proposal. I am sorry." 

Shame pricked her conscience; she should be apologizing to 
him, not the other way around. He had gone to considerable 
effort to please her -- the house, the phaeton, the handsome 
ring. Meanwhile she was toying with his emotions the way an 
angler plays a fish on a line. She had accepted her father's 
invitation to travel to Montana to meet him, fully aware of 
his interest in marrying her. Her arrival had, no doubt, given 
him reason to believe she was equally interested. He addressed 
the subject at the first opportunity, during their walk on the 
pier the night he came to her parents' house for dinner. And 
how had she responded? She had not discouraged his romantic 
notions one whit. To the contrary, she kissed him! 

And now she was turning him away. The poor man must think her 
addled, or cruel, or something even worse. 

Inwardly, she begged his forgiveness. Aloud, she said, "I need 
more time."

"How much more?"

"A few months, perhaps."

"Months?" His brows rose.

"Long enough to become friends."  

"If you do not consider us friends already, then I am without 
hope. I fail to see what more I can do to elevate your opinion 
of me."

She looked around the barn. Its solid timbers and careful 
craftsmanship bore testament to his dreams for their future. 
At its heart, illuminated by a ray of setting sun, the buggy 
gleamed as brilliantly as the gemstones in the ring she held 
in her hand. 

"My opinion of you is already quite high, Walter," she 
admitted.

"Then why refuse me?"

"I have not refused you, not outright."

He blinked, taking in her words. The brim of his hat folded 
beneath the squeeze of his fingers. He turned and paced to the 
open door. Staring out at the sunset, he stood rigid, backlit 
by a blood-red sky, sword tinted scarlet. "Are you saying I 
may continue to court you?"

"If it pleases you."

"Pleases *me*?" He spun to face her. "I must confess, I find 
myself in a state of complete confusion. I need to know, Dana, 
what pleases *you*?"  

The question took her aback. What would please her? What did 
she really want? She had not asked herself these questions in 
a long while. Not since breaking off her involvement with 
Daniel. She effectively closed her heart after ending their 
short affair. Upon discovering he already had a wife, she 
promptly rejected him, then spent the next three years burying 
her hurt and loneliness in her studies. 

She crossed to the lieutenant. Although she had left her 
gloves back at her parents' house, she took hold of his hand. 
The gesture clearly surprised him, since he also wore no 
gloves. 

His fingers felt rough against her smoother skin, his palm 
broad and warm. She sensed the power in his grip, though he 
held her as gently as one would hold a butterfly. 

"Please, don't think me ungrateful." She looked into his eyes, 
trying to gauge the depth of his disappointment. "I appreciate 
all you've done, the trouble you've gone to."

"I enjoyed every minute I spent building this house. I thought 
of you with each nail I set and each plank I sanded. It was no 
effort. None at all." He stroked her fingers. "Dana, some men 
are happy being single, but I'm not one of them. I want to be 
married again. I want more children. I've been alone too 
long."

"I understand...and I sympathize." She did know what it was 
like to be lonely. She had kept to herself after Daniel, 
rebuffing all advances, afraid to chance another ill-fated 
liaison. "But I need to be certain before I commit to you or 
to anyone. It's important I feel love for a man if I am to 
spend the rest of my life with him. Don't you want the woman 
you marry to love you, too?"

"Of course. It's just...I thought..." His jaw clamped shut.

"You thought I already loved you...because I kissed you."

"No, I thought...I hoped...under my love and protection, as my 
wife, you would grow to love me."

Her mother's words came back to her: "You wouldn't be the 
first woman to marry a man she barely knows. Love will come."

Dana tried to picture herself in this house several years from 
now, with Walter, with children. Could she be happy? Would 
affection blossom between them? Develop into true love? 

She needed to talk to Charlie. He understood her better than 
anyone in the world. He could offer her honest counsel.  

"Give me a few days," she amended her earlier request.

"You're welcome to take whatever time you need."

"No, it is unfair to keep you waiting any longer. You'll have 
my answer by week's end."  

As the sun slipped behind the mountains, the twilight sky 
glowed burgundy and gold. He leaned closer. Only an inch or 
two separated them; the heat of his body pressed against her 
as solidly as bone and muscle. His head tilted and she was 
afraid he was going to kiss her again. She also feared she 
might let him. The desire in his eyes drew her up onto her 
toes. He was breathing hard and with each exhalation his 
breath warmed her cheeks, caressed her lips.

"I-it's late, Lieutenant." 

He drew back. A chilling draft filled the void between them. 

"Forgive me. Your family will be wondering where you are."

She held out the open box with its pearl and sapphire ring.

He waved it off. "Keep it." 

"No, I cannot. Or the phaeton." She glanced with longing at 
the buggy.

"I insist you keep them both." He refused to take the box from 
her outstretched hand. "I'll deliver the buggy to your 
father's house tomorrow. It and the ring are yours, no matter 
what you ultimately decide about us."

"Walter, when a woman accepts a man's ring, it carries 
implications."

"I refuse to argue the point further." He put on his hat and 
crooked his elbow. "May I escort you back to the horses?"

She closed the box's tiny lid, hiding the ring away. "I can't 
wear it, you know."

"You will, someday."

She pocketed the box and slipped her hand through the crook of 
his arm. He gazed down at her with love evident in his eyes.

"I will win your heart, Dana. Mark my words. You will be my 
wife."

*   *   *

Mulder skirted the Akopskaa Swamp on his way south to 
Flatwillow. Brackish water reflected a crimson sky, making it 
appear as if the marsh oozed blood. Choke cherry and box elder 
clogged the lowland. Fermenting berries and leaf rot carried 
the smell of death.

Akopskaa meant "soup broth" in the Blackfoot language. It was 
a fitting name for the slough between Miin Creek and the 
Missouri River. The depth of the water varied from a few 
inches to several feet. Bullfrogs groaned in its marshy 
shadows. Bats sliced the mist-filled air.

"Easy, boy," Mulder warned when Ponoka stumbled on a submerged 
tree root. He steered the horse upland to firmer ground.

Pockets of fog drifted like lost ghosts above the sodden 
earth. A chilling wind rattled the tree branches. August was 
only half gone, but winter came notoriously early in Montana. 
Pulling his coat more tightly across his chest, Mulder 
anticipated his evening in town. 

The Flatwillow Saloon, primarily a drinking establishment, was 
the place where locals went to gamble, eat, bathe, and enjoy 
the company of whores. Whiskey was seventy-five cents a shot. 
Rye and bourbon a dollar. Dances with saloon girls cost one-
fifty. Sexual favors could set a man back as much as five 
dollars, depending on the particulars of the act. Mulder's 
bath and haircut would cost him two bits. 

Worth ten-fold the amount, he thought, recalling the saloon's 
small, back room with its cast-iron hog scalder substituting 
for a bathtub. Several large, copper pots heated water on a 
woodstove in one corner. Velvet drapes on the windows lent an 
air of elegance, rare so far west. A life-sized portrait of a 
nude woman adorned the wall beside the tub. Its gilt frame was 
badly chipped, but the painting itself glowed like a jewel. 

Mulder remembered with photographic clarity the last time he 
had lowered himself, naked as a jaybird, into the tub's 
steaming, lavender-scented water. His clothes had hung on a 
chair across the room. A buxom woman in ruffled, knee-length 
petticoats and scandalously tight bodice tended the stove.

"You 'bout ready?" she asked.

"Any time, Etta."

She carried a pitcher from stove to tub. "Lean forward," she 
prompted before pouring warm water over his head. She 
shampooed his hair with perfumed soap, her painted nails 
digging delightfully into his scalp. She hummed while she 
scrubbed, a tune at odds with the one being played on the 
tinny piano in the dance hall beyond the closed door. A 
headboard banged rhythmically against the thin wall of the 
next room. The pounding was accompanied by the sound of flesh 
slapping flesh. A few noisy moments later, a man groaned, his 
pleasure muffled by his partner's shoulder or breast. 

"You gonna want some of that after we finish here?" Etta 
pinched his cheek and grinned. Her gold tooth flashed in the 
flickering lamplight. She dipped her pitcher between his 
raised knees to refill it, grazing his inner thigh as she 
lifted it up and out, full to the brim. 

An arrow whistled past Mulder's head, narrowly missing his 
left ear and abruptly ending his pleasant memory. It lodged in 
the trunk of a nearby tree. 

The shaft was triple-feathered, the barbed point attached by 
sinew and wapikan. The design was distinctly Cree. 

"Shit." He spurred his horse. 

A piercing war whoop sounded behind him. Another arrow sailed 
past his head.

Mulder veered down slope, into the swamp. With luck, the 
Indian would back off and leave him alone. 

Two more arrows whizzed by, near misses. Ponoka skidded down 
the muddy incline. Yesterday's storm had changed the 
landscape, flooding the basin more than usual. Mulder tried to 
gauge the depth of the water in the growing gloom. 

A wallop to his right shoulder brought a sharp, burning pain. 
He looked down. A blood-slicked arrowhead protruded from the 
folds of his jacket below his armpit. Blood dribbled from the 
wound.  

Ponoka splashed through the slough, hooves spraying mud. 
Mulder spotted his attacker off to the left, about ten yards 
out, bow raised and drawn. He yanked the reins, forcing Ponoka 
into a coppice of buckbrush. Briars tore at his clothes, raked 
his exposed skin. Somehow the Indian's arrow threaded the net 
of branches. It punctured Mulder's leather boot. Embedded 
deeply into the thick muscle of his calf. The point lodged 
against bone. He bit back a yelp. Changed direction with a 
flick of the reins. Headed into deeper water.

The Indian swerved after him. The crackle of twigs and tearing 
of leaves grew louder as the gulf between them narrowed. 

Mulder veered around a gnarled cedar. He caught sight of a 
second Indian higher up the slope. Colorful geometric patterns 
decorated his face. Unlike his feathered companion, he wore a 
white man's hat. Mulder recognized it: Frohike's Stetson. 

These Indians were not just Cree; they were from Cuts To 
Pieces' band. And their war-paint indicated this was a planned 
attack. 

The Stetson-wearing man raised his bow and nocked an arrow. 
Mulder fumbled for his rifle. His draw was slowed by the arrow 
in his chest. He pulled the Enfield clumsily from its carbine 
boot, lifted it to his shoulder. Stetson's arrow tore through 
his left forearm. The rifle wheeled from his hands. 

Stetson whooped in triumph. His accomplice responded in kind. 
Mulder pivoted in the saddle. Drew his pistol from the holster 
on his gun belt. Aimed. Fired. The bullet found its target. 
The blast knocked the feathered Indian off his horse. He 
landed with a splash in a puddle of inky water. 

A third Indian took his place almost immediately. Bow raised, 
the Cree brave screeched and released an arrow. 

Mulder ducked, but not before the barb grazed his temple. 
Blood sprayed his clothes, flooded his right eye. 

"Geddyup!" he urged Ponoka.

The horse plowed through a puddle. Leapt over a fallen tree. 
Mid-air, a branch snagged the arrow sticking out of Mulder's 
leg. The shaft snapped. Mulder screamed. Blood gushed from the 
hole in his boot. 

The goldfields were at least a mile away. Flatwillow lay 
further south, beyond the claims. The Indians would not follow 
him into town. But could he make it that far?

There was another option. A dangerous one: a sump at 
Akopskaa's center, a quagmire of silt and rotted vegetation, 
thick and deep enough to mire a horse up to its hocks. If he 
could lure the Indians in without getting himself stuck, he 
might have a chance of escaping. 

The fading light made it almost impossible to see, but Mulder 
was familiar with every inch of the watershed. He had been 
trapping here for three seasons. The sump was just ahead. If 
he could only hang on until he got there... 

Zigzagging around fallen trees, gray corpses in the gloom, he 
dodged what seemed a hailstorm of arrows. He rode a familiar 
tract of firm ground concealed just below the water's surface.  

A slight shift to the right and the water became suddenly 
deeper. Ponoka slowed when his foreleg sunk in the mud. They 
were at the sump, a quarter-mile-long death-trap hidden 
beneath a foot of black water. Mulder adjusted his course. The 
horse lurched on, sides heaving, coat slicked with foamy 
sweat. The ground grew more solid.

"Good boy." 

Mulder glanced over his shoulder. The Indians rode full speed, 
gaining ground as Ponoka found his footing. A few more strides 
and the forward man was almost within arm's reach. 

The Indian raised a tomahawk. Mulder swerved directly into his 
path, taking him by surprise, and driving him sideways into 
the quagmire. The Indian's horse whinnied. It sank and 
stumbled, throwing the rider from its back.

Stetson moved to higher ground to shadow Mulder from a safer 
vantage. They rode parallel paths through a stand of spindly 
alders. The horses' hooves thundered in unison. Stetson 
launched arrows as quickly as he could draw his bow. 

Mulder crouched low and pushed Ponoka to run faster. 

The trees thinned. They were nearly out of the swamp. Mulder 
straightened and took aim at his pursuer. 

Before he could pull the trigger, an arrow struck his upper 
thigh near the groin, goring flesh and muscle as it drilled 
inward. The pain was ungodly.

Mulder roared. He jerked the reins. Turned to face his enemy 
head on. A spur to the ribs sent Ponoka charging up the slope. 
Mulder leveled his pistol. 

Stetson's eyes widened. Clearly, he had not anticipated this 
move. Too late, he tried to load another arrow. 

Mulder fired. Bull's-eye. The bullet penetrated Stetson's 
brow, boring a three-cent-sized hole through his skull. The 
Indian toppled, unblinking, to the ground. 

The chase was over, but Mulder's heart continued to race. With 
each pounding beat, blood pumped from his wounds. He tugged 
the reins, slowing Ponoka, pointing him in the direction of 
Flatwillow. Pain sizzled up his left leg when he tried to 
nudge the horse with his heels. He closed his eyes and slumped 
forward. Light-headed, he clutched Ponoka's mane to keep from 
falling. 

"Geddyup," he grunted through clenched teeth. 

He wished he had enough strength to collect Frohike's Stetson. 
But his limbs were growing numb, his head too heavy to lift. A 
thick, gray fog was forming in his brain.

"You're hurt." A woman's voice. Familiar. 

"S-scully?"

"You need stitches." She gently wiped blood from his lower lip 
with her thumb.

"Not real," he muttered. It was a memory.

Or a premonition? 

"I can help you," she insisted and he lost consciousness.    

*   *   *

"That was my last dollar, gentlemen." Charlie folded his cards 
and pushed back his chair from the poker table. The loss meant 
little. He was enjoying his evening at the Flatwillow Saloon. 
The drinks were strong, the company interesting. And he had 
made fast friends with three fellow newspapermen. 

"Lady Luck is a fickle mistress." Frohike scooped up the pot 
and added it to his growing pile of cash. "I'll float you an 
advance on that story you promised us, if you want to try to 
win some of this back."

"No thank you, Mr. Frohike." Charlie smiled as he stood. "I 
think it's best to quit while I still have a shirt on my back. 
Deal me out, please."

"Don't forget, deadline for the next issue is Tuesday," Langly 
said, shuffling the deck.

"You'll get your story on schedule, Mr. Langly."

"Five hundred words," Byers reminded him. "Your impressions of 
Flatwillow."

"Won't be easy to limit myself. I tend toward loquaciousness 
when writing about a subject that interests me." Charlie eyed 
the scantily-clad saloon girls lined up by the door to the 
back rooms. 

Frohike caught him looking. "Ah, a tale about our fallen 
frails. The readers will love that."

"You mean you'll love it." Langly dealt the next hand.

Byers picked up his cards. "Like you won't."

"I'll see you gentlemen later," Charlie said, excusing 
himself. 

Temporarily penniless, he headed for the door. Being without 
funds to pay for a fuck -- or even a little oral gratification 
-- did not mean he planned to go home unsatisfied. Charm 
sometimes went a lot further than cash, he had learned over 
the years.

Before attempting to solicit free favors from the ladies, he 
stepped outside to stretch his legs and enjoy a smoke. The 
saloon doors swung on squeaky hinges as he pushed through. He 
strolled to the edge of the boardwalk. The night air carried 
the scent of road dust and prairie grass, welcome after hours 
of smelling cheap perfume and men's sweat. 

A whore and her mark retreated to the shadows several doors 
down. Charlie leaned against the porch rail and rolled a 
cigarette.    

Flatwillow was like most of the frontier towns he had visited 
over the years. One main street, this one optimistically 
dubbed Gold Dust Avenue, ran through its center. There were no 
churches, schools, or family-run mercantiles. The town was 
built for trappers and prospectors. Tough men in rough 
businesses. 

An assayers' office, hardware store, livery, and Gerrard's 
Corral lined the opposite side of Flatwillow's deeply rutted 
thoroughfare. An undertaker, cobbler, and Mrs. Lee's Washing 
and Ironing abutted the saloon. Further down the street, tents 
served as temporary shelters for aspiring entrepreneurs, 
including a few independent madams who preferred running their 
own cribs to working in the saloon's back rooms. 

Charlie smiled. The west offered endless opportunities to a 
man with a passion for adventure. Survival governed one's 
actions here, not a court of law or a set of rules intended 
for polite society. He found the atmosphere invigorating. The 
citizenry delightful. Particularly the women, who provided 
company and comfort on the darkest, coldest of days. "Sporting 
women" or "ladies of the line," the prospectors called them, 
when they didn't use other, more vulgar terms.

He patted his breast pocket in search of a match. 

"Allow me." A saloon girl joined him at the porch rail. She 
struck a match against the rough wood and held up the flame.

He leaned close, cigarette to his lips. A couple of puffs and 
the cigarette lit. He took a drag, then offered it to her. 
"Thank you, Miss...?"

"Name's Jennie. Jennie Lincoln." She accepted the smoke.  

"Lincoln? You wouldn't be related to the late president, would 
you?"

She laughed, a deep belly laugh that caused her plump breasts 
to jiggle delightfully above the plunging neckline of her 
crimson-colored corset. "Right. He's my daddy." 

Lipstick and rouge did little to mask her exhausted features. 
Her short skirt sparkled with sequins. Gold tassels adorned 
her kid boots, diverting attention from the holes that marred 
once-pretty, silk, lace stockings.

"What's your name, mister?" She handed back the cigarette, 
which was now stained crimson at the tip from her lipstick. 
"Your daddy an important man, too?"

"He likes to think so." Charlie drew smoke into his lungs.

Jennie studied his face. "I take it you two don't get along."

"You're very perceptive."

"Dunno 'bout that, but I do know what it's like to be the 
black sheep of the family."

"I suppose you do." He tipped his hat. "A pleasure to meet a 
fellow outcast. My name is Scully, by the way. Charles 
Scully."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Scully." She twirled a 
lock of auburn hair around her finger. Her nails were chewed 
to the quick. "You kin to that Scully feller from the fort?"

"Possibly. My brother and father are both stationed at 
Culbertson," Charlie said, somewhat surprised that she would 
be acquainted with either one of them.

"The feller that comes here is a lieutenant. Always on the 
shoot. Got hisself quite a temper."

"That would be Bill, my older brother. He comes *here*?"

"Yep, he's a regular."

"At the bar."

"And the card tables, the dance floor, the back rooms."

"Bill Scully? Lieutenant Bill Scully?" His upright, holier-
than-thou brother?

"Shows up at least once a week. Prefers big girls."

"Really." This was astounding news. Not that his brother 
preferred busty women -- Tara lacked nothing in that 
department, not since her first pregnancy. But the surprising 
thing was that Bill patronized a place like this at all. An 
immoral den, according to Saint Bill. How many lectures had 
Charlie endured about his own sinful behavior, the sanctity of 
marriage, eternal damnation, and the fires of Hell? "I wonder 
what Tara would think."

"Who's Tara?"

"Bill's wife."

"I imagine she'd think the same as yours. If you's married, 
that is. Not that it matters to me if you is or you ain't."

A rare blush heated Charlie's face. He was married, of course. 
Four years. And he hoped with all his heart that Elizabeth did 
not think at all about his countless indiscretions. She 
deserved better. "Crimen ut tutela."

"What's that mean?"

"'Guilty as charged.' Men are foul creatures, in any 
language."

"That may be, but I'd be broke and starvin' without 'em." She 
stroked his sleeve and smiled sweetly. "Speakin' of which, you 
buyin' anything tonight?"  

An unfamiliar pang of morality stopped him from carrying 
through with his original plans. He would not take advantage 
of Jennie Lincoln. Not tonight.

"I am without funds," he admitted.

"Maybe we could work out a trade. That fob you're wearin', 
it's attached to a watch, ain't it?"

"A gift from my wife. I can't part with it." He had come close 
in the past, tempted by the promise of physical pleasure. But 
it was a line he would not cross, the only measure that he had 
not fallen into complete disgrace. "I'm sorry."   

"Me, too. Guess it's goodnight then. I gotta get back inside 
with the paying customers."

"I understand. It was nice talking with you, Miss Lincoln."

"Same here. You come back when you got some cash. Ask fer me 
special. I'll make it worth your while." She retreated into 
the saloon.

"I'll keep that in mind." He tossed his cigarette into the 
street. Sparks danced and fizzled in the dust. 

Further down the thoroughfare, a horse materialized seemingly 
out of nothingness. It plodded toward him in the dark, its 
rider slumped in the saddle. Charlie assumed the man was 
drunk, until light from the saloon revealed the truth. The 
horse was covered with foamy sweat. Blood slicked its neck and 
chest. The rider's face was buried in the horse's mane; his 
back and leg bristled with arrows. 

The horse stopped in the middle of the street. It tossed its 
head. The rider slipped from the saddle and landed with a 
stomach-churning thud in the dust. 

Curiosity drew the two lovers out of the shadows. Charlie 
jumped the rail and jogged toward the wounded man.

"You all right, mister? God damn..." 

It was Fox Mulder.

Charlie knelt and tentatively put his hand to Mulder's chest.

He was breathing. Barely.

"Get some help!" he shouted to the couple on the boardwalk. 

The woman ducked into the bar.

"Mr. Mulder, can you hear me?" Charlie patted his cheek, not 
knowing what else to do.

Mulder remained as still as a corpse. He was in bad shape, 
worse than when Charlie last saw him up on Nine Pipe Ridge, 
beaten to a pulp by Bill.

A crowd quickly gathered around them. Frohike pushed through 
to the front.

"Jesus, it's Mulder."

"He needs a doctor," Byers said, joining Frohike.

Langly followed on their heels. "Corporal Beckett's likely to 
be passed out drunk by now."  

"My sister's a doctor," Charlie offered. "She works in the 
infirmary at the fort."

"Get her!" Langly rocked from one foot to the other. 

"Might be faster if we take him to her," Frohike suggested.

"You got a wagon?" Charlie asked.  

"I'll bring it around." 

*   *   *

Angry shouts carried like gunshots through the windless night 
as Dana and Skinner approached the fort. Three men in a farm 
wagon and a lone rider on horseback argued with the guards at 
the front gate. 

Skinner's hand slid to his saber. He kicked his horse's ribs 
and took the lead. Dana followed at a trot.

The man on horseback yelled, "Damn it, let us in!"

Dana recognized his voice.

"Charlie? Is that you?"

He turned in the saddle, looking her way. "Dana, thank God 
you're here. You, too, Lieutenant. Maybe you can talk some 
sense into these men."

Two guards stood with rifles drawn in front of the closed 
gate. 

"What's going on?" Skinner brought his horse alongside 
Charlie's.

"Mr. Mulder's been hurt," Charlie said, "and we're trying to 
get him to the infirmary, but the guards won't let us in." 

"Hurt? How badly? What happened?" Dana dismounted and rushed 
to the wagon. 

"Attacked by Indians," said the wagon's driver. His worried 
face looked familiar to Dana. The man who waved to her from 
the window of The Picayune, she remembered. His bearded 
associate sat beside him on the wagon's bench. Their blond 
companion crouched behind them at the front of the box. 

It was too dark to see more than an unconscious form laid out 
on his right side on the box's floor. Feed sacks propped 
against his chest and behind his knees kept him from rolling 
onto his back. 

"I need some light. You," -- Dana targeted one of the guards 
with the point of a finger -- "bring a lantern."

When the guard stayed his ground, she bellowed, "Do it!"

The startled man lowered his rifle and opened the gate wide 
enough to slip through. He disappeared inside.

Dana let down the tailgate and reached out to the blond man. 
"Your assistance, please, sir."

He scrambled to the back of the wagon, grabbed her hand, and 
hauled her up.

"When did this happen?" she asked, settling on her knees 
beside Mulder. 

"Not sure," Charlie said, "but he showed up in town about 
thirty minutes ago. These men are his friends, by the way: 
Misters Frohike, Byers, and Langly."

The three touched the brims of their hats and mumbled solemn 
greetings.

"Gentlemen." She gave a quick nod before turning her complete 
attention to Mulder. 

An arrow protruded prominently from his upper thigh. Another 
from his back. She felt blood on his sleeve. Lots of blood.

She pressed the back of her hand to his cheek. His skin was 
cold and clammy. 

"Has he been unconscious the entire time?"

"Yes."

She slid two fingers beneath his collar. Locating an artery in 
his neck, she counted the beats of his heart. 

"Pulse is rapid...weak." 

The guard arrived with the lantern. He passed it to Byers, who 
held it aloft. Light flooded the wagon box, exposing the 
severity of Mulder's condition.

His face was as pale as his linen shirt. Shallow, rapid 
breaths huffed from blue-tinged lips. A clotted laceration on 
his forehead had bled profusely earlier, dripping into his 
left eye and down his cheek. Dana lifted the eyelid to examine 
the pupil.

"Move the light closer, please," she asked. 

Byers obliged. 

The dilated pupil remained fixed. 

"He's in shock." She straightened. "I need your coats, 
gentlemen." 

Everyone but the guards stripped off their overcoats and 
handed them to her. She spread Skinner's wool frockcoat -- the 
warmest of the lot -- over Mulder's upper body, then arranged 
Charlie's suit jacket over his legs, taking care not to jostle 
the arrow embedded in his upper thigh. She tucked the three 
other coats beneath Mulder's feet to elevate his legs and 
increase the flow of blood to his head.   

"He needs surgery. We must get him into the infirmary." Dana 
turned to the guards. "You have to let us through."

"Can't do that, miss." The guard shook his head. "Cap'n's 
orders."

"Damn it, this man is dying!" Dana rose to her feet. Mulder 
had already reached the third and final stage of shock. Organs 
and tissues throughout his body were in jeopardy. His kidneys 
would begin to shut down soon. His heart to fail. "Every 
minute we waste puts his life at risk."

"Cap'n Scully was real clear on the subject, miss. Gave strict 
orders to keep that feller out." 

"As the captain's daughter, I'm ordering you to stand aside 
and let us in."

The guards exchanged nervous glances. The braver of the two 
cleared his throat. "Beggin' your pardon, Miss Scully, but 
bein' the Cap'n's daughter don't grant you the authority to be 
givin' us orders."

Dana opened her mouth to object, but was cut short by Skinner. 
"*I* have the authority, Private Bryant. You will open that 
gate and allow this wagon and Mr. Mulder through."

The guard shifted uneasily. "Meanin' no disrespect, sir, but 
Cap'n said that man is an enemy of the United States Army."  

"Which is precisely why I'm taking him prisoner. Now stand 
down so that I may take him inside and proceed with his 
arrest."

Dana tried to read Skinner's expression in the dark, uncertain 
if he meant what he was saying or if he was lying to help his 
old friend. Or impress her. The answer would have to wait. For 
now, she was grateful for any excuse to get Mulder into the 
infirmary. 

When the guards hesitated, Skinner snapped, "Disobey my 
orders, soldiers, and you'll be facing arrest, too."

The guards reluctantly lowered their weapons and swung the 
gate open.

"Mr. Frohike, take us in," Dana said. "And please hurry."

"H'yah!" he shouted and whipped the horses with the reins. The 
wagon lunged ahead.

Minutes later, they rolled up to the infirmary. 

"Mr. Scully, I'll need assistance carrying him." Skinner 
dismounted his horse.

Charlie did the same. The two men climbed into the wagon. 
Langly shifted the sacks of grain out of their way.

"Be careful of the arrows," Dana warned. "They are plugging 
the wounds. Knock them loose and he'll begin to hemorrhage. He 
can ill afford the loss of more blood."

Skinner gripped Mulder beneath the arms. Charlie took hold of 
his legs. Together they eased him from the wagon. Dana hurried 
ahead to open the door. Frohike, Byers, and Langly followed 
along like ducklings.

"This way," Dana directed, leading the group across the ward.    

"What's goin' on?" Sergeant Phillips sat up in bed and craned 
for a better view. "That feller got mumps?"

Dana ignored him and headed straight for the surgery.

"Put him on the table, please."

Skinner and Charlie maneuvered Mulder onto the operating 
table, rolling him onto his right side so as not to knock or 
break off the arrow that protruded from his back.    

Corporal Beckett staggered bleary-eyed from Dana's tiny back 
office. "What is this?"

"Have you been asleep or drinking, Corporal Beckett?" Dana 
raised the flame in the room's lantern.

"A little of both," he admitted.

"Are you drunk now?" 

"I'm sober enough to see this man will die if we don't offer 
him immediate medical assistance."

"Then you are sober enough. Lay out my surgical kit. And check 
that we have an adequate supply of bandages at the ready. Mr. 
Frohike, might I impose upon you and your friends to fetch 
some water. As much as you can carry."

"On our way." They filed quickly from the room.

"What can I do to help?" Skinner asked.

"You can start by removing Mr. Mulder's clothes." She opened 
her kit and took out a bistoury, a straight slender knife, 
generally used to slice through flesh. "Cut away whatever you 
have to," she said, handing it to Skinner. "Charlie, hold his 
leg steady while I cut away his boot."

Charlie moved to the foot of the table and grasped Mulder's 
left ankle firmly with both hands. Using a Catlin knife, Dana 
cut through the leather, slicing carefully around the broken 
arrow and continuing all the way down to the stitching on the 
vamp. She peeled back the upper. "Pull," she urged Charlie.

The boot slid from Mulder's bloody foot. Dana wasted no time. 
She slit his trousers from ankle to knee, exposing a deep 
puncture in his calf. Torn flesh and clotted blood surrounded 
a nub of broken shaft, which protruded several inches from the 
leg. The arrowhead lay buried somewhere in the muscle, having 
perforated the gastrocnemius and settled deep within the 
soleus.   

"My God." Charlie gaped at the wound.

"Help the lieutenant, Charlie."

He dropped the boot. Gripped the table. His face turned ashen. 
Dana worried he might vomit or faint. 

"Help the lieutenant!" she said more firmly, trying to focus 
his attention away from the damaged limb. "Or step outside. We 
don't need you cracking your skull on the floor."

Charlie nodded and moved up the table, where Skinner had 
already cut away Mulder's coat and was working to remove his 
shirt. 

"You won't have to dig for this one." Skinner indicated a 
barbed point sticking out of Mulder's chest. 

A quick examination showed the arrow had entered his back 
several inches to the right of the fifth lumbar vertebra. It 
emerged between the sixth and seventh ribs. She placed a 
stethoscope to his chest. Respiration was rapid, but she could 
clearly hear air going in and out of the lung. No crackles or 
wheezing. The organ was intact. A fraction of an inch to the 
left and the arrow would have nicked the pleura and collapsed 
the lung.

"There's a lot of blood here," Skinner announced, pulling 
Mulder's sleeve free. 

The sleeve took a large clot with it. Blood spurted from a 
dollar-sized wound in Mulder's forearm. 

Dana grabbed a tourniquet from her kit. She looped the strap 
around Mulder's upper arm and threaded the buckle. Several 
twists of the screw tightened the strap. The stream of blood 
slowed, stopped.

"We must move quickly, gentlemen." She reached for Mulder's 
gun belt and unfastened the silver buckle. 

Charlie untied the leather thong that held the holster to his 
thigh. Skinner pulled the belt free. Dana unbuttoned Mulder's 
trousers, then used her blade to cut through the fabric to 
reveal the final arrow. 

"That'll be the worst to get out," Beckett warned. He set the 
bandages he had collected from the ward onto a small table in 
the corner. "It's close to the femoral artery. If he survives 
the hemorrhage--" 

"I'm quite aware of the dangers, Corporal." 

She would begin surgery here. Beckett was right; this one 
would be the trickiest. If Mulder did not bleed out during its 
removal, she would move on to the arrow in his chest, then the 
one in his lower leg. If he were still alive after that, she 
would close the wounds in his arm and on his forehead.

First, however, she wanted to clear the room. Space was tight. 
She could do without being elbowed by onlookers or tripping 
over the men's feet.

"Lieutenant, please take these clothes away, then make sure 
Sergeant Phillips has had his supper. Charlie, check on Mr. 
Frohike to see if the water is coming soon."

They left the room without argument or delay. She turned to 
Beckett. 

"Are you ready, Corporal?"

"Let's get to it."

"I'll begin by dilating the wound..." 

She looked down at her bare hands, dirty with road dust, horse 
sweat, blood, and other contaminants. 

"What are you waiting for, Doctor Scully?"

She had read about a new theory-- 

"Do you want me to remove it?" he asked, apparently thinking 
she was incapable or had lost her nerve.

"No, I can do it. It's just..."

"What? What's the problem?"

"There's a medical concept, posited by a French scientist 
named Louis Pasteur. It's called the Germ Theory of Disease. 
Have you heard of it?"

"No."

"Pasteur hypothesizes that decay is caused by airborne living 
microorganisms. Dr. Joseph Lister, a highly regarded British 
surgeon, believes there is a connection between these 
microorganisms and the occurrence of wound sepsis. He claims 
that improved hospital hygiene could prevent infection and 
save lives."

"Ridiculous. I see nothing malevolent in the air here."

"Not in the air, Corporal. On our hands. And our instruments."

"That's hogwash. We're wasting time."

"We should do all we can to increase this man's chances of 
survival."

"Removing those arrows as soon as possible is the best way to 
achieve that goal. The longer they stay in the body, the 
greater the chance of abscess." 

"And suppuration will progress to pyemia, the patient will 
die, yes, I know all that. We shall remove the arrows 
directly. But first, we will clean our hands and our 
instruments."

"With what? You want to wait for Mr. Frohike to bring the 
water?"

"No. That could take too long." She turned to the medicine 
cabinet. "Where is the brandy, Corporal?"

He glanced at the office door.

"Bring it," she demanded.

With a roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh, he did as she 
asked. 

"Now pour it over my hands." She cupped her palms.

"This is a waste of perfectly good brandy--"

"Do it."

He tipped the bottle. Alcohol splashed onto her palms. She 
scrubbed her hands and shook them dry. 

"You, too," she insisted. "Then pour what's left onto the 
instruments." 

While he rinsed his hands and the scalpels, she examined the 
arrow in Mr. Mulder's thigh more closely. Generally when an 
arrow is deeply buried, the feathered shaft should be cut off, 
and the point pushed through the affected limb or body part. 
An arrow cannot be pulled out backward, but must be extracted 
through a counter opening, otherwise the barbs on its point 
will catch on tissue and vessels, and cause more serious 
damage.

This arrow was positioned dangerously close to the femoral 
artery. In addition, because Mr. Mulder was seated on his 
horse when he was struck, the arrow pointed upward toward his 
groin. An atypical approach was needed. She would divide the 
tissue down to the arrowhead, then extract it backward. 
Carefully.   

"Dissecting forceps."

"You'll need something broader."

"Don't argue with me."

He passed her the slender instrument. She inserted it into the 
wound beside the arrow and followed the shaft down, trying to 
disturb the vessels as little as possible while probing for 
the point.

"I've found it. Now is the time for those bullet forceps, 
Corporal."

Together, they worked to expand the wound. Beckett kept the 
tissues drawn back, while Dana grabbed hold of the arrow.

"Steady," Beckett advised. "The artery is just there to your 
left."

"I see it."

She slowly withdrew the shaft, turning the barbed tip away 
from the pulsing artery. It nudged the vessel, but did not 
catch. 

"Well done," Beckett said when the arrow was freed. 

Bleeding was minimal. She had managed to avoid severing the 
artery, or gelding Mr. Mulder. 

"Disinfect the track with carbolic acid and insert a drain 
before you close." She set the arrow aside. "I'm going to 
start on the next one."

She moved to the head of the table. Using bone forceps, she 
clipped off the feathered end of the arrow.  

"Did you know the initial velocity of an arrow is so great 
that its force nearly equals that of a musket-ball?" Beckett 
asked as he sutured. His tone was calm, almost conversational, 
for which she was grateful. His brisk movements were precise. 
As soon as he finished closing the first wound, he moved on to 
Mulder's forearm. Perhaps she had misjudged him upon their 
initial meeting. He seemed more skilled than she had first 
thought. "At a short distance, an arrow will perforate the 
larger bones without comminuting them."

"You've seen evidence?" She gripped the arrowhead protruding 
from Mulder's chest with her forceps. Carefully, she applied 
traction and drew the shaft straight out. This was likely to 
be the cleanest of Mulder's wounds. 

"I have indeed, Doctor." Beckett deftly caught and tied off a 
broken vessel. "The arrow left only a slight fissure. It 
resembled a hole like a pistol-ball makes when fired through 
window glass from a few yards off."

"Less talking, please." She placed her stethoscope against 
Mulder's chest once again. The lung was functioning. She had 
not nicked the pleura. "It appears luck is on our side."

"Indeed. This man is very fortunate. He was not hit in the 
abdomen. Indians often aim for the umbilicus, you know. In 
which case, mortality is practically assured."

"He is not out of the woods yet, Corporal. If you're finished 
there, I could use your help with the last arrow."

The injury to Mulder's calf presented a unique problem. The 
broken shaft was too short to push through the leg. Without 
the feathered end, it was impossible to gauge how deeply the 
point was embedded. 

"We'll follow the same procedure as the first," she said.

"It would seem our best course."

They expanded the wound exactly as before, but when Dana tried 
to withdraw the arrow, it would not budge.

"The point is lodged in the bone."

"Rock it gently from side to side to loosen it," Beckett 
advised, "but take care not to break it."

She did as he suggested. "It won't come out. It's stuck."

"Use more force."

"I don't want to splinter the bone."

"You don't want to leave that tip in the leg."

Sweat trickled from her hairline. Mr. Mulder's breathing 
seemed more shallow, his pallor more gray. 

"He's going to be all right," Beckett said, evidently sensing 
her unease.  

She wiggled the point again. Harder. "Damn it."

"Follow the grain of the bone."

She did. The tip came loose. "I've got it."

"Is it whole? Has a fragment been left behind?"

"I don't think so. It appears to be intact."

She extracted the arrow. To her relief, the point was 
unbroken. She felt Mulder's leg for fractures or breaks. 
Miraculously, both the tibia and fibula appeared whole.

Frohike poked his head in the door. "How's he doing?"

"We're nearly finished and he's still alive," she said.

"Good. We've brought the water you asked for."

"Bring it in. As soon as we've sutured his forehead, we'll 
clean him up."

Now that the immediate danger of hemorrhage was past, 
infection was Mr. Mulder's worst enemy. Dana hoped Louis 
Pasteur's Germ Theory of Disease was correct, and that rinsing 
their hands with alcohol would help avoid sepsis. They could 
only wait and pray now. Mr. Mulder's life lay in God's hands. 

When she and Beckett were finished treating and dressing the 
last of Mr. Mulder's wounds, she called Skinner and Charlie 
back to the operating room to carry the still unconscious man 
into the ward. They placed him in a bed near Sergeant Phillips 
and covered him with blankets. Dana moved her desk chair to 
Mulder's bedside. Sitting down, she prepared for a long vigil.

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 11...

-------

Chapter 11

Mulder stood in a space divided by light and dark. Not a room 
exactly, although the shadowed side resembled a ward in a 
military hospital. Dana Scully sat there in the gloom, her 
chair positioned beside a sickbed. Blood stained her sleeves, 
bodice, and skirt. Her hands lay loosely clasped in her lap. 
Her eyes were closed. Was she sleeping? Or praying? 

"Doctor Scully?" Although he felt the words vibrate in his 
throat and slip past his tongue and lips, not a whisper 
carried on the murky air.

He called out again, more forcefully, but the result was the 
same. The ward remained as silent as a sealed coffin. No tick 
of a clock. No rustle of fabric. Not a snore from the man in 
the sickbed, the man who was...

Him! Wrapped in bandages. Skin deathly white.  

Mulder tried to step closer, but an unseen force held him 
back. Annoyed more than frightened, he turned to see what 
anchored him in place. 

A light more brilliant than any noonday sun momentarily 
blinded him. A gentle breeze tickled his face. The scent of 
prairie grass drew him away from the dark.   

Squinting against the bright light, he walked out onto a 
broad, flat plain. Soothing sounds lured him onward: the sigh 
of a windswept meadow, the murmur of water over stone, the 
trill of a bird. 

Orange and yellow clouds eddied in a strange, turquoise sky, 
creating patterns that resembled aw-tsi-sakan, the pictographs 
the Blackfoot painted on their buffalo robes, symbols of 
bravery, honor, pride, and victory. In the distance, thousands 
of bison grazed on an emerald field. They seemed to float 
across the prairie like sailboats on gentle seas.

Mulder glanced over his shoulder expecting to see Doctor 
Scully still sitting in her chair, but she and the hospital 
had vanished, replaced by grassland and a range of faraway 
hills. The mountains were copper in color, with unnaturally 
even peaks and valleys. Despite their peculiarity, their 
presence made him feel at home, at peace.  

He wandered through tall grass, walking with arms 
outstretched, seed heads grazing his palms. His hands were 
curiously luminous, he noticed. He held one up to study it. 
Front and back, it shimmered and glowed, translucent, 
ethereal. He looked down at his body and found he was dressed 
in a resplendent tunic, breechclout, and leggings. A bone 
necklace gleamed against the radiant material of his shirt. 
When a gentle zephyr stirred his long hair, he saw that it was 
not its usual dark brown color, but appeared diaphanous and 
shot with gold sparks. 

"Do not look for the familiar, Issohko." The voice came from a 
distance behind him.

He spun to find Red Crow sitting cross-legged under a broad 
hackberry tree, which had not been there a moment ago. Sun and 
shade dappled the Indian's lined features. His face was free 
of the smallpox lesions that had marked him at death. He 
puffed on a long pipe decorated with feathers and colorful 
beads. 

"Come. Sit with me." He beckoned Mulder with a wave. "It is 
pleasant beneath this tree."

Shell and bone embellishments on Mulder's clothes rattled as 
he scuffed through the grass.

"Few Tails and Brave Wolf buried you two days ago," Mulder 
said when he stood directly in front of the Indian. "I helped 
them."

"Yes. It was a fine funeral. Thank you."

Mulder squatted. Red Crow's skin did not glow like his; the 
old man's body appeared solid and real.

"You don't look dead."

"How are the dead supposed to look?"

"Like this." Mulder held out a shimmering hand.

Red Crow chuckled. "You are nagi, a spirit...not niya, a 
ghost. Your spirit is the mirror image of your living form, 
which is out of harmony."

"That's putting it mildly. I was attacked by three warriors 
from Cuts To Pieces' tribe."

"Yes. Your body is near death."

"But I feel...good."

"That is the way of things here." Red Crow nodded. "You can 
stay a while."

"How long?"

"That depends. A wakan is praying for your return."

"Wakan -- I'm not familiar with the term."

"A person of unusual power and wisdom. She can help you 
confront your shadow self, if you let her."

"Who or what is my shadow self?"

"It is the discord you carry inside you. A bad experience 
perhaps. An event that happened long ago and changed the 
course of your life." 

"My sister's disappearance." 

"Maybe."

"This wakan can find Samantha?"

"She can help you live in balance and harmony. It is only then 
you will find your answers." Red Crow leaned back against the 
tree's grooved trunk and drew deeply on his pipe. He held the 
smoke in his lungs for what seemed an eternity, studying 
Mulder as he held his breath. Finally he released the smoke to 
the sky. "I believe your Earth Walk is not yet finished, 
Issohko. You are meant to join with another. The two of you 
will be as one mind, one prayer."

"The wakan?"

"Possibly. Together you could discover wondrous things."

"It looks like I've managed to do that on my own." Mulder 
glanced up at the alien sky. Clouds coalesced and vanished, 
only to reform into new symbolic images, the meanings of which 
were lost on him. 

"There are places and things more wondrous than this." Red 
Crow held out his pipe. 

Mulder waved it off and stood. He felt the tug of the unknown. 
"I think...I need to explore while I'm here."

"Wander too far and even the wakan will not be able to find 
you and bring you home."

"I'll keep that in mind." Mulder headed across the field, 
toward the mountains. 

*   *   * 

"I brought you a blanket," Corporal Beckett said, interrupting 
Dana's prayers. "I thought you might be feeling the chill." 

"Thank you." She let him drape the blanket over her shoulders. 
"What time is it?" 

"Half past two."

"And you're still here?"

"I cleaned the surgery. And wrote up a patient record for Mr. 
Mulder." Beckett's uniform was spattered with dried blood. He 
looked as tired as she felt.

"You performed admirably tonight, Corporal."

"Thank you, Doctor. Glad I was here to help." He peered down 
at their patient. "Any improvement?"

"Very little, I'm afraid."

"Well, he is alive."

"Yes."

"I've seen men recover from worse."

"Have you?"

"Indeed. The heaviest of our small arms ammunition, the minie 
ball-- Have you heard of it?"

"Yes, my brother Bill mentioned them in his letters."

"A misnomer, wouldn't you agree, considering the enormous hole 
they can tear into a man. They shatter any bone they 
encounter. A strike to the abdomen or head is nearly always 
fatal."

"But some survive?"

"Miraculously, although seldom without permanent disfigurement 
or lingering pain." Beckett stared at the floor. "Soldiers 
were wounded in every body part during the war. Eyes put out. 
Faces pulverized. Jaws fragmented beyond repair. Some had 
intestines protruding from their abdomens. Or pelvic wounds, 
where the bladder was hit and leaked urine constantly onto the 
skin..."

"My God, how did they manage?"

"Many didn't. We sorted them by the severity of their 
injuries. The worst off -- the soldiers who had been hit in 
the head, gut, or chest -- were laid to one side to wait until 
the others were treated."

"Laid aside... But why?"

"It sounds backward and cruel, doesn't it? But they were 
likely to die in any case. Ignoring them allowed the surgeons 
time to treat those who could be saved."

It was hard to imagine men would be purposely left to die like 
that. She rose to straighten the blanket covering Mr. Mulder, 
then removed the one from her shoulders and placed it over 
him, too, worried that he might be cold.  

"I followed the war in Harper's Weekly while I was studying in 
New York. I had no idea things were so bad."

"No newspaper story could accurately express the carnage that 
occurred on the battlefield, and beneath our green flag."

"The surgeons' flag."

"Yes. The wounded arrived like flotsam in a flood to our 
makeshift hospitals. We applied tourniquets, tied arteries, 
performed amputations. We worked as quickly as we could, all 
while cannon balls fell and explosions shook our operating 
tables." He grimaced. "Whenever I close my eyes, I still see 
the piles of amputated limbs. Hear the screams of dying men. 
It's why I drink, Doctor Scully."

She nodded, acknowledging his admission and his reasons, 
although she could not endorse the practice. His drunkenness 
presented a danger to every patient under his care.

"Return to your quarters, Corporal. Get some rest."

"Thank you. Will you be all right here on your own?"

"I am quite capable of watching over Mr. Mulder and Sergeant 
Phillips. Did I not prove myself in the operating room?"

"I didn't mean to cast doubt on your skill as a physician. I 
was merely suggesting that, as an unmarried woman, you might 
need--"

"I'll be fine, Corporal. Sergeant Phillips is here, should I 
need a man's protection."

The sick sergeant snored loudly in his bed, oblivious to their 
conversation. 

"Ah, then you are set." Beckett offered a tired smile. "I'll 
return in a few hours to relieve you. Goodnight, Doctor 
Scully." He touched the brim of his hat and left her alone 
with her two charges. 

Even before the door clicked shut behind him, Dana was once 
again assessing Mr. Mulder's condition, just as she had been 
doing every quarter hour since his surgery. She started by 
pressing her palm to his cheek.

His skin felt warmer this time, it seemed. She touched his 
brow, his neck. If he had a fever, it was only a mild one.

Or maybe she was imagining it altogether, seeing something 
that was not there, too tired to be objective after her long, 
eventful day. 

Pushing through her fatigue, she ticked off the possible 
causes of fever. Pyemia, blood poisoning, had a mortality rate 
of over ninety percent. Tetanus was nearly as deadly. Then 
there was erysepilas, soft tissue infection, osteomyelitis, 
inflammation of the bone, and, of course, gangrene.   

She turned up the flame of the lantern on the table beside the 
bed. Its flickering light revealed no sheen of sweat on 
Mulder's bruised face. No flushing of the skin.

She drew the blankets down to his waist to examine his wounds 
for inflammation and pus. Gooseflesh sprouted across his bared 
chest and arms. His pale body appeared nearly luminescent in 
the lamplight. Not a healthy glow, but a ghostly pallor, so 
different from the way he had looked only a day ago when he 
stood outside his cabin without coat or shirt, sun-kissed and 
robust, his golden skin inviting her touch.

Focus, Doctor Scully, she reminded herself. He is your 
patient. Two days ago, she had accused him of removing her wet 
clothes for reasons more iniquitous than keeping her warm 
after her fall. She had bragged that, as a trained physician, 
she could maintain a manner of necessary detachment when 
treating patients. Now she must prove it. She needed to put 
aside her personal feelings and remain objective until he was 
fully recovered.

If he recovered.

"I won't let you die, Mr. Mulder," she murmured, inspecting 
the binding that wrapped his shoulder.

Only a little blood stained the bandage. She peeked beneath 
it, sniffing for the putrid odor of necrotizing flesh. 

There was no stench. The wound remained free of pus. The 
sutured edges appeared pink from irritation, but not overly 
inflamed.

The dressing on his forearm was saturated with blood and 
lymphatic fluid. She quickly removed the outer gauze and inner 
lint batting. No malodor emanated from the stitched flesh. 
Both entry and exit wounds seeped, but showed no obvious signs 
of infection. She tugged on the ligature that Beckett had 
looped around a blood vessel and purposely left dangling from 
the wound. If it pulled free, it meant that infection had set 
in and disintegrated the arterial wall.

The ligature held. She wiped Mulder's arm clean with a wet 
cloth, then applied a wad of fresh, damp lint and rebound the 
arm with gauze. The soiled dressings were set aside to be 
washed and reused. She repositioned the blankets over his 
upper body.

Moving to the foot of the bed, she reached beneath the covers 
to squeeze his toes. They felt cool, but not unnaturally so. 
His circulation had not been compromised by injury or surgery. 

She flipped back the blanket to expose his lower left leg. The 
dressing on his calf needed changing, so she removed it. This 
wound, like the others, appeared clean and infection-free. The 
skin felt warm to the touch, however, and she worried that a 
fragment of arrowhead might still be lodged in the fibula. If 
so, inflammation would result, leading to diminished blood 
flow to the bone and death of the tissue. 

She must keep careful watch for additional symptoms: excessive 
sweating, chills, swelling of the ankles, feet, and legs. If 
Mr. Mulder developed any of these, further surgery would be 
required to scrape out the destroyed bone. Or, if gangrene 
took hold, the leg would have to be amputated.

Sliding the blankets up to his groin, she bared his upper 
thigh. A quick examination showed the wound was clean. The 
bandage was not too sodden and could wait until later to be 
changed. She recovered him with the blankets.

It worried her that Mr. Mulder was still unconscious after so 
long a time. She suspected he had sustained a concussion, 
either during the Indian attack, or earlier at Nine Pipe Ridge 
at the hands of her brother. Bill had beaten him mercilessly, 
then pushed him hard into a ledge. She had heard his skull 
crack against the stone. 

She slipped her hand beneath his head and gingerly probed for 
any swellings. There, just above the occipital bone, she found 
a sizable lump.

Symptoms of concussion could take hours or even days to show 
up. Sensitivity to light and noise, confusion, loss of 
balance, amnesia. Unfortunately, none of these could be 
diagnosed while the patient was unconscious.

A sal-ammoniac lotion applied directly to the scalp was the 
customary treatment for concussion and might bring him around. 
It would mean cutting off his hair to allow the medicine to be 
fully absorbed into the skin. But a haircut was a small price 
to pay if it helped rouse him from his coma.

She went to the medicine cabinet and pulled sal-ammoniac, 
vinegar, and whiskey from the shelves. She mixed these with a 
half-pint of water in a shallow bowl and stirred until the 
sal-ammoniac dissolved. The resultant lotion was thin and 
pungent. She grabbed a pair of scissors and returned to Mr. 
Mulder's bedside.

Long locks dropped to the floor as she snipped away his hair. 
She rolled his head from side to side to clip the back. By the 
time she finished, he resembled a half-plucked chicken more 
than a gentleman, but her intent was to make him well, not 
handsome.

She poured a little of the medicine into her palm to let it 
warm for a few seconds before applying it to his tufted scalp.  
The lotion stained the bed linens as she massaged it into his 
skin. She repeated the process until she had used up all of 
the mixture. 

Wiping her hands on her smock, she felt satisfied that she had 
done everything she could for Mr. Mulder for the time being. 
His recovery was now in God's hands. She cleaned up the fallen 
hair, then carried her chair back to her office. She limped 
the entire way, her sprained ankle throbbing after her long 
day. It would feel good to sit while she added notes to 
Beckett's entry in the patient logbook.

Beckett's report impressed her. It was not like his former 
sloppy jottings, but was a detailed description of Mr. 
Mulder's condition and the surgical procedures performed on 
him. 

"Well done, Corporal."

She picked up the quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and 
updated the entry.

"Post-surgery bleeding moderate. No sign of sepsis. Possible 
concussion. Treated with sal-ammoniac lotion as a precaution. 
Will administer calomel and antimonial powder mixed with a 
little bread-crumb when patient regains consciousness."

She considered writing more, but in the end decided to leave 
out the worst of her fears. Conjecture was pointless. Only the 
facts mattered.

"Doctor Scully?"

She glanced up, expecting to see Beckett at the door, 
returning early, but it was not the Corporal who called out 
her name. Nor was it Sergeant Phillips.

The pen dropped from her hand and landed on the logbook, 
spattering the page with ink. She pushed back from the desk 
and stood.

"Mr. Mulder?"

The visitor strongly resembled the man she had left 
unconscious in his bed just minutes ago, except that his 
entire body was surrounded by an unearthly halo of light. He 
was dressed in Indian garb and his long hair sparkled with 
gold dust. Most shocking of all, however, was the fact that 
she could see right through his luminescent body into the room 
beyond! 

He held out a glowing hand.

She took a step back. Stumbled and knocked into her chair. It 
clattered to the floor. She glanced over her shoulder at it. 
Just a quick look. A fraction of a second. 

When she turned back, the mirage had vanished. She hurried 
into the ward, limping as she went.

She found Mr. Mulder exactly as she had left him. Still 
unconscious. And as solid and real as Sergeant Phillips in the 
next bed.

"I must be more tired than I thought," she mumbled, dismissing 
her ghostly vision as mere delusion caused by lack of sleep.

Deciding to surrender to her fatigue, she crossed to one of 
the beds on the opposite side of the room and lay down to take 
a much needed nap. 

*   *   *

At oh-eight-hundred sharp, Cap stood in his office with 
Lieutenant Skinner. The original subject of their conversation 
was to have been the lieutenant's marriage proposal and Dana's 
acceptance. However, the matter would have to wait until 
later. Cap was facing a more pressing problem at the moment. 

"Word came from the goldfields not ten minutes ago that 
Kicking Horse and his band of cutthroats scalped and killed a 
prospector just south of Akopskaa Swamp last night." 

"You're sure it was a Blackfoot ambush, sir?" Skinner asked.

"Who else, so close to the fort?"

"Could've been Cree."

"Ridiculous. Cree don't travel this far south."

Skinner cleared his throat and looked as though he had more to 
say.

"Spit it out, soldier."

"Fox Mulder was attacked by hostiles last night. Shot four 
times. The arrows were Cree."

Cap wanted to laugh. Hell, he wanted to cheer! Crazy Fox had 
been assaulted by the very heathens to whom he had been 
offering aid for years. Served the traitor right for taking 
sides against the U.S. Army. "This is welcome news, 
Lieutenant. Most welcome! Is he dead?" 

"No, sir, but his life hangs in the balance as we speak."

"I see." A shame the Cree had not finished off the turncoat. 
"Where is he now?"

"Infirmary, sir."

"Here? At the fort?" Anger advanced upon Cap like Sherman's 
army through Georgia. He began to pace. "I left strict orders 
he be kept out."

"Yes, sir. I... I overrode those orders."

"You did what?" Cap spun to face him. The next word ground 
from his throat. "Why?" 

"He was dying, sir."

"Which would have saved us the trouble of hanging him!" Cap 
balled his fists.

Skinner's gaze shifted to the floor. 

There was more to the story, Cap guessed, something the 
lieutenant was reluctant to admit. 

"Dana was at the gate when Mulder arrived, wasn't she?" Cap 
guessed. "She insisted the guards let him in. And you helped 
her."

"Yes, sir. H-how did you know?"

"I'm her father. I know how persuasive she can be." Cap 
collected his hat and gloves from his desk. He had hoped 
Skinner would be more strict with Dana, although he was the 
first to admit that controlling his willful daughter was not 
always an easy task. "Don't assume that as my future son-in-
law you can countermand my orders without consequences."

"No, sir."

"I'll be back later to discuss your misconduct. But first, I 
must deal with my daughter."          

Cap left Skinner standing beside his desk, looking miserable. 

The situation with Dana had gone too far, Cap fumed as he 
marched across the quad to the infirmary. And the fault was 
Fox Mulder's. Although Dana insisted that nothing untoward had 
happened in that mountain hideaway of his, she was acting more 
obstinate than ever since her return. He had bewitched her. Or 
worse. 

The thought of his nemesis taking advantage of his daughter 
made Cap angry enough to strangle the blackguard in his 
sickbed.  

He barged through the infirmary's front door and bellowed his 
daughter's name.

Sergeant Phillips sat up in his bed and saluted. Fox Mulder 
slept soundly in the bed next to him. Cap itched to draw his 
saber and run it through the scoundrel's black heart. 

"Where is my daughter?" he demanded of Phillips.

The alarmed sergeant pointed a quaking finger at a cot on the 
opposite side of the room. Sure enough, Dana lay there asleep 
in full view of the men.

Cap thudded across the room and shook her shoulder. "Get up."

She startled awake. Glancing at the sergeant, she scrambled 
from the bed and straightened her skirts.

Cap targeted Mulder with an outstretched arm. "I want that 
traitor out of here. Now."

She blinked against sleep, clearly trying to rouse herself. 
"He's in no condition to travel, Father." 

"He is an enemy of the U.S. Army." 

"Keep your voice down, please." She limped away from him, 
leaving him no option but to follow her into the back office.

"He'll die if we move him," she said quietly, closing the door 
behind them.  

"That doesn't concern me."

"Do you really hate him so much?"

"There's a cemetery full of graves beyond the stockade. In 
those graves are soldiers who lost their lives fighting 
Indians -- Indians supplied with weapons by Fox Mulder."

"Do you have proof of that?"

In fact, he did not. Nothing but hunches and rumors. But who 
else would be helping the hostiles? "He assists the red man at 
our expense. That makes him as much a murderer as they are." 

"He must have his reasons, Father."

"I cannot think of a single good one. Can you?"

Her defiant gaze wavered. "No."

"I thought not. Two men will be 'round shortly to carry Mr. 
Mulder out of the fort."

"Where will they take him?"

"Beyond the gate."

"You would leave him lying on the ground?"

"He's lucky I don't shoot him for treason." 

Her eyes sparked with anger. "If he goes, then I go with him."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I mean what I say, Father."

"You're hysterical."

"I am perfectly calm."

She did seem in control of herself. Frustratingly so. 

"Tell me, Dana, where will you take him? To his cabin?"

"No. That's too far. I'll take him into town."

"Do you imagine there are fine, clean rooms to rent there?"

"There must be someplace."

"There is a saloon. And a few private brothels. Nothing more." 

Tears sprang to her eyes and his heart ached at seeing her 
upset. Why couldn't she understand the situation as he did? He 
was doing what was best for his men and for her.

"If the saloon is the only place with a bed, then that's where 
we'll go."

"You'll do no such thing."

"I'm not a child, Father. Stop treating me like one."

"Then stop acting like one!"

She crossed her arms and turned her back on him, proving his 
point. 

"I take my profession seriously," she said, her voice 
quavering, "even if you do not."

"Your profession? Examining men's bodies? Treating their 
diseases? It's unseemly, Dana." His patience was gone. He had 
half a mind to turn her over his knee and give her a sound 
spanking. "Get married. Have children. Forget this ridiculous 
doctor idea."

She straightened her shoulders. Clenched her fists. Was she 
shaking?

"If I agree to consider what you are suggesting," she said at 
last, "will you let Mr. Mulder stay until he recovers?" 

Did she mean it? Would she really forget her silly notion of 
becoming a doctor if he granted her this one indulgence? He 
hoped with all his heart it was true. He loved his daughter, 
more than life itself. He wanted her to be happy. And marriage 
was the only reasonable path to a secure future and contented 
life for her. 

"Yes," Cap conceded, against his better judgment. "He can 
stay. But only until he can be transported elsewhere without 
risk to his life."

She turned to face him. Her expression remained grim. She had 
gained no pleasure from his concession. "Thank you," she said 
without emotion.

"Don't thank me yet, Dana." He placed his hands on her 
shoulders. "I'm willing to leave Mr. Mulder's fate in God's 
hands, and yours for the moment, but I won't lie and say I 
hope he lives." He lightly chucked her chin. "And, live or 
die, I expect you to follow through on your promise."

"I'm sure you do."

He noticed her dress was stained with dried blood and who knew 
what else.

"I'll send Millie around with a set of fresh clothes," he 
promised before taking his leave. "Everything will work out 
for the best, Magnet, you'll see."

*   *   *

Long after Cap left, Dana was still shaking. His lack of 
support was crushing. It was clear to her now that he had 
never intended for her to be a doctor at the fort. As far as 
he was concerned, Mr. Mulder was her last patient. Whether she 
married Walter Skinner or not.

She groped for the ring tucked inside her pocket. It was there 
in its wooden box.

Would she accept the lieutenant's proposal? She had promised 
her father she would consider it. She had not promised to say 
yes, however.

But maybe it was the best course, given the circumstances, 
even if she did not love the lieutenant. He was a kind man. 
And willing to let her practice medicine. Marrying him would 
not be so awfully bad, would it?   

As promised, Millie came by later with clean clothes. She also 
brought Dana's copy of "The Pathfinder."

"I saw it on your bureau, miss. Thought you might want 
somethin' to read while you're sittin' here all day."

"Thank you, Millie. That was thoughtful of you."

In truth, the enjoyment she had formerly experienced while 
reading Cooper's book was spoiled now by her row with Cap. 
Clearly, he no longer looked upon her as his Magnet, although 
he continued to use the name as a term of endearment. The 
change in their relationship hurt her keenly. She longed to 
regain what they had lost.

One way to do that was to marry Walter Skinner.   

Dana changed out of her bloodstained clothes in the privacy of 
her office. She gave them to Millie to be soaked and scrubbed 
back at the house. 

After Millie left, Dana checked on Mr. Mulder and fed Sergeant 
Phillips. As the sergeant ate his meal, she dragged her chair 
back out to the ward, where she could keep close watch on her 
two patients. She positioned the chair once again between 
their beds, then sat down with her book to read. A hair ribbon 
marked her place. 

Chapter Nineteen had ended with Mabel -- Magnet -- agreeing to 
marry the man her father had chosen for her. Dana silently 
reread the chapter's final passages: "Trained like a woman to 
subdue her most ardent feelings, her thoughts reverted to her 
father, and to the blessings that awaited the child who 
yielded to a parent's wishes." 

No wonder Cap liked this book so much.

As for Dana, she sympathized with Mabel's plight. She read on. 
"I have no choice; that is, none have asked me to have a 
choice, but Pathfinder and Mr. Muir; and between *them*, 
neither of us would hesitate. No, father; I will marry 
whomever you may choose."

The very words Cap longed to hear.
 
"Mind readin' yer story out loud, Doc?" the sergeant 
interrupted her brooding. "It's mighty borin', layin' here 
with nothin' to do."

"Yes, I imagine it is. I'd be happy to read to you, Sergeant. 
Would you like me to start back at the beginning?"

"Oh, no need fer that."

"I've read the story several times already. I don't mind 
starting again."

"Nah, pick up wherever yer at. Makes no never mind to me." 

"All right then. Chapter Twenty: It was not only broad 
daylight when Mabel--"

"Who's Mabel?"

"The heroine."

"Right. Go on."

"It was not only broad daylight when Mabel awoke, but the sun 
had actually been up some time. Her sleep had been tranquil, 
for she rested on an approving conscience, and fatigue 
contributed to render it sweet."

Mabel had found comfort by surrendering to her father's will. 
Dana doubted she would feel the same in her place.

On the other hand, was she willing to risk estrangement from 
her father and family for the sake of personal freedom?

A quarter hour later, the sergeant had become quite caught up 
in the story. "And how did Mr. Muir respond then?" he asked, 
eyes bright with anticipation.

Dana continued, pitching her voice low to replicate Muir's 
masculine tenor. "'Nay, nay, for heaven's sake, do not 
misunderstand me, Mabel!' Muir interrupted, with some alarm of 
manner; 'I am far from intimating that any but you females 
ought to take refuge in the boat. The duty of us men is 
sufficiently plain, no doubt, and my resolution has been 
formed from the first to stand or fall by the blockhouse.'"

"Good fer him!" Phillips raised his fist triumphantly. "What 
was our Mabel's response?"

Dana used her natural voice for the part of Mabel. "'And did 
you imagine, Mr. Muir, that two females could row that heavy 
boat in a way to escape the bark canoe of an Indian?'"

"I was wonderin' the same, Doc. What does Mr. Muir say to 
that?"

"'Ah! my pretty Mabel--'" 

"Love is seldom logical, and its fears and misgivings are apt 
to warp the faculties." A rasping voice at her back finished 
the sentence for her.

Dana twisted in her chair to face the source of the speaker.

Mr. Mulder opened his eyes and offered her a weary smile. 
"Hey," he said. 

Relief swept through her. Sergeant Phillips looked equally 
pleased. She stood and set her book down.

"Mr. Mulder, it is good to see you awake."

"Where am I?" he croaked.

"Fort Culbertson. The infirmary."

"You got shot by Injuns," Phillips added. He pointed to his 
own swollen cheeks. "I got mumps."

"I see." Staring at Dana, Mulder dropped his voice to a 
whisper. "Does your father know I'm here?" 

She ignored his question and held her index finger a few 
inches from his nose. "Follow my finger with your eyes."

She moved her hand from left to right and back again. He 
tracked the motion without a problem. 

"State your full name," she said, testing him further.

"Fox William Mulder."

"And today's date?"

"August the twenty-- Wait...how long have I been here?" 

"Came in last night," Phillips said.

"Then it must be the twenty-eighth."

"Who is our country's current president?" Dana continued her 
assessment. 

"Andrew Johnson. Did you know he was born in Raleigh, North 
Carolina?" Mulder asked tiredly. "1808. Apprenticed to a 
tailor as a boy, but ran away. As a Senator, he advocated a 
homestead bill to provide free farms to the poor. Need to know 
more?"

"No, that's quite sufficient, thank you. Your mental faculties 
appear to be intact." She slipped her hand beneath his 
fingers. "Squeeze." 

His grasp was steady and adequately firm, given his weakened 
condition. 

His gaze drifted from his bandaged arm to the dressing on his 
chest. 

"I feel like...a voodoo doll." 

"A what?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. What's that smell?" He 
crinkled his nose.

"Vinegar."

"Are you trying to pickle me?" He scratched his head. "What 
happened to my hair?"

"I had to cut it off. To treat your concussion. As you can 
see, it worked."

"It don't look so bad, mister," Phillips assured him. "Kinda 
like a baby porkypine."

"Wonderful."

She placed her palm to his forehead. "You don't feel 
feverish." She touched his cheek and neck in turn, just to be 
certain.

He squirmed at her fussing. "Could I--" He cleared his throat. 
"Could I have a drink of water, please?" 

"Of course." 

She filled a glass from the pitcher on the table beside his 
bed. 

"You gonna check him fer orchids?" Sergeant Phillips asked.

"No." She held the glass to Mulder's lips.

"Yer missin' out, mister. Believe me." Phillips grinned. 

Mulder drank every last drop without pause.

She set down the glass. "Do you think you could take some 
broth, Mr. Mulder?"

"No. Thank you." His words were slurred with fatigue. He 
looked ready to fall asleep again. "Nitsiksissta'poo'," he 
mumbled. 

"That some kind of food?" Phillips asked.

"No." Mulder's eyes fluttered shut. "Means...I was lost." 

"Indeed. You very nearly were." Dana stroked his cheek, 
thankful he was still alive.

Her touch elicited a sigh. "You found me," he said, drifting 
off. "Brought me back."

She was about to correct him, tell him that it was Charlie who 
had found him and helped transport him to the fort, but he 
began to snore softly, so she adjusted his blankets and let 
him rest.

"Where were we, Sergeant?" she asked, picking up her book.

"Mr. Muir was sayin' somethin' about love."

"Right." She located the passage. "'Love is seldom logical, 
and its fears and misgivings are apt to warp the faculties.' 
Would you agree with that assessment, Sergeant Phillips?"

"If it means love can addle yer brain, then yep, I'd have to 
agree with it."

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 12...

-------

Chapter 12

What was keeping Bill? Maggie chewed her lip as she darned 
socks for her husband. He had stormed out of the house more 
than two hours ago, shouting something about Fox Mulder being 
in the infirmary with Dana. Lieutenant Skinner left Bill's 
study soon after, without stopping to say so much as good day. 
Then, thirty minutes later, a pimply private showed up at the 
front door asking Millie to bring a change of clothes to Dana.

Maggie hated being kept in the dark. She pushed her needle 
through the weave, taking care not to skip any rows and spoil 
the repair. 

Millie returned from the infirmary with a blood-stained dress 
and the disturbing news that Dana had spent the entire night 
tending to Fox Mulder, who had been injured in an Indian 
attack. Ordinarily, Maggie was not one to entertain 
uncharitable thoughts, especially about someone lying 
unconscious in a hospital bed, but the idea of that 
troublemaker being anywhere near her daughter made her blood 
boil. 

He was a distraction. Maggie's yarn tangled, creating a knot 
in the middle of her repair. A *dangerous* distraction. She 
yanked on the knot to free it. The yarn slipped from the eye 
of her needle. 

"Oh, for pity's sake!" She looked heavenward for guidance.  

Dana seemed bent on ignoring the wisdom of her faith. Church 
every Sunday. Bible readings each night. Grace and prayers, 
baptism, First Holy Communion, Confirmation. All a wasted 
effort apparently. Dana risked her immortal soul, as well as 
her reputation, by spending time alone with the likes of Fox 
Mulder. 

How had Bill Jr. put it? "Crazy Fox regularly raids Kicking 
Horse's chicken coop." Maggie understood what that meant. The 
man was a shameless philanderer. 

Dana's impulsiveness is my fault, she thought dismally as she 
untangled the knot and rethreaded her needle. After all, Bill 
had tried his best. 

"Consistency, strict rules, and hard work. These make good 
soldiers," he had said whenever the children were disobedient, 
which thankfully was not often.

"Our daughters aren't soldiers, dear," Maggie had argued in 
their defense. "They're little girls."

Now she wished she had listened to Bill. To think she had 
persuaded him to let Dana go off to medical school when she 
could scarcely fry an egg or tat a collar. What practical use 
was a college education to a woman? It would not help her 
secure a husband or keep a home.

Maybe it was not too late to save her. A stern lecture from 
Reverend McGill might turn her around. Maggie would invite him 
to dinner after Sunday services. 

Satisfied with her plan, she laid down several more neat and 
precise rows until the hole was mended. She turned the sock 
right side out. The patch was barely discernable.

Millie appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. 

"Are Dana's clothes soaking?" Maggie asked the housemaid. 
"It'll be a miracle if those stains come out." 

"Yes, ma'am." Millie crossed the room and held out a small 
wooden box, its lid carved with two doves. "I found this in 
Miss Dana's pocket and thought you would want to see it right 
away."

Maggie set her needle and yarn aside and took the box from 
Millie's outstretched hand. "What is this?"

"I think you should see for yourself, ma'am." 

Maggie opened the lid. "Oh!"

A ring! A lovely pearl and sapphire ring. 

So the lieutenant had proposed at last. And Dana had clearly 
accepted. She must have slipped the ring into her pocket to 
keep it clean while performing her doctor duties last night.

"Do you know what this means, Millie?" Maggie smiled up at the 
maid. 

"Not really, ma'am."

"We've got a wedding to plan! Isn't that wonderful?"

"Yes'm. If you say so." 

"We'll start with the guest list...then the invitations...oh, 
and a menu. I need paper and pen!"

"Right away." Millie moved toward the door.

"No, wait!" Maggie stopped her. "I'll get them myself. You 
unpack my wedding dress from the trunk in the attic. It'll 
need airing and pressing."

"Yes'm." 

She would engage Mrs. Etherage to oversee the fitting and make 
any alterations. That woman worked magic with needle and 
thread.

Tears of happiness filled Maggie's eyes at the thought of Dana 
wearing her gown, walking down the aisle on her father's arm, 
the lieutenant waiting at the altar to collect his young 
bride. Everything was going to be fine after all. Maggie had 
been worrying for nothing. Her baby girl was getting married!

She closed the tiny box and stood. "I'll be out for a while, 
Millie." The guest list, invitations, and menu could wait 
another hour or so. 

"Will you be needin' a buggy, ma'am?"

"No, thank you. I'm just going to the infirmary. I want to 
congratulate the happy bride-to-be and return her ring. I'm 
sure she must be missing it."

*   *   *

Dana emerged from her back office to find Mr. Mulder's bed 
empty. Panic shot through her. She had been gone for only a 
few minutes. Was it possible Cap had changed his mind and 
evicted Mr. Mulder in the short time it had taken her to 
update the patient logbook? 

"Where did he go?" she asked Sergeant Phillips, who was lying 
in bed looking at the illustrated plates in "The Pathfinder." 

Without taking his eyes from the book, he hooked a thumb at 
the front door. "Headed that way."

The door was wide open. Outside, a corporal strolled down the 
thoroughfare with a pair of horses in tow. Beyond him, 
soldiers practiced marching drills on the parade ground. A 
shopkeeper swept the front porch of the supply store on the 
far side of the green. 

Mr. Mulder was nowhere in sight. 

Dana limped across the ward and out the door, hurrying as fast 
as she could on her injured ankle. Just outside, she nearly 
ran into her wayward patient leaning against the side of the 
building, naked except for...

"Is that my doctor's smock?" 

He had knotted the sleeves loosely around his waist. His left 
hip remained exposed.

"It was all I could find," he said.

"You shouldn't be out here." She took hold of his arm and 
tried to haul him back inside.

He resisted. "My bladder disagrees. Care to point me in the 
direction of the nearest privy?" 

"There's a chamber pot beside your bed." 

"And an audience."

"You don't strike me as the shy type." She gestured toward the 
gaping smock. 

"And you haven't seen the way Sergeant Phillips gazes at me."

It was a joke presumably. Mr. Mulder had an odd sense of 
humor, she was learning.

An officer on the mall barked orders at the troops. Two 
elderly women emerged from the supply store, arms loaded with 
dry goods. 

"Come back inside, please."

"Not until I've visited the outhouse." 

He was very pale and looked like he might fall over at any 
moment. Blood seeped through the dressing on his lower leg.

"It's too far," she argued.

"How far can it be?"

"All the way around back."

"Then I'll need your assistance getting there." He slung a 
heavy arm across her shoulders and leaned into her. 

"Are you always so obstinate, Mr. Mulder?"

"'Persistent' has a better ring to it, don't you think?" 

He tried to propel her forward. When she stood firm, he let 
his arm drop from her shoulder and took two staggering steps 
on his own.

She moved to block his path. "Mr. Mulder--"

"I could go right here." He turned on quaking legs to face the 
building. 

"That won't be necessary." She snaked an arm around his waist 
to steady him. "Come this way."  

A fine pair they made, limping around the building together, 
neither in any shape to walk far. The smock around his waist 
flapped in the mid-morning breeze, each gust threatening to 
expose him. Out of politeness, she averted her gaze.

"Who's being shy now?" He chuckled.

She bristled at his assumption that she was embarrassed by his 
nudity. "Do you imagine I graduated from medical school 
without ever having seen a naked man?"

"Did you?"

"I saw plenty." Most had been cadavers, but what difference 
did that make? "It was practically a daily occurrence." 

"As often as that? You must be bored to tears with them by 
now."

"Indifferent would be a more accurate term. In my experience, 
the human--" She could not say "penis" in front of a man. She 
settled on the term her professors had used in medical school. 
"The male organs of generation are all very much alike, Mr. 
Mulder. In fact, after seeing one or two, you could say you've 
seen them all."

It was a lie, of course, intended to wipe the smirk off his 
face. In truth, there seemed to be considerable physical 
variation from one man to the next. Not that she had conducted 
a thorough study. 

Naturally, she had seen Mr. Mulder's penis during his surgery, 
while he was stripped naked on her operating table. She had 
not stared at it, or even thought much about it, being 
distracted by other more urgent matters. However, now that she 
*was* thinking about it, it had seemed generously 
proportioned. Bigger than most of the cadavers she had seen in 
medical school.

"Are you blushing, Miss Scully?"

She silently cursed her Irish ancestry and pale complexion. 
"It's *Doctor* Scully, if you don't mind. And I'm flushed from 
exertion, not embarrassment. You are no small man, Mr. 
Mulder."

"You would know, being an expert." Delight lit his eyes. 

"I was referring to your stature, not your...your..."

"Organ of generation?"

She decided to ignore his teasing. He clearly enjoyed 
provoking her and she refused to encourage him further.

Miraculously, they made it to the outhouse without tripping or 
falling down...or engaging in any additional conversation 
about the size of Mr. Mulder's genitalia. 

"Can you manage on your own from here?" she asked, opening the 
door for him. 

"I'll yell if I need help."

He hobbled inside and closed the door behind him. She stepped 
away.

A few minutes later, he emerged looking as if he might faint. 
She rushed to his side to prop him up once again.

"Everything all right?" She fitted herself beneath his arm, 
shouldering his weight. 

He clung to her and inhaled sharply. Was he trying to catch 
his breath or was he...?

"Mm, you smell good."

He was sniffing her!

She peered up at him, eyebrow raised. "Time to head back, Mr. 
Mulder. I want to get you into bed as soon as possible."

"With Sergeant Phillips watching?" he asked in mock horror.

She refused to let him bait her. "That's right; you don't like 
having an audience."

He smiled, clearly pleased by her response, and she realized 
then that he had not been poking fun at her earlier, or trying 
to shock her; he merely enjoyed verbal sparring. In his own 
way, he was treating her as an equal.

She found it quite refreshing. He was one of the few men she 
had ever met who did not patronize her. 

They teetered back toward the infirmary, taking small, if not 
steady, steps.

At the halfway point, he paused to ask, "Why am I still here?"

"We could try walking faster."

"No, not here *here*, but here in the fort? Why hasn't your 
father tossed me out on my...uh...backside? I was under the 
impression he hated me."

Cap did hate him and he was here only because of the false 
promise she had made to her father.

Regret swept through her at the memory of her argument with 
Cap. It pained her to be at odds with him, to deceive him the 
way she had, when in fact, she wanted only to please him. Make 
him proud of her. But it seemed no matter how hard she tried, 
he found her lacking. She was a disappointment, like Melissa. 
He loved them both, she was certain. He wanted their lives to 
be easy and happy. But he did not trust them to make their own 
decisions.

Melissa took his disapproval in stride. Always had. She made 
no apologies, no concessions for her often scandalous 
behavior. But Dana was unable to shrug off her father's 
judgment so easily. She could not turn her back on him. Not 
even when he made her doubt her own choices.

Of course, she could tell none of this to Mr. Mulder. He was 
not her confidante. In fact, they barely knew one another. 

Cap claimed Fox Mulder was dangerous, a threat to her and to 
the men of Fort Culbertson. The former was totally unfounded. 
Mr. Mulder had saved her life. He would not harm her, she was 
convinced of it. As for conspiring against the U.S. Army, both 
Cap and Bill Jr. insisted it was true. Even Walter had said 
Mulder supplied weapons to the Indians because he thought 
white men did not belong this far west. It seemed a feeble 
reason to turn against one's country. But whatever his 
motives, Mr. Mulder's loyalties clearly lay with the Indians 
instead of his own race, and she wanted to know why.

"My father dislikes what you do, Mr. Mulder."

"Treating Indians like human beings?" 

She lowered her voice to a whisper, although no one was within 
earshot. "Supplying aid to the hostiles makes you a traitor."

"The Blackfoot are a peace-loving people, Dr. Scully. More so 
than the soldiers out there on the green."

"You can't believe that. Not after they attacked you."

"The Cree attacked me, not the Blackfoot. There is a 
difference."

"Bill says all Indians are thieves and cold-blooded 
murderers."

"Bill Scully is blinded by bigotry."

"Mr. Mulder, you are talking about my brother!"

Mulder shrugged. "Sorry."

She was unsure if he was apologizing for the insult or because 
she was related to an alleged bigot.

"Indians do murder whites. It's a well documented fact," she 
said.

"They kill to defend their families, their land, their way of 
life. We do the same thing, or didn't you hear about that 
little scuffle south of the Mason Dixon Line?"

"That's not the same thing."

"It's not?"

He was breathing hard. Sweat glistened on his face and chest. 
He could barely put one foot in front of the other. Blood 
dribbled down his leg from the wound on his thigh.

She had not intended to start an argument. She only wanted to 
understand his point of view. It had been irresponsible of her 
to bring up such a volatile subject given his condition. The 
discussion would have to wait until he was more fully 
recovered. Right now, she needed to get him back to the ward.

"Can you make it the rest of the way?" she asked. 

Brow knotted, jaw set, he gave a nod.

They struggled around the building. He clutched her tightly 
and she feared she might collapse beneath his weight. It was 
only with considerable effort, and significant relief, that 
she steered him into the ward at last.  

Phillips greeted them with a wide grin. "Int'restin' nether 
garment you got there, Mr. Mulder."

"Very popular back east, Sergeant Phillips," Mulder said 
through gritted teeth. He leaned close to Dana's ear and 
rasped, "Told you he had his eye on me."

She was impressed he was able to joke when in such obvious 
pain.  

"I'll bring you a nightshirt," she promised, helping him into 
bed. "Will you be all right while I fetch fresh water and 
clean bandages for your wounds?" 

He nodded tiredly. Digging beneath his blankets, he retrieved 
her smock and handed it to her.

The garment held the heat of his body and warmed her palms. 
Folding it, she tried not to imagine it caressing his bare 
skin.

His organ of generation.  

"Tackle him if he tries to leave again, Sergeant Phillips," 
she called over her shoulder as she headed to the surgery for 
supplies.

*   *   *

Skinner tied his horse and Mulder's pinto to the rail of his 
porch. Looking up at the house, he imagined bringing Dana here 
on their wedding night. At the threshold, he would lift her 
into his arms. The train of her gown would hang to the floor; 
it would brush the stairs as he carried her up to the front 
bedroom. There, he would set her on her feet and, even though 
she would be wearing heeled shoes, she would barely come up to 
his chin. He would then sit to watch her undress. Or he would 
remain standing and help her, if she let him. When she was 
finally, completely undressed, he would lead her to their bed. 
A wide bed with a feather mattress and a white canopy. They 
would lie there together while he kissed her lips and caressed 
her soft, pale skin. When she was ready, he would make love to 
her, gently, so as not to hurt her too much her first time.

Would she be shy with him? Or would passion overtake her as it 
had the evening they kissed on the dock?

Either way, they would grow comfortable with one another soon 
enough. Love would blossom. And, God willing, they would be 
blessed with children.

But he was getting ahead of himself. First he must convince 
her to accept his proposal.

He hefted a bulging haversack from behind his saddle and 
carried it inside. Taking the stairs two at a time, he hurried 
to the empty, front bedroom. He dropped the bag on the hearth, 
causing a swirl of pine-scented sawdust to billow up around 
it. Kneeling beside the fireplace, he reached up into the 
chimney and dislodged the weapons he had stowed there earlier: 
two rifles, four pistols, and several boxes of ammunition, all 
wrapped in a blanket and tied up with rope. 

He shrugged out of his frockcoat and vest, and tossed them 
aside. His cravat, sash, and shirt soon followed. Upending the 
haversack, he dumped its contents onto the floor. Out fell a 
fringed tunic made of deer hide, matching trousers, a pair of 
well-worn moccasins, and a beaver-skin hat. It was the sort of 
outfit a trapper would wear. A mountain man like Fox Mulder.

Sitting back, he yanked off his boots. Then rose to strip off 
his pants. Quickly, he donned the buckskins and moccasins. 

The clothes felt strange on him. Freer than his uniform. He 
was confident no one would recognize him dressed this way, 
especially if he stuck to the shadowed trails of the mountain 
forest. And if anyone did take notice and spot him, it was 
likely they would mistake him for one of the dozens of hunters 
who trapped the hills around Flatwillow.

He fitted the beaver hat to his head, then stowed his uniform 
in the linen closet along with the haversack and his boots. He 
carried the weapons downstairs.

Out on the porch, he untied the ropes that bound the guns and 
shucked off the blanket. They were all there: a Spencer 
repeating rifle, a Springfield musket, three Colt revolvers 
and an old derringer, transported at great risk from Kingsbury 
Basin in Dana's phaeton. He had intended to take them to 
Buffalo Jump, where Mulder would gather them up and deliver 
them to the Blackfoot camp on Miin Creek. But with Mulder laid 
up for who knew how long, Skinner must take them to Kicking 
Horse himself. 

He slid the Spencer into the carbine boot on Mulder's pinto 
and strapped the Springfield behind the saddle. When he tried 
to pack the pistols and cartridges into Mulder's saddlebag, he 
found it was already full. He emptied it onto the blanket. Out 
spilled trading trinkets and several objects Skinner could not 
identify. 

A small drawstring pouch caught his eye. Inside he found a 
medallion -- a Jefferson Peace Medal, stamped with the words 
"Peace and Friendship." It seemed an omen, so he pocketed it. 
Maybe it would bring him luck. 

He rolled Mulder's trade goods into the blanket and took them, 
along with his own horse, into the barn. He moved quickly, 
leading the horse to a stall, filling the trough with water, 
tossing a forkful of hay at the horse's feet. He tucked the 
blanket containing Mulder's things into the phaeton and 
hurried back to the house.

Mulder's pinto waited patiently while Skinner untied the reins 
and climbed onto the saddle. He looked up at the house one 
last time. 

Married life could not come soon enough. Once married, he 
would truly settle down. Retire from the military. Take up 
farming. He would not leave Dana on her own the way he had 
left Liddiah.

"Get-up." He spurred the pinto and steered north, toward Miin 
Creek and Kicking Horse's summer camp. 

*   *   *

Maggie decided to stop at the Picayune on her way to the 
infirmary to enquire about an engagement announcement. The 
proprietor, a short, scruffy man with a kind smile, met her at 
the door.

"Good day, Mrs. Scully." He ushered her inside.

"Indeed it is, Mr. uh...Frohike?" 

"Yes, Melvin Frohike, at your service. And these are my 
associates, Mr. Langly and Mr. Byers." 

He pointed to two men who hunkered over a printing press, 
which lay in pieces on the floor. Ink stained their hands and 
clothes.

The bearded man smiled. The blond waved a blackened hand.

She acknowledged them with a nod. "Gentlemen."

"What brings you to our humble establishment, Mrs. Scully?" 
Frohike asked.

"Good news, Mr. Frohike."

"We like that! What sort of good news?"

"The best sort, I should think, short of a birth announcement. 
My daughter is getting married and I'd like to place a notice 
of engagement in your paper."

"Congratulations!"

"This is her ring." Maggie withdrew the wooden box from her 
bag and opened the lid with pride. "Isn't it beautiful?"

Mr. Frohike adjusted his glasses to inspect the stones. The 
other gentlemen abandoned their work on the floor to come peer 
over his shoulder.

"Lovely," Frohike announced at length. "But why isn't it on 
the bride-to-be's finger?"

"That's...a complicated story." She did not want to spoil the 
occasion by mentioning Fox Mulder or Dana's blood-stained 
dress. "Shall we discuss the announcement?" 
 
"By all means. What would you like it to say?"

"'Captain and Mrs. William Scully of...' Maybe you should 
write this down, Mr. Frohike."

"Of course." He gathered paper and ink, then dipped his quill 
to take down her words. 

"'Captain and Mrs. William Scully of Liberty, Virginia, are 
pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter Dana 
Katherine to Lieutenant Walter Skinner of Mission, Delaware. A 
September wedding is planned.'" She took the ring from its box 
and held it up to the light of the window. The sapphires 
glittered and the pearls shone warmly. 

"Is that all?" Frohike asked.

"Should it say more?" 

"Some people include a poem, to capture the sentiment of the 
occasion."

"An excellent idea, only..."

"Only what, Mrs. Scully?"

"As inspired as I find my daughter's welcome news, I'm afraid 
I'm at a loss to put my feelings into words."

"Perhaps I could suggest something appropriate."

"Could you? Would you, please?"  

Frohike thought for a moment. "How about this: 'She is thine, 
the word is spoken, hand to hand, and heart to heart, though 
all other ties are broken, time these bonds shall never 
part.'"

"Oh, that is splendid, Mr. Frohike! You certainly have a way 
with words."

Frohike gave a modest bow. "Thank you, Mrs. Scully. I don't 
like to brag, but I do have something of a reputation for--"

"Your announcement and Mr. Frohike's poem will appear in our 
next edition, Mrs. Scully," Byers interrupted. "Assuming we 
can get our press back together."

"I told you not to remove the crank," Langly complained.

"It was sticking."

"It just needed a little push." 

"It'll be fixed straight away, Mrs. Scully, not to worry," 
Frohike promised, ending their argument. "Look for your 
announcement directly below our story about Harmon Loomis."

"Harmon Loomis?" Maggie asked.

"Malefactor in Kingsbury Basin," Byers said.

"What did he do?"

"Breach of promise of marriage."

"Oh dear, a serious offense then."

"Indeed. Mr. Loomis failed to appear at his own wedding. He 
claimed his omission of duty was entirely unintentional, but 
he is in hot water nonetheless. Prospective damages to the 
lady's affections are set at $10,000."

"A fair compensation, wouldn't you agree, gentlemen? After 
all, Mr. Loomis gave his word. A promise of marriage is a 
binding contract that should be honored by all parties. That 
poor woman." Maggie tucked Dana's ring away in her bag. "Thank 
you for your time, gentlemen, and your expert help, Mr. 
Frohike. I look forward to seeing your lovely poem in print!"

*   *   * 

Mulder's left arm throbbed. His right shoulder burned -- even 
more than the time he had been shot by a musket ball in 
Mexico. But the worst by far was his leg. It ached from toes 
to groin. 

He had been an idiot to go wandering out to the backhouse, but 
would do the exact same thing all over again given the same 
circumstances. His refusal to use the chamber pot had nothing 
to do with Sergeant Phillips, although that was the excuse he 
had given Dr. Scully. Truth be told, he disliked the idea of 
her cleaning out his dirtied bowl. It made him feel like a 
helpless child. And he hated feeling helpless. Especially in 
front of a beguilingly intelligent woman.

"Drink this, please." Dr. Scully held a glass to his lips. 

"It smells bad." He pushed it away.

"Yes, it does. And it tastes even worse. But it'll stave off 
sepsis and help thin your blood."

"I want thin blood?"

"You do, Mr. Mulder, so your leg won't throw a clot and cause 
paralysis or death."

"Death might be a welcome relief right about now." 

"Is the pain as bad as that?"

Damn, he had not intended to say anything out loud. Now she 
would prod and poke and hover over him the rest of the day. 

She set down the glass and placed her hand on his forehead.

Was it too late to pretend he was asleep?

"No fever," she proclaimed, then moved to unwrap the dressing 
on his arm. 

A bloody thread dangled from his sutured flesh. She tugged at 
it.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry, I had to make sure the ligature was still attached."

"It is."

"Yes. And it's a good thing, too, Mr. Mulder."

"I'll take your word for it." 

She swabbed the site with a wet cloth. Sergeant Phillips sat 
up in his bed to watch.

"Looks mighty painful, mister."

"It hurts like hell."

Did she intend to scour him down to the bone? 

He jerked his arm away. "Enough."

"Don't be such a baby, Mr. Mulder."

"A baby? I was nearly a corpse twelve hours ago."

"And I intend to keep you from becoming one twelve hours 
hence." 

She rebound the wound with fresh bandages. Her expression 
remained serious, but calm. The tip of her tongue stuck out 
from between pearly teeth as she concentrated on her task. Her 
fingers fluttered over his raw flesh, soothing the fire deep 
within the muscles of his arm.

Unfortunately, when she folded back the bedcovers to change 
the dressing on his upper thigh, her fingers grazed his 
scrotum through the wool blanket and ignited a fire of a 
different sort. 

His cock stiffened. He cursed its timing and the 
circumstances.

She carefully loosened and removed his dressing. Her touch was 
as gentle as a lover's. When she leaned close to inspect the 
wound, her warm breath tickled the sensitive skin of his inner 
thigh. 

"Wish I'd been shot by an arrow," Phillips said, sounding 
wistful. 

Had he noticed Mulder's erection? Worse yet, had she?

His worry was quickly replaced by another, more serious 
concern: how would he measure up against the hundreds, maybe 
thousands of men she had seen on a "practically daily" basis 
while in medical school? Would she find him lacking? It wasn't 
the sort of problem he had run into before. Most women he'd 
known were far less experienced than Dr. Scully. Including 
Madame Pearl and the courtesans at the Buffalo Rose Pleasure 
Palace in Cripple Creek. 

"Ever hear the legend of Blood Clot Boy?" Mulder asked, trying 
to distract Dr. Scully, the sergeant, and himself. If he was 
lucky, his condition would either disappear on its own or 
remain safely concealed beneath the folds of the bedcovers. 

"I've not heard it, Mr. Mulder." She daubed at his thigh with 
her cloth.

His cock began to tent the blankets.   

"Tell it, please," Sergeant Phillips urged. 

Mulder shifted, trying to nonchalantly pile the covers more 
generously onto his lap. "An old couple had three daughters 
who all married the same man." 

"Lucky man," said Sergeant Phillips.

Dr. Scully frowned, but continued to meticulously tend his 
injured thigh.

"Miserly man," Mulder corrected, wishing she would either 
finish her ministrations or ask Sergeant Phillips to leave the 
room so he could throw her to the bed and fuck her until the 
Devil dragged him off to Hell. "He wouldn't share his food 
with his in-laws. Soon, they were starving. One day, the old 
couple found a blood clot in the snow and took it home to put 
in a pot of boiling water."

"They weren't going to eat it, were they?" Dr. Scully looked 
appalled.

Had her eyes always been such an intoxicating shade of blue?

"They were very hungry," Mulder reiterated. It took all of his 
willpower not to touch himself. Or her. "After a short time, 
they heard a child crying in the pot. They looked in and found 
the blood clot had turned into a baby boy."

"There was a living baby in the pot of boiling water?" Dr. 
Scully's brow arched.

"According to the legend, yes."

"Water boils at two-hundred-twelve degrees Fahrenheit, Mr. 
Mulder. I don't have to tell you, a baby would never survive 
such extreme temperatures."

"It's a myth. A metaphor. You aren't supposed to take it 
literally." Would she slap him if he kissed her? "Anyway, the 
baby instructed the old couple to hold him next to--"

"The baby spoke?" she interrupted again. 

"Are you going to question every detail of the story?"

"Only the parts that contradict what we know to be possible."

"You're claiming that everything that is possible is already 
known?"

"I'm saying that observable, empirical, and measurable 
evidence can help us determine whether a thing is possible or 
not. Procedures may vary from one field of inquiry to another, 
but there are identifiable features that distinguish 
scientific inquiry from other methodologies of knowledge. 
Scientists propose hypotheses as explanations of phenomena. 
They then design experimental studies to test those 
hypotheses. The steps must be rigorous and reputable if they 
are to yield dependable results."

Oddly, the more she talked, the harder he became.

"You sure know how to squeeze the fun out of a story, Dr. 
Scully."

"And you tell a tall tale, Mr. Mulder." 

"Please, let him finish, Doc," Phillips begged.

"Yes, let me finish." So to speak. 

She moved her hand higher up his leg. He suppressed a moan.

"Fine." She rolled her eyes. "I won't say another word."

Her fingers inched closer to his groin. If she was trying to 
drive him crazy, it was working.

"The baby instructed the old couple to hold him next to each 
lodge pole in the tepee. As they moved him from one pole to 
the next, he began to grow." 

Just like his cock.

"I don't think I need to point out that--"

"Dr. Scully!" Phillips and Mulder whined in unison.

"Sorry." She closed her mouth and pursed her lips.

Full, rosy lips. They would feel sooo good on his-- 

"By the time they held him next to the last...uh...pole," -- 
his cock twitched beneath the blankets -- "he was a full grown 
man. He said he was the Smoking Star and had descended to 
earth to help them."

"He came from Heaven?" Phillips asked, eyes round with wonder.

"Or an alien world," Mulder said. 

"Lift your leg, please," Dr. Scully ordered.

"Pardon?"

"Lift your leg so I can wrap it." 

God help him, he was going to explode.

He raised his knee, carefully, so as not to detonate all over 
the blankets. "The couple named him Blood Clot Boy. For 
obvious reasons."

"What happened next?" Phillips asked.

"Blood Clot Boy helped the old couple. He hunted for them, 
provided them with food."

"And what happened to the miserly son-in-law?" Dr. Scully 
asked.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? There's no moral to this story?"

"It's not an Aesop's fable." 

"You can put your leg down now."

"I don't think I can."

"Of course you can."

"No, I mean, I don't think I want to. I--" 

Before he could say more, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman 
blustered into the ward. Mulder had seen her before. Wasn't 
she-- 

"Mother?" Dr. Scully blinked in surprise. "What are you doing 
here?"

"I came to return your engagement ring. What are *you* doing?" 
Mrs. Scully's eyes targeted the small feminine hand caressing 
Mulder's bare thigh.

Mulder's erection wilted beneath the covers and Mrs. Scully's 
disapproving stare.

Did she say "engagement ring"? 

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 13...

-------

Chapter 13

To a casual observer, Mulder's expression appeared as 
impassive as a poker player's. Dana, however, spotted a 
transitory flare of panic in his hazel eyes. She promptly 
withdrew her hand from his leg and covered him with a blanket, 
although she was sure he was not self-conscious about his 
exposed limb, not after parading to the privy wearing only her 
doctor's smock tied around his waist. Nor did it seem likely 
he would be intimidated by her mother's stern scowl. Dana had 
seen him go toe to toe with Cap, who was far more formidable.

What, then, was distressing him?

"You gettin' married, Doc?" Sergeant Phillips' smile widened. 
"Congratulashuns!"

A muscle twitched along Mulder's jaw. 

"Excuse us, gentlemen." Dana turned to her mother. "May we 
talk in my office, please?"

"By all means." Maggie's sniff of disapproval knotted Dana's 
stomach. "Lead the way."

Dana walked with eyes downcast, unable to meet her mother's 
judgmental stare straight on. Maggie followed, her skirts 
rustling like nettles in the wind. 

"You're playing with fire," Maggie accused as soon as the door 
was shut behind them. 

"I've done nothing improper. I was merely treating a patient."

"You cannot be so naive as to think you can touch a man in 
such a familiar fashion without consequences."

"I'm his doctor."

"You're a beautiful, young woman. A fact that Mr. Mulder 
clearly noticed."

Dana did not like where the conversation was headed. "Why are 
you here, Mother?" she asked. 

"As I said," -- Maggie dug into her crocheted purse and pulled 
out Lieutenant Skinner's carved wooden box -- "to return 
this."

Not believing her eyes, Dana patted her pocket, only to find 
it empty. Damn! She had intended to remove the box before 
giving her dirtied clothes to Millie. 

"That doesn't mean what you think it means."

"It's from Walter Skinner, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And it's an engagement ring?"

"That's his intent."

"I'm interested in *your* intent. What did you tell him?"

"I told him I needed more time."

"Time for what?"

"To be certain about my feelings before I made a decision."

"Dana, you've kissed him. You've accepted his ring. These are 
as binding as any contract. There's no decision left to be 
made."

"But I don't love him."

"Do you love someone else?" 

An image of Mr. Mulder dressed in buckskin and feathers rose 
unbidden in Dana's mind. She glanced nervously at the closed 
door. If pressed, she could not have explained why he appeared 
in her thoughts at that particular moment, and yet, there he 
was. 

Maggie followed her gaze. "Does your new patient have 
something to do with your ambivalence?" 

"Why would he?"

"Given what I just witnessed out there in the ward--" 

"Whatever you think you saw, you're mistaken."

"Am I? Shall we ask Mr. Mulder what was going through his mind 
just now?" Maggie reached for the door handle.

Dana grabbed her wrist, stopping her. "Please don't. Your 
accusations are unwarranted. You'll only embarrass him. And 
me. Or is that your intention, to shame me into quitting this 
place and my job?"

"My intention is to see that you don't make a mistake you'll 
regret for the rest of your life. You're my daughter, Dana. I 
love you. I will always love you. But I'm afraid of what's 
happening to you, of what you're becoming. There's a name 
people give to women who toy with men's affections, and it 
isn't a very nice one."

The insult stung as soundly as if her mother had slapped her 
across the face. Dana steadied herself against the desk. "Is 
that what I'm doing? Toying with men's affections?"

"Don't pretend you don't understand the consequences of your 
actions. We've had this conversation before."

Dana remembered only too well. The night before she left for 
New York, Maggie had come to her bedroom to offer some 
motherly advice. "A woman must be on guard. A single 
indiscretion can ruin her prospects forever."

"I'll be careful," Dana had promised.

"Please do. A husband expects his new bride to come to their 
marriage bed chaste." Maggie lowered her voice to a whisper. 
"Intact."

When Dana inquired quite sincerely if the word "intact" should 
be taken figuratively or literally, Maggie dodged the subject. 
"Your husband will instruct you on all you need to know...on 
your wedding night."

If Melissa had still been living at home, Dana would have 
sought her out for more detailed information. But she had left 
months earlier, which meant the finer points of lovemaking 
remained cloaked in mystery until Dana arrived at medical 
school and began her studies in human physiology. Halfway 
through the second semester, during the dissection of a female 
corpse, her professor pointed to a scar he identified as the 
carunculae myrtiformes, located within the vaginal vault. 
According to Dr. Innes, it was the remains of the dead woman's 
hymen -- ruptured during her first sexual encounter.  

Feeling foolishly ignorant and hoping her male classmates were 
too focused on the cadaver to notice her flushed face, Dana 
asked what the structure had looked like prior to parturition. 

Dr. Innes paused only a moment before launching into one of 
his typically monotone explanations: "A membranous semilunar 
fold, more or less closed, Miss Scully. It varies in shape, 
but its commonest form is that of a ring, broadest 
posteriorly. Occasionally it is cribriform. Rarely, it can be 
imperforate."

All eyes turned toward her. 

Imperforate or semilunar, Dana imagined that losing one's 
virginity must be painful, but she was not bold enough to ask, 
not in a room full of gawping men.  

Four years later, she still had not experienced the sexual act 
firsthand, but at least she now understood the mechanics -- 
and the consequences. She did not need her mother's cautious 
reminders to know what was at stake.

A look of startled alarm spread across Maggie's features now. 
"Has my warning come too late?" 

"Of course not."

"Thank God!" Maggie's hand went to her heart.

Dana glared at her. "I need to get back to work."

Her mother blinked at the sudden dismissal. "Yes. Well. All 
right then." She handed the box to Dana. "But don't stay at it 
too long, dear. Too much intellectual stimulation isn't good 
for a woman, you know."

It was an old warning, repeated numerous times in Maggie's 
letters while Dana was at school. 

"That's an outdated opinion, Mother."

"It's a widely accepted fact."

"Unfortunately, that much is true."

"It's all true. Too much stimulation -- intellectual or 
otherwise -- leads a woman to recklessness." 

"I disagree."

"Your current behavior is proof of it," Maggie insisted. 

Anger ballooned in Dana's chest. "Any recklessness I may be 
feeling has been caused by efforts to repress my intellect, 
not the other way around."

"You would see it that way."

"I find my work enjoyable, Mother, and enriching. It makes me 
feel useful, accomplished, and healthy in mind and spirit. 
Without it, I am little more than a parasite feasting on the 
generosity of a father or husband."

Maggie's eyes widened. "Is that how you view me?" 

Her mother's obvious hurt stripped away Dana's anger as 
quickly as water puts out a fire. She had not meant to insult 
her mother's way of life. She intended only to point out that 
she desired something different. 

"No, of course not. I envy your happiness," she said honestly.    

Maggie nodded, lips tight, shoulders slumped. She reached 
again for the door handle. This time Dana did not stop her.

"Lieutenant Skinner is a good man," Maggie said, stepping 
across the threshold. "Don't risk losing the opportunity to 
become his wife." 

It was more a plea than a demand, and Dana let her have the 
final word. As soon as her mother was out of sight, she sank 
into the chair at her desk, Skinner's carved box clutched in 
her hand. A clock ticked loudly atop the bookcase. The air 
smelled stale and musty, and it seemed she could not draw a 
full breath.

In the past week she had insulted her mother, argued with her 
father, and disappointed Lieutenant Skinner. Guilt and dismay 
weighed heavily on her conscience. Could she do nothing right?

She opened the box to stare at the pearl and sapphire ring. It 
glittered in its velvet-lined nest, holding the promise of a 
comfortable life, an opportunity to practice medicine, and the 
means to win back her parents' approval.

"The answer to all my prayers," she muttered, tired of butting 
heads with her parents and feeling selfish for wanting to 
pursue her own interests. 

She snapped the box shut and dropped it into a drawer in the 
desk. Her personal dilemma would have to wait; she had work to 
do. Standing, she smoothed her skirt, tucked a loose strand of 
hair into her chignon, and headed for the ward. A sense of 
calm settled over her as she passed through the surgery. She 
sucked in a great rush of air, relishing the prickle of 
alcohol and ammonia -- a hospital's distinctive bouquet -- as 
it tickled her nose. Neat rows of medicine bottles on their 
shelves and dozens of surgical instruments laid out precisely 
on trays mirrored the comfort, order, and purpose she felt in 
this place -- the one place she could be herself. She felt her 
composure returning. She was in charge here, if nowhere else. 

*   *   *

Over the next week, Dana diligently tended her two patients. 
She found little time to brood about her own problems. She 
remained in the infirmary both day and night, sleeping on a 
cot that Corporal Beckett helped her move from the ward into 
the office. Cap and Maggie did not visit again, although they 
issued an invitation through Millie to dine with them and the 
Reverend McGill after church on Sunday. Guessing at their 
motives, Dana politely declined.

Sergeant Phillips' health improved with each passing day. By 
week's end, the swelling in his cheeks had disappeared and he 
no longer required a bandage tied around his head. His fever 
waned and his appetite increased. He received numerous 
visitors, which cheered him greatly.  

As for Mr. Mulder, he seemed hell-bent on recovering in record 
time. Although in considerable pain, she was sure, he 
struggled to walk further and longer each day. He limped 
around the ward dressed in a borrowed nightshirt and relied on 
a crutch for balance. Later, he extended his range to the 
thoroughfare, where he craned to see the mountaintops above 
the fort's high, stockade fence as he hobbled up and down the 
dusty street, hour upon hour.

"Like a caged animal," she murmured, going to fetch him back 
inside when he looked ready to drop.

He collapsed on his bed after these excursions, drenched with 
sweat. Only then, on the brink of exhaustion, did he allow her 
to fuss over him without protest. He surrendered to her 
ministrations with eyes closed. She took full advantage, not 
only dressing his wounds and sponging his body clean, but also 
shaving his face and washing his cropped hair, which stood on 
end when dry like milkweed silk, no matter how she tried to 
tame it with a comb. 

He said little as she worked on him, responding to her 
questions about his health with only a nod, a grunt, or a 
huff. She shrugged off his ill temper and reticence. He was 
eager to gain his independence -- a feeling she understood 
only too well.

Come Sunday, the sergeant was so much improved Dana decided to 
release him after he finished eating his lunch. While he ate, 
she tweezed stitches from the puckered wounds on her other 
patient's arm. Mr. Mulder lay stoically in his bed, arm 
outstretched across her lap, while she sat beside him in her 
chair and tugged at his flesh. Bruises mottled his arm from 
elbow to wrist.

"No sign of infection," she said, pleased he had survived the 
worst and was healing so quickly. 

"Does that mean I can leave?"

"No. You lost a lot of blood, Mr. Mulder. Give yourself time 
to regain your strength."

A burdened sigh huffed from his nose. He twisted to look past 
her at Phillips. "Do you believe in fate, Sergeant?"

Phillips paused at his meal, fork piled high with beans. "You 
ain't fixin' to bend my ear with another one o' your tall 
tales, are you? I'm still havin' nightmares about that wolf-
man you talked about. What'd you call it?"

"A Manitou." This brought the beginnings of a smile -- the 
first in days -- to Mulder's face. "Every word of that story 
was true."

"Right, and I'm admiral of all the seas." Phillips winked at 
Dana.

Mulder turned the question on her. "How about you, Dr. Scully? 
Do you believe in fate?"

"No, I don't." Her answer seemed to disappoint him. "Does that 
surprise you?"

"Well...yeah. I thought everyone believed in fate." He 
hesitated, appearing to weigh his next words before 
confessing. "When I was unconscious, I had a vision of a world 
beyond this one."

"A vision or a dream?" She yanked a stubborn suture free.

"Ouch!" He jerked his arm from her grasp. "Are we discussing 
fate or semantics?"

"Sorry." 

With a gentle caress, she lured his arm back to her lap.  

"I met an old friend there, a man named Red Crow, who died 
recently."

"A ghost?" Phillips' eyes rounded.

"Maybe."

"Was you dead, too?" 

"Apparently not. Red Crow told me I was a spirit, not a 
ghost."

Phillips nodded, accepting this questionable distinction. He 
shoveled more beans into his mouth.

"Red Crow said it wasn't my time to die. My 'earth walk,' as 
he called it, was not over yet. I woke up here."

Dana swabbed his arm with a damp cloth, wiping away the 
droplets of fresh blood that welled up in the tiny holes left 
behind by the stitches. "That's it? That's your proof that 
fate governs our lives?"

"There's more. Red Crow said I was going to meet someone, a 
person of unusual strength and wisdom." 

"Did he say who this person was?" 

"No."

"Or when you would meet him?"

"Her."

"Her?"

"He said she would bring me back from the dead." He fixed her 
with a stare.

The intensity in his gaze caused her pulse to quicken. A 
pleasant pressure ballooned in her chest and belly. 

"I thought you said you weren't dead. A spirit, not a ghost." 
She gathered up her tweezers and gauze, and rose from the 
chair. 

"I once dreamt about a chicken that laid three pink eggs." 
Phillips wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "A week 
later, my wife gave birth to triplets."

Mulder's head bobbed as if this odd coincidence proved 
anything. 

"Dreams have been the harbingers of future events for 
centuries. Examples date back to Biblical times," Mulder said. 
"Egyptian pharaohs, Queen Maya, the Virgin Mary, St. John, 
Mohammed, Joan of Arc, Mark Twain--"

"Mark Twain?" Phillips asked around a mouthful of cornbread.

"In June, 1858, Samuel Clemens, a.k.a. Mark Twain, dreamt that 
his younger brother Henry was laid out in a casket in their 
sister's sitting room. A bouquet of white roses graced the 
dead man's chest. One lone, red bloom among the mass of white 
marked his still heart. After Twain awoke, he learned that the 
boiler on the steamship where Henry was serving as a mud clerk 
had exploded and Henry lay close to death in a hospital in 
Memphis. Twain rushed to be at his brother's side. It took him 
three days to get there by steamship. For three long days and 
nights he relived his terrible, prophetic dream and anguished 
over his brother's fate. On approaching Henry's bed at last, 
Twain sank to the floor in shock, for his brother's 
unconscious form was laid out exactly as the corpse in his 
nightmare. A stain of blood, like the lone, red rose, marked 
his white shirtfront. Henry died seven days later."

"I'd say we're both admirals of the seas, Sergeant Phillips," 
Dana said.

Undaunted by her skepticism, Mulder continued to argue his 
point. "Abraham Lincoln dreamt about his own death and told 
his wife and a friend about it before his assassination."

"That's an unfounded rumor."

"Some Indian tribes believe dreams are as real as their waking 
lives. They claim animals in dreams are particularly powerful. 
Eagles, buffalo, bear, fox -- these animal helpers can provide 
insight and guidance, impart their unique strengths, and 
protect and watch over the dreamer, even after he wakes." 

Dana recalled her most recent dream, about her fall from Old 
Isaac. In it, a fox with green eyes -- eyes almost the same 
color as the ones studying her so intently now -- watched her 
from atop a bluff. 

An animal helper? Fate? Or mere coincidence?

She deposited the gauze and tweezers on the table beside the 
bed. "'Fate is not the ruler, but the servant of Providence,'" 
she quoted. "As are we, Mr. Mulder. God, not the Moirae, 
watches over us, and He allows us to make our own choices."

"You've never had a dream come true?"

"No. Nor am I convinced that they can."

"What does it take to make you believe?"

"Scientific evidence, not exaggeration and hearsay. Dreams do 
not foretell the future, Mr. Mulder, nor does fate govern our 
destiny. I believe in free will. I set my own course."

"Do you?" he challenged. "Is that what you're doing right 
now?" His gaze flitted to her bare ring finger.

She fought the urge to hide her hand behind her back and 
turned to Phillips instead. "As we're on the subject of free 
will, I'm releasing you, Sergeant. You are a free man." 

"I'm cured?" He blinked up at her in surprise. 

"Healthy as a horse." She lifted away his empty plate.

"Yeehaw!" He threw back the covers and bounded from the bed. 
His nightshirt flapped around his prickly, bowed legs as he 
danced a little jig. 

"Let me bring you some clothes." Plate in hand, Dana headed 
for the surgery to retrieve the sergeant's uniform, which was 
stored on a shelf with clothing that once belonged to other 
former patients, all who had presumably died.    

Behind her, Phillips chattered to Mulder. "She's the best doc 
I ever had. You suppose she'll keep doctorin' after she gets 
hitched? I sure hope so, in case I git the mumps agin. Gosh, 
whoever she's marryin' is a lucky son-of-a-gun." 

Mulder murmured something in response that Dana could not 
quite catch. Glancing back at him, she saw that his earlier 
expression of panic had returned.

*   *   *

The following afternoon, Mulder clomped back and forth across 
the empty ward on his crutch, just as he had been doing every 
day for the past week. Dr. Scully was holed up in her office. 
She had been there since early morning. Which meant she had 
missed the pimply-faced private who delivered a copy of the 
Picayune an hour ago. The paper carried the oily scent of 
fresh ink and an official notice of Dr. Scully's impending 
marriage. 

"A September wedding is planned," it declared.

September was less than a week away.

Mulder had crumpled the paper into a ball and stuffed it into 
the water pitcher on the table beside his bed. 

"So much for fate," he muttered as he paced. 

It wasn't like she hadn't warned him. She admitted to kissing 
Skinner. She evidently loved him, at least enough to accept 
his ring, the ring Mrs. Scully had returned to her yesterday. 

The ring she still wasn't wearing today, he had noticed.

"Trouble in paradise?" he mused aloud. For some reason, the 
idea appealed to him.

The Picayune's sappy verse circled his brain for what seemed 
the millionth time: She is thine, the word is spoken, hand to 
hand, and heart to heart, though all other ties are broken, 
time these bonds shall never part--

He crashed into the end of a cot, stubbing his big toe and 
nearly losing his balance. Pain shot up his injured leg.

"Son of a...!" He hurled the crutch across the room. It sailed 
over three beds before it struck a wall and clattered to the 
floor.

Had she heard his outburst? He glanced at the closed door 
between the ward and the surgery. 

"I'm all right!" he shouted, just in case.

She did not respond, for which he was grateful. And irritated.

What was it about her anyway? Why did he care if she did or 
did not marry Skinner? It made no difference to him one way or 
the other. He had had no plans to marry. And even if he did, 
it wouldn't be to a woman as narrow minded as--

"You're looking better."

Mulder spun toward the voice...lost his balance...started to 
fall--

Walter Skinner rushed to his side. With an iron grip, he 
grabbed Mulder's arm and set him upright. 

Mulder shook free and limped to his bed. "I understand 
congratulations are in order." 

"Congratulations?" Skinner looked confused. "For what?" 

"Your impending nuptials."

This clearly surprised Skinner, but he gave a nod. "Did Miss 
Scully say something to you?" 

"Not exactly." Mulder lowered himself to the bed. He punched 
his pillow several times before lying down. "Will it be 
different this time, Walter?"

"I hope so. I've learned a lot since--" Skinner extended an 
arm as if pointing to the past. The gesture made him notice he 
still wore gloves. He removed them, along with his hat, then 
lowered himself onto the chair beside Mulder's bed. 

"She's not Liddiah," Mulder reminded him.

"I know."

"She's stronger."

"Yes. I'm grateful for that." Skinner plucked a nonexistent 
speck of dust from the brim of his hat. "When Liddiah and I 
were first married, she seemed content enough, didn't she?"

"Yes." Mulder remembered the couple appeared well matched and 
very much in love.

Skinner's expression softened. "Her face lit up whenever I 
came home. It made me feel...good. Assured me that she was 
happy to be my wife and mother to our boys." His eyes grew 
sad. "Later, when my absences became longer and more frequent, 
she grew despondent. She greeted me with tears, not smiles. My 
arrival was nothing more than a reminder of my impending 
departure."

"It wasn't your fault, Walter. She married a soldier."

"Yes, but she didn't realize what it would be like when she 
accepted my proposal. How could she have anticipated the 
loneliness? The fear? Every battle threatened to leave her a 
widow and our sons fatherless. The idea terrified her." 

"Men have been going off to war for centuries."

"While their families stay behind, helpless to do anything but 
pray."

"Maybe her prayers are what saved you."

"Yes, but they didn't save her." Skinner straightened in his 
chair. "Dana will not suffer the same fate; I'll make sure of 
it."

Dana doesn't believe in fate, Mulder thought. Aloud he asked, 
"Suppose the army transfers you to Fort Jefferson or some 
other godforsaken place? You plan to take her with you?"

"I suspect she would be up to the challenge." A fleeting smile 
played on Skinner's lips. "But the point is moot. I'm retiring 
at the end of this year."

"You? You're a career man!"

Skinner shrugged. "I want to make her happy."

"And you're going to do that by quitting your profession? You 
love being a soldier."

"Life in the army doesn't hold the interest it once did." 
Skinner's brow furrowed and it seemed there was more he wanted 
to say on the subject. But he returned to the topic of Dr. 
Scully. "I love her. I anticipate we'll have a good life 
together."

Mulder thought back to her brief stay in his mountain cabin. 
Yes, she had argued every point, but it had been pleasant 
having her there just the same. In fact, he rather enjoyed 
debating the world's mysteries with her. She was intelligent 
and honest, the sort of person he might eventually grow to 
trust and confide in. Not an easy thing for him. The 
disappearance of his sister had left him trusting no one. Yet 
there was something about Dr. Scully that made him believe she 
could be a loyal friend. Or something more. 

He could not help but wonder if she was the Wakan, the person 
of unusual power and wisdom that Red Crow had described in his 
vision, the person who could help him confront his shadow self 
and find answers to his questions. Maybe find peace at last.

"Together you could discover wondrous things," the old Indian 
had predicted.

But Dr. Scully would have to be insane to turn her back on a 
normal life with Skinner, who clearly adored her, to chase 
ghosts with him -- "Crazy Fox" Mulder.   
 
"I wish you both the best," Mulder said, knowing he sounded 
bitter, but not caring.

"Thank you." Skinner started to stand, but changed his mind 
and settled again on the edge of his chair. He focused his 
gaze on the toe of one polished boot. "I owe you an apology."  

"For what?" Winning the pretty doctor's hand and heart?

"For not trusting you. Doubting your intentions and your 
honor. I should've helped you on Nine Pipe Ridge the other 
day, when Bill Scully..." Guilt darkened Skinner's cheeks. 
"You didn't deserve what he did to you."

"Forget it." Mulder waved him off, knowing he had earned every 
punch. If Skinner knew the things he had been thinking about 
Dr. Scully, his betrothed, he would sock him in the jaw, too.

Instead, Skinner dug into his pocket and fished out a small, 
carved wooden soldier. Mulder's old good luck charm and a 
symbol of his friendship with Skinner. 

"Where did you find it?" he asked, glad to see it again. 

"Ptarmigan Hill." Skinner handed it to him.

"I must've lost it during the storm." 

The crevices were caked with mud, but otherwise it appeared 
unscathed.  

"Thank you for saving her life, for keeping her safe," Skinner 
said, looking embarrassed, but earnest. "Is she here?" 

Mulder glanced at the closed door that separated them from 
Skinner's intended bride.

"Hey, don't let me keep you," Mulder said, trying his best to 
sound generous. 

Skinner rose to his feet, but before he could take a step 
toward the office, a soldier burst through the front door. The 
young man spotted Skinner and saluted.

Skinner returned his salute. "What is it, Private?"

The soldier gulped air, clearly out of breath. "Captain 
Scully's looking for you, sir." 

"Did he say why?"

"No, sir, di'n't give no explanation. Just said to rattle my 
hocks and bring yer back, quick as I could." 

Skinner looked annoyed, but fitted his hat to his head. He 
turned to Mulder. "Would you tell her I was here?"

"Sure."

Skinner gave a brusque nod, then strode from the room. The 
private trailed at his heels.

Mulder set the little carved soldier on the table beside the 
bed. The pitcher with its crumpled copy of the Picayune caught 
his eye. 

"I've got to get out of here."

He swung his feet to the floor and slowly stood up, testing 
his weight before heading to the surgery. Phillips' uniform 
had come from somewhere behind that closed door. Mulder hoped 
to find his own clothes in there, too, but he wanted to do it 
without alerting Dr. Scully.

He hobbled across the ward as quietly as possible, forgoing 
the crutch since it tended to thump against the floorboards 
with every step. Opening the door a crack, he peered into the 
surgery. 

"Must be fate," he whispered, unable to suppress a smile. The 
second door -- the door to Dr. Scully's office -- was closed.

A set of shelves to his left held neatly folded linens, rolled 
bandages, wool blankets, and a meager supply of Army-issue 
shirts, jackets, and trousers. He pawed through them, but 
could not locate his own clothes. Undaunted, he selected a 
four-button recruit coat and pair of kersey pants that looked 
about the right size. The coat's left breast was marked by a 
faded blood stain and an obvious bullet hole.

"Oooo...bad luck, buddy." 

He shed his nightshirt and let it drop to the floor before 
shrugging into the coat. He had to brace himself against a 
wall to pull on the trousers, but managed to get them on 
without falling over or yelping in pain.

"Boots...boots...where are the--"

Ah-ha. Bottom shelf. One matching pair, along with two left 
boots and one right. He recognized the right as his own.

"Just what do you think you're doing?"

He nearly dropped the boot, startled by Dr. Scully's sudden 
appearance.

"I'm leaving." 

"You aren't well enough."

"I'm fine."   

"You can't ride a horse. Not with that bad leg." She crossed 
her arms in defiance. 

"Watch me." He held up his boot. "Where's the other one?"

"I had to cut it off you. It was ruined, so I threw it out."

"Great." 

He grabbed a left boot, a size too small, but the closest 
match, then limped back to the ward to put them on.

She followed him. 

"I'm coming with you." 

"No, you're not." 

"You can't go alone. Not in your condition." 

"I don't need help." He sat on the nearest bed. The damned 
left boot was too tight and it hurt like hell pulling it on, 
but he squeezed his foot into it -- without passing out. A 
victory. "See?" 

He stood up. His leg throbbed with god-awful pain, but he was 
dead set on leaving. Without her. He hobbled across the ward 
toward freedom. 

She tagged right after him. 

Didn't she have a wedding to plan? 

At the door, he spun to face her and she bumped into him. He 
straightened to his full height, loomed over her, tried to 
intimidate her with his greater size, but she stood her 
ground. Toe-to-toe, they glared at one another. 

"Should I call for your father?" he threatened.

"You'll find yourself on the end of a rope if you do." 

She looked beautiful with her chin thrust out, eyes blazing, 
fists balled. It was all he could do not to take her in his 
arms and kiss those tightly puckered lips.

He turned away, yanked open the door, and limped out into the 
blazing sunshine. 

She stepped out behind him. "I can be as stubborn as you are, 
Mr. Mulder."

"Apparently so." Was she really going to chase him all the way 
to Nine Pipe Ridge? "I hope you know what you're doing." 

------

Chapter 14

No one practiced marching drills on the parade ground. No 
rifles protruded from the blockhouse portholes. Not a single 
soldier loitered outside the barracks. The only sign of life 
in the fort came from the rhythmic clang of a smithy's hammer 
and the scratch-scratch of a clerk's broom on the boardwalk in 
front of the trade store. Taking advantage of the lull, Mulder 
hobbled across the quadrangle to the livery as quickly as his 
injured leg would allow. Dr. Scully scurried after him, her 
skirts snapping in the dusty breeze. 

"If you insist on going, at least let me help you." Her 
fingers circled his wrist. "Lean on me." 

He pulled free of her grasp. "Go back, Dr. Scully. You'll be 
arrested for aiding and abetting the enemy if you're caught 
leaving with me." He scanned the fort, searching every 
shadowed doorway for anyone who might try to prevent his 
escape, and saw no one.    

The livery turned out to be as deserted as the rest of 
Culbertson. A low snort and stamp of a hoof indicated a horse 
or two remained in their stalls, but most stood empty. 

"Where is everyone?" Dr. Scully's voice reverberated softly 
through the rafters. 

No soldiers. Almost no horses. Something was going on. 
Something big. And the timing could not be better.

"Your father sent for Skinner earlier. It sounded urgent." 

"You saw Walter?"

"Yes." Mulder continued down the center aisle. The cool air 
carried the sweet scent of horses and hay. And freedom.

"Was he looking for me?" she asked.

"Uh..." It was not the time for this conversation. Mulder 
shuffled past several vacant stalls, one swayback nag, and a 
fidgety donkey. Shit, was he going to have to walk all the way 
to Nine Pipe Ridge? "I doubt he came to see me." 

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"No, but he looked healthy, so I assume it was personal."

"Oh."

What did that mean? Maybe it *was* time for this conversation. 
"There a problem between you two?"

"Why would you ask that?"

Because you're not wearing his ring, he thought, and you're 
clearly holding something back.

He spotted Ponoka. "There you are!" 

The horse nosed Mulder's hand when he reached over the gate to 
give him a pat. A blanket and saddle hung on the half wall 
between stalls. A bridle dangled from a nail stuck in a 
support post.

Dr. Scully wandered further down the row of stalls while 
Mulder saddled his horse, which took longer than he would have 
liked. Lifting the saddle onto Ponoka's back sent a stab of 
pain to his wounded shoulder. Cinching the girth started his 
arm throbbing. By the time he had the horse ready to ride, Dr. 
Scully was leading a saddled bay out into the sunshine.

"The front gate will be guarded," she said, when he joined her 
on the street. 

The gate was closed, but there would be at least two armed 
sentries outside. Probably others in the blockhouse.

"We're not going out the front." He tugged Ponoka in the 
opposite direction.

"You planning to jump the fence?" 

"No, we're taking the servants' entrance."

He plodded around the livery to the small Indian gate beside 
the trade store. 

A heavy wooden crossbar locked the door from the inside. He 
slid it as quietly as possible through its iron cleats and 
inched the gate open. To his relief, no one waited on the 
other side. He led Ponoka through. Dr. Scully followed with 
the bay. He shut the door behind them, then swung clumsily up 
into his saddle, suppressing a groan as he settled onto 
Ponoka's back.

"You wanted proof, Dr. Scully? Well, this is it." 

"Proof of what?" She mounted the bay.

"Fate!" He spurred his horse to a gallop. 

They rode west, following the river as it snaked to the 
foothills. They did not slow until they reached the base of 
Bigtooth Mountain. Mulder avoided his usual route to Nine Pipe 
Ridge. Instead, he selected a steep, zigzagging deer trail 
through a forest overgrown with hemlock and larch. Perfect 
cover for two fugitives.

The higher they climbed, the better Mulder felt. He filled his 
lungs with cool mountain air. The spicy scent of pine soothed 
his nerves and quieted his thudding heart. He paused at an 
overlook to gaze down into the valley. An eagle circled the 
treetops far below. Mountain ranges rippled across the 
landscape like waves on an ocean. They turned misty-blue in 
the distance, their snowcapped peaks resembling frothy 
breakers.

"You're at home here." Dr. Scully studied him, not the 
magnificent scenery.

Did she not feel it? The peacefulness of this place? The 
altitude made it easier to think. To see the truth. To be who 
he needed to be.    

"The Blackfoot believe Na'pi, Old Man, made these mountains," 
he said, feeling a sudden need to share the ancient creation 
myth with her. "He made the prairies and rivers, added brush 
and timber and waterfalls, and painted the rocks red, creating 
the world you see here. He planted berries and fruit and roots 
in the forests and covered the plains with grass for the 
animals to eat. When he made the animals, he began down 
there." Mulder pointed to the distant prairie. "The antelope 
thrived on the plain. Their long legs carried them easily over 
the flatland. But the bighorn sheep were a different story; 
they were slow and awkward, ill-fitted for the environment. So 
Na'pi led them into the mountains, where they leapt over rocks 
and climbed the highest crags with ease. 'You were made to 
live here,' he said. 'This is the place that suits you.'"

Did she understand what he was trying to say? 

"The place that suits you," she murmured. Her gaze dropped to 
the lowlands, flat and featureless. 

"I belong up here, Dr. Scully. Do you?" 

"You're my patient, Mr. Mulder," she said matter-of-factly, 
"and until you're feeling fit again, I belong with you."

"And after that? When I'm recovered? What then?" 

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." She gathered her 
reins and nudged the bay's sides with her heels. "Right now, 
let's get you to your cabin so you can rest."

*   *   *

"Six dead Noohkiitsitapi are of no concern to the People," 
said Whirlwind Chaser, a stocky man of middle age. Although 
blind in one eye, he had a reputation for seeing more clearly 
than braves half his age. "Except when their deaths come at 
the hands of our enemies, the Asinaa, which *is* reason for 
concern." 

Eight Piikani elders sat in a semi-circle around a cold hearth 
in Kicking Horse's tepee. They nodded in agreement and waited 
for Whirlwind Chaser to say more. He gripped a Cree arrow in 
one hand and a Talking Stick in the other. Possession of the 
stick granted him the right to speak his Sacred Point of View 
uninterrupted. Made of birch, a symbol for truth, it was 
painted yellow for knowledge and black for clarity and focus. 
It was wrapped with a strip of rabbit fur to encourage the 
Council to listen with long ears. 

Whirlwind Chaser raised the arrow for all to see. The shaft, 
crafted from a slender service berry shoot, was triple 
feathered in typical Cree fashion. "I found this lodged in a 
buckthorn in the Akopskaa Swamp. I also found three dead 
Asinaa nearby, killed by guns. I recognized one of the men -- 
a cousin to my son's second wife. He was from Cuts To Piece's 
band."

Unease filled the tepee like wind in a winter storm. The 
Asinaa -- the Cree -- were old enemies of the People. Kicking 
Horse feared his tribe was in grave danger.

The tepee door flapped open and Spotted Rabbit poked her head 
inside. Dread burned in her young eyes.

"What is it, Itan?" Kicking Horse asked, knowing his daughter 
would not interrupt a council meeting unless there was great 
need.

"Soldiers are coming."

The councilmen scrambled to their feet. Kicking Horse led them 
outside.

What they saw frightened them more than a thousand Cree 
arrows. A band of Long Knives -- more than sixty soldiers --
approached from the south, the direction of the fort. Women 
and children fled from their path as they rode into the 
village. 

A fierce lieutenant spearheaded the company. Kicking Horse 
recognized him beneath his decorated uniform: Josiah Beam, the 
man who had delivered firearms several days ago. He had 
arrived on Mulder's lively pinto that day. Proof, he claimed, 
that Mulder had sent him.

"Why does Mulder not come himself?" the chief had asked.

"He's sick. Maybe dying."

"I will send my daughters to his cabin with medicine."

"They won't find him there. He's at the fort being treated by 
a white doctor, a woman." 

Josiah Beam was dressed in buckskins, yet his clothes did not 
carry the typical stench of a white trapper. His hands and 
nails were clean, his face recently shaved, and mustache 
neatly trimmed. His tanned brow did not match the line of his 
beaver-skin cap. 

It matched the cavalry hat he wore now. 

Whirlwind Chaser whispered in the chief's ear, "This liar is 
sent by Coyote," implying the lieutenant was a shape-shifter, 
a trickster. 

The arms delivery had been a trap and Kicking Horse berated 
himself now for thinking he could outwit this trickster. He 
had been too eager to augment his meager supply of weapons 
after losing three Winchesters and an Enfield in a recent 
raid. Without guns, the People were at the mercy of enemy 
tribes and the Long Knives.

"Oki," the chief solemnly greeted the soldiers when they 
halted their horses in front of him.

The People gathered around him; everyone wanted to hear what 
the soldiers had to say. Spotted Rabbit squeezed through the 
crowd to stand next to her father. She was quaking like her 
namesake, breathing hard. 

The lieutenant motioned to his interpreter to speak for him, 
although he had spoken in the People's language when he posed 
as Josiah Beam. 

"The lieutenant asks Chief Kicking Horse to tell him what he 
knows about six dead miners from the Soldier Village, shot by 
arrows, scalped, and left to be eaten by buzzards," said the 
interpreter, a scrawny man from the Komonoitapiikoan tribe.

"Tell the lieutenant we do not involve ourselves in the 
matters of white men who dig for yellow rocks, so we know 
nothing of their deaths. He should ask the Asinaa what they 
know."

"The Asinaa? They do not typically travel this far south," the 
interpreter said.

"No, not typically. But many foreigners come to our lands 
uninvited." Kicking Horse glowered at the soldiers.

Sweat glistened on the lieutenant's face. He squinted at the 
chief. Cleared his throat. When he spoke it was with an 
impatient voice and he used the People's language, dispensing 
with the interpreter. "Chief Kicking Horse, there is a treaty 
between our peoples."

"I have not forgotten it," Kicking Horse said. How could he? 
The treaty permitted whites to construct roads, establish 
telegraph lines and military posts, use any and all materials 
found on Indian land, build houses for agencies, missions, 
schools, farms, shops, mills, stations, and to permanently 
occupy as much land as they deemed necessary for their various 
purposes, including the use of wood for fuel and land for 
grazing. In addition, all lakes and streams in the Piikani 
territory were to be available to whites forever.

And what was promised in return? Twenty thousand dollars 
annually, for ten years, to be spent on the establishment of 
agriculture and the promotion of Christianity among the 
tribes. These were not things the People needed or wanted. But 
for the sake of peace, they had accepted the white men's 
terms.

The lieutenant raised his voice for all to hear. "Article 
Eleven: 'The tribes acknowledge their dependence on the 
Government of the United States, and promise to be friendly 
with all citizens thereof, and to commit no depredations or 
other violence upon such citizens.'" 

"We have not broken the treaty." Kicking Horse met the 
lieutenant's solemn stare. "Have you?" 

Both men knew the truth. The treaty stated that the Long 
Knives would protect the Blackfoot against the unlawful acts 
of white men. And yet a confrontation between the white 
soldiers and the People at Grass Creek last month, led by a 
hot-headed lieutenant named Scully, resulted in seven dead, 
including four women and children, all Piikani.  

"Search the tepees," the trickster ordered.

"What are you looking for?" Kicking Horse objected.

"Stolen guns."

Anger boiled in Kicking Horse's gut. They both knew the guns 
were there and would be found. He stood with fists clenched, 
watching as the soldiers swung from their saddles to ransack 
his people's homes. More than two-hundred men, women, and 
children watched with him, jaws set, eyes burning with hate. 
At least a third were able-bodied braves. Experienced 
warriors. But without guns, they were no match for sixty armed 
soldiers.

The sun melted into the horizon, silhouetting the tepees and 
casting claw-like shadows across the village. Lodgepole pines 
topped the nearby bluff, sharp as wolves' teeth. Crickets 
screeched in the grass beside Miin Creek. The current gurgled 
like a drowning animal.

The Lieutenant remained on his horse while his men plundered 
the camp. Kicking Horse thought he glimpsed a flash of regret 
in the white man's eyes. But the sun sank lower and shadows 
swallowed the lieutenant's true face.  

The villagers remained silent and transfixed. Riderless horses 
shifted and stamped the dusty ground. The smell of loss and 
defeat lodged in the chief's tightening throat.

A distinctive cluck and hoot of a burrowing owl drew his 
attention to the bluff. The blood chilled in his veins. The 
sound was a courtship call, but the owl's mating season had 
passed more than three moons ago. 

Spotted Rabbit uttered a quiet groan and fell against him. 
Kicking Horse turned to see what was wrong. She stared up at 
him, frightened, in pain, then her knees folded and she 
collapsed to the ground. A slender shaft protruded from her 
chest. Service berry. Triple feathered. Blood spidered across 
her tunic. Her eyes ceased blinking. Her limbs fell limp. 

In the next instant, a thousand Cree warriors poured down upon 
the village like ants over a carcass. Horse hooves drummed the 
earth, a terrible thunder that snatched the chief's breath 
from his lungs. A great plume of dust rose in the attackers' 
wake, a copper smudge in the darkening sky.  

The lieutenant barked orders to his men. The soldiers 
abandoned their plundering to defend themselves. Gunshots rang 
out. The blasts were answered by Cree war cries. Piikani 
braves scrambled for weapons. Women and children ran to the 
creek in search of a place to hide. Arrows rained down as 
thick as sleet. 

Kicking Horse reached for his daughter, thinking he might 
somehow pluck the arrow from her body and bring her back to 
life. But a spear tore through his chest. Blood gushed from 
the wound. Filled his lungs. He dropped to one knee. Angry 
bees buzzed in his head. Stung the back of his throat. His 
vision blurred and he fumbled blindly for Spotted Rabbit. He 
grabbed her lifeless hand.

We will travel to Sand Hills together, he thought before no 
more thoughts could come. 

*   *   *

It was nearly sunset when Dana and Mulder arrived at the 
clearing in front of his cabin. Although sullen, he appeared 
physically stronger than she expected, given their long, 
arduous ride. He had chosen a challenging course and they made 
few stops. 

She dismounted and went to him, intending to help him off his 
horse. But he ignored her outstretched hand and slid from the 
saddle on his own.

The moment he tried to put weight on his injured leg, his knee 
buckled. She grabbed him around the waist.

"I've got you," she said, swaying as she tried to keep them 
both upright.

"I'm all right," he insisted, teeth gritted.

"No you're not." 

She propelled him toward the cabin, grateful her own ankle had 
healed days ago.

The horses wandered downhill to drink from the stream.

"The saddles..." He twisted to point in the direction of the 
horses.

"We'll take care of it later."    

He seemed to regain his footing and corral his pain by the 
time they reached the cabin. At the front door, he pushed free 
of her and entered on his own.

"It's cold in here," she said, regretting there had been no 
time to grab a shawl before she left. 

"I'll lay a fire."

"No, you sit. I'll do it."

"No, you won't!" He held up a finger of warning. "I'll do it."

While he arranged tinder and kindling in the fireplace, she 
lit the oil lamp. It cast a golden glow onto his cluttered 
table with its bracelet of human teeth, Smith and Beck 
microscope, and tattered doll with a hatpin stuck through its 
chest. She caressed the leather-bound volume of "Incidents in 
My Life" by Daniel Dunglas Home.

Everything was exactly as she remembered it, yet everything 
seemed changed since her last visit. It was as if she were 
looking at Mr. Mulder's life through new eyes. 

"Did you build this place yourself?" she asked, thinking of 
the immaculate home Walter Skinner had erected on the plain. 
For her. 

"No, I inherited it. Sort of." 

He struck a match and held it to the tinder. The flame took 
hold. The room seemed suddenly warmer, although surely it was 
an illusion. 

She scanned the thick log walls chinked with moss and mud. 
Cobwebs draped the low ceiling. The uneven floorboards were 
gray with dust. All the grime and clutter were off-putting, 
the smell musky, almost feral. It seemed a rough, disorderly 
place to live and yet she felt unexpectedly at home here.   

He fed logs into the fire until it roared. "I stumbled onto 
this place during a blizzard. It looked abandoned. Desperate 
to get out of the cold, I kicked in the front door. The owner 
was sitting right here, eyes boring into me, rifle pointed at 
my chest." He looked over his shoulder at her. "Scared the 
shit out of me, until I realized he was dead, frozen solid."

"My God!"

"He'd left a note." Mulder smiled. "It said, 'Bury my body and 
house and all innit is yourn.'"

"Who was he?"

"A trapper named Wildcat Joe, according to the Blackfoot. He'd 
been living up here for decades."      

"So you buried him and decided to live in his house?"

"I didn't have anything better to do at the time." Mulder 
pulled off his boots and wiggled the toes on his left foot. 
"But I couldn't bury him right away, not until the ground 
thawed, so I put him in the woodshed for the winter. Stacked 
wood around him for three months."

"Now you're pulling my leg."

"It's the truth, I swear."

His eyes glittered mischievously in the half dark, while the 
glow of the fire shone around him like a halo. Devil or angel? 
Which was this beguiling mountain man?

Perhaps a little of both.

He rose and came toward her. Her heart beat faster with each 
halting step he took. When he was no more than an arm's length 
away, he stumbled. She grabbed him, but the momentum of his 
fall propelled them both to the wall, where she ended up 
pinned between his chest and the strange charcoal drawing of 
alien visitors.

His heat, the weight of his body pressing against hers, the 
gap at his neck where his borrowed military jacket exposed a 
triangle of bare skin -- all these aroused in her a need to 
touch him. She imagined caressing his rough cheek, his smooth 
brow, his full lips.      

She rose on tiptoes and pressed her mouth softly against his. 
His scent filled her as a sea breeze fills a sail. He smelled 
foreign and wild, like the alluring mountain country in which 
he lived. She breathed him into her lungs. Tasted him on her 
tongue. 

He broke their kiss. Put up a hand. His muscled chest rose and 
fell, each frantic inhalation crushing her against the wall. 

"Stop," he whispered. The word carried almost no sound at all.

The fire crackled and snapped behind his back.

She was desperate to feel his lips on hers again. She craned 
to kiss him, but he remained frustratingly out of reach. 

"Please," he begged, "we can't do this. You belong to someone 
else." 

"I belong to no one." Irritation threatened to displace her 
passion.

"You're engaged to be married."

"I'm not."

"I saw the announcement."

"What announcement?"

"The one you placed in the Picayune."

"I didn't place any--" 

Her mother! It had to be. No one else knew about the ring. No 
one else would be so presumptuous or meddlesome as to put a 
statement in the newspaper. 

"It wasn't me. I had nothing to do with that announcement. 
I've accepted no marriage proposal. Walter asked me, that much 
is true, but I told him I needed more time. That's how we left 
it."

Mulder frowned. "He believes you're marrying him."   

"I promised him nothing. I swear it." 

"You refused him outright?"

"I told him I didn't love him."

Mulder's eyes shimmered with what appeared to be hope. He 
licked his lips. Studied her face. 

"Tell me what you want me to do," he said at last, his voice 
thinned with longing, "because I have already overstepped my 
bounds and if I continue, I will finish what I start."

She gave a hesitant nod. "I understand."

"Once done, this cannot be undone."

"I know."

"Then tell me. Put it into words. What do you want, Dr. 
Scully? Think carefully. What do you really want?"

"I want..." Back at Culbertson, she had been unsure and 
confused about everything. But here, high in the mountains, 
where the altitude seemed to addle her senses -- or clear her 
head for the very first time -- she wanted... 

"You."

It was all the encouragement he needed. He attacked her with a 
fervor she could not have anticipated. His mouth pressed 
hungrily against hers. His tongue teased her lips, slipped 
between her teeth. Broad palms skated over her body, searing 
hot. He squeezed her breasts, kneaded her buttocks, her 
thighs.

Yanking up her skirt, he snaked a hand between her legs. Found 
the opening in her bloomers.

She gripped his shoulders and held her breath. Blood thundered 
in her ears so loudly she feared her heart would explode. When 
his fingers prodded her opening, she gasped and jerked. Her 
head hit the wall. Parchment tore; the charcoal rubbing ripped 
in two. The lower half remained pinned to the wall by her 
shoulders. The upper half seesawed to the floor.  

He dipped a finger into her. A bolt of pleasure sizzled upward 
through her body, ending in a spray of sparks that prickled 
her breasts and caused her nipples to tighten. This was the 
farthest she had ever gone with a man, well beyond her prior 
experiences of passionate kisses and flushed cheeks. She 
pressed her sex against his hand, seeking to increase the 
pleasure it provided, trying to remember to breathe. 

"More." Her voice sounded like a stranger's, husky and thick 
with desire. 

Transfixed, he watched her. She mewled when he removed his 
hand to fumble with the buttons on his trousers. A knee slid 
between her thighs. He shoved an arm beneath her backside, 
hoisted her off her feet. 

This is not my husband, she thought. What they were about to 
do was a sin. 

"Don't injure yourself, Mr. Mulder!" she shouted, too loudly, 
given their close proximity.

"Injure myself?" He appeared baffled.

"Your wounds."

He dismissed her concern with a shake of his head and, fueled 
by ardor, lifted her until her hips were even with his. Her 
back scraped the rough log wall. The lower half of the 
charcoal rubbing crumpled and fell to the floor. 

His breathing was ragged, from exertion or passion, she was 
not sure. Would his effort cause him to hemorrhage internally? 
Delay his recovery? 

"Wrap your legs around me," he urged, undaunted by the 
possible consequences of his actions. 

She hooked her ankles behind his back.

Sweat beaded his brow, glistened in the crevices of his neck. 
He pushed into her. 

The pressure was startling. Then a jabbing pain. A burning 
deep inside. She cried out. 

His movements stopped. Alarm filled his eyes. 

He knew it now: she was a virgin...had been a virgin...until 
this very moment. She had given herself to him, a man she 
barely knew. What did that make her? A sinner? A fool?

And what of him? Did he love her at all? Or did he want only 
this? And did it matter either way?

His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He opened his mouth to 
speak, maybe scold her, or praise her, tell the truth, or lie. 

She placed a finger to his lips, silencing him before he could 
spoil the moment and this gift she could give only once. 

"It's done," she said. "Don't stop."

Uncertainty haunted his eyes.

"Don't stop," she repeated, hugging him to her, tightening the 
grip of her legs around him. At this moment, she felt no loss. 
No regret. The choice was hers. At this moment, it felt right 
and good. 

He began to rock into her, gently this time. A release of 
slick blood eased her discomfort. He tenderly kissed her lips, 
her chin, her neck. Pleasure replaced pain, until finally, in 
the end, she found herself floating on a swell of ecstasy.


CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 15...

------

Chapter 15

According to leading medical experts, hysteria was a disease 
suffered by women of an excitable disposition, not by men, who 
were generally considered to be more practical and 
levelheaded. Dana prided herself on being as practical and 
levelheaded as anyone, male or female, yet last night she had 
given herself to a man who was not her husband. A man who was 
her opposite in most, if not all, ways. Who ignored convention 
and lived life on his own terms. He made enemies of good men, 
and friends of questionable ones. He believed in Calling 
Stones, wolf-men, blood clots that turned into babies, and 
supernatural beings called wakens. Yet despite all this, she 
had bedded him without a moment's hesitation. And felt no 
remorse for her recklessness! Was this not proof she suffered 
from a mental defect? 

Her mother would think so.

Her mother... Dana cringed at the thought of Maggie's outrage 
should she learn of this irresponsible liaison. She would 
wring her hands, rant about God and sin, weep over her baby 
girl's lost virginity. Then she would insist Dana marry the 
man who had despoiled her. The man Cap reviled as a traitor.

And her father? Would he disown her? Wipe her from the slate 
of his life as if she had never existed? Worse yet, would he 
seek revenge and hang Mr. Mulder for reasons more personal 
than treason? 

Dawn seeped through the cabin's dusty windows, illuminating 
all but the darkest corners. Dana lay on her side in the 
narrow bed, facing the hearth. The coals had turned gray hours 
ago. A spider hung from the mantle on a thread painted silver 
by the morning light.

Mr. Mulder slept at her back, his body spooned to hers, an arm 
slung warmly around her waist. A weighty buffalo robe covered 
them both. He snored softly into her hair. 

She should feel regret and shame for what they had done, but 
suffered neither. Their lovemaking had been nothing short of 
breathtaking...in every sense of the word. It was with both 
joy and gratitude she recalled his rapt expression, her 
voracious hunger, the grappling and discovery, force and 
surrender.

And her blissful, blissful release. 

Her sex still throbbed from the battering it endured, but, oh, 
what a delightful mistreatment it had been! The clinical 
descriptions of coitus and the precisely labeled illustrations 
of reproductive organs in her medical texts had not prepared 
her for the act itself. No written word, no black-and-white 
drawings could capture the intensity and fervor, the delight. 
Taking a man into her body, being taken by him -- it generated 
a feeling of freedom, deep contentment, and a wholeness she 
had not expected or experienced before.

After their union, Mr. Mulder had treated her with the utmost 
tenderness, cradling her in his arms until her heart ceased 
its galloping and he grew soft inside her. 

She gasped when he withdrew from her body. Friction on raw 
flesh, the extraction smarted. Her insides smoldered. The 
bones in her legs seemed to have turned to jelly. 

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice husky with concern as 
he eased her feet to the floor. 

Words failed her. Their separation now felt as foreign as 
their joining had seemed just minutes ago. Swallowing past a 
flood of emotion, she simply nodded.

He misread her inability to speak. "I've hurt you." 

"No." But when she tried to take a step, pain speared her 
womb. "Maybe a little."

He looked stricken.

"Only a little," she assured, wanting to erase his unease.

He pressed his forehead to hers. "You're sure?"

"Yes, but I think..." A hot, sticky concoction of blood and 
semen oozed out of her, slicking her inner thighs. "I need to 
clean up."

"Oh." Were his cheeks pink from exertion or was he blushing? 
If the latter, what was the cause? Guilt? Manly pride? His 
eyes held no shame, that much was evident. They shone with 
appreciation, almost reverence. He hastily adjusted his 
trousers. "Come with me."  

He took her hand and guided her across the room, past the bed, 
to the corner that served as a kitchen, where he handed her a 
cool, wet cloth to sponge her thighs and soothe the fire 
between her legs. He provided her with a shirt to sleep in and 
politely turned his back while she hastily changed out of her 
clothes. Oversized for her small frame, the shirt hung to her 
knees. He rolled up the sleeves, exposing her hands, then 
kissed each fingertip before leading her to the bed, where 
they slept, made love again, and slept some more.

Relishing the memory, she rolled over to face him. 

He stirred. Opened his eyes. The gleam of reverence was still 
there. 

"Everything all right?" He smiled softly as he stroked her 
back with the palm of his hand.

"More than all right." She felt unimaginably happy. "And you?"

"Me? I'm...great!" 

"No regrets?" 

His smile withered, making her wish she had not asked the 
question. She did not want him to analyze what they had done 
if doing so would lead him to doubts or disappointment.  

"D-do you have regrets?" he asked tentatively, turning the 
question back on her. 

Did she? There had been no admission of undying love from 
either of them last night. No talk of marriage. Unlike every 
other man in her life, save Charlie, Mr. Mulder had placed no 
demands on her whatsoever, for which she had been grateful.

But what now? What was she to him? And he to her? Their coming 
together had happened so fast, so unintentionally. There had 
been no time to weigh her motives. Or his. 

"No regrets," she declared and nestled her cheek against his 
bare chest. "Except..."

"What?"

"I fear I've made things worse for you with my father."

A humorless laugh barked from his throat. "Impossible. Your 
father has disliked me for a very long time."

"You supply guns to the enemy." She tried not to sound 
accusatory. 

"Whose enemy?" he challenged.

"Ours. Well, not yours. The Army's. The United States 
government."

"Manifest destiny," he chuffed, his distaste obvious. "Indians 
are blocking the country's progress, so kill them off, is that 
it?"

"The Indians attack and kill settlers. My father is here to 
protect them," she argued in Cap's defense.

"No, he's protecting the government's interests, at the 
Indians' expense. Innocent women and children are no threat to 
the Army, yet they are murdered every day. Ask yourself why."

"They are casualties of war." She parroted her father's 
excuse, although she suspected it was not as simple as that.

"They're killed because they wear feathers in their hair and 
pray to Haokah or White Buffalo Woman instead of a Christian 
god. And that frightens a lot of people, your father 
included." The bitterness in his voice contradicted the gentle 
way he caressed her back and buttocks. "He doesn't just turn a 
blind eye to these murders -- and they are murders -- he leads 
the campaign. What he's doing is wrong."

"It's not just him."

"Yes, and that's the problem." 

"Is what you do -- helping Indians kill whites -- so very 
different?"

"The deaths of professional soldiers can hardly be compared to 
those of innocent women and children." His heart thudded 
beneath her ear. "The Army started this war and will continue 
it until the boundaries of government extend from coast to 
coast and every Indian is either driven from their land or 
dead. I won't sit idly by and watch it happen. I can't."

"You're only one man." 

"So was David when he faced Goliath."

She clung to him, admiring his courage and determination, even 
if she did not understand his motives. He was trying to make a 
difference, a desire she did understand, all too well. She had 
intended to do very much the same, before she had let her 
father dissuade her. "Helping the Indians -- is that what 
brought you out here?" 

"No, it was...something else."

"Tell me," she urged, wanting to know more about this driven, 
compassionate man. Her lover. 

He hesitated, as if gauging whether or not he could trust her. 
When he finally spoke, his words were soft, his expression 
sad. "I came looking for my sister." 

Samantha, the pigtailed girl in the tintype on the mantle. He 
had mentioned not knowing where she was. Dana assumed they 
were estranged, that his desire to live life on his own terms 
had cost him his family as well as his military career. 
Clearly there was much about him she had yet to learn.  

"What happened to her?" She propped herself on one elbow to 
get a better look at his face.

"She went missing. I was twelve when it happened. She was 
eight."

"She ran away?"

"I believe she was taken."

"By whom?"

"I ask myself that question every day." He stared up at the 
ceiling's log rafters as if he might find an answer carved in 
the cobwebbed beams. "It tore the family apart. No one would 
talk about it. There were no facts to confirm, nothing to 
offer any hope."

"Do you think you'll find her? After all this time?"

"I don't know. For years I thought I could bring her back with 
a silly ritual. I'd close my eyes before walking into my 
bedroom because I thought...I hoped...that when I opened them, 
she would be there, sitting on the floor playing with my tin 
soldiers, as if nothing had ever happened." He squeezed his 
eyes shut now, seemingly wishing his sister back into 
existence once again. "I can't stop looking for her. It's my 
fault she's gone."

"Your fault? How can that be?"

"I was with her the night she disappeared. I was supposed to 
be watching her, keeping her safe."

No wonder he wanted so desperately to believe in fate. The 
existence of a power that predetermined the course of events 
would absolve him of the responsibility for his sister's 
disappearance, and maybe return her to him. 

But there was another more obvious, less metaphysical reason 
he should not feel guilty.  

"You were just a boy."

He shook his head and opened troubled eyes. "Three years later 
I was a soldier."

"At fifteen?"

"I lied about my age. At the time, running off to fight the 
Mexicans seemed preferable to living another miserable year 
with my mother's grief or my father's censure."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He trailed a finger down her arm. "If I hadn't 
left and eventually moved here, I might never have met you." 

She nodded. It was almost enough to make her believe in fate, 
too.

"I'm at a loss as to what to call you now," she said, glancing 
shyly at his bare, muscled chest. He wore nothing at all 
beneath the buffalo robe. "'Mr. Mulder' seems too formal, 
given the circumstances. Should I use your Christian name?"

He winced at the suggestion. "God, no. Please don't." 

Why? she wondered. Did it remind him too much of his cruel 
nickname, Crazy Fox? 

"Call me Mulder." He squeezed her arm. "Just...Mulder."

"And do you plan to call me 'Scully'?" she joked.

"Why not?" He sat up, taking her with him. Kissing her ear, he 
whispered the name, trying it out. "Scully."

Coming from him, it sounded almost like an endearment.

"Say it again," she breathed.

"Scully." He nudged her nose with his own.

"Yes."

"Scully." He purred against her cheek.

"Mm." 

"Scully." His mouth covered hers. 

The kiss was soft, but insistent. A contradiction, like him. 
His hand searched out the vee of her legs. 

"Honor me again, Scully," he murmured. 

"Your stamina is impressive, sir." She melted into his embrace 
and let him ease her back on the bed. Anticipation shimmered 
through her veins, like sunlight in water, as he moved over 
her. She parted her knees, inviting the weight of his hips. 

A loud knock at the door startled them both. 

"Son of a--" Mulder rolled off her. "You expecting someone, 
Scully?"

A man shouted from outside, "Dana, are you in there?"

"It's Charlie." She sat up.

Mulder rose and pulled on his trousers. The bandage on his 
calf, then the puckered wound on his thigh disappeared beneath 
dark wool. Leaving his fly half unbuttoned, he limped across 
the room and opened the door. 

"I--" Charlie took in Mulder's bare chest and open trousers. 
"I'm looking for my sister."

Mulder waved him inside. 

Charlie's mouth gaped when he saw Dana sitting on the bed, 
wearing nothing but Mulder's borrowed shirt. His expression 
left no doubt he understood the situation perfectly. To his 
credit, he managed to quickly rein in his astonishment and 
regain his composure. Charlie never had been one to judge. 
Given his own trespasses, he tended to leave the casting of 
stones to others. 

"There's been an Indian attack," he said. "You're needed at 
the infirmary."

She abandoned the bed and began to collect her castoff 
clothing. "How many are hurt?" Skirt, shirtwaist, shoes. Where 
was her corset and bloomers? She plucked her garters and one 
balled stocking from the hearth. Spotted its mate next to the 
bed.

"I'm not sure. A dozen or more. At least as many dead."

"Was Walter hurt?" She hugged her clothes to her chest. 

"I don't know. They were just beginning to arrive when Father 
sent me to find you."

She turned to Mulder. "Will you be all right here on your 
own?"

"I'll be fine."

She crossed to him, regret crushing her heart. "I'm sorry."

He grazed her cheek with a light kiss. "We'll wait outside 
while you dress."

*   *   *

Skinner shivered, chilled to the bone by the atrocity before 
him. 

Charred circles marked where tepees once stood. Smoke rose 
like ghosts through the misty dawn. From the wooded bluff to 
Miin Creek and beyond, corpses littered the blood-soaked 
earth, their faces frozen in rigid agony. 

More than a thousand Cree warriors had swarmed the village at 
sunset last night, their attack taking both the Blackfoot and 
cavalry by surprise. High-pitched war cries sent women and 
children scurrying for their lives. Blackfoot braves took up 
knives and bows against their long-time foes. Skinner shouted 
orders to his men, organizing them into a defensive position 
along the banks of the creek. He sent a messenger back to the 
fort for reinforcements. Without cannon and additional troops, 
defeat was almost assured.

The ensuing battle was both hard-fought and brutal. War clubs 
crushed men's skulls like eggshells. Knives gouged eyes and 
steel-bladed tomahawks severed hands. Lances pinned men to the 
ground, where they continued to wriggle helplessly while 
bleeding out. 

The soldiers had the advantage of pistols and rifles, but the 
Cree outnumbered them sixteen to one. On horseback, they 
overran the soldiers, screeching with triumph whenever a 
uniformed man fell. Some took the time to dismount and scalp 
their victims. They stuck the grisly human pelts onto their 
spears and held them aloft like victory flags. Each mutilation 
took less than half a minute.  

Skinner was thrown from his saddle when an arrow struck his 
horse, causing it to rear and buck. He hit the ground hard, 
but managed to hang onto his rifle. He aimed it at the brave 
who bore down on him -- a fierce warrior, face painted half 
black, half red, hair greased and spiked to stand on end like 
porcupine quills. The warrior nocked another arrow to his bow. 
Drew back. 

Skinner blasted him from his horse.

The dwindling number of soldiers held their ground until Bill 
Scully finally arrived with the field artillery. The Cree 
retreated at the sight of fresh soldiers and mounted Napoleon 
cannons. But by then, the Blackfoot village lay in ruins.          

Throughout the long night, Skinner and Bill Scully canvassed 
the battleground with lanterns, counting bodies, overseeing 
the transportation of injured soldiers back to Culbertson. The 
number of casualties was high. Eighteen U.S. soldiers wounded. 
Twenty-one dead. 

The Blackfoot had fared even worse. More than one hundred men, 
women, and children lost their lives, including Chief Kicking 
Horse. The others had scattered to the four winds.

Captain Scully arrived at dawn to inspect the carnage and 
listen to Skinner's report. He seemed suitably humbled by the 
Army's losses, yet did not fault Skinner's strategy. 

He crossed the battleground to stand beside a long row of dead 
soldiers, laid out on their backs by the creek, awaiting 
transportation to Culbertson. Skinner followed him, bile 
sliding up his throat at the sight of all the mutilated 
bodies. Flies buzzed and crawled over the mangled flesh, 
feeding on the congealing blood. 

With an angry swipe of his hat, Skinner shooed a cloud of 
insects away from the nearest corpse -- Lewis Strum, the 
remorseful private who had saddled Dana's horse the day of her 
accident. A pipe tomahawk protruded from his chest. Bells and 
fringe adorned the haft, which was polished smooth, inlaid 
with colorful stones, and decorated with rawhide. The 
soldier's scalp was missing; the exposed bone of his skull 
shone pinkish-gray in the early light.  

Captain Scully spat into the dust. "Must they do that?"

"They believe scalping the dead will prevent their ghosts from 
returning to seek revenge."

"Another of their ridiculous, heathen notions."

"It makes sense to them. Sir."

The captain scowled. "Take care, Lieutenant. You're beginning 
to sound like Fox Mulder. I hope you're not turning into a 
sympathizer."

"No, sir," he lied. 

"Good." Captain Scully surveyed the camp through satisfied 
eyes. "Be sure to commend your men on their victory, 
Lieutenant."

Victory? Skinner nearly choked. There had been no victory 
here. 

Only varying degrees of loss. 

In the past he had believed he could best help the Indians by 
supplying intelligence and weapons through an intermediary -- 
through Mulder -- from his own position within the military. 
But playing both sides had made him loyal to neither and 
resulted in more harm than good. The proof lay all around him. 

Mulder was right to quit long ago. His choice showed 
integrity. A quality that seemed to elude Skinner.

Digging into his pocket, he withdrew the Jefferson peace medal 
he had taken from Mulder's saddlebag. He tossed it onto the 
ground at Strum's feet. "Commend them yourself, sir. I'm 
resigning my commission. You'll have my paperwork by the end 
of the day."

Captain Scully blinked in surprise. "You can't mean it. I 
won't allow it," he sputtered. "How will you support my 
daughter?"

How indeed? 

Skinner shook his head and, without another word, walked away. 

He expected Captain Scully to order him back, but the captain 
remained uncharacteristically silent. Skinner breathed deeply. 
His stride grew longer. He drew his sword and hurled it into 
Miin Creek. His hat followed. 

A brisk wind billowed out of the east, carrying off the stench 
of death and replacing it with the fresh scent of prairie 
grass. Birds trilled in the pines atop the bluff. Skinner felt 
like a free man for the first time in decades.  

*   *   *

Time -- a surgeon's worst enemy. It seemed to simultaneously 
race and stand still in the operating room. An interesting 
phenomenon, Dana thought as she prepared for her next patient. 
She tucked the observation away, intending to bring it up to 
Mulder later, and selected a saw from the array of 
instruments. Another amputation. Leg this time, crushed beyond 
repair beneath a horse's hooves. She placed the saw in a basin 
of water and spirits to clean it.

"What's your name, Private?" she asked the pale young man on 
the table.

"Pruitt, miss." His words were slurred by two shots of 
anesthetizing whiskey. "Thomas Pruitt. Am I gonna die?"

"Not if I can help it."

She double-checked his tourniquet, the pad of which she had 
applied two-thirds of the way down his thigh, where the 
femoral artery perforated the tendon of the triceps muscle. 
Satisfied with both its position and pressure, she took up a 
scalpel.  

"Hold him firmly," she ordered her two assistants, wishing 
they had not run out of chloroform several patients earlier.

Carter and Spellman, faces pinched with dread, pinned Mr. 
Pruitt to the table, one at his head, one at the injured limb. 
The good leg was fastened to the table with a sturdy, leather 
strap.

Out in the ward, a soldier screamed. Dana glanced through the 
open door and caught a glimpse of Beckett removing a spear 
from the young man's belly.

The human body was a fragile thing compared to the crush of 
war clubs, the slash of knives. Dana was well acquainted with 
its various vulnerabilities, yet she had also witnessed its 
amazing restorative powers. Earlier, the sight of an arrow 
jutting from the eye socket of a still-lucid private 
threatened to buckle her knees, but she had saved his life. 
For now.

She sliced into Mr. Pruitt's skin four inches below the 
patella and, in one deft stroke, cut all the way around the 
injured limb. Ignoring the patient's frantic jerking and 
gurgling cries, she peeled the skin upward toward the thigh, 
then traded her scalpel for a long, narrow, double-edged 
catling, which she used to cut through the muscles. The calf 
she left attached, to be used later to cover the stump. She 
worked swiftly, but carefully, dividing the fasciculus. She 
protected the soft tissues with a linen retractor made of 
three tails, one of which she drew through the space between 
the tibia and fibula. She tied off the three principal 
arteries -- the anterior and posterior tibial and the peroneal 
-- with ligatures. 

"Hold him still," she urged Carter, "but not so forcefully as 
to risk splintering the bone."

"Yes, miss."

Trading knife for saw, she hacked through the lower leg bones.

The patient passed out and the room grew silent, save for the 
panting breaths of her assistants.

Bones severed and largest vessels tied off, she slackened the 
tourniquet to check for hemorrhage. There was none, so she 
sponged the entire surface with water, then repositioned 
muscle and skin over the stump. She quickly stitched the wound 
closed. 

The entire operation had taken only minutes. Dressing the 
stump with adhesive plaster took only slightly longer.  

"Please carry Mr. Pruitt to the ward," she said, when she had 
finished binding the wound. 

Spellman and Carter's gore-spattered boots skidded and slipped 
on the bloody floor as they trundled the amputee out of the 
room.

"Next patient!" she shouted to the stretcher bearers in the 
ward. She tossed her instruments into a basin and removed the 
severed limb to a bucket in the room's corner.

"This is the last," said Corporal Beckett, as he and another 
soldier hoisted the final patient onto the operating table.

She looked up from wiping blood off her hands to find Sergeant 
Phillips laid out on the table. He bristled with broken 
arrows. She counted twelve, two lodged in his gut, bringing to 
mind Corporal Beckett's dire warnings about abdominal wounds. 
Mortality was practically guaranteed, he had said. But as bad 
as these injuries were, it was the mutilation to his scalp 
that brought tears to her eyes. Phillips' lightly fuzzed head 
had been sliced at the hairline from brow to ear, the flap 
stripped back to expose his bone-white skull. Mud and grass 
caked the ghastly wound.

"It don't hurt so bad, Doc." Phillips grunted the words. 

"Damn it, why didn't you bring him in earlier?" she growled at 
Beckett. 

"Not his fault," Phillips insisted through gritted teeth, 
before Beckett could answer. Blood oozed from the corners of 
his mouth. "I tol' him not to. I'm gonna die anyways, Doc. 
Might's well take them other fellers ahead of me. They got a 
chance."

"So do you, Sergeant. I didn't cure you of mumps to let you 
die now."

A wet cough wracked the sergeant.

"You're going to live," she insisted. "Do you hear me?"

Phillips moaned. His eyes closed and he lost consciousness.

She reached for a clean scalpel. "Assist me, Corporal Beckett. 
We'll start at the abdomen." 

*   *   *

Hours later, Dana sat at her desk documenting her patients' 
progress in the record book. Her neat script blurred as she 
tried to stay awake. She blinked. Yawned. Closing her eyes, 
she promised herself, "only a few minutes."

"Hey, Sis."

Charlie's voice and the pleasant aroma of hot tea roused her 
from dreams of dying men and Mulder's tight embrace. 

The light in the room had changed. Morning had become late 
afternoon. She shifted, stretched her stiffened muscles, 
popped the bones of her neck. "Hi."

"Tea?" He set down a cup in front of her, then took a flask 
from the breast pocket of his plaid suit coat and took a swig. 
"How are you holding up?"

She reached out a hand for the flask. 

"That well?" He laughed and passed her the whiskey.

It burned her throat when she took a swallow. "Good stuff," 
she gasped, then added a splash to her teacup before handing 
back the flask. 

Laughing again, Charlie made himself at home on the corner of 
her desk. "I heard you saved them all, Dana. Even Sergeant 
Phillips. Congratulations."

"Hold your congratulations. They aren't out of danger yet." 
She sipped her whiskey-laced tea. It was true that Phillips 
and the others had survived their surgeries, but they were far 
from being recovered. It was unlikely they would all escape 
infection. Especially Phillips. His chances of survival were 
precarious at best.

"Have you seen Father since the battle?" Charlie asked.

"He came in early this morning to check on the men." 

"He must be proud of your success."

"He didn't say. But he did let me know Walter's all right. I'd 
been worried about him. When he didn't show up with the 
others, I thought... Well, it turns out he's fine, thank God."

"I heard he resigned his commission."

"Walter? I don't believe it."

"It's true. Bill told me last night when I ran into him at the 
saloon."

"Bill was at the saloon?"

"You should've seen him, Dana. Drunker than a boiled owl, with 
two buxom dance girls on his lap." 

"Saint Bill, our older brother?" 

"One and the same." Charlie grinned and offered her another 
drink from the flask.

She waved him off. "Does father know?"

"If he does, he didn't hear it from me. Bill threatened to 
bash in my head if I told anyone." 

Tucking away his flask, Charlie rose from the desk and crossed 
the room to examine the texts on the bookcase. He pulled 
Samuel Cooper's "The Practice of Surgery" from the shelf.

Dana fingered her teacup. "Does Father know you found me at 
Mulder's cabin?"

"I didn't tell him anything." Charlie paged absently through 
the book.

"Do you plan to?"

"Of course not. You're a grown woman, Dana. You can do 
whatever you please." 

"Can I?"

"Yes. Obviously." His tone carried no judgment. "Will you 
marry him?" 

"Mulder? He hasn't asked me."

"But he will."

"There's no reason to think so."

"But he--" Charlie stopped himself. He had not lectured her 
even once during the long ride from Nine Pipe Ridge to 
Culbertson, for which she had been thankful. He had not 
uttered one condescending word, not asked a single probing 
question. 

"Our affair was *my* choice, Charlie."

"Maybe so, but I imagine he didn't object to the idea. When a 
man takes liberties--"

"You're a fine one to talk. Do you propose to every woman you 
bed?"

"I might, if the law permitted me to marry more than one." He 
smiled and winked. When she raised a brow, he grew serious 
again. "I'm no saint, Dana. I know that." 

"Perhaps Mr. Mulder is no saint either."

"Perhaps not. But..."

"But?"

Concern furrowed his brow. "Suppose there's a child." 

"I've...considered the possibility."

"And?"

"And, I have no idea." It was the truth. "I don't know what 
I'll do, Charlie. I really don't."

"Do you love him?"

"Does it matter, if he doesn't love me?"

"Is that the case? For a fact?"

"He didn't say one way or the other." 

"Well, you should find out. You can't raise a child on your 
own."

"I may have no choice."

"Dana...a child without a father will be labeled a bastard." 
He slammed the book shut and shoved it back into its place on 
the shelf. "You'll be called worse."

"I don't know that I'm pregnant."

"Then accept Skinner's proposal while you still can."

"I was intimate with another man, Charlie!"

"Does he have to know?"

"Of course. I won't lie to him."

"No, I don't suppose you would." Charlie returned to her desk. 
He snagged her hand and drew her out of her chair. "Skinner 
loves you, Dana. It's as clear as crystal. He'd marry you in a 
heartbeat, pregnant or not."

Would he? She felt the tug of a normal life. 

The pursuit of personal freedom had cost her more than she had 
ever imagined. Her refusal to bow to her father's demands and 
society's expectations had ended up alienating her from both 
her parents. Was independence worth such a high price? Was it 
not time she shed her rebellious persona, leave it behind the 
way a snake leaves its skin in the rocks and weeds? Marrying 
Walter could mend the rift between her and Cap. And make her 
respectable in the eyes of society, too.

"You really think I should accept his proposal?"

"I think," -- Charlie pulled the flask from his coat again -- 
"you should listen to your heart, Dana. Decide what you want, 
regardless of whether it'll disappoint Mother or Father, 
Skinner or Mulder. Choose the course that suits you."

She had told Mulder she believed in free will, in setting her 
own course. This would be the time to prove it.

"To hell with propriety?" she asked, repeating the words she 
had uttered to Charlie seemingly ages ago aboard the 
Dauntless.

"Hear, hear!" He grinned and saluted her with the flask. "To 
hell with propriety!"
 
She rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, sweet 
brother." 

Finally, she knew with certainty what she must do. 

------

EPILOGUE

Leaving Beckett to watch over her patients, Dana saddled a 
chestnut mare and rode south along the river to Skinner's 
house. Yellow-leaved aspens quaked beneath tin-colored clouds. 
The air carried the chilly, damp smell of snow, forewarning an 
early winter. It was September 1st, a month to the day since 
her arrival in Montana.

She found a horse tied to Skinner's porch rail. Taking a deep 
breath, she dismounted, climbed the steps, and knocked on the 
door.

"Walter?" she called.

When no answer came, she opened the door and let herself in. 

"Walter?"

Silence tugged her deeper into the house, past the unfurnished 
parlor, down the hall to the kitchen. The sound of a spade 
cleaving earth, regular as clockwork, drew her to a back 
window. 

Skinner was in the yard digging a post hole, dressed in 
civilian clothes, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Four 
freshly milled posts lay on the ground waiting to be set. 
Sweat glistened on his face and hatless head. Damp soil 
darkened the saggy knees of his trousers. He wore mud-caked 
gumboots, not spit-shined military boots. She had never seen 
him look so rough-and-tumble. Or so at ease.  

She opened the door and stepped out onto the small, back 
porch. "Walter?"

His shovel halted. He glanced up from the hole. A smile spread 
across his face at the sight of her. He drove the blade into 
the earth and left it there, wiped his dirty palms on his 
trousers, and came to stand at the bottom of the steps. 
"I'm...uh...digging postholes." 

"I see that."

"For a clothesline."

She nodded. He continued to smile, waiting for her to say 
something, maybe praise the sunny location, perfect for 
hanging laundry, or tell him she was here to accept his 
proposal at last.  

"Mr. Mulder and I have been intimate," she blurted. A blush 
crept into her cheeks. She had intended to ask him about his 
resignation and his plans for the future.   

His smile wilted. "When?"

"Does it matter?"

Anger sparked in his eyes. "Did he force you?"

"No."

He drew a forearm across his sweaty brow. "Are you going to 
marry him?"

"He hasn't asked me. I'm not certain I would say yes in any 
case."

She expected him to regard her with disgust, but instead he 
climbed the steps two at a time, reached out, and clasped her 
hand between his broad palms. Concern darkened his eyes.

"Dana, what if...?" His gaze flitted to her belly. "If Mulder 
won't marry you, my offer still stands." 

Did he really love her so much? Enough to forgive her sin and 
her betrayal? To raise another man's child as his own, if 
there was one?

She now understood why her father had chosen him for her. He 
was a good man and would make an excellent husband. 

For a woman who loved him and was ready to become a wife.  

"Thank you, Walter, but my answer is no." She withdrew her 
hand from his, reached into her pocket, and retrieved the 
little carved box that held his engagement ring. "I'm sorry." 

He retreated down the steps, refusing to accept the ring or 
her words. "How will you manage?"

"I have an idea about that."

He waited to hear her out, eyes swimming with hurt and 
longing.

"You've been kind to me, Walter, which makes asking this favor 
difficult in the extreme. You've already given me more 
consideration than I deserve."

"I've done nothing I didn't want to do. And if there's 
something more, any way I might contribute to your happiness, 
just name it."

If he was still hoping she would change her mind and accept 
his proposal of marriage, her next words would clarify her 
position beyond all doubt.

"Sell me your house."

The house he had built for her, for the two of them. His gaze 
traveled from foundation to roofline. His voice was thick with 
emotion when he spoke. "You can have it. As a gift."

"No. I want to pay for it. I insist." She was uncertain how -- 
she still needed to talk to her father about wages, a 
conversation she was dreading. "It'll take time, but you will 
receive full payment."

He turned away. She feared he was going to say no, but he said 
nothing as he crossed to the posts on the grass. Brows 
knotted, jaw working soundlessly as if her request were a 
piece of tough gristle, he bent and hoisted the nearest pole 
to his shoulder. He carried it to the hole, kicked the shovel 
out of his way, and set the pole into the ground with a dull 
thud. Only then did it seem to dawn on him that the shovel was 
now out of reach and he would need to either drop the post or 
ask for her help. 

She hurried down the steps and retrieved the shovel.

"Thank you," he said, taking it in one hand. "Could you, uh, 
hold this while I--?"

"Of course." 

She steadied the post while he backfilled the hole. After some 
minor adjustments and considerable tamping, it stood upright 
on its own.

"Does it look level to you?" he asked.

"It does." 

He nodded, satisfied. "I'll sell you the house."

"You will?"

"On one condition."

"What condition?"

"You accept the phaeton as a gift."

She smiled and reached out to shake his hand. "Agreed."

He gave her hand a couple of pumps, then clung to her, his 
face forlorn. "This isn't how I wanted it to be."

"I know."

"At least I'll hear from you regularly."

"You will. I promise." She gave his hand a final squeeze, 
before pulling away. "I can't thank you enough, Walter. For 
everything."

*   *   *

Three quarters of an hour later, Dana stood outside the closed 
door of her father's office, shoulders back, chin up, 
confident she was doing the right thing. She was no longer the 
confused young woman who fretted at the rail of the Dauntless, 
clutching her father's note, her future seemingly set. That 
woman no longer existed. Dana now knew what she wanted. She 
understood quite clearly the path she was choosing. It would 
not be an easy one, but it was the best course -- the only 
course -- for her. 

She rapped firmly on the door, ready at last to risk losing 
her father's love and protection.

"Come in," Cap summoned, his voice gruff.

She opened the door and crossed to his desk without 
hesitation. Her voice was steady and strong when she addressed 
him. "I have something of importance to discuss with you, 
Father."

He lifted his gaze, pen poised over a muddle of papers on the 
desk. Weariness dulled his eyes. His jowls sagged in a way she 
had not noticed before. "Ah, I wasn't expecting you, Dana, but 
I'm glad you've come. Saves me a trip to the infirmary. How 
are the men?"

"Treworgey and Jackson will be released in a day or so. 
Hillary, Markham, and Billings by week's end. Phillips is the 
most serious case, but I am hopeful he'll pull through."

"Good. We've lost too many already. I've just finished signing 
condolence letters." He waved his pen at the papers on his 
desk. Ink stained his fingers. "Thank you for the update." 

He dipped his pen in the ink well. 

Not yet ready to be dismissed, she said firmly, "I'd like to 
discuss my salary."

"Your...?" His fist balled around the pen and he met her 
hardened stare with a frown. 

The last time they had discussed her work, he claimed the 
examination of men's bodies and the treatment of their 
diseases was an unseemly profession for a woman. Would he feel 
differently now that she had saved his soldiers' lives? 

"I expect to be paid for my services. Past and future." She 
was surprised at how calm she sounded. "Thirty-five dollars a 
month."   

He tossed his pen to the desk, eyes wide with astonishment. 
"You can't be serious."

"I am completely serious." 

"The Army will never agree to such an extraordinary sum." 

"The lives of eighteen men aren't worth thirty-five dollars a 
month?"

"That's not the point."

"What is the point?"

He ran a palm over his bald head. "It's too much."

"It's a typical wage for an Army surgeon."

"A male Army surgeon."

"I'm a trained doctor, as good as any man. I can do this job."

"Your skills are not in question, Magnet."

The endearment threatened to undermine her resolve, but she 
forged ahead. "Then why should I not be paid what I'm worth?"

He stood and walked to the window, hands gripped behind his 
back. A fly buzzed frantically against one of the upper panes, 
straining to escape.

"I can offer you thirteen dollars a month, no more," he said 
at length. 

"That's a nurse's wage!"

"It's the best I can do."

"It's less than Corporal Beckett makes as my assistant." 

"Yes, but he is a man." Cap turned to face her.

"So men are paid for their gender, not their competence."

"A man requires a greater wage than a woman, and you know it. 
He must earn enough money to support himself and his family, 
whereas a woman may depend on the largess of her father and 
husband. She has no need for an additional salary. You must 
see the logic." 

"I see an inequitable situation."

He dismissed the idea with a condescending smile. "If you're 
worried about your financial situation, let me assure you, 
you'll want for nothing as long as you're living under my 
roof."

"I don't intend to live under your roof after today."

This gave him pause. "You've accepted Skinner's proposal?" He 
did not look nearly as pleased as he might have before Skinner 
decided to resign. "When is the wedding?"

"There isn't going to be one."

"I don't understand."

"I plan to live on my own." It felt good to state it aloud. 
"Walter is selling me his house."

"Selling...? Preposterous."

"Why is it preposterous?"

"Because..." Exasperation huffed from his nose. "How will you 
pay for it?"

"That brings us back to the subject of wages, doesn't it?"

"I can understand if you don't want to marry Skinner. He is 
not the man I once thought either. But that doesn't mean you 
have to give up on the idea of marriage altogether. There are 
plenty of fine officers under my command. I'd be more than 
happy to introduce you to one or two of the more suitable--"

"Do not fault Walter. He's a decent man. One of the finest 
I've ever met."

"Then...why are you turning him down?"

"Because I want to be a doctor, not somebody's wife. I want to 
devote myself to making people well. Like the men in the 
infirmary. I want to heal them so they can go home to their 
families, live happy lives. It's what I studied for, what I'm 
trained for. I'm good at it, Father, and I love it. It's what 
I want to do. I believe it's what I am meant to do." How could 
she make him understand? "Haven't you ever wanted something so 
badly you were willing to risk everything to make it happen?"

He crossed to the desk and turned up the flame on the lamp. 
His bewildered expression grew sympathetic in the soft light. 
"I have. I wanted your happiness, Magnet. From the day you 
were born, it's all I have wanted. I would trade anything -- 
every medal, every commendation, every promotion -- to assure 
your security, to give you the best possible future. I am even 
willing to let you hate me if necessary."

Tears filled her eyes. "I don't hate you--" Her throat closed, 
preventing her from saying more.

"I don't expect you to bend to my wishes if doing so is so 
contrary to your spirit."

He did understand! Gratitude swelled in her heart. "Thank you, 
Father."

"Don't thank me yet. The Army won't pay you more than thirteen 
dollars a month. There's nothing I can do about that." He 
sounded genuinely regretful. 

She was not willing to give up her dream. "Nurses get a 
clothing allowance, do they not?"

"They do. Three-fifty a month."

"As well as board?"

"Yes. That, too."

She could always supplement the meager income by taking on 
civilian patients. "If I am frugal, I should be able to make 
ends meet and make regular payments to Walter on even that 
small salary."  

"I'm opposed to you going off on your own, Dana. I cannot 
state it plainly enough. I fear for your safety as well as 
your happiness."

"I know you do, but I'll be fine. You'll see. Am I hired?"

He nodded, resigned. "Yes. You're hired."

She went to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed 
his cheek. 

Head shaking, he embraced her. A powerful bear hug. "I'm proud 
of you, Dana." The words puffed into her ear, his praise 
warming her heart. "You know that, don't you?"  

"I do now." She allowed herself to feel like a little girl in 
his arms again, if only for the moment. "I love you, Daddy."  

*   *   * 

1 February, 1866. Dana penned the date neatly into her new 
journal, a Christmas gift from Charlie, who loved writing and 
believed everyone had a story to tell. Her small desk sat 
beneath a westerly-facing window in the large upstairs 
bedroom, the very room where she and Walter were to have spent 
their wedding night. Patient records, medical texts, and a 
lantern, unlit at the moment, filled the desktop. More books 
were piled in orderly stacks on the floor, waiting for the day 
when she would own a bookcase or two. 

Snow swirled beyond the frosted window panes. Ice had shrunk 
the river to a thin, dark line. The mountains were lost behind 
a veil of churning flakes. She drew her shawl more tightly 
around her shoulders and considered what to write next in her 
journal. Charlie had been quite clear that she was to use it 
as a personal diary, not to record the progress of her 
patients. 

A small fire crackled in the fireplace behind her, warming the 
room, her favorite in the house because of its view. The 
chimney drew admirably, exactly as Walter had promised. On 
chilly nights, she liked to curl up with a good book in the 
overstuffed chair beside it. A narrow bed with tarnished brass 
headboard, worn, tick mattress, and three tattered quilts 
occupied a corner nearby.

Like most rooms in the house, this one served multiple 
purposes: dressing room, study, library, bedroom. Downstairs, 
the front parlor was both a formal drawing room and a place 
where her patients waited for treatment. The dining room 
doubled as a surgery. Walter's beautifully built cabinets held 
medicines, surgical tools, and materials for dressing wounds, 
along with china plates and stemware. Dana boiled used 
bandages and prepared tinctures in the kitchen, right next to 
her cooking pots and teakettle.  

Occasionally a patient who needed extended care would remain 
overnight in one of the two back bedrooms upstairs. If the 
patient were male, Sergeant Phillips served as chaperone, 
staying in the second bedroom, the one Water had intended as a 
nursery. The sergeant was good company and Dana was glad he 
had decided to stay on in Flatwillow after his honorable 
discharge from the Army. 

His recuperation had been both painful and long. But he 
remained as talkative as ever during his convalescence and 
especially liked to joke about the rippled scar across his 
scalp. 

"I din't have enough hair fer that Injun feller to grab hold 
of. My bald head saved my life!" 

Phillips would never regain complete use of his right leg, 
which had required multiple surgeries after infection set in. 
He used a crutch to get around and had become quite adept at 
performing certain household chores, like milking Dana's cow, 
and splitting and lugging firewood for her. When she tried to 
pay him for his labors, he refused to take the money. Claimed 
he owed her, not the other way around, and helping her out 
gave him something to do while he waited for his family to 
arrive in the spring.

Dana looked up when a gust of icy flakes rattled the 
windowpanes. Wind howled across the roof. Fierce winter storms 
lasted days on end in Montana, creating snowdrifts taller than 
a man. The cold could steal the breath from one's lungs, 
freeze fingers, toes, noses, and ears; she treated seemingly 
endless cases of frostbite. But when the sun shone, this 
bitter cold, snow-white world became blindingly bright and 
beautiful. On clear nights, the moon painted the mountains 
silver and the stars appeared close enough to touch. 

Alone in the house this afternoon, Dana had stoked the fire, 
prepared a cup of hot tea, and written a letter to Walter. She 
included her monthly payment for the house in the envelope, 
which rested on the corner of the desk, waiting to be mailed. 

Walter had moved back east two days after she returned his 
ring. To be with his sons, he said. He wrote to her regularly, 
updating her on their daily lives until she felt almost as if 
she were a part of their family. Josiah at fifteen was nearly 
a man, and little George had turned twelve in November. Both 
boys were smitten with the girl next door, a red-headed angel 
named Molly. Her mother, Mrs. Harper, was a widow. Walter 
spoke quite highly of her in his most recent letter. 

"I first met Mrs. Harper -- Sallie Seeper at the time -- in 
Mission, Delaware, when I was seventeen and she was eight. I 
saw her frequently back then, and notwithstanding the 
disparity of our ages, I became favorably impressed by her 
fair face and gentle manners. She retains both after all these 
years and I have reason to think we shall become dear 
friends." 

He signed it "Fondly Yours, Walter," as he did all his 
letters.

Dana hoped Mrs. Harper might capture Walter's heart and return 
his affections. He deserved to find love and be happy. 

Earlier in the day, before the storm set in, Dana had ridden 
to the fort to check on a patient, a corporal with a bad case 
of measles. After seeing to his treatment and his noonday 
meal, she visited her mother.

Her relationship with Maggie had improved since Christmas, 
when she finally apologized for placing the wedding 
announcement in the Picayune. Dana accepted her apology, 
hoping to mend their months-long rift. She missed her mother's 
company and even her counsel, although Maggie remained 
unwilling to accept Dana's profession and continued to invite 
her to dinner for the obvious purpose of meeting potential 
suitors. These dinner affairs always ended the same, with Dana 
politely rebuffing the gentleman's advances and, later, 
telling her mother that she was still not interested in 
marriage. 

"I'm not asking you to marry them, Dana. Just be friendly."

For Christmas, Maggie gave her a set of saucepans and a brand 
new copy of Isabella Beeton's "The Book of Household 
Management." She had bookmarked several pages she thought 
would interest Dana, including a recipe for bread sauce.

As for Cap, he had become Dana's staunch ally after witnessing 
the benefits of her skills in the infirmary. He played the 
role of peacemaker whenever Maggie and Dana butted heads. He 
also talked about transferring east, where he might help with 
the reconstruction efforts. Battling Indians to make way for 
more gold diggers had apparently lost its appeal. 

Charlie headed to Oregon on New Year's Day, unwilling to wait 
for the spring thaw, his wanderlust overtaking common sense. 
Or perhaps it was another of his many arguments with Cap that 
persuaded him to take his leave at such an unfavorable time of 
the year. He told Dana he planned to write a novel about a 
French trapper who falls in love with an Indian maiden. She 
had no doubt this book would be as popular with audiences back 
east as his last novel had been.

Saying goodbye to Charlie was one of the hardest things Dana 
had ever done. He tried to stop her tears by claiming he would 
return in a few months for a visit, but it was a hollow 
promise, she knew. Charlie was an adventurer, more at home in 
the wild frontier than beside his own hearth. It would likely 
be years before their paths crossed again, and the prospect 
nearly broke her heart. She would miss him fiercely. He had 
been her confidante, her dearest friend...

Until she met Mulder. 

Her gaze wandered past the river to the mountains beyond. Even 
in a blizzard like this one, she could pick out the 
distinctive profile of Nine Pipe Ridge.

She had spent many nights in Mulder's cabin since their first 
joining. That union had not resulted in a pregnancy, for which 
she was thankful. Since then, she had insisted they take 
precautions during lovemaking and ordered a supply of Dr. 
Power's French Preventatives from a supply house in New York. 
Mulder did not object to wearing the condoms, although 
patients who came to her with venereal diseases complained 
when she suggested they use them, saying that the rubber safes 
were "like armor against pleasure, and a cobweb against 
disease." 

Mulder asked her to marry him. Several times. The first had 
been in late September, when she rode to his cabin to tell him 
she was not pregnant. 

He was outside splitting wood when she arrived at sunset. The 
sight of him, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, nearly stole 
her breath away. He abandoned his ax to help her down from her 
horse.

"How have you been?" She ran her fingers over the healing 
scars on his arm.

"Missing you." He kissed her. It had only been a couple of 
weeks, but, oh, how she longed for those lips! "How are you, 
Scully?"

"I'm not pregnant."

His eyes widened a little. "Is that a good thing or a bad 
thing?"

"A good thing."

From his expression, she was not convinced he shared her view, 
but he said nothing more on the subject. 

"Do me the honor?" He held out his arms as if inviting her to 
waltz.

"You want to dance? Here?"

"Why not?"

"Because there's no music."

"I hear a thousand violins."

"Those are crickets, Mulder."

"A cricket by any other name, Scully, would sound as sweet."

"Shakespeare is rolling over in his grave." She took his hand 
and leaned into him, delighting in the warmth of his skin and 
the masculine aroma of his sweat. 

They danced for several perfect minutes. A smattering of stars 
glimmered in the sky to the east, gold dust in the blue-black 
river of Heaven. Vast, open prairie spread seemingly forever 
in the valley below. To the west, snow-capped peaks, silvery 
in the half-light, spiked the darkening sky. 

"I know this isn't an ordinary kind of life," he murmured 
against her temple, "but do you think you might..."

"Might what?"

"Marry me?" 
 
She laughed and ended their dance. "Thank you, but no. I have 
only just gained my independence. I am not eager to give it 
up. Ask me again sometime."

And he did, in October and again in November. Although her 
answer remained the same, he did not seem discouraged. 
Apparently, he was a patient man. 

The air in the house shifted almost imperceptibly. Although 
there had been no sound to warn her, she knew someone had 
opened the back door downstairs. The slight change in 
atmosphere would go unnoticed by most, but Dana knew her home 
well and she tensed when she heard the door snick shut. No 
knock meant the intruder was not Phillips, one of only two 
people besides herself who regularly used the rear entrance. 

Her nerves settled when she recognized the quiet scuff of 
moccasins on the stairs. It was Mulder.

"Hey," he greeted her when he entered the room. He crossed to 
stand behind her and kissed the nape of her neck.

She shivered. "Your lips are freezing!"

The cold clung to his fur coat. He smelled of snow. Flakes 
sparkled like tiny gems on his raccoon hat.

"Warm me up." His arms circled her and he buried his nose in 
her neck, eliciting an uncharacteristic shriek.

"Stop it." She giggled and shoved him away. "I'll just be 
another minute. I'm almost finished here."

"Take your time." He fitted the raccoon hat to her head and 
abandoned her for the bed. The bedsprings squeaked beneath his 
weight.

"Don't get snow on my quilts," she warned without looking at 
him. 

She heard him sit up, remove his coat and moccasins, and toss 
them on the floor. He settled back onto the bed with a sigh. 
She dipped her pen in the inkwell, and tried to think of 
something appropriate to write in her journal.

Her pen scritch-scratched across the snow-white page as she 
wrote: "My name is Dana Scully. I am a doctor and this is my 
story."

She paused, wondering where to go from there. 

"Hey, Scully, aren't you curious about why I was out in this 
weather?"

Charlie had warned her not to use the journal to write down 
notes about her patients, but she could describe her work at 
the fort in general terms, could she not?

"I've been searching for a bakaak."

She could describe the Indians, prospectors, and settlers she 
treated on a regular basis. 

"It's a malevolent spirit, an extremely emaciated skeleton-
like figure -- 'skeleton' in the sense of 'bones draped in 
skin,' not 'bare-bones' -- with translucent skin and glowing 
red points for eyes." 

There was no shortage of broken arms to set, wounds to stitch, 
babies to deliver, and diseases to remedy.

"According to legend, the bakaak preys on Indian warriors, 
killing them with invisible arrows or beating them to death 
with a club. After paralyzing or killing its victim, it 
devours their liver."

"What?" She turned to look at him.

"I want you to come with me."

"Where?" 

"To look for the bakaak. There's been a sighting at Wolf 
Creek."  

"This won't be like that goose chase you took us on last 
month, will it? To find that, uh...what did you call it? 
Cadejo." 

"That was a cow-sized dog-goat hybrid, Scully, not a skeletal 
spirit."
 
"Ah." She set down her quill. There would be no writing in her 
journal this afternoon. She stood and crossed to the bed. 
"Make room."

He scooted to one side of the narrow mattress and she lay down 
next to him, covering them both with her shawl.

Content in his arms, ear pressed to his chest and still 
wearing his raccoon hat, she listened to him spin out his 
fantastic, implausible, yet oddly persuasive tale about 
bakaaks. She would go with him, she knew, if for no other 
reason than to find a logical explanation for his alleged 
malevolent spirit.

Mulder switched from talking about bakaaks to Deer Woman, a 
human-deer chimera, then to hawk spirits, and finally to 
anthropophagous giants. There seemed no end to the mysteries 
and myths of the west. Is this what she had to look forward to 
-- years of investigating questionable phenomena with "Crazy 
Fox" Mulder?

The prospect was surprisingly alluring.    

A person must live where Na'pi, the maker of the mountains, 
intends them to live, according to Mulder's Blackfoot legend. 
Apparently Na'pi intended her to live with him, because 
despite their differences, she could think of nowhere else she 
would rather be. 

THE END