********************

The sky was a deep, clear azure vault over the stark and barren, yet awesome and strangely beautiful mountains of rosy-red rock. In the forest below their heights, the land fell away gently under the trees, pine and aspen but mostly oak, that followed along the wide, rushing creek, the water dappled by shadows and sparkling sharply in the sunlight. The air was light, dry, and smelled clean. The silence, but for the rippling water, the call of birds and the soft sough of the wind through the boughs, was profound. He rode alone through the paradise, saddlebags laden with supplies, a rifle in its stock and the bedroll secure behind the saddle. Tall, brown-haired, his head covered by a Stetson pulled low over his blue eyes, he appreciated the peace and quiet, the sheer isolation, though he kept a wary watch. He'd been warned of the savages, the Apaches who hid out in these hills; had even been cautioned against making this short trip away from ‘civilization', such as it was. So, he rode quietly, keeping to the shadows, but the dire warnings could not suppress his satisfaction at being able to do this bit of exploring, or keep him from inhaling the subtle fragrances around him with deep appreciation.

He needed the time away from the camp to do some thinking about what he'd seen there - and what he suspected. The construction of a railroad was a massive undertaking, requiring hundreds of workers willing to work cheaply. A dollar a day wasn't a bad income, but there were easier and safer ways to make a living. The railroads relied heavily upon imported Chinese laborers who considered the wage a fortune in terms of what they could expect to earn in the barrios of San Francisco or on the docks. He frowned, thinking of the unwholesome, miserable living conditions of the camp's tent city, and the vile slop purported to be food that was served up to the workers. Clearing the roadbed and laying track was hard, physical work that required substantial strength - strength that needed nourishing food to be sustained. Surely, the investments being made back east, along with the generous contributions and land grants by the government, were sufficient to pay the costs of decent food and reasonable shelter for the men who built the line.

His jaw tightened as he looked up and around the pristine beauty of the virgin forest, wanting to be soothed by its purity, wanting to forget the ugliness of the coarse and even brutal way the Chinese workers were treated by those in charge of the camp and the building project. Biting his lip, he knew he didn't wonder so much if graft and theft was going on, but rather to what extent and if there was a way to stop it. No fool, he knew that if he made his suspicions known and tried to act upon them, his very life could be at risk. He had no backup here in the wilds of the Arizona territory, and he was no warrior. In truth, one of the reasons he'd decided to take this side trip was to find a measure of security while he decided on what he needed to do; the wilderness, for all the threat the Indians might pose, felt vastly safer than the corrupt environment of the railroad camp where an ‘accident' could only too easily be arranged for a manager from back east who asked too many questions or examined ledgers too closely.

There was little warning. Just a dry, prolonged rattle that spooked his horse into blind panic, rearing back and plunging, twisting away from the danger with insane, reflexive speed - but yet too slow. The mare screamed shrilly when the fangs sank into her chest, and she plunged again in hysterical desperation to evade another lightning quick attack, but her frenzy only served to spread the fiery agony of the deadly venom more quickly through her bloodstream toward her heart.

He tried to hold on, but he was no horseman. He was unseated and fell hard under the plunging hooves, crying out as a dry snap cracked, audible even over the horse's loud distress. But his cry was cut short when his head hit a rock, stunning him, so that he lay panting and afraid, unable to stop his mount as she plunged away through the trees, desperate to outrun a fate that would not be denied.

Grimacing, he grit his teeth in his tightly clenched jaw, dragging in air through his nose as he struggled to remain conscious. His eyes darted around, seeking the snake, but it appeared to have slithered off, its battle won. Remembering that a snake bite wasn't necessary fatal to a creature as big as a horse, he dared hope the dappled gray mare would live to find her way home, and then he wondered bleakly if he'd ever know her fate. The bottom line was that, whether she survived or not, she wouldn't be coming back for him.

"Damn it," he cursed, knowing he was in trouble - knowing he was likely going to die.

He could not even call out for help, for only the Apaches would hear him.

Swallowing hard, forcing back the sick nausea and bile that roiled in his gut, he curled to explore the break in his leg, and heaved a sigh to know the skin had not been broken. No wound then, just the broken bone. Not that that was much of a relief, for now he could not walk, and the way back to the questionable care and safety of the camp was too far to crawl. Stricken, he spent long minutes grappling with his fear, and then he took harried note of his surroundings. He had water close at hand, branches and vines to splint his leg, however inexpertly. His food had gone with the horse, but there'd be fish in the stream, perhaps other small game he might rig snares to catch. But to what purpose? No one knew where he'd been headed and, even if his horse made it back to the camp, no one would come looking. Hell, those in charge of the camp would no doubt be only too happy to write off his disappearance to the Indians or bad luck, for it saved them from having to deal with the threat he might pose to them.

He was going to die. It was only a matter of time.

Again he had to fight off the panic and despair that flooded through him, mingling with the unholy agony of his broken leg and the headache pounding in his skull. Blinking away unwanted tears, telling himself to be a man, he panted as he again looked around seeking some measure of hope, some sign that there might yet be salvation.

And he gasped.

Squatting not three feet away was a young man, a stranger, with intense blue eyes and long curls that seemed unaffected by the slight wind. "Hold on," a low, compelling voice told him. "Don't give up."

And then the man vanished, as if no more than mist under the heat of the burning sun.

********************

Above, on the cliff, Geronimo crouched on one knee as he watched the fallen man impassively. The arrogant fool had come into a dangerous country alone and now lay helpless by the creek. Clearly, from the way he floundered, his leg was broken, and he had no gun but his sidearm, no supplies - an unworthy adversary, warranting no further attention. He would die alone, and suffer the horrors of the cold, hungry nights and the empty hours of long days before he did. It was torment enough.

The War Chief waved to the warriors clustered on their ponies behind him to go but, as he stood tall in the sun to turn away to his own mount, he stopped and blinked. For there, in the thin air before him stood a white man, his eyes piercing as he directed, "Help him."

Geronimo blinked again, but the image remained. A ghost? A wandering spirit? He didn't know, nor did he care. The white man's spirit protectors were inconsequential, and he shook his head slowly, even contemptuously, in response to the brief command. He was turning away even as the vision faded from view.

Once, he might not have been so hard. Once, he would have probably helped. But that was years ago, when he'd still argued that there could be peace with the palefaces invading their lands. Now, his heart was colder than the bitter winter nights, as it had been since the marauding Spaniards from the south had invaded his camp years before while he'd been away hunting - and had murdered his whole family. Since then, all white men were his enemy, and he lived only to see them dead.

Dismissing from his mind the suffering of the injured man who would die by the creek, Geronimo mounted and called to his followers, and the unshod hooves of their horses thudded softly on the red, dusty stone as they rode away.

********************

Jim frowned as he gently stroked Sandburg's brow, and then he resumed bathing Blair's hot body, dearly wishing the fever would break. Sandburg had begun to weaken two days after they'd left the reservation, seeming only tired at first, and pale. But then the cough had started, and his gaze had grown glassy as he grimly tried to remain in his saddle. Jim had called an early halt the afternoon before when he spotted a suitable campsite, and was alarmed at how quickly Sandburg had slipped into a heavy sleep as soon as Ellison had helped him settle on his bedroll. During the night, the fever had built and that was when Jim had realized that Blair wasn't simply asleep, but unconscious. Though Sandburg was restless, mumbling incoherently in his fevered state, Ellison had been unable to rouse him, and the lawman had begun to feel real fear. Blair had drowned less than a week before, but he'd seemed to be recovering fine back at the reservation, and Jim had hoped there'd be no lasting weakness. Now he knew better.

Sandburg's lungs had been badly compromised and weakened severely - who knew how long, or even if, he'd ever recover fully from having drowned to death. It didn't help that Sandburg's immune system had been weakened a year before when he'd lost his spleen after having been shot. Jim had been scared ever since, knowing that, every time the kid caught some infection, it could wind up killing him.

Ellison had tended his friend all through the long night and it was now early morning. Some minutes ago, Blair had suddenly gone completely still, scarcely breathing beyond a rough rasp for long minutes that had held a kind of terror for the lawman. Then he became very deeply agitated, muttering about some guy who needed help, angry when another man refused assistance. A dream from the past, Ellison supposed, maybe even of the prison where Sandburg had been incarcerated for more than a year before the Civil War finally ended. Jim had overheard such nightmares before when Blair was over-tired or deeply worried and his mind returned to the days when he'd felt so powerless to help the hundreds of beleaguered men imprisoned with him though, in reality, the care he had given had since become legendary.

"Easy, Chief," Ellison soothed as he supported the shivering, fevered man against his shoulder and lifted a tin cup of water to his friend's lips. "Shhh," he encouraged as Blair thrashed weakly, mumbling incoherently in distress. "It was a nightmare, just a nightmare," he murmured, wondering if Blair could even hear him, though he tried to feel some relief that Sandburg seemed to be finally waking up. The fever and deep, heavy cough worried Jim a great deal more than the transient bad dream, as poignant and distressing as it seemed to be. He feared that pneumonia was settling into Sandburg's lungs, and that could be fatal. The lawman was all too aware that they were in the middle of nowhere, with no help to be had.

Blinking awake, Sandburg tried to focus on Jim's voice, his tether to tenuous consciousness, but he could still see the injured stranger and the tall, stern Indian. Though they were camped on the open rolling prairie, sheltered by trees on the bank of a river, he could see red stone cliffs looming above them and, in the far distance, snowcapped mountains. There was no time; the man by the creek needed help urgently. He thrashed again, weakly pushing against Ellison's body, but felt the futility of it all. The fever raged, stealing his strength, and it hurt to breathe - hurt more when he coughed. "No time," he muttered, his unfocused gaze on a distant place that Jim, for all his incredible sight, could not see.

"C'mon, Doc," Jim muttered, unsure what more he could or should be doing to tend his friend. Blair had packets of herbs and vials of medicines in his saddlebags, but Ellison was bleakly conscious that he had no idea of which ones to use, and was afraid of doing more harm than good. "I could use a little help here, Chief. You need to wake up."

The bathing with cool water from the river seemed to help and Blair settled again, his breathing congested as he panted a little. When he coughed harshly, Jim pulled him up quickly, supporting his head and shoulders to help him breathe more freely. One of the painful sounding barks finally roused Sandburg enough to look around blearily and then his gaze found Ellison's troubled blue eyes.

"Hey," Blair huffed weakly.

"Hey, yourself," Jim replied, glad to see Sandburg was more alert than he'd been for hours. "I think you might have pneumonia," he added hastily, not wasting what might only be a short window of opportunity to get the help he needed. "What should I be doing?"

Feeling dazed, Blair swallowed as his gaze drifted away with his effort to focus on the question. "My saddlebags," he finally rasped, and Jim nodded. Keeping his hold on his friend, Ellison stretched his free hand to grab the nearby bags, one after the other, and he carefully dumped the contents within Sandburg's reach. Blair studied the pile of medicines and then slowly scrabbled through them with one hand, pulling out a small packet of herbs first, and then a vial of medicine. "Herbs…three pinches in boiling water…tea every three hours, and I need lots of drinking water. The vial…five drops in steaming water to help me breathe."

"Got it," Jim grunted. "Anything else?"

Blair nodded weakly as he tried to summon a wobbly grin. "The tepid bath - good idea to fight the…fever. Thanks. But keep me warm after. Hot poultices on my chest, uh, with this," he added as he fumbled for another packet.

Ellison cupped his friend's cheek as he replied gruffly, "Okay, I'll do my bit, but you concentrate on getting better. They'd string me up if I arrived back in Bitterwood Creek without their doctor."

Blair snickered at Jim's aggrieved tone, but then grimaced as another violent coughing fit assailed him. Jim held him securely until his breathing settled, and he drifted back to uneasy sleep. Easing Sandburg down against his own piled gear for support and covering him with a blanket, the lawman then set about boiling a pot of water.

It was a long day of cajoling Blair into sufficient wakefulness to drink the tea or cups of water that Jim fed to him conscientiously and with infinite patience, and of bathing the physician's fevered body to keep his temperature from ranging any higher. Though he was tired from already having passed a sleepless night, it did not even occur to Ellison to seek his own rest. He prepared the hot poultices and applied them, once an hour, to Sandburg's chest and then supported Blair sturdily as he held the steaming bowl with the drops of sharp eucalyptus near his friend's face. The pungent scent made his own eyes water, but he resolutely turned down the blue lantern in his mind and carried on.

In the silence broken only by Blair's husky breathing and occasional bursts of violent coughing, Jim found himself thinking over their just past visit to the reservation to learn more about sentinels and guides from Stalking Wolf and Whispering Waters. His throat tightened as he recalled how Blair had lain so still and lifeless after he'd hauled Sandburg from the river after he'd been shot off the cliff by Rutherford, but he banished that grim memory with happier recollections. They'd learned a lot from the Arapaho Watchman and his Companion and Jim tried to take consolation, though Blair seemed so ill, that he'd not seen or heard either the jaguar or the wolf - so surely, that meant Sandburg would be all right. Still, the raging fever made him increasingly anxious as the day wore on; Ellison was truly terrified that this illness could kill his partner.

Carefully, with a gentleness that few would have recognized in the often cold and irascible lawman, Jim he bathed Blair over and over again, cursing softly when his efforts seemed to bear no immediate fruit. As he toiled, he remembered all that had happened during their sojourn at the reservation, he could scarcely believe what they'd found in one another; it seemed so incredible, so wonderful, as to be a dream. But Jim knew it was real and was afraid of losing Blair, and all that Blair meant to him. He knew that Blair needed him, as a friend and brother, as no one else ever had; their friendship and partnership was as vital to Sandburg as it was to him. And he knew without question that Sandburg loved him, accepted who he was and was his ‘guide' - a ‘soul brother' who Jim could trust without question, rely upon with no doubts and who always did his best to help Ellison accept himself and his strange senses. Jim returned Blair's devotion and needed the kid in equal, if not greater measure - far, far more than he'd ever before cared for or needed anyone. So he kept up his vigil and his ceaseless ministrations throughout the long, anxious hours, careless of his own exhaustion. Together, they'd damn well beat this infection; there was no other option. For Jim could no longer imagine a life without Blair by his side.

Ellison tried to take solace from the moments when Blair was sufficiently awake to have some awareness. Though he discouraged Sandburg from talking, lest he invoke another terrible coughing fit that caused so much pain and distress, he was encouraged by his friend's weak but steady smile and the affection that glowed softly from Blair's weary gaze.

Finally, as the day was fading and the sky was a brilliant riot of colour in the west, the fever broke, drenching Sandburg with sweat. Jim washed and dried his skin a last time, and then bundled him warmly in their blankets against the chill of the encroaching night. Not long after, the cough became looser, less debilitating, and the sheriff allowed himself to relax, a little. Blair was getting better. After one more round of tea, poultices and eucalyptus-scented steam, he built up their fire and ensured more fuel was ready to hand. And then he stretched out beside Blair, wrapping his arms around his friend to add the warmth of his body to the blankets that covered them, and held Sandburg in a secure embrace as the world darkened and the stars began to glow above them in the velvet sky. At last, Ellison allowed himself to drift into sleep with the hope that Blair would be significantly better by morning.

Sandburg's rough coughing, as his lungs gave up the thick phlegm of the infection, woke them often during the night. After each bout of hacking and rasping, Blair sagged in exhaustion against Jim's shoulder and slipped back to sleep, with scarcely a murmured, "Sorry." Jim would fondly brush back the stray locks that tumbled over Blair's face, his sensitive touch seeking any evidence of renewed fever, but Sandburg's skin remained cool. "S'okay," Jim responded softly each time before again tucking Sandburg in close to his side, lowering his own cheek to rest against Blair's curls and relaxing back to sleep.

When Blair hacked his way back to sensibility shortly after dawn, Jim helped him to drink a cup of cool water. Sighing with gratitude, Sandburg leaned back into Jim's embrace and looked up at his friend, his eyes clearer than they'd been the day before. "Thanks, Jim," he croaked with a warm smile.

"What do we need to do to deal with the cough?" Ellison asked, focusing on the tasks that had to be performed to ensure Sandburg's continued recovery.

"Uh, well, the poultices, to keep loosening up the gunk in my chest, and the tea," Blair replied, his voice hoarse from all the coughing. "The steam, too, to keep my breathing clear. Every few hours, I'll roll over so you can pound on my back with your fingers curled a little, like cups."

And so it went through another day, though by afternoon Sandburg seemed to be feeling a great deal better. Propped up against Jim's saddle and bedroll, he sipped at the herbal tea, a slight frown of concentration on his face.

"Something bothering you, Chief?" Jim asked as he poured a mug of coffee for himself.

"Huh?" Blair blinked and then shook his head. "I don't know. I have this memory and it's so clear. There was this guy thrown from his horse when a rattler struck. The guy's got a broken leg, I think - and he seemed to hit his head pretty hard when he fell off his mount. And there was this Indian, a big guy, who looked…cold. Deadly."

"Fever dream, Sandburg," Jim replied with a shrug. "Not unusual."

But Blair shook his head. "It was so real, Jim." Looking out over the prairie, he continued thoughtfully, "And I saw red stone cliffs and mountains further away." Returning his gaze to Ellison's, he added, "It was beautiful country, but I know I've never seen it before."

Remembering how still Blair had been just before he'd begun muttering about the dream, and recalling with a small shudder how death-like his partner was when in a trance, Jim chewed on his lip. "You think it might have been a vision - or a spirit walk?"

Narrowing his eyes as he gazed sightlessly into the distance, Blair nodded. "Yeah. Maybe. Some guy is hurt real bad and needs help."

"Well, the mountains are a long way away, Chief," Ellison drawled, and then shrugged. "Whoever he is, and if there are Indians anywhere nearby, the guy better hope that someone closer than we are happens along to give him a hand. That is, if it wasn't just a nightmare in the first place."

"Yeah, I guess," Blair murmured, but he was troubled. What if there was no one to help that stranger? Wherever it was, the place had seemed remote. Reluctantly, Sandburg had to accept that there wasn't much they could do to help the guy, not without having a fine clue as to where to start looking for him. But he had to wonder why he'd had the vision, or had actually spirit-walked involuntarily during his fever, if he wasn't supposed to do something to help that badly injured man. And then he frowned again, wondering why it was that the stranger had seemed somehow familiar.

********************

It was several days before Sandburg was strong enough for them to resume their journey, and then they had to take it slow, as his energy levels were easily exhausted. The slower journey also meant that Jim had to supplement their dwindling supplies with hunting for game or fishing, which also took their own time. Though their briefly abandoned responsibilities in Bitterwood Creek weighed heavily upon their shoulders, both men enjoyed, even needed, the extended respite. Much had happened during the short time they'd spent in and around the Indian reservation, and they had learned a great deal from Stalking Wolf and Whispering Waters; the additional time gave them a much needed opportunity to reflect on their experiences and new knowledge - and the new understanding of the relationship between them. They were friends, certainly, best friends and would remain so for all their lives. However, now they knew they were Watchman and Companion or Sentinel and Guide - the naming of what they were wasn't as important as the reality of simply knowing they were vital to one another's life, intrinsic and irreplaceable. So deep was their affinity and need that they now also knew they traveled through time together, living many different lives that were, in some respects, the same lives over and over, bound by an abiding, joyful love and their commitment to their duties to help others. It was a lot to digest and their extended journey home allowed them the chance to become comfortable with their new awareness of one another and all that it meant.

The warmth of the sun, and the easy travel by day, also gave Sandburg the time to heal and regain his strength. Jim was pleased to see colour come back into his cheeks and the sparkle glint again from Blair's eyes. They talked about what they'd learned as their horses ambled through the high grass of the wide prairie, deepening their conscious commitment to one another. But their conversation was neither heavy nor somber; rather, they both felt an excitement in better understanding what they were and in having a better grasp of their different, very unique capabilities. Blair's new ability to start fires sure made setting up camp easier each night. And they teased one another about how their respective tendencies toward stubbornness manifested, Jim becoming more determined and stern, seeming to be inflexible, while Blair more cheerfully simply carried on doing what he wanted. Under their jibes, though, was a solid core of understanding that each had to watch the other, to ensure they didn't lose themselves - Jim in his senses, Blair in giving away too much energy to heal others - and to be there to lend support whenever, or however, it was needed.

In the evenings, once they'd eaten and were settling for the night, they held each other as they slept by the glowing embers of their fire. In a reaction to Sandburg's recent illness, Jim felt compelled to keep his friend close, confirming that he was still alive, while the younger man curled trustingly against him.

By the time they saw the silhouette of Bitterwood Creek rise on the south western horizon late one afternoon - fully a week later than they had planned - they both felt strong and settled, secure in who and what they were to one another and to those they lived to serve.

********************

Henri Brown, owner of the livery stable and the leatherwork shop next door, full-time blacksmith and part-time deputy, had been keeping anxious watch for them for days. He hailed his two friends with no little relief as they rode by on their way to the doctor's office and residence a short distance further along the broad, dusty street.

"Hey, Jim!" Brown called out as he hastened from the barn. "Blair."

"H, good to see you," Jim called back as they reined in their horses. But at the intent look on his deputy's face, he asked warily, "Is something wrong? Trouble in town?"

"No, no trouble," the deputy replied. "At least, I hope not. There's a man at the hotel. He's been here a couple of days waiting for you to get back and he's plenty impatient. He says he's your father."

Jim's face blanked with surprise as he stiffened and looked sharply down the street toward the hotel; beside him, Blair's brows quirked in surprise. "Better see what he wants, Jim," he said quietly.

Blowing out a long breath, Ellison nodded. "Thanks, H," he said distractedly, and lightly kicked Lobo, his black stallion, forward. Blair kept pace with him on the golden brown mare, Butternut, but reined in when they came alongside their residence. "You want me to go with you?" he asked, wanting to meet Ellison, Senior, but afraid of intruding upon what might be a difficult reunion.

"Yeah, Chief, why don't you come along to meet my old man," Jim replied dryly, his voice tight. "I might need someone to hold me back."

"Hey, c'mon," Sandburg soothed. "It's been a long time. Maybe…maybe he just wants to see you."

"My father? On a social visit? Not hardly," Jim snorted bitterly. "Trust me, buddy. After almost twenty-five years, if he's taken the time to track me down that means he must want something, and want it badly."

Having reached the hotel, they dismounted and loosely looped their horses' reins around the hitching post, before climbing the steps up to the boardwalk and then moving inside, the interior cool and dim after the heat of the hot June day. Megan Connor looked up from where she was working on her accounts at the desk and, knowing why they were there, smiled in warm greeting to welcome them home but waved them directly into the hotel's sitting room for guests. Jim nodded, his expression still guarded, as he strode across the lobby to the adjoining salon, Sandburg close on his heels. But when he got to the doorway he paused, somehow surprised to see how much his father had aged. William Ellison was sitting at the small desk provided for guests of the hotel, reading papers in a file folder open before him. There was a subtle rounding to his broad shoulders, and his thick thatch of blond hair had turned gray. He still looked robust, and his clothing was as well tailored as Jim remembered, but wrinkles had etched their way into the strong face in the years since Jim had left home. His father looked tired - and worried.

Taking a breath and stiffening his spine, Jim walked into the comfortably furnished room and, when his father looked up, said with more belligerence than he'd intended, "I heard you're looking for me."

"Jimmy?" William gaped as he stood uncertainly, trying to take in the reality of the tall man before him and reconcile it with the youth who had run away so many years before.

"Uh huh," Jim grunted, offering nothing further.

For a moment, the two men studied each other uncomfortably, both feeling tense and awkward. But then William collected himself and waved his son, and the man with him, to chairs clustered around an unlit hearth. "It's good to see you again," he offered, meaning it.

Jim nodded in acknowledgement, and then introduced his partner. "Dad, this is Dr. Blair Sandburg, the town's doctor and my best friend. Blair, this is my father, William Ellison."

"Uh, how do you do, Doctor," William offered, his tone a little uncertain, causing Jim to stiffen, but Blair responded amiably enough, figuring there was enough tension in the room without him adding to it.

"Fine, thanks," Blair returned with a smile, careful not to hold out his hand since William had not. "I'm pleased to meet you, sir."

"How'd you track me down?" Jim asked then, honestly curious; he'd had no contact with his family since he'd left home on his thirteenth birthday.

"The newspaper," William explained briefly. "There were stories, a couple of them, over the past year about you, and, uh, Dr. Sandburg. You know, about the problem with the Indians and that military officer, I forget his name."

For a moment, Jim stiffened at the invocation of Major Rutherford's ghost and the memory of how he had slaughtered the Indians at Poplar Flats and then, more recently, had murdered Sandburg in his crazed effort to kill them both. But then he relaxed marginally. His father had no way of knowing what had happened just over two weeks ago at the reservation. "What made you decide to track me down?" Jim asked then, his tone flat, uninviting.

An anxious look clouded William's eyes, but then he straightened, assuming a mantle of authority as he explained, "Your brother has disappeared and I need your help to find him."

"Stephen?" Jim replied, looking a little sandbagged, not having expected that. He felt more disturbed than he'd've thought he'd be, but he remembered the little kid who had followed him around everywhere, and his gut clenched to think something dire had happened to him. "Disappeared where? How?"

"He was out in some godforsaken place called Flagstaff, the end of the Santa Fe-Pacific Continental line - we're investors in the railroad expansion to the west coast," William explained, his mouth dry with worry. "He rode out alone one day a little more than a week ago, to do a bit of exploring of the countryside - and never came back. I got a wire from Joshua Danzing, the construction boss, informing me of his disappearance. After making arrangements with my friend, George Pullman, for the use of one of his cars, I came out on the train to Wichita. I'd sent you a wire, hoping you'd meet me there, but when there was no response, I bought a horse to track you down here. I've been waiting for two days! We need to leave immediately - "

"Whoa, back up," Jim cut in, feeling swamped with the rapidity of events and more than a little shocked by the unexpectedness of it all. "You expect me to take off with you to go where? Flagstaff? Where in hell is that?"

"Yes, Jimmy, I do," William replied with austere bluntness. "Stevie's in trouble and there's no time to waste. You're the only person I know who has a hope in hell of finding him. Flagstaff is in the Arizona Territory - Apache country - several days' journey by rail. I've got a private car waiting for us in Wichita."

Jim bristled at the gall of his father showing up after so many years to make such an arbitrary demand, but he couldn't help remembering Stevie. God, he'd be a man now, thirty-two years old. Apache country? What were the odds that he was even still alive? This could be nothing but a fool's errand, and a dangerous one at that. He was still grappling with everything his father had thrown at him when Sandburg whispered urgently, only loud enough for him to hear.

Ellison flashed a look at Sandburg, who nodded and leaned forward, clearly wanting to get into the conversation, but then he glanced at the older man and hesitated.

"What do you think, Chief?" Jim asked, to give his friend the entry he sought.

"I think we should go," Blair replied gravely. "And I agree with your father. There isn't any time to waste."

William looked from his son to Sandburg and back again, clearly surprised at the younger man's intervention. His expression suggested that he was torn between being grateful for the unsolicited help, and confused. "Thank you, Doctor, but you wouldn't be expected to come with us."

Turning to the elder Ellison, Blair replied levelly, "Your son might well be injured when we find him, and may need a doctor's care. If Jim goes, I'll be going, too."

"Apaches, Sandburg," Jim replied, his voice low with warning. "They leave no survivors."

Blair just shrugged. "If you think I'd let you go alone, you're crazy," was all he said in firm response.

Again, William's gaze flickered between the two men and, astute at reading others, he could plainly see that they had a close friendship, but it seemed to him that there was something more going on. Shelving his questions for the moment, focusing his attention on the main issue, he demanded, "So, will you come with me, Jimmy?"

Sighing, Jim nodded. How could he refuse? Even if he hadn't seen Stephen in twenty-four years, Stevie was still his brother, and Blair seemed to think there was hope of finding him alive. "We'll leave in the morning. I'll need to make arrangements to cover off my job as Sheriff, especially since we've been away already for nearly a month. And Blair has to talk to the guy who provides basic medical support when he's not in town. And, well, Blair is still recovering from a serious illness. We just got off the trail and he needs some sleep before we head out again."

Not happy about the further delay, but seeing that Jim wouldn't be pushed further, William nodded as he stood. "Fine. I'll send a telegraph to Wichita to tell them to have the car stocked and ready to go. And another to Flagstaff to let them know we're on our way." Turning to Sandburg, he gave a brief nod, as he added gravely, "Thank you, Dr. Sandburg, for your offer of assistance."

"Please, just call me Blair," the younger man replied warmly.

They left the hotel together, William carrying on to the telegraph office when Jim and Blair rode around to the small stable behind their home to unload their gear and tend to their horses.

"Chief, how can you be sure the man you saw was Stephen?" Jim asked quietly as he curried Lobo.

Shrugging, Blair cast a look over his shoulder at Ellison before turning back to Butternut's care. "It's the only thing that really makes any sense, Jim," he replied. "You were holding me, right? Touching me? So that would have been my link to Stephen. And from what your father said, I must have seen it all happen as it was occurring. The timeframe is right. Besides, he looks something like you - same colouring and blue eyes, same general build, though he's a bit slighter, brown hair."

"What did you mean that you know where to find him?" Ellison queried then.

"Well, I saw the surroundings: snowcapped mountains rising to the north and west; red rock cliffs looming above. A creek shaded by oak and pine," Sandburg explained. Finishing the brushing of his mare's coat, he filled the manger as he continued thoughtfully, "Now that we know the starting point is in Flagstaff, we can use the mountains as bearings to know which direction to ride in. Once we get closer to where he is, I think I'll recognize the general area. After that, it'll be up to you to pinpoint his location."

Jim threw one saddlebag over his shoulder, carrying the other as he gripped Sandburg's shoulder while they walked toward the back of their home. "I meant what I said about the Apaches being dangerous, Chief. I've heard of their War Chief, Geronimo. The man is ruthless and very, very dangerous."

"And I meant what I said," Blair replied with a wry smile. "No way are you going without me."

Jim dropped off his saddlebag and left to talk with Brown about carrying on as acting sheriff for a while longer. Henri was sincerely sorry to hear Jim's brother was in some kind of trouble, and told Ellison that going the right thing to do, and not to worry about Bitterwood Creek. It wasn't the same without him, but they'd manage.

Blair headed across the street to meet with Milt Ambrose, the apothecary he'd trained to give basic medical care when he was away. Ambrose was equally supportive of Sandburg's need to leave again almost immediately, but perhaps for different reasons than Brown. He'd been enjoying the added measure of respect he was given as the only ‘medical man' in town and, fortunately, as there's been no serious illnesses or accidents, he'd not encountered anything he couldn't handle. "Take as long as you need," he urged with cunning joviality. "We'll be just fine."

Though both Jim and Blair were glad of the unstinting support, they both found it a little disconcerting to think that they weren't really missed all that much.

Later, they had dinner with William, asking Megan to join them in the hotel's dining room. They filled the time spent over the meal with severely abbreviated stories of their recent journey. William still sensed some indefinable undercurrent between them while Megan, knowing them both much better than he did, gazed at them thoughtfully. They'd been close, very close, friends before they'd left, but now they appeared to always know exactly what the other was thinking as they finished sentences for one another or exchanged glances across the table. They seemed easy in one another's company and, though Jim was clearly tense around his father, he and Blair glowed with a happiness that had not been in their eyes before they'd left. Over dessert, William told them that the arrangements had been made and their Pullman car would be ready and waiting to be pulled out onto the mainline as soon as they arrived in Wichita. After agreeing to meet for breakfast at dawn, Jim and Blair left to head back home.

After they'd closed the door behind them, Blair asked softly, "Does your father know about your senses?"

Jim bowed his head, and then nodded. "I guess. When I was a kid, he noticed I could see and hear things others couldn't. He, uh, called me a freak…"

"Ah, Jim," Blair murmured as he laid a warm hand on his friend's back. "I'm sorry. No wonder you shut them down."

Ellison shrugged and moved away, uncomfortable with the empathy, like he was uncomfortable with anything that had to do with his past and his family. "Old news," he muttered as he headed toward the stairs. "Long time ago."

"Maybe so, but you know now that he was wrong, right?" Sandburg continued as he climbed in Ellison's wake.

Looking back over his shoulder, a fond smile on his lips, Jim relaxed and nodded. "Yeah, I do, thanks."

Up on the landing, Sandburg leaned against the wall, his arms folded, as he asked, "So, do we tell him what's going on now? That your senses are back on line? And that I'm your Guide?"

Jim's lips thinned as his gaze unfocused while he thought about it. "I think he figures the senses are working," he replied. "I'm guessing that's why he came looking for me, and figures I'll be able to find Stephen." Shifting his gaze to Blair, he paused and then added, "I'll tell him about you, and how much I need your help, when the time's right. Okay?"

"Fine with me," Blair allowed with a half-shrug. "It's just that he seems to wonder why I'm tagging along, and the sooner he understands, the more likely he is to accept my presence."

Jim nodded, knowing his friend was right. Sighing, he smiled reassuringly as he squeezed Sandburg's shoulder and said quietly, "Don't worry too much about what he thinks, okay? That's not important. What matters is that we're going to do our best to rescue Stephen. Sleep well, Chief; it'll likely be a hard ride to Wichita."

********************

Though time was of the essence, Sandburg still tired easily after his bout of illness and William Ellison was no horseman, having long relied upon carriages that others drove to leave him time to think great thoughts. In his urgency to reach Bitterwood Creek, he'd chosen to ride rather than rent a carriage, but he was awkward on horseback. So, despite their very early start and the moderate, ground eating pace of their horses, they all knew it would still take the better part of three days to reach Wichita.

William chafed under the perpetual delays, the sheer distance that separated them from Flagstaff and his youngest son. He wanted, desperately, to believe Stephen was still alive and only lost somewhere in the wilderness. The lost could be found. But his tendency toward cold rationality wore on him. His heart might hope that Stephen was alive, but his mind judged otherwise. If they'd been able to go immediately, then there might have been a real chance of finding him. But Jim hadn't been in Bitterwood Creek to receive his urgent wire to meet him in Wichita. Worse, after the long ride to the small, inconsequential town, he'd had to wait another two days for Jim to wander back home. It galled him. More than a week had been lost - a week that could well spell the difference in Stevie's survival.

And he didn't understand why Sandburg had to travel with them. Not that he disliked the man - he didn't know him. Oh, sure, he was a Jew, but so were some of William's most able competitors and partners. They were a sharp people, very bright. Might have to watch them to be sure they weren't engaged in shifty practices but, on balance, he had no personal grievance against the Jewish people. Not a particularly religious man, the differences in their beliefs were of no consequence to him.

But Sandburg seemed an odd sort to be Jimmy's best friend, and was a good deal younger than either of William's sons. He wasn't an outdoorsman, nor a warrior. He was garrulous, always chatting away amiably, cheerful to the point of being an annoyance, as if he didn't fully grasp the urgency of their mission. But, he could see from the way Jimmy treated the younger man that he saw Sandburg as more of a brother than Stevie had ever been. And William resented that, too. He'd never understood why Jim had run away from home or why, as the years passed, he'd never written or come back. After all, William had given him a good, secure home with all the comforts, and he'd had the chance to go to the best schools - could have made something of himself, something more than a lawman in a one-horse town in the middle of nowhere.

Still, having a doctor along might make the difference in the end, so William tried to rein in his resentment and impatience. However, he was used to saying what he thought and having people defer to him, so his idea of holding his peace was a far cry from what Jim might have preferred. Blair, on the other hand, was used to Jim speaking his mind bluntly and expecting to be heeded, so he found a certain amusement in the similarities between the father and son - amusement he did his best to hide, knowing neither would appreciate it much.

The irritating confrontations started almost immediately from the younger Ellison's perspective. They'd not been on the trail for an hour before William started in. "Jimmy, what in tarnation were you doing going to some reservation to meet up with a pack of savages?" he groused, his mind on the eight days lost because of their journey.

Jim stiffened and shot a look at Blair, who shrugged. William was Jim's father and it was up to the sheriff to decide how much of their story he wanted to share, and when.

Flicking an impatient look at his father, Jim replied dryly, "Well, for starters, they aren't savages, or not the only ‘savages' on these plains. If you'd read the newspaper article that led you to Bitterwood Creek, you'd know that."

William harrumphed, and then nodded grudgingly. "Well, yes, I did read it," he admitted. Casting a side look at his son, he went on, "I wired a few of the men I know on the General Staff, and let them know I expected something to be done about that renegade major. Man sounded no damn good and had no business holding an officer's commission or even being in uniform."

Jim was visibly startled by that bit of news and asked with a dumbfounded expression, "Why would you do something like that?"

"Well, in the article you as much as said he was responsible for those atrocities, and reading between the lines, I could pretty much figure out that the Poplar Flats incident led to even more fierce fighting across the west," William replied, as if it were all obvious. "Your word is good enough for me. And war isn't good for business. I'm a big investor in the railroads and the settlement of the western territories." He paused a moment, then went on with a tinge of satisfaction, "I also supply enough to the military to expect them to listen to my views."

Jim gaped at his father, surprised to his boots that William would have given such weight to his word or opinion, but irritated that it all came back to profits and the influence of money. When William noticed the very overt surprise and edge of contempt, his shoulders stiffened. Sniffing, he looked away to the horizon as he grumbled, "I don't know why you look so astonished. You're my son and I trust you, always did. And you were an astute, very intelligent boy with a strong ethical streak; no reason to think you'd grow up any different. Too stubborn and prideful, maybe, but not a bad boy. Never could figure out why you took off the way you did, though, and then never wrote or came home again." When Jim just turned away and Blair kept his own expression carefully neutral, his face turned westward, William sighed and shrugged. "Water under the bridge, I suppose. In any event, I heard that major disappeared before they could get him back to Washington for a hearing. And you never did say why you went out to see those Indians."

"There were things that Blair and I needed to learn, Pop," Jim replied blandly, clearly uninterested in offering details.

But it took more than a mere tone of restraint to keep Ellison, Senior, from finding out what he wanted to know. "Learn? What could those primitives possibly teach you? Either of you?" William exclaimed, looking from Jim to Blair.

When his partner seemed disinclined to answer, Blair waded in with no little enthusiasm. "The Indians have ancient herbal remedies and treatment protocols that we know nothing about," he explained. "I wanted to learn more of their methods because I need all the help I can get in treating illnesses and injuries."

"You must be joking," William returned repressively. "You're obviously an educated man. Surely you don't believe they'd have anything of value to offer!"

"Actually, I learned a lot from them, and they showed me herbal medicines that do a phenomenal job at fighting fevers and infections," Blair carried on blithely, not in the least perturbed by the older man's sanction. "There's a lot that we do that doesn't make any kind of sense, like bleeding weak patients with leeches, or refusing to believe that dirt might cause infection." Turning to William, he added sincerely, "Arrogance can result in unnecessary ignorance. The fact is, these peoples have survived in often very adversarial environments and conditions. That can't be all luck. There's a lot we can all learn from other cultures."

"I see," William murmured as he studied Sandburg appraisingly. The man was no fool, so maybe there was something to his ideas. Shrugging off the conversation as not really relevant, he turned back to his son. "Were you there to learn about their medicines, too? Can't imagine why."

"No," Jim sighed, knowing his father wasn't going to leave this bone alone. "No, there were other things I wanted to learn, and I'll tell you about it - just not today."

"But - " William tried to expostulate.

"I said, not today," Jim replied, his tone hard.

Sitting back in his saddle, not happy with having his curiousity frustrated, William's jaw tightened.

Blair, watching both men and, conscious of the profound tension between them, sought an easier subject for conversation, one they all had an interest in. "Mr. Ellison, what was Stephen doing in Flagstaff?"

"Stephen is an executive with the Santa Fe/Pacific Continental Railroad," William replied, with no little pride. "He's bright and a hard worker. Anyway, he was out there checking on the progress of the line and to evaluate the country already served by the railroad for settlement. Immigrants from Europe and the United States are offered very cheap transportation to move out to the west."

"More profit to be had," Jim observed caustically.

"Yes, Jimmy, more profit," William countered irritably. "What's wrong with that? Money, being rich, isn't a bad thing. It's not like we're stealing from anyone, and millions of settlers benefit."

"The Indians might disagree," Jim replied with a level look at his father. "They seem to think all that land belonged to them and that it's being stolen from them."

Grimacing, William snorted. "Oh, I suppose you're right about that, son," he agreed. "But the fact is they don't need all that land and reasonable treaties have been offered to safeguard what they do need. It's greed, pure and simple, that keeps them fighting for what they don't have a use for."

The younger Ellison shook his head, thinking that his father calling the Indians greedy was entirely too much like the pot calling the kettle black.

"They believe their gods live on that land," Blair replied quietly. "And the spirits of their ancestors. They don't see land like we do, as something to be owned. It's sacred to them - and they think we're destroying it."

William gave Blair a sharp look. But then he shifted his gaze to the empty country around them. He'd never thought about how the Indians viewed the land before. Not that he agreed with such nonsense about pagan gods and the ghosts of ancestors, but the information was something to think about. Destroying the land? Well, there might be some truth to that. From what he'd heard, there were beautiful places out in the west - as there were pretty spots most everywhere, if you looked for them. And it was true that a surplus of people could ruin the aspects nature provided. Maybe it was something he and others who owned the railroads needed to consider. Could be that they had a part to play in safeguarding some of those lovely sites. Whether the ancient gods or ancestral spirits hung around those places or not, William doubted it profoundly, but their pristine beauty spoke to a man's soul and held a kind of healing. It wasn't as if there wasn't more than enough of this empty wilderness to go around - some places could be set apart and kept wild. Nodding to himself, he thought he'd have to discuss some measure of protection with his partners, for certain areas anyway, when he got back to Philadelphia.

They rode on in silence for a long time, each man lost in his thoughts.

********************

They reached Wichita late in the afternoon of their third day on the trail. Blair stiffened as they rode through the busy, crowded streets on the way to the train station. Remembering how Sandburg had told him that he found the noise, filth and crowding of cities oppressive and uncomfortable after the horrors of his incarceration in the Masonville prisoner of war camp, Jim directed Lobo around so that Blair was between him and his father, to give some measure of protection, or at least the sense of it. Sandburg flicked a look at him, his wry smile showing that he understood and was grateful. Wichita wasn't all that big as compared to cities in the east, but after living for years out on the prairie with the open skies and room to breathe, the cow town loomed large and stifling around him.

William noticed the change in their respective positions and wondered about it, briefly. But his focus was on getting to the station. It took half an hour to ride through the bustling town, but finally they pulled up at the wooden building beside the line of track that stretched back to the east and westward, as far as the eye could see. There were large stockyards nearby, empty now of the cattle that were driven in for shipment east, and several rows of rail sidings holding empty stockcars. While the others waited with the horses and their gear, Ellison, Senior, strode up the short flight of steps and across the landing into the office. Minutes later, he emerged with another man who took off running down along the track to the parallel sidings, to the holding track where a glossy Pullman coach stood, elegant and pristine against the filthy cattle cars and the heavy black locomotive it was hitched behind.

"We've got our own engine?" Jim exclaimed softly, shaking his head.

"Yes, but another train will be arriving in about ten minutes," William replied dryly. "We'll hitch up to them. The horses can go into a stockcar that I've asked be made available to us - we'll need them in Flagstaff. Two engines can pull faster than one, and I want to move west as quickly as possible."

"Uh huh," Jim grunted, as he chewed the inside of his lip to keep from saying more. It had been a long time and he'd not realized that his father had attained such success in his world that he could have his own personal locomotive standing by to take him wherever he wanted. It seemed excessive but, given the urgency of their mission, not something he was prepared to criticize.

The younger Ellison winced when a long whistle sounded, loud and getting louder, as the train from the east chugged noisily with much puffing of steam, into the station. The horses shied a bit, made nervous by the noise, but the men quickly settled them. Twenty minutes later, after empty stockcars had been shunted off to a siding, they led the horses up a wooden ramp into a boxcar filled with straw and hay. They stripped off the saddles and tack, ensured water filled the troughs bolted to the inside of the car, and then took their saddlebags to walk along the train to the rear. The Pullman was now positioned in front of the caboose, and back of a line of freight cars and the second and third class passenger cars, the latter filled to capacity with immigrants that would be dropped off at the land sites allocated to them at various stops along the line.

When they climbed aboard, Blair couldn't resist a low whistle at the decadent opulence of their new transportation. The walls were paneled with gleaming mahogany and trimmed with brass oil lamps. There was a well-stocked bar just inside the entrance with a closed door behind it, a roll-top, cherrywood desk in the corner next to it, with heavy and comfortable chairs, upholstered in navy silk, facing a long sofa on one side of the coach, and four high-backed black leather club chairs grouped around a card table along the windows on the other side. Beyond, a handcrafted dining room table and six chairs glowed with a dark, satin finish. The curtains on the windows were deep blue velvet; the carpet looked Persian with rich designs of indigo, crimson, gold and emerald woven tightly in shimmering strands of silk. And still farther into the car, past the private kitchen, Sandburg glimpsed the section of sleeping bunks with down pillows and duvets. It was a mini-mansion, with all the comforts of home - ‘Well,' he thought, amused, ‘with a lot more comforts than our home.'

A very tall, muscular black steward, around thirty years of age, garbed in a tailored white jacket and black pants greeted them and divested them genteelly of their saddlebags before Blair quite knew what had happened. William seemed to take it all for granted and Jim just stood silently, appraising it all, as he shook his head mutely.

"Mr. Ellison, it's good to have you back aboard, sir. There's hot water in the lavatory, just beyond the sleeping quarters, should you gentlemen wish to freshen up," their caretaker told them, and then added for the two newcomers. "My name is Toby Freeman. It's my pleasure to serve you and I'm here to make the journey as comfortable for you as I can."

"Ah, thanks, Toby," Blair murmured with a shy smile. Being waited upon was a relatively unusual experience for him, and he felt awkward.

"Sounds like a good idea," William replied briskly to their servant as he moved forward. "I'll have a Jamieson's when I get back."

"I think you'll find us easy to please," Jim remarked dryly, as he pulled off his Stetson and ran fingers through his damp hair. "I'm Jim Ellison, and this is Doctor Blair Sandburg."

"Gentlemen," Toby acknowledged with a slight nod. "I'm pleased to meet you."

As Toby moved to the bar to prepare William's drink, he asked if he might get something for them, as well. "Sure," Jim shrugged as leaned his rifle in the corner by the desk and then sank into one of the leather chairs. "I'll have a beer. Chief?"

"Yeah, a beer would be good but, uh, we can serve ourselves," Blair replied, moving toward the bar.

"Please, you've had a long journey," Toby replied with a warm smile as he waved Blair back. "I can manage."

"So, Toby," Blair asked as he turned back to perch on the sofa, "have you worked for the railroad long?"

"A couple of years, Doctor," the man replied cheerfully as he deftly poured their beverages, seemingly unconcerned by the sudden, sharp lurch as the train got underway. "Mr. Pullman hired quite a number of us after the war ended. There's at least one steward assigned to each of these private cars, and others of us work as conductors on the regular cars. It's a good job and I enjoy seeing different parts of the country."

When William returned and had settled with his drink on one of the other chairs, Toby advised them, "Dinner will be served at seven. Tonight we have tomato bisque, followed by steak with a béarnaise sauce, roasted potatoes and a medley of vegetables, accompanied by a salad. For dessert this evening, I have an apple and cinnamon bread pudding. I hope that will be acceptable; and, of course, you may choose the wine from the rack behind the bar."

"Sounds wonderful," William replied with a gratified smile, somewhat more relaxed now that he was in familiar, comfortable surroundings and they were moving westward at a good speed of at least thirty miles per hour.

"If there's nothing else for the moment, I'll withdraw," Toby told them then, graciously. "If you need me, you have only to pull on that cord by the bar or push the button you'll find on the wall in each of the bunks."

Jim and Blair took the opportunity to clean up a bit and wash the dust of the trail from their faces and arms. Each of them was pleased to see the washroom and indoor privy facilities were as clean, commodious and lavish as everything else in the specially designed Pullman coach. Jim, having grown up in wealth, and Blair, having experienced it from time to time in his childhood, were each still amazed that such comfort could be had in a moving railroad car. Though their humble souls found it all a bit overwhelming, they were both pragmatic enough to simply enjoy the brief luxury of such expedited travel while they could. Jim, especially, was glad that Blair would have a respite from the saddle, however brief, before they needed to mount up again at the end of the line.

They watched the rolling countryside until it was time for dinner. After Toby had covered the table with thick, white damask linen, and set out porcelain plates, crystal goblets and silver cutlery, he served them a plentiful and delicious series of sumptuous courses, taking apparent pleasure in their compliments. After the meal, he presented them with small snifters of brandy and offered cigars. William accepted and left to stand on the outside deck at the back of the car while he smoked in leisure.

Replete, Blair and Jim sat back on the comfortable chairs to sip the rich amber libation and watched dusk fall over the land that seemed to be speeding past the windows. The coach swayed a little and took some getting used to in terms of walking around without stumbling. They could hear the distant chugging roar of the engine, the sharp whistle that blew from time to time, and the perpetual clacking rumble of the wheels on the rails, but the sounds were muted so long as the windows remained closed. Though it was a bit stuffy in the car, vents allowed in fresh air without the cinders that blew back behind the locomotives. When William returned, they decided the day had been long enough and all moved forward to choose their bunks.

There were six wide sleeping compartments, three up and three down, all hung with heavy, red velvet curtains for privacy. William chose the one closest to the salon and Jim took the one nearest the washroom, as if he wanted to keep some distance between himself and his father. Shrugging, Blair accepted his place in the middle, thinking it a metaphor of sorts. While both men were being civil with one another for the most part, he'd been conscious of having the role of peacekeeper and resident distraction to keep conversation flowing between them.

Lying down, he could hear, even feel, the rumble of the wheels on the track more clearly and he wondered how Jim was handling the relentless sound and vibrations. The swaying of the coach was oddly soporific, but he fended off sleep until he heard William's soft snores, and then he eased out of his bunk to check on his partner.

"How're you doing?" he asked very softly as he perched on the edge of Jim's bunk. "Hearing okay? Any headache?"

"Not bad, Chief," Jim drawled with a slow smile, appreciating the concern. "I just turned down a lantern or two."

Blair grinned at the reference to the five imaginary lanterns that Jim used to manage his sensory input. "Your father seems a pleasant enough guy," he ventured. "People can change over the years."

Jim sighed, shaking his head a little. "Most people are pleasant enough when they're getting their own way, Sandburg," he replied dryly. "But, yeah, there's no denying he's worried about Stevie."

"Or that he respects you," Blair added.

Jim looked away, but he nodded reluctantly. He hadn't expected to ever see his father again, let alone find him to be a man who would express trust for him, let alone respect. But his dad's manner and words had conveyed both over the past few days. Much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, that approbation - so long sought and never found as a child - soothed something inside, some deep ache he'd nearly forgotten about.

Blair smiled fondly as he patted his friend reassuringly on the shoulder, understanding that Jim was unsettled but that a real reconciliation between the father and son was now at least possible, and Sandburg was very hopeful that the old hurts might truly be healed. "Sleep well, my brother," he murmured, and then turned away to return to his own bed.

********************

The next day began with a hearty, home-cooked breakfast deftly prepared and served by their steward, and then they watched the country flow by the windows, amazed to see snowcapped mountains rising in the distance, and then to be climbing through a steep pass before descending again on a sharp grade into Santa Fe. There was a three-hour stop while freight cars were unloaded and the coal carrier filled. Water was poured into the locomotive's reservoir and new cars were added to the train, including long cars stacked with logs cut from the flanks of the mountains and shaped in a sawmill further north before being shipped south for transportation to the end of the line, where they'd be sawed into ties. Other flatcars were loaded with barrels of spikes and steel rails from the mills in Pennsylvania. A bank car was also added, a forbidding, stoutly built carriage reinforced with bands of steel, with long, narrow portals cut in the walls along each side, and a solid oaken sliding door to protect the squat, black safe with a combination lock; the mobile fortress included cots and chairs for the two guards who rode with the money. The railroad workers' wages were in that safe - twenty thousand dollars worth of payment for labour - as well as substantial funds for the foreman of the project, to buy food and other necessary supplies locally.

William ambled off for a brief meeting with the President of the Santa Fe/Pacific Continental line, while Blair and Jim sauntered around the Spanish town. The roofs were tiled with red clay ceramic, the walls whitewashed with stucco. Gardens bloomed in a riot of rainbow colours and lush floral vines climbed up trellises. The streets thronged with the locals garbed in colourful Spanish-style clothing, and the romantic strains of guitar music floated out of a number of taverns that provided tables sheltered by awnings on patios of flagged stone or ceramic tile. They wandered in and out of shops overflowing with rich goods - finely-wrought silver and turquoise jewelry, hand-tooled leather, pottery painted with elaborate designs, stained and blown glass, woolen blankets and rugs, capes and shawls woven in bright colours, but principally red and green.

However, as diverting as the town's charms were, neither man could relax and simply enjoy it. Thoughts of Stephen weighed heavily on both their minds, so that the brief delay seemed interminable. Finally, they headed back to the train station, eager to be on their way once more.

"You think he could still be alive?" Jim asked quietly, wondering if he really wanted an honest answer. It had been almost two weeks since Blair had had his fevered vision.

Blair's lips thinned as he squinted up at his friend, seeing the anxious pain in Jim's eyes. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I could find out."

Ellison paused at that, going still as he remembered how Sandburg had looked in the Arapaho camp when he'd gone on his brief spirit walk. Like he was more dead than alive. But Blair came back, just as he had during the fever. Jim shook his head, not sure he wanted to risk Sandburg getting lost somewhere, or being gone so long his body couldn't survive. "I don't know, Chief," he finally replied, meeting Blair's steady gaze. "I want to know, but I'm afraid of the possible cost."

Blair smiled softly as he reached to grip Jim's arm. "I won't get lost," he said softly with warm and reassuring affection, as if reading Ellison's fears in his eyes. "Trust me. You don't have to worry, Jim - I'll always remember the way back to you."

Jim felt breathless for a moment, but then he nodded as he pinched his nostrils and wiped his mouth. His emotions back under control, he looped an arm around Blair's shoulders as they continued toward the train. "Just see that you never forget, kid," he muttered, but he smiled as he looked down at his partner.

After Toby served them a sumptuous lunch of corn fritters, beef enchiladas and beans, followed by the rare delicacy of ice cream with their coffee, Blair pleaded weariness and said he was going to take a nap. He cast a look at Jim as he left, and the lawman couldn't help but stiffen with worry. But Blair just smiled and turned away.

********************

Stephen Ellison lay curled by the water's edge, his shirt tied into a cloth net that he grimly held with one hand as he watched for a fish to swim into his trap. Over the past two weeks, he'd set snares for game but found it hard to eat rabbits or birds raw; at first he dared not risk a fire and later, he discovered he didn't have the skill to start one without the aid of a match. But game had grown scarce and it had been three days since he'd managed to catch anything; his gut roiled with the hollow nausea of hunger. When he tried to reach further out into the rushing creek, he jostled his leg and the pain seared up, blinding him and leaving his head whirling with dizziness.

Fighting back tears of desperation, he rolled over on his back, panting as he struggled to absorb the agony and not cry out. Finally, the surge of fire ebbed back to the slow burn of embers and he let his breath out in a long sigh. Sniffing, wiping his eyes and face, he pulled himself up against a log to sit awhile and remind himself of why he was trying so hard to live; the reasons were growing hazy.

He was scared, all of the time. And the pain in his leg was bad. He'd tried his best to set it, giving up in hopeless despair when he'd been unable to straighten it, but he'd bound sticks around it with vines, to try to at least keep it stabilized. The nights were long and cold, the days empty despite the beauty of the red cliffs and the trees shading the creek. Nobody was coming. He was starving to death, lingering now only because he had water ready to hand - literally having to scoop up what he drank with a trembling cupped palm.

It had been nearly two weeks. He knew that because he'd dug a notch in the log he was resting against every time the sun rose. Two weeks of knowing without doubt that he was dying alone. He'd seen the Indians watching him from the cliff's edge, high above. They were enjoying his suffering, waiting for him to become too weak to even manage catching a fish to eat it raw. Waiting for him to die. He despised the fact that he'd become a kind of spectacle, but was helpless to do anything about it. There were moments when he dearly wished they'd get tired of watching and just come and kill him. It would be so much easier than this hopeless battle against the inevitable.

Weak, wracked by misery, he remembered that man with the mane of long curls he'd seen the first day - the stranger who'd told him to hold on. But he knew it had to have been an illusion, a wishful hallucination brought on by the blow to his head when he'd struck the rock after falling from the saddle. No one was coming. No one knew he was here. He was going to die alone; it was only a matter of time.

Blearily, his gaze wandered…and he stiffened in astonishment. It was the stranger, once again kneeling close by and regarding him steadily. Though he knew he couldn't be real, Stephen could not resist stretching out his hand in mute, poignant appeal.

"Don't give up," the vision said firmly, though his gaze was dark and filled with compassion and sorrow for Stephen's suffering. "Your father, William, and your brother, Jim, are coming for you. Hold on."

For a long moment, their eyes locked as Stephen gaped at the stranger, disconcerted by the words and scarcely able to believe them though he wanted to, desperately wanted to believe his father was coming. Was it possible that William cared enough to walk away from his business for that long, for him? And Jim? God, he hadn't seen his much-missed older brother for more than twenty years. Stephen's eyes blurred with hot tears as his heart clenched with longing and hope, but he wondered if he had the strength to last much longer - it had been so long already, and he was so very tired. The stranger waited patiently until, wearily, Stephen nodded; and then the vision vanished, leaving him once again feeling bereft and utterly alone.

Stephen blinked and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he was going crazy? Must be, to be seeing things. But he frowned as he matched his memory of the first vision with the one just past, and he shook his head as he muttered to himself, "What kind of hallucination changes the colour of his shirt? And his hair was tied back this time, not loose."

Blowing out a shuddering breath, Stephen shook his head. He didn't believe in visions, or angels, or anything that wasn't tangible. His father had taught him to be skeptical, even scornful, in the face of superstitious beliefs and sentimentality. But that vision was all he had to hang onto, and he didn't want to die. The hope that his father and brother hadn't forgotten him, but were coming to rescue him, overwhelmed him and, in his pain and exhaustion, he wept with his desire to believe they cared that much for him.

He couldn't let them down, couldn't die before they reached him.

So, he had to hope he wasn't crazy.

And he had to do his best to hold on.

********************

As he watched from the crimson cliffs above, Geronimo's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Initially, he'd ignored the presence of the injured enemy in his land, but his scouts had reported the man still lived, and that had been a surprise. The white man was holding on much longer than he would have thought possible. The man was either very stubborn or very strong - or perhaps both. Or maybe, more disturbingly, there was some other power at play. So he'd come back to see for himself and this time he'd brought his Shaman with him, to determine if there was some magic here that could be a danger to his people. Just then, his intense gaze caught the flicker of a new presence. It was the ghost - or more likely, as there were no stories of a ghost of a white man with long curls and blue eyes haunting the canyons - the spirit walker. Crossing his arms, the War Chief pondered the drama of the injured enemy and he admitted to himself that he was getting very curious about the man, and about the being that appeared to him. Was it a friend? A brother?

Whoever it was, the spirit walker carried powerful energy, to be seen so clearly by others than the one he was choosing to appear to, and might have very strong magic. Regardless, the spirit walker had managed to give the fallen white man the two things he needed to hold on against impossible odds: the injured one now had hope that help was coming; more, he knew that he wasn't really alone but that someone was watching him and cared about what happened to him. Powerful medicine, indeed.

What had begun as a situation scarcely worthy of note had become a matter of more grave concern. Who else would be coming? How many? And when? Would the white man with the broken leg hold out until they came for him? Grudgingly, Geronimo felt a measure of respect for the suffering man who had not given in to hopeless pain and despair but struggled to live, even though any sane man would know survival was impossible. Yet, he was the enemy, and the friends or family who were coming for him were also the enemy. They could not be allowed to pass unchallenged.

The War Chief turned to the Shaman he'd asked to accompany him to the cliff that day. "You saw him Grandfather?" he asked rhetorically, his tone flat.

"Yes, my son," the old man intoned thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed as he gazed downward upon the injured man and then at the shadows around him. "I see more, perhaps, than you do, Geronimo. The spirit walker did not come alone this time. There are now two spirit animals below, a wolf and a black jaguar. They will guard the injured paleface from animals who might attack in his severely weakened state - and I fear, from us, as well."

Geronimo frowned as his gaze raked the small clearing by the creek. But he could not see what the Shaman saw. "What does it mean? Who is that spirit walker?"

"I do not know," the Shaman, Spirit Talker, replied, his tone musing. "But I will see if they will tell me," he added with a slight smile as he watched the handsome wolf and the deadly big cat. The animals, feeling his scrutiny, looked up to meet his gaze, their own impassive and utterly confident. "There is much power here, my son. I would suggest you tread warily," he murmured then.

Snorting unhappily, the War Chief turned to leave. "I will await your guidance on this matter, Grandfather," he grudgingly allowed. "But know this. White men will not invade our land without paying some penalty, whatever power they carry with them."

The old man nodded solemnly, but he didn't look at the younger man. Instead, he sank down upon the rock and began a low chant, calling to the spirit animals below, asking most respectfully if they would explain their presence and whom they guided.

Geronimo left him to it as he mounted and rode away. But the power of the spirit walker continued to tease at his thoughts, as did the wise Shaman's counsel. He'd not encountered such a thing amongst the white men before. Who was this being? And what would be the risks of challenging him?

********************

Jim tried to relax and watch the scenery flow past as he waited for Blair to return. They'd had a brief stop at Albuquerque and now were heading due west again, into the increasingly arid land of New Mexico Territory's rolling plains, dry gulches and arroyos, and sudden outcroppings of rugged red cliffs. Sheep dotted the browning grass, grazing amongst the tall austere cactus plants or those that looked like big, pointy cabbages, but otherwise the landscape seemed empty of life. William was working at the desk tucked in beside the bar, once again buried in files that held no interest for the younger Ellison.

Finally, unable to quell his anxiety longer, Jim rose from his place by the window and moved back to the sleeping compartments. He found Blair lying on his back, unmoving, but his wide blue eyes were open and staring at the bottom of the upper bunk. Perching on the edge of the bed, Ellison reached out to grip his partner's shoulder and gave Sandburg a little shake as he called softly, "Chief? You here?"

Blair blinked and then focused on Jim. "Yeah," he murmured, his expression troubled. "Stephen is alive - hungry and hurting, exhausted - but alive. The Indians are watching him, as if they find his suffering entertaining." Blair's voice was tight, caught between angry disgust and a reluctance to believe such callousness existed. Clearing his throat, he continued, "I told him you and your dad were coming for him, and he indicated he'd hold on. The Indians will know when we get there."

The lawman's eyes flickered away. He was relieved to know his brother still lived, and the news that the Apaches were aware of his presence in their lands wasn't unexpected. But, neither was it welcome. They didn't have the resources to fight off a major attack. Sighing, he knew he'd have to think about what their options might be, as they got closer to Stephen.

But, before he could answer, the train suddenly jerked as it came to a sharp, grinding halt and the high, prolonged screech of wheels ripped through his head. He crumpled forward, hands covering his ears as he choked off a shout of agony, his jaw clamped tight and his teeth gritted against the pain. Blair grabbed hold of him and held him tightly, murmuring with low urgency that he had to turn down the bronze lantern; he fought to focus on the image of the out-of-control flame, finally lowering the wick to a manageable level. Sighing with relief, he sagged in Sandburg's steady grip and drew in deep breaths to regain his balance. But, even with his hearing turned down, he still heard the tattoo of racing horses, and the shouts of men from outside the rail car. Swiftly, he lifted his head to look out the windows and cursed softly at what he saw.

It was a gang of train robbers - more than half a dozen mounted, rugged men in sweat-stained, dusty clothing, broad-brimmed hats pulled low ever their eyes, and faces covered by bandanas, were brandishing handguns and rifles.

Swiftly, with a low, "Stay here and keep your head down," Ellison lunged for his bunk to grab his guns and swiftly belted them on.

"What are you going to do?" Blair hissed, his gaze shifting from the outlaws milling about on their mounts while keeping well out of range of the gun portals in the bank car, to Jim.

"Stop them," Ellison replied dryly, squinting against the headache that pounded in his skull, and then he slipped out the far end of the car toward the caboose, easing the door closed behind him.

"Dammit, Jim, be careful," Sandburg cursed softly as he scrambled from the bunk and hastened back to the salon, wondering if there was a way to help, maybe by creating a distraction. But he skidded to a stop, his hands lifting into the air when he saw two of the bandits had already entered from the other end, their guns pointed at William and now at him. Toby was nowhere to be seen.

"Uh, hi," Blair stammered with pleasant nervousness, earning a pained look from all the other men present, including William who looked thunderous with anger, his face flushed. Which gave Blair an idea. "Look, you don't need the guns, okay? My patient has a heart condition…"

"You're the old coot's doctor?" one challenged sarcastically, not impressed with the youthful man in scruffy jeans and an old flannel shirt.

"Yeah, Dr. Blair Sandburg," he replied, his throat dry. "We won't give you any trouble."

"Must be rich to get fancy trappings like this and have his own doc dancing in attendance," the outlaw sneered to his comrade. "Not anyone the railroad would want hurt." Gesturing with his weapon, he ordered, "Outside, both of you. Try to fight and you're dead."

"Please, you don't need Mr. Ellison," Blair countered persuasively as he sidled toward the doorway, indicating that he'd go out without further prompting. "Just the, er, excitement alone could bring on a heart attack. He needs to sit quietly, even lay down. Look, you can see how flushed he is. You don't want him dropping dead on you. Not much of a hostage then."

The outlaws hesitated. They'd killed before and probably would again, but rarely without some gain or provocation. Stealing money was one thing; even the wanton killing of unimportant people could be gotten away with. But the murder of someone notable with powerful friends was another, and they didn't have enough bullets to kill every witness on the train. Robbery meant prison if they were caught, and what they sought was wealth. With luck, they'd be able to get away without anyone having to die and no risk of one day dangling from the end of a rope. Finally, nodding, one barked at the older man to sit down and stay out of the way while they both moved back to let Sandburg precede them off the train. Neither seemed to have noticed the rifle leaning in the shadows of the corner behind the bar.

Licking his lips, Blair took a breath to calm his nerves and continued on toward the portal. "You just take it easy, sir," he called over his shoulder. "I'm sure these men will be finished their business and gone very soon."

William snorted, but he went along with the charade, lifting a hand to his heart as he sank into one of the chairs. "Don't you hurt him!" he called after the outlaws as they followed Blair out and to the ground. As soon as they were gone, he darted for the rifle and called quietly to Toby, whom they'd quickly decided should conceal himself in ambush when they spotted the two outlaws heading toward the Pullman, "You can come out now."

The steward emerged from his quarters, another rifle in his hand. William smiled in approval and both men crouched low as they approached the windows. Neither wanted to provoke more violence if it wasn't necessary. So far, no one had been hurt and it seemed it was only money that the bandits wanted - but nor would they stand back and let Sandburg be dragged off as a hostage once the villains had the money in hand.

"I wonder where my son is," William muttered, understanding that Blair had swiftly concocted a story that wouldn't have the bandits looking for anyone else in the Pullman. No one ever thought to look for stewards or conductors, not seeing them as any threat.

"I heard him tell Dr. Sandburg, just as the train stopped, that he was going to stop the robbery, sir," Toby replied, very quietly as he watched the scene outside play out.

One of the thieves had a gun to Sandburg's temple and was marching him up in front of the sliding door of the bank car. "Open up and give us the money, or I'll blow his brains out," the ruffian shouted, secure that he was blocked from the guns inside the car by his hostage's body. To underscore his threat, he dug the barrel into Blair's head, making the physician wince.

The nickering and snorting of the horses was very clear in the sudden silence as everyone waited for the reply of the men guarding the treasure in the safe.

********************

Jim had shimmied up the side of the Pullman car to the roof, and then in a crouching run had made his way forward so that he had a clear view of the bandits clustered around the mobile bank vault. Keeping low, he glanced along the long line of cars and spotted one of the bandits up front, with a rifle trained on the engineer. Just a little ahead of the leading locomotive, he could see that rocks had been piled on the track to force the train to stop or risk derailment. Below, he counted seven bandits and two more were positioned outside the other passenger cars. Not great odds, that got worse when he overheard the conversation in the Pullman coach and then saw Sandburg jump down from the car, escorted by two burly men before being shoved toward the bank car. The threat and the sight of the six-gun pressed tight against Blair's head made his blood curdle.

"Forget it," a muffled voice finally shouted, sounding strained with the weight of the decision that had been reached inside the fortified car. "He ain't worth what's in this here safe, nor our jobs neither. But if ya shoot him, if'n yer caught, ya'll hang."

"Get out the dynamite," the leader growled from horseback and then nodded coldly to the bandit holding Blair. "Shoot ‘im."

Blair stiffened, but before the outlaw could cock the hammer, Jim yelled, "Drop it, or you're dead!"

Startled by the voice from above, the bandit gaped and instinctively began to bring his weapon up and around to shoot Jim. As soon as the muzzle of the gun was clear of Sandburg's head, Jim fired, hitting the outlaw between the eyes. Ellison had already swiveled before the guy fell, to shoot the leader out of his saddle. Blair dropped to his knees, scrambling under the wheels of the train and rolling clear to the other side, as more weapons fired, from the bank car and the Pullman, the caboose and further ahead from the locomotive as well. The coalman had taken the distraction offered by Jim's shout and shots, to shoot the bandit covering the engineer.

The train robbers were thrown into confusion at the unexpected and very aggressive resistance. They fired back defensively as they swiftly wheeled their horses away, kicking them frantically to get as far as possible from the deadly hail of bullets, as fast as they could go. Six of them were shot from their horses, but the two that had been watching the passenger cars and one lucky bastard from the cluster in front of the bank car, made it to safety, disappearing across the arid land in a cloud of dust.

Jim scrambled over to the far side of the car and looked down, relaxing when he saw Blair below, safe and apparently sound. "You okay?" he called out.

"Yeah," Blair replied, though he still looked pale and shocked as he beat the dust off his clothing. "You?"

"I'm fine," Jim assured him as he began climbing down the narrow, rusting ladder bolted to the side of the car. When he reached the ground, his father had joined Sandburg at the front of their car, looking relieved to see that Jim was all right. "The line up ahead is blocked with rocks and boulders," he informed them. "Chief, let's you and I give them a hand to clear the tracks."

"I need to check the wounded," Blair said as he moved toward the gap between the cars, to climb over the metal couplings.

"They're all dead, Blair," Jim told him quietly, one hand reaching to grip the younger man's shoulder. Though it always amazed him, Ellison knew the physician inevitably felt badly whenever someone died, regardless of whether they deserved it - as if he felt their deaths might have been so easily avoided by having found honest work instead of trying to rob a train. "They brought it on themselves."

"I know," Sandburg acknowledged tightly. Sighing, he went on, "They'll need to be buried."

"I'll see to that," Toby called out, having joined William at the back of the Pullman, before turning away to organize the burial party.

"You okay, Dad?" Jim asked with the hint of a smile as he teased gently. "Your heart's not acting up, is it, after all the, er, excitement?" he added in a passable mimicry of Sandburg's tone earlier.

William snorted, but he watched the younger men walk alongside the train and up toward the front to help clear the line, a thoughtful expression in his eyes.

********************

Not quite two hours later, the track was cleared, the dead buried and their horses loaded into the stockcar, and the train was rolling again. Toby insisted upon serving his three charges healthy shots of the rare and smooth whiskey from the special reserve that was kept in a locked compartment under the bar. He said, with a meaningful glance at the two younger men, that it seemed an appropriate beverage for heroes and then, with quiet dignity, he excused himself to prepare their dinner. Easing back in their chairs, the men quietly sipped the twenty-year-old Scotch, glad to be alive but with no air of celebration. It could too easily have been a wake. Clearing his throat, William said sincerely, "I want to thank you, Blair, for your quick thinking and your efforts to ensure my safety."

"Don't mention it, Mr. Ellison. I'm just glad it worked out," Sandburg replied with a small smile.

Nodding in agreement, William offered, "So am I, son. And, by the way, you can call me Bill."

"Thanks," Blair acknowledged, his smile broadening.

Jim bowed his head to study his drink, pleased. As he recalled, there weren't many men his father allowed to call him by the diminutive of his first name, very few who got past the formality of ‘Mister', if it came to that.

William Ellison looked back over his shoulder to be certain that Toby was out of earshot, and then he leaned toward Jim, as he observed, "And that was pretty fancy shooting on your part, Jimmy. Not to mention that I wouldn't have thought you close enough to hear what Blair said to those bastards, let alone know they were all dead without checking."

Blair's gaze flickered to Jim and then to the glass in his hand. Shifting to stand, he said uncertainly, "Uh, maybe I should go clean up a bit."

"No, that's okay, Chief. You can stay," Jim reassured him, his voice a bit edgy. "My father realized a long time ago that I had unusual senses. He just doesn't like to be reminded of them." Turning to his father, he added bitterly, "But I'm still a freak, Dad, sorry."

Flinching as if he'd been slapped, William protested, albeit keeping his voice low so as not to attract Toby's attention, "That's not fair! I never said you were a freak, Jimmy. I was just afraid other people might think, well - folks don't take to people who are too different. I didn't want you to be hurt."

Feeling the tension between father and son, certain he was an intrusion, Blair again tried to make his escape to give them time to talk alone. Setting his glass down on the long, low table between the chairs and the sofa, he stood. "I really do need to clean - "

"No, I'd like you to stay," Jim cut in as he sat straighter. He'd been surprised by his father's words, as that wasn't how he remembered the long ago conversation when his father had ordered him to hide what he was. "Blair's my Guide," he informed the older man. "He helps me understand and control my senses."

"Guide?" William echoed in confusion as he turned to Sandburg, not understanding.

Sinking back into the chair, Blair replied almost diffidently, "Yeah. I discovered information about ancient Sentinels and Guides, or Watchmen and their Companions, years ago. I first met Jim after he'd been wounded stopping a bank robbery, when his senses were understandably acting up. Anyway, we tried a few things that seemed to help, and we've been working on them ever since."

"I've never heard of any of this business about sentinels and guides before," Ellison, Senior, admitted with a quick glance at his son, who was regarding him stonily. Finding Sandburg more receptive, he turned back to the younger man. "Tell me more."

"Well, basically, all through time and in just about every culture, there have been people, man and women, with enhanced senses to keep watch over their tribes, their communities. The watchers need companions, who help them focus their senses and not get lost in just one. And, I guess, to watch their backs while they're concentrating so hard on something else. That's, uh, the main reason we went to visit the Arapaho reservation. We met a tribal watchman and his companion, and we wanted to learn from them." Blair quickly checked to see if Jim wanted to add anything, but the lawman was staring into his drink. Biting his lip, he turned back to William. "We, uh, figured that it was because of Jim's senses that you thought he'd be able to find Stephen. Jim can really do some amazing things, Mister, uh, Bill. His senses are a real gift."

William took a quick gulp of his Scotch, and then leaned back against the chair. He raked his fingers through his thick thatch of hair and then nodded. "I know they are a gift," he said quietly. "But they can also be a terrible burden." Taking a breath, he went on, "Jim's mother, my wife, Grace, had enhanced senses, too. They, uh, drove her crazy, to be frank with you. We told the boys that she went back to her parents but, the truth is, she went to a private sanatorium. I was afraid something like that might happen to Jimmy some day if he didn't find a way to, I don't know, shut them off, while he was still young."

Jim looked up, astonished. "Why didn't you ever tell me that?" he exclaimed, dumbfounded.

Shifting uncomfortably, William replied, "Well, you were just a kid. I didn't want to scare you and neither did she. And, well, I meant to tell you when you were older, but you ran away." Lifting his eyes, their depths dark with sorrow, he added, "I'm sorry, son. I know I wasn't much of a father - too busy making a living, I guess. I was good at that, but as a parent I didn't know what the hell I was doing half the time. I wanted you, and Stevie, too, to grow up strong and independent, able to take whatever life might throw at you, but I never meant to hurt either of you. I've just never…never been good at expressing my feelings. But I…I do love you, son. I always have."

Jim looked away, at a loss for words. Nothing was what he had thought it to be. His mother hadn't abandoned them. His father didn't think he was a freak. His dad hadn't meant to be cruel - in fact, loved him. Trusted and respected the man he was.

His father, though, seemed unaware of Jim's confusion. Grimacing with the fear he'd been trying so hard to hide, William murmured, his voice cracking, "I lost you years ago, Jimmy. And now I'm afraid I've lost Stevie, too."

Reaching out to grip William's arm, Blair sought to reassure him. "We'll find him," he said with quiet confidence.

"You can't know that," William contested wearily as he twisted the glass in his hands. "He's likely been dead all this time and this is a fool's errand. But I couldn't not try to find him."

"Stephen's alive, Dad," Jim said then, his voice warm, gentle and reassuring in the face of his father's evident distress. "Blair told you about sentinels, but he didn't tell you that guides have some pretty amazing gifts of their own. He's a…shaman, I guess. He can spirit walk and he's seen Stephen. We know he's still alive."

"What?" William gasped, looking from Jim to Blair, wanting to believe but finding it very hard. Mysticism wasn't something he'd ever had much time for.

"Pretty weird, huh?" Blair offered with a grin. "And you thought enhanced senses were odd." But he sobered as he continued, "Stephen's horse bolted when a rattlesnake attacked. He was thrown and his leg is broken. He's hungry and exhausted, but he's near water. He knows you and Jim are coming for him and he seemed pretty relieved to hear that."

"You've talked to him?" Ellison, Senior exclaimed, flabbergasted.

"Yeah, just a few words, to reassure and encourage him," Sandburg replied. Apologetically, he added, "I'm pretty new to all this and it's still hard for me to manifest strongly enough to be seen for more than a second or two, let alone be heard."

"My God, that's…that's incredible," William breathed. He swallowed and, as if trying to regain his equilibrium, he continued in a stronger voice, "Thank you for giving him, and me, hope."

"So you believe us?" Jim demanded, not certain that his father wasn't simply humouring them.

William turned back to his son, his expression candid and vulnerable. "You've never lied to me, Jimmy," he replied staunchly. "I won't say I don't find this…very nearly unbelievable. But, if you say it's so, then it must be true."

Jim's throat tightened and he had to look away to quickly blink away the sudden burn in his eyes. Sniffing a little, he looked back at his father, his voice shaky as he said, "Thanks, Dad. I appreciate that, I really do."

Blair surreptitiously swiped at his own eyes. He wondered if Bill realized just how very much his words that day meant to his eldest son, and he was immensely glad that Jim had finally gotten to hear them.

That evening, William asked Toby to join them at the table for dinner in recognition that he had helped to fight and defend their lives. He was an austere man but not a bigot. And though he didn't make a practice of eating with his servants, it wasn't so much because he thought he was better than they were, only that they had their own jobs and places in the order of things. In his mind, Toby had earned a place with them at the table. The steward was taken aback, and at first refused, but Blair set another place and Jim gently pushed him down into the chair as William poured the fourth goblet of wine.

********************

When they finished up the meal, Toby insisted upon clearing away the remains without their help and William decided to turn in early while Jim and Blair played a quiet game of cards. As the steward headed to his own bunk in the cramped chamber behind the bar, he nodded to the two men. "Have a good night, gentlemen," he said with a smile.

It wasn't long after that the lawman and the physician headed back to the sleeper section, grinning at the soft snores coming from William's bunk as they slipped by. But Blair sobered as he caught Jim's arm before the older man could continue along to his own bunk, to acknowledge with whispered gratitude, "You saved my life today."

Ellison bowed his head and nodded, but then he reached out to grip Blair's shoulder as he murmured in reply, "You save mine every day."

They regarded one another wordlessly for a long moment, both knowing all too well that far greater dangers laid ahead. For tomorrow they would reach Flagstaff, and then they would ride into the canyon of Blair's spirit walks - the canyon of pine and oak along a wide creek sheltered by crimson cliffs. They had no doubt that they would find Stephen, but they both knew the Apaches were also waiting - and there was no way to know if either or both of them would even still be alive when they came to the end of that journey.

Wanting to comfort, Jim pulled Blair into a tight hug. "We can't borrow trouble, Chief. We can only do the best we can," he whispered hoarsely.

"I know," Blair murmured in reply, wishing he wasn't so afraid. He returned the hug warmly, but then pulled away. Schooling his voice and expression to a calm he didn't feel, he whispered, "Good night, Jim."

"‘Night, Chief," Ellison returned with a fond smile before moving on. Sandburg's heartbeat belied his apparent composure but on this occasion, if on few others, Jim sincerely respected his friend's brave attempt to let appearances deceive him.

********************

The next morning, they were all tense with the anticipation of the end of the rail journey. Jim told his father that the Apaches were well aware of Stephen lying injured in their midst so they needed to think about how to rescue him without drawing unwanted attention. They agreed they'd have to head in during the dark, with the hope of evading detection.

Toby, listening to the discussion as he laid the table for lunch, offered a different suggestion. "Perhaps you could trade for you son, Mr. Ellison."

"What do you mean?" William asked sharply as he swiveled around to look at the steward.

Diffidently, Toby explained, "The Indians prize horses, right? Well, we have a stockcar full of the horses the robbers were riding - if they belong to anyone, they belong to you for fighting off the attack. You could drive the horses into the area and, maybe, make a deal."

Scratching his cheek, Jim nodded. "That's not a bad idea, but it means deciding to go in openly - and that's a big risk."

"What are the chances that we can realistically invade their territory, even at night, and not be detected?" Blair asked thoughtfully. With a glance at Toby, he added with careful wording, "If the Arapaho have skilled watchmen and scouts, the Apache likely do, too."

"Yeah," Jim sighed as he sank back against the chair, looking worried as he chewed on his lip and considered the odds. They wouldn't be able to travel fast once they found Stephen. From what Blair had told them, his brother was hurt badly and very weak. Finally, shrugging, he decided, "There are risks either way. I think Toby's idea may be our best option." Looking up at the steward, he added, "Thank you."

Toby smiled with gratification and then turned back to his chores.

********************

When the train finally came to a stop at the end of the line at the edge of the huge camp of construction workers, it was mid-afternoon. The men were ready to depart, their saddlebags packed and over their shoulders when Toby emerged from his personal cubbyhole, dressed in jeans, faded blue shirt and a weathered jacket, a broad-brimmed hat shading his face, a pack over his shoulder and a rifle in his hands.

Startled, William asked, "You planning to do some hunting for the larder?"

"No, sir," Toby replied earnestly. "If you'll have me, I'd like to ride with you. I used to be the wrangler for my master's herd on the plantation so I can help drive the horses. And, well," he added wryly, "it would give me a chance to see more of the country."

"Toby, this is a very dangerous undertaking," Jim cautioned. "There are no guarantees - "

"I'm aware of that, sir," the steward replied soberly. "But you're going to need all the help you can get. I know how to ride and I know how to shoot. And, frankly, gentlemen, it might make a difference to the Indians to see a coloured man in your party, riding as an equal. I doubt they've seen such a sight - they will only have seen white men lording it over those of other colours."

"He could be right, Jim," Blair offered. "Toby's presence could change the equation."

William was regarding their steward thoughtfully. "Toby," he observed, "you've made a couple of very sensible suggestions about how the Indians might react to us and how we might improve our odds. May I ask how you've acquired such an intimate knowledge of how they may think?"

"Years ago, my brother ran off to join up with the Seminole," he explained, "and since the war, I've managed to track down the community he became a part of. It's a mixed group of ex-slaves and Indians - most of what unites them is their distrust of white folks."

"I see," the elder Ellison murmured. Nodding, he continued, "Well, sir, if you're willing to risk your life riding with us, we're grateful. Let's go."

********************

They stepped off the Pullman and into the noisy chaos of the construction camp. Hundreds of people milled around, shouting instructions or calls for help or just plain passing the time of day. Sledge hammers pounded metal spikes with repetitive ringing clangs over the continuous clatter of rails being shifted or dropped on top of one another in piles along the expanding line to the west. Jim flinched, grateful for Sandburg's steadying hand on his back as he swiftly turned down his bronze lantern to mute the sounds as they made their way toward the stockcar to saddle their horses. There was plenty of daylight left and they all felt an urgency to be on their way.

"Mr. Ellison!" a man called out as he hurried to meet them. "I'm Joshua Danzing, the foreman here. I wired you about your son's disappearance."

Stiffening, William nodded. "Yes, I recognize your name. We're heading out now to look for him."

Shaking his head with a great show of sorrow, Danzing swept off his hat as he said discouragingly, "As sorry as I am to say it, I'm afraid you're wasting your time and only putting yourself, and the other members of your party at risk. Why, there's not even any clue as to which direction to begin searching."

"Thank you for your concern, but we're wasting time here," William snapped back as he pushed past the obsequious man.

"But, sir, the Apaches -"

"We're well aware of the risks," Jim cut in, his tone repressive.

Danzing subsided, his lips thinning with irritation. Shaking his head, he waved them on, calling after with a tone verging on sarcasm, "Good luck to you then. I hope you find him."

The men ignored him as they climbed up the wooden ramp into the stockcar, William directing Toby to pick out the horse he wanted as his own. As they saddled up, Jim asked quietly, "So, you got any idea in which direction to start looking, Chief?"

Blair nodded soberly as he tightened the girth around Butternut. "Yeah. There are snowcapped mountains to the west and north, but not to the south. I saw mountains to the north, so we head south."

Toby listened, but made no comment. There were those amongst his own people who had had visions that could be trusted, and he'd heard of similar occurrences amongst the Indians. Some folks just had the gift of second sight, and he couldn't see why Sandburg couldn't be one of those individuals.

Blair and Jim rode off the car first, William and Toby slapping the rumps of the loose horses to follow, before mounting themselves. Though neither Blair nor William had much experience herding animals, Jim and Toby quickly got the remuda in order and in minutes they were out of the busy camp and heading south through stands of pine.

********************

The Shaman rode sedately back into the large camp of tents, nodding at the greetings of the people who called to him, his gaze indulgent as he noted children at play, pretending to be warriors and great trackers of game. Women and girls working at the campfires, preparing the evening's meal, bowed their heads respectfully as he passed on his way to Geronimo's tent.

The War Chief, having been alerted that the Shaman had returned, came out to meet him. "So, did they speak with you, Grandfather?" he asked, the concern in his voice evidence of his unsettled preoccupation about those that were coming.

"They did," Spirit Talker replied calmly as he waved the War Chief toward the fire outside his tent. The two men dropped down, they legs comfortably crossed, and Geronimo poured water from a gourd into a clay cup and then handed it to his principal spiritual adviser.

Accepting the ritual greeting of welcome and respect, the Shaman drank. Setting the cup down, to indicate he was refreshed and needed no more, he said, "The spirit walker is called Touch That Heals and the wolf is his guide. The jaguar is the guide and protector of one called Brave Star. They are Watchman and Companion, and you are right - they are coming for the wounded man, who is Brave Star's brother." He paused and studied the War Chief. He'd known Geronimo for all the younger man's life, and grieved at the anger that consumed the brave warrior's soul. Grieved as well for the lost family, and others like them who had been killed without provocation in years past. "Listen to me, my son. Heed my words. These are not men like those you have encountered before amongst the palefaces. They have pure spirits - they are not our enemies."

Anger burned with hate in the warrior's eyes before he shuttered his gaze and turned his face away. "They are all our enemies, Grandfather," he grated. "Have you not learned that lesson yet?"

Shaking his head, the old man reached to grip Geronimo's shoulder. "You are wrong, and you know it, my son. You let your heart speak, and you are guided only by pain and hatred. That is not a wise course for a leader. Listen to your head, and let your reason balance your heart. There are good and bad amongst all men, whatever their colour. Pose them a test, if you require it, to judge their merit and the strength of their medicine. The gods and spirits abandon those who do not value what is good and true. Be not so blind as to destroy wantonly, for that path will only lead you, and therefore all of us, your people, to destruction."

Reluctantly, Geronimo nodded tightly. "I hear your words," he allowed. "I will think on them."

********************

They'd made a cold camp in the forest the evening before when it became too dark to travel, and had each taken their turn to stand watch. They'd not seen any hostiles, but Jim had heard birdcalls that sounded slightly off to his finely tuned ear, and he was certain they were being watched.

They'd set off again as soon as the gray light of dawn had made it feasible, riding quietly, stiffly alert and wary of attack.

Blair tried to remain confident as they rode through a thick forest of pine, the trail now dropping steeply to the south. But he could no longer see the mountains behind him, and there were no signs of either a creek or looming red cliffs of rock and he worried that he might have somehow misinterpreted the lingering visions of his two spirit walks. The shamanistic skills that Whispering Waters had guided him to find within himself were too new and untested, too strange for him to be truly certain.

The others, too, were anxious. Stephen had been missing for so long - he couldn't afford the time for them to wander around in the wilderness, seeking some sign of his passing. But they all kept their worries to themselves, riding in silence but for the occasional call by Toby to keep the unsaddled horses in line.

Jim kept scanning the ground, seeking tracks, however old or faded. He'd spotted any number of faint signs of unshod horses, and the knowledge that they were in hostile territory sent a shiver of uncertainty down his spine when he looked up at the others. How was he going to protect them if they were attacked? He wondered if he shouldn't have made this journey alone so that only his life would be at risk. His and Stevie's, but he shrugged off that brief thought, knowing neither his father nor Sandburg would have countenanced such an idea.

It was late morning when he caught the scent of decay on the breeze, decay mingled with leather. Shifting direction slightly, he rode a little ahead of the others and then pulled up. Looking back over his shoulder, he called softly, "You've put us on the right track, Chief."

The others rode closer, the loose horses shying from the stench. It was a dead animal, bloated and obviously ravaged by carrion hunters, both four-legged and winged - Stephen's horse, dead of the rattlesnake bite before it could make it back to the camp.

They rode on, more quickly now and Jim soon scented and heard the rush of water, the creek of Sandburg's spirit walks. And the forest thickened around them, no longer only hardy pine, but with more varied species including large stands of oak. Within another half hour, they came to the creek and began to follow it - and as the forest parted before them, they saw the first of the breathtaking red cliffs of stone looming further to the south.

It was hard not to hurry their mounts to an even faster pace, but Jim sensed the eyes of watchers upon them, though he hadn't yet spotted any Apaches. He called low to the others to continue at a measured pace, indicating confidence in the face of no doubt overwhelming odds, knowing the watchers would be intrigued and maybe, hopefully, even impressed.

Within another forty-five minutes strained by urgency mingled with the wariness of honest and legitimate fear, they reached the bottom of the canyon, the cliffs now looming on either side as the land narrowed and tightened along the wide, rushing creek.

And ten minutes after that, Jim spotted his brother lying on his side by the creek's edge. "There he is," he called to the others, waving them forward as he finally set a faster pace. But his eyes raked the shadows and he knew as yet unseen watchers were closing in around them - he could smell them and their silent ponies, could hear their heartbeats.

When they rode up to Stephen short minutes later, Blair and William quickly leapt from their saddles to hurry to the still, silent man by the creek, while Jim and Toby remained on their mounts - Jim watching and waiting for the Indians to make their move, Toby keeping the milling horses in check.

"Stephen!" William called out, his voice breaking with fear, terrified that they were too late, as he fell to his knees beside his youngest son.

Blair nodded respectfully toward the spirit animals only he could see, and then he too knelt by Stephen Ellison and gently turned him onto his back, reaching to feel the pulse point at the base of his throat. Stephen was haggard and gray, the bones of his face standing out starkly under the taut skin, his body emaciated, mute evidence of the privation he'd suffered for so long. But he was breathing, and his pulse was steady, if weak. "He's holding his own," he murmured reassuringly to William, knowing Jim would also hear him, and then he turned his attention to Stephen's broken leg. Gently, he unbound the twisted vines and pulled away the crooked sticks the younger Ellison had found to splint his injury, and then he pulled out his knife to slice Stephen's pant leg up to the knee.

The leg was swollen and angry looking, reddened with soreness. Carefully, gently, Blair felt along the bones, sorry when Stephen moaned even in his unconscious state, knowing he was causing pain. Closing his eyes to concentrate on what his hands were telling him, he could tell it was the tibia, the shinbone, that had broken and it now felt crooked and thickened around the break, having begun to heal. Swallowing, he looked up at William and then to Jim. "It'll have to be rebroken and set, but that can wait until we get him back to camp. He's not strong enough to ride. We need to build a litter to pull him back. I'd also like to get some food into him, some broth and tea, before we leave - he's very weak."

"Build a fire with what you've got handy," Jim replied, his voice tight with his effort to remain calm; his eyes still on the trees around them. "I don't want anyone wandering off yet to do anything else. We've got a lot of company, but I'd like them to make the first move."

The others glanced warily at the trees, and swallowed hard; they all knew they were in deadly danger and courting death. William hastily began to gather up dried driftwood while Blair pulled matches and supplies from his pack. Though he could start a fire simply by thinking about it, he normally didn't use his skills unless he and Jim were alone. Nor did he want to advertise his ability to the watching Apaches, in case he needed it for a surprise distraction if they attacked.

It didn't take them long to get a fire started, and Sandburg soon mixed some nourishing herbs and small chunks of dried beef with water from the creek, and set the small caldron over the fire to heat. Then he filled another pot, to boil water for tea. Only then did he dip a rag into the cool rippling water, and ring it out before moving back to Stephen to bathe his face and upper body.

"You can relax now, Stephen," he murmured quietly as he worked over the sorely ill man, while William cradled his son's shoulders and head against his chest. "You're not alone anymore. Your Dad and Jim are here and we're going to take you home. Stephen? Can you hear me? I need you to wake up."

Gradually, Stephen responded to their ministrations, and he blinked, at first confused and wondering if he was dreaming. But it was the man from his visions, touching him now, washing the dirt from his skin. And then his gaze shifted to see who was holding him so closely, and his eyes widened before filling with tears. "Dad?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"I've got you, son," William soothed as he reached to stroke his son's cheek, fighting his own tears. "I've got you, Stevie, and you're going to be okay, you hear me?" And then he drew his youngest closer still, as he bowed his head to kiss Stephen's brow.

It was then that Geronimo rode out from under the trees, his warriors following his lead as they circled around the small group of white and black men and the horses they'd brought with them. Stern, austere and silent, their manner was meant to intimidate and evoke fear.

The rescue party stiffened as they watched, equally silent, until Geronimo reined in his pony. Blair recognized the tall warrior from his spirit walk, and realized he was recognized in turn by the cold look sent his way. He stood slowly and moved to stand between William and Stephen and the Apaches who encroached upon them. Knowing it was vitally important to show no fear, Sandburg did his best to assume the mantle of slightly mocking authority he'd seen Whispering Waters assume when he was irritated. "I remember you," he said with a slight tone of aggrieved mockery. "You would not help this man. Does the Apache not honour the visitor in their camp or feel compassion for one who is suffering?"

Jim flicked a look at Blair, but held his peace, allowing Sandburg the lead in this deadly dance.

Geronimo stiffened at the censure, more used to whites being terrified by his presence. The calm confidence was disconcerting and very irritating. "You are fools to wander where you are not wanted," he spat back. "Fools whose lives are forfeit."

"You are discourteous," Blair sniffed as if massively unimpressed with the threat as he hid his relief that the Apache spoke English. "We have brought you gifts," he continued as he waved toward the small herd of horses, "and yet you threaten us and make us unwelcome."

"When you are dead, we will claim all of your horses," the War Chief replied, coldly sardonic.

Blair crossed his arms and cocked his head as he studied the War Chief, knowing full well he was trodding a delicate, very narrow path. If the Apaches had simply wanted them dead, he had no doubt they would have been killed summarily and long before they'd found Stephen. Sighing, he held out his hands in an open gesture, palms up and empty. "We have come in peace and mean your people no harm," he said, but small flames leapt from his hands - and the shocked warriors that surrounded them gasped audibly at the display of a shaman's power. As if unaware of the reaction, Sandburg continued, "Our brother has been hurt, as you know. We have intruded here only to bear him home. And, in respect for you and your land, we have brought these horses as gifts for you. How do your gods say that strangers who come in peace with gifts should be greeted? Why do you threaten men of goodwill who mean you no harm?"

"Your mouth is filled with lies, white man," Geronimo sneered, pretending to be unimpressed by the small display of magical power, though it worried him. "You and your kind come to steal our land and our freedom - to kill us. Yet you expect a brother's welcome. Better that vipers should nest in our camp."

"It is truly a fool who sees only enemies where he might find friends," Sandburg snapped back, refusing to be intimidated - knowing if he quailed now they were surely lost. "And it's a blind man who sees only white men standing before him," he added scathingly in reference to Toby's presence in their midst. "If our gifts are not enough to prove our goodwill, what is it that you require from us?" he demanded, his voice now stern, using the tone he'd heard Whispering Waters use to restive warriors who'd threatened him when he'd first been taken to the war camp of the Arapaho, almost two years before - the tone of a shaman fast losing patience, confident of his power and expecting to be obeyed.

"I require my gods to show me that you are worthy of more than my contempt," Geronimo replied, refusing in his turn to be intimidated by the sharpness of the white shaman's voice, as he gave them each a slow, measuring look.

Sandburg's eyes narrowed as he nodded slowly, buying time as he fought the sudden clench of fear in his belly. He knew of too many cultures that demanded proof through challenges that could not be passed, like burning witches at the stake or drowning infidels with the sanctimonious belief that if they were telling the truth of their innocence, then God would spare them. But they had no choice. If they refused to be tested, they were dead anyway. "A test?" he ventured noncommittally for the moment, as if giving the idea due consideration before unleashing his own power.

"A test," Geronimo agreed, and then sprang his surprise. "But not of you, Shaman, Touch That Heals, for I do not trust your magic."

Blair's eyes widened at the use of his Indian name and he flicked a hurt look at his spirit guide, knowing full well where the Apache's own shaman would have gotten the otherwise unknowable information. The wolf whined softly, then barked in encouragement. The black jaguar was as still as a statue, green eyes unblinking as it stared at the War Chief and waited. "What test?" Sandburg demanded as he turned his steady gaze back to Geronimo.

The Apache War Chief turned his own dark eyes upon Jim, having assessed who had to be the Watchman amongst the group of intruders, as he replied stonily. "Brave Star will run the Gauntlet. If he survives, I will accept that our gods find you worthy."

Blair had heard stories of the ‘Gauntlet'; it wasn't a ‘test' unique to the Apache, but was as old as mankind and as barbaric as any other impossible test to prove the fickle favour of the gods. He thought he might be sick then and there; it would be far more merciful to bind Jim hand and foot, weigh him down with a boulder and toss him in a lake. "How many warriors?" he asked hoarsely, fighting to keep his voice steady, his expression impassive, needing to know what Jim was up against.

"Forty," Geronimo stated harshly.

"What are your rules for victory?" Sandburg asked then, his throat tight.

"It's a simple test. He must only survive and stand alone long enough to show he survived when, if, he emerges from the far end," the War Chief replied flatly. And then he turned his gaze back to Ellison, as he demanded, "Do you accept the challenge?"

The muscle in Ellison's jaw flexed, the only sign he gave of the tidal wave of fear that threatened to drown him - not fear of his own death, but that if he didn't survive, the others would be killed as well, and not mercifully. His mouth dry, he nodded, accepting the challenge; he had no choice.

"Jim - " Blair moaned so softly that no one else heard, sick with understanding of what his friend faced, but Ellison cut over the sound of muted despair.

"Where and when?" Jim demanded, doing his best to seem unconcerned. The bluff Sandburg had been running had brought them this far, and now it was up to him to carry it through.

A thin smile of satisfaction drifted over Geronimo's lips but was quickly gone. He'd heeded Spirit Talker's warning, and was giving the gods a chance to show their will. But he doubted the white devil would survive - and then he could kill them all with the assurance that he was walking the right path. Confident that they would all be dying slowly, if not yet already dead, by the next dawn, he had no concern about leading them to his village. "You will follow us, and bring your injured brother. Tonight, when the moon is full, you will run the Gauntlet."

He waved to one of his warriors to bring forward the litter he'd had fashione