My first time trying to write a story for the Dr. Quinn fandom. I think it's needless to say that I own nothing.

This story will also be about historical events, and I'll try to remain as faithful to them as I can. The Cheyenne will also play a large role in this story (duh) and again, I'll try to do them justice. Their language will not be included, maybe except for a few words, 'cause, let be honest, I have no way of doing that right without the help of someone who can speak it.

Rated pretty high for future violence. Racist slurs and so on is to be expected considering the times, ye be warned.

Thank you and enjoy.

Having stared at his boots for days, it wasn't until he looked up and saw the dark shape of a mountain in the distance. With the sky on fire from the setting sun, it looked even darker and taller than he remembered. Pike's Peak. The sight made him stop up dead.

He hadn't wanted to come this way, he hadn't planned…

He looked down at his feet, wondering why they had brought him back here. He turned his head in the direction he knew the town would be, but the once familiar pull towards the place was gone.

Abigail was gone.

The thought of her ripped open something inside of him. It was like an open wound that had only just stopped bleeding, and the sight of the area made the pain return.

He couldn't go back, he realized that. His feet might have brought him here but his mind and heart refused to let him go further. He looked around. Mountains were in the distance. Trees climbed the hills and made woods at the bottom. There were probably rivers there and animals. He didn't know how to hunt, not without a rifle and he had thrown his aside after… after…

His feet turned towards the woods, away from Pike's Peak and away from the town. He walked until the last fire on the sky had turned to blackness, and instead, stars and a full moon gave him light. He walked until his already hurting feet hurt some more.

He walked until his shirt, wet with sweat from walking in the sun, clamped around him like a frozen vise. Along with the trousers and the boots, it was the only thing he still had from the army. His coat, hat, gloves, anything that reminded him of what he had done, he had thrown into a river at the bottom at a cliff.

He's wanted badly to throw the rest the same way, but walking around naked hadn't an option. Now he didn't care. The shirt was damp and cold, and he ripped it off and let it fall to the ground as he entered the woods. It was even darker in there. The trees stood close together and the leaves hid the stars from him.

It was like he was blind. He walked and tripped, and fell flat on his face, not able to see where he was going. He didn't much care. He got up and continued, not noticing how the air grew colder and colder around him. Even without the wet shirt he quickly began to freeze, realizing he might have made a mistake. Didn't matter now. He kept walking.

Walking and walking, until the ground suddenly disappeared from beneath his feet. He fell. He fell for a long time, rolled around and hit probably every rock and branch on his way down. And when he finally stopped rolling and falling, he was lying on his back and looking at the night sky.

And then he heard the last thing he expected. A voice.

Feeling like he was one big bruise, he slowly lifted his head up. The darkness swirled around him and he thought he tasted blood. And he thought he saw a fire. And someone by the fire. A voice called out to him but he didn't recognize the words.

His head hurt.

With a groan, he let his head fall back. That hurt too but he didn't care.

He didn't care about anything.

Cloud Dancing had promised his wife he would be back early morning. It was with sadness that he accepted that it wouldn't be so.

After placing another stone from the fire into the Buffalo pouch filled with water, he added the willow bark and left it to boil. He stood up and went over to the unconscious man, who had nearly fallen into his fire in the middle of the night. He hadn't woken.

Lying still as if sleeping, the young man looked anything but someone resting. He was pale and sweating, the fever still holding him in its grasp. Cloud Dancing had done his best with the man. The many cuts covering his naked chest, which no doubt had also been the cause of his fever – it had been a very cold night – he had cleaned and placed chewed herbs on. The bruises he couldn't do much for, except for the one on the man's temple, which was slightly swollen and blue in color. All he had was a cloth chilled in the river. He had asked the Spirits for help, but if the man didn't wake soon, he might not wake at all.

Cloud Dancing looked over the man's cuts but found no inflammation. Satisfied, he returned to the pouch where the water was steaming and added another stone.

A groan made him look towards the man. Red-rimmed eyes blinked open slowly and shaking hand reached up to touch the wet cloth covering the bruise. Cloud Dancing remained where he was, hand reaching for his knife.

He had helped the man but he had also recognized the clothes, or what was left of them, as an army uniform. He had only very few good encounters with soldiers and had decided not to take any chances. The man grabbed the cloth and looked at it confused before glancing around, his eyes quickly finding Cloud Dancing. They were very blue eyes.

The man didn't seem like he knew what he was seeing, no doubt under the effects of the fever. Slowly he raised himself up, eyes never leaving Cloud Dancing. After a few heartbeats, Cloud Dancing took a breath and let go of his knife.

"I will not hurt you," he said and held his empty hands out in front of him. The white man's language was still awkward in his mouth, but he remembered the words easily enough. The man stared at him. It didn't seem like he heard him. Those blue eyes with so much red around them were locked with his own, and what Cloud Dancing saw made a chill run down his back.

The man had not expected to wake up, and he was disappointed that he had.

The realization settled heavily in Cloud Dancing, who lowered his hands. He had seen that look in many eyes the last few years, and it never ended well.

"You're an Indian," said the man. It took a moment for Cloud Dancing to realize he had spoken, unpleasant memories swirling in his head. His attention returned to the man.

"I am."

"You speak English."

"I do."

He expected more, but the man only stared at him. Between them, the water had reached the right heat and small bobbles appeared on the surface. Moving slowly and watchfully, he filled a bowl with willow bark tea and put it aside to cool. He replaced the stones in the pouch with fresh ones from the fire, and all the while kept glancing the man, who didn't move. Sweat was still glistening on his skin and his chest moved rapidly as he breathed. Still, he sat up and stared at Cloud Dancing.

Trusting the Spirits, Cloud Dancing began to prepare a breakfast. One could never say what a man caught by fever would do, so he stayed out of reach from the white man, but he put his faith in the Spirits to protect him in this.

From his pack, he found the dried meat and many herbs and plants he had gathered. Those for the medicine he placed aside, while some of the edible ones were divided into two other bowls. Taking one of them, along with the now cooler tea, he slowly stood up and walked over to the man, who didn't move as he approached.

Kneeling beside him, Cloud Dancing held out the tea first. "This will help fever down."

It was unnerving having those eyes focused so intensely on him. So many emotions lived in them and they all seemed to reach out to him. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

He nodded at the tea. "It will help."

"Why are you helping me?" it was as much as an accusation as a question.

"You are hurt," Cloud Dancing said. The man swallowed. He seemed to grow paler and paler by the second.

"Why are you helping me," he gritted out between clenched teeth. Cloud Dancing placed the tea and the food down beside the man.

"Spirits bring you to me," he said and stood up. He nodded at the food. "Drink and eat. Will help." When he got no answer, he returned to the fire and his own breakfast. The sun had been up for hours, but his time had been occupied. Snow Bird would worry for him. He only hoped the Spirits would send her a sign that he was in good health.

As he ate, he tried not to look at the man. Some things required a lack of attention. He felt that the man had to choose for himself if he wanted help, and Cloud Dancing staring at him would accomplish nothing. So, he made a show out of not looking at the man directly. Instead, he carefully sneaked a look when he bowed down to pick up his knife, or then he added more kindle to the fire.

The man kept watching him, uncertainty clear on his face. Whether it was how he could be alive, or why Cloud Dancing was helping him, was not to say. He apparently refused to lie down but seemed to see reason in eating and drinking. With clear suspicion, he picked up the bowl with tea and sniffed at it. He glanced carefully at Cloud Dancing before taking a sip. He made a face but took another sip, drinking it all very slowly.

When he was done, he was sweating even more and finally had to give his shaking body some rest. He lay back down and breathed very fast and loudly. Satisfied, Cloud Dancing stopped his pretend and walked over and took the bowl, refilling it with more tea which he placed beside him.

The man watched him carefully as a hawk. His body was weak but awareness in the eyes could not be mistaken. Cloud Dancing was glad he had looked after the many cuts before the man woke up. He doubted he allow Cloud Dancing to touch him now.

"Eat and drink," he said. "Need to heal." The man turned his head away from Cloud Dancing.

"Don't bother," he mumbled. Cloud Dancing frowned. The man was stubborn.

Standing up, Cloud Dancing drew his knife. Until the man grew stronger, he needed to shield him better from sun, wind, and rain. He made his way to the hill the man had tumbled down from in the middle of the night and began to climb it. He hoped Snow Bird would forgive him for postponing his journey home a little longer.

He dreamed of Abigail.

She was lying in a bed, looking at him with a bright smile on her beautiful face. She held a hand out to him, and as he was about to take it in his, red appeared on her white dress. It spread like a wildfire across her body until there was no more white, only red. Blood began to flow down from the bed as the smile on her face turned into a mask of pain. Silently she screamed, her eyes wide and bloodshot. She sat up on the bed, clutching her stomach. Blood welled up between her fingers and she held them up before her eyes.

Her shaking, bloody hand was all he could look at. She turned her head towards him, tears and blood streaming from her eyes and heard her voice. You killed me.

"No, please…" he begged. Slowly she shifted on the bed, and her bare, bloody feet touched the bloody floor. So much blood. She stood up and walked towards him. You killed her.

"No…"

You killed us.

"No!"

He sat up, waving his arms. She disappeared, along with the blood and her voice, and instead, he stared into the face of a man who looked at him with concern. A man he recognized but didn't know. A warm hand grabbed his arms, holding them still.

"Be calm. Dream," the Indian said. He struggled against the hands but the other man was so much stronger than him. Shaking he let him help him lie down again, where gasped for breath. As he looked up, he realized he didn't see the sky, but instead a roof made of branches and leaves. He looked around and saw the shelter around him, pretty sure it hadn't been there before.

He looked at the Indian. "Did you build this." A nod was his only answer. "How long was I sleeping?"

The Indian frowned slightly. "Hours," he finally said. "It will be dark."

Had he really slept all day? Taking another look around, he noticed how a pack and sacks of animal hides were hanging from the roof of the shelter. Beneath him – and the blanket he was lying on – the ground was covered in leaves and dried grass. Outside, the fire was still alive, and he could smell the brew the Indian had given him earlier. He looked at the man. "You did all this alone?"

A nod.

His head felt heavy. He let it fall back. The Indian held out the brew towards him, gesturing with his hand towards his head. Understanding, he nodded. A warm hand sneaked behind his head and lifted it slightly as the brew was brought to his lips. He drank what he could and then lay back down. Seemingly satisfied, the Indian placed the wooden bowl away. Feeling sleep creeping in, he reached out and grabbed the Indian's arm. The man reacted fast, reaching for his knife, though never drawing it.

"What is your name?"

The Indian seemed to consider if he wanted to answer at all, before slowly speaking. "Cloud Dancing."

"Sully," he said. Cloud Dancing nodded.

Carefully he lay down and closed his eyes.