1865

Sully moaned, hissing through his teeth as fingers probed the hot, tender flesh surrounding the bayonet wound a jumpy Confederate had inflicted upon him, before he had killed him. He had tended to it the best he could with his limited supplies and no how. He hadn't wanted to risk seeing a doctor in any of the towns he passed through on the way back to Colorado Springs for fear of being arrested for desertion. Nor had he wanted to run into any Confederate sympathizers who would just as soon shoot him, as help him.

With every step that he took closer to Colorado Springs, the sicker he became as infection set in. His fevered escalated, his skin grew hot and flushed, and his side felt as if someone was poking a hot stick into it. His head pounded, his vision was blurred, and he was finding it increasingly harder to breathe.

When he could stand upright no longer, Sully found a hollowed out tree stump, and slid wearily into the shelter it provided from the elements. Unconsciousness settled over him as weariness, hunger, and infection conspired against him. He didn't know long he'd lain unaware of the world around hium, before help had arrived in the form of the stranger currently tending to him.

The fingers stopped probing at his injury, making him let out a moan of relief, as the pressure faded away. He heard the sloshing of water being poured into a tin cup. A moment later, he felt his head being lifted, and the rim of a cup touch his dry lips.

"You must drink if you want to heal."

The words were softly, but firmly spoken, in a deep voice. Sully's eyes fluttered open but his sight was fuzzy, and he could only make out an outline of the stranger tending to him. All he knew for certain was that his unknown helper was male due to the deeply voiced instructions he'd been given.

"Drink."

This time Sully opened his mouth and obediently swallowed. He gagged as the warm, bitter liquid filled his mouth, and trickled down his throat. He tried to turn his head away, but the hand under him tightened on the back of his neck, and the cup was pressed tighter against his lips. Obediently he drank more of the awful tasting liquid. When his unknown caretaker was satisfied that he had swallowed enough of it, the cup was removed from his lips, and his head was lowered onto something soft. He opened his mouth to thank his helper, but found that his befuddled mind wouldn't form words. Unconsciousness claimed him a short time later.

Time passed as Sully drifted in and out of consciousness as his body fought the infection trying to take his life. During brief moments of awareness, Sully became aware of a couple of things. A gutteral chanting, a cool cloth on his head, the taste of the bitter liquid in his mouth, followed by a flavorable broth.

More time passed before Sully awoke to find his thoughts free of confusion and his vision clear. He blinked against the blinding sunlight streaming down on his face. He glanced around and found himself lying in a meadow beside a campfire. And there was an indian sitting beside it.

The Indian had long, flowing ebony hair and copper skin. He was clothed in beaded, buckskin tunic and leggings, and was facing the fire. As Sully continued to study him, the Indian turned toward him. Dark eyes, burning with intelligence, locked with his blue ones.

"You are awake at last."

"Who are you?" Sully's voice was hoarse from unuse.

"I am Cloud Dancing, Medicine Man of the Cheyenne Nation."

"I am Sully," he paused, and then said, "Thank you for helping me."