With most of Sully's strength gone, he awoke to a fever he knew he couldn't outrun. Days and nights in the damp had taken their toll after weeks on the run. His inability to find enough food after his rations had run out hadn't helped, either. And, as much as he wanted his journey to be over, he wanted to die next to his beloved. He couldn't let it end in the middle of nowhere. And so, that last morning, he pushed himself onward, finally coming across an old farmhouse.

The building had seen better days, but there was smoke at the chimney and the sound of someone chopping wood, so he knew there was someone home. As afraid as he was of someone recognizing him and having him arrested, he felt too sick to stay in the woods any longer. His plan was to beg them to let him help them out on their property for the winter in return for lodging in the barn and some food. The worst they could do is run him off and he would be back where he was.

Walking up to the barn behind the house, he came upon an old man who was at the chopping block. A small pile of fresh wood lay at his feet. As he let the axe rest, he reached for a dingy handkerchief. Sully cleared his throat to make himself known.

The sound all but made the old man jump out of his skin. Clearly, they lived where they didn't see many travelers or visitors. As the old man's eyes rested on Sully, his shoulders eased a bit. The sight of this sickly man before him told him that he couldn't mean any harm; he wasn't much more than a bag of bones.

"Excuse me sir, I don't mean to disturb ya, but I thought I would stop and ask if you're looking to take on any hands for the winter?" Sully asked, his voice sounding hoarse and foreign to him. As the old man stood there, taking in the sight, it occurred to Sully that he hadn't spoken to another person since his shave and that had been about two months ago.

"Son, why don't you come sit down." The old man said, coming to life after pocketing his handkerchief. He reached for Sully's arm and led him to sit on the stump that served as the chopping block. "You goin' home from the war?" The old man pointed to the bag Sully was still travelling with. He had been so consumed with thoughts of Abigail over the past days and weeks that it had slipped his mind to discard his army issued pack. His pins and patches still rested in the bottom, safely hidden from view.

"California." Sully lied, hating himself as he did so. But the less the old man knew, the better.

"Well, ain't we mighty proud to have ya here!" The old man said. "Name's Ezra Botkins." He stuck out his hand, taking off his hat in respect as he did so. Sully shook his hand.

"Sully." He blurted out without really thinking. The thirst that had consumed him ever since he'd contracted the fever was more important than safe-guarding his name from the old man, and he hoped they didn't get newspapers way out here, in the middle of nowhere.

"Mini!" The old man shouted towards the house. "Git out here!"

"Please, sir, I don't mean to intrude." Sully said again, slightly flinching as the man shouted for his wife.

"No harm at'all, Son. Minerva will be dang charmed to have one of you brave boys here. Gives her somethin' ta fuss over 'sides me." The old man chuckled and clapped Sully on the shoulder. Then he shouted for his wife again. A tiny woman came out of the backdoor of the homestead, a pipe in her mouth.

"Tarnation, Ezra! What're ya—" As she began to nag Ezra for breaking the peaceful silence of the morning, she spied Sully on the chopping stump next to him. Nearly dropping her pipe, she came out with a charming smile on her face, suddenly wanting to make a good impression for their unexpected and very disheveled visitor. Sully stood to introduce himself.

"I'm really sorry for botherin' you folk, ma'am. Name's Sully." He stuck his hand out. She shook his hand demurely while never taking her eyes off of his face. "I know I've missed harvest, but I'm looking for work, possibly through the winter." She held her pipe in one hand, smoking forlornly.

"He's on his way home, Mini. Been a'fightin' those dang rebels." Ezra offered.

"And when's the last time they fed you, Mr. Sully?" Mini asked him. "You're about starved, I'd say."

"Yes, ma'am." Sully answered. "I'm willing to work for whatever you can spare." He sensed a look passing between the old couple as he said this.

"Spare?" The old woman laughed. "Nothin's ta spare for one of our brave boys! No sir!" She took his hand in her tiny one and began to drag him towards the house. "Mr. Sully, if you will do us the privilege, we'd love ta thank you for fightin' by fattin' you up agin before'n ya see yore kin. Yore momma would never fergive me if'n I's ta send ya home a bag a bones!" Sully glanced back at Ezra, who just smiled and picked up his axe again while Mini chuckled and drug him into her warm kitchen. The old woman sat him at her kitchen table and began preparing a feast fit for Sully's whole regiment, let alone just the three of them.

As the old woman prattled on about everything under the sun, she started piling food in front of him and fresh hot coffee. After months in the woods with sometimes nothing more than nuts and berries, the smell of the coffee was like waking up from a terrible nightmare. Part of him cursed what he had been doing all this time, running himself to death, when he could have been living comfortably in another town. But the other part of him cursed himself for stopping for such luxuries as coffee. Somewhere was a widow who had to drink her coffee alone because Sully had murdered her husband. And back and forth his conscience went. But Mini never noticed.

He managed to eat and watched Mini work, unable to say or do anything else. She wouldn't hear of him lifting a finger to help until he was back to his old self. She didn't even necessarily wait for him to answer her as she chattered on. Her pride at being able to do something to help those who fought in place of Ezra, who was too old to enlist, did her poor little heart good, she said. She so wished that none of the horrible business had been started in the first place.

And so, as was his nature, Sully lapsed into a comfortable silence while he found the first rest since before Abigail passing in an old farmhouse kitchen, out in the middle of nowhere.

Black Kettle's group of Cheyenne weathered the cold months well, and he was pleased to see that the unions the year before had brought two strong babes into the tribe. This he still attributed to the buffalo that had come to them last season. With help of the medicine man's prayers and herbs, they had been able to avoid the bad spirit that had haunted Cloud Dancing months ago. He no longer dreamed of it coming towards the camp; the danger was over.

That spring, the tribe made its way closer to the summer hunting grounds to follow the buffalo as they migrated. Cloud Dancing monitored his tribe closely, making sure there were no illnesses or ceremonies that were not followed. The Great Spirit had kept them all safe in the cold times and now, he felt sure that a good year would follow. They had good hunting lately, and many worked on new hides to fix old tents and make new clothes for the growing children of the tribe.

One night on a very warm spring evening, Cloud Dancing sat outside his tent late into the night. He kept his fire going long after Snow Bird had gone to sleep. He was thinking long and hard about his son and a young squaw about his age that would be a good match for him. As much as he saw his son as still being a boy, it would only be a few more seasons before he was a man. And a man would need a wife.

Since he had been so long outside, he was sure to wake Snow Bird if he slept in the tent, and so he decided to stay by the fire. The air was warm, and, with a nearby blanket, he felt he would pass the evening just fine under the stars.

But as he slept that night, he was troubled with a dream of the black wolf. He had not seen or even thought about the black wolf since late last fall, before the cold weather had come. Now, he found himself in that same grassy place, watching from a safe distance as the black wolf began to walk towards him. It was still alone, still moving at a slow pace, he could even see the two shafts of the arrows stuck in its side. However, now the wolf was panting, even possibly limping. It passed Cloud Dancing on its way through the hunting grounds and towards where he had erected his tent.

The howl of an actual wolf in the night startled Cloud Dancing from his dream. With his fire merely coals, the night was dark around him. He listened for any approaching sound, but when the howl sounded again, it was clearly miles in the distance. Unable to return to sleep after that, he thought long and hard about the new details that had occurred since he had last dreamt of the black wolf. The wolf now panted as if having a hard time breathing. And, although not outright limping, it was walking with effort. The arrows most certainly were taking energy out of the wolf, yet on he proceeded, trying to get close to the tribe. Cloud Dancing considered this black wolf a great foe, determined to reach his people no matter who tried to stop him, or how.

It would drive Cloud Dancing to take a spirit quest as soon as the Cheyenne were at the summer grounds and settled. He could not risk ignoring this sign much longer.