The pale morning light trickled through the tattered curtains that shrouded the broken windows of the abandoned cabin. Dust moats flouted through the dull beams, showing just how dirty the old building really was, and the sound of dripping could be heard in one corner, from a leak in the roof.

Blutch opened his eyes slowly, blinking to get them to focus. He sat up in sudden panic, not recognizing were he was, but then the night before came back to him and he relaxed, sliding a weary hand down his tired face.

Clara lay on the bed roll next to his, still sleeping, and Chesterfield was nearby in his, also still asleep. Outside, he could just hear Arabesque and the sergeant's horse neighing contentedly. Poor things had had to weather the storm out in the open.

Feeling the need to get up and move around, he extricated himself from the covers and stood. His muscles were achy and stiff, most likely an after effect of his panic attack. He had been so tense, he had been nearly ready to snap, and that had stayed in his body all through the night. He stretched, wincing when the action once again caused pain in his ribs.

He tiptoed out the door to stand on the porch, which was lopsided with age. Water was dripping from the overhang, splashing all around gloomily. The day was overcast, and the leaves hung limply, weighed down by the water that had collected in their folds. The air was cool and chilly, promising another dreary, unusually cold day. But a red glow in the east was a foreshadowing of more rain in the near future.

"Well, this is cheery, isn't it?"

Blutch turned to see chesterfield coming to stand beside him. He still had that sleepy, bedraggled look to him. Apparently, Blutch hadn't been as quiet as he had imagined when he got up.

"Yeah. Real pretty," he replied, matching Chesterfield's sarcasm.

The sergeant turned his head from the cheerful wet, foggy scene to look at the corporal with concern at the nearly emotionless voice. Blutch looked blankly in front of him. He seemed deep in thought, but not the pleasant type.

"Blutch," Chesterfield began slowly, "about last night..."

"I don't want to talk about it," the corporal snapped irritably.

"But..."

"I said I don't want to talk about it! Now leave me ALONE!" He whirled around and walked swiftly back into the cabin.

The sergeant could feel his temper rising. Blutch was so stubborn sometimes. All the time. He was foolish to refuse help. Foolish and childish. Keeping his fears to himself would only end in disaster. But Blutch was just too prideful to tell Chesterfield anything.

Muttering darkly to himself, the sergeant marched through the door, intending to speak his mind.

"Listen here, you..." He stopped himself, catching Blutch's frightened expression.

The corporal was kneeling by the unmoving form of Clara, still wrapped up in her blanket, sleeping. Blutch had a hand placed against the little girl's forehead, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Sergeant, something's wrong with her!"

Chesterfield was beside him in a moment, kneeling to inspect her himself. He noticed she was sweating profusely, and her skin was very warm to the touch. Her breathing was labored, and she wheezed whenever she inhaled.

"Oh no."

Blutch shifted his eyes from the sergeant to the girl and back again nervously. "She's sick, isn't she?"

Chesterfield sat back on his heels with a sigh. "I'm afraid so," he said sadly.

Blutch felt his heart sink in his chest. "Is..is it serious?"

"How should I know!" Chesterfield snapped in frustration, "I'm not a doctor!" He regretted his words immediately when Blutch flinched at his harshness. "But I know where to find one," he added, more gently. "According to the map the sheriff gave us, there's another town not too far from here. There has to be a doctor there." He gave Clara another sad look. "There has to be."

As quickly as they could, the two men worked to get all their supplies packed and secured on their horses' backs.

Carefully, they unwrapped Clara from her bed. She moaned softly, but didn't wake up, much to the soldiers' concern. Blutch gathered her in his arms to carry her to Arabesque, but a sudden pain erupted in his side as he tried to lift her. Hissing and wrapping an arm around his chest, he lowered Clara back down swiftly, almost dropping her. The corporal looked to Chesterfield, who had crossed over to see if he was alright. Straightening the best he could, Blutch brushed it off as nothing. "Just a pulled muscle."

Yeah, I bet, the sergeant thought to himself. He needs a doctor. They both do. He gave Blutch a look that made it clear that he didn't believe him, but was willing to accept his answer for now, and carefully lifted Clara into his arms. She was so light. So small. And sick, he reminded himself.

Blutch reluctantly accepted Chesterfield's help in mounting Arabesque, then made room for Clara to sit in front of him.

Chesterfield, however, shook his head. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" Blutch asked. He was starting to turn pale and he kept a hand pressed against his side. Whatever was wrong, it was really beginning to hurt him.

I just hope he can make the trip,the sergeant thought worriedly, climbing onto his horse with Clara still held in his strong arms. Out loud he said, "I just think I should carry her for a while." He was both relieved and concerned when the corporal gave no argument.

It took some time, almost until noon, before they reached the limits of a small town called Gildfordsonville. It was a typical, low population community. It had a post office, a church, a jailhouse and sheriff's office. Chesterfield scanned the few odd shops and barns, eyes finally coming to rest on a faded wooden sign hanging on a house to their right. It read:

Medical Physician, Doctor Edward M. Jenkins

"Thank goodness," the sergeant breathed in relief. He glanced behind him to see Blutch following on Arabesque slowly. If Chesterfield had thought he had looked pale before, the corporal was white as a sheet now. He was hunched over, gripping the reigns tightly. A grimace was temporarily fixed upon his face. He looked terrible.

They came up to the house and Chesterfield dismounted carefully, holding Clara in place on his horse's back until he was safely standing on the street. Then he slid her off into his arms. Walking up the steps to the door, the sergeant kicked the wooden barrier gently with his boot, as he could not knock with his arms full.

After a moment, the sound of footsteps could be heard coming from within the home. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

"Hello," he said cheerfully. He noticed Clara, still laying limp in Chesterfield's arms and became more serious. "You need my professional help, correct?"

"Yes," the sergeant said, allowing the doctor to take the little girl from him.

Chesterfield heard a light thump, followed by a soft cry of pain and a curse. He turned to see that Blutch had dismounted, but was now wincing badly as he suffered the consequences of the action.

Chesterfield walked over to him and, grabbing the corporal's arm, slung it over his shoulder to assist the smaller soldier inside. Blutch complained loudly, but did little to physically resist.

The doctor led them in, still carrying Clara. It was a nice home, full of knick knacks and odd collectibles. Potted ferns and other, somewhat unusual, plants peeked out from behind furniture and adorned every corner. It was obviously the home of an unmarried man, however. Clothing was strewn in strange places, dishes were sitting, dirty in the wash-bin, and a fair collection of dust and cobwebs decorated anywhere they had fancied to build.

They followed him through the homey, comfortable abode until they came to a small, white door in the back of the kitchen. Balancing the little girl in his arms against his knee, the doctor managed to unlatch it and they all went thought.

It was a drastic change from the house. The office, which was small, was painted mostly white, giving it a very clean appearance. There was a bed, a desk, and a few chairs, but otherwise the room was very bare.

Laying Clara on the soft bed, the doctor went over to his desk to fetch the instruments of his trade. While he dug around for his stethoscope, Chesterfield eased Blutch into the chair closest to the bed. The corporal hissed in pain as he settled down, but his attention was on Clara, and the doctor who was now going to sit by her.

Doctor Jenkins examined Clara closely. He listened to her lungs and heart, and took her temperature. He then mixed up something and somehow managed to get the still-sleeping child to take it. Then he turned to the two men.

"She is suffering from a very mild case of a 24 hour bug," he said with a smile. " Nothing serious. Though it would be wise to keep her away from the wet and weather for a few days." He patted the girl's arm gently as he sat on the bed beside her.

"Will she be able to travel by tomorrow?" Blutch asked. His voice sounded strained and shaky, which did not escape the doctor's notice.

Dr. Jenkins nodded slowly, standing and coming toward them. "She should be." He came to kneel next to Blutch's chair. "But maybe we should see what your condition is before I finalize that opinion. Where are you hurt?"

Blutch opened his mouth to say he was fine, but his sergeant interrupted him quickly.

"He fell from his horse. Keeps holding his side."

The corporal gave Chesterfield a glare but shifted his attention quickly back to the doctor as the physician began to pull up his shirt.

"What are you doing?!" He didn't mean to sound startled, but that was how it came out. The doctor stopped at once.

"I have to examine you," he said soothingly. "Pulled, cracked, or possibly broken ribs can be a result of a fall such as you had, and it would be unwise not to treat it."

Blutch stiffened slightly, but, after a moment, nodded his consent.

Carefully, Dr. Jenkins resumed pulling up the corporal's white shirt. Chesterfield couldn't help wincing at the dark bruises that were clustered on Blutch's right side. They were mostly black and purple, but some had an irritated red tinge to them.

As gently as he could, Jenkins ran his fingers over the small man's ribs, one by one. His hands were cold, but, luckily, he managed to keep perfectly still. He felt uncomfortable, having never liked doctors, due to his childhood, or being touched.

Suddenly a sharp pain erupted in his side, and he gasped, nearly squirming right out of his seat in agony as he gripped the arms of the chair and all the remaining color in his face drained away. The doctor retracted his hand swiftly, watching his reaction with a sad shake of his head.

"My boy, that rib is cracked." He went to touch it again, but Blutch leaned away from him. "If I do not take care of it, it may become more serious," the doctor frowned, " You have already made it worse in your travels." He turned to the sergeant. "When did he attain this injury?"

Chesterfield thought for a moment, then said, rather guiltily, "Nearly two days ago."

The doctor sighed. "And I doubt he has kept still since that time," he muttered, to no one in particular. He turned back to Blutch and said firmly, "I am going to treat and wrap those ribs and give you something for the pain. You and your companions can still leave tomorrow, if that is your wish, but I advise that you personally take it easy. The little girl too. Is that understood?"

Blutch nodded sulkily.

Jenkins looked expectantly at Chesterfield and the sergeant also nodded.

"Good," the doctor said, satisfied, "I will go get some bandages. Sergeant, would you please assist me." He rose from his position on the floor and walked out of his office and back into the house part of the building. Chesterfield followed close behind.

The kindly man made his way to a trunk in the corner of his living room. It was piled with all kinds of junk. With one swoop of his arm the debris scattered away. The lid of the chest creaked as he opened it and he began to shovel through it's contents. From within the confines of the box his voice sounded muffled.

"I would very much like to hear your story, Sir," he said, pulling out a roll of white linen.

"It's rather long, Doc," Chesterfield replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jenkins smiled. "Give me the quick version."

The sergeant shrugged. "Blutch found Clara, that's the girl's name, in an abandoned town attacked by Confederate soldiers. We are trying to reunite her with her family."

Jenkins nodded. "And your friend's 'accident'?"

"Bandits. He jumped one on horseback. They both fell to the ground."

The doctor nodded again with a sigh. "Well, you'll have to stay the night. Neither of your friends are truly well, but they should be fine by morning. And I use the term fine reluctantly. The girl - Clara did you say?- should be kept warm and dry. Your other friend -"

"Blutch," Chesterfield added quickly.

"-Blutch," the doctor repeated, "should not participate in any vigorous activity. Those ribs are only a fraction away from being broken, and that, my good man, would be most unpleasant."

"Yes, Sir."

Jenkins turned to head back to his patients in the office, but Chesterfield stopped him by gently grabbing his arm. "Um, Doc? There's something else I'd like to discuss with you."

The doctor politely gave him his full attention. "Yes, what is it? Is something wrong?"

Chesterfield rubbed the back of his neck again, nervously. "Well, yes. Or, at least, it's a concern."

"Please continue, Sergeant."

Chesterfield took a deep breath. Carefully, he told Dr. Jenkins about Blutch's panic attacks, and how frequent they were becoming. Jenkins listened until the soldier was done.

"So you see, Doc...I'm getting worried. He's never had this problem before. And...well, sir, to tell you the truth...it's disturbing."

Jenkins stroked his chin thoughtfully, pacing. "Interesting." He stopped and faced the sergeant. "Understand that I am no physiologist, but it seems to me that there is a pattern."

Chesterfield gave him a confused look. "A pattern?"

"Yes, Sergeant, a pattern. Let's look at the situations in which he had these attacks. One, before you went into battle. Two, when confronted with uncomfortable memories. Three, the bear incident, and then there's the thunderstorm last night. There are probably more instances, but we shall look at these."

Chesterfield nodded as the doctor continued.

"The first attack, happening just before a battle, brings up the possibility that it was the battle itself that brought on his panic."

"But Blutch never participates in the battles," Chesterfield interrupted, "He hates the war."

"Hmmm." The doctor was silent a moment. "Perhaps, it is not the participation, but the end result..."

"What do you mean?"

"Let us move on first, to confirm my suspicions. You say he had an attack after he showed you the little girl?"

"Yes," Chesterfield replied, still feeling confused. "Right after I mentioned bringing Clara to an orphanage."

"And you said he was once an orphan himself?"

"Yes. From what I understand, it was not a pleasant life."

The doctor nodded. "He was mistreated?"

"Yes."

"Ah." Jenkins began to pace again. "You said he hates the war. By that you mean he hates violence?"

Chesterfield nodded.

"I see. So it is safe to assume that violence of any form makes him feel uneasy, due to his past."

The sergeant thought about it for a moment before agreeing. "I guess so."

"Then let us move on to the bear attack. You say he shot the bear?"

"Yes."

"That is very violent, wouldn't you say?"

Chesterfield began to see the pattern. "Yes. Yes, it is, but he had no choice."

"Indeed..." Jenkins looked down at the linen still in his hands. "I believe your friend is struggling mentally with the violence he sees around him. The violence that, as a soldier, he is a part of... has to be a part of...and he hates it."

"But what about the thunderstorm?" Chesterfield said, "what has that got to do with violence?"

"That," the doctor said sadly, "I do not know. That is something you will have to ask him about."

"Me!" Chesterfield almost wanted to laugh in the guy's face. Blutch would never answer a question like that. "He doesn't tell me anything, especially if it's as personal as you say this may be. Wouldn't it be better if you asked him?"

Jenkins shook his head. "If he does not tell you, he will certainly never tell me." He put a hand on Chesterfield's shoulder. "Just give him some time. He'll open up eventually." He started towards the office again. "Come. We had better tend to the corporal and the little girl."

Whew! I've been writing when I can. I've been working as a cook/janitor/councilor at a summer camp for the past three weeks, and have been very, VERY busy. Just three more weeks to go though. Don't forget to REVIEW! THANKS!