There's a lot going on in this one, so hold on to your hats. This could be considered the dark before the dawn so maybe brace a bit (emotional angst). The troop positions described in this chapter are loosely based on the actual battles around Chattanooga, and looking at a map from that time might help explain some of the geography references. Part 2 will be posted as soon as I have it finished, but I really wanted to post this before the end of the weekend.

Enjoy!

Chapter 12: Collision Course, Part 1

"Got a letter for ya, Harper," called one of the sergeants as Jess led his horse through the camp. He accepted the envelope with a smile and tucked it in his pocket. He figured he'd make his report and take care of his mount before slipping away to read it. It had been months since he'd gotten a letter from Francie, and he wanted to savor this one. He huffed out a breath, watching as the frozen swirls were snatched away on the breeze. Jess knew that being on the ridge gave them a strategic position, but dadgum, he could go without hiking up and down Missionary Ridge day in and day out.

In the wake of their victory at Chickamauga, things had been just about as cheery as Jess could remember them ever being, despite the heavy casualties. Jess himself had been away from the front for the majority of the fighting, riding between each flank and delivering orders. He'd heard plenty of stories from the men who were in the front, though, about watching the blue bellies run for cover. The federals had retreated to Chattanooga shortly after the dust settled, and they'd been holding a siege over the city ever since. Now, it was nearing the end of November, and Jess knew another battle was brewing.

"Colonel Young!" Jess called, hurrying to catch up with the man. The colonel turned and, upon seeing Jess, waved him over. Jess wrapped his reins around a nearby wagon before following the colonel into his tent.

"Well, Corporal, what do you have for me?" Colonel Young asked, lowering himself onto a stool behind his makeshift desk. Maps were spread across the top, marking positions of their troops as well as the estimated distribution of the union forces. Jess saluted the man before handing over the report he was carrying.

"More union troops at Wauhatchie, sir, and General Stevenson is reporting high desertion numbers. He isn't sure how long it'll be before the Union takes a shot at Lookout Mountain," Jess said, as the colonel scanned the report. "To the north, there's rumors that General Sherman is on the banks of the Tennessee." Colonel Young's expression was grim.

"I was afraid of this," he said, shaking his head. He looked down at the map. "If this continues, they'll have enough men to flank us. At least we still have the high ground," he muttered, as he moved some of the blue blocks around on his map to reflect the changes. "Dismissed, Harper. I'll call if I need you."

Jess saluted again and took his leave, intent on finding Knute, Duncan, and Tommy and hopefully some dinner.

-Laramie-

Slim had been uneasy most of the evening, but he wasn't sure why. They'd been relatively safe inside Chattanooga for weeks now. Rations were short and morale was low, but reinforcements were nearly there. President Lincoln himself had tasked them with holding the city and that's exactly what they'd managed so far. Before the end of the month, the Union planned to be holding much more than just the city limits. No matter how confident he was in his troops or the battle plans, though, Slim just couldn't seem to think straight. His thoughts kept turning to his family. Every hour or so he focused his mind on their bonds, just to reassure himself that everything was fine.

The confederate siege of Chattanooga had actually allowed Slim to get a little more sleep than usual, since he didn't feel the need to project every night. The men, over time, had learned confidence of their own and didn't always need Slim's assistance. He wondered if it was the lack of uneasiness from everyone else that was actually causing his anxious feelings.

"Sherman, I mean it," Whit said, for what felt like the hundredth time, "If you don't settle in one spot, you're gonna spook the horses and the privates both." Slim sat down again on a log beside their fire, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He sighed.

"I'm sorry, Whit, I don't know what's gotten into me today," he replied. He hadn't even realized he'd started pacing again until Whit told him to sit down. "Something just doesn't feel right."

Whit, who had been dealing himself into another game of solitaire, put his cards down. He looked hard at Slim, who was looking down into the fire, before leaning in close.

"What don't feel right? Like we're bein' watched?"

"Nah," Slim said, "Nothing like that. I just can't quite pin it down. But something… Well, all I can say is, something's wrong."

Whit glanced around and took note of a pair of soldiers walking by. He waited until they'd passed before starting again. "Now, you know we all have a few good laughs about you not sleepin' before battles, how you always seem to calm down a wild situation, and you always take it with good grace… But you need to be careful what you say. Unless you're sure. I know it must sound crazy, but some of these boys really do reckon you know somethin' the rest of us don't."

"They what?" Slim exclaimed, eyes wide, as he turned his head sharply to look at his fellow lieutenant.

Whit chuckled. "I know it's all just a joke, don't look so worried," he said, as he knocked his elbow against Slim's. "Lighten up a bit. It's just that some of these boys found out you're from the western territories and told the new kids that you were part medicine man. A real, live devil, here in the flesh." He winked dramatically.

"Well that's just about the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Slim scoffed, turning back to the fire. "And I wonder who might have told them I'm from Wyoming?" Whit didn't even give him the courtesy of looking guilty. He just grinned while Slim brooded.

The idea of Slim being part Indian at all, let alone a medicine man, was outrageous. Nevertheless, Slim couldn't help but worry a bit. He just hoped the ridiculousness of the idea would help cover up the truth behind it.

Oblivious to Slim's inner thoughts, Whit again tried to lighten the mood. "Anyone who's ever tried to breed a palomino would know it's impossible," he said, as he reached over and stole Slim's cap, revealing the blond hair underneath. Slim snatched his hat back immediately, but it did bring a smile to his face.

"I never realized you had such an interest in science," Slim said sarcastically, placing his cap back on his head. It was getting dark quickly now. Slim rose to his feet. "I think I'm turnin' in for the night. Do me a favor, Lieutenant. If you see any Indians tonight, just remind 'em I'm one of theirs and tell 'em to leave my palomino scalp alone." Whit's big laugh followed him all the way to their shared quarters.

As the camp fell asleep that night, the wind picked up into the kind of wind that whistled through cracks and moaned in the trees; the kind small children and nervous soldiers alike associated with ghosts and devils. Whit finally put his cards away, doused the fire, and made his way to their tiny cabin. There, he found Slim sleeping soundly on the bottom bunk, undisturbed by the weather. He shook his head.

"Figures," he muttered, under his breath, "Can't sleep at all most nights, but you're lulled to sleep by all this ruckus. Maybe you're part Indian after all."

Slim's only answer was a gentle snore, and Whit chuckled quietly at his own joke as he climbed onto the top bunk. He was asleep soon after.

Sometime in the witching hours of the early morning, half the camp was startled awake by an anguished cry and a sense of dread. No one seemed to know what was wrong, except for two lieutenants at the edge of the city.

Whit sat bolt upright at the sound, with an icy pit in his stomach. Unsure of what to do, he rolled to the edge of his bunk and saw Slim curled on the floor. He jumped down immediately to try and help his friend.

"Sherman, talk to me! What's wrong?" he asked urgently, kneeling down and putting a hand on Slim's shoulder. "Wake up, Slim, you're dreamin', it's all right." He shook him gently, hoping to get his attention. When that didn't work, he used a bit more force and volume.

Slim, meanwhile, was hardly aware of where he was. He was trapped in his own mind, in a world of pain and grief, dominated by one clear thought:

His father was dead.

Slim had strung enough wire in his life to know what happened when a tightly stretched strand was cut. He'd heard horror stories of men cut in half when a cable or rope snapped. The cable that had snapped in this case had been Slim's connection with his father, and Slim felt like he'd been sliced clean through. He couldn't breathe. He felt like he was drowning on dry land, unable to hear or see or feel anything beyond the crushing grief. He didn't know how or why it happened, but there was not a doubt in his mind that his father was gone from this world.

Whit was still trying to get Slim's attention when Captain Tucker pushed through the door of the cabin. Whit was relieved to see his commanding officer.

"Sir, I can't get him to wake up. It's one hell of a nightmare."

The captain knelt down next to the other two. As soon as he caught a glimpse of Slim's open, unfocused eyes, he knew it wasn't just a nightmare.

"Malone, get the vet from the 6th."

"The vet?" Whit asked, incredulous, "For a man with a nightmare?"

"Now, lieutenant!" the captain snapped, fully focused on Slim. Whit stood and hustled out the door, not waiting to be told again. The door slammed. Slim seemed to be breathing a little more easily at his point, as the initial shock wore off.

Tucker put his hand on Slim's shoulder and leaned in close, filling the spot Whit had vacated. "It's alright, soldier, you're safe here," he said, keeping his voice pitched low. "Tell me what's happening, Slim."

Slim blinked at the sound of his name and took a shaky, deep breath.

"He's gone," he whispered, choked off by another sob.

"Whit? He's just gone to get some help, Slim, he'll be back," Tucker replied, confused.

"No," Slim said. He didn't elaborate. Instead, he curled in on himself even tighter and scrunched his eyes closed. Tears leached from the corners of his eyes and splashed down onto the dirt floor.

Understanding started to dawn on the captain. "You mean someone at home? Out west?"

Slim nodded but didn't open his eyes.

"Your father?"

There was no response beyond another unsteady breath. Tucker closed his eyes and tried to steady his own emotions, giving Slim's shoulder a squeeze. He understood what it was like to lose someone.

The door swung open and a cold draft rushed in. Slim shuddered.

"Cap, I got 'im," Whit said, ushering the veterinarian inside. "You sure you don't want a doc? I could find one," he offered. Captain Tucker could see several men milling around outside the small cabin, peering around Whit's shoulder.

"No lieutenant, we have it handled. See to the men," he replied, gesturing to the curious onlookers. Whit nodded and closed the door. "Thanks for coming, Clem, I wasn't sure how to help him and thought you might have an idea. His name is Slim Sherman," he said to the vet.

The cabin didn't have much space around the bunks to start with, and it was decidedly cramped with Slim's legs taking up most of the floor. Clem, being a rather small man himself, slipped in beside the other two and sat on the lower bunk.

"I was awake as soon as I felt it, just as I'm sure you were," Clem answered, "and I knew it had to be something like this. Do you know what brought this on?"

Tucker nodded. "I think his father died," he said quietly, hoping his words wouldn't make Slim's condition even worse. "His family is out in Wyoming; I know he writes them regularly."

Clem nodded. "A broken bond would explain it. But he's a guide, not a sentinel," he told the captain, "so it isn't a zone. It's grief, plain and simple. I think I can at least help him rein it in. We don't need the whole army feeling what he's feeling right now." The vet rested a hand on the back of Slim's head and closed his eyes, focusing on the task at hand.

Captain Tucker rocked back on his heels, watching and waiting. He'd suspected that his second lieutenant was either a sentinel or a guide since the beginning, but he hadn't had it confirmed until now. He himself was neither, but his wife's family had had several of each and he was familiar with the signs. As he waited, he started to feel a difference. The panic and sadness that had been thick in the air were lessening. After a few more minute, Slim's breathing evened out and his body relaxed. Clem looked up again.

"That's about all I can do for him, as another guide myself. A sentinel would be able to help him more. I'm willing to bet his father was the only sentinel he had a bond with, which is why it hit him so hard from so far away," he said, considering the situation. "He'll sleep for a while now. I'm not sure how much he'll remember in the morning."

Tucker nodded and shook Clem's hand. "Thanks again, friend," he said. "Let's see if we can get him back in bed." Between the two of them, they lifted Slim off the floor.

"You called him Slim?" Clem grunted, as he struggled to slide the sleeping man's shoulders onto the bunk. Tucker, who was managing the legs, smiled.

"He's both slim and sturdy, I 'spose," he said. He settled the blanket over his lieutenant's sleeping form, watching his chest rise and fall. As they turned to leave the cabin, Clem grabbed the captain's elbow.

"Will, if I'm right and his only sentinel bond is broken, your boy's liable to be a bit unstable. At least for a while," he cautioned.

Captain Tucker sighed. He'd seen it happen before, when his sister-in-law had lost her sentinel. "I'll keep an eye on him. He's strong and levelheaded, I'm sure he'll pull through."

They left, closing the door behind them as Slim shifted restlessly in his sleep.

-Laramie-

Miles away, another set of blue eyes snapped open.

Jess sat up as much as he and Tommy's small tent would allow, looking around for what could have woken him. Nothing seemed out of order, but his heart was pounding. He had been so sure that someone had called for him. He let his senses range out a bit, but all he found was the eerie sound of the wind whipping along the ridge and the typical night sounds of camp. He laid his head down again.

Gradually, the uneasy feeling faded and his heart rate started to slow. A nightmare was the only explanation he could come up with. He hadn't had a nightmare about losing his family in quite some time, but as he lay there, his thoughts kept turning to the day he lost them. Specifically, his father was on his mind. Jess missed him. He missed them all. He figured a bad dream was to be expected, after the letter he'd received that day.

Earlier that day, after delivering his report to the colonel, he'd found Knute and Tommy huddling next to a campfire, swapping stories with a few other friends. Duncan was nearby, sharpening his knife on a whetstone. Knute spotted Jess first.

"Welcome back!" he called, raising his hand in greeting. The rest of the group greeted him similarly. "Any exciting news?"

"Now, Knute, you know I can't tell you nothin'," Jess said, with an overly serious look on his face. This had become a common game anytime Jess returned from a scouting mission. Knute smiled in response. "There isn't anything to hide from you boys anyway. Just more of the same," he said noncommittally, finding a place close enough to the fire to warm his finger over the flames. As he leaned forward, Tommy caught a glimpse of the envelope in his pocket.

"Another letter form Francie?" he asked.

"Yep."

"What'd she say?"

"Ain't read it yet."

"Any news about folks in town? Anyone I'd know?"

"I said I ain't read it yet."

"Aw, c'mon Jess, you gotta read it sometime," Tommy said. Jess sent a sideways glance his way, and Tommy had the decency to look slightly abashed. "The rest of us don't get many letters, you can't hold out on us now," he defended himself.

Jess sighed in exasperation while Knute and the rest of the men in the circle laughed at the pair of them. "Fine, Tom, if you can't wait," he said, rolling his eyes. He pulled off his gloves and reached for the letter. As soon as he pulled it out of his pocket, though, he knew something was different. The paper felt thicker, with a bit more texture than Francie's usual stationery. One look at the neatly looped writing on the front confirmed his suspicions.

His concern must have shown on his face. "Jess, what is it?" Knute asked.

"It's not Francie's writin'," he said. He turned and held the letter up so Tommy could look. "It's from the pastor's wife, see?"

Tommy frowned, confused. "She tryin' to save your soul or something'? I hate to break it to her, but we ain't gonna be home in time for whatever fundraiser she's plannin'."

Jess just hummed in response and opened the letter. They all watched as his eyes scanned the writing. His brows pulled down lower and lower as he read, his lips moving silently. Before he'd even gotten to the end, his jaw clenched. Jess dropped the letter as if it burned him, stood abruptly, and stalked off. The rest of them were stunned.

Knute was the first to try and voice their fears. "Is his sister… Did she…" He trailed off, unable to finish. Tommy picked up the letter, looking it over.

"I ain't sure. Dang, I never could read proper writin' like this."

Sam, of the men who had become a regular acquaintance during their poker games, reached for the paper. "My ma taught school," he told the group. "Let me have a try."

Tommy considered Jess's temper if he found out they'd passed his letter around, but his curiosity and concern won out. He handed it over.

"She isn't dead," Sam reported. They all sighed in relief at that. "But the lady says several of Jess's letters didn't get delivered. Apparently some family called the Bentons moved to Galveston this summer?" he looked over at Tommy quizzically.

"That's Francie's family," he explained. "They adopted her when she was pretty little. Anything about a new address in there, so Jess can write her again?"

Sam shook his head. "Naw, all it says is that they moved, and this pastor lady says she's sorry she can't help more." It was clear to Sam that the writer of the letter actually cared a great deal about Jess and his sister. There was a whole section stating how she felt guilty for somehow taking Francie away from Jess years ago, but he didn't think Jess would want those details shared. It was none of their business anyhow.

Tommy nodded and took the letter back, folding it up and putting it back in the envelope. "I'm sure when Francie gets where she's goin' and the family settles in, she'll write him. Then he can write back. I'll hang on to this in case he wants to read it later."

"Should we go after him?" Knute wondered.

Duncan, still focused on his blade, chimed in from the other side of the group without looking up. "Let him be, Knute. Some things a man needs to work out for himself. He don't need you underfoot."

The group gradually went on to discuss other things, more muted than they had been before.

Jess couldn't help but overhear the conversation while he walked away. It seemed like his senses were always hardest to control when he was upset, and this was no different. He was thankful to Sam for censoring the details of the letter. At least now he wouldn't have to explain the situation later.

Jess had thought he'd forgiven everyone involved in Francie's adoption after the fire. The pastor's wife had been right that day in the doctor's office, when she convinced Jess he was not in a position to raise his sister on his own. Despite his concerns, the Bentons had proven to be an upstanding and generous family. They'd done their best to give Francie everything she needed, including an education, frilly dresses, and lessons on how to run a household. Jess knew he wouldn't have been able to give her any of those things. Regardless of anything they did right, though, they would always be the ones who separated Francie from him. To pick up and move away felt like the ultimate betrayal.

Jess found himself on the back side of the ridge, facing south. He could probably see part of Georgia from here, but he'd never taken time to memorize the landmarks on the map. He felt numb, inside and out.

After sitting with the news of the Bentons' departure for a while, he was forced to admit he couldn't blame them for leaving. Lots of places in Texas had more opportunity than their little town did. Shoot, anywhere in the whole country had more opportunity than the panhandle. Galveston had even more industry than most, thanks to its ports. Mostly he was angry with himself. In the end, he had been the one to leave Francie behind. She had never left him, and no one had taken her away. He was the one to blame; not the Bentons, and not the pastor's wife. He sat out there on the ridge for a long time, trying to get himself under control. He knew he could track Francie down again. No matter how he rationalized it, though, he still felt like he'd lost her somehow. He wasn't sure how many more people he could lose before he lost himself.

Now, laying awake in the dark, he realized that loss was exactly what he was feeling. It was different than the usual ache thinking of his family left him with, though. This loss felt too fresh, and he was at a loss as to how to explain it. He took a deep breath and let it out again. He continued to listen to the sounds of camp, hoping to lull himself back to sleep.

When dawn broke that morning and Tommy started to stir, he finally gave up.

-Laramie-

Slim woke late the next morning, feeling hollow and wrung out. He had a fuzzy recollection of his captain tucking him into bed and he sincerely hoped that he'd imagined that part, but his embarrassment was overshadowed by everything else he could recall.

One little peek at his family bonds revealed the gaping tear where his father's bond should be. Unable to handle it all, Slim slammed his mind closed. He felt a little blind being so completely cut off from his senses, but he just couldn't handle it any other way. He fumbled through his duties that day in a haze and just hoped no one would realize just how out of sorts he was acting. Slim did his best to ignore the way some of the men avoided him, or how they glanced away uneasily anytime they caught his eye. He just moved on to the next task.

Slim looked up to see Whit staring at him, wide eyed and frowning. It was almost six o'clock in the evening, and they were just finishing their supper rations while the sun sank below the horizon. Clearly, Whit had been waiting for an answer for some time, but Slim had no Earthly idea what he'd been asked. Seeing Slim's blank expression, Whit sighed and shook his head.

"I asked if you were feeling alright," he said, exasperated, "but I guess I've got my answer."

Slim clenched his jaw and looked down at his empty mug, holding it in both hands.

"I'm just worried about you, Sherman. When I saw you lyin' on the floor, I thought you might really up and die on us last night. Then, when the cap asked me to get the vet instead of a doc, I thought I must have been the one dreamin'," Whit continued. Slim frowned at that. He didn't remember anyone else being there. He turned to Whit.

"He told you to get the vet? Jamison was there?"

Whit shook his head. "No, the Vet from the 6th Dragoons," he answered, looking at Slim quizzically. "Are you two friends and I just never knew?" he asked. Slim shook his head and Whit kept going. "You must really have been out of it. They were in there with you for quite a spell while I was outside tryin'a convince the rest of the men to go back to sleep. You weren't the only one with bad dreams last night. Seems like half the army was up, feelin' too scared to go back to sleep."

Slim's stomach rolled after hearing the last part. He hadn't lost control of his projecting since the very first time, working with his father and the Laramie Sheriff. The thought of everyone feeling his pain and grief… Well… Slim couldn't hardly blame them for being upset.

"I figure that wind last night must have been somethin' like those Foehn winds they have 'round here. My grandfather used to tell me stories on how them winds could drive a man crazy," Whit said, not waiting for any responses from Slim. He'd given up on a two-sided conversation much earlier in the day.

Slim had never heard of a Foehn wind, but he'd heard of Chinooks before. If that's what the men believed had been the cause of last night's tension, that was fine with him. He wasn't about to correct anyone.

As Whit continued to ramble on about things the winds could drive a man to do, Captain Tucker walked up. "Gentlemen," he said, addressing his two junior officers, "everything alright tonight?"

Both Whit and Slim stood tall and saluted, but only Whit answered the question. "Fine, sir, all equipment and personnel present and accounted for."

"Glad to hear it," he said, glancing at Slim. Slim felt his cheeks heat up and he looked down, trying not to remember the feel of the captain putting him to bed. Thankfully, the captain moved on without comment. "Tomorrow is the day. Sherman's men are ready on the river to reinforce our Eastern flank, and Hooker is ready to take Lookout Mountain to the West. We'll be fighting straight up the middle of Missionary Ridge, but we'll be well supported. Any questions?"

"No sir," Whit and Slim replied.

"Alright then. I'll see you in the morning. And Slim, get some sleep."

That night, Slim kept his mind firmly closed, hiding from the pain. He slept as deeply as only the utterly exhausted can manage, while the rest of the men tossed and turned, wondering what the next few days would hold.