I promised it would be quick, so here it is! Fair warning, there are some dark parts in this one. I've described some pretty heavy feelings of hopelessness here (mostly on Jess's part) so please read with caution if those things affect you heavily.

I'm happy to say that this is the last chapter before both boys are headed out west!

Enjoy!

Chapter 14: Divergence

Slim was nearly unconscious by the time the crew reached their makeshift camp. Whit was holding him tightly around the chest as Slim's head lolled to the side, making his way directly to where the wounded were being cared for. The last sergeant in line led the horse carrying the prisoner to the other side of camp and out of sight. The rest of the men in the small search party dismounted and helped pull Slim out of the saddle. They placed him gently on an empty cot, anxiously watching for signs of awareness. Captain Tucker was with them almost immediately.

"Well, Lieutenant, I see you and your crew aren't deserters after all," he said casually. Whit busied himself with unbuttoning Slim's coat while another soldier went to flag down a doctor or a nurse. The captain continued. "We had the court martial all planned out."

Whit stood up, squaring his shoulders. "I couldn't leave him, sir, any more than he could have left me."

The captain smiled softly and dropped his gaze to his injured officer. "I wouldn't have expected you too, Malone. Don't worry about it. How's our boy?"

"He's pretty mixed up," Whit said, kneeling down again next to Slim. He grabbed a nearby canteen and a handkerchief from his pocket, attempting to clean away some of the blood from Slim's face. "When we found him, a stray reb was aiming a rifle straight at his heart. I got him before he could get Sherman, but then Sherman here went plain loco. He was tryna protect the kid and wouldn't let us separate 'em. He's got a nasty gash on his head, probably from fallin' on a rock, and this here cut is from the reb's knife," he said, as he drug the handkerchief across the wound. Thankfully, it didn't seem too deep. "He said he wasn't shot, and I don't see any other major injuries."

The captain frowned. They all knew Sherman wasn't the ruthless or cruel type, but trying to protect a confederate was still taking things a bit far. A confederate soldier who had been actively trying to kill him, at that. He frowned.

"Best tell the doc about his behavior, once he gets over here," the captain said, and Whit nodded in acknowledgement.

"Maybe that skull of his wasn't as thick as we thought," Whit added. He poured the water from the canteen through Slim's hair as he tried to get a look at the head wound. Slim turned his head away and made a weak swipe at Whit's hands, probably in protest to the cold water, but didn't react otherwise. Whit sure hoped that doc would hurry up already.

-Laramie-

Jess wasn't aware of much at all over the next few weeks. He had a vague recollection of someone stitching his shoulder, and then the faint sensation of a train gently rocking along its tracks. He had no concept of waking, sleeping, night, or day. He just existed somewhere in the middle.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognized his state as a zone, but he didn't care enough to even try to pull himself out. He'd lost his friends, he'd nearly lost his life, and odds were he'd lost any chance of seeing his sister again. He wasn't interested in any more pain the world had to offer. His body's innate will to live was the only thing that kept his heart beating and breath moving through his lungs during that time. Part of him wished it wouldn't.

He knew after a while that he'd been moved to some sort of building, and he could tell there were many other men nearby. His eyes were sometimes open but never focused. Some sounds reached him, but he wasn't interested in assigning any meaning to them. He might as well have been living under six feet of murky water. Once in a while, he was aware of someone holding a cup to his lips. He drank out of reflex. When someone tugged his good arm, he'd stand and follow until they nudged him back down. Once, and only once, Jess thought he heard a familiar thump-swish-thump, thump-swish-thump, but he steadfastly ignored it. He wasn't interested in any tricks his mind wanted to play on him. Despite it all, that same someone kept bringing the cup to his lips, and Jess kept taking whatever was offered.

-Laramie-

"Battle fatigue", they called it, or "soldier's heart". Slim wasn't supposed to have heard either one. They'd thought he was sleeping as they decided what to do with him, but they'd been wrong.

Words like "emotionally taxing circumstances" and "useless" were tossed around, followed by "what a shame". He knew they were right. He was no use to the cavalry like this, unable to stay awake for more than a few hours, let alone focus on a task. Based on stories from the men, Slim knew he had tried to protect a confederate soldier and had nearly gone against his own command structure in the process. On his own, he actually remembered very little of that night up on the ridge. In the end they decided he would be sent back to the hospital in Chattanooga. Until he healed and they were sure he could fight the enemy, he couldn't be trusted to lead men into battle.

Three days prior, on the first morning after the incident on the ridge, Slim had woken in a confused panic. Luckily, Captain Tucker had been there to hold him down in bed until he was a little more aware of his surroundings.

"You with me now, Lieutenant?" he asked. Slim blinked up at him and looked around.

"I… I think so," he answered. "What happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me, Sherman," the captain said. "Seems you fell from your horse and laid out on the field most of the day and half the night. Any of that jog your memory?"

Slim considered it for a moment before shaking his head. "I remember the start of the battle, sir, leading the charge up the slope. But after that, well, it all gets a bit hazy," he admitted. He gratefully took the canteen his superior officer offered to him and drank a few sips. His stomach didn't appreciate it, though, so he recapped it and handed it back.

Tucker was nodding. "According to the doc, that's to be expected. You must have fallen soon after that and hit your head pretty hard. Doc says you've got a concussion. It'll heal, but it'll take time." He paused. "You remember anything else?"

Slim frowned and drew his eyebrows down but quickly regretted the action, as it pulled at his headwound. Cap wasn't bluffing about how hard I hit the ground, he thought to himself. Out loud he replied, "No sir, I don't think so. Just some dreams of home, before I woke up here." His eyes widened a bit. "And… I remember about my father," he said, his voice small. Slim couldn't believe he'd forgotten, even for a minute. "Nothing else though, until I woke up here, with you."

"Remember anything about that scratch on your cheek?"

Slim cautiously raised a hand to his face, gently feeling around for what the captain was talking about. There, under his fingers, was a neat row of stitches. They started next to his nose and tracked across his cheek before turning down toward his jaw. "No sir," he said softly. Slim wondered what else he'd missed.

"According to Whit, who found you out there, by the way, you got that scratch from a confederate soldier's knife. He was about to finish you off, but Whit got there first." The captain watched Slim's face for any flicker of recognition. He wanted an explanation for Slim's peculiar actions, but he was starting to realize he wouldn't be getting one.

Slim listened, his face blank. "Lucky for me," he muttered. "How bad does it look?"

The captain scoffed. "Worried about getting a date to the officer's ball, Lieutenant?" he asked, giving Slim a kind smile. "Don't worry about it. Doc said it was a clean slice and he took his time stitching it closed." He gave Slim's shoulder a quick pat. "Shouldn't even leave a scar. Now, you get some rest, you hear?"

Slim answered with a tired smile of his own and closed his eyes again, relaxing back onto the cot.

Later that evening, Whit took the opposite approach to his conversation with Slim. Instead of gentle probing and leading questions, the first lieutenant charged straight in.

"Sherman, I always knew you were different, but I never knew you were certifiably insane!" he cried. Several nurses tending to the wounded nearby violently shushed him. Even Slim winced at the volume. "Sorry, sorry," Whit mumbled before continuing at pitch much more appropriate for a hospital tent. "But honestly, Sherman, what got into you last night?"

When Slim made it clear he had no idea what his friend was talking about, Whit wasted no time in filling him in on the details. At the end of his tale, Slim only had one question.

"What happened to him?"

"Are you serious? Slim, I can't believe you!" Whit exclaimed, earning him a renewed round of glares from the nurses. "You're still worried about some random reb bent on killin' you?" he hissed. Slim just shrugged.

"Well now, I just figured I oughta thank him for keeping his knife so sharp. It's only polite. Doc said it's thanks to that sharp edge that my cheek shouldn't scar too bad. Otherwise, I mighta ended up as ugly as you," Slim retorted with a smile.

With that, Whit laughed full out for the first time since the night Slim's father had died. Slim hadn't realized how much he'd missed the sound. Just then, the most experienced and least sympathetic of the nurses promptly ordered Whit to leave on the grounds that he was disturbing the other patients. Whit stood to go and promised Slim he'd be back later. Slim listened as he left, his laugh still echoing behind him.

Slim shook his head and sighed. He truly didn't remember this mystery man he'd apparently tried to protect, but he hoped he'd managed to save him anyhow. Something about the story just didn't seem to fit. Slim couldn't for the life of him place why, but he was sure that the man wouldn't have shot him. Slim wondered if he really had gone loco after all, placing his trust in an unknown enemy rather than his own men.

That night, Slim dared to open his mind a bit and examine the bonds with his family. He closed his eyes and braced himself. Part of him needed confirmation that his father was really gone, after the disorientation of the concussion, and another part of him desperately needed to feel the two connections he had left. In the end, what he found wasn't anything he was prepared for.

The place where his father's bond had been was still too raw to process. It felt like a lifetime ago, but in reality Matt had only been gone a few days. Slim tried to take comfort in that, telling himself it would get easier with time. The bonds with his mother and Andy were still there, holding steady, but beside them… Beside them was something strange. Slim had never felt anything like it. Behind closed eyelids he could see three wispy gold strands, anchored in his own mind but tied to nothing else. When he focused on them, he felt a shock course through his whole body. He gasped. They felt alive with energy, like heat lightning cracking across the sky in August. He walled off his mind again, unable to fathom what that might mean. Between the loss of his father, these new mystery strands, and his concussion, Slim just couldn't handle the thought of feeling anyone else's emotions. He closed his mind tightly and left it that way.

As it turned out, Slim wasn't the only one leaving the 23rd volunteers. General Sherman himself was now in charge of the army and the unit was being disbanded, the soldiers redistributed to fill gaps in other units. Whit was assigned to some colonel named Branton, and Captain Tucker was set to become Major Tucker under some colonel Slim had never heard of. Their goodbyes were brusque and before he knew it, Slim was in the back of a wagon headed north while the rest of the army prepared to continue south. He watched as his fellow officers grew smaller, until he finally lost them in the crowd.

I'll see them again, he told himself. Just a few short weeks in the hospital and I'll be back to join the fight.

-Laramie-

The first clear words Jess heard since that day on the ridge came more than a month later.

"What's the matter with him?"

There was some mumbling after that, in a different tone. Must have been a response.

"C'mon, Johnny Reb, up and at 'em," the first voice said, closer now. Jess's eyes were closed, but he scrunched his eyebrows together. He didn't want to be up at all. He wanted the voice to go back where it came from.

This time, a thumb and finger reached out to lift his chin. Jess jerked his head away, and he heard a gasp from someone nearby. The first voice, on the other hand, was laughing at him now. Jess grit his teeth in frustration.

"C'mon, Johnny, you've had your time to pout. Time to be a man now," the voice continued.

Ha, Jess thought to himself. Johnny was my uncle, not me. This imbecile don't even have the right Harper. It's Jess, not Johnny. The thought of correcting that smug, annoying voice was so satisfying, Jess actually voiced his thoughts out loud. Or at least he tried to. He winced as his own voice grated against his ears, rough from disuse.

The voice just laughed at him again, while someone in the background seemed to be choking. "Alright, I suppose it's Jessie Reb, then. Short for Jessica, I presume?"

Now that was just downright insultin', Jess thought, and he ain't even helpin' whatever poor creature is dyin' beside him. He'd had just about enough. He pried his eyes open and tried to locate the speaker. As soon as he found out who it was, Jess was going to beat some manners into that arrogant blowhard.

As he finally did focus his eyes, however, the first thing he noticed was a pair of light brown eyes. Jess felt slightly disappointment. For whatever reason, he'd thought they'd be blue. Next, he noticed the challenging grin on the face looming over his own. The face had sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and a sandy-colored mustache. The corners of the mustache curled upward, in a way that required wax and a mirror. The last thing Jess noticed was how clean the face was. He'd gotten so used to seeing dirty faces over the past few years that seeing someone who was actually washed came as a bit of a shock. Over the newcomer's shoulder, though, was an even more shocking sight.

Knute and Duncan were standing there, staring back at him with wide eyes and open mouths. Knute was still a bit shorter and fairer than his brother, but it struck Jess as funny just how similar they looked in that moment. Both were thinner than he remembered, but unmistakable. Jess did his best to smile, but his lips were chapped and painful.

He tried for a simple "Howdy, boys," but his voice came out whisper quiet. He coughed. This time it was the mustache man who brought a canteen to his lips and held it while Jess drank.

"He'll be alright now that he's come out of it," Mustache said over his shoulder, to the Duncan boys. He pulled the canteen away. "It's Jess, right?" Jess nodded. "I'm Major James Stanton, out of Fort Lincoln in Dakota Territory. You ready to get out of here, Jess?"

Jess wasn't exactly sure where "here" was, but it didn't take much to convince him he didn't want to stay. The smell alone was enough to tell him that pretty much anywhere was better than "here". He nodded again.

"Good," the lieutenant said, standing. He was shorter than Jess expected him to be. "I'll be back Wednesday. You boys will be on the list too, if you decide to accept the offer." He left the room without a backwards glance, with the distinct air of an educated man who was used to people following his orders. Jess couldn't decide if he hated the man or envied him, but he was sure as hell leaving with him when he returned. In the state he was in, he figured he'd follow that man straight off a cliff if he asked him to.

As soon as the heavy door closed behind the major, Knute rushed forward.

"Jess! Jess, Lord almighty, I thought you were gonna die for sure. I can't believe you're finally awake. Johnny and I took care of you best we could, we swear, but Johnny still was tryna tell me you was a lost cause. I know he never gave up, though, because he stayed up with you most nights even after I fell asleep. Are you still there, Jess? Oh God, please Jess, don't slip away again now, we just got you back!"

Jess blinked slowly, trying to absorb all the sounds flying at him at once. Knute was talking a mile a minute and he couldn't keep up just yet. Luckily, Duncan stepped in.

"Knute, you idiot, give him a minute to get his bearings. Pipe down, would ya?" he said, cuffing his younger brother on the back of the head. Knute looked sheepish. Both brothers took a step back and sat down, calming the sense of urgency that had gathered in the room.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "I was just real worried about ya, Jess."

Jess smiled. "I can tell," he answered. His voice was slowly getting stronger, but he wished he had a whole canteen of water. Better yet, he wished he had a shot of whiskey. "Where are we, anyhow?"

"St. Louis, we think," Duncan said. "They didn't exactly want us to know, in case anyone escaped, but some of the other men saw signs on the way in."

Jess nodded absently. He'd never been to St. Louis before, so he didn't have much of an opinion on it. He took a minute to take stock of their circumstances.

They seemed to be in some sort of small barracks, with two sets of bunk beds on either side of the door. Jess was on the lowest bunk to the right of the door, while his two friends sat side by side on the bottom bunk across from him. He noticed the shape of another man on the top bunk above them, who seemed to be sleeping. There was no window to the outside, and the only light came through the small, barred window of the door. Duncan said "escape". Jess tried to keep his beathing calm. A prison.

All the while, Duncan and Knute watched his reaction. Jess turned his attention back to his friends. Now that he was paying attention, he could see signs of neglect and maltreatment. Their faces weren't just thin. They looked half starved, and neither had shaved in quite some time.

"How long?" Jess finally asked.

Knute answered this time. "Forty-seven days, counting today, but really today just started," he said. "I reckon it's just after dawn, since the regular guards ain't been by yet for the morning check."

Jess finally tried to push himself up into a seated position. He made it halfway before his arms started to shake. Knute and Duncan both leaned forward to help him. Sitting now, Jess looked down at his own hands. The bones in his wrists jutted out sharply under his skin. He figured his face must be just as thin as the other two's, his cheeks and eyes just as sunken.

"What happens when the guards come?" Jess asked, trying hard to hold his head up. He'd lost his cap somewhere along the line, and his bangs were hanging down into his eyes. He tried to brush them back but it was no use.

"Nothin' today, I don't think," Duncan said. "It's Sunday and the weather's been bad. The guards won't want anything to do with us, so I imagine they'll leave us be."

Jess paused. When he spoke again, his voice wavered slightly. "Colonel Young?"

Knute looked straight down at the floor and hunched his shoulders. Duncan just shook his head.

It was Duncan's turn next. Fighting to keep his expression stoic, he finally managed to get the name out.

"Tommy?"

Jess shut his eyes tightly as his throat threatened to close. He forced the air out of his lungs and shook his head in return. They all sat silently for a while after that, each one lost in his own thoughts.

At long last, after pulling himself back to reality, Jess turned to Knute. "Alright now," he said, as he carefully laid himself back down on the sorry excuse for a mattress. "Just start at the beginning and tell me everything."

Over the next few hours, Knute did exactly as he was told. Duncan, having experienced it all himself, lost interest and returned to the top bunk above Jess. Their fourth cellmate didn't stir. Knute's words painted a picture of horror and hardship. Jess was surprised to learn that he himself had been whipped for failing to answer a question from the warden. The guard had only stopped whipping him when he realized Jess wasn't actually faking his mute condition, and that he wouldn't be getting the satisfaction of a scream out of him. They had carried Jess back to their cell, hoping against hope that he'd pull through.

Knute got quiet for a minute after that, trailing off with a simple, "That was a bad day."

Jess didn't rush him.

The stories only seemed to get worse from there, detailing men starving or dying with no medical treatment in sight. As Knute went on and on, Jess became sure of one thing: The warden, who had allowed all that to happen, was worse than the devil himself.

Knute told him all about their flag pieces and pulled out the last one to give to Jess. After hearing the whole story, Jess nodded solemnly. He spit in his palm and shook Knute's hand, committing himself to their oath. If he ever saw that warden after they got out of here, he'd kill him where he stood.

At long last, Knute got around to explaining who their visitor had been that morning and what his offer had been. He was recruiting southerners to go north with him, back to that fort up in the Dakota Territory, to fight Indians. They'd have to swear allegiance to the Union army, but they'd be out of this cell and back in the fresh air. They were even promised to be paid.

To Jess, it sounded almost too good to be true. Besides, Jess needed to see that major again. The more he considered it, the more convinced Jess became. Major James Stanton had to be a guide, and Jess was in desperate need of some guiding.

"Seems to me, we only gotta make it 'til… What did he say? Wednesday? Three more days, and we'll be free," Jess said once Knue had finished. He could last three more days. He didn't have a choice.

He wasn't expecting Duncan to swing down from the top bunk, his eyes flashing.

"Harper, wha'd'ya mean only three days? You can't be serious. You're fixin' on signin' on with that snake?"

Jess was taken aback. "You mean to tell me you ain't?"

The tense words that followed were fueled by anger, grief, fear, and age-old hate. What it came down to was this: The Duncan family had lost everything when the war broke out, and Johnny Duncan blamed the Union army for every inch of suffering they'd seen since. Jess Harper had lost pretty much everything he'd ever had too, but not directly because of the war. He hated being penned up and helpless much more than he could ever hate an army. Jess had strong feelings about protecting homesteaders, just like his own family had been, from the renegades of the western territories. If wearing a blue jacket would let him do that, then so be it. Knute stepped in before things could come to physical blows, but not before they'd woken their final roommate.

The damage had been done. Jess figured he and Johnny had said too much to each other to ever be quite the same. The hardest part of it all, though, had been watching Knute get caught in the middle.

Johnny's final words to Jess were, "Go ahead an' turn traitor, you yella-bellied sidewinder, but me and mine will be back in the war before you know it. Ain't no Duncan ever gonna turn againt their own."

With one look at Knute's face, Jess knew that Duncan was right about one thing. Jess and Knute had become close friends, more like brothers in many ways, but they weren't kin. Johnny was the one who shared Knute's blood. Jess knew, without a doubt, that choosing to go north with Stanton would mean leaving his last two friends behind.

When Wednesday finally came and the door opened, Jess struggled to stand under his own power. Knute was there in a flash, helping him take his first few steps to freedom. With one final squeeze that was closer to a hug than not, Jess said a silent goodbye to his surrogate kid brother. As he stepped into the sunshine for the first time in over six weeks, he couldn't help but fear he'd never see the boy again.