Martha shivered in the cold of the winter air as she neared the gates of the main military building within the small town General Slauson oversaw. She could see a figure - perhaps Slauson, or one of his men - waiting expectantly in the distance; he must have seen her approaching. Her feet were nearly numb from her long journey by foot, but the thick lined boots she wore kept any serious harm from coming to them.

Besides, there were more important issues at hand. This whole journey, she had called to her spirit guides to watch over and guide them; and most importantly, to protect her from the Wendigo, the eater of spirits. The developments at the fort had her frightened. What did it all mean? She did not trust Boyd - he may not have killed her brother, but he was hiding too much to be innocent. And the new Colonel.... well, he was odd, but so were all these crazy white men. Except her old friend.

Gathering up her spirits, she prepared herself for her small welcoming committee.

General Slauson sat in his newly furnished office, enjoying a rare moment of peace and reflecting on recent events, namely Boyd. Boyd was weak. And Slauson had no room in his company for the weak. (Though deep down Slauson was secretly relieved his battlefield days were over, and he could now shout orders from the safety of his freshly polished desk.) Because of Boyd's weakness at a crucial moment in battle, several good soldiers had been killed, making his subsequent capture of the enemy post a hollow victory. So he'd sent Boyd away, hoping to be rid of him forever. But then out of nowhere came that cannibal monster nonsense. He could have accepted a story of a man snapping and committing mass murder, distasteful as it may be. But trying to explain disappearances and possible deaths with a campfire tale? It was too much.

He tried to give Boyd the benefit of the doubt several times, even risking the annoyance of the new colonel, and could only conclude that the stress of battle had triggered the awakening of some delusion-causing mental illness that had lain dormant up to then.

'Poor fellow,' he thought, 'he might have made something of himself if not for that.' His only consolations were it was surprisingly easy to find a new colonel, and that Boyd was no longer his problem.

It was at that moment Lindus knocked on his door and entered before Slauson could respond. He was about to reprimand him when he saw Lindus was accompanied by Martha. A vague feeling of dread arose in him. "Sir, there's a problem," Lindus said, as if Martha's presence was not clue enough for him.

"Yes, what is it now?" he asked impatiently.

Martha replied with the one word he'd hoped never to hear anymore. "Boyd."

'Not again,' he thought.

Martha heads for his fireplace, not standing too much on ceremony. She knows things would be different if she was a white woman -- they would be falling over themselves offering her a chair or food -- but long ago, her family taught her not to expect much from these strange people.

"Yes, it is Boyd," she replied. "He's killed the horses, and Clea-- Private Cleaves." Her voice wavers on this last part, thinking of her old friend. It wasn't right that he should have died so brutally, just as it wasn't right that she never recovered her brother's body for a proper burial. "Colonel Ives and Major Knox have him locked up now. I had to come on foot, since the horses are dead." There were many questions Martha still had about all of this – how could all of the horses been killed by Boyd, when he was talking with Colonel Ives outside for so long? She did not trust the spirit that hung in the air above those two men; she could almost smell it when she had placed the knife at Boyd's throat.

Slauson slams his fist on his desk.

"Damn that Boyd!" he swears. "So he does know how to kill, he just doesn't know the right time and place for it." The look on Martha's face tells him he is being rather tactless. At that moment he wishes he had shot Boyd like he threatened to instead of promoting him and sending him away. He clears his throat and prepares to do damage control.

"I'm sorry I sent that madman to Fort Spencer. I never thought he'd do anything like this. Lindus, get the horses ready. We're going to put a stop to this insanity once and for all."

There were gruesome tasks ahead, and Slauson was not looking forward to them. He could only hope that Colonel Ives wouldn't decide to jump ship after this unfortunate incident.

'Boyd was the problem all along,' Slauson thinks. 'After we take care of him, things should get back to normal.'

The man is walking into a charnel house, Martha thinks to herself, knowing that Boyd is infected with the Wendigo spirit. "It is not safe, General," she warns. "Boyd is... infected." She knows they do not believe in the Wendigo, but they do believe in disease. Perhaps she can convince them to take extra care based on this. "Boyd is sick. Please, if he has killed so many and lived..." *Even my brother*, she wants to add, thinking that no simple white man could have walked up to her brother and killed him, "...if this is true, extra precautions should be taken."

For herself, Martha had taken her own precautions earlier, on her way here. She had stopped to speak to her tribe's elders for advice, and they told her that her duty was to her family, which meant returning to work despite the dark magic at work. To abandon her job and not retrieve Slauson would be irresponsible, and not something a woman of their tribe should do. One elder had taken pity, however, and given her some sacred herbs to keep the Wendigo at bay. She'd wondered what a few herbs might do, then simply accepted them, hoping for the best.

Lindus hurried off and Slauson sat back in his chair with a sigh. "Infected, hm. Well, when a dog gets rabies, you have to put it down. For his own good, and everyone else's safety. Not to mention my sanity!"

Slauson locked away various important papers in his desk and assessed the current situation. Though he didn't know Martha that well, she never seemed to him like someone easily intimidated. Yet there was a fearful air about her now. He sensed she was not looking forward to going back to Fort Spencer. Boyd's previous story flashed into his mind briefly, but he ignored it. Slauson didn't believe in superstition. Even so, he was a little nervous. There was more going on over there, and no matter what it was, he wouldn't like it.

"Hurry up Lindus!" he yelled to relieve his frustration. "It's bad enough I have to take time away from my work here to clean up Boyd's latest mess. Let's not drag this out any longer than it has to be." Lindus and a few others returned with traveling supplies. They packed up and went out to the stables.

"Oh, you need a horse too, don't you Martha? These are the finest horses in San Miguel. Take your pick, and then we'll get going. I want to reach Fort Spencer before nightfall."

Martha wordlessly nodded, glad at least that her return journey would be on horseback rather than foot. She'd been trying to lock out the memory of seeing Cleaves, bloody and gutted, on the stables' roof, by occupying her mind with simple logistics. Travel from Fort Spencer to San Miguel, then back again. She chose the horse that looked youngest, but well-trained. She didn't care for the thought of traveling with Slauson or Lindus -- the former was arrogant and stuffy, the latter weak-willed and pretentious -- and was glad she had sought advice of her own elders before possibly putting her own life in the hands of these two. That, she knew, would be a mistake.

Martha checked the strap that held her own weapon - a hunting knife George had given her last spring - to her leg before climbing upon the horse's back. She gave the general another brief nod, adding, "I am ready." At least, she hoped she was.

~~~

Boyd stood there, chained, as he had been off and on for days now. He understood it. He was getting better……and stronger….. and they didn’t trust him. He wasn’t sure if they had reason not to yet. The scenes he played out in his head were vicious. He wanted to hunt Ives down and stop this. Yet, could he if given the chance? It was not even that Ives was stronger and faster than he was. That was a factor he had yet to consider. His reservations stemmed from the fact Boyd still wondered if he honestly had it in him to beat a man to death if he had to.

He hadn’t killed Reich. He’d killed enemies in times of war, yes. But enemies were different. They spoke different languages, wore different clothes. Boyd could make them something else in his eyes, they weren’t human. Not like him and therefore, easier to kill. That wasn’t killing another person. Ives dressed and talked as he did. Of course Ives wasn’t human either. Not anymore. He had looked so vulnerable the first night they’d discovered him outside their camp, weak, near death. Boyd had never imagined it was all an act. Even know he asked himself how much of it was.

No. He had to stop thinking about it. He’d already dehumanized Ives in his head. There was no going back. He had to kill him and the stew they’d been feeding him would give him the strength to do it. He just had to get out of the chains.

Hart had come in with a new tray of food. He was speaking, but Boyd was too deep in thought to catch what the Colonel was saying until the man asked about Boyd’s wound. “Oh, right as rain,” Boyd replied evenly. He was set on his mission. He knew what he had to do. “I could use some fresh air.”

Hart hadn't felt as well as he did in damned near thirty years. Certainly not since he had been transferred to the outpost hell where the cold seeped deep into his bones. Every year, the cold had been harder and harder to deal with. He used to be able to occupy himself with reading and writing to distract from the gnawing cold that seemed to slither under a man's skin and gnaw away slowly at his vitals with frozen teeth. But in the past year, that fugue where he lost himself for hours and hours in study and deep thought had been harder and harder to reach as the cold began to work on his aging bones, making every moment a study in pain.

And now, thanks to Colonel Ives, that was all gone. He felt as he had in his twenties and thirties. Young, vigorous. He could use his body again in ways that he hadn't been able to in decades and there were many times since he had regained his strength that he wished more than anything that there were women nearby. Even the gray that had slowly began to overtake his hair had receded. Yes, Hart was most pleased with the transformation.

Of course, the price had been steep. Much steeper than most men would be willing to pay. At first, the idea of eating the flesh of another man had sickened him, but, as he felt his restored strength and vigor, Hart found it well worth the cost. He was a man given to deep thinking. Always had since he was just a boy. Hart had almost managed to rationalize it to himself that it was right and good what Ives had convinced him to do.

Almost.

Then there was Boyd, looking at him with that accusing glare every time he brought him food. Hart tried to ignore it. After all, Ives had reassured him with one of those slightly feral smiles that Boyd would come around eventually. So, Hart remained cheerful in all his contact with Boyd. When he brought him food, Hart would talk about the weather or about what books he was reading. Sometimes, he would gently chide Boyd for being so stubborn. But he was never nasty or cruel or manipulative. He left that sort of business to Ives.

Hart asked compassionately after Boyd's wounds as he placed the bowl of stew within his reach. At the young man's answer, Hart smiled benevolently and shook his head, "I'm sorry, but I have to check with the Colonel. I think a bit of bracing air might be good for you as well." Hart nodded and busied himself with making sure that Boyd's fire was warm enough. Whatever he might think, Hart would not act without Ives' permission.

Boyd’s sulking stare lowered and flickered away from Hart. No amount of fresh air would aid Boyd if Ives were near. And that is how it would have to be. Ives enjoyed being in control far too much to let Boyd wonder free with only Hart as his guide. In fact, Boyd was shocked the new Colonel hadn’t come to investigate the situation Hart and he were in right now. Of course, he was glad Ives wasn’t here. If Boyd was going to have a chance, this world was it.

He had to make Hart forget about the fresh air. Ives would want to be with them and no matter what Boyd did or said, he would be subjected to hear Ives’ sales’ pitch for cannibalism. What bothered Boyd most was that Ives had valid points. He was one of them already. Ives had reminded him of that more than once now. Why not just give it.

Because it was wrong and Boyd didn’t want to live like this. Ives, if that were even his real name, would not own him. Not ever.

“No. Never mind,” he offered with a gloomy fleeting look across the room to the former Colonel. What Hart’s rank was now was unknown to Boyd. “I won’t go. Not with him.”

The silence between them was both comforting and discomforting at the same time. It was deafening and yet, it was better than the screams Boyd had heard of late. Even if they were just in his head. “I’m still having nightmares,” he began. Slauson was on his way. It was now or never. “Reich, Cleaves, Knox.. Toffler. You have to let me go.”

Since his transformation, Hart had wrestled with his mind, trying to justify the murder and desecration of the bodies afterwards. Sometimes, it worked. Sometimes, Hart almost believed the lies that Ives spun for him and believed that what he had done was the way of nature. Yet, just the mere thought of the others, of the men that had died and been consumed could demolish every carefully crafted excuse. Those men had trusted him. He had been their Colonel and he betrayed them.

So, when Boyd began to say their names and spoke of nightmares, nightmares that Hart shared, the cheerfulness that Hart had entered Boyd's makeshift prison with evaporated. He jerked violently away, as if Boyd had slashed at him with a sword and not merely with words. His voice escaped his lips at first in a tortured whisper before slowly escalating into a shout, "No. No. No. I don't want to hear this! There is no turning back now!"

"Don't you understand? All you have to do is kill! You have to kill to live!" It was the truth, wasn't it? Hart knew that were it not for the killing and devouring, he would be dead. As dead as Reich or Toffler or Knox. But, in a way, perhaps that was where he should be. Yet, to admit that aloud was to court madness… and Ives' wrath. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. He wanted to pray, to ask God for both guidance and forgiveness, but it was too late for even that. Why would God deign to listen to a man who had done the things that he had? It truly was too late to turn back.

With his back to Boyd, Hart opened his eyes and stared at the wall, whispering in a soft, broken voice, "You have to kill."

~~~~

The air was cold and crisp as Ives stood looking outside the tower. The wait for Slauson and Martha was excruciating, although he wasn't sure if it was the wait for another challenge of turning the General into one of them, or the idea of another meal in Martha. He had considered befriending Martha and letting her in on their secret but her Indian wisdom and knowledge Ives knew would keep her from any consideration on her part. Sad Ives thought, because we will also need to breed.

Ives turned to look down at the shack where Boyd and Hart were. Ahhh Boyd. He loved to keep everyone in the dark about what he was thinking. He knew they thought he was not human anymore, and too far gone to be anything of a good man. Maybe they were right in some ways. But as a man, he knew how to survive. And this was it.

Ives lit a cigar and continued to look for anyone. It was strange that he still craved human vices such as smoking and hell, even drinking. He craved sex as well. But in a more animalistic sense, and predatory.

All of a sudden Ives thought he heard somewhat of a shout coming from the shack. A sudden thrill came to him thinking that maybe Boyd became crazy in his craving and went after Hart. He liked Hart, but for the idea of an equal, he felt that Boyd could maybe be, with the proper motivation. Ives climbed down the tower and headed for the shack.

~~

Boyd closed his eyes briefly, only to reopen them seconds later. Hart's words were not that of the man he first met in Fort Spencer. That man had been kind, wise and yes, perhaps worn out. Hart was still kind and wise underneath the cloud of poison Ives had injected into the Colonel's mind. At least Boyd wanted to believe that. He didn't want to believe Hart did this of his own free will. He had killed Cleaves. And the horses. He also allowed Boyd to be blamed for it and by doing so, subjected Boyd to Knox's anger. The wounds the Major had given him were long gone, but the sheer frustration of being the scapegoat was not gone. No one believed Boyd. He tried to warn them. He tried to save them, but Ives had clearly had the perfect plan: discredit the only man who knew what was going on to the point that everyone wrote him off as a total loss, a victim of the madness Fort Spencer could bring.

Reich and he had never gotten along. The private disliked Boyd's higher rank and made no effort to hide that fact. But more than anything, Boyd wished that man were still alive. Reich would have seen through what Knox could not, or at least Reich would have tirelessly investigated the situation until he discovered the truth.

Boyd needed an ally and here, he found none. Not even Colonel Hart, who had been the closest thing he'd had to a friend here would unchain him. If Boyd had just a pound of Reich's flesh, he wondered if he could break the chains on his own. Reich had enabled him to walk back down that Mountain and back to Fort Spencer. If only Ives hadn't finished him off.

No. He couldn't think that way.

God no.

It was wrong and it didn't matter if Boyd was wishing for another man's flesh for the sole purpose of destroying Ives. It was still wrong.

And yet he craved it still. Maybe he deserved this. If Slauson ordered his death for the deeds the General would surely believe he had done, then maybe that was for the best. He couldn't go on like this. But he was preying on the fact he didn't think Hart could either.

Hart was twice or perhaps even three times Ives' size. Together they could kill the man. Boyd believed it. He just had to get Hart on his side and time was running out. Slauson would be here soon and if Ives didn't kill him or attempt to turn the General to his side right away, Boyd knew he was going to gain a few more cuts and bruises. At the very least he'd suffer a tongue-lashing where the General declared him insane over and over again. All of that he could stand. What he couldn't stand was being chained up like some animal and being forced to watch Hart and Ives single handedly take out the entire Fort again. Ives had taken out Toffler and George. Together Hart and he had killed Cleaves, all the horses and Knox. They could easily kill Lindus, Slauson and go for Martha next.

In Boyd's mind Slauson was already gone. They would kill him first surely if he would not agree to cannibalism. Lindus, however, was a possibly for aid. And Martha, if she could get past her sorrow over Cleaves' death. If Boyd could get either one alone, then maybe he'd have a chance of getting out of these chains.

That was, if Hart failed him. "I have to kill him," he said plainly, watching Hart intensely. "You have to let me go."

Hart stared at Boyd for a long time, literally torn. His conscience told him to release Boyd. This had to end. What were they going to do? Eat everyone who disagreed with them? Could he really endure anymore blood on his hands? His men were all dead except for Boyd. Hart knew what they were doing was wrong. He knew it and could only hope that God would forgive him his weakness.

Yes, let Boyd go. Let him end this or be ended. Either way, Hart knew he would die and be released from the torment of his conscience.

And yet, there were other emotions at play here as well. Baser instincts. Hart liked the way he felt. He liked being strong. Even as a young man, he had never been particularly strong. He was the bookish sort that men looked to when they needed advice or help with their letters. He had never been the man that others went to when they needed someone to back them up in a fight. Hart liked the power he felt after eating. It was something he had never known and he reveled in it.

But was it worth the price of his soul?

Hart hovered over the question. He stepped closer to Boyd, never once taking his eyes off of him. Could this man be his salvation from guilt? His release from mental torment? Silently, Hart's hand went for the keys. All he had to do was release him and it was over. That was all.

He was moments from doing just that when he thought he heard a noise at the door and nearly flinched out of his skin. Ives. Was he here? Did he knew what Hart had been about to do? Yet there was no Ives staring at him with the mad grin on his lips. It was only the icy wind, rattling doors and shutters as it raced down the mountain. Hart took a breath, his fingertips still on the keys as his gaze once again returned to Boyd as he said softly, his words a hopeful whisper, "And you will kill me as well?"

At the request, Boyd swallowed. His deep blue, ever-sulking eyes shifted away from Hart. To kill a man he respected? A man who had been so kind to him when he arrived, when everyone else seemed indifferent? Their indifference had turned to mistrust after the hike to the mountains. Martha didn’t trust him. Martha knew the truth. Knox hadn’t trusted him. The Major had been all too eager to pin every crime that occurred on Boyd even when it made no sense, even when all logic pointed to the fact the wounded and exhausted Boyd couldn’t have done the crimes. Cleaves. God, Cleaves.

Mistrust? No. Sometimes Boyd even believed Cleaves feared him. Knox didn’t. Knox wanted him dead. Cleaves however. The way Cleaves watched him worriedly haunting Boyd. He wished the man had believed him, had understood that Boyd wasn’t the monster. The monster was the new Colonel that they all trusted blindly and unfortunately, the monster was also the old Colonel they thought they’d lost.

Hart had killed Cleaves. Did the Private have that same fear in his eyes when he saw Hart coming after him with whatever sharp instrument the former Colonel had used to undo the man? Or had he not seen it coming at all? Had his back been turned away, like it was in the daydreams Boyd often had? It was easier to kill a man from behind. You didn’t have to deal with the memory of his face as you inflicted the deadly blow. Hart would have to look away. If Boyd were to have the courage to do as he was being asked, he’d have to do it from behind.

His eyes drifted back onto Hart with a silent promise. He lifted his hands ever so slightly, just praying Hart would unshackle him. If he were free, this would be ended. Hart, Ives and then himself. That is the way it had to be. Martha was right. To stop this, all three of them had to die. Compared to this life, death didn’t seem so bad. Boyd wanted a nightmare free sleep for the first time since he’d been in Mexico. In death, he’d find peaceful rest.

As Ives headed towards the shack he thought about what he may find. Hart dead and bleeding with Boyd standing over him with a puppy dog's guilt look upon his face. Or the grin of a mad man and snarl of a ravenous dog. He smiled at the latter.

It had been quiet in the shack since that one shout that he thought he had heard. Thinking that he might interrupt Ives decided to look into the window first. Peering in he saw Boyd standing there, looking at Hart with the most desperate look on his face, almost begging but with a quiet strength of determination. Hart looked back with sadness and helplessness and Ives thought he even saw regret. It was pathetic.

Suddenly Ives knew why. And it made him madder than ever. Just the thought that someone wanted to kill him, actually thought that they could make him burn. He knew Boyd wanted to, that he hated him, but he did not think that killing him would become a plan. A discussion between two men. He then thought about Hart, his faithful companion. He had told Hart with his eyes that if he disobeyed him, that he would pay. Ives had saved Hart, had given him life, and this is how he repays him. Ives felt himself go, start to slide into the monster just a bit. He could feel it in his eyes and in his clenched teeth.

Just then Boyd looked at him in the window. And his expression changed. Ives stared at Boyd, looked deep into his eyes to see what he could find. Boyd stared back. Was that fear in Boyd's eyes? Anger? There was a look that carried an expression that Ives could not quite place. But he would, in a second, wipe that expression right off his face.

Ives headed toward the door, shaking his head in anger. He heard Hart say something softly to Boyd just before he opened the door. What he heard made his skin flush, and he almost couldn't believe it. I should have picked better companions he couldn't help but think. This may end up messy was his last thought as he entered the room for what he heard Hart say to Boyd was "Kill him."

~~

God's Holy Trousers, but she could use a bath. A hot bath and a good snort of whiskey; this was nearly enough to bring a smile to Lucy Cort's lips as she led her horse through the snow towards Fort Spencer. The day-and-a-half long trip from San Miguel was no easy one for a woman traveling alone, especially towards the end of winter, when the cold weather was so unpredictable. Shivering slightly, she shoved her wide-brimmed hat down further upon her head and adjusted her heavy poncho, the end of her journey finally in sight.

For the past year, the 32-year-old had been the procurer of hard-to- get and specialty items for the men of Fort Spencer, all the while pinching her pennies, hoping to have enough to buy her own prospecting site on the river by next spring. It had been a long journey from Pennsylvania to the farthest edge of the west, but just a few months away from her goal, she figured she could be patient a little while longer. While Fort Spencer made regular supply runs of its own, Lucy Cort often took her trade on the road, visiting surrounding outposts of civilization. She'd even been something of a heroine on a few occasions, arriving with food at critical times in the harsher months of winter. Of course, the food was never free, but it was vital to the survival of people still learning the ways of the west.

While she didn't really give a hoot for San Miguel, Fort Spencer held a special place in her heart. Lucy first visited the fort over a year ago, and damned if they didn't give her a queen's welcome every time. She'd been wary at first of course, being a woman and all. That came with the territory; whether she was wearing her riding trousers or cleaned up in a dress, she had to be prepared for unwelcome advances, especially men in uniform who'd been isolated too long. But there was something about the soldiers of Fort Spencer that made her feel safe, and she knew within a short period of time that no one would attempt her without her permission. Maybe it was Colonel Hart who kept them civilized, with his warm and friendly tone, out here in this wilderness.

She held Colonel Hart in quiet awe and respect; he reminded her of a schoolteacher she'd secretly had a crush on back home in Pennsylvania. Hart had shown her some of his books, and one or two times traded some walnuts or fruits for a text. Her visits, though brief, had always been guaranteed to bring excitement. Like the time she'd gotten into a drinking contest with Major Knox and lost – or did she win? Either way, she had one wood-splitter of a headache when she woke up in Reich's bed the next day; she certainly hoped she enjoyed it as much as he told her she did. And every damn time she came to visit, that kid Toffler had a hymn of sorts to play for her, pestering her the way her little sisters used to whenever they'd mastered a new task. What in hell he was doing in the Army, she'd never know. Then again, most of these fellas weren't real Army types, not even Reich; he was a little too Army to be Army…but just the right amount of man for her. And Cleaves – the peyote she supplied him with tended to be cheaper and of better quality than the shit he scrounged down in San Miguel, so they had a good working relationship.

Her mind wandered to what she'd been told on her last visit - Wasn't there supposed to be a new Lieutenant? She recalled Reich was looking forward to meeting him, since he was supposed to be some kind of war hero. Took a whole enemy camp down in Mexico or something.

Lucy's thoughts were jolted back to the present by the sight of Fort Spencer's gates ahead, as she emerged from a copse of trees. Yup, a bath, a snort, a good chat and a meal. And maybe a roll in the hay with Reich. Hell, it had been more than a month since the last one. She was gettin' antsy. She clucked to Midnight a few times, digging her booted heels into the animal's sides just slightly to encourage his speed. She took her revolver from its holster and fired it twice times into the air – sure, a waste of good ammo, but it get the animal moving and had long been her signal of approach. Hollering out a long and loud "Kiiiii-yaaai!", she approached the gates.

When Lucy Cort rode into Fort Spencer, the first thing that struck her was the silence. It was the same kind of quiet she and some fellow travelers had experienced back in a small Colorado town that seemed to have simply up and gone ghost, all without a trace. Several homes still had dinner on the table; that one really spooked her. And as far as she knew, none of those folks ever returned. This was the same sort of feeling she got now, entering through the opened gates-- a there, but not there, feeling that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

Usually, Cleaves was the first one to spot her and call out a greeting, and the others were not far behind. She could recall his first greeting to her, last year:" Hell, woman! If it weren't for all that hair, I'd have taken you for a man!" To which, of course, she'd replied that she'd seen traders with more hair on their chins than she had on her head, which was nearly true with some of the mountain traders. Now, however, there was no friendly shout from Cleaves. Surely they must have heard the two shots she fired? Maybe not. Not if they were inside. Or away - that was another possibility. A rabbit hunt? But Colonel Hart wouldn't just leave the place open and abandoned. The colonel rarely went hunting; he hadn't the eyesight or the interest.

Surely Major Knox had to be lying around here somewhere, she figured as she eased out of Midnight's saddle and tied the horse up at the trough. "I'll take those bags offa you soon, 'Night," she murmured to him as he slurped up the water, more for the comfort of hearing her own voice than to impart any information. More comfortable with her revolver than her rifle, she reloaded (just a precaution, she told herself warily) and went to see what she could see.

Smoke was billowing from both the bathhouse and the mess, a sure sign of recent activity. Could Injuns have invaded from the North, where the Fort backed into the mountains? It was possible, she supposed, but not likely. the Injuns around here were peaceful. Traders like herself, they had no interest in starting trouble with the white men. Their numbers were dwindling quickly enough as it was. Gun at the ready, she entered the mess first. "Anybody home?"

Stew. She smelled stew and...tobacco. And better smelling stew than Cleaves normally whipped up, that was for dang sure. Maybe it was just because she was hungry, but Lucy Cort nearly just pulled up a dish then and there. Almost, but not quite. She needed to find someone first.

Stepping outside again, she headed for the bunkhouse next. "Reich!" she called out, crossing the yard. "Don't tell me you lazy bastards are all still sleeping?" She poked her head in the door there, and saw nothing. Damned if that weren't the strangest....

She thought she heard something then. It was coming from the building across the yard, either from that shack or Colonel Hart’s office. Voices? Creaking wood? It was hard to tell, but Lucy knew she wasn't the only one at the fort. Either whoever was in there didn't know she was there, or was watching her. She removed her glove for a better grip on her revolver and stepped back inside the bunkhouse.

Not wanting to give up the perfectly good shelter she had now, she decided to see if she could safely discover who was out there without walking out and exposing herself. *Never draw fire if you can avoid it, Lucy*, Clancy had told her a long time ago, and that advice had saved her skin on occasion. Standing in the doorway of the bunkhouse, she called out across the yard, "Colonel Hart! Colonel Hart, are you out there?" She cringed at the slight tremor in her voice as she waited, revolver in hand, for some sign of life. "Reich! Anybody?"

Hart heard the door open and knew who it had to be. Ives. There was no doubt. Part of him hoped that he had heard him speaking to Boyd. Did it really matter whose hand he died by, be it Boyd or Ives? It was just important that he end this. He slid his eyes towards the entering Colonel, yet did not act frightened. Just weary. It was not a weariness of body. He looked and felt physically better than ever. It was an exhaustion of the mind and the soul. Well, what he had left of a soul. Hat opened his mouth to speak. Not to offer apologies, but to tell Ives exactly what he had said in order to receive the `punishment' that he wanted.

But no words came out. For a voice shattered the silence and with it Hart's resolve to let himself die. Lucy Cort. Oh, dear God. What was she doing here now? Of all the luck in the world, why was she here? He had to get her out of here and fast before she became Ives' victim… or perhaps something else. Hart manfully repressed a shudder at the thought and lifted his chin to look Ives in the eye. He knew what had passed between him and Boyd. Hart had no doubts. "I should go deal with that. Offer her some sort of explanation. She's a trader that comes by here a couple times per season. Harmless for the most part."

Hart knew that Ives could either choose to kill him for his treachery or keep him around for continued use. Hart knew this fort and this land and its peoples better than Ives did after all. Hart had more than friendly relations with the natives of the area and with the local traders. Hart suddenly knew that Ives would not kill him. The man was a monster, but he was a logical monster that would not dispose of a tool before its use was up. One had to admire a man like that in a way.

He stepped past Ives and offered a single look towards Boyd. It wasn't quite apologetic, but close enough. He stepped through the door outside, the cooler air a comfort after the almost too-warm atmosphere of Boyd's makeshift prison. Outside, Hart saw Lucy, wandering around as if confused. He could only hope that she would buy his lies for now. For now. Maybe he and Boyd could use Lucy's help in some way. "Lucy? Lucy Cort? I wasn't expecting you for at least another month."

Lucy had stepped from the bunkhouse in order to get a better look at the area; she was considering ringing the bell, when she heard Colonel Hart's familiar voice approaching her. But who in Hades was that? Lowering her revolver, she squinted at the man, and realized that yes, this was Hart. He just looked...different. She smiled, sighing with relief. "Christ on a cracker, Colonel Hart! You nearly stopped my heart dead." She laughed a little, feeling silly at her nervousness. "I know I'm a little earlier than usual, but I promised Cleaves I'd bring the fellas a little extra something ealy, just to make the snowy nights pass faster. Probably slipped his mind as soon as he left town. Still, I brought everyone the usual stuff. Got some actual fruit for you, Colonel. Figured you'd like -- " She paused, noting that his looks weren't the only thing that had changed. There was something in his expression that put her on guard. She hadn't noticed it before, she'd been to relieved to see a familiar face. But now... "What's wrong? Where is everyone? Where's the fellas?"

He stepped towards Lucy, hoping she wouldn't notice that he looked different and moved better than he had for years. Maybe he could come up with some sort of excuse. Hart knew without a doubt that Ives would soon be out later himself, unless he stayed behind to toy with Boyd a little bit. Hart would need to wait to get Lucy alone and explain the truth of the situation. Hart didn't need to fake the regret and sorrow in his voice and on his face as he spoke, "There has been an… incident. A man went insane… killed my men. Only myself and a fellow Colonel, Ives, are left. Along with the prisoner. It is not safe here for you, Lucy." He stayed into the woman's eyes and lightly laid her hands on her shoulders, hoping she understood and ran away. Please God let her run away. Hart didn't think he could live with another death on his conscience.

Dumbfounded, Lucy clamped her jaw shut tight as she looked down at her boots. *Dead*? All of them? Reich, Toffler, Cleaves, Knox....what about George and Martha? She squinted her eyes shut tight to keep herself together. She'd seen a lot of hardship on the trail over the years, lost a lot of people. But this was different somehow. Reich -- she wasn't particularly close to him, but she knew him well enough to know he wasn't the type to allow himself to be tricked by a madman. "Not safe for me?" she asked, looking back up at Hart and into his eyes, seeing how young he truly looks -- *no more specs*. She knew there was something more that he wasn't telling her. "I got a gun here that says it ain't safe for this murderer. Is he still here?" she asked, a waver coming into her voice; she didn't know what caused it – fear or rage.

~~~~~~

Boyd clenched his jaw as Hart exited the room, leaving him alone with Ives. Alone with Ives. It was like a nightmare reborn. He could handle being with Ives and Hart. Hart would protect him. Of course, Hart had also held a post that dictated he would protect Knox and Cleaves and he had not. Boyd had no reassurance beyond the fact there was something still human about Hart.

Ives, however?

Boyd kept his eyes glued to every step the Scottish man made. He was horrified of Ives. Horrified because the man killed without warning, without valid reason. Horrified because sometimes the thought of killing and cooking Ives thrilled him. It was wrong. He could not stop the daydreams, however. He could not stop them anymore than he could stop the nightmares. The man left him scared and excited at the same time and it was wrong. If he just came close enough.. perhaps Boyd could get the shackles over the man’s neck and choke him to death.

And then what?

Then Boyd’s plan was to kill Hart. No matter if Ives was dead or not, Hart had to die too. Boyd also knew he, himself, had to die as well. That was the only way to end this. But Ives first. After that, it would be easy. Hart could be convinced. He almost was. But then…?

Boyd didn’t trust himself. He knew he could put a rifle in his mouth with the full intent on ending it all, but could be pull the trigger? Could he trust himself to do it? He had to. He wouldn’t allow himself to become what Ives was now.

“The General is coming,,” he offered, praying to whatever higher power there was that Ives hadn’t heard the discussion between him and Hart. If he had, then Boyd knew he was as good as dead. “You are going to blame this all on me. They will hang me for it, Ives and then what? People disappear out here, but if too many do? You won’t get away with it forever. People will start to ask questions. If I am gone, who will you have to blame?”

He was not even sure why he was asking at this point. Ives had a calculated answer for everything. The man had it all planned out and what bothered Boyd was the fact Ives would get away with it. For a long time. And by the time anyone realized what was going on, Ives would be gone. Someone had to stop him. At this point the plea he was making was merely self-preservation. He had to buy himself time so that he could be the one that stopped him.

~~

Hart stared at Lucy, watching as she took the news. It hurt to tell it. More than anything, he wanted to tell his own part of it. Boyd was an innocent man. Well, as innocent as any man sent to the Fort could be. After all, they didn't send men here as a reward. But, whatever Boyd might have done in the past, he had not killed his men. He and Ives had done that. Hart felt suddenly sick. Good God, what had he done? And now he was here lying about it? There would be a special place in hell for him, Hart was sure of it.

His grip tightened just a bit on Lucy's shoulders. Not enough to hurt her, just to keep her from moving towards Boyd's prison. If she walked in on Ives, brandishing a gun, Hart was quite certain that the Colonel would act before thinking about it and he couldn't have that. Maybe if he kept Lucy safe and out of the Colonel's plots or stew bowl he could redeem himself. Maybe he could die with a clean heart if Lucy Cort lived and was safe. Hart knew he was going to die. He had to die. Not now. If he died now, both Boyd and Lucy were as good as dead (or worse) and, after all the blood that was on his hands, Hart couldn't bear another drop.

"He's being contained. Colonel Ives has him restrained. We've sent for General Slauson to help us figure out what to do about Boyd. Everything is under control. Well, as much as it can be."

She felt the weight of the world as Hart took hold of her, feeling his sadness at the loss of his men. Ives -- Hart had said the name before. Maybe he'd been called for earlier, to help with this killer. Who was this killer, anyway? The new captain? A stranger, obviously. Someone new. Lucy gathered her wits about her - no sense in going off half-cocked, after all. She knew she had a temper, but now was no time to lose it. She sighed, holstering her revolver. She rubbed the bridge of her nose as if massaging away a headache; in reality, she was hiding the fact that a few tears had gathered, and was wiping them away. She was determined not to let weakness show now. "I'm sorry, Colonel. I know how tough this must be on you."

Hart frowned as he stared into Lucy's rage-filled eyes. What would she knew when she knew that he was responsible for the death of her friends? Hart didn't want to know. He liked Lucy. He liked Lucy a hell of a lot more than he should. He didn't want that rage turned on him. Not yet. "Come. Come to my office. I still have some of the god whiskey you brought for me last summer and we can sit and talk. I'll try to explain more if I can, but first we need to get you settled." Normally, Hart would have asked if she was hungry, but he didn't want to feed her what was in that stew pot. Never.

"I could definitely use a shot or four," she replied. "To think, just a few minutes ago, all I was concerned about was a good meal and a hot bath. Now..." she looked around at the empty compound as they headed towards Hart's office. "I guess you've had one hell of a week. I'm--I'm sorry to barge in on you like this. But now that I'm here, I sure hope I can help somehow."

She took a moment to study the Colonel -- hair a reddish blond, not the graying dull blond of a man in his fifties. And the glasses were gone, as well. He no longer had the bearing of a doddering colonel put out to pasture, but a man in his prime. "I have to say, Colonel, the air out here is sure agreeing with you."

Hart frowned at Lucy's last comment as he led her back to his office where the promised whiskey was waiting. He felt like he needed a `shot or four' as she so eloquently put it himself. He knew she was going to notice how he had changed. He just didn't know how to explain it just yet. What was he supposed to say?

`Well, Lucy, you see Colonel Ives has discovered that if you cannibalize you fellow man, it makes you stronger and even younger. Really, you should try it. Here, have some stew.'

No, it had to stay a secret for now. Just until Hart could decide what to do next. There were so many options. His instinct told him to get Lucy out of her and fast. Perhaps he should have said that they had all contracted the plague and it was not safe here any longer. Yet, knowing Lucy, she would want to stay and play nurse and that would defeat the purpose. There had to be a better way to sort all of this out. Hart only hoped the emptying a few shots of whiskey into his gullet would illuminate the way.

Inside his office, now Ives office he reminded himself, Hart walked over to the cabinet where he kept all of his papers and hoped to hell that Ives had not changed everything around too much. Thankfully, the whiskey was still there along with the Bible that he usually kept beside it. There was an awful temptation in this remote fort to do destructive things to pass the time like drink or smoke whatever herbs and concoctions that could be bought or bartered from the natives. Anytime Hart felt the urge to lose himself in the bottom of a bottle, he would look at the Bible or read a passage or two to steady his nerves. He was nowhere near as devout as Toffler had been, but Hart was a God-fearing man in his own way.

But now that Bible was only a reminder of how far he had fallen. No, he had not given in to the temptation of drink. Hart had started eating people. He slammed the cabinet door shut a little harder than necessary and turned to Lucy, gesturing for her to sit down.

Lucy was struck by the hollowness of the office, previously full of books. She wondered what had occurred here, why so much had changed, but sensed that pushing issues too fast would only make things harder on the colonel, and he'd clearly suffered enough.

"You know you are never a nuisance, Miss Cort. Never at all. I am only sorry that you have to come here under these circumstances. I am still not convinced of your safety, but I know your stubbornness all to well, my dear. I vividly recall a certain drinking contest in which you refused to stop drinking until Major Knox passed out. You followed shortly after." Hart forced himself to smile. Normally, the memory would have him chuckling and sent him into recalling other anecdotes about the men who had served at the wretched place with him, but now it only brought pain. Deep pain.

"I do recall that evening. I do recall..." She too found herself smiling, only to find it quickly turn into a frown. She could hear the bittersweet in his voice at the recollection of past escapades, and saw the pain in his forced smile; it was the same smile she'd seen on the faces of family and friends when discussing better times, long past. She offered what she hoped was a comforting smile. "If there's one thing I've never been good at, it's getting out of a thing when I should. I wasted a lot of years lingering in places when I should have moved on. Why break bad habits now?" She took off her hat and placed it on Hart's desk, along with her gloves, as she sat down. "Besides, you should know that danger... well it's a part of living out here, in these mountains. I'm surprised I'm still around frankly -- I always figured I'd be dead a long time ago."

He poured each of them a shot of alcohol and continued, ever so often glancing nervously at the door, wondering when Ives was going to come and make his presence known. He rather hoped that he would entertain himself with tormenting Boyd for a bit longer. Maybe long enough for Hart to convince Lucy to go. "Martha went to fetch General Slauson. She lives as well." But for how long, Hart added silently as he choked back his liquor.

Well, at least Martha made it, she thought, hopes rising. Lucy couldn't keep quiet any longer; she hated seeing Hart torn up like this, but she needed to know. "What happened here, Colonel, if you can tell me? Was it some kind of cabin fever that got to this man? I heard about something like that on the trail outside of Kansas City. A homesteader, I guess he just went nuts being cooped up with his wife and kids day and night all winter. One day, he just upped and killed them all." She hoped the memory wasn't too painful to recount; a soldier like Hart was bound to feel responsible for the loss of so many of his men. She wanted so to help, to do what she could for this great man. Even if it was just to keep his mind occupied elsewhere for the time being, it was the least she could do.

Hart eyed Lucy as she spoke of the difficulties of the trail. He knew them and many times he had tried to press an escort on the lone woman as she left the Fort. Sometimes he sent Reich to follow her secretly. A woman like Lucy would never accept such a thing willingly, so Hart had asked Reich to at least look after her until she reached her next stop. It had worried Hart to know that beyond that, Lucy was on her own, but there was nothing he could say or do to convince Lucy otherwise. It was one of the things that he admired in her.

She was offering him comfort. Hart could see it in her eyes and for a moment he almost longed to accept it, convinced that he might even deserve it. After all, what had happened hadn't been his entire fault. He had been deluded, tricked by the power in his veins. No. That wasn't true. He should have killed Ives the moment he revived from being hurt. He should have taken a blade and ran it through the bastard's heart, but Hart hadn't. He had been too enthralled by power and strength to do anything but accept what Ives had offered and gave him his pledge of obedience. No, he did not deserve Lucy's pretty eyes turned on him in sympathy.

Hart knocked back another shot and poured another for Lucy as well, struggling to keep his voice under control as he began to speak, "A madman. He's a madman. There was a visitor in the night who told us of a grisly story of people trapped on the trail, so we all followed out to find them and offer them our aid. Cleaves and Knox stayed behind. We ended up near… caves. There was an attack and… they were killed. Reich and Toffler were killed." His eyes lifted to look at Lucy's face. He knew that she and Reich had been involved at some point. Hart wasn't stupid. He might have been a bit jealous, but he had not been stupid.

Lucy held her shot glass in both hands, as though gaining some kind of hidden strength from the amber liquid within. The warmth of it felt good inside, reviving, comforting; it gave her a chance to absorb what Colonel Hart was telling her. She could see that whatever had happened out at the caves had affected him deeply; she knew he thought of his band of misfit soldiers as a sort of family, and to have harm fall to any of them must deeply hurt him. He was doing his best not to let it show, in that way she looked up to.

Somewhat in shock, she kept trying to picture it and couldn't; Toffler, the sweet kid who didn't even belong out here, let alone in the Army, was dead. So was Reich - damn him, that was hard to swallow. He was always so careful - how could he have been so stupid to go and get himself killed? Her jaw clenched tight, thinking of the hunting trip she'd gone on with him back in October. He'd bagged a good-sized deer from quite a ways off. He'd teased her then that she may have nice eyes, but his worked better. She'd replied by reminding him that her rifle was still loaded, thank you. *No more hunting trips,* she thought to herself. *No more meeting up in her cabin after dark, no more...* She caught a small hitch in the back of her throat, and coughed a little to try and cover it. "It's a hell of a thing," she said apologetically to Colonel Hart, as though emotions at a time like this needed to be explained away.

Still, it nagged at her. Reich wasn't the type to go stumbling about in the woods and let someone sneak up on him. No, this must have been either a surprise attack, or he'd lost his head at the idea of Toffler in danger. "Damned fool," she sniffed, polishing off her second shot of whiskey and slamming it on the desk before pouring a third. She wasn't sure who she was talking about -- Reich or herself. She should know better than to get attached to people like this. Death made its home up in these mountains. *Yes*, she thought, *but it shouldn't come from your own men.*

"I was… not able to resume my position as leader of the Fort so a replacement was sent. There were more attacks. Cleaves and Knox were killed. The man that did it is in that building now." Without realizing it, Hart's story had been mostly the truth. The man who was responsible for all this was in that building, but it was not Boyd. It was Ives. Hart poured himself another shot. The alcohol was doing nothing to ease the guilt. It wasn't even getting him drunk. “This is the mess you have walked into, my dear. A mess that I sincerely wish I could convince you to just walk away from." He fixed his eyes on Lucy again, his words holding a great deal of feeling to them.

Lucy was beginning to feel the liquor warm her empty stomach. Yet she still felt there was something deeply wrong hidden within the cracks of the story; there was something fearful in Hart's words. And not fear for himself, but fear for her, as though there was still some unknown factor at play. That was what put her on guard. Here she had Hart's story: a man showed up, perhaps separated Hart from Toffler and Reich, taking that opportunity to kill the two, then headed back to the fort, where he killed Cleaves and Knox, and presumably George as well. *But why?* Maybe she'd find out, if she stayed long enough and could talk to the man responsible. *Him.* She'd like very much to see him up close -- close enough to touch, to hurt. It was the least she could do; she knew Reich would have done the same for her.

The only good part of this story, it seemed, was that Colonel Hart still lived. He was one of those rare few with whom she knew she could trust her life without asking; he was an uncommon man in a rough part of the world, maybe the roughest in the country. She knew she shouldn't take his words of warning lightly, but the fear in his voice only recommitted her determination to try and look after him as much as he would protect her.

Meeting his gaze as he spoke to her, Lucy leaned forward in her seat and polished off shot number three. "If you're asking me to walk away from something, then that's just the same as asking me to hide from it. And if there's one thing I've picked up over the years on the trail, it's knowing that two's better than one when you need to face down a thing." She shook her head slowly. "Nah, Colonel. I hear your voice and I can tell this is taking a toll. At least until the General gets here and everything's under control, I believe you're stuck with me."

Trying her best to lighten Hart's mood -- after all, part of her job here should be to see that his frazzled nerves got some relief -- she added, "I know I look a fright, but I promise once I get the horse and my things squared away, I'll clean myself up." A look of concern crossed her face. "Do I need some kind of clearance from the new fella? I mean, this is still your operation, right?" It hadn't occurred to Lucy that perhaps she truly wasn't wanted there by the new colonel. A worried look crossed her features. "Dang, I ain't getting you in trouble here, now am I?"

Hart had known that Lucy wouldn't go. He knew that God would not give him salvation so easily and this was indeed his salvation. If he could keep Lucy safe, then maybe he could save himself, too. Hart knew he was going to die. He had to die. But not before Ives. He hoped that Boyd would at least give him that. Hart did not hold out hope of saving Boyd. Ives was obsessed with the man. Ives would not go down without taking Boyd with him. One way or another. Hart would have tried to save them both if he could, and maybe there was a way to do so, but he didn't see that within his power. He wasn't even sure if he could keep Lucy out of Ives' clutches and out of his soup bowl, but he was sure in the hell going to try.

He slowly tore his eyes off her and stared at the few drops remaining in his shot glass as he swirled them around. "You will be welcome here, Lucy. It is no longer my Fort, but Colonel Ives will be glad to see you. I am certain of it." Hart didn't sound happy with the prospect. Not at all. He knew he was right. Ives was never unhappy with the prospect of fresh meat for his stew pot. Or perhaps he would try to turn Lucy to his purposes. That was a thought that nearly made Hart nauseous.

At the words of welcome, uncertain though they were, Lucy relaxed somewhat. The last thing she wanted was to cause more trouble for Hart. She tried to comfort him with a smile, adding, "Don't fret so, Colonel. In a short time this whole mess will be behind you, and you'll have brighter times to look forward to." These were words she'd heard herself many times, and sometimes they were true. Sometimes. Of course, it was hard to tell when the military was concerned – losing an entire company was undoubtedly a large offense - but he needn't worry about that right now.

"I do not deserve your kindness, Lucy. I do not." He reached to pour himself another shot, but poured it for her instead. He wasn't getting drunk anyway. He passed the glass to her and set the bottle aside. "I let my men die. I-" He wouldn't go on. The words clotted in his throat and Hart closed his eyes. He couldn't come out and say that he had had a hand in this. Not yet. He couldn't dump his guilt on her.

As he spoke of being responsible, he accepted his drink and downed nearly half of it in a mighty gulp it. She hated seeing him so distraught, taking on the blame for things he couldn't control. She said softly, "Come on, now, Colonel Hart. I know that out there, while you were at that cave, you must have done everything you could to save those men. You didn't let anything happen – it's just a damn miracle you got back here in one piece, without that maniac lighting into you as well. So no more about how you `let' anything happen, okay?" Lucy wasn't sure if her little pep talk was helping, as he just seemed to get more agitated.

"Since I see you intend to stay despite my warnings, please just heed this one." He reached forward and touched her hand as he captured her eyes with his own. He begged that if God and his angels were listening that Lucy would abide by this one request. "Whatever you do, do not eat the stew."

Lucy started at him for a moment as though he'd grown antlers, and – it must have been the liquor – she found herself suppressing a tiny laugh as she took his hand. The pressure of these horrible events must certainly have been getting to the poor man. "All righty then, Colonel. You got it, I promise no stew-eating. It smelled pretty tempting when I first got in, but I was fixed on finding someone before getting too cozy."

She stood slowly, taking a moment to get her bearings after downing so much liquor. After all, nobody liked a sloppy drunk. "I tell you what. You let your new man know about me, and I'll go unsaddle the horse and set him up in the stable. I can set myself up in the bunkhouse, I suppose, since there's plenty of room. And I'd kinda like to get cleaned up a bit as well – I've got at least two layers of dirt that need washing. Can I just meet you boys back over here in a little while?" It was her usual routine when visiting the Fort; get settled in before getting down to business. This time, she really needed the time alone to gather herself and truly mull over this news.

~~

Ives entered the room seething with anger, almost losing himself but trying not to go the distance. He could not kill them both now, he still needed them. The monster inside however, spoke otherwise.

He glanced at Hart, giving him any kind of fear that he could manage at the moment. He knew that if Hart was still frightened of him, then he could still have control. Hart glanced at him back, and at once he knew that Hart knew that he had heard his treachery. At that moment he heard another noise, which sounded like a shout. A woman's shout. What the hell would a woman being doing here? Now. He only barely heard as Hart explained her presence. He was beginning to gain a little more composure, and had since focused his gaze at Boyd. Ives watched Boyd as Hart strode past him out the door. He would deal with him later, and the woman.

Ives just stood there looking at Boyd, his little pet. His little protégé. His little beef stew. He almost smiled at this. Ives began to walk toward Boyd, sternly, determined, wanting to teach him a lesson. He heard Boyd plea to him and listened. He knew Boyd made sense. He did need a scapegoat for now. Ives stopped, thinking, and then began to pace slightly. Besides Boyd will turn eventually and then all will be blue moon. He couldn't wait for that moment, because then he could feel it again. How it felt to finally let go and let the monster out. Oh how it tormented you, made you dream, made you want to rip someone apart. Oh yes, it was in Boyd. Ives could feel it.

"So what do you think I should do Boyd?" His back now towards Boyd but then he turned, looking into Boyd's eyes, his soul. "You want to kill me and now you have turned my jolly ole' Hart against me. Why should I keep you alive? Why not kill you now and end your suffering". He felt his eyes roll when he said this and then his mouth form into a sly mocking grin. "Suffering Boyd. You know how to end this."

And then suddenly in almost inhuman speed, Ives hit Boyd in the face, catching the blood. It was warm and inviting, almost causing Ives to become, well, virile in a supreme sense. He slowly raised his bloody hand up to his face, catching the scent of Boyd's sweet essence. Oh how he wanted more, he wanted Boyd's blood and flesh. He stared at Boyd, still mocking him, toying with him, inviting him. He could sense Boyd's hatred, his disgust, but also he could sense his fascination and attraction. Ives looked deep into his eyes, then smiled slowly, knowingly with all the monster in him, and then turned his back to him. "Well, I think I'll keep you around a bit longer Boyd." Ives said as he reached into his pocket, took out his half smoked cigar and lighted it. He turned around and gave Boyd once last look, and took a big puff of his cigar, "I want to save you for the wolves, I just haven't decided which one yet."

Boyd wasn’t sure what Ives meant by ‘the wolves’ but he also wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He could feel his face contorting with fear and he loathed that fact. He didn’t want Ives to see that he was still afraid of him. Boyd knew that somehow, in some manner, his fear gave Ives power. As much power as the blood and meat the man so lusted after did. The son of a bitch was only happy when Boyd was afraid. And now his fear was harder to deal with because it had left for a time.

After Knox’s death, when it had just been Hart, Ives and him at the fort, his fear had faded. He knew what he had to do and he planned it all out in his head: how he could kill Hart, Ives and himself. He was ready. Now, however? Now he was right back where he started: he knew what and who Ives was and no one beyond Hart was going to believe him. It had been utter hell when Knox, Martha and Cleaves all glared at him, thinking that he had done that to their friends and family. Now it would happen again with Lindus and Slauson because of his fear, his cowardice. If he didn’t kill Ives now, Slauson would be here.. and all hope of aid from Hart was gone because of this ‘Lucy’.

He hadn’t even seen the woman, but he knew she was going to fall prey to Ives. Someone else to kill, someone else to eat. Ives didn’t care if it was a man or woman. Ms. MacCready’s death proved that.

“The General won’t believe you, Ives. He knows I couldn’t have done this,” he explained, trying hard to buy himself time. He felt the blood from his cheek trickle down a little and felt disgusted by that fact. He hated blood.. and yet wanted it. And then hated himself for wanting it. “He knows something about me that will convince him I couldn’t have done this.” Ives’ curiosity was his only hope. If Ives inquired what it was that Slauson knew that Ives did not, Boyd could buy himself more time to think and to work up the nerve to act. He just prayed that Hart hadn’t told Ives the tale of how Boyd ended up at Fort Spencer. Slauson being aware of the fact Boyd couldn’t even kill in wartime could possibly aid him… but only if Ives did not know about it. If he did, Boyd was certain he already had a plan in mind of how to discredit Boyd and make this all seem as if it was his fault. “How are you going to explain to the General that Hart is alive? He still thinks that Hart is dead… that I killed him.”

Ives stared at Boyd with interest. He felt a slight twinge inside but also a slight chuckle. Obviously Boyd thought that he didn't know about his cowardice. But what made him chuckle is that he had sensed it the first time that he had told his story at Fort Spencer that cold night. Although he had put up an outstanding act, Ives had been watching the others. Gaining their sense of interest, disgust, loyalty, and cowardice. He could tell by their reactions to the cannibalism who would be turned, who would be an enemy, and who would be killed. Toffler, poor kid, had been thoroughly disgusted and being the religious man he was, could never have been turned. But Ives had so much fun tormenting him and his flesh had tasted so pure. He had not since tasted flesh like that even Boyd's. Ives knew that George would be an enemy, Indians are wise and he already knew about what had happened to Ives. He heard George utter the word "Wendigo" in their long trip up the mountains, and knew that he would have to be killed. Cleaves was a victim, pure and simple, although he did sense loyalty there, he didn't know of any real use that he would be able to give them. Ives did form a use for him later however. As bait. Hart he realized was loyal and ultimately a good man. He figured he would have to trick him into eating flesh, but once he did he would be easy to control, especially if he played on his guilt of killing. Reich was hard to figure out. He knew he could either be turned and be a ruthless killer, which would be great for he would share the same intensity and strength. Or, he could be a more ruthless enemy and dedicate his life to killing Ives. He sensed that Reich didn't trust him even at that first meeting, but Ives figured if he did end up being an enemy, then it would be a fun challenge, which turned out to be true. Boyd had had a strange interest in his story, one that disgusted him, yet fascinated him, yet terrified him. He had not said one word. But he had the eyes of a coward.

Later when he had just gotten Fort Spencer for the second time, and after Slauson and Lindus left, Ives had been in Hart's Office checking things out when he had came across a book, a journal of sorts. Apparently, Hart had kept one while at his time at Fort Spencer and it contained some interesting tidbits about the souls that inhibited it. He had read about Reich's strange brother-like protection of Toffler, about Knox's encounter with the latrine that he couldn't believe, about Cleaves's cooking and about the time he had put peyote in the food and everyone got stoned for 2 days (Hart had been livid about that one). About the other time that Hart had been livid with Cleaves, after Cleaves had went to town one day and came back with five whores who had all climbed on Toffler, claiming that they could help him write some real hymns. Toffler about had a heart attack, and Reich had almost killed Cleaves. There was an interesting bit about Hart's certain fondness of one called Lucy. But most importantly, he had read about the reason that Boyd got sent to Fort Spencer, which had great benefits for Ives, but also might be Boyd's downfall. Ives would not keep him around forever if he did not turn. He may be Slauson’s first meal.

Ives snapped back to the present. He had heard Boyd and focused his steely gaze back on him. He kept his face confident and smiled again taking a puff of his cigar. What he didn't want Boyd to know is that Ives really was not sure of that question yet. He planned on telling the General that he had made a mistake and that Hart had not been dead but very very hurt. But that made it difficult because then he would have to explain Hart's miraculous recovery. Then he thought about telling Slauson that he had never told him that Hart was dead, that he had misunderstood him. That it was Hart who had found Knox and Cleaves dead. He knew he didn't have much time to think about it, but he knew whatever he said would not matter much after Slauson had a nice big meal after the long journey.

No he wanted to keep Boyd in the dark, about everything for now. He wanted Boyd to wonder about what he was thinking and his plans, especially for him. He looked at Boyd one more time pointedly, then stamped out his cigar into his other hand. It hurt like all mighty hell but he kept any twinge of pain off his face. He knew it would appear to Boyd that Ives was inhuman. Ives smiled one more time at Boyd, then winked, then turned and walked away, out the door.

As Ives left, Boyd heaved a sigh of frustration. He wanted to scream, but he knew better. It would just feed into the myth Ives and Hart were probably already feeding this Lucy woman that he was nothing more than a raving madman. And maybe he was to some extent. He thought he was the sanest man here, but after all he had seen he was questioning his own sanity. Maybe it was all just another horrible nightmare?

He wished that were true. More than anything. That he'd just wake up and this would all be gone. He pulled at his chains again, helpless against them. There was no way he could get to this Lucy woman before they did. There was also no way to get to Slauson before they did.

One of his only hopes was Martha.. she'd seen enough. She still believed it was Boyd doing this, but maybe, just maybe she'd seen enough to realize there was no way he could have done this all alone. She left with Knox being alive and Hart being dead. The moment the idea that someone else was involved in all this entered her head, maybe she'd start to realize Boyd wasn't lying. The chance was so slim, however.

Lindus. Maybe. He was so pushed around by Slauson, he'd probably believe whatever the general told him to believe. But if Boyd could convince him to at least listen? Another slim chance.

His choices were growing thin and all of them unlikely. He knew his best defense would be to lie, to pretend to give in. He would have to convince Ives he was one of them and to do that, someone would have to die. Ives wouldn't buy the act unless he saw Boyd eat someone else's flesh. Pretending meant eating more and eating more meant killing someone else in order to kill Ives. What horrified Boyd was the question of if he did eat even one most person, would he still want to end this? Was his will strong enough to withstand temptation? It had been so far. And he knew that is what it came down to: if all else failed, he would have to pretend to give in.

~~

Slauson almost wept with relief when the group finally reached the post outside Fort Spencer to tie the horses. In fact, he could have wept when the fort first came in sight, despite his reasons for going there in the first place, from sheer exhaustion. They had pushed the horses much harder than they should have, resting only for short periods. The horses were even wearier then he was, which was saying a lot.

He noted how Martha and Lindus slipped off their horses fairly easily despite the long journey. He also saw Lindus watching him while tying up his horse. Slauson knew that concerned look of the younger man's, and hated it. He knew cause of it. Lindus thought Slauson would need help dismounting, and as soon as Lindus finished taking care of his own horse, he was going approach Slauson to do just that. Slauson did need some help, but he'd be damned before he'd let it show. He purposely turned his horse away, pretending not to notice Lindus looking at him, pretending that his dismount was slow because he simply wasn't in a hurry, when the truth was he just wasn't as young as he used to be.

There was a breeze just then, and the scent of a delicious stew surrounded them briefly. "Looks like they prepared supper for us," Slauson said with false cheer. "Let's get a good meal down us first, then we can get started taking care of this unpleasantness. I refuse to do any of this on an empty stomach." Slauson couldn't help but notice a strange, almost sick look cross Martha's face at the scent of fresh stew.

Martha didn't know what to feel upon entering the quiet fort -- dread or relief. She could see that Slauson wasn't being as cautious she had hoped he would, and would have to be on guard for herself. One thing she noticed when dismounting was that there was another horse already tied up at the trough. But all the horses were dead, she thought, brow furrowing until she got closer to it. By its color and markings, and the many saddlebags, she knew whose it must be -- the trader, Lucy Cort. Martha didn't see her around anywhere, however, and could only hope that she and Major Knox stayed away from Boyd.

At the General's suggestion, her own stomach nearly turned. She could see that Lindus was anxious to do whatever the General suggested, but she only wanted to get to her lean-to. Though she was hungry, she also distrusted anything offered her here by now. And there was something foul about the air touched by the brewing stew. She had a few items stashed away that could take care of her hunger until she could cook herself a proper dinner.

Martha knew there would be no arguing with the General, however, and so only shook her head, declining the offer. "I will take care of the horses. They are tired, and need food and water after their journey. You eat if you like." She nodded towards the extra horse while taking the others' reigns. "Someone else is here. A trader, I think. She is from San Miguel, Lucy Cort." San Miguel wasn't that large; it was possible Lindus or Slauson knew of her.

~~

Every kind word said seemed like a lash of a whip against Hart's soul. No, he hadn't done everything possible to save his men, as Lucy suggested. Hart let the madman that killed them go free and allowed him to implicate an innocent man in his crimes. Not only did he not try to stop Ives, he had joined him. If Lucy knew that, she would not look on him so kindly.

He stood when she did. Even all of his years at this isolated fort hadn't stripped him of all his manners. "Of course you would want to bathe and rest. I'm sorry for detaining you." He stared into her eyes for a second longer than necessary. Were he a different man and a little less intent on keeping her safe, Hart could take advantage of this situation. After all, Reich was dead and gone and Hart was once a young, virile man… Hart vehemently pushed such thoughts away and cleared his throat as he looked away abruptly.

"Since you know where everything is, I will leave you to get settled in. I'm glad you are here, Lucy." And he really was in a way. Part of him wanted to hit her over the head with the whiskey bottle, tie her to her horse, and send her off. But there was another part that was grateful that she was here. She was his redemption, but more importantly than that she was his friend and a reminder that he had once been a good man.

As Lucy headed out, hart took his time leaving the office. It wasn't his office anymore. Not really. His books and papers were gone. The little personal touches he had made to the office over the years were absent as well. Anything that had been a part of him was stripped of the room. Nonetheless, Hart lingered, not wanting to face Ives with his malicious smile or Boyd with his accusing eyes just yet. He wanted to bask in the lingering warmth of Lucy's kindness for just a little bit longer and pretend that he deserved it.

But there were other sounds outside. Hart peeked out a window and sighed softly as he saw Martha, General Slauson, and Lindus outside. "Let the games begin," he murmured, lingering behind for good cause now. He and Ives hadn't discussed yet how they were going to handle his miraculous reappearance.

~~

General Slauson looked around the grounds. The first person he noticed was Colonel Ives. Further off, Slauson caught sight of a woman. It was the trader, Lucy Cort, who had supplied him with excellent wine and cigars in the past. Lindus had seen her, too. Slauson could tell by the way he suddenly stood a little straighter. "Business first, Lindus," Slauson admonished, and the two men approached the Colonel.

"Colonel Ives," Slauson called out in greeting. "It's nice to see you again. It's a shame about the circumstances, but I can assure you, you won't have to remove your clothes this time," Slauson said with a laugh, reaching out to shake hands. Ives hid his other hand behind his back, but not before Slauson caught sight of blood. "What happened to your hand, Colonel? Did Boyd attack you as well? I assume the Major is guarding the prisoner, especially since there are two women on the premises at the moment."

"Now, where is Cleaves's body? I sent a messenger to notify his next of kin of his death just before leaving to come here."

Lucy had caught the spark in the Colonel's eye as his gaze lingered -- she thought she had seen it before, but the punch it delivered now was quite different. There was a kind of magnetism about him, some indefinable energy which she couldn't place. Whatever it was, its effect was powerful, hitting her like a sack of bricks. *That was a spark, girl, and you know it,* she caught herself thinking. *You watch out. The Colonel's been through a helluva lot already, and he doesn't need to get into more trouble with someone like you.*

"I...I'm glad to be here," was all she allowed herself to say before leaving. As she approached Midnight, however, she was surprised to see Martha taking the horse's reigns along with those of three others, while Slauson and Lindus went to speak to another Colonel, a shorter, slimmer man. *Must be Ives*, she thought, and though she knew the men had seen her, the last thing she wanted right now was to have a conversation with them. She had too much buzzing around her head - including four shots of very fine whiskey - and she knew there was plenty of time for talk later. Right now, all she wanted was some time alone to think things through. Besides, a fella like Slauson probably wouldn't want Lucy hanging around during some official first check in with the new colonel.

Lucy approached Martha, who handed her Midnight's reigns as they headed for the stable. "Hey, Martha," she greeted, her tone conveying Lucy already heard the sad news.

Martha nodded her greeting. "I am surprised to see you. But relieved as well." The knowledge that another woman was near, and an outsider, was comforting in some way to Martha.

"I can understand that," Lucy replied. "I'm really sorry about George, hon. He was a good fella, a real straight shooter."

Martha nodded, not looking at the trader as they led the horses to their stalls. "It is hard," she admitted, voice cracking slightly. "Sometimes he comes to me at night, in my dreams, warning me...." Her voice trailed off, and she looked up. "You have been here long?"

"No," Lucy shook her head as she removed the bridle from her horse. "Just long enough to hear about what happened. It was a helluva shick for me, too." Moving on to her bags, she grumbled, "I'd like to take this fella out and shoot him myself, but it looks like the Army's got it's own plans." she nodded outside, where the men were speaking.

"You are tired," Martha observed, adding, "Leave your horse to me. I will unsaddle and feed him."

Lucy jumped at the offer; there was a sickly odor lingering in the stables, and she hated to think of what it might be. "I'm gonna wash up and have something to eat."

Martha looked up at this. "It would be best if you stayed away from the stew. I will fix you something later."

Lucy arched an eyebrow at this. "Damn! What the hell is with the stew -- did y'all get sick off of it?"

"Something like that," was all Martha would say. "You go have a bath - I'm sure there's plenty of hot water."

Lucy nodded and took her bags to a small, musty cabin that was usually reserved for guests, or "visiting royalty", as Reich had put it. The men's arrival prompted her to change her mind and bunk in there, since the cabin afforded more privacy. She grabbed a bag containing what she called her "girl clothes" -- calico dress and women's boots -- a soap and hairbrush, and tossed in a few pieces of jerky, nuts and an orange.

Bathing was something Lucy insisted on after a long ride, no matter she was or what the weather was. She figured it was one of the few things that kept her feeling like a real human up in these parts. Sitting in the steamy tub, she felt the layers of mud and dirt leave her body and tried to process all she had been told, popping the occasional nut into her mouth while she scraped away at the dirt caked beneath her fingernails. What had just happened, what was that look she'd gotten from Colonel Hart? And why was she so intrigued by it? She gotten lots of looks from lots of men; it wasn't hard, considering the man to woman ratio in these parts.

Perhaps she had just never really bothered to look at him that way before; after all, she'd clearly been wrong about his age. He wasn't as old as she thought he was, and those eyes; well, there was something there. Maybe Reich had always just distracted her before. Well, he was mighty distracting. She caught herself smiling slyly, then covered her face with her hands as she recalled all that she had been told. *Reich's dead, sugar*, she told herself. *He was a good man, a good friend, but he's gone now. Ain't nobody here for you now. And a man like the Colonel sure wouldn't go for a rough gal like yourself. * And the others -- all gone as well. She dunked her head under the soapy water, running her fingers through her long hair. She just wanted to be clean.

It occurred to her then that maybe Martha had shooed her away so that she, too, could be alone for a while. But as the alcohol began to wear off, all Lucy could think of was that sometimes, alone wasn't such a great place to be. *Quit lazing around in the tub,* she scolded herself. *Make yourself useful.* She dressed, trading her buckskins for the more appropriate dress she'd brought along, and the riding boots for more comfortable walking boots. She did her best to dry out her long hair by the fire, combing it back into a loose ponytail.

Taking a bite off of a stick of jerky, she examined herself in the small, cracked mirror that hung near the window. "You, Lucy Cort, are dressing for company," she mentally admonished. "You've got a job to do, and it ain't flirting with the Colonel. So get on out there and pitch in." Shoving aside all fears and worries, Lucy eventually emerged, setting out in search of the others.

As Ives walked out the door he noticed that the General, Lindus, and Martha had returned to the Fort. He had to think of something fast to tell the General about Hart. But even if Slauson didn't fully believe anything the Ives told him now, after a couple of moons it would not matter.

Ives started walking towards the General but not after catching a glimpse of the woman that Hart had mentioned. She was no doubt the woman that Hart had written about in his journal. He would have to deal with her too, but she might be what he needed to keep Hart in his grasp. As long as he thought that she might be in danger, he would not think of leaving him. Of course, she might also be a thorn in his side for she might turn Hart completely civilized again and then he might have to kill him and her. He would have to meet her first and gain a sense of who she was and what she might become before he made any rash decisions.

Ives suddenly remembered the blood on his hand as he approached the General. Shaking Slauson’s hand with the other hand, the General had noticed the blood. Of course he thought it was Boyd's doing which was fine with him. The General then asked about Cleaves and Knox.

"Well General, it's been an interesting couple of days, and mightly sad really." Shaking his head, "Unfortunately, we have lost another good man, Knox has been killed. Boyd must have gotten out of his restraints somehow, and gotten Knox from behind. Then he actually dragged the body outside and started to out into the woods with it." He looked at the General, judging his reaction. "Knox, too! This is unbelievable!" Slauson was secretly angry with Knox for letting himself get killed, because he'd probably been drunk at the time.

"Strange behavior indeed. But then even something even more unbelievable happened. I was in the middle shack cooking some dinner for us, and heard someone yell out. Of course I thought it was Knox and rushed out but instead found a man fighting with Boyd right directly outside the Fort. I didn't have any weapons on me and had to rely on my other military training as I rushed out to help the man. We both subdued Boyd and eventually had to knock him unconscious for Boyd was acting like an vicious animal. He even tried to bite me." Ives looked at Lindus now and felt a slight glimmer in his eyes come to the surface. If only Lindus knew what Ives planned to do with him.

"We got Boyd shackled again and he has remained in the same place since. Then the man told me what happened. He was the old Colonel here, name of Hart. He said that after the massacre up the mountain, that he had been left for dead. He had survived however and knew that his only chance would be to make it back to the Fort. Even he couldn't believe that he made it, on old tired fellow like him. I guess he found strength that he never knew that he had." He looked at Slauson and sensed something there, not quite disbelief but almost... jealousy. Maybe it was because Slauson knew himself that he probably wouldn't have survived that and Hart had managed to. That was good, Ives thought, he would love to feel younger and stronger again. "Hart had almost made it to the Fort and then saw Boyd dragging the body into the woods. He surprised Boyd and Boyd started to run from him. Hart caught him and that's when I came about the scene."

Slauson was stunned speechless. It was almost too much to absorb at once, Knox dead and Hart alive. Beside him, Lindus was equally amazed.

"The next morning Hart and myself went out to the woods to look for Knox." Ives lowered his eyes. "But the animals got him first. There was barely anything left." He paused waiting for the story to sink in. "Cleaves's body was in basically the same condition Slauson, after what Boyd had done to it. I couldn't stand to look at him anymore and I have already buried what is left of him."

Ives looked back up at Slauson. He hoped that General believed his story. And he knew if the General believed it then Lindus would. He waiting for Slauson to speak and prepared to offer the General some food after the horrible news that he had just heard.

Slauson could only shake his head in disgust. What a shame that the notices of death sent to their families and going down in military records had to read that they hadn't died in glory on the battlefield, but were killed by a single madman. But then, those sent to Fort Spencer weren't there because of their military prowess.

Slauson had no reason to distrust Ives, unless you counted Boyd's fevered ravings, but there was something strange about the story. According to Boyd, who Slauson didn't consider the most reliable source, Hart had been stabbed. Hart was younger than Slauson, true, but not by very much. He could not have survived such injuries without help. Someone had to have nursed him back to health and then brought him all or part of the way back to the fort. He sighed. "This is very serious. I had thought to have dinner first, but perhaps I'd better see Boyd beforehand. And of course I must see Hart immediately to find out what happened to him. We've long since sent notices of his death to his remaining family."

Slauson wondered to expect when he finally confronted Boyd. He could stall for time by having a long supper first, but it would have to be done. What did he look like now? Would he be like a wild beast, covered in gore, snarling and straining at his chains? Or would he be completely withdrawn into himself and unresponsive? Did he have an ounce of reason and sanity left? The last time Slauson had seen him, Boyd had had the demeanor of a whipped dog. He was still shocked at the memory of seeing what had once been his bright young lieutenant collapse at his feet in front of the new colonel.

Boyd would have a proper military trial, as was standard procedure, but it would be merely a formality. It was almost a given that orders would be issued for Boyd's execution. Slauson could only hope that he could convince the new colonel that this was a rare, isolated incident and not commonplace at Fort Spencer.

~~

After Lucy left the stables with her bags, Martha took her time with the horses; she wanted to make certain they weren't spooked by the odor of the horses that had been slaughtered there so recently. She spoke gently to them, feeding them as she did. "Rest now," she said, in her native tongue. "Your long journey is over."

Though Martha knew there was safety in numbers, and was relieved that General Slauson and Major Lindus were now on the scene, she couldn't help but feel something was still quite wrong. She didn't trust that odor that hung about outside; the "delicious meal" that Slauson had referred to had only made her queasy. Boyd had once asked her about the wendigo; he seemed to believe the story so sincerely at the time. But hadn't it been he who came back from the caves? Yet he aet no meat; in fact, he seemed to be wasting away the last she saw.

Remembering she had told Lucy she'd fix something fresh to eat, she retrieved a few rabbits she'd frozen in the snow after Cleaves' last hunt a few days ago. She packed them in a bag to take with her to the mess, where she figured she'd start dinner -- at least, for her and Lucy to eat, even if the others preferred their own concoction.

Martha knew she'd need a fresh pot and tools for deboning the rabbits, and headed for the supply shack where these things were stored. She was shocked to see Boyd chained in there, however; she hadn't known they'd moved his place of incarceration. She stayed in the doorway, bag slung over her shoulder, staring at the gaunt-faced soldier. Without a word, she readied herself to turn and leave him there.

“Martha wait!” Boyd called out. He had been struggling with his chains to no avail and the reappearance of Martha was a Godsend. Another chance. A faint one, though. This woman was convinced that he had killed her brother and so, she would not be inclined to listen. She also knew that Boyd had inquired about Wendigo. It had been a mistake on his part. She knew what he was. She didn’t know, however, that Ives and Hart also were now. He had to reach her, had to convince her to at least hear him out.

“Please, listen. He’ll kill you. All of you. Please. I didn’t do these things.. You have to believe me. When you left this camp to get the General, I was chained. I still am. Ives was free, however. Hart.. I couldn’t have killed Major Knox,” he pleased with her, praying she already knew that Knox was dead by now. Otherwise, he had just dealt himself yet another bad hand. “Please.”

Martha paused in the doorway; there was something about the urgency in Boyd’s voice that caused her to step inside, just enough to close the door behind her. She was far enough away from Boyd to feel she could leave when she liked, but she was still wary of him. She studied his eyes, listening to him go on about all the things he hadn’t done. The eyes tell us everything her brother had once told her. They do not lie…unless the liar believes the lie they are telling.

When Boyd mentioned that he couldn’t have killed Major Knox, she fought to control her facial expression. So, Knox was dead too? Boyd had also mentioned Colonel Hart’s name. What about Colonel Hart? “Major Knox is dead?” she inquired. Her eyes narrowed; she would be better off trusting no one just yet. After all, didn’t the insane often speak very compellingly, and believe their own stories? And surely, Wendigo must have taken him over by now. She gestured towards his chains. “You are in a different place now. You could have escaped. The hunger, it is very strong in you.” She could sense that intensity in the sir; it was the same intensity she’d sensed the other night when she stopped Boyd from slicing into Ives. “Don’t you understand that you are better off in chains, than released to do more harm?”

"I have not harmed anyone," Boyd answered honestly, leaving out the fact he had shared in both Reich and Knox's aftermath.

But he had not killed them for it. He had not killed any of the men they said he did. She was right on one account, however: he was better off chained, but only after Ives was dead. Someone had to stop Ives and it wasn't going to be anyone else. They all believed his lies, except Hart, and Hart was with Ives.

Boyd was utterly alone in this and even though Martha spoke the truth when she said he was better off in chains, he still wanted to yell at her. Telling her to let him go now, to let him kill Ives and then she was free to chain him up again would make little sense. She'd think he was insane. If she didn't already.

"Knox is dead, but I did not kill him. I cannot tell you who did, you'd think I was…" Right. She already did think he was…. "I do not expect you to unchain me, but at least listen to me when I say it is not me. If you do not let me go, at least keep Ives away from the General. Do not let the two of them be alone together. Please."

Martha stared at Boyd, heart pounding in her chest. Knox dead too? Boyd seemed surprised even as he spoke the words, as though confused over how to explain it all to her, or that he was even trying. What was he trying to explain, though? What was so difficult, what was holding him back? She could hear the earnestness in his voice, especially in his plea about not leaving the General alone with Ives. If anything, she was surprised that he thought she could control anything that was going on here. Still, if it would calm him down, she would consent.

She had not been at the cave, she did not see what happened; for that she would always be sorry. But she could try and keep an eye on things here. There was Lucy to think of, after all, and the General and Lindus. Finally, she nodded to Boyd. "This I can do. I'll sleep with one eye open, and keep an eye on everything." She pointed a finger in a warning gesture at Boyd. "Everything!"

~~

Hart watched from his vantage point at the window as Ives greeted Slauson and Lindus. They seemed to fall easily into conversation and it frustrated Hart that he couldn't hear a word of it. For now, he was still taking his cues from Ives and he had no clue what the man was telling the General about him. Hart bit back a sigh and pushed away from the window, taking the back way out of the office so that no one would see him exit. He hovered there a moment, unsure of where to go.

Until he knew what the plan was, there was no way he could go to Ives. If Ives still maintained that he was dead, then showing up very much alive could make a right mess of things. Until Hart knew the game, he figured it was best to keep his hat out of the ring. He pretty much figured that Ives would at least make sure that the General knew he was alive, but Hart was not sure what state of injury Ives would suggest he was in.

Hart found himself turning towards the small cabin that he and the men had always reserved for the few guests they received at the fort. It was also the place where Lucy most often bunked when she visited… That thought stopped Hart in his tracks. It would be unseemly to visit her while she was trying to bathe and recover from her time on the trail. He wasn't sure what compelled him there in the first place. No, he knew what compelled him and it was much more than worrying about Lucy's safety.

He still didn't know where to go. Boyd. He did need to speak to Boyd. Of course, if Ives knew that he was visiting Boyd and holding more secret conversations with him, he would kill Hart for sure and he was in no way ready to die. Yet, Hart still felt compelled to speak to Boyd. He couldn't offer him any reassurances. Hart didn't know what was going to happen and while if Boyd ended up dead, Hart would add that guilt to the well of it in his soul, he knew was wasn't on anyone's side but his own now. He had a task and he would sway whichever way he had to do keep Lucy safe and get her out of the place alive.

As he neared the building, Hart heard voices and stopped outside. Martha was there. Boyd was begging Martha for help. The desperation in the soldier's voice made Hart wince inwardly. He didn't rush into the room, instead content to listen. It sounded, at least on the surface, that Boyd might have convinced Martha to at least be aware. Then again, in the length of his acquaintance with Martha, Hart had never known the woman to be anything but. She noticed things that everyone missed. It was a skill that came in handy before. Now… now it could get her killed if Ives thought she saw too much or knew too much.

Hart closed his eyes and leaned against the side of the building, out of sight. `I am sorry. I am sorry that I allowed this to continue. I am sorry that I let all of you die. I am sorry that you will probably die, Boyd. I am so sorry,' he silently chastised himself as he tried to figure out what to do next. Her felt the familiar pang of hunger in the pit of his belly and nearly wept with the sensation. To do what he had to do, Hart knew he needed to continue to eat Ives' stew. It gave him strength to do things that the feeble old man he was never could. Yet, the thought of eating that concoction made his stomach turn. Especially the thought of eating it in front of Lucy…

~~

Boyd wasn’t a foolish man and so, he knew that fact Martha had no intentions of unchaining him. He’d take what he could get at this point. She would look out for Slauson. It was something. If Ives couldn’t get the man alone, then he couldn’t tell Slauson what was going on. It wouldn’t stop Ives, but it would buy Boyd time to in the long run. “Thank you,” he offered, looking down to the metal that was beginning to irritate his wrists.

She was threatening to watch him and that was fine too. Boyd knew he needed watched. He was beginning to not even trust himself. He just hoped she did not waste her time watching him instead of Ives. Sighing, he knew he had to mention one last thing: “Do not turn your back on him. Martha, please. Do not be alone with Ives and do not turn your back on him.”

Martha could see that Boyd was being truthful...or as truthful as he could. Once the wendigo has hold of your body, it has taken your soul, no matter what your intentions. It was important not to let her guard drop, not even among those she trusted. Slowly, she nodded. "I'll be careful. This place is safe for no one." She knew he must be hungry, and didn't like to think what for.

"I have to go. I told .... I said I'd make a fresh meal." She didn't mention Lucy to Boyd, since she knew he didn't know her and figured the less he knew about her, the better, especially if he slipped from his bonds. "Do you need water? Anything?" It bothered her that she even cared, but he just seemed so pitiful there. She might not be willing to remove his chains, but she wasn't heartless. Captain Boyd had not killed her brother; the creature that inhabited his body was what she feared.

Boyd sighed quietly. What he craved, she could not bring him. Nor could he, in good conscious, ask for it. “Water,” he asked softly. It wouldn’t do much for him, but it was something. If nothing else, he could wash the blood off of his face and get the smell of it away from his nose. It was making him want for things he knew he should not and therefore, could not have. He might have to ask her for help, but he needed to be rid of it. The mere smell was driving him insane.

“If Ives tells you not to give me anything, do not,” he added, his unstable blue eyes drifting up to meet hers in a final plea. He did not want her to give Ives any reason to be angry with her. If she didn’t irritate Ives, she may live longer.

This much, Martha knew she could do. It was a reasonable enough request. Whether Boyd was responsible or not, he needed sustenance until the Army could take him away from here. And hopefully soon.

Tossing Cleaves' purple scarf around her neck, Martha nodded. "I do what I am paid for," she said simply. She followed the orders of the man in charge; at this moment, Ives was in charge of Fort Spencer, but Slauson held ultimate responsibility. She would certainly not stick her neck out for Boyd, not under these circumstances, or until she could get a better feeling for what was going on here. It would be interesting, she sensed, to hear Ives' version of what happened after she left. She recalled something her uncle once said. "A white man speaks two truths. There is his own truth, and the real truth." Martha knew she needed to be careful to keep the "truths" separate for now.

"I will come back with some water," she told him, and exited the shack.

Martha left the lean-to where Boyd had been quartered...or locked up, she mentally corrected herself. "Quartered" made her think of knives, and blood....Cleaves on the roof, gutted. Lips pursed into a thin line, she eyed the circle of soldiers and wondered if she should find out what -- officially -- was going on. She sensed it would be quite different from what Boyd had told her, but knew also that it couldn't be any more outrageous than what they had already suffered.

She could tell by the General's ashen expression -- and Lindus looked more than usually jumpy as well – that Boyd had likely told the truth about Knox. Yes, he was likely dead. *Well,* she thought, *Lucky it was me who went for the General, after all.* She shuddered when she allowed to think of what might have happened, and recalled Boyd's words of warning about not turning her back on Ives.

She crept up on the conversation, just in time to hear the General demanding to speak to Hart. Hart? The tale just got more and more strange! Her frown deepened; was the Colonel alive after all? Had he managed to find his way back here, as Boyd had? If so, he would hold the answer to all of this. He had been at the caves with her brother and the others. He had always proven to be a man of his word, for what it was worth from a white man. "The Colonel, he lives?" She looked at Ives. "Is this true?"

Ives was surprised to hear Martha's voice suddenly come into the conversation. He had forgotten about her. He had a strange affection for Martha and when he had wished her safe travels when she left to fetch the General he had meant it. Maybe it was respect, maybe it was because she was the only woman that he had seen that had defended him so fiercely and brave when Boyd was trying to kill him. But he did know that Martha was smart and if she found out that it had been him that killed her brother and not Boyd, she would turn her wrath on him and her hate. No, he would like to keep friendly with Martha, maybe even try and get some more information about this Wendigo legend. After all, it was a fellow Indian who had given him the knowledge in the first place.

Ives turned to Martha, "Yes Martha, I am afraid he is. Curious story it is. We were just going to meet him."

Ives was wondered somewhat about what Hart would say since he and Hart had not been able to come up with a story beforehand. He would hope Hart would catch on quickly. Ives didn't even know where Hart was and hoped that he was keeping an eye on them for a cue that he was able to be seen.

"Are you sure that you don't want some food first General? I know you must be famished. I have some wonderful stew cooking. I am actually just regaining my appetite, after all this that has happened. I wouldn't want it to go to waste."

"Yes, if someone will fetch Colonel Hart, we may as well discuss all of this over dinner. I'm assuming Hart is well enough to come to the table? Lindus, will you take a bowl of stew out to Boyd quickly and then rejoin us? Don't question him just yet. And be careful in there."

"I must say Colonel Ives, that stew smells delicious. I've never smelled one quite like it. Did you kill any game, or was it made from the horses that Boyd killed? I imagine you had to get rid of them quickly before they attracted wolves."

Hart slipped away before Martha exited Boyd's makeshift prison. He made his way back to his old office, his ears and mind full of the conversation he had just heard and his heart full of despair at the fact that he was going to need to eat again and soon. Hart stepped through the back entrance to the office and sat down at his old desk. He eyed the bottle of whiskey he brought out for Lucy and started to pour himself another shot before he said to hell with it and closed his hand around the neck of the bottle.

The burn of the alcohol traveling down his throat and into his stomach was comforting. Hart hoped it would hold his hunger at bay for just a little while longer, until he could think. He eyed the door. No doubt, Ives would be coming for him soon, either to tell him to hide or to tell him to come greet the General. Truth be told, Hart was more inclined to hide at this point, but he knew he had a task to do and he couldn't do it f he was off skulking in the woods.

Hart knocked back another swallow and stared at the ceiling of rough-hewn logs above him. How many times had he sat here in the past, staring at the ceiling, wishing his life would change? How many times had he wished he was young ago, had he wished that something exciting would happen to break up the monotony of life at the Fort? Something stimulating like in the novels that Lucy and the other traders brought with them to barter with. And now, his wish came true and he would have given anything to change it all back. He was an old, feeble man before, but he had been a man with a mostly clean conscience.

He knocked back a final swallow of whiskey and capped the bottle before stashing it away again. He stood and straightened his clothes, ran fingers through his hair. He at least wanted to look presentable when he started telling General Slauson a string of lies.

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